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 QUEEN ANNE. 
 
A CHILD'S 
 
 HISTORY OF ENGLAND 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 
 
 150 Worth Street, corner Mission Place 
 
tH* 
 
 I vJ»* 
 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Chapter I. Ancient England and the Romans, 7 
 
 Chapter II. Ancient England under the early Saxons, . . . 16 
 Chapter III. England under the good Saxon, Alfred, ... 20 
 Chapter IV. England under Athelstan and the six boy kings, . . 26 
 
 Chapter V. England under Canute the Dane, 36 
 
 Chapter VI. England under Harold Harefoot, Hardicanute, and 
 
 Edward the Confessor, 3^ 
 
 Chapter VII. England under Harold the Second, and conquered by 
 
 the Normans, 45 
 
 Chapter VIII. England under William the First, the Norman Con- 
 queror, . 49 
 
 Chapter IX. England under William the Second, called Rufus, . 56 
 Chapter X. England under Henry the First, called Fine-Scholar, . 62 
 Chapter XI. England under Matilda and Stephen, . . . 7 3 
 Chapter XII. England under Henry the Second, .... 75 
 Chapter XIII. England under Richard the First, called the Lion- 
 Heart, 93 
 
 Chapter XIV. England under King John, called Lackland, . . 102 
 Chapter XV. England under Henry the Third, called Henry the 
 
 Third of Winchester, IX 3 
 
 Chapter XVI. England under Edward the First, called Longshanks, 125 
 Chapter XVII. England under Edward the Second, . . . . 14 1 
 Chapter XVIII. England under Edward the Third, . . . .150 
 Chapter XIX. England under Richard the Second, . . . .162 
 Chapter XX. England under Henry the Fourth, called Boling- 
 
 broke, J 7 2 
 
 Chapter XXI. England under Henry the Fifth, 177 
 
 Chapter XXII. England under Henry the Sixth, . . . .187 
 
 Chapter XXIII. England under Edward the Fourth 205 
 
 Chapter XXIV. England under Edward the Fifth, . . . .212 
 Chapter XXV. England under Richard the Third, . . . .217 
 Chapter XXVI. England under Henry the Seventh, . . . .221 
 Chapter XXVII. England under Henry the Eighth, called Bluff King 
 
 Hal, and Burly King Harry, ........ SJI 
 
 M 194477 
 
vi 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter 
 Chapter 
 Chapter 
 Chapter 
 Chapter 
 Chapter 
 Chapter 
 Chapter 
 Merry 
 Chapter 
 Chapter 
 
 XXVIII. England under Henry the Eighth, 
 
 XXIX. England under Edward the Sixth, . 
 
 XXX. England under Mary, .... 
 
 XXXI. England under Elizabeth, . . . 
 
 XXXII. England under James the First, 
 England under Charles the First, . 
 England under Oliver Cromwell, . 
 
 England under Charles the Second, 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Monarch, 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 England under James the Second, 
 Conclusion, . . . . . 
 
 called 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 • 242 
 
 . 252 
 
 . =59 
 
 . 271 
 
 . 294 
 
 . 3 J o 
 
 . 337 
 
 the 
 
 353 
 373 
 
 380 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 No Thoroughfare, X 
 
 Master Humphrey's Clock, . . . . 120 
 
 The Mudfog Association 235 
 
 Holiday Romance, • • . . 276 
 
 George Silverman's Explanation, . . . . . . . . 311 
 
 The Wreck of the Golden Mary, ...*••• - 33** 
 
 Perils of Certain English Prisoners, . . • . . . . 366 
 
 The Haunted Hou»e, » 411 
 
A 
 
 CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ANCIENT ENGLAND AND THE ROMANS. 
 
 If you look at a Map of the World, you will see, in the left- 
 hand upper corner of the Eastern Hemisphere, two Islands 
 lying in the sea. They are England and Scotland, and Ire- 
 land. England and Scotland form the greater part of these 
 Islands. Ireland is the next in size. The little neighboring 
 islands, which are so small upon the Map as to be mere dots, 
 are chiefly little bits of Scotland — broken off, I dare say, in 
 the course of a great length of time, by the power of the 
 restless water. 
 
 In the old days, a long, long while ago, before Our Saviour 
 was born on earth and lay asleep in a manger, these Islands 
 were in the same place, and the stormy sea roared round 
 them, just as it roars now. But the sea was not alive, then, 
 with great ships and brave sailors, sailing to and from all 
 parts of the world. It was very lonely. The Islands lay 
 solitary, in the great expanse of water. The foaming waves 
 dashed against their cliffs, and the bleak winds blew over 
 their forests ; but the winds and waves brought no adventur- 
 ers to land upon the Islands, and the savage Islanders knew 
 nothing of the rest of the world, and the rest of the world 
 knew nothing of them. 
 
 It is supposed that the Phoenicians, who were an ancient 
 people, famous for carrying on trade, came in ships to these 
 Islands, and found that they produced tin and lead ; both very 
 useful things, as you know, and both produced to this very 
 hour upon the sea-coast. The most celebrated tin mines in 
 Cornwall are, still, close to the sea. One of them, which I 
 
B A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 have seen, is so close to it that it is hollowed out underneath 
 the ocean ; and the miners say, that in stormy weather, when 
 they are at work down in that deep place, they can hear the 
 noise of the waves thundering above their heads. So, the 
 Phoenicians, coasting about the Islands, would come, without 
 much difficulty, to where the tin and lead were. 
 
 The Phoenicians traded with the Islanders for these metals, 
 and gave the Islanders some other useful things in exchange. 
 The Islanders were, at first, poor savages, going almost na- 
 ked, or only dressed in the rough skins of beasts, and stain- 
 ing their bodies, as other savages do, with colored earths and 
 the juices of plants. But the Phoenicians, sailing over to the 
 opposite coasts of France and Belgium, and saying to the peo- 
 ple there, " We have been to those white cliffs across the 
 water, which you can see in fine weather, and from that 
 country, which is called Britain, we bring this tin and lead," 
 tempted some of the French and Belgians to come over also. 
 These people settled themselves on the south coast of En- 
 gland, which is now called Kent ; and, although they were a 
 rough people too, they taught the savage Britons some useful 
 arts, and improved that part of the Islands. It is probable 
 that other people came over from Spain to Ireland, and set- 
 tled there. 
 
 Thus, by little and little, strangers became mixed with the 
 Islanders, and the savage Britons grew into a wild, bold peo- 
 ple ; almost savage, still, especially in the interior of the coun- 
 try away from the sea where the foreign settlers seldom went ; 
 but hardy, brave, and strong. 
 
 The whole country was covered with forests and swamps. 
 The greater part of it was very misty and cold. There were 
 no roads, no bridges, no streets, no houses that you would 
 think deserving of the name. A town was nothing but a 
 collection of straw-covered huts, hidden in a thick wood, with 
 a ditch all round, and a low wall, made of mud, or the trunks 
 of trees placed one upon another. The people planted little 
 or no corn, but lived upon the flesh of their flocks and cattle. 
 They made no coins, but used metal rings for money. They 
 were clever in basket-work, as savage people often are ; and 
 they could make a coarse kind of cloth, and some very bad 
 earthenware. But in building fortresses they were much more 
 clever. 
 
 They made boats of basket-work, covered with the skin of 
 animals, but seldom, if ever, ventured far from the shore. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 9 
 
 They made swords, of copper mixed with tin ; but these 
 swords were of an awkward shape, and so soft that a heavy 
 blow would bend one. They made light shields, short pointed 
 daggers, and spears — which they jerked back after they had 
 thrown them at an enemy, by a long strip of leather fastened 
 ,to the stem. The butt-end was a rattle, to frighten an ene- 
 my's horse. The ancient Britons, being divided into as many 
 as thirty or forty tribes, each commanded by its own little 
 king, were constantly fighting with one another, as savage 
 people usually do, and they always fought with these 
 weapons. 
 
 They were very fond of horses. The standard of Kent was 
 the picture of a white horse. They oould break them in and 
 manage them wonderfully well. Indeed, the horses (of 
 which they had an abundance, though they were rather small) 
 were so well taught in those days, that they can scarcely be 
 said tp have improved since ; though *he men are so much 
 Wiser.' They understood, and obeyed, every word of com- 
 mand ; and would stand still by themselves, in all the din 
 and noise of battle, while their masters w?nt to fight on foot, 
 The Britons could not have succeeded in their most re- 
 markable art, without the aid of these sensible and trusty 
 animals. The art I mean, is the construction and manage- 
 ment of war-chariots or cars, for which ttosy have ever been 
 celebrated in history. Each of the best sort of these chariots, 
 not quite breast high in front, and open at the back, con- 
 tained one man to drive, and two or three others to fight — 
 all standing up. The horses who drew them were so well 
 trained, that they would tear at full gallop, over the most 
 stony ways, and even through the woods ; dashing down their 
 master's enemies beneath their hoofs, and cutting them to 
 pieces with the blades of swords or scythes, which were 
 fastened to the wheels, and stretched out beyond the car on 
 each side, for that cruel purpose. In a moment, while at full 
 speed, the horses would stop, at the driver's command. The 
 men within would leap out, deal blows about them with their 
 swords like hail, leap on the horses, on the pole, spring back 
 into the chariots any how ; and, as soon as they vere safe, 
 the horses tore away again. 
 
 The Britons had a. strange and terrible religion, called the 
 Religion of the Druids. It seems to have been brought 
 over, in very early times indeed, from the opposite country 
 of France, anciently called Gaul, and to have mixed up th< 
 
io A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 worship of the Serpent, and of the sun and moon, with the 
 worship of some of the Heathen Gods and Goddesses. 
 Most of its ceremonies were kept secret by the priests, the 
 Druids, who pretended to be enchanters, and who carried 
 magicians' wands, and wore, each of them, about his neck, 
 what he told the ignorant people was a Serpent's egg in a 
 golden case. But it is certain that the Druidical ceremo- 
 nies included the sacrifice of human victims, the torture of 
 some suspected criminals, and, on particular occasions, even 
 the burning alive in immense wicker cages, of a number of 
 men and animals together. The Druid priests had some kind 
 of veneration for the oak, and for the mistletoe — the same 
 plant that we hang up in houses at Christmas Time now — 
 when its white berries grew upon the oak. They met to- 
 gether in dark woods, which they called sacred groves ; and 
 there they instructed, in their mysterious arts, young men 
 who came to them as pupils, and who sometimes staid with 
 them as long as twenty years. 
 
 These Druids built great temples and altars, open to the 
 sky, fragments of some of which are yet remaining. Stone- 
 henge, on Salisbury Plain, in Wiltshire, is the most extraor- 
 dinary of these. Three curious stones, called Kits Coty 
 House, on Bluebell Hill, near Maidstone, in Kent, form an- 
 other. We know, from examination of the great blocks of 
 which such buildings are made, that they could not have been 
 raised without the aid of some ingenious machines, which are 
 common now, but which the ancient Britons certainly did not 
 use in making their own uncomfortable houses. I should not 
 wonder if the Druids, and their pupils who staid with them 
 twenty years, knowing more than the rest of the Britons, kept 
 the people out of sight while they made these buildings, and 
 then pretended that they built them by magic. Perhaps 
 they had a hand in the fortresses too ; at ail events, as they 
 were very powerful, and very much believed in, and as they 
 made and executed the laws, and paid no taxes, I don't won- 
 der that they liked their trade. And, as they persuaded the 
 people the more Druids there were, the better off the people 
 would be, I don't wonder that there were a good many of 
 them. But it is pleasant to think that there are no Druids, 
 noK>, who go on in that way, and pretend to carry Enchanters' 
 Wands and Serpents' Eggs — and of course there is nothing 
 of the kind, any where. 
 
 Such was the improved condition of the ancient Britons, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. it 
 
 fifty-five years before the birth of Our Saviour, when the Ro- 
 mans, under their great general, Julius Caesar, were masters 
 of all the rest of the known world. Julius Caesar had then just 
 conquered Gaul ; and hearing, in Gaul, a good deal about the 
 opposite Island with the white cliffs, and about the bravery 
 of the Britons who inhabited it — some of whom had been 
 fetched over to help the Gauls in the war against him — he re- 
 solved, as he was so near, to come and conquer Britain next. 
 
 So, Julius Caesar came sailing over to this island of ours, 
 with eighty vessels and twelve thousand men. And he came 
 from the French coast between Calais and Boulogne, " be- 
 cause thence was the shortest passage into Britain ; " just for 
 the same reason as our steam-boats now take the same track, 
 every day. He expected to conquer Britain easily : but it 
 was not such easy work as he supposed — for the bold Britons 
 fought most bravely ; and, what with not having his horse- 
 soldiers with him (for they had been driven back by a storm), 
 and what with having some of his vessels dashed to pieces by 
 a high tide after they were drawn ashore, he ran great risk 
 of being totally defeated. However, for once that the bold 
 Britons beat him, he beat them twice ; though not so soundly 
 but that he was very glad to accept their proposals of peace, 
 and go away. 
 
 But, in the spring of the next year, he came back ; this 
 time, with eight hundred vessels and thirty thousand men. 
 The British tribes chose, as their general-in-chief, a Briton, 
 whom the Romans in their Latin language called Cassivel- 
 launus, but whose British name is supposed to have been 
 Caswallon. A brave general he was, and well he and his 
 soldiers fought the Roman army ! So well, that whenever in 
 that war the Roman soldiers saw a great cloud of dust, and 
 heard the rattle of the .apid British chariots, they trembled 
 in their hearts. Besides a number of smaller battles, there 
 was a battle fought near Canterbury, in Kent ; there was a 
 battle fought near Chertsey, in Surrey ; there was a battle 
 fought near a marshy little town in a wood, the capital of 
 that part of Britain which belonged to Cassivellaunus, and 
 which was probably near what is now St. Albans, in Hertford- 
 shire. However, brave Cassivellaunus had the worst of it, 
 on the whole ; though he and his men always fought like lions. 
 As the other British chiefs were jealous of hire? and were always 
 quarreling with him, and with one another, he gave up, and 
 proposed peace. Julius Caesar was very glad to grant peace 
 
12 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 easily, and to go away again with all his remaining ships and 
 men. He had expected to find pearls in Britain, and he may 
 have found a few for any thing I know ; but, at all events, he 
 found delicious oysters, and I am sure he found tough Britons 
 — of whom, I dare say, he made the same complaint as Na- 
 poleon Bonaparte the great French General did, eighteen 
 hundred years afterwards, when he said they were such un- 
 reasonable fellows that they never knew when they were 
 beaten. They never did know, I believe, and never will. 
 
 Nearly a hundred years passed on, and all that time there 
 was peace in Britain. The Britons improved their towns and 
 mode of life : became more civilized, traveled, and learned a 
 great deal from the Gauls and Romans. At last, the Roman 
 Emperor, Claudius, sent Aulus Plautius, a skillful general, 
 with a mighty force, to subdue the Island, and shortly after- 
 wards arrived himself. They did little ; and Ostorius Scap- 
 ula, another general, came. Some of the British Chiefs of 
 Tribes submitted. Others resolved to fight to the death 
 Of these brave men, the bravest was Caractacus or Caradoc, 
 who gave battle to the Romans, with his army, among the 
 mountains of North Wales. " This day," said he to his sol- 
 diers, " decides the fate of Britain ! Your liberty, or your 
 eternal slavery, dates from this hour. Remember your brave 
 ancestors, who drove the great Caesar himself across the sea ! " 
 On hearing these words, his men, with a great shout, rushed 
 upon the Romans. But the strong Roman swords and armor 
 were too much for the weaker British weapons in close con- 
 flict. The Britons lost the day. The wife and daughter of 
 the brave Caractacus were taken prisoners ; his brothers de- 
 livered themselves up ; he himself was betrayed into the hands 
 of the Romans by his false and base stepmother ; and they 
 carried him, and all his family, in triumph to Rome. 
 
 But a great man will be great in misfortune, great in prison, 
 great in chains. His noble air, and dignified endurance of 
 distress, so touched the Roman people who thronged the 
 streets to see him, that he and his family were restored to 
 freedom. No one knows whether his great heart broke, and 
 he died in Rome, or whether he ever returned to his own 
 dear country. English oaks have grownup from acorns, and 
 withered away, when they were hundreds of years old — and 
 other oaks have sprung up in their places, and died too, very 
 aged — since the rest of the history of the brave Caractacus 
 was forgotten. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 13 
 
 Still the Britons would not yield. They rose again and 
 again, and died by thousands, sword in hand. They rose 
 on every possible occasion. Suetonius, another Roman 
 general, came, and stormed the Island of Anglesey (then 
 called Mona) which was supposed to be sacred, and he burned 
 the Druids in their own wicker cages, by their own fires. 
 But, even while he was in Britain, with his victorious troops, 
 the Britons rose. Because Boadicea, a British queen, the 
 widow of the King of the Norfolk and Suffolk people, resisted 
 the plundering of her property by the Romans who were set- 
 tled in England, she was scourged, by order of Catus, a Ro- 
 man officer; and her two daughters were shamefully insulted 
 in her presence, and her husband's relations were made slaves. 
 To avenge this injury, the Britons rose, with all their might 
 and rage. They drove Catus into Gaul ; they laid the Roman 
 possessions waste ; they forced the Romans out of London, 
 then a poor little town, but a trading place ; they hanged, 
 burned, crucified, and slew by the sword, seventy thousand 
 Romans in a few days. Suetonius strengthened his army, 
 and advanced to give them battle. They strengthened their 
 army, and desperately attacked his, on the field where it was 
 strongly posted. Before the first charge of the Britons was 
 made, Boadicea, in a war-chariot, with her fair hair stream- 
 ing in the wind, and her injured daughters lying at her feet, 
 drove among the troops, and cried to them for vengeance on 
 their oppressors, the licentious Romans. The Britons fought 
 to the last ; but they were vanquished with great slaughter, 
 and the unhappy queen took poison. 
 
 Still, the spirit of the Britons was not broken. When 
 Suetonius left the country, they fell upon his troops, and re- 
 took the Island of Anglesey. Agricola came, fifteen or 
 twenty years afterward, and retook it once more, and de- 
 voted seven years to subduing the country, especially that 
 part of it which is now called Scotland ; but its people, the 
 Caledonians, resisted him at every inch of ground. # They 
 fought the bloodiest battles with him ; they killed their very 
 wives and children, to prevent his making prisoners of them ; 
 they fell, fighting, in such great numbers that certain hills in 
 Scotland are yet supposed to be vast heaps of stones piled 
 up above their graves. Hadrian came thirty years after- 
 ward, and still they resisted him. Severus came, nearly a 
 hundred years afterward, and they worried his great army 
 like dogs, and rejoiced to see them die, by thousands, in the 
 
14 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 bogs and swamps. Caracalla, the son and successor of 
 Severus, did the most to conquer them, for a time ; but not 
 by force of arms. He knew how little that would do. He 
 yielded up a quantity of land to the Caledonians, and gave 
 the Britons the same privileges as the Romans possessed. 
 There was peace, after this, for seventy years. 
 
 Then new enemies arose. They were the Saxons, a fierce, 
 seafaring people from the countries to the North of the 
 Rhine, the great river of Germany on the banks of which 
 the best grapes grow to make the German wine. They be- 
 gan to come, in pirate ships, to the sea-coast of Gaul and 
 Britain, and to plunder them. They were repulsed by 
 Carausius, a native either of Belgium or of Britain, who was 
 appointed by the Romans to the command, and under whom 
 the Britons first began to fight upon the sea. But, after this 
 time, they renewed their ravages. A few years more, and 
 the Scots (which was then the name for the people of 
 Ireland), and the Picts, a northern people, began to make 
 frequent plundering incursions into the South of Britain. 
 All these attacks were repeated, at intervals, during two 
 hundred years, and through a long succession of Roman 
 Emperors and Chiefs ; during all which length of time, the 
 Britons rose against the Romans, over and over again. At 
 last in the days of the Roman Honorius, when the Roman 
 power all over the world was fast declining, and when Rome 
 wanted all her soldiers at home, the Romans abandoned all 
 hope of conquering Britain, and went away. And still, at 
 last, as at first, the Britons rose against them, in their old 
 brave manner ; for, a very little while before, they had 
 turned away the Roman magistrates, and declared them- 
 selves an independent people. 
 
 Five hundred years had passed, since Julius Caesar's first 
 invasion of the Island, when the Romans departed from it 
 forever. In the course of that time, although they had been 
 the cause of terrible fighting and bloodshed, they had done 
 much to improve the condition of the Britons. They had 
 made great military roads ; they had built forts ; they had 
 taught them how to dress, and arm themselves, much better 
 than they had ever known how to do before ; they had re- 
 fined the whole British way of living. Agricola had built a 
 great wall of earth, more than seventy miles long, extending 
 from Newcastle to beyond Carlisle, for the purpose of keep- 
 ing out the Picts and Scots ; Hadrian had strengthened it ; 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 15 
 
 Severus, finding it much in want of repair, had built it afresh 
 of stone. Above all, it was in the Roman time, and by 
 means of Roman ships, that the Christian religion was first 
 brought into Britain, and its people first taught the great 
 lesson that, to be good in the sight of God, they must love 
 their neighbors as themselves, and do unto others as they 
 would be done by. The Druids declared that it was very 
 wicked to believe in any such thing, and cursed all the 
 people who did believe it very heartily. But, when the 
 people found that they were none the better for the blessings 
 of the Druids, and none the worse for the curses of the 
 Druids, but, that the sun shone and the rain fell without 
 consulting the Druids at all, they just began to think that 
 the Druids were mere men, and that it signified very little 
 whether they cursed or blessed. After which, the pupils of 
 the Druids fell off greatly in numbers, and the Druids took 
 to other trades. 
 
 Thus I have come to the end of the Roman time in 
 England. It is but little that is known of those five hundred 
 years ; but some remains of them are still found. Often, 
 when laborers are digging up the ground to make founda- 
 tions for houses or churches, they light on rusty money that 
 once belonged to the Romans. Fragments of plates from 
 which they ate, of goblets from which they drank, and of 
 pavement on which they trod, are discovered among the 
 <ear/c'h that is broken by the plow, or the dust that is 
 crumbled by the gardener's spade. Wells that the Romans 
 sunk, still yield water ; roads that the Romans made, form 
 part of our highways. In some old battle-fields, British 
 spear-heads and Roman armor have been found, mingled 
 together in decay, as they fell in the thick pressure of the 
 fight. Traces of Roman camps overgrown with grass, and 
 of mounds that are the burial-places of heaps of Britons, are 
 to be seen in almost all parts of the country. Across the 
 bleak moors of Northumberland, the wall of Severus, over- 
 run with moss and weeds, still stretches, a strong ruin ; and 
 the shepherds and their dogs lie sleeping on it in the summer 
 weather. On Salisbury Plain, Stonehenge yet stands : a 
 monument of the earlier time when the Roman name was 
 unknown in Britain, and when the Druids, with their best 
 magic wands, coul&nflj: have written it in the sands of the 
 •wild sea-shoi;e. 
 
16 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ANCIENT ENGLAND UNDER THE EARLY SAXONS. 
 
 The Romans had scarcely gone away from Britain, when 
 the Britons began to wish they had never left it. For, the 
 Roman soldiers being gone, and the Britons being much re- 
 duced in numbers by their long wars, the Picts and Scots 
 came pouring in, over the broken and unguarded wall of 
 Severus, in swarms. They plundered the richest towns, and 
 killed the people ; and came back so often for more booty 
 and more slaughter, that the unfortunate Britons lived a life 
 of terror. As if the Picts and Scots were not bad enough on 
 land, the Saxons attacked the islanders by sea ; and, as if 
 something more were still wanting to make them miserable, 
 they quarreled bitterly among themselves as to what prayers 
 they ought to say, and how they ought to say them. The 
 priests, being very angry with one another on these questions, 
 cursed one another in the heartiest manner ; and (uncom- 
 monly like the old Druids) cursed all the people whom they 
 could not persuade. So, altogether, the Britons were very 
 badly off, you may believe. 
 
 They were in such distress, in short, that they sent a letter 
 to Rome entreating help — which they called the Groans of 
 the Britons ; and in which they'said, " The barbarians chase 
 us into the sea, the sea throws us back upon the barbarians, 
 and we have only the hard choice left us of perishing by the 
 sword, or perishing by the waves." But the Romans could 
 not help them, even if they were so inclined ; for they had 
 enough to do to defend themselves against their own 
 enemies, who were then very fierce and strong. At last, the 
 Britons, unable to bear their hard condition any longer, re- 
 solved to make peace with the Saxons, and to invite the 
 Saxons to come into their country, and help them to keep 
 out the Picts and Scots. 
 
 It was a British Prince named Vortigern who took this 
 resolution, and who made a treaty of friendship with Hengist 
 and Horsa, two Saxon chiefs. Both of these names, in the 
 old Saxon language, signify Horse ; for the Saxons, like 
 many other nations in a rough state, were fond of giving men 
 the names of animals, as Horse, Wolf, Bear, Hound. The 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 17 
 
 Indians of North America— a very inferior people to the 
 Saxons, though — do the same to this day. 
 
 Hengist and Horsa drove out the Picts and Scots ; and 
 Vortigern, being grateful to them for that service, made no 
 opposition to their settling themselves in that part of En- 
 gland which is called the Isle of Thanet, or to their inviting 
 over more of their countrymen to join them. But Hengist 
 had a beautiful daughter named Rowena ; and, when at a 
 feast, she filled a golden goblet to the brim with wine, and 
 gave it to Vortigern, saying in a sweet voice, " Dear King, 
 thy health ! " the King fell in love with her. My opinion is, 
 that the cunning Hengist meant him to do so, in order that 
 the Saxons might have greater influence with him ; and that 
 the fair Rowena came to that feast, golden goblet and all, 
 »n purpose. 
 
 At any rate, they were married ; and, long afterward, 
 whenever the King was angry with the Saxons, or jealous of 
 their encroachments, Rowena would put her beautiful arms 
 round his neck, and softly say, " Dear King, they are my 
 people ! Be favorable to them, as you loved that Saxon 
 girl who gave you the golden goblet of wine at the feast ! " 
 And, really, I don't see how the King could help himself. 
 
 Ah ! We must all die ! In the course of years, Vortigern 
 died — he was dethroned, and put in prison, first, I am 
 afraid ; and Rowena died ; and generations of Saxons and 
 Britons died ; and events that happened during a long, long 
 time, would have been quite forgotten but for the tales and 
 songs of the old Bards, who used to go about from feast to 
 feast, with their white beards, recounting the deeds of their 
 forefathers. Among the histories of which they sang and 
 talked, there was a famous one, concerning the bravery and 
 virtues of King Arthur, supposed to have been a British 
 Prince in those old times. But, whether such a person really 
 lived, or whether there werfc several persons whose histories 
 came to be confused together under that one name, or 
 whether all about him was invention, no one knows. 
 
 I will tell you, shortly, what is most interesting in the early 
 Saxon times, as they are described in these songs and stories 
 of the Bards. 
 
 In, and long after, the days of Vortigern, fresh bodies of 
 Saxons, under various chiefs, came pouring into Britain. 
 One body, conquering the Britons in the East, and settling 
 there, called their kingdom Essex ; another body settled in 
 
18 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 the West and called their kingdom Wessex ; the Norfolk 
 or Norfolk people, established themselves in one place ; the 
 Southfolk, or Suffolk people established themselves in an- 
 other ; and gradually seven kingdoms or states arose in 
 England, which were called the Saxon Heptarchy. The 
 poor Britons, falling back before these crowds of fighting 
 men whom they had innocently invited over as friends, re- 
 tired into Wales and the adjacent country ; into Devonshire, 
 ;and into Cornwall. Those parts of England long remained 
 unconquered. And in Cornwall now — where the sea-coast 
 is very gloomy, steep, and rugged — where, in the dark 
 winter-time, ships have often been wrecked close to the 
 land, and every soul on board has perished — where the 
 winds and waves howl drearily, and split the solid rocks into 
 arches and caverns — there are very ancient ruins, which the 
 people call the ruins of King Arthur's Castle. 
 
 Kent is the most famous of the seven Saxon kingdoms, 
 because the Christian religion was preached to the Saxons 
 there (who domineered over the Britons too much, to care 
 for what they said about their religion, or any thing else) by 
 Augustine, a monk from Rome. King Ethelbert, of Kent, 
 was soon converted ; and the moment he said he was a 
 Christian, his courtiers all said they were Christians ; after 
 which, ten thousand of his subjects said they were Chris- 
 tians too. Augustine built a little church, close to this 
 King's palace, on the ground now occupied by the beautiful 
 cathedral of Canterbury. Sebert, the King's nephew, built 
 on a muddy marshy place near London, where there had 
 been a temple to Apollo, a church dedicated to Saint Peter, 
 which is now Westminster Abbey. And, in London itself, 
 on the foundation of a temple to Diana, he built another 
 little church, which has risen up, since that old time, to be 
 St. Paul's. 
 
 After the death of Ethelbert, Edwin, King of Northum- 
 bria, who was such a good king that it was said a woman or 
 child might openly carry a purse of gold, in his reign, with- 
 out fear, allowed his child to be baptized, and held a great 
 council to consider whether he and his people should all be 
 Christians or not. It was decided that they should be. 
 Coifi, the chief priest of the old religion, made a great 
 speech on the occasion. In this discourse, he told the peo- 
 ple that he had found out the old gods to be impostors. " I 
 am quite satisfied of it," he said. "Xook at me ! I have 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 19 
 
 been serving them all my life, and they have done nothing 
 for me ; whereas, if they had been really powerful, they 
 could not have decently done less, in return for all I have 
 done for them, than make my fortune. As they have never 
 made my fortune, I am quite convinced they are impostors!" 
 When this singular priest had finished speaking, he hastily 
 armed himself with sword and lance, mounted a war-horse, 
 rode at a furious gallop in sight of all the people to the 
 temple, and flung his lance against it as an insult. From 
 that time, the Christian religion spread itself among the 
 Saxons, and became their faith. 
 
 The next very famous prince was Egbert. He lived about 
 a hundred and fifty years afterward, and claimed to have a 
 better right to the throne of Wessex than Beortric, another 
 Saxon prince who was at the head of that kingdom, and who 
 married Edburga, the daughter of Offa, king of another of 
 the seven kingdoms. This Queen Edburga was a handsome 
 murderess, who poisoned people when they offended her. 
 One day, she mixed a cup of poison for a certain noble be« 
 longing to the court ; but her husband drank of it too, by 
 mistake, and died. Upon this, the people revolted, in great 
 crowds ; and running to the palace, and thundering at the 
 gates, cried, " Down with the wicked queen, who poisons 
 men ! " They drove her out of the country, and abolished 
 the title she had disgraced. When years had passed away, 
 some travelers came home from Italy, and said that in the 
 town of Pavia they had seen a ragged beggar-woman, who 
 had once been handsome, but was then shriveled, bent, and 
 yellow, wandering about the streets, crying for bread ; and 
 that this beggar-woman was the poisoning English queen. 
 It was, indeed, Edburga ; and so she died, without a shelter 
 for her wretched head. 
 
 Egbert, not considering himself safe in England, in con- 
 sequence of his having claimed the crown of Wessex (for 
 he thought his rival might take him prisoner and put him to 
 death), sought refuge at the court of Charlemagne, king of 
 France. On the death of Beortric, so unhappily poisoned 
 by mistake, Egbert came back to Britain ; succeeded to the 
 throne of Wessex ; conquered some of the other monarchs 
 of the seven kingdoms ; added their territories to his own ; 
 and, for the first time, called the country over which he 
 ruled, England. 
 
 And now, new enemies arose, who, for a long time, trou- 
 
ao A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 bled England sorely. These were the Northmen, the people 
 of Denmark and Norway, whom the English called the 
 Danes. They were a warlike people, quite at home upon 
 the sea. ; not Christians ; very daring and cruel. They came 
 over in ships, and plundered and burned wheresoever they 
 landed. Once, they beat Egbert in battle. Once, Egbert 
 beat them. But they cared no more for being beaten 
 than the English themselves. In the four following short 
 reigns, of Ethelwulf, and his sons, Ethelbald, Ethelbert, and 
 Ethelred, they came back, over and over again, burning and 
 plundering, and laying England waste. In the last-men- 
 tioned reign, they seized Edmund, King of East England, 
 and bound him to a tree. Then, they proposed to him that 
 he should change his religion ; but he, being a good Chris- 
 tian, steadily refused. Upon that, they beat him, made 
 cowardly jests upon him, all defenseless as he was, shot 
 arrows at him, and, finally struck off his head. It is impos- 
 sible to say whose head they might have struck off next, but 
 for the death of King Ethelred from a wound he had 
 received in fighting against them, and the succession to 
 his throne of the best and wisest king that ever lived in 
 England. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER THE GOOD SAXON, ALFRED. 
 
 Alfred the Great was a young man, three-and-twenty 
 years of age, when he became king. Twice in his child- 
 hood, he had been taken to Rome, where the Saxon nobles 
 were in the habit of going on journeys which they supposed 
 to be religious ; and, once, he had staid for some time in 
 Paris. Learning, however, was so little cared for, then, that 
 at twelve years old he had not been taught to read : although, 
 of the sons of King Ethelwulf, he, the youngest, was the 
 favorite. But he had — as most men who grow up to be 
 great and good are generally found to have had — an excel- 
 lent mother ; and, one day, this lady, whose name was 
 Osburga, happened, as she was sitting among her sons, to 
 read a book of Saxon poetry. The art of printing was not 
 known until long and long after that period, and the book, 
 which was written, was what is called " illuminated," with 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 21 
 
 beautiful bright letters, richly painted. The brothers ad- 
 miring it very much, their mother said, " I will give it to 
 that one of you princes who first learns to read." Alfred 
 sought out a tutor that very day, applied himself to learn 
 with great diligence, and soon won the book. He was proud 
 of it, all his life. 
 
 This great king, in the first year of his reign, fought nine 
 battles with the Danes. He made some treaties with them 
 too, by which the false Danes swore they would quit the 
 country. They pretended to consider that they had taken a 
 ver.y solemn oath, in swearing this upon the holy bracelets 
 that they wore, and which were always buried with them 
 when they died ; but they cared little for it, for they thought 
 nothing of breaking oaths and treaties too, as soon as it 
 suited their purpose, and coming back again to fight, plunder, 
 and burn, as usual. One fatal winter, in the fourth year of 
 King Alfred's reign, they spread themselves in great num- 
 bers over the whole of England ; and so dispersed and routed 
 the King's soldiers that the King was left alone, and was 
 obliged to disguise himself as a common peasant, and to 
 take refuge in the cottage of one of his cowherds who did 
 not know his face. 
 
 Here, King Alfred, while the Danes sought him far and 
 near, was left alone one day, by the cowherd's wife, to watclr 
 some cakes which she put to bake upon the hearth. But, 
 being at work upon his bow and arrows, with which he 
 hoped to punish the false Danes when a brighter time should 
 come, and thinking deeply of his poor unhappy subjects 
 whom the Danes chased through the land, his noble mind 
 forgot the cakes, and they were burned. " What ! " said the 
 cowherd's wife, who scolded him well when she came back, 
 and little thought she was scolding the King, " you will be 
 ready enough to eat them by-and-by, and yet you cannot 
 watch them, idle dog ? " 
 
 At length, the Devonshire men made head against a new 
 host of Danes who landed on their coast ; killed their chief, 
 and captured their flag ; on which was represented the like- 
 ness of a Raven — a very fit bird for a thievish army like 
 that, I think. The loss of their standard troubled the Danes 
 greatly, for they believed it to be enchanted — woven by the 
 three daughters of one father in a single afternoon — and 
 they had a story among themselves that when they were vic- 
 torious in battle, the Raven stretched his wings and seemed 
 
22 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 to fly ; and that when they were defeated, he would droop. 
 He had good reason to droop, now, if he could have done 
 any thing half so sensible ; for, King Alfred joined the 
 Devonshire men ; made a camp with them on a piece of firm 
 ground in the midst of a bog in Somersetshire ; and prepared 
 for a great attempt for vengeance on the Danes, and the 
 deliverance of his oppressed people. 
 
 But, first, as it was important to know how numerous 
 those pestilent Danes were, and how they were fortified, 
 King Alfred, being a good musician, disguised himself as 
 a glee-man or minstrel, and went, with his harp, to the Dan- 
 ish camp. He played and sang in the very tent of Guthrum 
 the Danish leader, and entertained the Danes as they ca- 
 roused. While he seemed to think of nothing but his music, 
 he was watchful of their tents, their arms, their discipline, 
 every thing that he desired to know. And right soon did this 
 great king entertain them to a different tune ; for, summon- 
 ing all his true followers to meet him at an appointed place, 
 where they received him with joyful shouts and tears, as the 
 monarch whom many of them had given up for lost or dead, 
 he put himself at their head, marched on the Danish camp, 
 defeated the Danes with great slaughter, and besieged them 
 for fourteen days to prevent their escape. But, being as 
 merciful as he was good and brave, he then, instead of kill- 
 ing them, proposed peace : on condition that they should al- 
 together depart from that Western part of England, and 
 settle in the East ; and that Guthrum should become a 
 Christian, in remembrance of the Divine religion which now 
 taught his conqueror, the noble Alfred, to forgive the enemy 
 who had so often injured him. This, Guthrum did. At his 
 baptism, King Alfred was his godfather. And Guthrum 
 was an honorable chief who well deserved that clemency ; 
 for, ever afterward, he was loyal and faithful to the king. 
 The Danes under him were faithful too. They plundered 
 and burned no more, but worked like honest men. They 
 plowed, and sowed, and reaped, and led good honest En- 
 glish lives. And I hope the children of those Danes played, 
 many a time, with Saxon children in the sunny fields ; and 
 that Danish young men fell in love with Saxon girls, and 
 married them ; and that English travelers, benighted at the 
 doors of Danish cottages, often went in for shelter until morn- 
 ing ; and that Danes and Saxons sat by the red fire, friends, 
 talking of King Alfred the Great. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 23 
 
 All the Danes were not like these under Guthrum ; for 
 after some years, more of them came over, in the old plun- 
 dering and burning way — among them a fierce pirate of the 
 name of Hastings, who had the boldness to sail up the 
 Thames to Gravesend, with eighty ships. For three years, 
 there was a war with these Danes ; and there was a famine in 
 the country, too, and a plague, both upon human creatures 
 and beasts. But King Alfred, whose mighty heart never 
 failed him, built large ships nevertheless, with which to pur- 
 sue the pirates on the sea ; and he encouraged his soldiers, 
 by his brave example, to fight valiantly against them on the 
 shore. At last, he drove them all away ; and then there was 
 repose in England. 
 
 As great and good in peace, as he was great and good in 
 war, King Alfred never rested from his labors to improve his 
 people. He loved to talk with clever men, and with trav- 
 elers from foreign countries, and to write down what they 
 told him, for his people to read. He had studied Latin 
 after learning to read English, and now another of his labors 
 was, to translate Latin books into the English-Saxon tongue, 
 that his people might be interested, and improved by their 
 contents. He made just laws, that they might live more 
 happily and freely ; he turned away all partial judges, that 
 no wrong might be done them ; he was so careful of their 
 property, and punished robbers so severely, that it was a com- 
 mon thing to say that under the great King Alfred, garlands 
 of golden chains and jewels might have hung across the 
 streets, and no man would have touched one. He founded 
 schools ; he patiently heard causes himself in his Court of 
 Justice ; the great desires of his heart were, to do right to all 
 his subjects, and to leave England better, wiser, happier in 
 all ways, than he found it. His industry in these efforts was 
 quite astonishing. Every day he divided into certain por- 
 tions, and in each portion devoted himself to a certain pur- 
 suit. That he might divide his time exactly, he had wax 
 torches or candles made, which were all of the same size, 
 were notched across at regular distances, and were always 
 kept burning. Thus, as the candles burned down, he di- 
 vided the day into notches, almost as accurately as we now 
 divide it into hours upon the clock. But when the candles 
 were first invented, it was found that the wind and draughts 
 of air, blowing into the palace through the doors and 
 windows, and through the chinks in the wall, caused them 
 
24 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 to gutter and burn unequally. To prevent this, the King 
 had them put into cases formed of wood and white horn. 
 And these were the first lanterns ever made in England. 
 
 All this time, he was afflicted with a terrible unknown dis- 
 ease, which caused him violent and frequent pain that 
 nothing could relieve. He bore it, as he had borne all the 
 troubles of his life, like a brave good man, until he was fifty- 
 three years old ; and then, having reigned thirty years, he 
 died. He died in the year nine hundred and one ; but, long 
 ago as that is, his fame, and the love and gratitude with 
 which his subjects regarded him, are freshly remembered to 
 the present hour. 
 
 In the next reign, which was the reign of Edward, sur- 
 named The Elder, who was chosen in council to succeed, a 
 nephew of King Alfred troubled the country by trying to 
 obtain the throne. The Danes in the East of England took 
 part with this usurper (perhaps because they had honored his 
 uncle so much, and honored him for his uncle's sake), and 
 there was hard fighting ; but the King, with the assistance of 
 his sister, gained the day, and reigned in peace for four and 
 twenty years. He gradually extended his power over the 
 whole of England, and so the Seven Kingdoms were united 
 into one. 
 
 When England thus became one kingdom, ruled over by 
 one Saxon King, the Saxons had been settled in the country 
 more than four hundred and fifty years. Great changes had 
 taken place in its customs during that time. The Saxons 
 were still greedy eaters and great drinkers, and their feasts 
 were often of a noisy and drunken kind ; but many new com- 
 forts and even elegances had become known, and were fast 
 increasing. Hangings for the walls of rooms, where, in these 
 modern days, we paste up paper, are known to have been 
 sometimes made of silk, ornamented with birds and flowers in 
 needlework. Tables and chairs were curiously carved in dif- 
 ferent woods ; were sometimes decorated with gold or silver ; 
 sometimes even made of those precious metals. Knives and 
 spoons were used at table ; golden ornaments were worn — 
 with silk and cloth, and golden tissues and embroideries ; 
 dishes were made of gold and silver, brass and bone. There 
 were varieties of drinking-horns, bedsteads, musical instru- 
 ments. A harp was passed around at a feast, like the drink- 
 ing-bowl, from guest to guest ; and each one usually sang or 
 played w*len his turn came. The weapons of the Saxons 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 25 
 
 were stoutly made, and among them was a terrible iron ham- 
 mer that gave deadly blows, and was long remembered. The 
 Saxons themselves were a handsome people. The men were 
 proud of their long fair hair, parted on the forehead ; their 
 ample beards, their fresh complexions, and clear eyes. The 
 beauty of the Saxon women filled all England with a new 
 delight and grace. 
 
 I have more to tell of the Saxons yet, but I stop to say 
 this now, because under the Great Alfred, all the best 
 points of the English-Saxon character were first encouraged, 
 and in him first shown. It has been the greatest character 
 among the nations of the earth. Wherever the descendants 
 of the Saxon race have gone, have sailed, or otherwise made 
 their way, even to the remotest regions of the world, they 
 have been patient, persevering, never to be broken in spirit, 
 never to be turned aside from enterprises on which they have 
 resolved. In Europe, Asia, Africa, America, the whole world 
 over ; in the desert, in the forest, on the sea ; scorched by a 
 burning sun, or frozen by ice that never melts ; the Saxon 
 blood remains unchanged. Wheresoever that race goes, there 
 law, and industry, and safety for life and property, and all 
 the great results of steady perseverance, are certain to arise. 
 
 I pause to think with admiration of the noble king who, 
 in his single person, possessed all the Saxon virtues. Whom 
 misfortune could not subdue, whom prosperity could not 
 spoil, whose perseverance nothing could shake. Who was 
 hopeful in defeat, and generous in success. Who loved jus- 
 tice, freedom, truth and knowledge. Who, in his care to 
 instruct his people, probably did more to preserve the beauti- 
 ful old Saxon language, than I can imagine. Without whom, 
 the English tongue in which I tell this story might have 
 wanted half its meaning. As it is said that his spirit still 
 inspires some of our best English laws, so, let you and I pray 
 that it may animate our English hearts, at least to this — to 
 resolve, when we see any of our fellow-creatures left in igno- 
 rance, that we will do our best, while life is in us, to have 
 them taught ; and to tell those rulers whose duty it is to 
 teach them, and who neglect their duty, that they have prof- 
 ited very little by all the years that have rolled away since 
 the year nine hundred and one, and that they are far behind 
 the bright example of King Alfred the Great. 
 
26 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER ATHELSTAN AND THE SIX BOY-KINGS. 
 
 Athelstan, the son of Edward the Elder, succeeded that 
 king. He reigned only fifteen years ; but he remembered 
 the glory of his grandfather, the great Alfred, and governed 
 England well. He reduced the turbulent people of Wales, 
 and obliged them to pay him a tribute in money, and in cattle, 
 and to send him their best hawks and hounds. He was vic- 
 torious over the Cornish men, who were not yet quiet under 
 the Saxon government. He restored such of the old laws as 
 were good, and had fallen into disuse ; made some wise new 
 laws, and took care of the poor and weak. A strong alliance, 
 made aganst him by Anlaf a Danish prince, Constantine 
 King of the Scots, and the people of North Wales, he broke 
 and defeated in one great battle, long famous for the vast 
 numbers slain in it. After that, he had a quiet reign ; the 
 lords and ladies about him had leisure to become polite and 
 agreeable ; and foreign princes were glad (as they have some- 
 times been since) to come to England on visits to the En- 
 glish court. 
 
 When Athelstan died, at forty-seven years old, his brother 
 Edmund, who was only eighteen, became king. He was the 
 first of six boy-kings, as you will presently know. 
 
 They called him the Magnificent, because he showed a 
 taste for improvement and refinement. But he was beset by 
 the Danes, and had a short and troubled reign, which came 
 to a troubled end. One night, when he was feasting in his 
 hall, and had eaten much and drunk deep, he saw, among 
 the company, a noted robber named Leof, who had been 
 banished from England. Made very angry by the boldness 
 of this man, the King turned to his cup-bearer, and said, 
 " There is a robber sitting at the table yonder, who, for his 
 crimes, is an outlaw in the land — a hunted wolf, whose life 
 any man may take, at any time. Command that robber to 
 depart ! " "I will not depart ' " said Leof. " No ? " cried 
 the King. " No, by the Lord ! " said Leof. _ Upon that the 
 King rose from his seat, and, making passionately at the 
 robber, and seizing him by his long hair, tried to throw him 
 down. But the robber had a dagger underneath his cloak, 
 and, in the scuffle, stabbed the King to death. That done, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 27 
 
 he set his back against the wall, and fought so desperately, 
 that although he was soon cut to pieces by the King's armed 
 men, and the wall and pavement were splashed with his 
 blood, yet it was not before he had killed and wounded many 
 of them. You may imagine what rough lives the kings of 
 those times led, when one of them could struggle, half drunk, 
 with a public robber in his own dining-hall, and be stabbed 
 in the presence of the company who ate and drank with him. 
 
 Then succeeded the boy-king Edred, who was weak and 
 sickly in body, but >f a strong mind. And his armies fought 
 the Northmen, the Danes, and Norwegians, or the Sea-Kings, 
 as they were called, and beat them for the time. And, in 
 nine years, Edred died, and passed away. 
 
 Then came the boy-king Edwy, fifteen years of age ; but 
 the real king, who had the real power, was a monk named 
 Dunstan — a clever priest, a little mad, and not a little proud 
 and cruel. 
 
 Dunstan was then Abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, whither 
 the body of King Edmund the Magnificent was carried, to be 
 buried. While yet a boy, he had got out of his bed one 
 night (being then in a fever), and walked about Glastonbury 
 Church when it was under repair ; and because he did not 
 tumble off some scaffolds that were there, and break his 
 neck, it was reported that he had been shown over the build- 
 ing by an angel. He had also made a harp that was said to 
 play of itself — which it very likely did, as ^Eolian Harps, 
 which are played by the wind, and are understood now, 
 always do. For these wonders he had been once denounced 
 by his enemies, who were jealous of his favor with the late 
 King Athelstan, as a magician ; and he had been waylaid, 
 bound hand and foot, and thrown into a marsh. But he got 
 out again, somehow, to cause a great deal of trouble yet. 
 
 The priests of those days were, generally, the only schol- 
 ars. They were learned in many things. Having to make 
 their own convents and monasteries on uncultivated grounds 
 that were granted to them by the crown, it was necessary 
 that they :hould be good farmers and good gardeners, or 
 their lands would have been too poor to support them. For 
 the decoration of the chapels where they prayed, and for the 
 comfort of the refectories where they ate and drank, it was 
 necessary that there should be good carpenters, good smiths, 
 good painters, among them. For their greater safety in 
 sickness and accident, living alone by themselves in solitary 
 
28 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 places, it was necessary that they should study the virtues of 
 plants and herbs, and should know how to dress cuts, burns, 
 scalds, and bruises, and how to set broken limbs. Accord- 
 ingly, they taught themselves, and one another, a great 
 variety of useful arts ; and became skillful in agriculture, 
 medicine, surgery, and handicraft. And when they wanted 
 the aid of any little piece of machinery, which would be sim- 
 ple enough now, but was marvelous then, to impose a trick 
 upon the poor peasants, they knew very well how to make 
 it ; and did make it many a time and often, I have no doubt. 
 
 Dunstan, Abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, was one of the 
 most sagacious of these monks. He was an ingenious smith, 
 and worked at a forge in a little cell. This cell was made 
 too short to admit of his lying at full length when he went 
 to sleep — as if that did any good to anybody! — and he used 
 to tell the most extraordinary lies about demons and spirits, 
 who, he said, came there to persecute him. For instance, 
 he related that, one day when he was at work, the devil 
 looked in at the little window, and tried to tempt him to 
 lead a life of idle pleasure ; whereupon, having his pincers 
 in the fire, red hot, he seized the devil by the nose, and put 
 him to such pain, that his bellowings were heard for miles 
 and miles. Some people are inclined to think this nonsense 
 apart of Dunstan's madness (for his head never quite recov- 
 ered the fever), but I think not. I observe that it induced 
 the ignorant people to consider him a holy man, and that 
 it made him very powerful. Which was exactly what he 
 always wanted. 
 
 On the day of the coronation of the handsome boy-king 
 Edvvy, it was remarked by Odo, Archbishop of Canterbury 
 (who was a Dane by birth), that the King quietly left the 
 coronation feast, while all the company were there. Odo, 
 much displeased, sent his friend Dunstan to seek him. Dun- 
 stan finding him in the company of his beautiful young wife 
 Elgiva, and her mother Ethelgiva, a good and virtuous lady, 
 not only grossly abused them, but dragged the young King 
 back into the feasting-hall by force. Some, again, think 
 Dunstan did this because the young King's fair wife was his 
 own cousin, and the monks objected to people marrying 
 their own cousin ; but I believe he did it because he was an 
 imperious, audacious, ill-conditioned priest, who having loved 
 a young lady himself before he became a sour monk, hated 
 all love now, and every thing belonging to it. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 29 
 
 The young King was quite old enough to feel this insult. 
 Dunstan had been Treasurer in the last reign, and he soon 
 charged Dunstan with having taken some of the last King's 
 money. The Glastonbury Abbot fled to Belgium (very nar- 
 rowly escaping some pursuers who were sent to put out his 
 eyes, as you will wish they had, when you read what follows), 
 and his abbey was given to priests who were married ; whom 
 he always, both before and afterwards, opposed. But he 
 quickly conspired with his friend, Odo the Dane, to set up 
 the King's young brother, Edgar, as his rival for the throne; 
 and not content with this revenge, he caused the beautiful 
 queen Elgiva,though a lovely girl of only seventeen or eight- 
 een, to be stolen from one of the Royal Palaces, branded in 
 the cheek with a red hot iron, and sold into slavery in Ire- 
 ' land. But the Irish people pitied and befriended her ; and 
 they said, " Let us restore the girl-queen to the boy-king, 
 and make the young lovers happy ! " and they cured her of 
 her cruel wound, and sent her home as beautiful as before. 
 But the villain Dunstan, and that other villain Odo, caused 
 her to be waylaid at Gloucester as she was joyfully hurrying 
 to join her husband, and to be hacked and hewn with swords, 
 and to be barbarously maimed and lamed, and left to die. 
 When Edwy the Fair (his people called him so, because he 
 was so young and handsome) heard of her dreadful fate, he 
 died of a broken heart ; and so the pitiful story of the poor 
 young wife and husband ends ! Ah ! Better to be two cot- 
 tagers in these better times, than king and queen of 
 England in those bad days, though never so fair I 
 
 Then came the boy-king Edgar, called the Peaceful, fifteen 
 years old. Dunstan, being still the real king, drove all mar- 
 ried priests out of the monasteries and abbeys, and replaced 
 them by solitary monks like himself, of the rigid order called 
 the Benedictines. He made himself Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury, for his greater glory ; and exercised such power over 
 the neighboring British princes, and so collected them about 
 the King, that once, when the King held his court at Chester, 
 and went on the river Dee to visit the monastery of St. John, 
 the eight oars of his boat were pulled (as the people used to 
 delight in relating in stories and songs) by eight crowned 
 kings, and steered by the King of England. As Edgar was 
 very obedient to Dunstan and the monks, they took great 
 pains to represent him as the best of kings. But he was 
 really profligate, debauched, and vicious. He once forcibly 
 
3o A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 carried off a young lady from the convent at Wilton ; and 
 Dunstan, pretending to be very much shocked, condemned 
 him not to wear his crown upon his head for seven years — 
 no great punishment, I dare say, as it can hardly have been 
 a more comfortable ornament to wear, than a stewpan with- 
 out a handle. His marriage with his second wife, Elfrida, 
 is one of the worst events of his reign. Hearing of the beauty 
 of this lady, he despatched his favorite courtier, Athelwold, 
 to her father's castle in Devonshire, to see if she were really 
 as charming as fame reported. Now, she was so exceedingly 
 beautiful that Athelwold fell in love with her himself, and 
 married her ; but he told the King that she was only rich— 
 not handsome. The King, suspecting the truth when they 
 came home, resolved to pay the newly married couple a visit}. 
 and, suddenly, told Athelwold to prepare for his immediate 
 coming. Athelwold, terrified, confessed to his young wife 
 what he had said anddone, and implored her to disguise her 
 beauty by some ugly dress or silly manner, that he might 
 be safe from the King's anger. She promised that she 
 would ; but she was a proud woman, who would far rather 
 have been a queen than the wife of a courtier. She dressed 
 herself in her best dress, and adorned herself with her richest 
 jewels ; and when the King came, presently, he discovered 
 the cheat. So, he caused his false friend, Athelwold, to be 
 murdered in a wood, and married his widow — this bad 
 Elfrida. Six or seven years afterward, he died ; and was 
 buried, as if he had been all that the monks said he was, in 
 the abbey of Glastonbury, which he — or Dunstan for him — 
 had much enriched. 
 
 England, in one part of this reign, was so troubled by 
 wolves, which, driven out of the open country, hid themselves 
 in the mountains of Wales when they were not attacking 
 travelers and animals, that the tribute payable by the Welsh 
 people was forgiven them, on condition of their producing, 
 every year, three hundred wolves' heads. And the Welsh- 
 men were so sharp upon the wolves, to save their money, 
 that in four years there was not a wolf left. 
 
 Then came the boy-king, Edward, called the Martyr, from 
 the manner of his death. Elfrida had a son, named Ethel- 
 red, for whom she claimed the throne ; but Dunstan did not 
 choose to favor him, and he made Edward king. The boy 
 was hunting, one day, down in Dorsetshire, when he rode 
 near to Corfe Castle, where Elfrida and Ethelred lived 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 31 
 
 Wishing to see them kindly, he rode away from his attend- 
 ants and galloped to the castle gate, where he arrived at 
 twilight, and blew his hunting horn. " You are welcome, 
 dear King," said Elfrida, coming out, with her brightest 
 smiles. " Pray you dismount and enter." " Not so, dear 
 madam," said the King. " My company will miss me, and 
 fear that I have met with some harm. Please you to give 
 me a cup of wine, that I may drink here, in the saddle, to 
 you and to my little brother, and so ride away with the 
 good speed I have met riding here." Elfrida, going in 
 to bring the wine, whispered an armed servant, one of her 
 attendants, who stole out of the darkening gateway, and 
 crept round behind the King's horse. As the King raised 
 the cup to his lips, saying, " Health ! " to the wicked woman 
 who was smiling on him, and to his innocent brother whose 
 hand she held in hers, and who was only ten years old, this 
 armed man made a spring and stabbed him in the back. 
 He dropped the cup and spurred his horse away ; but, soon 
 fainting with loss of blood, dropped from the saddle, and, in 
 his fall, entangled one of his feet in the stirrup. The fright- 
 ened horse dashed on ; trailing his rider's curls upon the 
 ground ; dragging his smooth young face through ruts, and 
 stones, and briers, and fallen leaves, and mud ; until the 
 hunters, tracking the animal's course by the King's blood, 
 caught his bridle, and released the disfigured body. 
 
 Then came the sixth and last of the boy kings, Ethelred, 
 whom Elfrida, when he cried out at the sight of his murdered 
 brother riding away from the castle gate, unmercifully beat 
 with a torch which she snatched from one of the attendants. 
 The people so disliked this boy, on account of his cruel 
 mother and the murder she had done to promote him, that 
 Dunstan would not have had him for king, but would have 
 made Edgitha, the daughter of the dead King Edgar, and of 
 the lady whom he stole out of the convent at Wilton, Queen 
 of England, if she would have consented. But she knew 
 the stories of the youthful kings too well, and would not be 
 persuaded from the convent where she lived in peace ; so, 
 Dunstan put Ethelred on the throne, having no one else to 
 put there, and gave him the nickname of the Unready — 
 knowing that he wanted resolution and firmness. 
 
 At first, Elfrida possessed great influence over the young 
 King, but, as he grew older and came of age, her influence 
 declined. The infamous woman, not having it in her power 
 
32 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 to do any more evil, then retired from court, and according 
 to the fashion of the time, built churches and monasteries, 
 to expiate her guilt. As if a church, with a steeple reaching 
 to the very stars, would have been any sign of true repent- 
 ance for the blood of the poor boy, whose murdered form 
 was trailed at his horse's heels ! As if she could have buried 
 her wickedness beneath the senseless stones of the whole 
 world, piled up one upon another, for the monks to live in ! 
 
 About the ninth or tenth year of his reign, Dunstan died. 
 He was growing old then, but was as stern and artful as 
 ever. Two circumstances that happened in connection with 
 him, in this reign of Ethelred, made a great noise. Once, 
 he was present at a meeting of the church, when the question 
 was discussed whether priests should have permission to 
 marry ; and, as he sat with his head hung down, apparently 
 thinking about it, a voice seemed to come out of a crucifix 
 in the room, and warn the meeting to be of his opinion. 
 This was some juggling of Dunstan's, and was probably his 
 own voice disguised. But he played off a worse juggle than 
 that soon afterwards : for, another meeting being held on 
 the same subject, and he and his supporters being seated on 
 one side of a great room, and their opponents on the other, 
 he rose and said, " To Christ himself, as Judge, do I commit 
 this cause ! " Immediately on these words being spoken, 
 the floor where the opposite party sat gave way, and some 
 were killed and many wounded. You may be pretty sure 
 that it had been weakened under Dunstan's direction and 
 that it fell at Dunstan's signal. His part of the floor did not 
 go down. No, no. He was too good a workman for that. 
 
 When he died, the monks settled that he was a saint, and 
 called him Saint Dunstan ever afterward. They might just 
 as well have settled that he was a coach-horse, and could just 
 as easily have called him one. 
 
 Ethelred the Unready was glad enough, I dare say, to be 
 rid of his holy saint ; but, left to himself, he was a poor 
 weak king, and his reign was a reign of defeat and shame. 
 The restless Danes, led by Sweyn, a son of the King of Den- 
 mark who had quarreled with his father and had been ban- 
 ished from home, again came into England, and, year after 
 year, attacked and despoiled large towns. To coax these 
 sea-kings away, the weak Ethelred paid them money ; but, 
 the more money he paid, the more money the Danes wanted. 
 At first, he gave them ten thousand pounds ; on their next 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 33 
 
 invasion, sixteen thousand pounds ; on their next invasion, 
 four and twenty thousand pounds ; to pay which large sums, 
 the unfortunate English people were heavily taxed. But, as 
 the Danes still came back and wanted more, he thought it 
 would be a good plan to marry into some powerful foreign 
 family that would help him with soldiers. So in the year 
 one thousand and two, he courted and married Emma, the 
 sister of Richard Duke of Normandy ; a lady who was called 
 the Flower of Normandy. 
 
 And now a terrible deed was done in England, the like of 
 which was never done on English ground before or since. 
 On the thirteenth of November, in pursuance of secret in- 
 structions sent by the King over the whole country, the in- 
 habitants of every town and city armed, and murdered all 
 the Danes who were their neighbors. Young and old, babies 
 and soldiers, men and women, every Dane was killed. No 
 doubt there were among them many ferocious men who had 
 done the English great wrong, and whose pride and inso- 
 lence, in swaggering in the houses of the English and insult- 
 ing their wives and daughters, had become unbearable ; but 
 no doubt there were also among them many peaceful Chris- 
 tian Danes who had married English women and become 
 like English men. They were all slain, even to Gunhilda, 
 the sister of the King of Denmark, married to an English 
 lord ; who was first obliged to see the murder of her husband 
 and her child, and then was killed herself. 
 
 When the King of the sea-kings heard of this deed of 
 blood, he swore that he would have a great revenge. He 
 raised an army, and a mightier fleet of ships than ever yet 
 had sailed to England ; and in all his army there was not a 
 slave or an old man, but every soldier was a free man, and 
 the son of a free man, and in the prime of life, and sworn to 
 be revenged upon the English nation, for the massacre of 
 that dread thirteenth of November, when his countrymen 
 and countrywomen, and the little children whom they loved, 
 were killed with fire and sword. And so, the sea-kings came 
 to England in many great ships, each bearing the flag of its 
 own commander. Golden eagles, ravens, dragons, dolphins, 
 beasts of prey, threatened England from the prows of those 
 ships, as they came onward through the water ; and were 
 reflected in the shining shields that hung upon their sides. 
 The ship that bore the standard of the King ef the sea-kings 
 was carved and painted like a miphty serpent ; and the king 
 
34 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 in his anger prayed that the gods in whom he trusted might 
 all desert him, if his serpent did not strike his fangs into En- 
 gland's heart. 
 
 And indeed it did. For, the great army landing from the 
 great fleet, near Exeter, went forward, laying England waste, 
 and striking their lances in the earth as they advanced, or 
 throwing them into rivers, in token of their making all the 
 islands theirs. In remembrance of the black November night 
 when the Danes were murdered, wheresoever the invaders 
 came, they made the Saxons prepare and spread for them 
 great feasts ; and when they had eaten those feasts, and had 
 drunk a curse to England with wild rejoicings, they drew 
 their swords and killed their Saxon entertainers, and marched 
 on. For six long years they carried on this war ; burning 
 the crops, farmhouses, barns, mills, granaries ; killing the 
 laborers in the fields ; preventing the seed from being sown 
 in the ground ; causing famine and starvation ; leaving only 
 heaps of ruin and smoking ashes, where they had found 
 rich towns. To crown this misery, English officers and 
 men deserted, and even the favorites of Ethelred the Un- 
 ready, becoming traitors, seized many of the English ships, 
 turned pirates against their own country, and aided by 
 a storm, occasioned the loss of nearly the whole English 
 navy. 
 
 There was but one man of note, at this miserable pass, 
 who was true to his country and the feeble King. He was a 
 priest, and a brave one. For twenty days the Archbishop 
 of Canterbury defended that city against its Danish besieg- 
 ers ; and when a traitor in the town threw the gates open and 
 admitted them, he said, in chains, " I will not buy my life 
 with money that must be extorted from the suffering people. 
 Do with me what you please ! " Again and again, he steadily 
 refused to purchase his release with gold wrung from the 
 poor. 
 
 At last, the Danes being tired of this, and being assem- 
 bled at a drunken merry-making, had him brought into the 
 f easting-hall. 
 
 " Now, bishop," they said, " we want gold ! " 
 
 He looked round on the crowd of angry faces : from the 
 shaggy beards close to him, 'to the shaggy beards against the 
 walls, where men were mounted on tables and forms to see 
 him over the heads of others : and he knew that his time 
 was come. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 35 
 
 H I have no gold," said he. 
 
 81 Get it, bishop ! " they all thundered. 
 
 11 That, I have often told you I will not," said he. 
 
 They gathered closer round him, threatening, but he stood 
 unmoved. Then, one Inan struck him ; then, another ; then, 
 a cursing soldier picked up from a heap in a corner of the 
 hall, where fragments had been rudely thrown at dinner, 
 a great ox-bone, and cast it at his face, from which the 
 blood came spurting forth ; then, others ran to the same 
 heap, and knocked him down with other bones, and bruised 
 and battered him ; until one soldier whom he had baptized 
 (willing as I hope for the sake of that soldier's soul, to 
 shorten the sufferings of the good man) struck him dead 
 with his battle-ax. 
 
 If Ethelred had had the heart to emulate the courage 
 of this noble archbishop, he might have done something yet. 
 But he paid the Danes forty-eight thousand pounds, instead, 
 and gained so little by the cowardly act, that Sweyn soon 
 afterwards came over to subdue all England. So broken was 
 the attachment of the English people, at this time, to their 
 incapable King and their forlorn country which could not 
 protect them, that they welcomed Sweyn on all sides, as a 
 deliverer. London faithfully stood out, as long as the King 
 was within its walls ; but when he sneaked away, it also wel- 
 'comed the Dane. Then, all was over ; and the King took 
 :refuge abroad with the Duke of Normandy, who had already 
 given shelter to the King's wife, once the Flower of that 
 country, and to her children. 
 
 Still, the English people, in spite of their sad sufferings, 
 could not quite forget the great King Alfred and the Saxon 
 race. When Sweyn died suddenly, in little more than a 
 month after he had been proclaimed King of England, they 
 generously sent to Ethelred, to say that they would have him 
 for their King again, " if he would only govern them better 
 than he had governed them before." The Unready, instead 
 of coming himself, sent Edward, one of his sons, to make 
 promises for him. At last, he followed, and the English 
 declared him King. The Danes declared Canute, the son of 
 Sweyn, King. Thus, direful war began again, and lasted foi 
 three years, when the Unready died. And I know of noth* 
 ing better that he did in all his reign of eight and thirty 
 years. 
 
 Was Canute to be King now ? Not over the Saxons, they 
 
36 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 said ; they must have Edmund, one of the sons of the Un- 
 ready, who was surnamed Ironside, because of his strength 
 and stature. Edmund and Canute thereupon fell to, and 
 fought five battles — O unhappy England, what a fighting 
 ground it was ! — and then Ironside, who was a big man, 
 proposed to Canute, who was a little man, that they two 
 should fight it out in single combat. If Canute had been the 
 big man, he would probably have said yes, but, being the 
 little man, he decidedly said no. However, he declared that 
 he was willing to divide the kingdom — to take all that lay 
 north of Watling Street, as the old Roman military road from 
 Dover to Chester was called, and to give Ironside all that lay 
 south of it. Most men being weary of so much bloodshed, 
 this was done. But Canute soon became sole King of 
 England ; for Ironside died suddenly within two months. 
 Some think that he was killed, and killed by Canute's orders, 
 No one knows. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER CANUTE THE DANE. 
 
 Canute reigned eighteen years. He was a merciless King at 
 first. After he had clasped the hands of the Saxon Chiefs, 
 in token of the sincerity with which he swore to be just and 
 good to them in return for their acknowledging him, he de- 
 nounced and slew many of them, as well as many relations 
 of the late King. " He who brings me the head of one of 
 my enemies," he used to say, " shall be dearer to me than a 
 brother." And he was so severe in hunting down his ene- 
 mies, that he must have got together a pretty large family of 
 these dear brothers. He was strongly inclined to kill Ed- 
 mund and Edward, two children, sons of poor Ironside ; but, 
 being afraid to do so in England, he sent them over to the 
 King of Sweden, with a request that the King would be so 
 good as " dispose of them." If the King of Sweden had 
 been like many, many other men of that day, he would have 
 had their innocent throats cut ; but he was a kind man, and 
 brought them up tenderly. 
 
 Normandy ran much in Canute's mind. In Normandy 
 were the two children of the late King — Edward and Alfred 
 by name ; and their uncle the Duke might one day claim the 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 37 
 
 • 
 crown for them. But the Duke showed so little inclination 
 to do so now, that he proposed to Canute to marry his sister, 
 the widow of the Unready ; who being but a showy flower, 
 and caring for nothing so much as becoming a queen again, 
 left her children and was wedded to him. 
 
 Successful and triumphant, assisted by the valor of the 
 English in his foreign wars, and with little strife to trouble 
 him at home, Canute had a prosperous reign, and made 
 many improvements. He was a poet and a musician. He 
 grew sorry as he grew older, for the blood he had shed at 
 first ; and went to Rome in a pilgrim's dress, by way of 
 washing it out. He gave a great deal of money to foreign- 
 ers on his journey ; but he took it from the English before 
 he started. On the whole, however, he certainly became 
 a far better man when he had no opposition to contend 
 with, and was as great a King as England had known for 
 some time. 
 
 The old writers of history relate how that Canute was one 
 day disgusted with his courtiers for their flattery, and how 
 he caused his chair to be set on the sea-shore, and feigned to 
 command the tide as it came up not to wet the edge of his 
 robe, for the land was his ; how the tide came up, of course, 
 without regarding him ; and how he then turned to his flat- 
 terers, and rebuked them, saying, what was the might of any 
 earthly king, to the might of the Creator, who could say 
 unto the sea, " Thus far shalt thou go, and no further ! " We 
 may learn from this, I think, that a little sense will go a long 
 way in a king ; and that courtiers are not easily cured of 
 flattery, nor kings of a liking for it. If the courtiers of 
 Canute had not known long before, that the King was fond 
 of flattery, they would have known better than to offer it in 
 such large doses. And if they had t\ot known that he was 
 vain of this speech (any thing but a wonderful speech, it 
 seems to me, if a good child had made it), they would not 
 have been at such great pains to repeat it. I fancy I see 
 them all on the sea-shore together ; the King's chair sinking 
 in the sand ; the King in a mighty good humor with his own 
 wisdom ; and the courtiers pretending to be quite stunned 
 by it ! 
 
 It is not the sea alone that is bidden to go " thus far, and 
 no further." The great command goes forth to all the kings 
 upon the earth, and went to Canute in the year one thousand 
 and thirty-five, and stretched him dead upon his bed. Beside 
 
8 A CHILD'S HTSTOAY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 it, stood his Norman wife. Perhaps, as the king looked 
 his last upon her, he, who had so often thought distrustfully 
 of Normandy, long ago, thought once more of the two 
 exiled Princes in their uncle's court ; and of the little favor 
 they could feel for either Danes or Saxons, and of a rising 
 cloud in Normandy that slowly moved toward England. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD HAREFOOT, HARDICANUTE, AND 
 EDWARD THE CONFESSOR. 
 
 Canute left three sons, by name Sweyn, Harold, and 
 Hardicanute ; but his Queen, Emma, once the Flower of 
 Normandy, was the mother of only Hardicanute. Canute 
 had wished his dominions to be divided between the three, 
 and had wished Harold to have England ; but the Saxon 
 people in the South of England, headed by a nobleman with 
 great possessions, called the powerful Earl Godwin (who is 
 said to have been originally a poor cow-boy), opposed this, 
 and desired to have, instead, either Hardicanute, or one of. 
 the two exiled Princes who were over in Normandy. It 
 seemed so certain that there would be more bloodshed to 
 settle this dispute, that many people left their homes, and 
 took refuge in the woods and swamps. Happily, however, 
 it was agreed to refer the whole question to a great meeting 
 at Oxford, which decided that Harold should have all the 
 country north of the Thames, with London for his capital 
 city, and that Hardicanute should have all the south. The 
 quarrel was so arranged ; and, as Hardicanute was in Den- 
 mark troubling himself very little about any thing but eating 
 and getting drunk, his mother and Earl Godwin governed 
 the south for him. 
 
 They had hardly begun to do so, and the trembling people 
 who had hidden themselves were scarcely at home again, 
 when Edward, the elder of the two exiled Princes, came over 
 from Normandy with a few followers, to claim the English 
 crown. His mother Emma, however, who only cared for 
 her last son Hardicanute, instead of assisting him, as he ex- 
 pected, opposed him so strongly with all her influence that 
 he was very soon glad to get safely back. His brother Alfred 
 was not so fortunate. Believing in an affectionate letter, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 39 
 
 written some time afterward to him and his brother, in his 
 mother's name (but whether really with or without his 
 mother's knowledge is now uncertain), he allowed himself to 
 be tempted over to England, with a good force of soldiers, 
 and landing on the Kentish coast, and being met and wel- 
 comed by Earl Godwin, proceeded into Surrey, as far as the 
 town of Guildford. Here, he and his men halted in the 
 evening to rest, having still the Earl in their company ; who 
 had ordered lodgings and good cheer for them. But, in the 
 dead of the night, when they were off their guard, being 
 divided into small parties sleeping soundly after a long march 
 and a plentiful supper in different houses, they were set upon 
 by the King's troops, and taken prisoners. NexJ: morning 
 they were drawn out in a line, to the number of six hundred 
 men, and were barbarously tortured and killed, with the 
 exception of every tenth man, who was sold into slavery. 
 As to the wretched Prince Alfred, he was stripped naked, 
 tied to a horse and sent away into the Isle of Ely, where his 
 eyes were torn out of his head, and where in a few days he 
 miserably died. I am not sure that the Earl had willfully 
 entrapped him, but I suspect it strongly. 
 
 Harold was now King all over England, though it is doubt- 
 ful whether the Archbishop of Canterbury (the greater part 
 of the priests were Saxons, and not friendly to the Danes) 
 ever consented to crown him. Crowned or uncrowned, 
 with the Archbishop's leave or without it, he was King for 
 four years ; after which short reign he died, and was buried ; 
 having never done much in life but go a hunting. He was 
 such a fast runner at this, his favorite sport, that the people 
 called him Harold Harefoot. 
 
 Hardicanute was then at Bruges, in Flanders, plotting with 
 his mother (who had gone over there after the cruel murder 
 of Prince Alfred), for the invasion of England. The Danes 
 and Saxons, finding themselves without a King, and dreading 
 new disputes, made common cause, and joined in inviting 
 him to occupy the Throne. He consented, and soon troubled 
 them enough ; for he brought over numbers of Danes, and 
 taxed the people so insupportably to enrich those greedy 
 favorites that there were many insurrections, especially one 
 at Worcester, where the citizens rose and killed his tax- 
 collectors ; in revenge for which he burned their city. He 
 was a brutal King, whose first public act was to order the 
 dead body of poor Harold Harefoot to be dug up, beheaded, 
 
4 o A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 and thrown into the river. His end was worthy of such a 
 beginning. He fell down drunk, with a goblet of wine in 
 his hand, at a wedding-feast at Lambeth, given in honor of 
 the marriage of his standard-bearer, a Dane, named Towed 
 the Proud, and he never spoke again. 
 
 Edward, afterward called by the monks ' The Confessor,' 
 succeeded ; and his first act was to oblige his mother Emma, 
 who had favored him so little, to retire into the country ; 
 where she died some ten years afterward. He was the ex- 
 iled prince whose brother Alfred had been so foully killed. 
 He had been invited over from Normandy by Hardicanute, 
 in the course of his short reign of two years, and had been 
 handsomely treated at court. His cause was now favored 
 by the powerful Earl Godwin, and he was soon made King. 
 This Earl had been suspected by the people ever since Prince 
 Alfred's cruel death ; he had even been tried in the last reign 
 for the Prince's murder, but had been pronounced not guilty ; 
 chiefly, as it was supposed, because of a present he had 
 made to the swinish King, of a gilded ship with a figure-head 
 of solid gold, and a crew of eighty splendidly-armed men. It 
 was his interest to help the new King with his power, if the 
 new King would help him against the popular distrust and 
 hatred. So they made a bargain. Edward the Confessor 
 got the throne. The Earl got more power and more land, 
 and his daughter Editha was made queen ; for it was a 
 part of their compact that the King should take her for his 
 wife. 
 
 But, although she was a gentle lady, in all things worthy 
 to be beloved — good, beautiful, sensible, and kind — the 
 King from the first neglected her. Her father and her six 
 proud brothers, resenting this cold treatment, harassed the 
 King greatly by exerting all their power to make him un- 
 popular. Having lived so long in Normandy, he preferred 
 the Normans to the English. He made a Norman Arch- 
 bishop, and Norman Bishops ; his great officers and favorites 
 were all Normans ; he introduced the Norman fashions and 
 the Norman language ; in imitation of the state custom of 
 Normandy, he attached a great seal to his state documents, 
 instead of merely marking them, as the Saxon Kings had 
 done, with the sign of the cross — just as poor people who 
 have never been taught to write, now make the same mark 
 for their names. All this, the powerful Earl Godwin and 
 his six proud sons represented to the people as disfavor 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 41 
 
 shown toward the English ; and thus they daily increased their 
 own power, and daily diminished the power of the King. 
 
 They were greatly helped by an event that occurred when 
 he had reigned eight years. Eustace, Earl of Boulogne, who 
 had married the King's sister, came to England on a visit. 
 After staying at the court some time, he set forth, with his 
 numerous train of attendants, to return home. They were to 
 embark at Dover. Entering that peaceful town in armor, 
 they took possession of the best houses, and noisily demanded 
 to be lodged and entertained without payment. One of 
 the bold men of Dover, who would not endure to have these 
 domineering strangers jingling their heavy swords and iron 
 corselets up and down his house, eating his meat and drink- 
 ing his strong liquor, stood in his doorway and refused ad- 
 mission to the first armed man who came there. The armed 
 man drew, and wounded him. The man of Dover struck the 
 armed man dead. Intelligence of what he had done, spread- 
 ing through the streets to where the Count Eustace and his 
 men were standing by their horses, bridle in hand, they 
 passionately mounted, galloped to the house, surrounded it, 
 forced their way in (the doors and windows being closed 
 when they came up), and killed the man of Dover at his 
 own fireside. They then clattered through the streets, cut- 
 ting down and riding over men, women, and children. This 
 did not last long, you may believe. The men of Dover set 
 upon them with great fury, killed nineteen of the foreigners, 
 wounded many more, and, blockading the road to the port 
 so that they should not embark, beat them out of the town 
 by the way they had come. Hereupon Count Eustace rides 
 as hard as a man can ride to Gloucester, where Edward is, 
 surrounded by Norman monks and Norman lords. " Justice ! " 
 cries the Count, " upon the men of Dover, who have set 
 upon and slain my people ? " The King sends immediately 
 for the powerful Earl Godwin, who happens to be near ; re- 
 minds him that Dover is under his government ; and orders 
 him to repair to Dover and do military execution on the in- 
 habitants. " It does not become you," says the proud Earl 
 in reply, " to condemn without a hearing those whom you 
 have sworn to protect. I will not do it." 
 
 The King, therefore, summoned the Earl, on pain of ban- 
 ishment and loss of his titles and property, to appear before 
 the court to answer this disobedience. The Earl refused to 
 appear. He, his eldest son Harold, and his second son 
 
42 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Sweyn, hastily raised as many fighting men as their utmost 
 power could collect, and demanded to have Count Eustace 
 and his followers surrendered to the justice of the country. 
 The King, in his turn, refused to give them up, and raised a 
 strong force. After some treaty and delay, the troops of the 
 great Earl and his sons began to fall off. The Earl, with a 
 part of his family and abundance of treasure, sailed to Flan- 
 ders ; Harold escaped to Ireland ; and the power of the great 
 family was for that time gone in England. But, the people 
 did not forget them. 
 
 Then, Edward the Confessor, with the true meanness of a 
 mean spirit, visited his dislike of the once powerful father and 
 sons upon the helpless daughter and sister, his unoffending 
 wife, whom all who saw her (her husband and his monks ex- 
 cepted) loved. He seized rapaciously upon her fortune and 
 her jewels, and allowing her only one attendant, confined her 
 in a gloomy convent, of which a sister of his — no doubt an 
 unpleasant lady after his own heart — was abbess or jailer. 
 
 Having got Earl Godwin and his six sons well out of his 
 way, the King favored the Normans more than ever. He 
 invited over William, Duke of Normandy, the son of that 
 Duke who had received him and his murdered brother long 
 ago, and of a peasant girl, a tanner's daughter, with whom 
 that Duke had fallen in love for her beauty, as he saw her 
 washing clothes in a brook. William, who was a great war- 
 rior, with a passion for fine horses, dogs and arms, accepted 
 the invitation ; and the Normans in England, finding them- 
 selves more numerous than ever when he arrived with his 
 retinue, and held in still greater honor at court than before, 
 became more and more haughty towards the people, and 
 were more and more disliked by them. 
 
 The old Earl Godwin, though he was abroad, knew well 
 how the people felt ; for, with part of the treasure he had 
 carried away with him, he kept spies and agents in his pay 
 all over England. Accordingly, he thought the time was 
 come for fitting out a great expedition against the Norman- 
 loving King. With it, he sailed to the Isle of Wight, where 
 he was joined by his son Harold, the most gallant and brave 
 of all his family. And so the father and son came sailing up 
 the Thames to Southwark ; great numbers of the people de- 
 claring for them and shouting for the English Earl and the 
 English Harold, against the Norman favorites ! 
 
 The King was at first as blind and stubborn as kings usual- 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 43 
 
 1/ have been whensoever they have been in the hands of 
 monks. But the people rallied so thickly round the old Earl 
 and his son, and the old Earl was so steady in demanding 
 without bloodshed the restoration of himself and his family 
 to their rights, that at last the court took the alarm. The 
 Norman Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Norman Bishop 
 of London, surrounded by their retainers, fought their way 
 out of London, and escaped from Essex to France in a fish- 
 ing-boat. The other Norman favorites dispersed in all di- 
 rections. The old Earl and his sons (except Sweyn, who 
 had committed crimes against the law) were restored to their 
 possessions and dignities. Editha, the virtuous and lovely 
 Queen of the insensible King, was triumphantly released 
 from her prison, the convent, and once more sat in her chair 
 of state, arrayed in the jewels of which, when she had no 
 champion to support her rights, her cold-blooded husband 
 had deprived her. 
 
 The old Earl Godwin did not long enjoy his restored for- 
 tune. He fell down in a fit at the King's table, and died 
 upon the third day afterward. Harold succeeded to his 
 power, and to a far higher place in the attachment of the 
 people than his father had ever held. By his valor he sub- 
 dued the King's enemies in many bloody fights. FLe was 
 vigorous against rebels in Scotland — this is the time when 
 Macbeth slew Duncan, upon which event our English 
 Shakespeare, hundreds of years afterwards, wrote his great 
 tragedy : and he killed the restless Welsh King Griffith, and 
 brought his head to England. 
 
 What Harold was doing at sea, when he was driven on 
 the French coast by a tempest, is not at all certain ; nor 
 does it at all matter. That his ship was forced by a storm 
 on that shore, and that he was taken prisoner, there is no 
 doubt. In those barbarous days, all shipwrecked strangers 
 were taken prisoners, and obliged to pay ransom. So, a 
 certain Count Guy, who was the Lord of Ponthieu where 
 Harold's disaster happened, seized him, instead of relieving 
 him like a hospitable and Christian lord as he ought to have 
 done, and expected to make a very good thing of it. 
 
 But Harold sent off immediately to Duke William of Nor- 
 mandy, complaining of this treatment ; and the Duke no 
 sooner heard of it than he ordered Harold to be escorted to 
 the ancient town of Rouen, where he then was, and where he 
 received him as an honored guest. Now, some writers tell 
 
44 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 us that Edward the Confessor, who was by this time old and> 
 had no children, had made a will, appointing Duke William 
 of Normandy his successor, and had informed the Duke of 
 his having done so. There is no doubt that he was anxious 
 about his successor, because he had even invited over, from 
 abroad, Edward the Outlaw, a son of Ironside, who had 
 come to England with his wife and three children, but whom 
 the King had strangely refused to see when he did come, and' 
 who had died in London suddenly (princes were terribly liable 
 to sudden death in those days), and had been buried in St. 
 Paul's Cathedral. The King might possibly have made such 
 a will ; or, having always been fond of the Normans, he 
 might have encouraged Norman William to aspire to the 
 English crown, by something that he said to him when he 
 was staying at the English court. But, certainly William 
 did not aspire to it ; and knowing that Harold would be a 
 powerful rival, he called together a great assembly of his 
 nobles, offered Harold his daughter Adele in marriage, in- 
 formed him that he meant on King Edward's death to claim 
 the English crown as his own inheritance, and required Har- 
 old then and there to swear to aid him. Harold, being in the 
 Duke's power, took this oath upon the Missal, or Prayer-book. 
 It is a good example of the superstitions of the monks, that 
 this Missal, instead of being placed upon a table, was placed 
 upon a tub ; which, when Harold had sworn, was uncovered, 
 and shown to be full of dead men's bones — bones, as the 
 monks pretended, of saints. This was supposed to make 
 Harold's oath a great deal more impressive and binding. As 
 if the great name of the Creator of heaven and earth could 
 be made more solemn by a knuckle-bone, or a double-tooth, 
 or a finger-nail, of Dunstan ! 
 
 Within a week or two after Harold's return to England, the 
 dreary old Confessor was found to be dying. After wandering 
 in his mind like a very weak old man, he died. As he had 
 put himself entirely in the hands of the monks when he was 
 alive, they praised him lustily when he was dead. They had 
 gone so far, already, as to persuade him that he could work 
 miracles ; and had brought people afflicted with a bad dis- 
 order of the skin, to him, to be touched and cured. This was 
 called " touching for the King's Evil," which afterward be- 
 came a royal custom. You know, however, Who really 
 touched the sick, and healed them ; and you know His 
 sacred name is not among the dusty line of human kings. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 4 5 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD THE SECOND, AND CONQUERED 
 BY THE NORMANS. 
 
 Harold was crowned King of England on the very day 
 of the maudlin Confessor's funeral. He had good need 
 to be quick about it. When the news reached Norman 
 William, hunting in his park at Rouen, he dropped his bow, 
 returned to his palace, called his nobles to council, and pres- 
 ently sent embassadors to Harold, calling on him to keep his 
 oath and resign the Crown. Harold would do no such thing. 
 The barons of France leagued together round Duke William 
 for the invasion of England. Duke William promised freely 
 to distribute English wealth and English lands among them. 
 The Pope sent to Normandy a consecrated banner, and a ring 
 containing a hair which he warranted to have grown on the 
 head of Saint Peter. He blessed the enterprise ; and cursed 
 Harold ; and requested that the Normans would pay " Peter's 
 Pence " — or a tax to himself of a penny a year on every 
 house — a little more regularly in future, if they could make 
 it convenient. 
 
 King Harold had a rebel brother in Flanders, who was a 
 vassal of Harold Hardrada, King of Norway. This brother, 
 and this Norwegian King, joining their forces against 
 England with Duke William's help, won a fight in which the 
 English were commanded by two nobles ; and then besieged 
 York. Harold, who was waiting for the Normans on the 
 coast of Hastings, with his army, marched to Stamford Bridge 
 upon the river Derwent to give them instant battle. 
 
 He found then drawn up in a hollow circle, marked out by 
 their shining spears. Riding round this circle at a distance, 
 to survey it, he saw a brave figure on horseback, in a blue 
 mantle and a bright helmet, whose horse suddenly stumbled 
 and threw him. 
 
 " Who is that man who has fallen ? " Harold asked of one 
 of his captains. 
 
 " The King of Norway," he replied. 
 
 " He is a tall and stately king," said Harold, " but his end 
 is near." 
 
 He added, in a little while, u Go yonder to my brother, and 
 
46 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 tell him if he withdraw his troops, he shall be Earl of North- 
 umberland, and rich and powerful in England." 
 
 The captain rode away and gave the message. 
 
 " What will he give to my friend the King of Norway ? " 
 asked the brother. 
 
 " Seven feet of earth for a grave," replied the captain. 
 
 "No more?" returned the brother, with a smile. 
 
 " The King of Norway being a tall man, perhaps a little 
 more," replied the captain. 
 
 " Ride back ! " said the brother, "and tell King Harold to 
 make ready for the fight ! " 
 
 He did so, very soon. And such a fight King Harold led 
 against that force, that his brother, and the Norwegian King, 
 and every chief of note in all their host, except the Norwe- 
 gian King's son, Olave, to whom he gave honorable dismissal, 
 were left dead upon the field. The victorious army marched 
 to York. As King Harold sat there at the feast, in the midst 
 of all his company, a stir was heard at the doors ; and mes- 
 sengers all covered with mire with riding far and fast through 
 broken ground came hurrying in, to report that the Normans 
 had landed in England. 
 
 1 The intelligence was true. They had been tossed about by 
 contrary winds, and some of their ships had been wrecked. 
 A part of their own shore, to which they had been driven 
 back, was strewn with Norman bodies. But they had once 
 more made sail, led by the Duke's own galley, a present from 
 his wife, upon the prow whereof the figure of a golden boy 
 stood pointing towards England. By day, the banner of the 
 three Lions of Normandy, the diverse colored sails, the gilded 
 vanes, the many decorations of this gorgeous ship, had glit- 
 tered in the sun and sunny water ; by night, a light had 
 sparkled like a star at her mast-head. And now, encamped 
 near Hastings, with their leader lying in the old Roman castle 
 of Pevensey, the English retiring in all directions, the land 
 for miles around scorched and smoking, fired and pillaged, 
 was the whole Norman power, hopeful and strong on English 
 ground. 
 
 Harold broke up the feast and hurried to London. Within 
 a week, his army was ready. He sent out spies to ascertain 
 the Norman strength. William took them, caused them to 
 be led through his whole camp, and then dismissed. " The 
 Normans," said these spies to Harold, " are not bearded on 
 the upper lip as we English are, but are shorn. They are 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 47 
 
 priests." " My men," replied Harold, with a laugh, " will 
 find those priests good soldiers ! " 
 
 " The Saxons," reported Duke William's outposts of Nor- 
 man soldiers, who were instructed to retire as King Harold's 
 army advanced, " rush on us through their pillaged country 
 with the fury of madmen." 
 
 " Let them come, and come soon ! " said Duke William. 
 
 Some proposals for a reconciliation were made, but were 
 soon abandoned. In the middle of the month of October, in 
 the year one thousand and sixty-six, the Normans and the 
 English came front to front. All night the armies lay en- 
 camped before each other, in a part of the country then called 
 Senlac, now called (in remembrance of them) Battle. With 
 the first dawn of day, they arose. There, in the faint light, 
 were the English on a hill ; a wood behind them ; in their 
 midst, the Royal banner, representing a fighting warrior, 
 woven in gold thread, adorned with precious stones ; beneath 
 the banner as it rustled in the wind, stood King Harold on 
 foot, with two of his remaining brothers by his side ; around 
 them, still and silent as the dead, clustered the whole English 
 army — every soldier covered by his shield, and bearing in 
 his hand his dreaded English battle-ax. 
 
 On an opposite hill, in three lines, archers, foot-soldiers, 
 horsemen, was the Norman force. Of a sudden, a great 
 battle-cry, " God help us ! " burst from the Norman lines. 
 The English answered with their own battle-cry, " God's 
 Rood ! Holy Rood ! " The Normans then came sweeping 
 down the hill to attack the English. 
 
 There was one tall Norman knight who rode before the 
 Norman army on a prancing horse, throwing up his heavy 
 sword and catching it, and singing of the bravery of his 
 countrymen. An English knight, who rode out from the 
 English force to meet him, fell by this knight's hand. An- 
 other English knight rode out, and he fell too. But then a 
 third rode out, and killed the Norman. This was in the first 
 beginning of the fight. It soon raged every where. 
 
 The English keeping side by side in a great mass, cared 
 no more for the showers of Norman arrows than if they had 
 been showers of Norman rain. When the Norman horsemen 
 rode against them, with their battle-axes they cut men and 
 horses down. The Normans gave way. The English pressed 
 forward. A cry went forth among the Norman troops that 
 D*ke William was killed. Duke William took off his helmet, 
 
48 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 • 
 in order that his face might be distinctly seen, and rode 
 along the line before his men. This gave them courage. 
 As they turned again to face the English, some of their Nor- 
 man horse divided the pursuing body of the English from the 
 rest, and thus all that foremost portion of the English army 
 fell, fighting bravely. The main body still remaining firm, 
 heedless of the Norman arrows, and with their battle-axes 
 cutting down the crowds of horsemen when they rode up, like 
 forests of young trees, Duke William pretended to retreat. 
 The eager English followed. The Norman army closed 
 again, and fell upon them with great slaughter. 
 
 " Still," said Duke William, ' there are thousands of the 
 English, firm as rocks around their King. Shoot upward, 
 Norman archers, that your arrows may fall down upon their 
 faces ! " 
 
 The sun rose high, and sank, and the battle still raged. 
 Through all the wild October day, the clash and din re- 
 sounded in the air. In the red sunset, and in the white 
 moonlight, heaps upon heaps of dead men lay strewn, a 
 dreadful spectacle, all over the ground. King Harold, 
 wounded with an arrow in the eye, was nearly blind. His 
 brothers were already killed. Twenty Norman knights, 
 whose battered armor had flashed fiery and golden in the 
 sunshine all day long, and now looked silvery in the moon- 
 light, dashed forward to receive the Royal banner from the 
 English knights and soldiers, still faithfully collected round 
 their blinded King. The King received a mortal wound, and 
 dropped. The English broke and fled. The Normans 
 rallied, and the day was lost. 
 
 O what a sight beneath the moon and stars, when lights 
 were shining in the tent of the victorious Duke William, 
 which was pitched near the spot where Harold fell — and he 
 and his knights were carousing, within — and soldiers with 
 torches, going slowly to and fro, without, sought for the 
 corpse of Harold among piles of dead — and the warrior, 
 worked in golden thread and precious stones, lay low, all 
 torn and soiled with blood — and the three Norman Lions 
 kept watch over the field 1 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 49 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE FIRST, THE NORMAN 
 CONQUEROR. 
 
 Upon the ground where the brave Harold fell, William 
 the Norman afterward founded an abbey, which, under the 
 name of Battle Abbey, was a rich and splendid place through 
 many a troubled year, though now it is a gray ruin over- 
 grown with ivy. But the first work he had to do, was to 
 conquer the English thoroughly ; and that, as you know by 
 this time, was hard work for any man. 
 
 He ravaged several counties ; he burned and plundered 
 many towns ; he laid waste scores upon scores of miles of 
 pleasant country ; he destroyed innumerable lives. At length 
 Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, with other representa- 
 tives of the clergy and the people, went to his camp, and 
 submitted to him. Edgar, the insignificant son of Edmund 
 Ironside, was proclaimed King by others, but nothing came 
 of it. He fled to Scotland afterward, where his sister, who 
 was young and beautiful, married the Scottish King. Edgar 
 himself was not important enough for any body to care 
 much about him. 
 
 On Christmas Day, William was crowned in Westminster 
 Abbey, under the title of William the First ; but he is best 
 known as William the Conqueror. It was a strange coro- 
 nation. One of the bishops who performed the ceremony 
 asked the Normans, in French, if they would have Duke 
 William for their king ? They answered Yes. Another of 
 the bishops put the same question to the Saxons, in English. 
 They too answered Yes, with a loud shout. The noise being 
 heard by a guard of Norman horse-soldiers outside, was mis- 
 taken for resistance on the part of the English. The guard 
 instantly set fire to the neighboring houses, and a tumult 
 ensued ; in the midst of which the King, being left alone in 
 the Abbey, with a few priests (and they all being in a terrible 
 fright together), was hurriedly crowned. When the crown 
 was placed upon his head, he swore to govern the English 
 as well as the best of their own monarchs. I dare say you 
 think, as I do, that if we except the Great Alfred, he might 
 pretty easily have done that. 
 
 Numbers of the English nobles had been killed in the last 
 
50 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 disastrous battle. Their estates, and the estates of all the 
 nobles who had fought against him there, King William 
 seized upon, and gave to his own Norman knights and 
 nobles. Many great English families of the present time 
 acquired their English lands in this way, and are very proud 
 of it. 
 
 But what is got by force must be maintained by force. 
 These nobles were obliged to build castles all over England, 
 to defend their new property ; and, do what he would, the 
 King could neither soothe nor quell the nation as he wished. 
 He gradually introduced the Norman language and the Nor- 
 man customs ; yet, for a long time the great body of the 
 English remained sullen and revengeful. On his going over 
 to Normandy, to visit his subjects there, the oppressions of 
 his half-brother Odo, whom he left in charge of his English 
 kingdom, drove the people mad. The men of Kent even 
 invited over, to take possession of Dover, their old enemy 
 Count Eustace of Boulogne, who had led the fray when the 
 Dover man was slain at his own fireside. The men of Here- 
 ford, aided by the Welsh, and commanded by a chief named 
 Edric the Wild, drove the Normans out of their country. 
 Some of those who had been dispossessed of their lands, 
 banded together in the North of England ; some, in Scot- 
 land ; some, in the thick woods and marches ; and whenso- 
 ever they could fall upon the Normans, or upon the English 
 who had submitted to the Normans, they fought, despoiled, 
 and murdered, like the desperate outlaws that they were. 
 Conspiracies were set on foot for a general massacre of the 
 Normans, like the old massacre of the Danes. In short, the 
 English were in a murderous mood all through the kingdom. 
 
 King William, fearing he might lose his conquest, came 
 back, and tried to pacify the London people by soft words. 
 He then set forth to repress the country people by stern 
 deeds. Among the towns which he besieged, and where he 
 killed and maimed the inhabitants without any distinc- 
 tion, sparing none, young or old, armed or unarmed, were 
 Oxford, Warwick, Leicester, Nottingham, Derby, Lincoln, 
 York. In all these places, and in many others, fire and 
 sword worked their utmost horrors, and made the land 
 dreadful to behold. The streams and rivers were discolored 
 with blood ; the sky was blackened with smoke ; the fields 
 were wastes of ashes ; the waysides were heaped up with 
 dead. Such are the fatal results of conquest and ambition J 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 51 
 
 Although William was a harsh and angry man, I do not sup- 
 pose that he deliberately meant to work this shocking ruin, 
 when he invaded England. But what he had got by the 
 strong hand, he could only keep by the strong hand, and in 
 so doing he made England a great grave. 
 
 Two sons of Harold, by name Edmund and Godwin, came 
 over from Ireland, with some ships, against the Normans, 
 but were defeated. This was scarcely done, when the out- 
 laws in the woods so harassed York, that the Governor sent 
 to the King for help. The King despatched a general and a 
 large force to occupy the town of Durham. The Bishop of 
 that place met the general outside the town, and warned him 
 not to enter, as he would be in danger there. The general 
 cared nothing for the warning, and went in with all his men. 
 That night, on every hill within sight of Durham, signal fires 
 were seen to blaze. When the morning dawned, the English, 
 who had assembled in great strength, forced the gates, rushed 
 into the town, and slew the Normans every one. The En- 
 glish afterward besought the Danes to come and help them. 
 The Danes came, with two hundred and forty ships. The 
 outlawed nobles joined them ; they captured York, and 
 drove the Normans out of that city. Then, William bribed 
 the Danes to go away ; and took such vengeance on the 
 English, that all the former fire and sword, smoke and ashes, 
 death and ruin, were nothing compared with it. In melan- 
 choly songs, and doleful stories, it was still sung and told by 
 cottage fires on winter evenings, a hundred years afterward, 
 how, in those dreadful days of the Normans, there was not, 
 from the River H umber to the River Tyne, one inhabited 
 village left, nor one cultivated field — how there was nothing 
 but a dismal ruin, where the human creatures^ and the beasts 
 lay dead together. 
 
 The outlaws had, at this time, what they called a Camp of 
 Refuge, in the midst of the fens of Cambridgeshire. Pro- 
 tected by those marshy grounds which were difficult of ap- 
 proach, they lay among the reeds and rushes, and were hidden 
 by the mists that rose up from the watery earth. Now, there 
 also was, at that time, over the sea in Flanders, an English- 
 man named Hereward, whose father had died in his absence, 
 and whose property had been given to a Norman. When he 
 heard of this wrong that had been done him (from such of the 
 exiled English as chanced to wander into that country), he 
 longed for revenge ; and joining the outlaws in their camp of 
 
52 A .CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 refuge, became their commander. He was so good a soldier, 
 that the Normans supposed him to be aided by enchantment. 
 William, even after he had made a road three miles in length 
 across the Cambridgeshire marshes, on purpose to attack this 
 supposed enchanter, thought it necessary to engage an old 
 lady, who pretended to be a sorceress, to come and do a little 
 enchantment in the royal cause. For this purpose she was 
 pushed on before the troops in a wooden tower ; but Here- 
 ward very soon disposed of this unfortunate sorceress, by 
 burning her, tower and all. The monks of the convent of Ely 
 near at hand, however, who were fond of good living, and 
 who found it very uncomfortable to have the country block- 
 aded and their supplies of meat and drink cut off, showed 
 the King a secret way of surprising the camp. So Here- 
 ward was soon defeated. Whether he afterward died 
 quietly, or whether he was killed after killing sixteen of the 
 men who attacked him (as some old rhymes relate that he 
 did), I cannot say. His defeat put an end to the Camp of 
 Refuge ; and, very soon afterward, the King, victorious 
 both in Scotland and in England, quelled the last rebellious 
 English noble. He then surrounded himself with Norman 
 lords, enriched by the property of English nobles ; had a 
 great survey made of all the land in England, which was 
 entered as the property of its new owners, on a roll called 
 Doomsday Book ; obliged the people to put out their fires 
 and candles at a certain hour every night, on the ringing of 
 a bell which was called The Curfew ; introduced the Nor- 
 man dresses and manners ; made the Normans masters 
 every-where, and the English, servants ; turned out the 
 English bishops, and put Normans in their places ; and 
 showed himself to be the Conqueror indeed. 
 
 But, even with his own Normans, he had a restless life. 
 They were always hungering and thirsting for the riches of 
 the English ; and the more he gave, the more they wanted. 
 His priests were as greedy as his soldiers. We know of 
 only one Norman who plainly told his master, the King, 
 that he had come with him to England to do his duty as a 
 faithful servant, and that property taken by force from other 
 men had no charms for him. His name was Guilbert. We 
 should not forget his name, for it is good to remember and 
 to honor honest men. 
 
 Besides all these troubles, William the Conqueror was 
 troubled by quarrels among his sons. He had three living. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND, 53 
 
 Robert, called Curthose, because of his short legs ; William, 
 called Rufus or the Red, from the color of his hair ; and 
 Henry, fond of learning, and called, in the Norman language 
 Beauclerc, or Fine-Scholar. When Robert grew up, he ask- 
 ed of his father the government of Normandy, which he had 
 nominally possessed, as a child, under his mother, Matilda. 
 The King refusing to grant it, Robert became jealous and 
 discontented ; and happening one day, while in this temper, 
 to be ridiculed by his brothers, who threw water on him 
 from a balcony as he was walking before the door, he drew 
 his sword, rushed up stairs, and was only prevented by the 
 King himself from putting them to death. That same night, 
 he hotly departed with some followers from his father's 
 court, and endeavored to take the Castle of Rouen by sur- 
 prise. Failing in this, he shut himself up in another castle 
 in Normandy, which the King besieged, and where Robert 
 one day unhorsed and nearly killed him without knowing 
 who he was. His submission when he discovered his father, 
 and the intercession of the queen and others, reconciled 
 them ; but not soundly ; for Robert soon strayed abroad, 
 and went from court to court with his complaints. He was 
 a gay, careless, thoughtless fellow, spending all he got on 
 musicians and dancers ; but his mother loved him, and 
 often, against the King's command, supplied him with money 
 through a messenger named Samson. At length the in- 
 censed King swore he would tear out Samson's eyes ; and 
 Samson, thinking that his only hope of safety was in be- 
 coming a monk, became one, went on such errands no more, 
 and kept his eyes in his head. 
 
 All this time, from the tuibulent day of his strange corona- 
 tion, the Conqueror had been struggling, you see, at any 
 cost of cruelty and bloodshed, to maintain what he had 
 seized. All his reign, he struggled still, with the same ob- 
 ject ever before him. He was a stern bold man, and he suc- 
 ceeded in it. 
 
 He loved money, and was particular in his eating, but he 
 had only leisure to indulge one other passion, and that was 
 his love of hunting. He carried it to such a height that he 
 ordered whole villages and towns to be swept away to make 
 forests for the deer. Not satisfied with sixty-eight Royal 
 Forests, he laid waste an immense district, to form another 
 in Hampshire, called the New Forest. The many thousands 
 of miserable peasants who saw their little houses pulled 
 
54 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 down, and themselves and children turned into the open 
 country without a shelter, detested him for his merciless ad- 
 dition to their many sufferings ; and when, in the twenty- 
 first year of his reign (which proved to be the last), he went 
 over to Rouen, England was as full of hatred against him as 
 if every leaf on every tree in all his Royal Forests had been 
 a curse upon his head. In the New Forest, his son Richard 
 (for he had four sons) had been gored to death by a stag ; 
 and the people said that this so cruelly-made forest would 
 yet be fatal to others of the Conqueror's race. 
 
 He was engaged in a dispute with the King of France 
 about some territory. While he staid at Rouen, negotiat- 
 ing with that King, he kept his bed and took medicines : 
 being advised by his physicians to do so, on account of hav- 
 ing grown to an unwieldy size. Word being brought to him 
 that the King of France made light of this, and joked about 
 it, he swore in a great rage that he should rue his jests. He 
 assembled his army, marched into the disputed territory, 
 burnt — his old way ! — the vines, the crops, and fruit, and 
 set the town of Mantes on fire. But, in an evil hour ; for, 
 as he rode over the hot ruins, his horse, setting his hoofs up- 
 on some burning embers, started, threw him forward against 
 the pommel of the saddle, and gave him a mortal hurt. For 
 six weeks he lay dying in a monastery near Rouen, and then 
 made his will, giving England to William, Normandy to 
 Robert, and five thousand pounds to Henry. And now his 
 violent deeds lay heavy on his mind. He ordered money to 
 be given to many English churches and monasteries, and — 
 which was much better repentance — released his prisoners 
 of state, some of whom had been confined in his dungeons 
 twenty years. 
 
 It was a September morning, and the sun was rising, when 
 the King was awakened from slumber by the sound of a 
 church bell. " What bell is that ! " he faintly asked. They 
 told him it was the bell of the chapel of Saint Mary. " I 
 commend my soul," said he, " to Mary ! " and died. 
 
 Think of his name, The Conqueror, and then consider how 
 he lay in death ! The moment he was dead, his physicians, 
 priests, and nobles, not knowing what contest for the throne 
 might now take place, or what might happen in it, hastened 
 away, each man for himself and his own property ; the mer- 
 cenary servants of the court began to rob and plunder ; the 
 body of the King, in the indecent strife, was rolled from the 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 55 
 
 ted, and lay alone, for hours, upon the ground. O Con- 
 queror, of whom so many great names are proud now, of 
 whom so many great names thought nothing then, it were 
 better to have conquered one true heart, than England ! 
 
 By-and-by, the priests came creeping in with prayers and 
 candles ; and a good knight, named Herluin, undertook 
 (which no one else would do) to convey the body to Caen, 
 in Normandy, in order that it might be buried in St. Ste- 
 phen's church there, which the Conqueror had founded. But 
 fire, of which he had made such bad use in his life, seemed 
 to follow him of itself in death. A great conflagration broke 
 out in the town when the body was placed in the church ; 
 and those present running out to extinguish the flames, it 
 was once again left alone. 
 
 It was not even buried in peace. It was about to be let 
 down, in its royal robes, into a tomb near the high altar, in 
 presence of a great concourse of people, when a loud voice in 
 the crowd cried out, " This ground is mine ! Upon it, stood 
 my father's house. This King despoiled me of both ground 
 and house to build this church. In the great name of God, 
 I here forbid his body to be covered with the earth that is 
 my right ! " The priests and bishops present, knowing the 
 speaker's right, and knowing that the King had often denied 
 him justice, paid him down sixty shillings for the grave. 
 Even then, the corpse was not at rest. The tomb was too 
 small, and they tried to force it in. It broke, a dreadful 
 smell arose, the people hurried out into the air, and, for the 
 third time, it was left alone. 
 
 Where were the Conqueror's three sons, that they were not 
 at their father's burial ? Robert was lounging among min- 
 strels, dancers, and gamesters, in France or Germany. Hen- 
 ry was carrying his five thousand pounds safely away in a 
 convenient chest he had got made. William the Red was 
 hurrying to England, to lay hands upon the royal treasure 
 and the crown. 
 
56 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE SECOND, CALLED RUFUS. 
 
 William the Red, in breathless haste secured the three 
 great forts of Dover, Pevensey, and Hastings, and made 
 with hot speed for Winchester, where the royal treasure was 
 kept. The treasurer delivering him the keys, he found that 
 it amounted to sixty thousand pounds in silver, besides gold 
 and jewels. Possessed of this wealth, he soon persuaded the 
 Archbishop of Canterbury to crown him, and became Wil- 
 liam the Second, King of England. 
 
 Rufus was no sooner on the throne, than he ordered into 
 prison again the unhappy state captives whom his father had 
 set free, and directed a goldsmith to ornament his father's 
 tomb profusely with gold and silver. It would have been 
 more dutiful in him to have attended the sick Conqueror 
 when he was dying ; but England, itself, like this Red King, 
 who once governed it, has sometimes made expensive tombs 
 for dead men whom it treated shabbily when they were 
 alive. 
 
 The King's brother, Robert of Normandy, seeming quite 
 content to be only Duke of that country ; and the King's 
 other brother, Fine-Scholar, being quiet enough with his five 
 thousand pounds in a chest ; the King flattered himself, we 
 may suppose, with the hope of an easy reign. But easy reigns 
 were difficult to have in those days. The turbulent Bishop 
 Odo (who had blessed the Norman army at the Battle of 
 Hastings, and who, I dare say, took all the credit of the vic- 
 tory to himself) soon began, in concert with some powerful 
 Norman nobles, to trouble the Red King. 
 
 The truth seems to be that this bishop and his friends, who 
 had lands in England and lands in Normandy, wished to 
 hold both under one sovereign ; and greatly preferred a 
 thoughtless good-natured person, such as Robert was, to 
 Rufus ; who, though far from being an amiable man in any 
 respect, was keen, and not to be imposed upon. They de- 
 clared in Robert's favor, and retired to their castles (those 
 castles were very troublesome to kings) in a sullen humor. 
 The Red King, seeing the Normans thus falling from him, 
 revenged himself upon them by appealing to the English ; to 
 whom he made a variety of promises, which he never meant 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 57 
 
 to perform — in particular, promises to soften the cruelty of 
 the Forest Laws ; and who, in return, so aided him with 
 their valor, that Odo was besieged in the Castle of Roches- 
 ter, and forced to abandon it, and to depart from England 
 forever ; whereupon the other rebellious Norman nobles 
 were soon reduced and scattered. 
 
 Then, the Red King went over to Normandy, where the 
 people suffered greatly under the loose rule of Duke Robert. 
 The King's object was to seize upon the Duke's dominions. 
 This, the Duke, of course, prepared to resist ; and miserable 
 war between the two brothers seemed inevitable, when the 
 powerful nobles on both sides, who had seen so much of war, 
 interfered to prevent it. A treaty was made. Each of the 
 two brothers agreed to give up something of his claims, and 
 that the longer-liver of the two should inherit all the domin- 
 ions of the other. When they had come to this loving under- 
 standing, they embraced and joined their forces against Fine- 
 Scholar ; who had bought some territory of Robert with a 
 part of his five thousand pounds, and was considered a dan- 
 gerous individual in consequence. 
 
 St. Michael's Mount, in Normandy (there is another St. 
 Michael's Mount, in Cornwall, wonderfully like it), was then, 
 as it is now, a strong place perched upon the top of a high 
 rock, around which, when the tide is in, the sea flows, leaving 
 no road to the mainland. In this place, Fine-Scholar shut 
 himself up with his soldiers, and here he was closely besieged 
 by his two brothers. At one time, when he was reduced to 
 great distress for want of water, the generous Robert not only 
 permitted his men to get water, but sent Fine-Scholar wine 
 from his own table ; and, on being remonstrated with by the 
 Red King, said, " What ! shall we let our own brother die 
 of thirst ? Where shall we get another, when he is gone ? " 
 At another time, the Red King riding alone on the shore of 
 the bay, looking up at the Castle, was taken by two of Fine- 
 Scholar's men, one of whom was about to kill him, when he 
 cried out, " Hold, knave, I am the King of England ! " The 
 story says that the soldier raised him from the ground res- 
 pectfully and humbly, and that the King took him into his 
 service. The story may or may not be true ; but at any 
 rate it is true that Fine-Scholar could not hold out against 
 his united brothers, and that he abandoned Mount St. 
 Michael, and wandered about — as poor and forlorn as otliQr 
 scholars have been sometimes known to be. 
 
58 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 The Scotch became unquiet in the Red King's time, and 
 were twice defeated — the second time, with the loss of their 
 King, Malcolm, and his son. The Welsh became unquiet too. 
 Against them, Rufus was less successful ; for they fought 
 among their native mountains, and did great execution on 
 the King's troops. Robert of Normandy became unquiet 
 too ; and complaining that his brother the King did not faith- 
 fully perform his part of their agreement, took up arms, and 
 obtained assistance from the King of France, whom Rufus, 
 in the end, bought off with vast sums of money. England 
 became unquiet too. Lord Mowbray, the powerful Earl of 
 Northumberland, headed a great conspiracy to depose the 
 King, and to place upon the throne, Stephen, the Conqueror's 
 near relative. The plot was discovered ; all the chief con- 
 spirators were seized ; some were fined, some were put in 
 prison, some were put to death. The Earl of Northumber- 
 land himself was shut up in a dungeon beneath Windsor 
 Castle, where he died, an old man, thirty long years after- 
 ward. The priests in England were more unquiet than 
 any other class or power ; for the Red King treated them 
 with such small ceremony that he refused to appoint new 
 bishops or archbishops when the old ones died, but kept all 
 the wealth belonging to those offices in his own hands. In 
 return for this, the priests wrote his life when he was dead, 
 and abused him well. I am inclined to think, myself, that 
 there was little to choose between the priests and the Red 
 King ; that both sides were greedy and designing ; and that 
 they were fairly matched. 
 
 The Red King was false of heart, selfish, covetous, and 
 mean. He had a worthy minister in his favorite, Ralph, 
 nicknamed — for almost every famous person had a nickname 
 in those rough days — Flambard, or the Firebrand. Once, 
 the King being ill, became penitent, and made Anselm, a 
 foreign priest and a good man, Archbishop of Canterbury. 
 But he no sooner got well again than he repented of his re- 
 pentance, and persisted in wrongfully keeping to himself 
 some of the wealth belonging to the archbishopric. This 
 led to violent disputes, which were aggravated by there 
 being in Rome at that time two rival Popes ; each of whom 
 declared he was the only real original infallible Pope, who 
 couldn't make a mistake. At last, Anselm, knowing the 
 Red King's character, and not feeling himself safe in En- 
 (and, asked leave to return abroad. The Red King gladly 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 59 
 
 gave it ; for he knew that as soon as Anselm was gone, he 
 could begin to store up all the Canterbury money again, for 
 his own use. 
 
 By such means, and by taxing and oppressing the English 
 people in every possible way, the Red King became very 
 rich. When he wanted money for any purpose, he raised it 
 by some means or other, and cared nothing for the injustice 
 he did, or the misery he caused. Having the opportunity of 
 buying from Robert the whole duchy of Normandy for five 
 years, he taxed the English people more than ever, and made 
 the very convents sell their plate and valuables to supply 
 him with the means to make the purchase. But he was as 
 quick and eager in putting down revolt as he was in rais- 
 ing money ; for, a part of the Norman people objecting 
 — very naturally, I think — to being sold in this way, he 
 headed an army against them with all the speed and energy 
 of his father. He was so impatient, that he embarked for 
 Normandy in a great gale of wind. And when the sailors 
 told him it was dangerous to go to sea in such angry weather, 
 he replied, " Hoist sail and away ! Did you ever hear of a 
 king who was drowned ? " 
 
 You will wonder how it was that even the careless Robert 
 came to sell his dominions. It happened thus. It had long 
 been the custom for many English people to make journeys 
 to Jerusalem, which were called pilgrimages, in order that 
 they might pray beside the tomb of Our Saviour there. 
 Jerusalem belonging to the Turks, and the Turks hating 
 Christianity, these Christian travelers were often insulted 
 and ill-used. The pilgrims bore it patiently for some time, 
 but at length a remarkable man, of great earnestness and 
 eloquence, called Peter the Hermit, began to preach in 
 various places against the Turks, and to declare that it was 
 the duty of good Christians to drive away those unbelievers 
 from the tomb of Our Saviour, and to take possession of it, 
 and protect it. An excitement such as the world had never 
 known before was created. Thousands and thousands of 
 men of all ranks and conditions departed for Jerusalem to 
 make war against the Turks. The war is called in history 
 the first Crusade ; and every Crusader wore a cross marked 
 on his right shoulder. 
 
 All the crusaders were not zealous Christians. Among 
 them were vast numbers of the restless, idle, profligate, and 
 adventurous spirits of the time. Some became crusaders for 
 
60 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 the love of change ; some, in the hope of plunder ; some, 
 because they had nothing to do at home ; some, because 
 they did what the priests told them ; some, because they 
 liked to see foreign countries ; some, because they were 
 fond of knocking men about, and would as soon knock a 
 Turk about as a Christian. Robert of Normandy may have 
 been influenced by all these motives ; and by a kind desire, 
 besides, to save the Christian pilgrims from bad treatment 
 in future. He wanted to raise a number of armed men, and 
 to go to the Crusade. He could not do so without money. 
 He had no money ; and he sold his dominions to his 
 brother, the Red King, for five years. With the large sum 
 he thus obtained, he fitted out his crusaders gallantly, and 
 went away to Jerusalem in martial state. The Red King, 
 who made money out of every thing, staid at home, busily 
 squeezing more money out of Normans and English. 
 
 After three years of great hardship and suffering — from 
 shipwreck at sea ; from travel in strange lands ; from 
 hunger, thirst, and fever, upon the burning sands of the 
 desert ; and from the fury of the Turks — the valiant crusa- 
 ders got possession of Our Saviour's tomb. The Turks were 
 still resisting and fighting bravely, but this success increased 
 the general desire in Europe to join the Crusade. Another 
 great French Duke was proposing to sell his dominions for a 
 term to the rich Red King, when the Red King's reign came 
 to a sudden and violent end. 
 
 You have not forgotten the New Forest which the Con- 
 queror made, and which the miserable people whose homes 
 he had laid waste, so hated. The cruelty of the Forest Laws, 
 and the torture and death they brought upon the peasantry, 
 increased this hatred. The poor persecuted country people 
 believed that the New Forest was enchanted. They said 
 that in thunder-storms, and on dark nights, demons ap- 
 peared, moving beneath the branches of the gloomy trees. 
 They said that a terrible specter had foretold to Norman 
 hunters that the Red King should be punished there. And 
 now, in the pleasant season of May, when the Red King had 
 reigned almost thirteen years ; and a second Prince of the 
 Conqueror's blood — another Richard, the son of Duke 
 Robert — was killed by an arrow in this dreaded forest ; the 
 people said the second time was not the last, and that there 
 was another death to come. 
 
 It was a lonely forest, accursed in the people's hearts for 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 61 
 
 the wicked deeds that had been done to make it ; and no 
 man save the King and his courtiers and huntsmen, liked to 
 stray there. But, in reality, it was like any other forest. In 
 the spring, the green leaves broke out of the buds ; in the 
 summer, flourished heartily, and made deep shades ; in the 
 winter, shriveled and blew down, and lay in brown heaps on 
 the moss. Some trees were stately, and grew high and 
 strong ; some had fallen of themselves ; some were felled 
 by the forester's ax ; some were hollow, and the rab- 
 bits burrowed at their roots ; some few were struck by 
 lightning, and stood white and bare. There were hill-sides 
 covered with rich fern, on which the morning dew so beau- 
 tifully sparkled ; there were brooks, where the deer went 
 down to drink, or over which the whole herd bounded, fly- 
 ing from the arrows of the huntsmen ; there were sunny 
 glades, and solemn places where but little light came through 
 the rustling leaves. The songs of the birds in the New 
 Forest were pleasanter to hear than the shouts of fighting 
 men outside ; and even when the Red King and his court 
 came hunting through its solitudes, cursing loud and riding 
 hard, with a jingling of stirrups and bridles and knives and 
 daggers, they did much less harm there than among the 
 English or Normans, and the stags died (as they lived) far 
 easier than the people. 
 
 Upon a day in August, the Red King, now reconciled to 
 his brother, Fine-Scholar, came with a great train to hunt in 
 the New Forest. Fine-Scholar was of the party. They were 
 a merry party, and had lain all night at Malwood-Keep, a 
 hunting-lodge in the forest, where they had made good cheer, 
 both at supper and breakfast, and had drunk a deal of wine. 
 The party dispersed in various directions, as the custom of 
 hunters then was. The King took with him only Sir Walter 
 Tyrrel, who was a famous sportsman, and to whom he 
 had given, before they mounted horse that morning, two fine 
 arrows. 
 
 The last time the King was ever seen alive, he was riding 
 with Sir Walter Tyrrel, and their dogs were hunting to- 
 gether. 
 
 It was almost night when a poor charcoal-burner, passing 
 through the forest with his cart, came upon the solitary body 
 of a dead man, shot with an arrow in the breast, and still 
 bleeding. He got it into his cart. It was the body of the 
 King. Shaken and tumbled,, with its red beard all whitened 
 
62 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND, 
 
 with lime and clotted with blood, it was driven in the" cart 
 by the charcoal-burner next day to Winchester Cathedral, 
 where it was received and buried. 
 
 Sir Walter Tyrrel, who escaped to Normandy, and claimed 
 the protection of the King of France, swore in France that 
 the Red King was suddenly shot dead by an arrow from an 
 unseen hand, while they were hunting together ; that he 
 was fearful of being suspected as the King's murderer ; and 
 that he instantly set spurs to his horse, and fled to the sea- 
 shore. Others declared that the King and Sir W T alter Tyr- 
 rel were hunting in company, a little before sunset, standing 
 in bushes opposite one another, when a stag came between 
 them. That the King drew his bow and took aim, but the 
 string broke. That the King then cried, " Shoot, Walter, 
 in the Devil's name ! " That Sir Walter shot. That the ar- 
 row glanced against a tree, was turned aside from the stag, 
 and struck the King from his horse, dead. 
 
 By whose hand the Red King really fell, and whether 
 that hand despatched the arrow to his breast by accident or 
 by design, is only known to God. Some think his brother 
 may have caused him to be killed ; but the Red King had 
 made so many enemies, both among priests and people, that 
 suspicion may reasonably rest upon a less unnatural mur- 
 derer. Men know no more than that he was found dead in 
 the New Forest, which the suffering people had regarded as 
 a doomed ground for his race. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIRST, CALLED FINE-SCHOLAR.. 
 
 Fine-Scholar, on hearing of the Red King's death, hur- 
 ried to Winchester, with as much speed as Rufus himself 
 had made, to seize the Royal treasure, But the keeper of 
 the treasure, who had been one of the hunting-party in the 
 forest, made haste to Winchester, too, and, arriving there 
 about the same time, refused to yield it up. Upon this, 
 Fine-Scholar drew his sword, and threatened to kill the 
 treasurer ; who might have paid for his fidelity with his life, 
 but that he knew longer resistance to be useless when he 
 found the Prince supported by a company of powerful bar- 
 ons, who declared they were determined to make him King. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 63 
 
 The treasurer, therefore, gave up the money and jewels of 
 the Crown ; and on the third day after the death of the Red 
 King, being a Sunday, Fine-Scholar stood before the high 
 altar in Westminster Abbey, and made a solemn declaration 
 that he would resign the Church property which his brother 
 had seized ; that he would dp no wrong to the nobles ; and 
 that he would restore to the people the laws of Edward the 
 Confessor, with all the improvements of William the Con- 
 queror. So began the reign of King Henry the First. 
 
 The people were attached to their new King, both be- 
 cause he had known distresses, and because he was an En- 
 glishman by birth and not a Norman. To strengthen this 
 last hold upon them, the King wished to marry an English 
 lady ; and could think of no other wife than Maud the 
 Good, the daughter of the King of Scotland. Although 
 this good Princess did not love the King, she was so affect- 
 ed by the representations the nobles made to her of the 
 great charity it would be in her to unite the Norman and 
 Saxon races, and prevent hatred and bloodshed between 
 them for the future, that she consented to become his wife. 
 After some disputing among the priests, who said that as 
 she had been in a convent in her youth, and had worn the 
 veil of a nun, she could not lawfully be married — against 
 which the Princess stated that her aunt, with whom she had 
 lived in her youth, had indeed sometimes thrown a piece of 
 black stuff over her, but for no other reason than because 
 the nun's veil was the only dress the conquering Normans 
 respected in girl or woman, and not because she had 
 taken the vows of a nun, which she never had — she was de- 
 clared free to marry, and was made King Henry's Queen. 
 A good Queen she was ; beautiful, kind-hearted, and worthy 
 of a better husband than the King. 
 
 For he was a cunning and unscrupulous man, though firm 
 and clever. He cared very little for his word, and took any 
 means to gain his ends. All this is shown in his treatment 
 of his brother Robert — Robert, who had suffered him to be 
 refreshed with water, and who had sent him the wine from 
 his own table, when he was shut up, with the crows flying 
 below him, parched with thirst, in the castle on the top of 
 St. Michael's Mount, where his Red brother would have let 
 him die. 
 
 Before the King began to deal with Robert, he removed 
 and disgraced all the favorites of the late King ; who were 
 
64 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 for the most part base characters, much detested by the 
 people. Flambard, or Firebrand, whom the late King had 
 made Bishop of Durham, of all things in the world, Henry 
 imprisoned in the Tower ; but Firebrand was a great joker 
 and a jolly companion, and made himself so popular with 
 his guards that they pretended to know nothing about a 
 long rope that was sent into his prison at the bottom of a 
 deep flagon of wine. The guards took the wine, and Fire- 
 brand took the rope ; with which, when they were fast 
 asleep, he let himself down from a window in the night, and 
 so got cleverly aboard ship and away to Normandy. 
 
 Now Robert, when his brother Fine-Scholar came to the 
 throne, was still absent in the Holy Land, Henry pretended 
 that Robert had been made sovereign of that country ; and 
 he had been away so long that the ignorant people believed 
 it. But, behold, when Henry had been some time King ol 
 England, Robert came home to Normandy ; having leisurely 
 returned from Jerusalem through Italy, in which beauti- 
 ful country he had enjoyed himself very much, and had mar- 
 ried a lady as beautiful as itself ! In Normandy he found 
 Firebrand waiting to urge him to assert his claim to the En- 
 glish crown, and declare war against King Henry. This, af- 
 ter great loss of time in feasting and dancing with his beau- 
 tiful Italian wife among his Norman friends, he at last did. 
 
 The English in general were on King Henry's side, though 
 many of the Normans were on Robert's. But the English 
 sailors deserted the King, and took a great part of the En- 
 glish fleet over to Normandy ; so that Robert came to invade 
 this country in no foreign vessels, but in English ships. The 
 virtuous Anselm, however, whom Henry had invited back 
 from abroad, and made Archbishop of Canterbury, was 
 steadfast in the King's cause ; and it was so well supported 
 that the two armies, instead of fighting, made a peace. 
 Poor Robert, who trusted any body and every body, readily 
 trusted his brother, the King ; and agreed to go home and 
 receive a pension from England, on condition that all his 
 followers were fully pardoned. This the King very faith- 
 fully promised, but Robert was no sooner gone than he be- 
 gan to punish them. 
 
 Among them was the Earl of Shrewsbury, who, on being 
 summoned by the King to answer to five-and-forty accusa- 
 tions, rode away to one of his strong castles, shut himself 
 up therein, called around him his tenants and vassals, and 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 65 
 
 fought for his liberty, but was- defeated and banished. 
 Robert, with all his faults, was so true to his word, that when 
 he first heard of this nobleman having risen against his 
 brother, he laid waste the Earl of Shrewsbury's estates in Nor- 
 mandy, to show the King that he would favor no breach of 
 their treaty. Finding, on better information, afterwards, 
 that the Earl's only crime was having been his friend, he 
 came over to England, in his old thoughtless, warm-hearted 
 way, to intercede with the King, and remind him of the sol- 
 emn promise to pardon all his followers. 
 
 This confidence might have put the false King to the 
 blush, but it did not. Pretending to be very friendly, he 
 so surrounded his brother with spies and traps, that Robert, 
 who was quite in his power, had nothing for it but to 
 renounce his pension and escape while he could. Getting 
 home to Normandy, and understanding the King better now, 
 he naturally allied himself with his old friend the Earl of 
 Shrewsbury, who had sti*; thirty castles in that country. 
 This was exactly what Henry wanted. He immediately de- 
 clared that Robert had broken the treaty, and next year in- 
 vaded Normandy. 
 
 He pretended that he came to deliver the Normans, at their 
 own request, from his brother's misrule. There is reason to 
 fear that his misrule was bad enough : for his beautiful wife 
 had died, leaving him with an infant son, and his court was 
 again so careless, dissipated, and ill-regulated, that it was 
 said he sometimes lay in bed of a day for want of clothes to 
 put on — his attendants having stolen all his dresses. But 
 he headed his ^rmy like a brave prince and a gallant soldier, 
 though he had the misfortune to be taken prisoner by King 
 Henry, with foi*r hundred of his knights. Among them was 
 poor harmless Fdgar Atheling, who loved Robert well. Ed- 
 gar was not important enough to be severe with. The King 
 afterward gave him a small pension, which he lived upon 
 and died upon, in peace, among the quiet woods and fields of 
 England. 
 
 And Robert' — poor, kind, generous, wasteful, heedless 
 Robert, with so many faults, and yet with virtues that might 
 have made a better and a happier man — what was the end 
 of him ? If th( King had had the magnanimity to say with a 
 kind air, " Brother, tell me, before these noblemen, that from 
 this time you will be my faithful follower and friend, and 
 never raise youi hand against me or my forces more ! " he 
 
66 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 might have trusted Robert to the death. But the King was 
 not a magnanimous man. He sentenced his brother to be 
 confined for life in one of the royal castles. In the begin- 
 ning of his imprisonment, he was allowed to ride out, 
 guarded ; but he one day broke away from his guard and 
 galloped off. He had the evil fortune to ride into a 
 swamp, where his horse stuck fast and he was taken. 
 When the King heard of it he ordered him to be blinded, 
 which was done by putting a red-hot metal basin on his 
 eyes. 
 
 And so, in darkness and in prison, many years, he thought 
 of all his past life, of the time he had wasted, of the treasure 
 he had squandered, of the opportunities he had lost, of the 
 youth he had thrown away, of the talents he had neglected. 
 Sometimes, on fine autumn mornings, he would sit and think 
 of the old hunting parties in the free forest, where he had 
 been the foremost and the gayest. Sometimes, in the still 
 nights, he would wake, and mourn for the many nights that 
 had stolen past him at the garcing-table ; sometimes, would 
 seem to hear, upon the melancholy wind, the old songs of 
 the minstrels ; sometimes, would dream, in his blindness, 
 of the light and glitter of the Norman Court. Many and 
 many a time, he groped back, in his fancy, to Jerusalem, 
 where he had fought so well ; or, at the head of his brave 
 companions, bowed his feathered helmet to the shouts of 
 welcome greeting him in Italy, and seemed again to walk 
 among the sunny vineyards, or on the shore of the blue sea, 
 with his lovely wife. And then, thinking of her grave, and 
 of his father 2ss boy, he would stretch out his solitary arms 
 and weep. 
 
 At length one day there lay in prison dead, with cruel 
 and disfiguring scars upon his eyelids, bandaged from his 
 jailer's sight, but on which the eternal heavens looked down, 
 a worn old man of eighty. He had once been Robert of 
 Normandy. Pity him ! 
 
 At the time when Robert of Normandy was taken prisoner 
 by his brother, Robert's little son was only five years old. 
 This child was taken, too, and carried before the King, sob- 
 bing and crying ; for, young as he was, he knew he had good 
 reason to be afraid of his royal uncle. The King was not 
 much accustomed to pity those who were in his power, but 
 his cold heart seemed for the moment to soften toward the 
 boy. He was observed to make a great effort as if to prevent 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 6? 
 
 himself from being cruel, and ordered the child to be taken 
 away ; whereupon a certain Baron, who had married a daugh- 
 ter of Duke Robert's (by name, Helie of Saint Saen), took 
 charge of him, tenderly. The King's gentleness did not 
 last long. Before two years were over, he sent messengers 
 to this lord's castle to seize the child and bring him away. 
 The Baron was not there at the time, but his servants were 
 faithful, and carried the boy off in his sleep and hid him. 
 When the Baron came home, and was told what the King had 
 done, he took the child abroad, and leading him by the hand, 
 went from king to king and from court to court, relating 
 how the child had a claim to the throne of England, and how 
 his uncle the King, knowing that he had that claim, would 
 have murdered him, perhaps, but for his escape. 
 
 The youth and innocence of the pretty little William Fitz- 
 Robert (for that was his name) made him many friends at 
 that time. When he became a young man, the King of 
 France, uniting with the French Counts of Anjou and Flan- 
 ders, supported his cause against the King of England, and 
 took many of the King's towns and castles in Normandy. 
 But, King Henry, artful and cunning always, bribed some of 
 William's friends with money, some with promises, some with 
 power. He bought off the Count of Anjou, by promising to 
 marry his eldest son, also named William, to the Count's 
 daughter ; and indeed the whole trust of this King's life was 
 in such bargains, and he believed (as many another King has 
 done since, and as one King o.d "n France a very little time 
 ago) that every man's truth an. . h - 1 or can be bought at some 
 price. For all this, he was so fr, A of William Fitz-Robert 
 and his friends, that, for a long time, he believed his life to 
 be in danger ; and never lay down to sleep, even in his pal- 
 ace surrounded by his guards, without having a sword and 
 buckler at his bedside. 
 
 To strengthen his power, the King with great ceremony 
 betrothed his eldest daughter Matilda, then a child only eight 
 years old, to be the wife of Henry the Fifth, the Emperor of 
 Germany. To raise her marriage-portion, he taxed the En- 
 glish people in a most oppressive manner ; then treated them 
 to a great procession to restore their good humor ; and sent 
 Matilda away, in fine state, with the German ambassadors, 
 to be educated in the country of her future husband. 
 
 And now his Queen, Maud the Good, unhappily died. It 
 was a sad thought for that gentle lady, that the only hope 
 
68 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 With which she had married a man whom she had never loved 
 — the hope of reconciling the Norman and English races — 
 had failed. At the very time of her death, Normandy and 
 a]l France was in arms against England ; for, so soon as his 
 last danger was over, King Henry had been false to all the 
 French powers he had promised, bribed, and bought, and 
 they had naturally united against him. After some fighting, 
 however, in which few suffered but the unhappy common 
 people (who always suffered, whatsoever was the matter), he 
 began to promise, bribe and buy again ; and by those means, 
 and by the help of the Pope, who exerted himself to save 
 more bloodshed, and by solemnly declaring over and over 
 again, that he really was in earnest this time, and would keep 
 his word, the King made peace. 
 
 One of the first consequences of this peace was, that the 
 King went over to Normandy with his son Prince William 
 and a great retinue, to have the Prince acknowledged as his 
 successor by the Norman nobles, and to contract the prom- 
 ised marriage (this was one of the many promises the King 
 had broken) between him and the daughter of the Count of 
 Anjou. Both these things were triumphantly done, with 
 great show and rejoicing ; and on the twenty-fifth of No- 
 vember, in the year one thousand one hundred and twenty, 
 the whole retinue prepared to embark at the Port of Bar- 
 fleur, for the voyage home. 
 
 On that day, and at that place, there came to the King, 
 Fitz-Stephen, a sea-captain, and said : 
 
 " My liege, my father served your father all his life, upon 
 the sea. He steered the ship with the golden boy upon the 
 prow, in which your father sailed to conquer England. I 
 beseech you to grant me the same office. I have a fair ves- 
 sel in the harbor here, called the White Ship, manned by fifty 
 sailors of renown. I pray you, sire, to let your servant have 
 the honor of steering you in the White Ship to England." 
 
 " I am sorry, friend," replied the King, " that my vessel : s 
 already chosen, and that I cannot (therefore) sail with the 
 son of the man who served my father. But the Prince and 
 all his company shall.go along with you, in the fair White 
 Ship, manned by the fifty sailors of renown." 
 
 An hour or two afterwards, the King set sail in the vessel 
 he had chosen, accompanied by other vessels, and, sailing 
 all night with a fair and gentle wind, arrived upon the coast 
 of England in the morning. While it was yet night, the 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 6 9 
 
 people in some of those ships heard a faint wild cry come 
 over the sea and wondered what it was. 
 
 Now, the Prince was a dissolute, debauched young man 
 of eighteen, who bore no love to the English, and had de- 
 clared that when he came to the throne he would yoke them 
 to the plow like oxen. He went aboard the White Ship, 
 with one hundred and forty youthful nobles like himself, 
 among whom where eighteen noble ladies of the highest 
 rank. All this gay company, with their servants and the 
 fifty sailors, made three hundred souls aboard the fair 
 White Ship. 
 
 " Give three casks of wine, Fitz-Stephen," said the Prince, 
 "to the fifty sailors of renown! My father the King has 
 sailed out of the harbor. What time is there to make merry 
 here, and yet reach England with the rest ? " 
 
 "Prince," said Fitz-Stephen, "before morning my fifty 
 sailors and the White Ship shall overtake the swiftest vessel in 
 attendance on your father the King, if we sail at midnight ! " 
 
 Then the Prince commanded to make merry ; and the 
 sailors drank out the three casks of wine ; and the Prince 
 and all the noble company danced in the moonlight on the 
 deck of the White Ship. 
 
 When, at last she shot out of the harbor of Barfleur, there 
 was not a sober seaman on board. But the sails were all set, 
 and the oars all going merrily. Fitz-Stephen had the helm. 
 The gay young nobles and the beautiful ladies, wrapped in 
 mantles of various bright colors to protect them from the 
 cold, talked, laughed and sang. The Prince encouraged the 
 fifty sailors to row harder yet, for the honor of the White 
 Ship. 
 
 Crash! A terrific cry broke from three hundred hearts. 
 It was the cry the people in the distant vessels of the King 
 heard faintly on the water. The White Ship had struck 
 upon a rock — was filling — going down ! 
 
 Fitz-Stephen hurried the Prince into a boat, with some 
 few nobles. " Push off," he whispered ; " and row to the 
 land. It is not far, and the sea is smooth. The rest of us 
 must die." 
 
 But, as they rowed away, fast, from the sinking ship, the 
 Prince heard the voice of his sister Marie, the Countess of 
 Perche, calling for help, He never in his life had been so 
 good as he was then. He cried in an agony, " row back at 
 any risk ! I cannot bear to leave her \ " 
 
70 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 They rowed back. As the Prince held out his arms to 
 catch his sister, such numbers leaped in that the boat was 
 overset. And in the same instant the White Ship went 
 down. 
 
 Only two men floated. They both clung to the main 
 yard of the ship, which had broken from the mast, and now 
 supported them. One asked the other who he was ? He 
 said, " I am a nobleman, Godrey, by name the son of Gil- 
 bert de l'Aigle. And you ? " said he. " I am Berold, a poor 
 butcher of Rouen," was the answer. Then they said to- 
 gether, " Lord be merciful to us both ! " and tried to encour- 
 age one another, as they drifted in the cold benumbing sea 
 on that unfortunate November night. 
 
 By-and-by, another man came swimming towards them, 
 whom they knew, when he pushed aside his long wet hair, to 
 be Fitz-Stephen. " Where is the Prince ? " said he. " Gone ! 
 Gone ! " the two cried together. " Neither he, nor his 
 brother, nor his sister, nor the King's niece, nor her brother, 
 nor any one of all the brave three hundred, noble or common- 
 er, except we three, has risen above the water! " Fitz-Stephen, 
 with a ghastly face, cried, " Woe ! woe, to me ! " and sunk 
 to the bottom. 
 
 The other two clung to the yard for some hours. At length 
 the young noble said faintly, " I am exhausted, and chilled 
 with the cold, and can hold no longer. Farewell, good friend! 
 God preserve you ! " So, he dropped and sunk ; and of 
 all the brilliant crowd, the poor butcher of Rouen alone was 
 saved. In the morning some fishermen saw him floating in 
 his sheep-skin coat, and got him into their boat — the sole re- 
 later of the dismal tale. 
 
 For three days no one dared to carry the intelligence to 
 the King. At length they sent into his presence a little boy, 
 who, weeping bitterly and kneeling at his feet, told him that 
 the White Ship was lost with all on board. The King 
 fell to the ground like a dead man, and never, never after- 
 ward was seen to smile. 
 
 But he plotted again and promised again, and bribed and 
 bought again, in his old deceitful way. Having no son to 
 succeed him, after all his pains (" The Prince will never yoke 
 us to the plow, now ! " said the English people), he took a 
 second wife — Adelais or Alice, a Duke's daughter, and the 
 Pope's niece. Having no more children, however, he pro- 
 posed to the barons to swear that they would recognize as 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 71 
 
 his successor his daughter Matilda, whom, as she was now 
 a widow, he married to the eldest son of the Count of Anjou, 
 Geoffrey, surnamed Plantagenet, from a custom he had of 
 wearing a sprig of flowering broom (called Genet in French) 
 in his cap for a feather. As one false man usually makes 
 many, and as a false King, in particular, is pretty certain to 
 make a false Court, the barons took the oath about the suc- 
 cession of Matilda (and her children after her), twice over, 
 without in the least intending to keep it. The King was now 
 relieved from any remaining fears of William Fitz-Robert, 
 by his death in the Monastery of St. Omer, in France, at 
 twenty-six years old, of a pike-wound in the hand. And as 
 Matilda gave birth to three sons, he thought the succession 
 to the throne secure. 
 
 He spent most of the latter part of his life, which was 
 troubled by family quarrels, in Normandy, to be near Matil- 
 da. When he had reigned upwards of thirty-five years, and was 
 sixty-seven years old, he died of an indigestion and fever, 
 brought on by eating, when he was far from well, of a fish 
 called lamprey, against which he had often been cautioned 
 by his physicians. His remains were brought over to Read- 
 ing Abbey to be buried. 
 
 You may perhaps bear the cunning and promise-breaking 
 of King Henry the First, called " policy " by some people, 
 and " diplomacy " by others. Neither of these fine words 
 will in the least mean that it was true ; and nothing that is 
 not true can possibly be good. 
 
 His greatest merit, that I know of, was his love of learning. 
 I should have given him greater credit even for that, if it 
 had been strong enough to induce him to spare the eyes of a 
 certain poet he once took prisoner, who was a knight besides. 
 But he ordered the poet's eyes to be torn from his head, be- 
 cause he had laughed at him in his verses ; and the poet, in 
 the pain of that torture, dashed out his own brains against 
 his prison wall. King Henry the First was avaricious, 
 revengeful, and so false, that I suppose a man never lived 
 whose word was less to be relied upon. 
 
;a A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER MATILDA AND STEPHEN. 
 
 The King was no sooner dead than all the plans and 
 schemes he had labored at so long, and lied so much for, 
 crumbled away like a hollow heap of sand. Stephen, whom 
 he had never mistrusted or suspected, started up to claim 
 the throne. 
 
 Stephen was the son of Adela, the Conqueror's daughter, 
 married to the Count of Blois. To Stephen, and to his 
 brother Henry, the late King had been liberal ; making Hen- 
 ry Bishop of Winchester, and finding a good marriage for 
 Stephen, and much enriching him. This did not prevent 
 Stephen from hastily producing a false witness, a servant of 
 the late King, to swear that the King had named him for his- 
 heir upon his death-bed. On this evidence the Archbishop 
 of Canterbury crowned him. The new King, so suddenly 
 made., lost not a moment in seizing the royal treasure, and 
 hiring foreign soldiers with some of it to protect his 
 throne. 
 
 If the dead King had even done as the false witness said, 
 he would have had small right to will away the English peo- 
 ple, like so many sheep and oxen, without their consent. 
 But he had, in fact, bequeathed all his territory to Matilda ; 
 who, supported by Robert, Earl of Gloucester, soon began 
 to dispute the crown. Some of the powerful barons and 
 priests took her side ; some took Stephen's ; all fortified their 
 castles ; and again the miserable English people were in- 
 volved in war, from which they could never derive advantage 
 whosoever was victorious, and in which all parties plundered, 
 tortured, starved, and ruined them. 
 
 Five years had passed since the death of Henry the First — 
 and during those fiv. years there had been two terrible inva- 
 sions by the people of Scotland under their King, David, 
 who was at last defeated with all his army — when Matilda, 
 attended by her brother Robert and a large force, appeared 
 in England to maintain her claim. A battle was fought be- 
 tween her troops and King Stephen's at Lincoln ; in which 
 the King himsek was taken prisoner, after bravely fighting 
 until his battle-ax and sword were broken, and was carried 
 into strict confinement at Gloucester. Matilda then sub- 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 73 
 
 mitted herself to the priests, and the priests crowned her 
 Queen of England. 
 
 She did not long enjoy this dignity. The people of Lon- 
 don had a great affection for Stephen ; many of the Barons 
 considered it degrading to be ruled by a woman ; and the 
 Queen's temper was so haughty that she made innumerable 
 enemies. The people of London revolted ; and, in alliance 
 with the troops of Stephen, besieged her at Winchester, 
 where they took her brother Robert prisoner, whom, as her 
 best soldier and chief general, she was glad to exchange for 
 Stephen himself, who thus regained his liberty. Then, the 
 long war went on afresh. Once, she was pressed so hard in 
 the Castle of Oxford in the winter weather when the snow 
 lay thick upon the ground, that her only chance of escape 
 was to dress herself all in white, and accompanied by no 
 more than three faithful knights, dressed in like manner that 
 their figures might not be seen from Stephen's camp as they 
 passed over the snow, to steal away on foot, cross the frozen 
 Thames, walk a long distance, and at last gallop away on 
 horseback. All this she did, but to no great purpose then; 
 for her brother dying while the struggle was yet going on, 
 she at last withdrew to Normandy. 
 
 In two or three years after her withdrawal her cause ap- 
 peared in England, afresh, in the person of her son Henry, 
 young Plantagenet, who, at only eighteen years of age, was 
 very powerful : not only on account of his mother having 
 resigned all Normandy to him, but also from his having mar- 
 ried Eleanor, the divorced wife of the French King, a bad 
 woman, who had great possessions in France. Louis, the 
 French King, not relishing this arrangement, helped Eustace, 
 King Stephen's son, to invade Normandy ; but Henry drove 
 their united forces out of that country, and then returned 
 here to assist his partisans, whom the King was then besieg- 
 ing at Wallingford upon the Thames. Here, for two days, 
 divided only by the river, the two armies lay encamped op- 
 posite to one another — on the eve, as it seemed to all men, 
 of another desperate fight, when the Earl of Arundel took 
 heart and said " that it was not reasonable to prolong the 
 unspeakable miseries of two kingdoms to minister to the 
 ambition of two princes." 
 
 Many other noblemen repeating and supporting this when 
 it was once uttered, Stephen and young Plantagenet went 
 down, each to his own bank of the river, and held a conver- 
 
74 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 sation across it, in which they arranged a truce ; very much 
 to the dissatisfaction of Eustace, who swaggered away with 
 some followers, and laid violent hands on the Abbey of St. 
 Edmund's-Bury, where he presently died mad. The truce 
 led to a solemn council at Winchester, in which it was agreed 
 that Stephen should retain the crown, on condition of his 
 declaring Henry his successor ; that William, another son of 
 the King's, should inherit his father's rightful possessions ; 
 and that all the crown lands which Stephen had given away 
 should be recalled, and the castles he had permitted to be 
 built demolished. Thus terminated the bitter war, which 
 had now lasted fifteen years, and had again laid England 
 waste. In the next year Stephen died, after a troubled 
 reign of nineteen years. 
 
 Although King Stephen was, for the time in which he lived, 
 a humane and moderate man, with many excellent qualities ; 
 and although nothing worse is known of him than his usur- 
 pation of the crown, which he probably excused to himself 
 by the consideration that King Henry the First was an usur- 
 per too — which was no excuse at all ; the people of England 
 suffered more in these dreaded nineteen years, than at any 
 former period even of their suffering history. In the divis- 
 ion of the nobility between the two rival claimants of the 
 crown, and in the growth of what is called the Feudal System 
 (which made the peasants the born vassals and mere slaves 
 of the barons), every noble had his strong castle, where he 
 reigned the cruel king of all the neighboring people. Ac- 
 cordingly, he perpetrated whatever cruelties he chose. 
 And never were worse cruelties committeed upon the earth 
 than in wretched England in those nineteen years. 
 
 The writers who were living then described them fearfully. 
 They say that the castles were filled with devils rather than 
 with men ; that the peasants, men and women, were putinto 
 dungeons for their gold and silver, were tortured with fire 
 and smoke, were hung up by the thumbs, were hung up by 
 the heels with great weights to their heads, were torn with 
 jagged irons, killed with hunger, broken to death in narrow 
 chests filled with sharp-pointed stones, murdered in countless 
 fiendish ways. In England there was no corn, no meat, no 
 cheese, no butter, there were no tilled lands, no harvests. 
 Ashes of burned towns and dreary wastes were all that the 
 traveler, fearful of the robbers who prowled abroad at all 
 hours, would see in a long day's journey ; and from sunrise 
 until night, he would not come upon a home. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 75 
 
 The clergy sometimes suffered, and heavily too, from pil- 
 lage, but many of them had castles of their own, and fought 
 in helmet and armor like the barons, and drew lots with other 
 fighting men for their share of booty. The Pope (or Bishop 
 of Rome), on King Stephen's resisting his ambition, laid 
 England under an interdict at one period of this reign ; 
 which means that he allowed no service to be performed in 
 the churches, no couples to be married, no bells to be rung, 
 no dead bodies to be buried. Any man having the power to 
 refuse these things, no matter whether he were called a pope 
 or a poulterer, would, of course, have the power of afflicting 
 numbers of innocent people. That nothing might be want- 
 ing to the miseries of King Stephen's time, the pope threw 
 in this contribution to the public store — not very like the 
 widow's contribution as I think, when our Saviour sat in 
 Jerusalem over-against the treasury, " and she threw in two 
 mites, which make a farthing." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SECOND. 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 Henry Plantagenet, when he was but twenty-one years old, 
 quietly succeeded to the throne of England, according to 
 his agreement made with the late King at Winchester. Six 
 weeks after Stephen's death, he and his Queen, Eleanor, 
 were crowned in that city ; into which they rode on horse- 
 back in great state, side by side, amid much shouting and 
 rejoicing, and clashing of music, and strewing of flowers. 
 
 The reign of King Henry the Second began well. The 
 King had great possessions, and (what with his own rights, 
 and what with those of his wife) was lord of one-third part 
 of France. He was a young man of vigor, ability, and reso- 
 lution, and immediately applied himself to remove some of 
 the evils which had arisen in the last unhappy reign. He 
 revoked all the grants of land that had been hastily made, 
 on either side, during the late struggles ; he obliged numbers 
 of disorderly soldiers to depart from England ; he reclaimed 
 all the castles belonging to the crown ; and he forced the 
 wicked nobles to pull down their own castles, to the number 
 
76 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 of eleven hundred, in which such dismal cruelties had been 
 inflicted on the people. The King's brother, Geoffrey, rose 
 against him in France, while he was so well employed, and 
 rendered it necessary for him to repair to that country ; 
 where, after he had subdued and made a friendly arrange- 
 ment with his brother (who did not live long), his ambition 
 to increase his possessions involved him in a war with the 
 French King, with whom he had been on such friendly terms 
 just before, that to the French King's infant daughter, then 
 a baby in the cradle, he had promised one of his little sons 
 in marriage, who was a child of five years old. However, 
 the war came to nothing at last, and the Pope made the two 
 Kings friends again.. 
 
 Now, the clergy, in the troubles of the last reign, had gone 
 on very ill indeed. There were all kinds of criminals among 
 them — murderers, thieves, and vagabonds ; and the worst 
 of the matter was, that the good priests would not give up 
 the bad priests to justice, when they committed crimes, but 
 persisted in sheltering and defending them. The King, well 
 knowing that there could be no peace or rest in England 
 while such things lasted, resolved to reduce the power of the 
 clergy ; and, when he had reigned seven years, found, (as he 
 considered) a good opportunity for doing so, in the death of 
 the Archbishop of Canterbury. " I will have for the new 
 Archbishop," thought the King, " a friend in whom I can 
 trust, who will help me to humble these rebellious priests. 
 and to have them dealt with, when they do wrong, as other 
 men who do wrong are dealt with." So, he resolved to make 
 his favorite, the new Archbishop : and this favorite was so 
 extraordinary a man, and his story is so curious, that I must 
 tell you all about him. 
 
 Once upon a time, a worthy merchant of London, named 
 Gilbert a Becket, made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and 
 was taken prisoner by a Saracen lord. This lord, who treated 
 him kindly and not like a slave, had one fair daughter, who 
 fell in love with the merchant ; and who told him that she 
 wanted to become a Christian, and was willing to marry him 
 if they could fly to a Christian country. The merchant re- 
 turned her love, until he found an opportunity to escape, 
 when he did not trouble himself about the Saracen lady, but 
 escaped with his servant Richard, who had been taken pris- 
 oner along with him, and arrived in England and forgot her. 
 The Saracen lady, who was more loving than the merchat^ 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 77 
 
 left her father's house in disguise to follow him, and made 
 her way, under many hardships, to the sea-shore. The mer- 
 chant had taught her only two English words (for I suppose 
 he must have learned the Saracen tongue himself, and made 
 love in that language), of which London was one, and his 
 own name, Gilbert, the other. She went among the ships, 
 saying, " London ! London ! " over and over again, until the 
 sailors understood that she wanted to find an English vessel 
 that would carry her there ; so they showed her such a ship, 
 and she paid for her passage with some of her jewels, and 
 sailed away. Well ! The merchant was sitting in his count- 
 ing-house in London one day, when he heard a great noise 
 in the street ; and presently Richard came running in from 
 the warehouse, with his eyes wide open and his breath almost 
 gone, saying, " Master, master, here is the Saracen lady ! " 
 The merchant thought Richard was mad ; but Richard said, 
 " No, master ! As I live, the Saracen lady is going up and 
 down the city, calling Gilbert ! Gilbert ! " Then, he took 
 the merchant by the sleeve, and pointed out at; window ; 
 and there they saw her among the gables and water-spouts 
 of the dark dirty street, in her foreign dress, so forlorn, sur- 
 rounded by a wondering crowd, and passing slowly along, 
 calling Gilbert, Gilbert ! When the merchant saw her, and 
 thought of the tenderness she had shown him in his captivity, 
 and of her constancy, his heart was moved, and he ran down 
 into the street ; and she saw him coming, and with a great 
 cry fainted in his arms. They were married without loss of 
 time, and Richard (who was an excellent man) danced with 
 joy the whole day of the wedding ; and they all lived happy 
 ever afterward. 
 
 This merchant and this Saracen lady had one son, Thomas 
 a Becket. He it was who became the favorite of King 
 Henry the Second. 
 
 He had become Chancellor, when the King thought of 
 making him Archbishop. He was clever, gay, well educated, 
 brave ; had fought in several battles in France ; had de- 
 feated a French knight in single combat, and brought his 
 horse away as a token of the victory. He lived in a noble 
 palace, he was the tutor of the young Prince Henry, he was 
 served by one hundred and forty knights, his riches were 
 immense. The King once sent him as his ambassador to 
 France ; and the French people, beholding in what state he 
 traveled, cried out in the streets, " How splendid must the 
 
78 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 King of England be, when this is only the Chancellor ! " 
 They had good reason to wonder at the magnificence of 
 Thomas a Becket, for, when he entered a French town, his 
 procession was headed by two hundred and fifty singing 
 boys ; then, came his hounds in couples ; then, eight wagons, 
 each drawn by five horses driven by five drivers ; two of the 
 wagons filled with strong ale to be given away to the people ; 
 four, with his gold and silver plate and stately clothes ; two, 
 with the dresses of his numerous servants. Then, came 
 twelve horses, each with a monkey on his back ; then a 
 train of people bearing shields and leading fine war-horses 
 splendidly equipped ; then, falconers with hawks upon their 
 wrists ; then, a host of knights, and gentlemen and priests ; 
 then, the Chancellor with his brilliant garments flashing in 
 the sun, and all the people capering and shouting with de- 
 light. 
 
 The King was well pleased with all this, thinking that it 
 only made himself the more magnificent to have so magnifi- 
 cent a favorite ; but he sometimes jested with the Chancel- 
 lor upon his splendor too. Once, when they were riding 
 together through the streets of London in hard winter wea- 
 ther, they saw a shivering old man in rags. " Look at the 
 poor object ! " said the King. " Would it not be a chari- 
 table act to give that aged man a comfortable warm cloak ? " 
 " Undoubtedly it would," said Thomas a Becket, " and you 
 do well, sir, to think of such Christian duties." " Come ! " 
 cried the King, " then give him your cloak ! " It was made 
 of rich crimson trimmed with ermine. The King tried to 
 pull it off, the Chancellor tried to keep it on, both were near 
 rolling from their saddles to the mud, when the Chancellor 
 submitted, and the King gave the cloak to the old beggar : 
 much to the beggar's astonishment, and much to the merri- 
 ment of all the courtiers in attendance. For, courtiers are 
 not only eager to laugh when the King laughs, but they 
 really do enjoy a laugh against a favorite. 
 
 " I will make," thought King Henry the Second, " this 
 Chancellor of mine, Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury. He will then be the head of. the Church, and, being 
 devoted to me, will help me to correct the Church. He has 
 always upheld my power against the power of the clergy, and 
 once publicly told some bishops (I remember), that men of 
 the Church were equally bound to me with men of the 
 sword. Thomas a Becket is the man, of all other men in 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 79 
 
 England, to help me in my great design." So the King, re- 
 gardless of all objection, either that he was a fighting man, 
 or a lavish man, or a courtly man, or a man of pleasure, or 
 any thing but a likely man for the office, made him Arch- 
 bishop accordingly. 
 
 Now, Thomas a Becket was proud and loved to be famous. 
 He was already famous for the pomp of his life, for his 
 riches, his gold and silver plate, his wagons, horses, and at- 
 tendants. He could do no more in that way than he had 
 done ; and being tired of that kind of fame (which is a very 
 poor one), he longed to have his name celebrated for some- 
 thing else. Nothing, he knew, would render him so famous 
 in the world, as the setting of his utmost power and ability 
 against the utmost power and ability of the King. He re- 
 solved with the whole strength of his mind to do it. 
 
 He may have had some secret grudge against the King 
 besides. The King may have offended his proud humor at 
 some time or other, for any thing I know. I think it likely, 
 because it is a common thing for kings, princes, and other 
 great people, to try the tempers of their favorites rather 
 severely. Even the little affair of the crimson cloak must 
 have been any thing but a pleasant one to a haughty man. 
 Thomas a Becket knew better than any one in England what 
 the King expected of him. In all his sumptuous life, he had 
 never yet been in a position to disappoint the King. He 
 could take up that proud stand now, as head of the Church; 
 and he determined that it should be written in history, 
 either that he subdued the King, or that the King subdued 
 him. 
 
 So, of a sudden, he completely altered the whole manner 
 of his life. He turned off all his brilliant followers, ate 
 coarse food, drank bitter water, wore next his skin sackcloth 
 covered with dirt and vermin (for it was then thought very 
 religious to be very dirty), flogged his back to punish him- 
 self, lived chiefly in a little cell, washed the feet of thirteen 
 poor people every day, and looked as miserable as he possi- 
 bly could. If he had put twelve hundred monkeys on horse- 
 back instead ^ - twelve, and had gone in procession with 
 eight thousand wagons instead of eight, he could not have 
 half astonished the people so much as by this great change. 
 It soon caused him to be more talked about as an Arch- 
 bishop than he had been as a Chancellor. 
 
 The King was very angry ; and was made still more so, 
 
80 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 when the new Archbishop, claiming various estates from the 
 nobles as being rightfully Church property, required the 
 King himself, for the same reason, to give up Rochester 
 Castle, and Rochester City too. Not satisfied with this, he 
 declared that no power but himself should appoint a priest 
 to any church in the part of England over which he was 
 Archbishop ; and when a certain gentleman of Kent made 
 such an appointment, as he claimed to have the right to 
 do, Thomas a Becket excommunicated him. 
 
 Excommunication was, next to the Interdict I told you of 
 at the close of the last chapter, the great weapon of the 
 clergy. It consisted in declaring the person who was excom- 
 municated, an outcast from the Church and from all religious 
 offices ; and in cursing him all over, from the top of his 
 head to the sole of his foot, whether he was standing up, 
 lying down, sitting, kneeling, walking, running, hopping, 
 jumping, gaping, coughing, sneezing, or whatever else he 
 was doing. This unchristian nonsense would of course have 
 made no sort of difference to the person cursed — who could 
 say his prayers at home if he were shut out of church, and 
 whom none but God could judge — but for the fears and 
 superstitions of the people, who avoided excommunicated 
 persons, and made their lives unhappy. So, the King said 
 to the new Archbishop, " Take off this excommunication 
 from this gentleman of Kent." To which the Archbishop 
 replied, " I shall do no such thing." 
 
 The quarrel went on. A priest in Worcestershire com- 
 mitted a most dreadful murder, that aroused the horror of 
 the whole nation. The King demanded to have this wretch 
 delivered up, to be tried in the same court and in the same 
 way as any other murderer. The Archbishop refused, and 
 kept him in the Bishop's prison. The King, holding a 
 solemn assembly in Westminster Hall, demanded that in 
 future all priests found guilty before their bishops of crimes 
 against the law of the land should be considered priests no 
 longer, and should be delivered over to the law of the land 
 for punishment. The Archbishop again refused. The 
 King required to know whether the clergy would obey the 
 ancient customs of the country ? Every priest there, but one, 
 said, after Thomas a Becket, " Saving my order." This 
 really meant that they would only obey those customs when 
 they did not interfere with their own claims ; and the King 
 went out of the Hall in great wrath. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 81 
 
 Some of the clergy began to be afraid, now, that they were 
 going too far. Though Thomas a Becket was otherwise as 
 unmoved as Westminster Hall, they prevailed upon him, for 
 the sake of their fears, to go to the King at Woodstock, and 
 promise to observe the ancient customs of the country, with- 
 out saying any thing about his order. The King received 
 this submission favorably, and summoned a great council of 
 the clergy to meet at the Castle of Clarendon, by Salisbury. 
 But when the council met, the Archbishop again insisted on 
 the words "saving my order;" and he still insisted, though 
 lords entreated him, and priests wept before him and kneeled 
 to him, and an adjoining room was thrown open, filled with 
 armed soldiers of the King, to threaten him. At length he 
 gave way, for that time, and the ancient customs (which in- 
 cluded what the King had demanded in vain) were stated in 
 writing, and were signed and sealed by the chief of the clergy, 
 and were called the Constitutions of Clarendon. 
 
 The quarrel went on for all that. The Archbishop tried 
 to see the King. The King would not see him. The Arch- 
 bishop tried to escape from England. The sailors on the 
 coast would launch no boat to take him away. Then, he 
 again resolved to do his worst in opposition to the King, and 
 began openly to set the ancient customs at defiance. 
 
 The King summoned him before a great council at North- 
 ampton where he accused him of high treason, and made a 
 claim against him, which was not a just one, for an enor- 
 mous sum of money. Thomas a Becket was alone against 
 the whole assembly, and the very bishops advised him to 
 resign his office and abandon his contest with the King. 
 His great anxiety and agitation stretched him on a sick-bed 
 for two days, but he was still undaunted. He went to the 
 adjourned council, carrying a great cross in his right hand, 
 and sat down holding it erect before him. The King angrily 
 retired into an inner room. The whole assembly angrily 
 retired and left him there. But there he sat. The bishops 
 came out again in a body, and renounced him as a traitor. 
 He only said, " I hear ! " and sat there still. They retired 
 again into the inner room, and his trial proceeded without 
 him. By-and-by, the Earl of Leicester, heading the barons, 
 came out to read his sentence. He refused to hear it, denied 
 the power of the court, and said he would refer his cause to 
 the Pope. As he walked out of the hall, with the cross in 
 his hand, some of those present picked up rushes — rushes 
 
82 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 were strewn upon the floors in those days by way of carpet — 
 and threw them at him. He proudly turned his head, and 
 said that were he not Archbishop, he would chastise those 
 cowards with the sword he had known how to use in bygone 
 days. He then mounted his horse, and rode away, cheered 
 and surrounded by the common people, to whom he threw 
 open his house that night and gave a supper, supping with 
 them himself. That same night he secretly departed from 
 the town ; and so, traveling by night and hiding by day, 
 and calling himself " Brother Dearman," got away not with- 
 out difficulty, to Flanders. 
 
 The struggle still went on. The angry King took posses- 
 sion of the revenues of the archbishopric, and banished all 
 the relations and servants of Thomas a Becket, to the num- 
 ber of four hundred. The Pope and the French King both 
 protected him, and an abbey was assigned for his residence. 
 Stimulated by this support Thomas a Becket, on a great fes- 
 tival day, formally proceeded to a great church crowded 
 with people, and going up into the pulpit publicly cursed 
 and excommunicated all who had supported the Constitu- 
 tions of Clarendon ; mentioning many English noblemen by 
 name, and not distantly hinting at the King of England 
 himself. 
 
 When intelligence of this new affront was carried to the 
 King in his chamber, his passion was so furious that he tore 
 his clothes, and rolled like a madman on his bed of straw 
 and rushes. But he was soon up and doing. He ordered 
 all the ports and coasts of England to be narrowly watched, 
 that no letters of Interdict might be brought into the king- 
 dom ; and sent messengers and bribes to the Pope's palace 
 at Rome. Meanwhile, Thomas a Becket, for his part, was 
 not idle at Rome, but constantly employed his utmost arts 
 in his own behalf. Thus the contest stood, until there was 
 peace between France and England (which had been for 
 some time at war), and until the two children of the two 
 Kings were married in celebration of it. Then, the French 
 King brought about a meeting between Henry and his old 
 favorite so long his enemy. 
 
 Even then, though Thomas a Becket kneeled before the 
 King, he was obstinate and immovable as to those words 
 about his order. King Louis of France was weak enough in 
 his veneration for Thomas a Becket and such men, but this 
 was a little too much for him. He said that a Becket 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. S3 
 
 " wanted to be greater than all the saints and better than St. 
 Peter," and rode away from him with the King of England. 
 His poor French Majesty asked a Becket's pardon for so doing, 
 however, soon afterwards, and cut a very pitiful figure. 
 
 At last, and after a world of trouble, it came to this. 
 There was another meeting on French ground between King 
 Henry and Thomas a Becket, and it was agreed that Thomas 
 a Becket should be Archbishop of Canterbury, according to 
 the customs of former archbishops, and that the King 
 should put him in possession of the revenues of that post. 
 And now, indeed, you might suppose the struggle at an end, 
 and Thomas a Becket at rest. No, not even yet. For 
 Thomas a Becket hearing, by some means, that King Henry, 
 when he was in dread of his kingdom being placed under an 
 interdict, had had his eldest son Prince Henry secretly 
 crowned, not only persuaded the Pope to suspend the Arch- 
 bishop of York who had performed that ceremony, and to 
 excommunicate the Bishops who had assisted at it, but sent 
 a messenger of his own into England, in spite of all the 
 King's precautions along the coast, who delivered the letters 
 of excommunication into the bishops' own hands. Thomas 
 a Becket then came over to England himself, after an 
 absence of seven years. He was privately warned that it 
 was dangerous to come, and that an ireful knight named 
 Ranulf de Broc, had threatened that he should not live to 
 eat a loaf of bread in England ; but he came. 
 
 The common people received him well, and marched about 
 with him in a soldierly way, armed with such rustic weapons 
 as they could get. He tried to see the young prince who 
 tad once been his pupil, but was prevented. He hoped for 
 >ome little support among the nobles and priests, but found 
 <ione. He made the most of the peasants who attended 
 nim, and feasted them, and went from Canterbury to Harrow- 
 on-the-Hill, and from Harrow-on-the-Hill back to Canter- 
 bury, and on Christmas Day preached in the Cathedral 
 there, and told the people in his sermon that he had come to 
 die among them, and that it was likely he would be murdered. 
 He had no fear, however — or, if he had any, he had much 
 more obstinacy — for he, then and there, excommunicated 
 three of his enemies, of whom Ranulf de Broc the ireful 
 knight was one. 
 
 As men in general had no fancy for being cursed, in their 
 sitting and walking, and gaping and sneezing, and all the rest 
 
84 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 of it, it was very natural in the persons so freely excommu- 
 nicated to complain to the King. It was equally natural 
 in the King, who had hoped that this troublesome opponent 
 was at last quieted, to fall into a mighty rage when he heard 
 of these new affronts ; and, on the Archbishop of York 
 telling him that he never could hope for rest while Thomas 
 a Becket lived, to cry out hastily before his court, " Have I 
 no one here who will deliver me from this man ? " There 
 were four knights present, who, hearing the King's words, 
 looked at one another, and went out. 
 
 The names of these knights were Reginald Fitzurse, 
 William Tracy, Hugh de Morville, and Richard Brito ; 
 three of whom had been in the train of Thomas a Becket in 
 the old days of his splendor. They rode away on horse- 
 back in a very secret manner, and on the third day after 
 Christmas Day arrived at Saltwood House, not far from 
 Canterbury, winch belonged to the family of Ranulf de Broc. 
 They quietly collected some followers here, in case they 
 should need any; and proceeding to Canterbury, suddenly 
 appeared (the four knights and twelve men) before the 
 Archbishop, in his own house, at two o'clock in the after- 
 noon. They neither bowed nor spoke, but sat down on the 
 floor in silence, staring at the Archbishop. 
 
 Thomas a. Becket said at length, " What do you want ? " 
 
 " We want," said Reginald Fitzurse, " the excommunica- 
 tion taken from the bishops, and you to answer for your 
 offenses to the King." 
 
 Thomas a Becket defiantly replied, that the power of the 
 clergy was above the power of the King. That it was ot 
 for such men as they were, to threaten him. That if he w re 
 threatened by all the swords in England, he would ne er 
 yield. 
 
 " Then we will do more than threaten ! " said the knights. 
 And they went out with the twelve men, and put on their 
 armor, and drew their shining swords, and came back. 
 
 His servants, in the meantime, had shut up and barred 
 the great gate of the palace. At first, the knights tried to 
 shatter it with their battle-axes ; but, being shown a window 
 by which they could enter, they let the gate alone, and climbed 
 in that way. While they were battering at the door, the 
 attendants of Thomas a Becket had implored him to take 
 refuge in the Cathedral ; in which, as a sanctuary or sacred 
 place, they thought the knights would dare to do no violent 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. $5 
 
 deed. He told them, again and again, that he would not 
 stir. Hearing the distant voices of the monks singing the 
 evening service, however, he said it was now his duty to 
 attend, and therefore, and for no other reason, he would go. 
 
 There was a near way between his palace and the Cathe- 
 dral, by some beautiful old cloisters which you may yet see. 
 He went into the Cathedral, without any hurry, and having 
 the cross carried before him as usual. When he was safely 
 there, his servants would have fastened the door, but he said 
 No ! it was the house of God and not a fortress. 
 
 As he spoke, the shadow of Reginald Fitzurse appeared 
 in the Cathedral doorway, darkening the little light there 
 was outside, on the dark winter evening. This knight said, 
 in a strong voice, " Follow me, loyal servants of the King ! " 
 The rattle of the armor of the other knights echoed through 
 the Cathedral, as they came clashing in. 
 
 It was so dark, in the lofty aisles and among the stately 
 pillars of the church, and there were so many hiding-places 
 in the crypt below and in the narrow passages above, that 
 Thomas a Becket might even at that pass have saved him- 
 self if he would. But he would not. He told the monks 
 resolutely that he would not. And though they all dispersed 
 and left him there with no other follower than Edward 
 Gryme, his faithful cross-bearer, he was as firm then as ever 
 he had been in his life. 
 
 The knights came on, through the darkness, making a 
 terrible noise with their armed tread upon the stone pavement 
 of the church. " Where is the traitor ? " they cried out. 
 He made no answer. But when they cried, " Where is the 
 Archbishop ? " he said proudly, " I am here ! " and came 
 out of the shade and stood before them. 
 
 The knights had no desire to kill him, if they could rid the 
 King and themselves of him by any other means. They told 
 him he must either fly or go with them. He said he would 
 do neither ; and he threw William Tracy off with such force 
 when he took hold of his sleeve, that Tracy reeled again. 
 By his reproaches and his steadiness, he so incensed them, 
 and exasperated their fierce humor, that Reginald Fitzurse, 
 whom he called by an ill name, said, " Then die ! " and struck 
 at his head. But the faithful Edward Gryme put out his 
 arm, and there received the main force of the blow, so that 
 it only made his master bleed. Another voice from among 
 the knights again called to Thomas a Becket to fly ; but, with 
 
86 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 his blood running down his face, and his hands clasped, and 
 his head bent, he commended himself to God, and stood 
 firm. Then they cruelly killed him close to the altar of St. 
 Bennet ; and his body fell upon the pavement, which was 
 dirtied with his blood and brains. 
 
 It is an awful thing to think of the murdered mortal, who 
 had so showered his curses about, lying, all disfigured, in the 
 church, where a few lamps here and there were but red 
 specks on a pall of darkness ; and to think of the guilty 
 knights riding away on horseback, looking over their shoul- 
 ders at the dim Cathedral, and remembering what they had 
 left inside. 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 When the King heard how Thomas a. Becket had lost his 
 life in Canterbury Cathedral, through the ferocity of the four 
 knights, he was filled with dismay. Some have supposed 
 that when the King spoke those hasty words, " Have I no 
 one here who will deliver me from this man ? " he wished, 
 and meant a Becket to be slain. But few things are more 
 unlikely; for, besides that the King was not naturally cruel 
 (though very passionate), he was wise and must have known 
 full well what any stupid man in his dominions must have 
 known, namely that such a murder would rouse the Pope 
 and the whole Church against him. 
 
 He sent respectful messages to the Pope, to represent his 
 innocence (except in having uttered the hasty words); and 
 he swore solemnly and publicly to his innocence, and con- 
 trived in time to make his peace. As to the four guilty 
 knights, who fled into Yorkshire, and never again dared to 
 show themselves at Court, the Pope excommunicated them; 
 and they lived miserably for some time, shunned by all their 
 countrymen. At last they went humbly to Jerusalem as a 
 penance, and there died and were buried. 
 
 It happened, fortunately for the pacifying of the Pope, that 
 an opportunity arose very soon after the murder of a Becket, 
 for the King to declare his power in Ireland — which was an 
 acceptable undertaking to the Pope, as the Irish, who had 
 been converted to Christianity by one Patricius (otherwise 
 St. Patrick) long ago, before any Pope existed, considered 
 that the Pope had nothing at all to do with them, or they 
 with the Pope, and accordingly refused to pay him Peter's 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 87 
 
 Pence, or the tax of a penny a house which I have elsewhere 
 mentioned. The King's opportunity arose in this way. 
 
 The Irish were, at that time, as barbarous a people as you 
 can well imagine. They were continually quarreling and 
 fighting, cutting one another's throats, slicing one another's 
 noses, burning one another's houses, carrying away one 
 another's wives, and committing all sorts of violence. The 
 country was divided into five kingdoms — Desmond, Thorn- 
 ond, Connaught, Ulster, and Leinster — each governed by a 
 separate King, of whom one claimed to be the chief of the 
 rest. Now, one of these Kings, named Dermond MacMur- 
 rough(a w T ild kind of name, spelled in more than one wild kind 
 of way), had carried off the wife of a friend of his, and con- 
 cealed her on an island in a bog. The friend resenting this 
 (though it was quite the custom of the country), complained 
 to the chief King, and, with the chief King's help, drove 
 Dermond MacMurrough out of his dominions. Dermond 
 came over to England for revenge; and offered to hold his 
 realm as a vassal of King Henry, if King Henry would help 
 him to regain it. The King consented to these terms; but 
 only assisted him, then, with what were called Letters Patent, 
 authorizing any English subjects who were so disposed, to 
 enter into his service, and aid his cause. 
 
 There was, at Bristol, a certain Earl Richard de Clare, 
 called Strongbow ; of no very good character ; needy and 
 desperate, and ready for any thing that offered him a chance 
 of improving his fortunes. There were, in South Wales, two 
 other broken knights of the same good-for-nothing sort, 
 called Robert Fitz-Stephen and Maurice Fitz-Gerald. 
 These three, each with a small band of followers, took up 
 Dermond's cause ; and it was agreed that if it proved suc- 
 cessful, Strongbow should marry Dermond's daughter Eva, 
 and be declared his heir. 
 
 The trained English followers of these knights were so 
 superior in all the discipline of battle to the Irish, that they 
 beat them against immense superiority of numbers. In one 
 fight, early in the war, they cut off three hundred heads, and 
 laid them before MacMurrough ; who turned them every 
 one up with his hands, rejoicing, and, coming to one which 
 was the head of a man whom he had much disliked, he 
 grasped it by the hair and ears, and tore off the nose and 
 lips with his teeth. You may judge from this, what kind of 
 a gentleman an Irish King in those times was. The captive^ 
 
88 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 all through this war, were horribly treated ; the victorious 
 party making nothing of breaking their limbs, and casting 
 them into the sea from the tops of high rocks. It was in 
 the midst of the miseries and cruelties attendant on the tak- 
 ing of Waterford, where the dead lay piled in the streets and 
 the filthy gutters ran with blood, that Strongbow married 
 Eva. An odious marriage-company those mounds of corpses 
 must have made, I think, and one quite worthy of the young 
 lady's father. 
 
 He died, after Waterford and Dublin had been taken, and 
 various successes achieved ; and Strongbow became King of 
 Leinster. Now came King Henry's opportunity. To re- 
 strain the growing power of Strongbow, he himself repaired 
 to Dublin, as Strongbow's Royal Master, and deprived him 
 of his kingdom, but confirmed him in the enjoyment of great 
 possessions. The King, then, holding state in Dublin, re- 
 ceived the homage of nearly all the Irish Kings and Chiefs, 
 and so came home again with a great addition to his reputa- 
 tion as Lord of Ireland, and with a new claim on the favor of 
 the Pope. And now, their reconciliation was completed — 
 more easily and mildly by the Pope than the King might 
 have expected, I think. 
 
 At this period of his reign, when his troubles seemed so 
 few and his prospects so bright, those domestic miseries be- 
 gan which gradually made the King the most unhappy of 
 men, reduced his great spirit, wore away his health, and 
 broke his heart. 
 
 He had four sons. Henry, now aged eighteen — his secret 
 crowning of whom had given such offense to Thomas a 
 Becket ; Richard, aged sixteen ; Geoffrey, fifteen ; and John, 
 his favorite, a young boy whom the courtiers named Lack- 
 land, because he had no inheritance, but to whom the King 
 meant to give the Lordship of Ireland. All these misguided 
 boys in their turn, were unnatural sons to him, and unnat- 
 ural brothers to each other. Prince Henry, stimulated by 
 the French King, and by his bad mother, Queen Eleanor, 
 began the undutiful history. 
 
 First, he demanded that his young wife, Margaret, the 
 French King's daughter, should be crowned as well as he. 
 His father, the King, consented, and it was done. It was no 
 sooner done than he demanded to have a part of his father's 
 dominions during his father's life. This being refused, he 
 made off from his father in the night, with his bad heart full 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 8 9 
 
 of bitterness, and took refuge at the French King's Court. 
 Within a day or two, his brothers Richard and Geoffrey fol- 
 lowed. Their mother tried to join them — escaping in man's 
 clothes — but she was seized by King Henry's men, and im- 
 mured in prison, where she lay, deservedly, for sixteen years. 
 Every day, however, some grasping English nobleman, to 
 whom the King's protection of his people from their avarice 
 and oppression had given offense, deserted him and joined 
 the Princes. Every day he heard some fresh intelligence of 
 the Princes levying armies against him ; of Prince Henry's 
 wearing a crown before his own ambassadors at the French 
 Court, and being called the Junior King of England ; of all 
 the Princes swearing never to make peace with him, their 
 father, without the consent and approval of the barons of 
 France. But, with his fortitude and energy unshaken, King 
 Henry met the shock of these disasters with a resolved and 
 cheerful face. He called upon all royal fathers who had 
 sons, to help him, for his cause was theirs ; he hired, out of 
 his riches, twenty thousand men to fight the false French 
 King, who stirred his own blood against him ; and he carried 
 on the war with such vigor, that Louis soon proposed a con- 
 ference to treat for peace. 
 
 The conference was held beneath an old wide-spreading 
 green elm-tree, upon a plain in France. It led to nothing 
 The war recommenced. Prince Richard began his fighting 
 career, by leading an army against his father ; but his father 
 beat him and his army back ; and thousands of his men would 
 have rued the day in which they fought in such a wicked 
 cause, had not the King received news of an invasion of 
 England by the Scots, and promptly come home through a 
 great storm to repress it. And whether he really began to 
 fear that he suffered these troubles because a Becket had 
 been murdered ; or whether he wished to rise in the favor 
 of the Pope, who had now declared a Becket to be a saint. or 
 in the favor of his own people, of whom many believed that 
 even a Becket's senseless tomb could work miracles, I don't 
 know : but the King no sooner landed in England than he 
 went straight to Canterbury ; and when he came within 
 sight of the distant Cathedral, he dismounted from his horse, 
 took off his shoes, and walked with bare and bleeding feet 
 to a Becket's grave. There, he lay down on the ground, 
 lamenting, in the presence of many people ; and by-and-by 
 he went into the Chapter House, and, removing his clothes 
 
9 o A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 from his back and shoulders, submitted himself to be beaten 
 wuh knotted cords (not beaten very hard, I dare say though) 
 by eighty priests, one after another. It chanced that on the 
 very day when the King made this curious exhibition of 
 himself, a complete victory was obtained over the Scots ; 
 which very much delighted the priests, who said that it was 
 won because of his great example of repentance. For the 
 priests in general had found out, since a Becket's death, that 
 they admired him of all things — though they had hated him 
 very cordially when he was alive. 
 
 The Earl of Flanders, who was at the head of the base 
 conspiracy of the King's undutiful sons and their foreign 
 friends, took the opportunity of the King being thus'employed 
 at home, to lay siege to Rouen, the capital of Normandy. 
 But the King, who was extraordinarily quick and active in 
 all his movements, was at Rouen, too, before it was supposed 
 possible that he could have left England ; and there he so 
 defeated the said Earl of Flanders, that the conspirators pro- 
 posed peace, and his bad sons Henry and Geoffrey submit- 
 ted. Richard resisted for six weeks ; but, being beaten out 
 of castle after castle, he at last submitted too, and his father 
 forgave him. 
 
 To forgive these unworthy princes was only to afford them 
 breathing-time for new faithlessness. They were so false, 
 disloyal, and dishonorable, that they were no more to be 
 trusted than common thieves. In the very next year, Prince 
 Henry rebelled again, and was again forgiven. In eight 
 years more, Prince Richard rebelled against his elder brother; 
 and Prince Geoffrey infamously said that the brothers could 
 never agree well together, unless they were united against 
 their father. In the very next year after their reconciliation 
 by the King, Prince Henry again rebelled against his father ; 
 and again submitted, swearing to be true ; and was again 
 Sorgiven ; and again rebelled with Geoffrey. 
 
 But the end of this perfidious Prince was come. He fell 
 sick at a French town ; and his conscience terribly reproach- 
 ing him with his baseness, he sent messengers to the King 
 his father, imploring him to come and see him, and to forgive 
 him for the last time on his bed of death. The generous 
 King, who had a royal and forgiving mind towards his chil- 
 dren always, would have gone ; but this Prince had been so 
 unnatural, that the noblemen about the King suspected 
 treachery, and represented to him that he could not safely 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 91 
 
 trust his life with such a traitor, though his own eldest son. 
 Therefore the King sent him a ring from off his finger as a 
 token of forgiveness ; and when the Prince had kissed it, 
 with much grief and many tears, and had confessed to those 
 around him how bad, and wicked, and undutiful a son he 
 had been ; he said to the attendant priests : " O, tie a rope 
 about my body, and draw me out of bed, and lay me down 
 upon a bed of ashes, that I may die with prayers to God in a 
 repentant manner ! " And so he died, at twenty-seven years 
 old. 
 
 Three years afterward, Prince Geoffrey, being unhorsed 
 at a tournament, had his brains trampled out by a crowd of 
 horses passing over him. So, there only remained Prince 
 Richard, and Prince John — who had grown to be a young 
 man now, and had solemnly sworn to be faithful to his 
 father. Richard soon rebelled again, encouraged by his 
 friend the French King, Philip the Second (son of Louis, 
 who was dead); and soon submitted and was again forgiven, 
 swearing on the New Testament never to rebel again ; and in 
 another year or so, rebelled again ; and in the pres- 
 ence of his father, knelt down on his knee before the King 
 of France ; and did the French King homage ; and declared 
 that with his aid he would possess himself, by force, of all 
 his father's French dominions. 
 
 And yet this Richard called himself a soldier of Our Sav- 
 iour ! And yet this Richard wore the Cross, which the Kings 
 of France and England had both taken, in the previous year, 
 at a brotherly meeting underneath the old wide-spreading 
 elm-tree on the plain, when they had sworn (like him) to 
 devote themselves to a new Crusade, for the love and honor 
 of the Truth ! 
 
 Sick at heart, wearied out by the falsehood of his sons, 
 and almost ready to lie down and die, the unhappy King who 
 had so long stood firm, began to fail. But the Pope, to his 
 honor, supported him ; and obliged the French King and 
 Richard, though successful in fight, to treat for peace. 
 Richard wanted to be crowned King of England, and pre- 
 tended that he wanted to be married (which he really did 
 not) to the French King's sister, his promised wife, whom 
 King Henry detained in England. King Henry wanted, on 
 the other hand, that the French King's sister should be mar- 
 ried to his favorite son, John : the only one of his sons (he 
 §aid) who had never rebelled against him. At last King 
 
92 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Henry, deserted by his nobles one by one, distressed, ex- 
 hausted, broken-hearted, consented to establish peace. 
 
 One final heavy sorrow was reserved for him even yet. 
 When they brought him the proposed treaty of peace, in 
 writing, as he lay very ill in bed, they brought him also the 
 list of the deserters from their allegiance, whom he was re- 
 quired to pardon. The first name upon this list was John, 
 his favorite son, in whom he had trusted to the last. 
 
 "O John ! child of my heart ! " exclaimed the King, in a 
 great agony of mind. " O John, whom I have loved the 
 best ! O John, for whom I have contended through these 
 many troubles ! Have you betrayed me too ! " And then 
 he lay down with a heavy groan, and said, " Now let the 
 world go as it will. I care for nothing more ! " 
 
 After a time, he told his attendants to take him to the 
 French town of Shinon — a town he had been fond of, dur- 
 ing many years. But he was fond of no place now ; it was 
 too true that he could care for nothing more upon this earth. 
 He wildly cursed the hour when he was born, and cursed 
 the children whom he left behind him ; and expired. 
 
 As one hundred years before, the servile followers of the 
 Court had abandoned the Conqueror in the hour of his death 
 so they now abandoned his descendant. The very body was 
 stripped, in the plunder of the royal chamber ; and it was 
 not easy to find the means of carrying it for burial to the ab- 
 bey church of Fontevraud. 
 
 Richard was said in after years, byway of flattery, to have 
 the heart of a Lion. It would have been far better, I think, 
 to have had the heard of a Man. His heart, whatever it was, 
 had cause to beat remorsefully within his breast, w r hen he 
 came — as he did — into the solemn abbey, and looked on his 
 dead father's uncovered face. His heart whatever it was 
 had been a black and perjured heart, in all its dealings with 
 the deceased King, and more deficient in a single touch of 
 tenderness than any wild beast's in the forest. 
 
 There is a pretty story told of this reign, called the story 
 of Fair Rosamond. It relates how the King doted on Fair 
 Rosamond, who was the loveliest girl in all the world ; and 
 how he had a beautiful bower built for her in a park at 
 Woodstock ; and how it was erected in a labyrinth, and 
 could only be found by a clue of silk. How the bad Queen 
 Eleanor, becoming jealous of Fair Rosamond, found out the 
 Secret of the clue, and one day, appeared before her ? with a 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 93 
 
 dagger and a cup of poison, and left her to the choice be- 
 tween those deaths. How Fair Rosamond, after shedding 
 many piteous tears and offering many useless prayers to the 
 cruel Queen, took the poison, and fell dead in the midst of 
 the beautiful bower, while the unconscious birds sang gaily 
 all around her. 
 
 Now, there was a fair Rosamond, and she was (I dare say) 
 the loveliest girl in all the world, and the King was certainly 
 very fond of her and the bad Queen Eleanor was certainly 
 made jealous. But I am afraid — I say afraid because I like 
 the story so much — that there was no bower, no labyrinth, no 
 silken clue, no dagger, no poison. I am afraid fair Rosa- 
 mond retired to a nunnery near Oxford, and died there, 
 peaceably ; her sister-nuns hanging a silken drapery over 
 her tomb, and often dressing it with flowers, in remembrance 
 of the youth and beauty that had enchanted the King when 
 he too was young, and when his life lay fair before him. 
 
 It was dark and ended now ; faded and gone. Henry 
 Plantagenet lay quiet in the abbey church of Fontevraud, in 
 the fifty-seventh year of his age — never to be completed — ■ 
 after governing England well, for nearly thirty-five years. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE FIRST, CALLED THE 
 LION-HEART. 
 
 In the year of our Lord one thousand one hundred and 
 eighty-nine, Richard of the Lion Heart succeeded to the 
 throne of King Henry the Second, whose paternal heart he 
 had done so much to break. He had been, as we have seen, 
 a rebel from his boyhood ; but the moment he became a king 
 against whom others might rebel, he found out that rebellion 
 was a great wickedness. In the heat of this pious discovery, 
 he punished all the leading people who had befriended him 
 against his father. He could scarcely have done any thing 
 that would have been a better instance of his real nature, or a 
 better warning to fawners and parasites not to trust in lion- 
 hearted princes. 
 
 He likewise put his late father's treasurer in chains, and 
 locked him up in a dungeon from which he was not set free 
 until he had relinquished, not only all the Crown treasure, 
 but all his own money too. So, Richard certainly got the 
 
94 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Lion's share of the wealth of this wretched treasurer, whether 
 he had a Lion's heart or not. 
 
 He was crowned King of England with great pomp, at 
 Westminster ; walking to the cathedral under a silken canopy 
 stretched on the tops of four lances, each carried by a great 
 lord. On the day of his coronation, a dreadful murdering of 
 the Jews took place, which seems to have given great delight 
 to numbers of savage persons calling themselves Christians. 
 The King had issued a proclamation forbidding the Jews 
 (who were generally hated, though they were the most useful 
 merchants in England) to appear at the ceremony ; but as 
 they had assembled in London from all parts, bringing pres- 
 ents to show their respect for the new Sovereign, some of them 
 ventured down to Westminister Hall with their gifts ; which 
 were very readily accepted. It is supposed, now, that some 
 noisy fellow in the crowd, pretending to be a very delicate 
 Christian, set up a howl at this, and struck a Jew who was 
 trying to get in at the Hall door with his present. A riot 
 arose. The Jews who had got into the Hall, were driven 
 forth ; and some of the rabble cried out that the new King had 
 commanded the unbelieving race to be put to death. There- 
 upon the crowd rushed through the narrow 'streets of the 
 city, slaughtering all the Jews they met ; and when they 
 could find no more out of doors (on account of their having 
 fled to their houses, and fastened themselves in), they ran 
 madly about, breaking open all the houses where the Jews 
 lived, rushing in and stabbing or spearing them, sometimes 
 even flinging old people and children out of windows into 
 blazing fires they had lighted up below. This great cruelty 
 lasted four-and-twenty hours, and only three men were pun- 
 ished for it. Even they forfeited their lives for not murder- 
 ing and robbing the Jews, but for burning the houses of 
 some Christians. 
 
 King Richard, who was a strong, restless, burly man, with 
 one idea always in his head, and that the very troublesome 
 idea of breaking the heads of other men, was mighty impa- 
 tient to go on a Crusade to the Holy Land, with a great 
 army. As great armies could not be raised to go even to 
 the Holy Land, without a great deal of money, he sold the 
 Crown domains and even the high offices of State ; reck- 
 lessly appointing noblemen to rule over his English subjects, 
 not because they were fit to govern, but because they could 
 pay high for the privilege. In this way, end by selling par- 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 95 
 
 dons at a dear rate, and by varieties of avarice and oppres- 
 sion, he scraped together a large treasure. He then appointed 
 two bishops to take care of his kingdom in his absence, and 
 gave great powers and possessions to his brother John, to 
 secure his friendship. John would rather have been made 
 Regent of England ; but he was a sly man, and friendly to 
 the expedition ; saying to himself, no doubt, " the more 
 fighting the more chance of my brother being killed ; and 
 when he is killed, then I become King John ! " 
 
 Before the newly levied army departed from England, the 
 recruits and the general populace distinguished themselves by 
 astonishing cruelties on the unfortunate Jews : whom in 
 many large towns they murdered by hundreds in the most 
 horrible manner. 
 
 At York, a large body of Jews took refuge in the Castle, 
 in the absence of its Governor, after the wives and children 
 of many of them had been slain before their eyes. Pres- 
 ently came the governor, and demanded admission. " How 
 can we give it thee, O governor ! " said the Jews upon the 
 walls, " when, if we open the gate by so much as the width 
 of a foot, the roaring crowd behind thee will press in and 
 kill us?" 
 
 Upon this, the unjust governor became angry, and told 
 the people that he approved of their killing those Jews ; and 
 a mischievous maniac of a friar, dressed all in white, put 
 himself at the head of the assault, and they assaulted the 
 Castle for three days. 
 
 Then said Jocen, the head-Jew (who was a rabbi or 
 priest), to the rest, " Brethren, there is no hope for us with 
 the Christians who are hammering at the gates and wails, 
 and who must soon break in. As we and our wives and 
 children must die, either by Christian hands, or by our own, 
 let it be by our own. Let us destroy by fire what jewels and 
 other treasure we have here, then fire the castle, and then 
 perish ! " 
 
 A few could not resolve to do this, but the greater part 
 complied. They made a blazing heap of all their valuables, 
 and when those were consumed, set the castle in flames. 
 While the flames roared and crackled around them, and 
 shooting up into the sky, turned it blood-red, Jocen cut the 
 throat of his beloved wife, and stabbed himself. All the 
 others who had wives or children did the like dreadful deed. 
 When the populace broke in, they found (except the trem- 
 
96 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 bling few, cowering in corners, whom they soon killed) only 
 heaps of greasy cinders, with here and there something like 
 part of the blackened trunk of a burned tree, but which 
 had lately been a human creature, formed by the beneficent 
 hand of the Creator as they were. 
 
 After this bad beginning, Richard and his troops went on, 
 in no very good manner, with the Holy Crusade. It was 
 undertaken jointly by the King of England and his old friend 
 Philip of France. They commenced the business by review- 
 ing their forces, to the number of one hundred thousand 
 men. Afterward, they severally embarked their troops for 
 Messina, in Sicily, which was appointed as the next place of 
 meeting. 
 
 King Richard's sister had married the King of this place, 
 but he was dead : and his uncle Tancred had usurped the 
 crown, cast the royal widow into prison, and possessed 
 himself of her estates. Richard fiercely demanded his sister's 
 release, the restoration of her lands, and (according to the 
 royal custom of the Island) that she should have a golden 
 chair, a golden table, four-and-twenty silver cups, and four- 
 and-twenty silver dishes. As he was too powerful to be suc- 
 cessfully resisted, Tancred yielded to his demands ; and 
 then the French King grew jealous, and complained that the 
 English King wanted to be absolute in the Island of Messina 
 and every-where else. Richard, however, cared little or 
 nothing for this complaint ; and in consideration of a present 
 of twenty thousand pieces of gold, promised his pretty little 
 nephew Arthur, then a child of two years old, in marriage to 
 Tancred's daughter. We shall hear again of pretty little 
 Arthur by-and-by. 
 
 This Sicilian affair arranged without anybody's brains be* 
 ing knocked out (which must have rather disappointed him), 
 King Richard took his sister away, and also a fair lady named 
 Berengaria, with whom he had fallen in love in France, and 
 whom his mother, Queen Eleanor (so long in prison, you re- 
 member, but released by Richard on his coming to the 
 throne), had brought out there to be his wife ; and sailed 
 with them for Cyprus. 
 
 He soon had the pleasure of fighting the King of the Island 
 of Cyprus, for allowing his subjects to pillage some of the 
 English troops who were shipwrecked on the shore ; and 
 easily conquering this poor monarch, he seized his only 
 daughter, to be a companion to the lady Berengaria, and put 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 97 
 
 the King himself into silver fetters. He then sailed away 
 again with his mother, sister, wife, and the captive princess ; 
 and soon arrived before the town of Acre, which the French 
 King with his fleet was besieging from the sea. But the 
 French King was in no triumphant condition, for his army 
 had been thinned by the swords of the Saracens, and wasted 
 by the plague ; and Saladin, the brave Sultan of the Turks, 
 at the head of a numerous army, was at that time gallantly 
 defending the place from the hills that rise above it. 
 
 Wherever the united army of Crusaders went, they agreed 
 in few points except in gaming, drinking, and quarreling, in 
 a most unholy manner ; in debauching the people among 
 whom they tarried, whether they were friends or foes ; and 
 in carrying disturbance and ruin into quiet places. The 
 French King was jealous of the English King, and the En- 
 glish King was jealous of the French King, and the disorderly 
 and violent soldiers of the two nations were jealous of one 
 another ; consequently, the two kings could not at first agree, 
 even upon a joint assault on Acre ; but when they did make 
 up their quarrel for that purpose, the Saracens promised to 
 yield the town, to give up to the Christians' the wood of the 
 Holy Cross, to set at liberty all their Christian captives, and 
 to pay two hundred thousand pieces of gold. All this was 
 to be done within forty days ; but, not being done, King 
 Richard ordered some three thousand Saracen prisoners to 
 be brought out in the front of his camp, and there, in full 
 view of their own countrymen, to be butchered. 
 
 The French King had no part in this crime ; for he was 
 by that time traveling homeward with the greater part of his 
 men ; being offended by the overbearing conduct of the En* 
 glish King ; being anxious to look after his own dominions ; 
 and being ill, besides, from the unwholesome air of that' hot 
 and sandy country. King Richard carried on the war with- 
 out him ; and remained in the East, meeting with a variety 
 of adventures, nearly a year and a half. Every night when 
 his army was on the march, and came to a halt, the heralds 
 cried out three times, to remind all the soldiers of the cause 
 in which they were engaged, " Save the Holy Sepulcher ! " 
 and then all the soldiers kneeled and said "Amen ! " March- 
 ing or encamping, the army had continually to strive with 
 the hot air of the glaring desert, or with the Saracen soldiers 
 animated and directed by the brave Saladin, or with both 
 together. Sickness and death, battle and wounds, were 
 
9$ A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 always among them ; but through every difficulty King Rich« 
 ard fought like a giant, and worked like a common laborer. 
 Long and long after he was quiet in his grave, his terrible 
 battle-ax, with twenty English pounds of English steel in 
 its mighty head, was a legend among the Saracens ; and 
 when all the Saracen and Christian hosts had been dust 
 for many a year, if a Saracen horse started at any object 
 by the wayside, his rider would exclaim, " What dost thou 
 fear, fool ? Dost thou think King Richard is behind it ? " 
 
 No one admired this King's renown for bravery more than 
 Saladin himself, who was a generous and gallant enemy. 
 When Richard lay ill of a fever, Saladin sent him fresh fruits 
 from Damascus, and snow from the mountain-tops. Courtly 
 messages and compliments were frequently exchanged be- 
 tween them — and then King Richard would mount his 
 horse and kill as many Saracens as he could ; and Saladin 
 would mount his, and kill as many Christians as he could. 
 In this way King Richard fought to his heart's content at 
 Arsoof and at Jaffa ; and finding himself with nothing excit- 
 ing to do at Ascalon, except to rebuild, for his own defense, 
 some fortifications there which the Saracens had destroyed, 
 he kicked his ally the Duke of Austria, for being too proud to 
 work at them. 
 
 The army at last came within sight of the Holy City of 
 Jerusalem ; but, being then a mere nest of jealousy, and 
 quarreling and fighting, soon retired, and agreed with the 
 Saracens upon a truce for three years, three months, three 
 days, and three hours. Then the English Christians, pro- 
 tected by the noble Saladin from Saracen revenge, visited 
 Our Saviour's tomb ; and then King Richard embarked with 
 a small force at Acre to return home. 
 
 But he was shipwrecked in the Adriatic Sea, and was fain 
 to pass through Germany, under an assumed name. Now, 
 there were many people in Germany who had served in the 
 Holy Land under that proud Duke of Austria who had been 
 kicked ; and some of them, easily recognizing a man so 
 remarkable as King Richard, carried their intelligence to the 
 kicked Duke, who straightway took him prisoner at a little 
 inn near Vienna. 
 
 The Duke's master, the Emperor of Germany, and the 
 King of France, were equally delighted to have so trouble- 
 some a monarch in safe keeping. Friendships which are 
 founded on a partnership in doing wrong, are never true ; 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 99 
 
 and the King of France Was now quite as heartily King 
 Richard's foe, as he had ever been his friend in his unnatural 
 conduct to his father. He monstrously pretended that King 
 Richard had designed to poison him in the East ; he charged 
 him with having murdered, there, a man whom he had in 
 truth befriended ; he bribed the Emperor of Germany to 
 keep him close prisoner ; and, finally, through the plotting 
 of these two princes, Richard was brought before the Ger- 
 man legislature, charged with the foregoing crimes, and 
 many others. But he defended himself so well, that many 
 of the assembly were moved to tears by his eloquence and 
 earnestness. It was decided that he should be treated, dur- 
 ing the rest of his captivity, in a manner more becoming his 
 dignity than he had been, and that he should be set free on 
 the payment of a heavy ransom. This ransom the English 
 people willingly raised. When Queen Eleanor took it over 
 to Germany, it was at first evaded and refused. But* she ap- 
 pealed to the honor of all the princes of the German Empire 
 in behalf of her son, and appealed so well that it was ac- 
 cepted, and the King released. Thereupon, the King of 
 France wrote to Prince John — " Take care of thyself. The 
 devil is unchained ! " 
 
 Prince John had reason to fear his brother, for he had 
 been a traitor to him in his captivity. He had secretly joined 
 the French King; had vowed to the English nobles and 
 people that his brother was dead ; and had vainly tried to 
 seize the crown. He was now in France, at a place called 
 Evreux. Being the meanest and basest of men, he contrived 
 a mean and base expedient for making himself acceptable to 
 his brother. He invited the French officers of the garrison 
 in that town to dinner, murdered them all, and then took the 
 fortress. With this recommendation to the good will of a 
 lion-hearted monarch, he hastened to King Richard, fell on 
 his knees before him, and obtained the intercession of 
 Queen Eleanor. "I forgive him," said the King, "and I 
 hope I may forget the injury he has done me, as easily as I 
 know he will forget my pardon." 
 
 While King Richard was in Sicily, there had been trouble 
 in his dominions at home : one of the bishops whom he had 
 left in charge thereof, arresting the other ; and making, in 
 his pride and ambition, as great a show as if he were King 
 himself. But the King hearing of it at Messina, and appoint- 
 ing a new Regency, this Longchamp (for that was his name) 
 
too A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 had fled to France in a woman's dress, and had there been 
 encouraged and supported by the French King. With' all 
 these causes of offense against Philip in his mind, King 
 Richard had no sooner been welcomed home by his enthusi- 
 astic subjects with great display and splendor, and had no 
 sooner been crowned afresh at Winchester, than he resolved 
 to show the French King that the Devil was unchained in- 
 deed, and made war against him with great fury. 
 
 There was fresh trouble at home about this time, arising 
 out of the discontents of the poor people, who complained 
 that they were far more heavily taxed than the rich, and who 
 found a spirited champion in William Fitz-Osberf called 
 Longbeard. He became the leader of a secret society, com- 
 prising fifty thousand men ; he was seized by surprise ; he 
 stabbed the citizen who first laid hands upon him ; and re- 
 treated, bravely fighting, to a church, which he maintained 
 four days, until he was dislodged by fire and run through the 
 body as he came out. He was not killed though ; for he 
 was dragged, half dead, at the tail of a horse to Smithfield, 
 and there hanged. Death was long a favorite remedy for 
 silencing the people's advocates ; but as we go on with this 
 history, I fancy we shall find them difficult to make an end 
 of, for all trikt. 
 
 The French war, delayed occasionally by a truce, was still 
 in progress when a certain lord named Vidomar, Viscount 
 of Limoges, chanced to find in his ground a treasure of an- 
 cient coins. As the King's vassal, he sent the King half of 
 it ; but the King claimed the whole. The lord refused to 
 yield the whole. The King besieged the lord in his castle, 
 swore that he would take the castle by storm, and hang 
 every man of its defenders on the battlements. 
 
 There was a strange old song in that part of the country, 
 to the effect that in Limoges an arrow would be made by 
 which King Richard would die. It may be that Bertrand de 
 Gourdon, a young man who was one of the defenders of the 
 castle, had often sung it or heard it sung of a winter night, 
 and remembered it when he saw, from his post upon the 
 ramparts, the King, attended only by his chief officer riding 
 below the walls surveying the place. He drew an arrow to 
 the ftead, took steady aim, said between his teeth, " Now I 
 pray God speed thee well, arrow ! " discharged it, and struck 
 the King in the left shoulder. 
 
 Although the wound was not at first considered dangerous, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY QF t •' ENGLAND. ici 
 
 it was severe enough to cause the King to retire to his tent, 
 and direct the assault to be made without him. The castle 
 was taken, and every man of its defenders was hanged, as 
 the King had sworn all should be, except Bertrand de Gour- 
 don, who was reserved until the royal pleasure respecting 
 him should be known. 
 
 By that time unskilful treatment had made the wound mor- 
 tal, and the King knew that he was dying. He directed 
 Bertrand to be brought into his tent. The young man was 
 brought there heavily chained. King Richard looked at him 
 steadily. He looked, as steadily, at the King. 
 
 " Knave ! " said King Richard. " What have I done to 
 thee that thou shouldst take my life ? " 
 
 " What hast thou done to me ! " replied the young man. 
 " With thine own hands thou hast killed my father and my 
 two brothers. Myself thou wouldst have hanged. Let me 
 die now, by any torture that thou wilt. My comfort is, that 
 no torture can save thee. Thou too must die ; and, through 
 me, the world is quit of thee ! " 
 
 Again the King looked at the young man steadily. Again 
 the young man looked steadily at him. Perhaps some re- 
 membrance of his generous enemy, Saladin, who was not a 
 Christian, came into the mind of the dying King. 
 
 " Youth ! " he said, " I forgive thee. Go unhurt ! " 
 
 Then, turning to the chief officer who had been riding in 
 his company when he received the wound, King Richard 
 said : 
 
 " Take off his chains, give him a hundred shillings, and 
 let him depart." 
 
 He sunk down on his couch, and a dark mist seemed in 
 his weakened eyes to fill the tent wherein he had so often 
 rested, and he died. His age was forty-two ; he had reigned 
 ten years. His last command was not obeyed ; for the chief 
 officer flayed Bertrand de Gourdon alive, and hanged him. 
 
 There is an old tune yet known — a sorrowful air will some- 
 times outlive many generations of strong men, and even last 
 longer than battle-axes, with twenty pounds of steel in the 
 head — by which this king is said to have been discovered in 
 his captivity. Blondel, a favorite minstrel of King Richard 
 as the story relates, faithfully seeking his royal master, went 
 singing it outside the gloomy wall of many foreign fort- 
 resses and prisons ; until at last he heard it echoed from 
 within a dungeon, and knew the voice, and cried out in 
 
io2 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ecstasy, "O Richard, O my King !" You may believe it, if 
 you like ; it would be easy to believe worse things. Richard 
 was himself a minstrel and a poet. If he had not been a 
 Prince too, he might have been a better man perhaps, and 
 might have gone out of the world with less bloodshed and 
 waste of life to answer for. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER KING JOHN, CALLED LACKLAND. 
 
 At two and thirty years of age, John became King of 
 England. His pretty little nephew Arthur had the best 
 claim to the throne ; but John seized the treasure, and made 
 fine promises to the nobility, and got himself crowned at 
 Westminster within a few weeks after his brother Richard's 
 death. I doubt whether the crown could possibly have 
 been put upon the head of a meaner coward, or a more de- 
 testable villain, if England had been searched from end to 
 end to find him out. 
 
 The French King, Philip, refused to acknowledge the 
 right of John to his new dignity, and declared in favor of 
 Arthur. You must not suppose that he had any generosity 
 of feeling for the fatherless boy ; it merely suited his 
 ambitious schemes to oppose the King of England. So 
 John and the French King went to war about Arthur. 
 
 He was a handsome boy, at that time only twelve years 
 old. He was not born when his father, Godfrey, had his 
 brains trampled out at the tournament ; and, besides the 
 misfortune of never having known a father's guidance and 
 protection, he had the additional misfortune to have a fool- 
 ish mother (Constance by name), lately married to her third 
 husband. She took Arthur, upon John's accession, to the 
 French King, who pretended to be very much his friend, 
 and who made him a knight, and promised him his daughter 
 in marriage ; but, who cared so little about him in reality, 
 that finding it his interest to make peace with King John for 
 a time, he did so without the least consideration for the poor 
 little Prince, and heartlessly sacrificed all his interests. 
 
 Young Arthur, for two years afterward, lived quietly ; 
 and in the course of that time his mother died. But, the 
 French King then finding it his interest to quarrel with 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 103 
 
 King John again, again made Arthur his pretense, and 
 invited the orphan boy to court. " You know your rights, 
 Prince," said the French King, " and you would like to be 
 King. Is it not so?" "Truly," said Prince Arthur, "I 
 should greatly like to be a King !" "Then," said Philip, 
 "you shall have two hundred gentlemen who are knights of 
 mine, and with them you shall go to win back the provinces 
 belonging to you, of which your uncle, the usurping King of 
 England, has taken possession. I myself, meanwhile, will 
 head a force against him in Normandy." Poor Arthur 
 was so flattered and grateful that he signed a treaty with 
 the crafty French King, agreeing to consider him his superior 
 lord, and that the French King should keep for himself 
 whatever he could take from King John. 
 
 Now King John was so bad in all ways, and King Philip 
 was so perfidious, that Arthur, between the two, might as 
 well have been a lamb between a fox and a wolf. But, 
 being so young, he was ardent and flushed with hope ; and, 
 when the people of Brittany (which was his inheritance) 
 sent him five hundred more knights and five thousand foot 
 soldiers, he believed his fortune was made. The people of 
 Brittany had been fond of him from his birth, and had 
 requested that he might be called Arthur, in remembrance 
 of that dimly-famous English Arthur, of whom I told you 
 early in this book, whom they believed to have been the 
 brave friend and companion of an old King of their own. 
 They had tales among them about a prophet called Merlin 
 (of the same old time), who had foretold that their own 
 King should be restored to them after hundreds of years ; 
 and they believed that the prophecy would be fulfilled in 
 Arthur ; that the time would come when he would rule them 
 with a crown of Brittany upon his head ; and when neither 
 the King of France nor King of England would have any 
 power over them. When Arthur found himself riding in a 
 glittering suit of armor on a richly caparisoned horse, at the 
 head of his train of knights and soldiers, he began to believe 
 this too, and to consider old Merlin a very superior prophet. 
 
 He did not know — how could he, being so innocent and 
 inexperienced ? — that his little army was a mere nothing 
 against the power of the King of England. The French 
 King knew it ; but the poor boy's fate was little to him, so 
 that the King of England was worried and distressed. 
 Therefore, King Philip went his way into Normandy, and 
 
I04 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Prince Arthur went his way towards Mirebeau, a French 
 town near Poictiers, both very well pleased. 
 
 Prince Arthur went to attack the town of Mirebeau, be- 
 cause his grandmother Eleanor, who has so often made her 
 appearance in this history (and who had always been his 
 mother's enemy), was living there, and because his knights 
 said, " Prince, if you can take her prisoner, you will be able 
 to bring the King your uncle to terms ! " But she was not 
 to be easily taken. She was old enough by this time — eighty 
 ■ — but she was as full of stratagem as she was full of years 
 and wickedness. Receiving intelligence of young Arthur's 
 approach, she shut herself up in a high tower, and encouraged 
 her soldiers to defend it like men. Prince Arthur with his 
 little army besieged the high tower. King John, hearing 
 how matters stood, came up to the rescue, with his army. 
 So here was a strange family-party ! The boy-Prince 
 besieging his grandmother, and his uncle besieging him. 
 
 This position of affairs did not last long. One summer 
 night King John, by treachery, got his men into the town, 
 surprised Prince Arthur's force, took two hundred of his 
 knights, and seized the Prince himself in his bed. The 
 knights were put in heavy irons, and driven away in open 
 carts drawn by bullocks, to various dungeons where they 
 were most inhumanly treated, and where some of them were 
 starved to death. Prince Arthur was sent to the castle of 
 Falaise. 
 
 One day, while he was in prison at that castle, mournfully 
 thinking it strange that one so young should be in so much 
 trouble, and looking out of the small window in the deep 
 dark wall, at the summer sky and the birds, the door was 
 softly opened, and he saw his uncle the King standing in 
 the shadow of the archway, looking very grim. 
 
 "Arthur," said the King, with his wicked eyes more on 
 the stone floor than on his nephew, "will you not trust to 
 the gentleness, the friendship, and truthfulness of your lov- 
 ing uncle ? " 
 
 ' I will tell my loving uncle that," replied the boy, 
 " when he does me right. Let him restore to me my king- 
 dom of England, and then come to me and ask the ques- 
 tion." 
 
 The King looked at him and went out. " Keep that boy 
 close prisoner," said he to the warden of the castle. 
 
 Then, the King took secret counsel with the worst of his 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 105 
 
 nobles how the Prince was to be got rid of. Some said, 
 " Put out his eyes and keep him in prison, as Robert of 
 Normandy was kept." Others said, " Have him stabbed." 
 Others, " Have him hanged." Others, " Have him poisoned." 
 
 King John, feeling that in any case, whatever was done 
 afterward, it would be a satisfaction to his mind to have 
 those handsome eyes burned out that had looked at him so 
 proudly while his own royal eyes were blinking at the stone 
 floor, sent certain ruffians to Falaise to blind the boy with 
 red-hot irons. But Arthur so pathetically entreated them, 
 and shed such piteous tears, and so appealed to Hubert de 
 Bourg (or Burgh), the warden of the castle, who had a love 
 for him, and was an honorable tender man, that Hubert 
 could not bear it. To his eternal honor he prevented the 
 torture from being performed, and, at his own risk, sent the 
 savages away. 
 
 The chafed and disappointed King bethought himself of 
 the stabbing suggestion next, and with his shuffling manner 
 and his cruel face, proposed it to one William de Bray. " I 
 am a gentleman and not an executioner," said William de 
 Bray, and left the presence with disdain. 
 
 But it was not difficult for a King to hire a murderer in 
 those days. King John found one for his money, and sent 
 him down to the castle of Falaise. " On what errand dost 
 thou come ? " said Hubert to this fellow. " To despatch 
 young Arthur," he returned. " Go back to him who sent 
 thee," answered Hubert, " and say that I will do it ! " 
 
 King John very well knowing that Hubert would never do 
 it, but that he courageously sent this reply to save the Prince 
 or gain time, despatched messengers to convey the young 
 prisoner to the castle of Rouen. 
 
 Arthur was soon forced from the good Hubert — of whom 
 he had never stood in greater need than then — carried away 
 by night, and lodged in his new prison : where, through his 
 grated window, he could hear the deep waters of the river 
 Seine rippling against the stone wall below. 
 
 One dark night, as he lay sleeping, dreaming perhaps of 
 rescue by those unfortunate gentlemen who were obscurely 
 suffering and dying in his cause, he was roused, and bidden 
 by his jailer to come down the staircase to the foot of the 
 tower. He hurriedly dressed himself and obeyed. When 
 they came to the bottom of the winding stairs, and the night 
 air from the river blew upon their faces, the jailer trod upon 
 
106 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 his torch and put it out. Then Arthur, in the darkness, was 
 hurriedly drawn into a solitary boat. And in that boat, he 
 found his uncle and one other man. 
 
 He knelt to them, and prayed them not to murder him. 
 Deaf to his entreaties, they stabbed him and sunk his body 
 in the river with heavy stones. When the spring morning 
 broke, the tower-door was closed, the boat was gone, the 
 river sparkled on its way, and never more was any trace of 
 the poor boy beheld by mortal eyes. 
 
 The news of this atrocious murder being spread in England, 
 awakened a hatred of the King (already odious for his many 
 vices, and for his having stolen away and married a noble 
 lady while his own wife was living) that never slept again 
 through his whole reign. In Brittany, the indignation was 
 intense. Arthur's own sister Eleanor was in the power of 
 John and shut up in a convent at Bristol, but his half-sister 
 Alice was in Brittany. The people chose her, and the mur- 
 dered prince's father-in-law, the last husband of Constance, 
 to represent them ; and carried their fiery complaints to 
 King Philip. King Philip summoned King John (as the 
 holder of territory in France) to come before him and 
 defend himself. King John refusing to appear, King Philip 
 declared him false, perjured and guilty ; and again made 
 war. In a little time, by conquering the greater part of his 
 French territory, King Philip deprived him of one-third of 
 his dominions. And, through all the fighting that took place, 
 King John was always found, either to be eating and drink- 
 ing, like a gluttonous fool, when the danger was at a dis- 
 tance, or to be running away, like a beaten cur, when it was 
 near. 
 
 You might suppose that when he was losing his dominions 
 at this rate, and when his own nobles cared so little for him 
 or his cause that they plainly refused to follow his banner 
 out of England, he had enemies enough. But he made 
 another enemy of the Pope, which he did in this way. 
 
 The Archbishop of Canterbury dying, and the junior 
 monks of that place wishing to get the start of the senior 
 monks in the appointment of his successor, met together at 
 midnight, secretly elected a certain Reginald, and sent him 
 off to Rome to get the Pope's approval. The senior monks 
 and the King soon finding this out, and being very angry 
 about it, the junior monks gave way, and all the monks 
 together elected the Bishop of Norwich, who was the King's 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY Of ENGLAND. 107 
 
 favorite. The Pope, hearing the whole story, declared that 
 neither election would do for him, and that he elected 
 Stephen Langton. The monks submitting to the Pope, the 
 King turned them all out bodily, and banished them as 
 traitors. The Pope sent three bishops to the King to 
 threaten him with an Interdict. The King told the bishops 
 that if any Interdict were laid upon his kingdom, he would 
 tear out the eyes and cut off the noses of all the monks he 
 could lay hold of, and send them over to Rome in that un- 
 derrated state as a present for their master. The bishops, 
 nevertheless, soon published the Interdict, and fled. 
 
 After it had lasted a year, the Pope proceeded to his next 
 step ; which was Excommunication. King John was declared 
 excommunicated, with all the usual ceremonies. The King 
 was so incensed at this, and was made so desperate by the 
 disaffection of his barons and the hatred of his people, that 
 it is said he even privately sent ambassadors to the Turks in 
 Spain, offering to renounce his religion and hold his kingdom 
 of them if they would help him. It is related that the 
 ambassadors were admitted to the presence of the Turkish 
 Emir through long lines of Moorish guards, and that they 
 found the Emir with his eyes seriously fixed on the pages of 
 a large book, from which he never once looked up. That 
 they gave him a letter from the King containing his propo- 
 sals, and were gravely dismissed. That presently the Emir 
 sent for one of them, and conjured him, by his faith in his 
 religion, to say what kind of man the King of England truly 
 was ? That the ambassador, thus pressed, replied that the 
 King of England was a false tyrant, against whom his own 
 subjects would soon rise. And that this was quite enough 
 for the Emir. 
 
 Money being, in his position, the next best thing to men, 
 King John spared no means of getting it. He set on foot 
 another oppressing and torturing of the unhappy Jews 
 (which was quite in his way), and invented a new punish- 
 ment for one wealthy Jew of Bristol. Until such time as 
 that Jew should produce a certain large sum of money, the 
 King sentenced him to be imprisoned, and, every day, to 
 have one tooth violently wrenched out of his head — begin- 
 ning with the double teeth. For seven days, the oppressed 
 man bore the daily pain and lost the daily tooth ; but, on the 
 eighth, he paid the money. With the treasure raised in such 
 ways, the King made an expedition into Ireland, where some 
 
10S A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 English nobles had revolted. It was one of the very few 
 places from which he did not run away ; because no resist- 
 ance was shown. He made another expedition into Wales — 
 whence he did run away in the end ; but not before he had 
 got from the Welsh people, as hostages, twenty-seven young 
 men of the best families ; every one of whom he caused to 
 be slain in the following year. 
 
 To Interdict and Excommunication, the Pope now added 
 his last sentence ; Deposition. He proclaimed John no 
 longer King, absolved all his subjects from their allegiance, 
 and sent Stephen Langton and others to the King of France 
 to tell him that, if he would invade England, he should be 
 forgiven all his sins — at least, should be forgiven them by 
 the Pope, if that would do. 
 
 As there was nothing that King Philip desired more than 
 to invade England, he collected a great army at Rouen, and 
 a fleet of seventeen hundred ships to bring them over. But 
 the English people, however bitterly they hated the King, 
 were not a people to suffer invasion quietly. They flocked 
 to Dover, where the English standard was, in such great 
 numbers to enroll themselves as defenders of their native 
 land, that there were not provisions for them, and the King 
 could only select and retain sixty thousand. But, at this 
 crisis, the Pope, who had his own reasons for objecting to 
 either King John or King Philip being too powerful, inter- 
 fered. He intrusted a legate, whose name was Pandolf, 
 with the easy task of frightening King John. He sent him 
 to the English Camp, from France, to terrify him with exag- 
 gerations of King Philip's power, and his own weakness in 
 the discontent of the English barons and people. Pandolf 
 discharged his commission so well, that King John in a 
 wretched panic, consented to acknowledge Stephen Langton ; 
 to resign his kingdom " to God, St. Peter, and St. Paul," — 
 which meant the Pope ; and to hold it, ever afterwards, by 
 the Pope's leave, on payment of an annual sum of money. 
 To this shameful contract he publicly bound himself in the 
 church of the Knights Templars at Dover : where he laid 
 at the legate's feet a part of the tribute, which the legate 
 haughtily trampled upon. But they do say, that this was 
 merely a genteel flourish, and that he was afterward seen to 
 pick it tip and pocket it. 
 
 There was an unfortunate prophet of the name of Peter, 
 who had greatly increased King John's terrors by predicting 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 109 
 
 that he would be unknighted (which the King supposed to 
 signify that he would die) before the Feast of the Ascension 
 should be past. That was the day after this humiliation. 
 When the next morning came, and the King, who had been 
 trembling all night, found himself alive and safe, he ordered 
 the prophet — and his son too — to be dragged through the 
 streets at the tails of horses, and then hanged, for having 
 frightened him. 
 
 As King John had now submitted, the Pope, to King 
 Philip's great astonishment, took him under his protection, 
 and informed King Philip that he found he could not give 
 him leave to invade England. The angry Philip resolved to 
 do it without his leave ; but he gained nothing and lost 
 much ; for the English, commanded by the Earl of Salis- 
 bury, went over, in five hundred ships, to the French coast, 
 before the French fleet had sailed away from it, and utterly 
 defeated the whole. 
 
 The Pope then took off his three sentences, one after 
 another, and empowered Stephen Langton publicly to re- 
 ceive King John into the favor of the Church again, and to 
 ask him to dinner. The King, who hated Langton with all 
 his might and main — and with reason too, for he was a great 
 and good man, with whom such a King could have no sym- 
 pathy — pretended to cry and to be very grateful. There 
 was a little difficulty about settling how much the King 
 should pay as a recompense to the clergy for the losses he 
 had caused them ; but, the end of it was, that the superior 
 clergy got a good deal, and the inferior clergy got little or 
 nothing — which has also happened since King John's time, 
 I believe. 
 
 When all these matters were arranged, the King in his 
 triumph became more fierce, and false, and insolent to all 
 around him than he had ever been. An alliance of sover- 
 eigns against King Philip, gave him an opportunity of land- 
 ing an army in France ; with which he even took a town! 
 But, on the French King's gaining a great victory, he ran 
 away, of course, and made a truce for five years. 
 
 And now the time approached when he was to be still fur- 
 ther humbled, and made to feel, if he could feel any thing, 
 what a wretched creature he was. Of all men in the world, 
 Stephen Langton seemed raised up by Heaven to oppose and 
 subdue him. When he ruthlessly burned and destroyed the 
 property of his own subjects, because their lords, the 
 
no A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 barons, would not serve him abroad, Stephen Langton fear- 
 lessly reproved and threatened him. When he swore to re- 
 store the laws of King Edward, or the laws of King Henry 
 the First, Stephen Langton knew his falsehood, and pur- 
 sued him through all his evasions. When the barons met 
 at the abbey of Saint Edmund's-Bury, to consider their 
 wrongs and the King's oppressions, Stephen Langton roused 
 them by his fervid words to demand a solemn charter of 
 rights and liberties from their perjured master, and to swear, 
 one by one on the High Altar, that they would have it, or 
 would wage war against him to the death. When the King 
 hid himself in London from the barons, and was at last 
 obliged to receive them, they told him roundly they would 
 not believe him unless Stephen Langton became a surety 
 that he would keep his word. When he took the Cross to 
 invest himself with some interest, and belong to something 
 that was received with favor, Stephen Langton was still im- 
 movable. When he appealed to the Pope, and the Pope 
 wrote to Stephen Langton in behalf of his new favorite, 
 Stephen Langton was deaf, even to the Pope himself, and 
 saw before him nothing but the welfare of England and the 
 crimes of the English King. 
 
 At Easter-time, the barons assembled at Stamford, in 
 Lincolnshire, in proud array, and, marching near to Oxford 
 where the King was, delivered into the hands of Stephen 
 Langton and two others, a list of grievances. " And these," 
 they said, " he must redress, or we will do it for ourselves ! " 
 When Stephen Langton told the King as much, and read the 
 list to him, he went half mad with rage. But that did him 
 no more good than his afterwards trying to pacify the barons 
 with lies. They called themselves and their followers, " The 
 army of God and the Holy Church." Marching through 
 the country, with the people thronging to them everywhere 
 (except at Northampton, where they had failed in an attack 
 upon the castle), they at last triumphantly set up their ban- 
 ner in London itself, whither the whole land, tired of the 
 tyrant, seemed to flock to join them. Seven knights alone, 
 of all the knights in England, remained with the King ; who, 
 reduced to this strait, at last sent the Earl of Pembroke to 
 the barons to say that he approved of every thing, and would 
 meet them to sign their charter when they would. " Then," 
 said the barons, "let the day be the fifteenth of June, and 
 the place Runny-Mead." 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. in 
 
 On Monday, the fifteenth of June, one thousand two hund- 
 red and fourteen, the King came from Windsor Castle, and 
 the Barons came from the town of Staines, and they met on 
 Runny-Mead, which is still a pleasant meadow by the 
 Thames, where rushes grow in the clear water of the 
 winding river, and its banks are green with grass and trees. 
 On the side of the barons, came the general of their army, 
 Robert Fitz- Walter, and a great concourse of the nobility of 
 England. With the King, came in all, some four-and-twenty 
 persons of any note, most of whom despised him, and were 
 merely his advisers in form. On that great day, and in that 
 great company, the King signed Magna Charta — the great 
 charter of England — by which he pledged himself to main- 
 tain the Church in its rights ; to relieve the barons of op- 
 pressive obligations as vassals of the Crown — of which the 
 barons, in their turn, pledged themselves to relieve their 
 vassals, the people ; to respect the liberties of London and 
 all other cities and boroughs ; to protect foreign merchants 
 who came to England ; to imprison no man without a fair 
 trial ; and to sell, delay, or deny justice to none. As the 
 barons knew his falsehood well, they further required, as 
 their securities, that he should send out of his kingdom all 
 his foreign troops ; that for two months they should hold 
 possession of the city of London, and Stephen Langton of 
 the Tower ; and that five-and-twenty of their body, chosen 
 by themselves, should be a lawful committee to watch the 
 keeping of the charter, and to make war upon him if he 
 broke it. 
 
 All this he was obliged to yield. He signed the charter 
 with a smile, and, if he could have looked agreeable, would 
 have done so, as he departed from the splendid assembly. 
 When he got home to Windsor Castle, he was quite a mad- 
 man in his helpless fury. And he broke the charter immedi- 
 .ately afterwards. 
 
 He sent abroad for foreign soldiers, and sent to the Pope 
 for help, and plotted to take London by surprise, while the 
 barons should be holding a great tournament at Stamford, 
 which they had agreed to hold there as a celebration of the 
 charter. The barons, however, found him out and put it off. 
 Then, when the barons desired to see him and tax him with 
 his treachery, he made numbers of appointments with them, 
 and kept none, and shifted from place to place, and was con- 
 stantly sneaking and skulking about. At last he appeared 
 
ii2 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 at Dover, to join his foreign soldiers, of whom numbers came 
 into his pay ; and with them he besieged and took Rochester 
 Castle, which was occupied by knights and soldiers of the 
 barons. He would have hanged them every one ; but the 
 leader of the foreign soldiers, fearful of what the English 
 people might afterward do to him, interfered to save the 
 knights ; therefore the king was fain to satisfy his vengeance 
 with the death of all the common men. Then, he sent the 
 Earl of Salisbury, with one portion of his army, to ravage the 
 eastern part of his own dominions, while he carried fire and 
 slaughter into the northern part ; torturing, plundering, kill- 
 ing, and inflicting every possible cruelty upon the people ; 
 and, every morning, setting a worthy example to his men by 
 setting fire, with his own monster-hands, to the house where 
 he had slept last night. Nor was this all ; for the Pope, 
 coming to the aid of his precious friend, laid the kingdom 
 under an Interdict again, because the people took part with 
 the barons. It did not much matter, for the people had 
 grown so used to it now, that they had begun to think noth- 
 ing about it. It occurred to them — perhaps to Stephen 
 Langton too — that they could keep their churches open, and 
 ring their bells, without the Pope's permission as well as 
 with it. So, they tried the experiment — and found that it 
 succeeded perfectly. 
 
 It being now impossible to bear the country, as a wilder- 
 ness of cruelty, or longer to hold any terms with such a 
 forsworn outlaw of a King, the barons sent to Louis, son of 
 the French monarch, to offer him the English crown. Caring 
 as little for the Pope's excommunication of him if he accepted 
 the offer, as it is possible his father may have cared for the 
 Pope's forgiveness of his sins, he landed at Sandwich (King 
 John immediately running away from Dover, where he hap- 
 pened to be), and went on to London. The Scottish King, 
 with whom many of the Northern English lords had taken 
 refuge ; numbers of the foreign soldiers, numbers of the 
 barons, and numbers of the people went over to him every 
 day ; King John, the while, continually running away in all 
 directions. The career of Louis was checked, however, by 
 the suspicions of the barons, founded on the dying declara- 
 tion of a French lord, that when the kingdom was conquered 
 he was sworn to banish them as traitors, and to give their es* 
 tates to some of his own nobles. Rather than suffer this, some 
 of the barons hesitated : others even went over to King John. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 113 
 
 It seemed to be the turning-point of King John's fortunes, 
 for, in his savage and murderous course, he had now taken 
 some towns and met with some successes. But, happily for 
 England and humanity, his death was near. Crossing a 
 dangerous quicksand, called the Wash, not very far from 
 Wisbeach, the tide came up and nearly drowned his army. 
 He and his soldiers escaped ; but, looking back from the 
 shore when he was safe, he saw the roaring water sweep 
 down in a torrent, overturn the wagons, horses, and men, 
 that carried his treasure, and ingulf them in a raging whirl- 
 pool from which nothing could be delivered. 
 
 Cursing, and swearing, and gnawing his fingers, he went 
 on to Swinestead Abbey, where the monks set before him 
 quantities of pears, and peaches, and new cider — some say 
 poison too, but there is very little reason to suppose so — of 
 which he ate and drank in an immoderate and beastly way. 
 All night he lay ill of a burning fever, and haunted with 
 horrible fears. Next day, they put him in a horse-litter, and 
 carried him to Sleaford Castle, where he passed another 
 night of pain and horror. Next day, they carried him, with 
 greater difficulty than on the day before, to the Castle of 
 Newark upon Trent ; and there, on the 18th of October, in 
 the forty-ninth year of his age, and the seventeenth of his 
 vile reign, was an end of this miserable brute. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE THIRD, CALLED, OF WIN- 
 CHESTER. 
 
 If any of the English barons remembered the murdered 
 Arthur's sister, Eleanor the fair maid of Brittany, shut up in 
 her convent at Bristol, none among them spoke of her now, 
 or maintained her right to the crown. The dead Usurper's 
 eldest boy, Henry by name, was taken by the Earl of Pem- 
 broke, the Marshal of England, to the city of Gloucester, 
 and there crowned in great haste when he was only ten years 
 old. As the crown itself had been lost with the King's 
 treasure, in the raging water, and, as there was no time to 
 make another, they put a circle of plain gold upon his head 
 instead. " We have been the enemies of this child's father, 
 
ii 4 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 said Lord Pembroke, a good and true gentleman, to the few- 
 lords who were present, "and he merited our ill-will; but 
 the child himself is innocent, and his youth demands our 
 friendship and protection." Those lords felt tenderly 
 towards the little boy, remembering their own young chil- 
 dren ; and they bowed their heads, and said, " Long live 
 King Henry the Third ! " 
 
 Next, a great council met at Bristol, revised Magna Charta, 
 and made Lord Pembroke Regent or Protector of England, 
 as the King was too young to reign alone. The next thing 
 to be done was to get rid of Prince Louis of France, and to 
 win over those English barons who were still ranged under 
 his banner. He was strong in many parts of England, and 
 in London itself ; and he held, among other places, a certain 
 castle called the Castle of Mount Sorel, in Leicestershire. 
 To this fortress, after some skirmishing and truce-making, 
 Lord Pembroke laid siege. Louis despatched an army of 
 six hundred knights and twenty thousand soldiers to relieve 
 it. Lord Pembroke, who was not strong enough for such a 
 force, retired with all his men. The army of the French 
 prince, which had marched there with fire and plunder, 
 marched away with fire and plunder, and came, in a boastful, 
 swaggering manner, to Lincoln. The town submitted ; but 
 the castle in the towm, held by a brave widow lady, named 
 Nichola de Camville (whose property it was), made such a 
 sturdy resistance, that the French count in command of 
 the army of the French prince found it necessary to besiege 
 this castle. While he was thus engaged, word was brought 
 to him that Lord Pembroke, with four hundred knights, two 
 hundred and fifty men with cross-bows, and a stout force 
 both of horse and foot, was marching towards him. " What 
 care I ?" said the French count. "The Englishman is not 
 so mad as to attack me and my great army in a walled 
 town ! " But the Englishman did it for all that, and did it 
 — not so madly but so wisely, that he decoyed the great 
 army into the narrow, ill-paved lanes and byways of Lincoln, 
 where its horse-soldiers could not ride in any strong body ; 
 and there he made such havoc with them, that the whole 
 force surrendered themselves prisoners, except the count ; 
 who said that he would never yield to any English traitor 
 alive, and accordingly got killed. The end of this victory, 
 which the English called, for a joke, the Fair of Lincoln, 
 was the usual one in those times — the common men were 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 115 
 
 slain without any mercy, and the knights and gentlemen paid 
 ransom and went home. 
 
 The wife of Louis, the fair Blanche of Castile, dutifully 
 equipped a fleet of eighty good ships, and sent it over from 
 France to her husband's aid. An English fleet of forty ships, 
 some good and some bad, gallantly met them near the mouth 
 of the Thames, and took or sunk sixty-five in one fight. 
 This great loss put an end to the French Prince's hopes. A 
 treaty was made at Lambeth, in virtue of which the English 
 barons who had remained attached to his cause returned to 
 their allegiance, and it was engaged on both sides that the 
 Prince and all his troops should retire peacefully to France. 
 It was time to go ; for war had made him so poor that he 
 was obliged to borrow money from the citizens of London 
 to pay his expenses home. 
 
 Lord Pembroke afterward applied himself to governing the 
 country justly, and to healing the quarrels and disturbances 
 that had risen among men in the days of the bad King John. 
 He caused Magna Charta to be still more improved, and so 
 amended the Forest Laws that a peasant was no longer put 
 to death for killing a stag in a Royal Forest, but was only 
 imprisoned. It would have been well for England if it could 
 have had so good a Protector many years longer, but that 
 was not to be. Within three years after the young King's 
 coronation, Lord Pembroke died ; and you may see his 
 tomb, at this day, in the old Temple Church in London. 
 
 The Protectorship was now divided. Peter de Roches, 
 whom King John had made Bishop of Winchester, was en- 
 trusted with the care of the person of the young sovereign ; 
 and the exercise of the Royal authority was confided to Earl 
 Hubert de Burgh. These two personages had from the first 
 no liking for each other, and soon became enemies. When 
 the young King was declared of age, Peter de Roches, find- 
 ing that Hubert increased in power and favor, retired dis- 
 contentedly, and went abroad. For nearly ten years after- 
 ward Hubert had full sway alone. 
 
 But ten years is a long, time to hold, the favor of a King. 
 This King, too, as he grew up, showed a strong resemblance 
 to his father, in feebleness, inconsistency, and irresolution. 
 The best that can be said of him is that he was not cruel. 
 De Roches coming home again, after ten years, and being a 
 novelty, the King began to favor him and to look coldly on 
 Hubert! Wanting money besides, and having made Hubert 
 
n6 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 rich, he began to dislike Hubert. At last he was made to 
 believe, or pretended to believe, that Hubert had misappro- 
 priated some of the Royal treasure ; and ordered him to fur- 
 nish an account of all he had done in his administration. 
 Besides which, the foolish charge was brought against Hubert 
 that he had made himself the King's favorite by magic. 
 Hubert very well knowing that he could never defend him- 
 self against such nonsense, and that his old enemy must be 
 determined on his ruin, instead of answering the charges 
 fled to Merton Abbey. Then the King, in a violent passion, 
 sent for the Mayor of London, and said to the Mayor, " Take 
 twenty thousand citizens, and drag me Hubert de Burgh out 
 of that abbey, and bring him here." The Mayor posted off 
 to do it, but the Archbishop of Dublin (who was a friend of 
 Hubert's) warning the King that an abbey was a sacred 
 place, and that if he committed any violence there, he must 
 answer for it to the Church, the King changed his mind and 
 called the Mayor back, and declared that Hubert should have 
 four months to prepare his defense, and should be safe and 
 free during that time. 
 
 Hubert, who* relied upon the King's word, though I think 
 he was old enough to have known better, came out of Mer- 
 ton Abbey upon these conditions, and journeyed away to 
 see his wife : a Scottish Princess who was then at St. 
 Edmund's-Bury. 
 
 Almost as soon as he had departed from the sanctuary, 
 his enemies persuaded the weak King to send out one Sir 
 Godfrey de Crancumb, who commanded three hundred vag- 
 abonds called the Black Band, with orders to seize him. 
 They came up with him at a little town in Essex, called 
 Brentwood, when he was in bed. He leaped out of bed, got 
 out of the house, fled to the church, ran up to the altar, and 
 laid his hand upon the cross. Sir Godfrey and the Black 
 Band, caring neither for church, altar, nor cross, dragged 
 him forth to the church door, with their drawn swords flash- 
 ing round his head, and sent for a smith to rivet a set of 
 chains upon him. When the smith (I wish I knew his name !) 
 was brought, all dark and swarthy with the smoke of his 
 forge, and panting with the speed he had made ; and the 
 Black Band, falling aside to show him the prisoner, cried 
 with a loud uproar, " Make the fetters heavy ! make them 
 strong ! " the smith dropped upon his knee — but not to the 
 Black Band — and said, This is the brave Earl Hubert de 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 117 
 
 Burgh, who fought at Dover Castle, and destroyed the French 
 fleet, and has done his country much good service. You 
 may kill me, if you like, but I will never make a chain for 
 Earl Hubert de Burgh ! " 
 
 The Black Band never blushed, or they might have blushed 
 at this. They knocked the smith about from one to another, 
 and swore at him, and tied the Earl on horseback, undressed 
 as he was, and carried him off to the Tower of London. 
 The bishops, however, were so indignant at the violation of 
 the sanctuary of the Church, that the frightened King soon 
 ordered the Black Band to take him back again ; at the same 
 time commanding the Sheriff of Essex to prevent his escap- 
 ing out of Brentwood Church. Well ! the sheriff dug a deep 
 trench all round the church, and erected a high fence, and 
 watched the church night and day ; the Black Band and 
 their captain watched it too, like three hundred and one 
 black wolves. For thirty-nine days, Hubert de Burgh re- 
 mained within. At length, upon the fortieth day, cold and 
 hunger were too much for him, and he gave himself up to 
 the Black Band, who carried him off, for the second time, to 
 the Tower. When his trial came on, he refused to plead ; 
 but at last it was arranged that he should give up all the 
 royal lands which had been bestowed upon him, and should 
 be kept at the Castle of Devizes, in what was called " free 
 prison," in charge of four knights appointed by four lords. 
 There he remained almost a year, until, learning that a fol- 
 lower of his old enemy the Bishop was made keeper of the 
 Castle, and fearing that he might be killed by treachery, he 
 climbed the ramparts one dark night, dropped from the top 
 of the high castle wall into the moat, and coming safely to 
 the ground took refuge in another church. From this place 
 he was delivered by a party of horse despatched to his help 
 by some nobles, who were by this time in revolt against the 
 King, and assembled in Wales. He was finally pardoned and 
 restored to his estates, but he lived privately, and never more 
 aspired to a high post in the realm, or to a high place in 
 the King's favor. And thus end — more happily than the 
 stories of many favorites of Kings — the adventures of Earl 
 Hubert de Burgh. 
 
 The nobles, who had risen in revolt, were stirred up to 
 rebellion by the overbearing conduct of the Bishop of Win- 
 chester, who, finding that the King secretly hated the Great 
 Charter which had been forced from his father, did his ut. 
 
ii$ A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 most to confirm him in that dislike, and in the preference he 
 showed to foreigners over the English. Of this, and of his 
 even publicly declaring that the barons of England were 
 inferior to those of France, the English lords complained 
 with such bitterness, that the King, finding them well sup- 
 ported by the clergy, became frightened for his throne, and 
 sent away the Bishop and all his foreign associates. On his 
 marriage, however, with Eleanor, a French lady, the daugh- 
 ter of the Count of Provence, he openly favored the foreign- 
 ers again ; and so many of his wife's relations came over, 
 and made such an immense family-party at court, and got so 
 many good things, and pocketed so much money, and were 
 so high with the English whose money they pocketed, that 
 the bolder English barons murmured openly about a clause 
 there was in the Great Charter, which provided for the ban- 
 ishment of unreasonable favorites. But the foreigners only 
 laughed disdainfully, and said, " What are your English laws 
 to us?" 
 
 King Philip of France had died, and had been succeeded 
 by Prince Louis, who had also died after a short reign of 
 three years, and had been succeeded by his son of the same 
 name — so moderate and just a man that he was not the 
 least in the world like a king, as kings went. Isabella, 
 King Henry's mother, wished very much (for a certain spite 
 she had) that England should make war against this King ; 
 and, as King Henry was a mere puppet in any body's hands 
 who knew how to manage his feebleness, she easily carried 
 her point with him. But the Parliament were determined to 
 give him no money for such a war. So, to defy the Parlia- 
 ment, he packed up thirty large casks of silver — I don't 
 know how he got so much ; I dare say he screwed it out of 
 the miserable Jews — and put them aboard ship, and went 
 away himself to carry war into France : accompanied by his 
 mother and his brother Richard, Earl of Cornwall, who was 
 rich and clever. But he only got well beaten, and came 
 home. 
 
 The good-humor of the Parliament was not restored by 
 this. They reproached the King with wasting the public 
 money to make greedy foreigners rich, and were so stern with 
 him, and so determined not to let him have more of it to 
 waste if they could help it, that he was at his wit's end for 
 some, and tried so shamelessly to get all he could from his 
 subjects by excuses or by force, that the people used to say 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 119 
 
 the King was the sturdiest beggar in England. He took the 
 Cross, thinking to get some money by that means : but, as it 
 was very well known that he never meant to go on a crusade, 
 he got none. In all this contention, the Londoners were par- 
 ticularly keen against the King, and the King hated them 
 warmly in return. Hating or loving, however, made no dif- 
 ference ; he continued in the same condition for nine or ten 
 years, when at last the barons said that if he would solemnly 
 confirm their liberties afresh, the Parliament would vote him 
 a large sum. 
 
 As he readily consented, there was a great meeting held in 
 Westminster Hall, one pleasant day in May, when all the 
 clergy, dressed in their robes and holding every one of them 
 a burning candle in his hand, stood up (the barons being also 
 there) while the Archbishop of Canterbury read the sentence 
 of excommunication against any man, and all men, who 
 should henceforth, in any way, infringe the Great Charter of 
 the Kingdom. When he had done, they all put out their 
 burning candles with a curse upon the soul of any one, and 
 every one, who should merit that sentence. The King con- 
 cluded with an oath to keep the Charter, " As I am a man, 
 as I am a Christian, as I am a knight, as I am a king ! " 
 
 It was easy to make oaths, and easy to break them ; and 
 the King did both, as his father had done before him. He 
 took to his old courses again when he was supplied with money, 
 and soon cured of their weakness the few who had ever really 
 trusted him. When his money was gone, and he was once 
 more borrowing and begging every- where with a meanness 
 worthy of his nature, he got into a difficulty with the Pope 
 respecting the crown of Sicily, which the Pope said he had a 
 right to give away, and which he offered to King Henry for 
 his second son, Prince Edmund. But, if you or I give away 
 what we have not got, and what belongs to somebody else, 
 it is likely that the person to whom we give it, will have some 
 trouble in taking it. It was exactly so in this case. It was 
 necessary to conquer the Sicilian crown before it could be 
 put upon young Edmund's head. It could not be conquered 
 without money. The Pope ordered the clergy to raise 
 money. The clergy, however, were not so obedient to 
 him as usual ; they had been disputing with him for some 
 time about his unjust preference of Italian priests in England; 
 and they had begun to doubt whether the King's chaplain, 
 whom he allowed to be paid for preaching in seven hundred 
 
120 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 churches, could possibly be, even by the Pope's favor, in seven 
 hundred places at once. " The Pope and the King together," 
 said the Bishop of London, "may take the miter off my head; 
 but, if they do, they will find that I shall put on a soldier's 
 helmet. I pay nothing." The Bishop of Worcester was as 
 bold as the Bishop of London, and would pay nothing either. 
 Such sums as the more timid or more helpless of the clergy 
 did raise were squandered away, without doing any good to 
 the King, or bringing the Sicilian crown an inch nearer to 
 Prince Edmund's head. The end of the business was, that 
 the Pope gave the crown to the brother of the King of France 
 (who conquered it for himself), and sent the King of En- 
 gland in a bill of one hundred thousand pounds for the ex- 
 penses of not having won it. 
 
 The King was now so much distressed that we might almost 
 pity him, if it were possible to pity a King so shabby and 
 ridiculous. His clever brother, Richard, had bought the title 
 of King of the Romans from the German people, and was no 
 longer near him, to help him with advice. The clergy resist- 
 ing the very Pope, were in alliance with the barons. The 
 barons were headed by Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, 
 married to King Henry's sister, and, though a foreigner him- 
 self, the most popular man in England against the foreign 
 favorites. When the King next met his Parliament, the 
 barons, led by this Earl, came before him, armed from head 
 to foot, and cased in armor. When the Parliament again as- 
 sembled, in a month's time, at Oxford, this Earl was at their 
 head, and the King was obliged to consent, on oath, to what 
 was called a Committee of Government, consisting of twenty- 
 four members : twelve chosen by the barons and twelve 
 chosen by himself. 
 
 But, at a good time for him, his brother Richard came 
 back. Richard's first act (the barons would not admit him into 
 England on other terms) was to swear to be faithful to the 
 Committee of Government — which he immediately began to 
 oppose with all his might. Then, the barons began to quarrel 
 among themselves ; especially the proud Earl of Gloucester 
 with the Earl of Leicester, who went abroad in disgust. Then, 
 the people began to be dissatisfied with the barons, because 
 they did not do enough for them. The King's chances seemed 
 so good again at length, that he took heart enough — or caught 
 it from his brother — to tell the Committee of Government 
 ihat he abolished them — as to his oath, never mind that, the 
 

A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 121 
 
 Pope said ! — and to seize all the money in the Mint, and to 
 shut himself up in the Tower of London. Here he was 
 joined by his only son, Prince Edward ; and from the Tower, 
 he made public a letter of the Pope's to the world in general, 
 informing all men that he had been an excellent and just 
 King for nve-and-forty years. 
 
 As every body knew he had been nothing of the sort, nobody 
 cared much for this document. It so chanced that the proud 
 Earl of Gloucester dying, was succeeded by his son ; and 
 that his son, instead of being the enemy of the Earl of Leices- 
 ter, was (for the time) his friend. It fell out, therefore, that 
 these two Earls joined their forces, took several of the Royal 
 castles in the country, and advanced as hard as they could 
 on London. The London people, always opposed to the 
 King, declared for them with great joy. The King himself 
 remained shut up, not at all gloriously, in the Tower. Prince 
 Edward made the best of his way to Windsor Castle. His 
 mother, the Queen, attempted to follow him by water, but 
 the people seeing her barge rowing up the river, and hating 
 her with all their hearts, ran to London Bridge, got together 
 a quantity of stones and mud, and pelted the barge as it 
 came through, crying furiously, " Drown the witch ! Drown 
 her ! " They were so near doing it that the Mayor took 
 the old lady under his protection, and shut her up in St. 
 Paul's until the danger was past. 
 
 It would require a great deal of writing on my part, and a 
 great deal of reading on yours, to follow the King through 
 his disputes with the barons, and to follow the barons 
 through their disputes with one another — so 1 will make 
 short work of it for both of us, and only relate the chief 
 events that arose out of these quarrels. The good King of 
 France was asked to decide between them. He gave it as 
 his opinion that the King must maintain the Great Charter, 
 and that the barons must give up the Committee of Govern- 
 ment, and all the rest that had been done by the Parliament 
 at Oxford : which the Royalists, or King's party, scornfully 
 called the Mad Parliament. The barons declared that these 
 were not fair terms, and they would not accept them. Then 
 they caused the great bell of St. Paul's to be tolled, for the 
 purpose of rousing up the London people, who armed them- 
 selves at the dismal sound and formed quite an army in the 
 streets. I am sorry to say, however, that instead of falling 
 upon the King's party with whom their quarrel was, they fell 
 
122 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 upon the miserable Jews, and killed at least five hundred of 
 them. They pretended that some of these Jews were on the 
 King's side, and that they kept hidden in their houses, for 
 the destruction of the people, a certain terrible composition 
 called Greek Fire, which could not be put out with water, but 
 only burned the fiercer for it. What they really did keep 
 in their houses was money ; and this their cruel enemies 
 wanted, and this their cruel enemies took, like robbers and 
 murderers. 
 
 The Earl of Leicester put himself at the head of these Lon- 
 doners and other forces, and followed the King to Lewes in 
 Sussex, where he lay encamped with his army. Before giv- 
 ing the King's forces battle here, the Earl addressed his 
 soldiers, and said that King Henry the Third had broken so 
 many oaths, that he had become the enemy of God, and 
 therefore they would wear white crosses on their breasts, as 
 if they were arrayed, not against a fellow-Christian, but 
 against a Turk. White-crossed accordingly, they rushed 
 into the fight. They would have lost the day — the King 
 having on his side all the foreigners in England : and, from 
 Scotland, John Comyn, John Baliol, and Robert Bruce, 
 with all their men — but for the impatience of Prince Edward, 
 who, in his hot desire to have vengeance on the people of 
 London, threw the whole of his father's army into confusion. 
 He was taken prisoner ; so was the King ; so was the King's 
 brother the King of the Romans ; and five thousand En- 
 glishmen were left dead upon the bloody grass. 
 
 For this success the Pope excommunicated the Earl of 
 Leicester : which neither the Earl nor the people cared at all 
 about. The people loved him and supported him, and he 
 became the real King ; having all the power of the govern- 
 ment in his own hands, though he was outwardly respectful 
 to King Henry the Third, whom he took with him wherever 
 he went, like a poor old limp court-card. He summoned a 
 Parliament (in the year one thousand two hundred and sixty- 
 five) which was the first Parliament in England that the 
 people had any real share in electing ; he grew more and 
 more in favor with the people every day, and they stood by 
 him in whatever he did. 
 
 Many of the other baions, and particularly the Earl of 
 Gloucester, who had become by this time as proud as his 
 father, grew jealous of this powerful and popular Earl, who 
 was proud too, and began to conspire against him. Since 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 123 
 
 the battle of Lewes, Prince Edward had been kept as a host- 
 age, and, though he was otherwise treated like a Prince, had 
 never been allowed to go out without attendants appointed 
 by the Earl of Leicester, who watched him. The conspiring 
 lords found means to propose to him, in secret, that they 
 should assist him to escape, and should make him their 
 leader : to which he very heartily assented. 
 
 So, on a day that was agreed upon, he said to his attend- 
 ants after dinner (being then at Hereford), " I should like to 
 ride on horseback, this fine afternoon, a little way into the 
 country." As they, too, thought it would be very pleasant 
 to have a canter in the sunshine, they all rode out of the 
 town together in a gay little troop. When they came to a 
 fine level piece of turf, the Prince fell to comparing their 
 horses one with another, and offering bets that one was 
 faster than another ; and the attendants, suspecting no 
 harm, rode galloping matches until their horses were quite 
 tired. The Prince rode no matches himself, but looked on 
 from his saddle, and staked his money. Thus they passed 
 the whole merry afternoon. Now, the sun was setting, and 
 they were all going slowly up a hill, the Prince's horse very 
 fresh and all the other horses very weary, when a strange 
 rider mounted on a gray steed appeared at top of the 
 hill, and waved his hat. " What does the fellow mean ? " 
 said the attendants one to another. The Prince answered on 
 the instant, by setting spurs to his horse, dashing away at his 
 utmost speed, joining the man, riding into the midst of a 
 little crowd of horsemen who were then seen waiting under 
 some trees, and who closed around him ; and so he departed 
 in a cloud of dust, leaving the road empty of all but the 
 baffled attendants, who sat looking at one another, while 
 their horses drooped their ears and panted. 
 
 The Prince joined the Earl of Gloucester at Ludlow. The 
 Earl of Leicester, with a part of the army and the stupid old 
 King was at Hereford. One of the Earl of Leicester's sons, 
 Simon de Montfort, with another part of the army, was in 
 Sussex. To prevent these two parts from uniting was the 
 Prince's first object. He attacked Simon de Montfort by 
 night, defeated him, seized his banners and treasure, and 
 forced him into Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire, which 
 belonged to his family. 
 
 His father, the Earl of Leicester, in the meanwhile, not 
 Knowing what had happened, marched out of Hereford, with 
 
i2 4 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND- 
 
 his part of the army and the King, to meet him. He came, 
 on a bright morning in August, to Evesham, which is watered 
 by the pleasant river Avon. Looking rather anxiously 
 across the prospect towards Kenilworth, he saw his own 
 banners advancing : and his face brightened with joy. But, 
 it clouded darkly when he presently perceived that the ban- 
 ners were captured, and in the enemy's hands ; and he said, 
 " It is over. The Lord have mercy on our souls, for our 
 bodies are Prince Edward's ! " 
 
 He fought like a true knight, nevertheless. When his 
 horse was killed under him, he fought on foot. It was a 
 fierce battle and the dead lay in heaps every-where. The old 
 King, stuck up in a suit of armor on a big war horse, which 
 didn't mind him at all, and which carried him into all sorts 
 of places where he didn't want to go, got into every body's 
 way, and very nearly got knocked on the head by one of his 
 son's men. But he managed to pipe out, " I am Harry of 
 Winchester ! " and the Prince, who heard him, seized his 
 bridle, and took him out of peril. The Earl of Leicester 
 still fought bravely, until his best son Henry was killed, and 
 the bodies of his best friends choked his path ; and then he 
 fell, still fighting, sword in hand. They mangled his body, 
 and sent it as a present to a noble lady — but a very un- 
 pleasant lady, I should think — who was the wife of his 
 worst enemy. They could not mangle his memory in the 
 minds of the faithful people, though. Many years after- 
 wards, they loved him more than ever, and regarded him 
 as a Saint, and always spoke of him as " Sir Simon the 
 Righteous." 
 
 And even though he was dead, the cause for which he had 
 fought still lived, and was strong, and forced itself upon the 
 King in the very hour of victory. Henry found himself 
 obliged to respect the Great Charter, however much he hated 
 it, and to make laws similar to the laws of the Great Earl of 
 Leicester, and to be moderate and forgiving toward the 
 people at last — even toward the people of London, who had 
 so long opposed him. There were more risings before all 
 this was done, but they were set at rest by these means, and 
 Prince Edward did his best in all things to restore peace, 
 One Sir Adam de Gourdon was the last dissatisfied knight 
 in arms, but the Prince vanquished him in single combat, 
 in a wood, and nobly gave him his life, and became his 
 friend, instead of slaying him. Sir Adam was not ungrate- 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 125 
 
 ful. He ever afterward remained devoted to his generous 
 conqueror. 
 
 When the troubles of the kingdom were thus calmed, 
 Prince Edward and his cousin Henry took the Cross, and 
 went away to the Holy Land, with many English lords and 
 knights. Four years afterwards the King of the Romans 
 died, and, next year (one thousand two hundred and seventy- 
 two), his brother, the weak King of England died. He was 
 sixty-eight years old then, and had reigned fifty-six years. 
 He was as much of a king in death, as he had ever been in 
 life. He was the mere pale shadow of a king at all times. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIRST, CALLED LONGSHANKS. 
 
 It was now the year of our Lord one thousand two hund- 
 red and seventy-two ; and Prince Edward, the heir to the 
 throne, being away in the Holy Land, knew nothing of his 
 father's death. The Barons, however, proclaimed him King, 
 immediately after the Royal funeral ; and the people very 
 willingly consented, since most men knew too well by this 
 time what the horrors of a contest for the crown were. So 
 King Edward the First, called, in a not very complimentary 
 manner, Longshanks, because of the slenderness of his legs, 
 was peacefully accepted by the English Nation. 
 
 His legs had need to be strong, however long and thin 
 they were ; for they had to support him through many dif- 
 ficulties on the fiery sands of Asia, where his small force of 
 soldiers fainted, died, deserted, and seemed to melt away. 
 But his prowess made light of it, and he said, " I will go on, 
 if I go on with no other follower than my groom ! " 
 
 A Prince of this spirit gave the Turks a deal of trouble. 
 He stormed Nazareth, at which place, of all places on earth, 
 I am sorry to relate, he made a frightful slaughter of inno- 
 cent people ; and then he went to Acre, where he got a truce 
 of ten years from the Sultan. He had very nearly lost his 
 life in Acre, through the treachery of a Saracen noble, 
 called the Emir of Jaffa, who, making the pretense that he 
 had some idea of turning Christian and wanted to know all 
 about that religion, sent a trusty messenger to Edward very 
 f ten — w ith a dagger in his sleeve. At last, one Friday in 
 
i26 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Whitsun week, when it was very hot, and all the sandy 
 prospect lay beneath the blazing sun, burned up like a great 
 overdone biscuit, and Edward was lying on a couch, dressed 
 for coolness in only a loose robe, the messenger, with his 
 chocolate-colored face and his bright dark eyes and white 
 teeth, came creeping in with a letter, and kneeled down like 
 a tame tiger. But the moment Edward stretched out his 
 hand to take the letter, the tiger made a spring at his heart. 
 He was quick, but Edward was quick too. He seized the 
 traitor by his chocolate throat, threw him to the ground, and 
 slew him with the very dagger he had drawn. The weapon 
 had struck Edward in the arm, and although the wound 
 itself was slight, it threatened to be mortal, for the blade of 
 the dagger had been smeared with poison. Thanks, how- 
 ever, to a better surgeon than was often to be found in those 
 times, and to some wholesome herbs, and above all, to his 
 faithful wife, Eleanor, who devotedly nursed him, and is said 
 by some to have sucked the poison from the wound with her 
 own red lips (which I am very willing to believe), Edward 
 soon recovered and was sound again. 
 
 As the King his father had sent entreaties to him to re- 
 turn home, he now began the journey. He had got as far as 
 Italy, when he met messengers who brought him intelligence 
 of the King's death. Hearing that all was quiet at home, he 
 made no haste to return to his own dominions, but paid a 
 visit to the Pope, and went in state through various Italian 
 towns, where he was welcomed with acclamations as a 
 mighty champion of the Cross from the Holy Land, and 
 where he received presents of purple mantles and prancing 
 horses, and went along in great triumph. The shouting 
 people little knew that he was the last English monarch who 
 would ever embark in a crusade, or that within twenty years 
 every conquest which the Christians had made in the Holy 
 Land at the cost of so much blood, would be won back by 
 the Turks. But all this came to pass. 
 
 There was, and there is, an old town standing in a plain 
 in France, called Chalons. When the King was coming to- 
 ward this place on his way to England, a wily French lord, 
 called the Count of Chalons, sent him a polite challenge to 
 come with his knights and hold a fair tournament with the 
 Count and his knights, and make a day of it with sword and 
 lance. It was represented to the King that the Count of 
 Chalons was not to be trusted, and that instead of a holiday 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 127 
 
 fight for mere show and in good humor, he secretly meant a 
 real battle, in which the English should be defeated by 
 superior force. 
 
 The King, however, nothing afraid, went to the appointed 
 place on the appointed day with a thousand followers. When 
 the Count came with two thousand and attacked the English 
 in earnest, the English rushed at them with such valor that 
 the Count's men and the Count's horses soon began to be 
 tumbled down all over the field. The Count himself seized 
 the King round the neck, but the King tumbled him out of 
 his saddle in return for the compliment, and jumping from 
 his own horse, and standing over him, beat away at his iron 
 armor like a blacksmith hammering on his anvil. Even 
 when the Count owned himself defeated and offered his 
 sword, the King would not do him the honor to take it, but 
 made him yield it up to a common soldier. There had been 
 such fury shown in this fight, that it was afterwards called 
 the little Battle of Chalons. 
 
 The English were very well disposed to be proud of their 
 King after these adventures ; so, when he landed at Dover 
 in the year one thousand two hundred and seventy-four 
 (being then thirty-six years old), and went on to Westmins- 
 ter, where he and his good Queen were crowned with great 
 magnificence, splendid rejoicings took place. For the cor- 
 onation-feast there were provided, among other eatables, 
 four hundred oxen, four hundred sheep, four hundred and 
 fifty pigs, eighteen wild boars, three hundred flitches of 
 bacon, and twenty thousand fowls. The fountains and con- 
 duits in the street flowed with red and white wine instead of 
 water ; the rich citizens hung silks and cloths of the brightest 
 colors out of their windows, to increase the beauty of the 
 show, and threw out gold and silver by whole handfuls to 
 make scrambles for the crowd. In short, there was such 
 eating and drinking, such music and capering, such a ring- 
 ing of bells and tossing of caps, such a shouting, and sing- 
 ing, and reveling, as the narrow overhanging streets of old 
 London City had not witnessed for many a long day. All 
 the people were merry— except the poor Jews— who tremb- 
 ling within their houses, and scarcely daring to peep out, 
 began to foresee that they would have to find the money for 
 this joviality sooner or later. 
 
 To dismiss this sad subject of the Jews for the present, I 
 am sorry to add that in this reign they were most unmerci- 
 
128 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 fully pillaged. They were hanged in great numbers, on ac- 
 cusations of having clipped the King's coin — which all kinds 
 of people had done. They were heavily taxed ; they were 
 disgracefully badged ; they were, on one day, thirteen years 
 after the coronation, taken up with their wives and children 
 and thrown into beastly prisons, until they purchased their 
 release by paying to the King twelve thousand pounds. 
 Finally, every kind of property belonging to them was seized 
 by the King, except so little as would defray the charge of 
 their taking themselves away into foreign countries. Many 
 years elapsed before the hope of gain induced any of theii 
 race to return to England, where they had been treated s<? 
 heartlessly and had suffered so much. 
 _ If King Edward the First had been as bad a king to Chris, 
 tians as he was to Jews, he would have been bad indeed. 
 But he was, in general, a wise and great monarch, under 
 whom the country much improved. He had no love for the 
 Great Charter — few Kings had, through many many years — ■ 
 but he had high qualities. The first bold object which he 
 conceived when he came home, wag, to unite under one 
 Sovereign England, Scotland, and Wales ; the two last of 
 which countries had each a little king of its own, about 
 whom the people were always quarreling and fighting, and 
 making a prodigious disturbance — a great deal more than he 
 was worth. In the course of King Edward's reign he was 
 engaged, besides, in a war with France. To make these 
 quarrels clearer, we will separate their histories and take 
 them thus. Wales, first. France, second. Scotland, third. 
 Llewellyn was the Prince of Wales. He had been on the 
 side of the barons in the reign of the stupid old King, but 
 had afterwards sworn allegiance to him. When King Ed- 
 ward came to the throne, Llewellyn was required to swear 
 allegiance to him also ; which he refused to do. The King, 
 being crowned and in his own dominions, three times more 
 required Llewellyn to come and do homage ; and three times 
 more Llewellyn said he would rather not. He was going to 
 be married to Eleanor de Montfort, a young lady of the fam- 
 ily mentioned in the last reign ; and it chanced that this 
 young lady, coming from France with her youngest brother, 
 Emeric, was taken by an English ship, and was ordered by 
 the English King to be detained. Upon this the quarrel 
 came to a head. The King went, with his fleet, to the coast 
 of Wales where, so encompassing Llewellyn that he could 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 129 
 
 only take refuge in the bleak mountain region of Snowdon 
 in which no provisions could reach him, he was soon starved 
 into an apology, and into a treaty of peace and into paying 
 the expenses of the war. The King, however, forgave him 
 some of the hardest conditions of the treaty, and consented 
 to his marriage. And he now thought he had reduced Wales 
 to obedience. 
 
 But, the Welsh, although they were naturally a gentle, 
 quiet, pleasant people, who liked to receive strangers in their 
 cottages among the mountains, and to set before them with 
 free hospitality whatever they had to eat and drink, and to 
 play to them on their harps, and sing their native ballads to 
 them, were a people of great spirit when their blood was up. 
 Englishmen, after this affair, began to be insolent in Wales, 
 and to assume the air of masters ; and the Welsh pride could 
 not bear it. Moreover, they believed in that unlucky old 
 Merlin, some of whose unlucky old prophecies somebody al- 
 ways seemed doomed to remember when there was a chance 
 of its doing harm ; and just at this time some blind old gen- 
 tleman with a harp, and a long white beard, who was an ex- 
 cellent person, but had become of an unknown age and 
 tedious, burst out with a declaration that Merlin had pre- 
 dicted that when English money had become round, a Prince 
 of Wales would be crowned in London. Now, King Edward 
 had recently forbidden the English penny to be cut into 
 halves and quarters for halfpence and farthings, and had act- 
 ually introduced a round coin ; therefore, the Welsh people 
 said this was the time Merlin meant, and rose accordingly. 
 
 King Edward had bought over Prince David, Llewellyn's 
 brother, by heaping favors upon him ; but he was the first to 
 revolt, being perhaps troubled in his conscience. One stormy 
 night, he surprised the Castle of Hawarden, in possession of 
 which an English nobleman had been left ; killed the whole 
 garrison, and carried off the nobleman a prisoner to Snow- 
 don. Upon this the Welsh people rose like one man. King 
 Edward, with his army, marching from Worcester to the 
 Menai Strait, crossed it — near to where the wonderful tubu- 
 lar iron bridge now, in days so different, makes a passage for 
 railway trains — by a bridge of boats that enabled forty men 
 to march abreast. He subdued the Island of Anglesea, and 
 sent his men forward to observe the enemy. The sudden ap- 
 pearance of the Welsh created a panic among them, and 
 they fell back to the bridge. The tide had in the meantime 
 
*3° A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 risen and separated the boats ; the Welsh pursuing them, 
 they were driven into the sea, and there they sank, in their 
 heavy iron armor, by thousands. After this victory Llew- 
 ellyn, helped by the severe winter-weather of Wales, gained 
 another battle : but the King ordering a portion of his En- 
 glish army to advance through South Wales, and catch him 
 between two foes, and Llewellyn bravely turning to meet 
 this new enemy, he was surprised and killed — very meanly, 
 for he was unarmed and defenseless. His head was struck 
 off and sent to London, where it was fixed up on the Tower, 
 encircled with a wreath, some say of ivy, some say of willow, 
 some say of silver, to make it look like a ghastly coin in ridi- 
 cule of the prediction. 
 
 David, however, still held out for six months, though 
 eagerly sought after by the King, and hunted by his own 
 countrymen. One of them finally betrayed him with his 
 wife and children. He was sentenced to be hanged, drawn, 
 and quartered ; and from that time this became the estab- 
 lished punishment of traitors in England — a punishment 
 wholly without excuse, as being revolting, vile, and cruel, 
 after its object is dead : and which has no sense in it, as its 
 only real degradation (and that nothing can blot out) is to 
 the country that permits on any consideration such abomin- 
 able barbarity. 
 
 Wales was now subdued. The Queen giving birth to a 
 young prince in the castle of Carnarvon, the King showed 
 him to the Welsh people as their countryman, and called him 
 Prince of Wales ; a title that has ever since been borne by 
 the heir-apparent to the English Throne — which that little 
 Prince soon became by the death of his elder brother. The 
 King did better things for the Welsh than that, by improv- 
 ing their laws and encouraging their trade. Disturbances 
 still took place, chiefly occasioned by the avarice and pride 
 of the English lords, on whom Welsh lands and castles had 
 been bestowed : but they were subdued and the country 
 never rose again. There is a legend that to prevent the peo- 
 ple from being incited to rebellion by the songs of their bards 
 and harpers, Edward had them all put to death. Some of 
 them may have fallen among other men who held out against 
 the King; but this general slaughter is, I think, a fancy of the 
 harpers themselves, who, I dare say, made a song about it 
 many years afterward, and sang it by the Welsh firesides 
 until it came to be believed. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 131 
 
 The foreign war of the reign of Edward the First arose in 
 this way. The crews of two vessels, one a Norman ship, and 
 the other an English ship, happened to go to the same place 
 in their boats to fill their casks with fresh water. Being rough 
 angry fellows, they began to quarrel, and then to fight — the 
 English with their fists ; the Normans with their knives — and, 
 in the fight a Norman was killed. The Norman crew, in- 
 stead of revenging themselves upon those English sailors 
 with whom they had quarreled (who were too strong for 
 them, I suspect), took to their ship again in a great rage, 
 attacked the first English ship they met, laid hold of an un- 
 offending merchant who happened to be on board, and bru- 
 tally hanged him in the rigging of their own vessel with a 
 dog at his feet. This so enraged the English sailors that 
 there was no restraining them ; and whenever, and wherever, 
 English sailors met Norman sailors, they fell upon each other 
 tooth and nail. The Irish and Dutch sailors took part with 
 the English ; the French and Genoese sailors helped the 
 Normans ; and thus the greater part of the mariners sailing 
 over the sea became, in their way, as violent and raging as 
 the sea itself when it is disturbed. 
 
 King Edward's fame had been so high abroad that he had 
 been chosen to decide a difference between France and an- 
 other foreign power, and had lived upon the Continent three 
 years. At first, neither he nor the French King Philip (the 
 good Louis had been dead some time) interfered in these 
 quarrels; but when a fleet of eighty English ships ^engaged 
 and utterly defeated a Norman fleet of two hundred, in a 
 pitched battle fought round a ship at anchor, in which no 
 quarter was given, the matter became too serious to be passed 
 over. King Edward, as Duke of Guienne, was summoned 
 to present himself before the King of France, at Paris, and 
 answer for the damage done by his sailor subjects. At first 
 he sent the Bishop of London as his representative, and then 
 his brother Edmund, who was married to the French Queen's 
 mother. I am afraid Edmund was an easy man, and allow- 
 ed himself to be talked over by his charming relations, the 
 French court ladies ; at all events he was induced to give up 
 his brother's dukedom for forty days — as a mere form, the 
 French King said, to satisfy his honor — and he was so very 
 much astonished, when the time was out, to find that the 
 French King had no idea of giving it up again, that I should 
 not wonder if it hastened his death ; which soon took place* 
 
132 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 King Edward was a King to win his foreign dukedom back 
 kgain if it could be won by energy and valor. He raised a 
 large army, renounced his allegiance as Duke of Guienne, and 
 crossed the sea to carry war into France. Before any im- 
 portant battle was fought, however, a truce was agreed upon 
 for two years ; and in the course of that time the Pope ef- 
 fected a reconciliation. King Edward, who was now a wid- 
 ower, having lost his affectionate and good wife, Eleanor, 
 married the French King's sister, Margaret, and the Prince 
 of Wales was contracted to the French King's daughter, 
 Isabella. 
 
 Out of bad things good things sometimes arise. Out of 
 this hanging of the innocent merchant, and the bloodshed and 
 strife it caused, there came to be established one of the 
 greatest powers that the English people now possess. The 
 preparations for the war being very expensive, and King Ed- 
 ward greatly wanting money, and being very arbitrary in his 
 ways of raising it, some of the barons began firmly to oppose 
 him. Two of them, in particular, Humphrey Bohun, Earl 
 of Hereford, and Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, were so 
 stout against him that they maintained he had no right to 
 command them to head his forces in Guienne, and flatly re- 
 fused to go there. " By Heaven, Sir Earl," said the King to 
 the Earl of Hereford, in a great passion, " you shall either go 
 or be hanged ! " " By Heaven, Sir King," replied the Earl, 
 " I will neither go nor yet will I be hanged ! " and both he 
 and the other Earl sturdily left the court, attended by many 
 lords. ^The King tried every means of raising money. 
 He taxed the clergy, in spite of all the Pope said to the con- 
 trary ; and when they refused to pay, reduced them to sub- 
 mission, by saying Very well, then they had no claim upon 
 the government for protection, and any man might plunder 
 them who would — which a good many men were very ready 
 to do, and very readily did, and which the clergy found too 
 losing a game to be played at long. He seized all the wool 
 and leather in the hands of the merchants, promising to pay 
 for it some fine day ; and he set a tax upon the exportation 
 of wool, which was so unpopular among the traders that it 
 was called " The evil toll." But all would not do. The 
 barons, led by those two great Earls, declared any taxes im- 
 posed without the consent of Parliament, unlawful ; and the 
 Parliament refused to impose taxes, until the King should 
 confirm afresh the two Great Charters, and should solemnly 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 133 
 
 declare in writing, that there was no power in the country to 
 raise money from the people, evermore, but the power of Par- 
 liament representing all ranks of the people. The King was 
 very unwilling to diminish his own power by allowing this 
 great privilege in the Parliament ; but there was no help for 
 it, and he at last complied. We shall come to another king 
 by-and-by, who might have saved his head from rolling off, 
 if he had profited by this example. 
 
 The people gained other benefits in Parliament from the 
 good sense and wisdom of this King. Many of the laws were 
 much improved ; provision was made for the greater safety of 
 travelers, and the apprehension of thieves and murderers ; 
 the priests were prevented from holding too much land, and 
 so becoming too powerful ; and justices of the peace were 
 first appointed (though not at first under that name) in 
 various parts of the country. 
 
 And now we come to Scotland, which was the great and 
 lasting trouble of the reign of King Edward the First. 
 
 About thirteen years after King Edward's coronation, 
 Alexander the Third, the King of Scotland, died of a fall 
 from his horse. He had been married to Margaret, King 
 Edward's sister. All their children being dead, the Scottish 
 crown became the right of a young Princess only eight years 
 old, the daughter of Eric, King of Norway, who had married 
 a daughter of the deceased sovereign. King Edward pro- 
 posed, that the Maiden of Norway, as this Princess was 
 called, should be engaged to be married to his eldest son ; 
 but, unfortunately, as she was coming over to England she 
 fell sick, and landing on one of the Orkney Islands, died 
 there. A great commotion immediately began in Scotland, 
 where as many as thirteen noisy claimants to the vacant 
 throne started up and made a general confusion. 
 
 King Edward being much renowned for his sagacity and 
 justice, it seems to have been agreed to refer the dispute to 
 him. He accepted the trust, and went with an army to the 
 Border-land where England and Scotland joined. There, he 
 called upon the Scottish gentlemen to meet him at the Castle 
 of Norham, on the English side of the river Tweed ; and to 
 that castle they came. But, before he would take any step 
 in the business, he required those Scottish gentlemen, one 
 and all, to do homage to him as their superior lord ; and 
 when they hesitated, he said " By holy Edward, whose crown 
 
i 3 4 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 I wear, I will have my rights, or I will die in maintaining 
 them ! " The Scottish gentlemen, who had not expected 
 this, were disconcerted, and asked for three weeks to think 
 about it. 
 
 At the end of 'the three weeks, another meeting took place, 
 on a green plain on the Scottish side of the river. Of all the 
 competitors for the Scottish throne, there were only two who 
 had any real claim, in right of their near kindred to the 
 Royal family. These were John Baliol and Robert Bruce ; 
 and the right was, I have no doubt, on the side of John 
 Baliol. At this particalar meeting John Baliol was not 
 present, but Robert Bruce was ; and on Robert Bruce being 
 formally asked whether he acknowledged the King of En- 
 gland for his superior lord, he answered, plainly and dis- 
 tinctly, Yes, he did. Next day, John Baliol appeared, and 
 said the same. This point settled, some arrangements were 
 made for inquiring into their titles. 
 
 The inquiry occupied a pretty long time — more than a 
 year. While it was going on, King Edward took the oppor- 
 tunity of making a journey through Scotland, and calling 
 upon the Scottish people of all degrees to acknowledge 
 themselves his vassals, or be imprisoned until they did. In 
 the meanwhile, commissioners were appointed to conduct 
 the inquiry, a Parliament was held at Berwick about it, the 
 two claimants were heard at full length, and there was a vast 
 amount of talking. At last, in the great hall of the Castle of 
 Berwick, the King gave judgment in favor of John Baliol : 
 who, consenting to receive his crown by the King of En- 
 gland's favor and permission, was crowned at Scone, in an old 
 stone chair whicrf had been used for ages in the abbey there, 
 at the coronations of Scottish Kings. Then, King Edward 
 caused the great seal of Scotland, used since the late King's 
 death, to be broken in four pieces, and placed in the English 
 Treasury ; and considered that he now had Scotland (ac- 
 cording to the common saying) under his thumb. 
 
 Scotland had a strong will of its own yet, however. King 
 Edward, determined that the Scottish King should not forget 
 he was his vassal, summoned him repeatedly to come and 
 defend himself and his judges before the English Parliament 
 when appeals from the decisions of Scottish courts of justice 
 were being heard. At length, John Baliol, who had no great 
 heart of his own, had so much heart put into him by the brave 
 spirit of the Scottish people, who took this as a national in- 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 135 
 
 suit, that he refused to come any more. Thereupon, the King 
 further required him to help him in his war abroad (which 
 was then in progress), and to give up, as security for his 
 good behavior in future, the three strong Scottish Castles of 
 Jedburgh, Roxburgh, and Berwick. Nothing of this being 
 done ; on the contrary, the Scottish people concealing their 
 King among their mountains in the Highlands and showing a 
 determination to resist ; Edward marched to Berwick with an 
 army of thirty thousand foot, and four thousand horse ; took 
 the castle, and slew its whole garrison, and the inhabitants 
 of the town as well — men, women, and children. Lord 
 Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, then went on to the Castle of 
 Dunbar, before which a battle was fought, and the whole 
 Scottish army defeated with great slaughter. The victory 
 being complete, the Earl of Surrey was left as Guardian of 
 Scotland ; the principal offices in that kingdom were given 
 to Englishmen ; the more powerful Scottish nobles were 
 obliged to come and live in England ; the Scottish crown 
 and scepter were brought away ; and even the old stone 
 chair was carried off and placed in Westminster Abbey, 
 where you may see it now. Baliol had the Tower of Lon- 
 don lent him for a residence, with permission to range about 
 within a circle of twenty miles. Three years afterwards he 
 was allowed to go to Normandy, where he had estates, and 
 where he passed the remaining six years of his life : far 
 more happily, I dare say, than he had lived for a long while 
 in angry Scotland. 
 
 Now, there was, in the West of Scotland, a gentleman of 
 small fortune, named William Wallace, the second son of a 
 Scottish knight. He was a man of great size and great 
 strength ; he was very brave and daring ; when he spoke to 
 a body of his countrymen, he could rouse them in a wonder- 
 ful manner by the power of his burning words ; he loved 
 Scotland dearly, and he hated England with his utmost 
 might. The domineering conduct of the English who now 
 held the places of trust in Scotland made them as intoler- 
 able to the proud Scottish people as they had been, under 
 similar circumstances, to the Welsh ; and no man in all 
 Scotland regarded them with so much smothered rage as 
 William Wallace. One day, an Englishman in office, little 
 knowing what he was, affronted him. Wallace instantly 
 struck him dead, and taking refuge among the rocks and 
 hills, and there joining with his countryman, Sir William 
 
136 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Douglas, who was also in arms against King Edward, 
 became the most resolute and undaunted champion of a 
 people struggling for their independence that ever lived 
 upon the earth. 
 
 The English Guardian of the Kingdom fled before him, 
 and, thus encouraged, the Scottish people revolted every- 
 where and fell upon the English without mercy. The Earl 
 of Surrey, by the King's commands, raised all the power of 
 the Border-counties, and two English armies poured into 
 Scotland. Only one chief, in the face of those armies, stood 
 by Wallace, who, with a force of forty thousand men, 
 awaited the invaders at a place on the river Forth, within 
 two miles of Stirling. Across the river there was on/y one 
 poor wooden bridge, called the bridge of Kildean — so nar- 
 row, that but two men could cross it abreast With his eyes 
 upon this bridge, Wallace posted the greater part of his men 
 among some rising grounds, and waited calmly. When the 
 English army came up on the opposite bank of the river, 
 messengers were sent forward to offer terms. Wallace sent 
 them back with a defiance, in the name of the freedom of 
 Scotland. Some of the officers of the Earl of Surrey in 
 command of the English, with their eyes also on the bridge, 
 advised him to be discreet and not hasty. He, however, 
 urged to immediate battle by some other officers, and par- 
 ticularly by Cressingham, King Edward's treasurer, and a 
 rash man, gave the word of command to advance. One 
 thousand English crossed the bridge, two abreast ; the 
 Scottish troops were as motionless as stone images. Two 
 thousand English crossed ; three thousand, four thousand, 
 five. Not a feather, all this time, had been seen to stir 
 among the Scottish bonnets. Now, they all fluttered. 
 " Forward, one party, to the foot of the bridge ! " cried 
 Wallace, " and let no more English cross ! The rest, down 
 with me on the five thousand who have come over, and cut 
 them all to pieces ! " It was done, in the sight of the whole 
 remainder of the English army, who could give no help. 
 Cressingham himself was killed, and the Scotch made whips 
 for their horses of his skin. 
 
 King Edward was abroad at this time, and during the 
 successes on the Scottish side which followed, and which 
 enabled bold Wallace to win the whole country back again, 
 and even to ravage the English borders. But, after a few 
 winter months, the King returned, and took the field with 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 137 
 
 more than his usual energy. One night, when a kick from 
 his horse as they both lay on the ground together broke two 
 of his ribs, and a cry arose that he was killed, he leaped into 
 his saddle, regardless of the pain he suffered, and rode 
 through the camp. Day then appearing, he gave the word 
 (still, of course, in that bruised and aching state) Forward ! 
 and led his army on to near Falkirk, where the Scottish 
 forces were seen drawn up on some stony ground, behind a 
 morass. Here, he defeated Wallace, and killed fifteen 
 thousand of his men. With the shattered remainder, Wal- 
 lace drew back to Stirling ; but, being pursued, set fire to 
 the town that it might give no help to the English, and es- 
 caped. The inhabitants of Perth afterward set fire to their 
 houses for the same reason, and the King, unable to find 
 provisions, was forced to withdraw his army. 
 
 Another Robert Bruce, the grandson of him who had dis- 
 puted the Scottish crown with Baliol, was now in arms 
 against the King (that elder Bruce being dead), and also 
 John Comyn, Baliol's nephew. These two young men might 
 agree in opposing Edward, but could agree in nothing else, 
 as they were rivals for the throne of Scotland. Probably it 
 was because they knew this, and knew what troubles must 
 arise even if they could hope to get the better of the great 
 English King, that the principal Scottish people applied to 
 the Pope for his interference. The Pope, on the principle 
 jf losing nothing for want of trying to get it, very coolly 
 claimed that Scotland belonged to him ; but this was a little 
 too much, and the Parliament in a friendly manner told him 
 so. 
 
 In the spring time of the year one thousand three hund- 
 red and three, the King sent Sir John Segrave, whom he 
 made Governor of Scotland, with twenty thousand men, to 
 reduce the rebels. Sir John was not as careful as he should 
 have been, but encamped at Rosslyn, near Edinburgh, with 
 his army divided into three parts. The Scottish forces saw 
 their advantage ; fell on each part separately ; defeated 
 each ; and killed all the prisoners. Then, came the King 
 himself once more, as soon as a great army could be raised; 
 he passed through the whole north of Scotland, laying waste 
 whatsoever came in his way ; and he took up his winter 
 quarters at Dunfermline. The Scottish cause now looked 
 so hopeless, that Comyn and the other nobles made submis- 
 sion and received their pardons. Wallace alone stood out 
 
138 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 He was invited to surrender, though on no distinct pledge 
 that his life should be spared ; but he still defied the ireful 
 King, and lived among the steep crags of the Highland 
 glens, where the eagles made their nests, and where the 
 mountain torrents roared, and the white snow was deep, and 
 the bitter winds blew round his unsheltered head, as he lay 
 through many a pitch-dark night wrapped up in his plaid. 
 Nothing could break his spirit ; nothing could lower his 
 courage ; nothing could induce him to forget or forgive his 
 country's wrongs. Even when the Castle of Stirling, which 
 had long held out, was besieged by the King with every kind 
 of military engine then in use ; even when the lead upon 
 cathedral roofs was taken down to help to make them ; even 
 when the King, though an old man, commanded in the siege 
 as if he were a youth, being so resolved to conquer ; even 
 when the brave garrison (then found with amazement to be 
 not two hundred people, including several ladies), were 
 starved and beaten out and Avere made to submit on their 
 knees, and with every form of disgrace that could aggravate 
 their sufferings ; even then, when there was not a ray of 
 hope in Scotland, William Wallace was as proud and firm a& 
 if he had beheld the powerful and relentless Edward lying 
 dead at his feet. 
 
 Who betrayed William Wallace in the end, is not quite cer- 
 tain. That he was betrayed — probably by an attendant — is 
 too true. He was taken to the Castle of Dumbarton, under Sir 
 John Menteith, and thence to London, where the great fame 
 of his bravery and resolution attracted immense concourses 
 of people to behold him. He was tried in Westminster Hall, 
 with a crown of laurel on his head — it is supposed because 
 he was reported to have said that he ought to wear, or that 
 he would wear, a crown there — and was found guilty as a 
 robber, a murderer, and a traitor. What they called a rob- 
 ber (he said to those who tried him) he was, because he had 
 taken spoil from the King's men. What they called a mur- 
 derer, he was, because he had slain an insolent Englishman. 
 What they called a traitor, he was not, for he had never 
 sworn allegiance to the King, and had ever scorned to do it. 
 He was dragged at the tails of horses to West Smithfield, 
 and there hanged on a high gallows, torn open before he was 
 dead, beheaded, Snd quartered. His head was set upon a 
 pole on London Bridge, his right arm was sent to Newcastle, 
 his left arm to Berwick, his legs to Perth and Aberdeen. But, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 13$ 
 
 if King Edward had had his body cut into inches, and had 
 sent every separate inch into a separate town, he could not 
 have dispersed it half so far and wide as his fame. Wallace 
 will be remembered in songs and stories, while there are songs 
 and stories in the English tongue, and Scotland will hold him 
 dear while her lakes and mountains last. 
 
 Released from this dreaded enemy, the King made a fairer 
 plan of Government for Scotland, divided the offices of honor 
 among Scottish gentlemen and English gentlemen, forgave 
 past offenses, and thought, in his old age, that his work was 
 done. 
 
 But he deceived himself. Comyn and Bruce conspired, 
 and made an appointment to meet at Dumfries, in the church 
 of the Minorites. There is a story that Comyn was false to 
 Bruce, and had informed against him to the King ; that Bruce 
 was warned of his danger and the necessity of flight, by re- 
 ceiving, one night as he sat at supper, from his friend the 
 Earl of Gloucester, twelve pennies and a pair of spurs ; that 
 as he was riding angrily to keep his appointment (through a 
 snow-storm, with his horse's shoes reversed that he might not 
 be tracked), he met an evil-looking serving man, a messenger 
 of Comyn, whom he killed, and concealed in whose dress he 
 found letters that proved Comyn's treachery. However this 
 may be, they were likely enough to quarrel in any case, being 
 hot-headed rivals ; and, whatever they quarreled about, they 
 certainly did quarrel in the church where they met, and Bruce 
 drew his dagger and stabbed Comyn, who fell upon the pave- 
 ment. When Bruce came out, pale and disturbed, the friends 
 who were waiting for him asked what was the matter ? "I 
 think I have killed Comyn," said he. " You only think so ? " 
 returned one of them ; " I will make sure ! " and going into 
 the church, and finding him alive, stabbed him again and 
 again. Knowing that the King would never forgive this new 
 deed of violence, the party then declared Bruce King of Scot- 
 land : got him crowned at Scone — without the chair ; and 
 set up the rebellious standard once again. 
 
 When the King heard of it he kindled with fiercer anger 
 than he had ever shown yet. He caused the Prince of Wales 
 and two hundred and seventy of the young nobility to be 
 knighted— the trees in the Temple Gardens were cut down 
 to make room for their tents, and they watched their armor 
 all night, according to the old usage : some in the Temple 
 Church : some in Westminster Abbey— and at the public 
 
HO A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Feast which then took place, he swore, by heaven, and by 
 two swans covered with gold network which his minstrels 
 placed upon the table, that he would avenge the death of 
 Comyn, and would punish the false Bruce. And before all 
 the company, he charged the Prince his son, in case that he 
 should die before accomplishing his vow, not to bury him 
 until it was fulfilled. Next morning the Prince and the rest 
 of the young knights rode away to the Border-country to join 
 the English army ; and the King, now weak and sick, fol- 
 lowed in a horse-litter. 
 
 Bruce, after losing the battle and undergoing many dangers 
 and much misery, fled to Ireland, where he lay concealed 
 through the winter. That winter, Edward passed in hunting 
 down and executing Bruce's relations and adherents, sparing 
 neither youth nor age, and showing no touch of pity or sign 
 of mercy. In the following spring, Bruce reappeared and 
 gained some victories. In these frays both sides were griev- 
 ously cruel. For instance — Bruce's two brothers, being 
 taken captives desperately wounded, were ordered by the 
 King to instant execution. Bruce's friend Sir John Douglas, 
 taking his own Castle of Douglas out of the hands of an 
 English lord, roasted the dead bodies of the slaughtered 
 garrison in a great fire made of every movable within it ; 
 which dreadful cookery his men called the Douglas Larder. 
 Bruce, still successful, however, drove the Earl of Pembroke 
 and the Earl of Gloucester into the Castle of Ayr and laid 
 siege to it. 
 
 The King, who had been laid up all the winter, but had 
 directed the army from his sick-bed, now advanced to Car- 
 lisle, and there causing the litter in which he had traveled 
 to be placed in the Cathedral as an offering to heaven, 
 mounted his horse once more, and for the last time. He 
 was now sixty-nine years old, and had reigned thirty-five 
 years. He was so ill, that in four days he could go no more 
 than six miles ; still, even at that pace he went on and reso- 
 lutely kept his face toward the Border. At length, he lay 
 down at the village of Burgh-upon-Sands ; and there, telling 
 those around him to impress upon the Prince that he was to 
 remember his father's vow, and was never to rest until he 
 had thoroughly subdued Scotland, he yielded up his last 
 breath. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 141 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SECOND. 
 
 King Edward the Second, the first Prince of Wales, was 
 twenty-three years old when his father died. There was a 
 certain favorite of his, a young man from Gascony, named 
 Piers Gaveston, of whom his father had so much disapproved 
 that he had ordered him out of England, and had made his 
 son swear by the side of his sick-bed, never to bring him 
 back. But, the Prince no sooner found himself King, than 
 he broke his oath, as so many other Princes and Kings did 
 (they were far too ready to take oaths), and sent for his dear 
 friend immediately. 
 
 Now, this same Gaveston was handsome enough, but was 
 a reckless, insolent, audacious fellow. He was detested by 
 the proud English lords : not only because he had such power 
 over the King, and made the Court such a dissipated place, 
 but, also, because he could ride better than they at tourna- 
 ments, and was used, in his impudence, to cut very bad jokes 
 on them ; calling one, the old hog ; another, the stage-player ; 
 another, the Jew ; another, the black dog of Ardenne. This 
 was as poor wit as need be, but it made those lords very 
 wroth ; and the surly Earl of Warwick, who was the black 
 dog, swore that the time should come when Piers Gaveston 
 should feel the black dog's teeth. 
 
 It was not come yet, however, nor did it seem to be com- 
 ing. The King made him Earl of Cornwall, and gave him 
 vast riches ; and, when the King went over to France to 
 marry the French Princess, Isabella, daughter of Philip le 
 Bel : who was said to be the most beautiful woman in the 
 world : he made Gaveston Regent of the Kingdom. His 
 splendid marriage-ceremony in the Church of our Lady at 
 Boulogne, where there were four Kings and three Queens 
 present (quite a pack of Court Cards, for I dare say the 
 Knaves were not wanting), being over, he seemed to care 
 little or nothing for his beautiful wife ; but was wild with im- 
 patience to meet Gaveston again. 
 
 When he landed at home, he paid no attention to anybody 
 else, but ran into the favorite's arms before a great concourse 
 of people, and hugged him, and kissed him, and called him 
 his brother. At the coronation which soon followed, Gaves* 
 
i 4 2 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ton was the richest and brightest of all the glittering com- 
 pany there, and had the honor of carrying the crown. This 
 made the proud lords fiercer than ever ; the people, too, 
 despised the favorite, and would never call him Earl of Corn- 
 wall, however much he complained to the King and asked 
 him to punish them for not doing so, but persisted in styling 
 him plain Piers Gaveston. 
 
 The barons were so unceremonious with the King m giv- 
 ing him to understand that they would not bear his favorite, 
 that the King was obliged to send him out of the country. 
 The favorite himself was made to take an oath (more oaths !) 
 that he would never come back, and the barons supposed 
 him to be banished in disgrace, until they heard that he was 
 appointed Governor of Ireland. Even this was not enough 
 for the besotted King, who brought him home again in a 
 year's time, and not only disgusted the Court and the people 
 by his doting folly, but offended his beautiful wife too, who 
 never liked him afterward. 
 
 He had now the old Royal want — of money- — and the 
 Barons had the new power of positively refusing to let him 
 raise any. He summoned a Parliament at York ; the barons 
 refused to make one, while the favorite was near him. He 
 summoned another Parliament at Westminster, and sent 
 Gaveston away. Then the barons came, completely armed, 
 and appointed a committee of themselves to correct abuses 
 in the state and in the King's household. He got some 
 money on these conditions, and directly set off with Gaves- 
 ton to the Border- country, where they spent it in idling away 
 Ihe time, and feasting, while Bruce made ready to drive the 
 English out of Scotland. For, though the old King had 
 even made this poor weak son of his swear (as some say) 
 that he would not bury his bones, but would have them boiled 
 clean in a caldron, and carried before the English army un- 
 til Scotland was entirely subdued, the second Edward was 
 so unlike the first that Bruce gained strength and power every 
 day. 
 
 The committee of nobles, after some months of delibera- 
 tion, ordained that the King should henceforth call a Parlia- 
 ment together, once every year, and even twice if necessary, 
 instead of summoning it only when he chose. Further, that 
 Gaveston should once more be banished, and, this time, on 
 pain of death if he ever came back. The King's tears were 
 of no avail ; he was obliged to send his favorite to Flanders. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 143 
 
 As soon as he had done so, however, he dissolved the Par- 
 liament, with the low cunning of a mere fool, and set off to 
 the North of England, thinking to get an army about him 
 to oppose the nobles. And once again he brought Gaves- 
 ton home, and heaped upon him all the riches and titles of 
 which the barons had deprived him. 
 
 The lords saw, now, that there was nothing for it but to 
 put the favorite to death. They could have done so, legally, 
 according to the terms of his banishment ; but they did so, 
 I am sorry to say, in a shabby manner. Led by the Earl of 
 Lancaster, the King's cousin, they first of all attacked the 
 King and Gaveston at Newcastle. They had time to escape 
 by sea, and the mean King, having his precious Gaveston 
 with him, was quite content to leave his lovely wife behind. 
 When they were comparatively safe, they separated ; the 
 King went to York to collect a force of soldiers ; and the 
 favorite shut himself up, in the meantime, in Scarborough 
 Castle overlooking the sea. This was what the barons 
 wanted. They knew that the castle could not hold out ; 
 they attacked it, and made Gaveston surrender. He deliv- 
 ered himself up to the Earl of Pembroke — that lord whom 
 he had called the Jew — on the Earl's pledging his faith and 
 knightly word, that no harm should happen to him and no 
 violence be done him. 
 
 Now, it was agreed with Gaveston that he should be taken 
 to the Castle of Wallingford, and there kept in honorable 
 custody. They traveled as far as Dedington, near Banbury, 
 where, in the castle of that place, they stopped for a night 
 to rest. Whether the Earl of Pembroke left his prisoner there, 
 knowing what would happen, or really left him thinking no 
 harm, and only going (as he pretended) to visit his wife, the 
 countess, who was in the neighborhood, is no great matter 
 now ; in any case, he was bound as an honorable gentleman 
 to protect his prisoner, and he did not do it. In the morn- 
 ing, while the favorite was yet in bed, he was required to 
 dress himself and comedown into the court-yard. He did 
 so without any mistrust, but started and turned pale when he 
 found it full of strange armed men. " I think you know 
 me ? " said their leader, also armed from head to foot. " I 
 am the black dog of Ardenne ! " 
 
 The time was come when Piers Gaveston was to feel the 
 black dog's teeth indeed. They sat him on a mule, and car- 
 ried him, in mock state and with military music, to the black 
 
144 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 dog's kennel — Warwick Castle — where a hasty council, com- 
 posed of some great noblemen, considered what should 
 be done with him. Some were for sparing him, but one 
 loud voice — it was the black dog's bark, I dare say — 
 sounded through the castle hall, uttering these words : 
 " You have the fox in your power. Let him go now, and 
 you must hunt him again." 
 
 They sentenced him to death. He threw himself at the 
 feet of the Earl of Lancaster — the old hog — but the old hog 
 was as savage as the dog. He was taken out upon the pleas- 
 ant road, leading from Warwick to Coventry, where the 
 beautiful river Avon, by which, long afterward, William 
 Shakespeare was born and now lies buried, sparkled in the 
 bright landscape of the beautiful May-day ; and there they 
 struck off his wretched head, and stained the dust with his 
 blood. 
 
 When the King heard of this black deed, in his grief and 
 rage he denounced relentless war against his barons, and 
 both sides were in arms for half a year. But, it then became 
 necessary for them to join their forces against Bruce, who 
 had used the time well while they were divided, and had 
 now a great power in Scotland. 
 
 Intelligence was brought that Bruce was then besieging 
 Stirling Castle, and that the governor had been obliged to 
 pledge himself to surrender it, unless he should be relieved 
 before a certain day. Thereupon, the King ordered the 
 nobles and their fighting-men to meet him at Berwick ; but, 
 the nobles cared so little for the King, and so neglected the 
 summons, and lost time, that only on the day before that ap- 
 pointed for the 'surrender, did the King find himself at 
 Stirling, and even then with a smaller force than he had ex- 
 pected. However, he had, altogether, a hundred thousand 
 men, and Bruce had not more than forty thousand ; but 
 Bruce's army was strongly posted in three square columns, 
 on the ground lying between the Burn or Brook of Bannock 
 and the walls of Stirling Castle. 
 
 On the very evening, when the King came up, Bruce did 
 a brave act that encouraged his men. He was seen by a cer- 
 tain Henry de Bohun, an English knight, riding about be- 
 fore his army on a little horse, with a light battle-ax in his 
 hand, and a crown of gold on his head. This English 
 knight, who was mounted on a strong war-horse, cased in 
 Steel, strongly armed, and able (as he thought) to overthrow 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 145 
 
 Bruce by crushing him with his mere weight, set spurs to his 
 great charger, rode on him, and made a thrust at him with 
 his heavy spear. Bruce parried the thrust, and with one 
 blow of his battle-ax split his skull. 
 
 The Scottish men did not forget this, next day, when the 
 battle raged. Randolph, Bruce's valiant nephew, rode, 
 with the small body of men he commanded, into such a host 
 of the English, all shining in polished armor in the sunlight, 
 that they seemed to be swallowed up and lost, as if they had 
 plunged into the sea. But they fought so well, and did 
 such dreadful execution that, the English staggered. Then 
 came Bruce himself upon them, with all the rest of his army. 
 While they were thus hard pressed and amazed, there ap- 
 peared upon the hills what they supposed to be a new Scot- 
 tish army, but what were really only the camp followers, in 
 number fifteen thousand ; whom Bruce had taught to show 
 themselves at that place and time. The Earl of Gloucester, 
 commanding the English horse, made a last rush to change 
 the fortune of the day, but Bruce, (like Jack the Giant-killer 
 in the story) had had pits dug in the ground, and covered 
 over with turfs and stakes. Into these, as they gave way 
 beneath the weight of the horses, riders and horses rolled by 
 hundreds. The English were completely routed ; all their 
 treasure, stores, and engines, were taken by the Scottish 
 men ; so many wagons and other wheeled vehicles were 
 seized, that it is related, that they would have reached, if 
 they had been drawn out in a line, one hundred and eighty 
 miles. The fortunes of Scotland were, for the time, com- 
 pletely changed ; and never was a battle won, more famous 
 upon Scottish ground, than this great battle of Bannock- 
 burn. 
 
 Plague and famine succeeded in England ; and still the 
 powerless king and his disdainful lords were always in con- 
 tention. Some of the turbulent chiefs of Ireland made pro- 
 posals to Bruce to accept the rule of that country. He sent 
 his brother Edward to them, who was crowned King of Ire- 
 land. He afterwards went himself to help his brother in his 
 Irish wars, but his brother was defeated in the end and 
 killed. Robert Bruce, returning to Scotland, still increased 
 his strength there. 
 
 As the King's ruin had begun in a favorite, so it seemed 
 likely to end in one. He was too poor a creature to rely at 
 all upon himself, and his new favorite was one Hugh le 
 
146 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Despenser, the son of a gentleman of ancient family. Hugh 
 was handsome and b*ave, but he was the favorite of a weak 
 King, whom no man cared a rush for, and that was a dan- 
 gerous place to hold. The nobles leagued against him, be- 
 cause the King liked him ; and they lay in wait, both for his 
 ruin and his father's. Now, the King had married him to the 
 daughter of the late Earl of Gloucester, and had given both 
 him and his father great possessions in Wales. In their 
 endeavors to extend these, they gave violent offense to an 
 angry Welsh gentleman, named John de Mowbray, and to 
 divers other angry Welsh gentlemen, who resorted to arms, 
 took t^eir castles, and seized their estates. The Earl of 
 Lancaster had first placed the favorite (who was a poor rela- 
 tion of his own) at Court, and he considered his own dignity 
 offended by the preference he received, and the honors he 
 acquired ; so he, and the barons who were his friends, joined 
 the Welshmen, marched onto London, and sent a message to 
 the King demanding to have the favorite and his father ban- 
 ished. At first the King unaccountably took it into his head 
 to be spirited, and to send them a bold reply ; but when they 
 quartered themselves around Holborn and Clerkenwell, and 
 went down, armed, to the Parliament at Westminster, he 
 gave way, and complied with their demands. 
 
 His turn of triumph came sooner than he expected. It 
 arose out of an accidental circumstance. The beautiful 
 Queen happening to be traveling, came one night to one of 
 the royal castles, and demanded to be lodged and entertained 
 there until morning. The governor of this castle, who pas 
 one of the enraged lords, was away, and in his absence, iris 
 wife refused admission to the Queen ; a scuffle took place 
 among the common men on either side, and some of the royal 
 attendants were killed. The people, who cared nothing for 
 the King, were very angry that their beautiful Queen should 
 be thus rudely treated in her own dominions ; and the King, 
 taking advantage of this feeling, besieged the castle, took it, 
 and then called the two Despensers home. Upon this, the 
 confederate lords and the Welshmen went over to Bruce. 
 The King encountered them at Boroughbridge, gained the 
 victory, and took a number of distinguished prisoners; among 
 them the Earl of Lancaster, now an old man, upon whose 
 destruction he was resolved. This earl was taken to his 
 own castle of Pontefract, and there tried and found guilty by 
 an unfair court appointed for the purpose ; he was not even 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 14/ 
 
 allowed to speak in his own defense. He was insulted, 
 pelted, mounted on a starved pony without saddle or bridle, 
 carried out, and beheaded. Eight-and-twenty knights were 
 hanged, drawn and quartered. When the King had de- 
 spatched this bloody work, and had made a fresh and a long 
 truce with Bruce, he took the Despensers into greater favor 
 than ever, and made the father Earl of Winchester. 
 
 One prisoner, and an important one, who was taken at 
 Boroughbridge, made his escape, however, and turned the 
 tide against the King. This was Roger Mortimer, always 
 resolutely opposed to him, who was sentenced to death, and 
 placed for safe custody in the Tower of London. He treated 
 his guards to a quantity of wine into which he had put a 
 sleeping potion, and when they were insensible, broke out of 
 his dungeon, got into a kitchen, climbed up the chimney, let 
 himself down from the roof of the building with a rope-ladder, 
 passed the sentries, got down to the river, and made away in 
 a boat to where servants and horses were waiting for him. 
 He finally escaped to France, where Charles le Bel, the 
 brother of the beautiful Queen, was King. Charles sought to 
 quarrel with the King of England, on pretense of his not 
 having come to do him homage at his coronation. It was 
 proposed that the beautiful Queen should go over to arrange 
 the dispute ; she went, and wrote home to the King, that as> 
 he was sick, and could not come to France himself, perhaps 
 it would be better to send over the young Prince, their son, 
 who was only twelve years old, who could do homage to her 
 brother in his stead, and in whose company she would imme- 
 diately return. The King sent him ; but both he and th# 
 Queen remained at the French Court and Roger Mortimei 
 became the Queen's lover. 
 
 When the King wrote, again and again, to the Queen to 
 come home, she did not reply that she despised him too much 
 to live with him any more (which was the truth), but said 
 she was afraid of the two Despensers. In short, her design 
 was to overthrow the favorite's power, and the King's power, 
 such as it was, and invade England. Having obtained a 
 French force of two thousand men, and being joined by all 
 the English exiles then in France, she landed, within a year, 
 at Orewell, in Suffolk, where she was immediately joined by 
 the Earls of Kent and Norfolk, the King's two brothers ; by 
 other powerful noblemen ; and lastly, by the first English 
 general who was despatched to check her; who went over to 
 
i 4 8 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 her with all his men. The people of London, receiving these 
 tidings, would do nothing for the King, but broke open the 
 Tower, let out all his prisoners, and threw up their caps and 
 hurrahed for the beautiful Queen. 
 
 The King, with his two favorites, fled to Bristol, where he 
 left old Despenser in charge of the town and castle, while 
 he went on with the son to Wales. The Bristol men being 
 opposed to the King, and it being impossible to hold the town 
 with enemies every-where within the walls, Despenser yielded 
 it up on the third day, and was instantly brought to trial for 
 having traitorously influenced what was called " the King's 
 mind " — though I doubt if the King ever had any. He was 
 a venerable old man, upwards of ninety years of age, but his 
 age gained no respect or mercy. He was hanged, torn open 
 while he was yet alive, cut up into pieces, and thrown to the 
 dogs. His son was soon taken, tried at Hereford before the 
 same judge on a long series of foolish charges, found guilty, 
 and hanged upon a gallows fifty feet high, with a chaplet of 
 nettles around his head. His poor old father and he were in- 
 nocent enough of any worse crimes than the crime of having 
 been friends of a King, on whom, as a mere man, they would 
 never have deigned to cast a favorable look. It is a bad 
 crime, I know, and leads to worse ; but, many lords and gen- 
 tlemen — I even think some ladies, too, if I recollect right — 
 have committed it in England, who have neither been given 
 to the dogs, nor hanged up fifty feet high. 
 
 The wretched King was running here and there, all this 
 time, and never getting any wherein particular, until he gave 
 himself up, and was taken off to Kenilworth Castle. When 
 he was safely lodged there, the Queen went to London and 
 met the Parliament. And the Bishop of Hereford, who was 
 the most skillful of her friends, said, What was to be done 
 now ? Here was an imbecile, indolent, miserable King upon 
 the throne ; wouldn't it be better to take him off, and put his 
 son there instead ? I don't know whether the Queen really 
 pitied him at this pass, but she began to cry ; so, the Bishop 
 said, Well, my lords and gentlemen, what do you think, 
 upon the whole, of sending down to Kenilworth, and seeing 
 if His Majesty (God bless him, and forbid we should depose 
 him!) won't resign ? 
 
 My lords and gentlemen thought it a good notion, so a 
 deputation of them went down to Kenilworth ; and there 
 the King came into the great hall of the castle, commonly 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 149 
 
 dressed in a poor black gown ; and when he saw a certain 
 bishop among them, fell down, poor feeble-headed man, and 
 made a wretched spectacle of himself. Somebody lifted him 
 up, and then Sir William Trussel, the Speaker of the House 
 of Commons, almost frightened him to death by making him 
 a tremendous speech to the effect that he was no longer a 
 King, and that every body renounced allegiance to him. 
 After which, Sir Thomas Blount, the Steward of the House- 
 hold, nearly finished him, by coming forward and breaking 
 his white wand — which was a ceremony only performed at 
 a King's death. Being asked in this pressing manner what 
 he thought of resigning, the King said he thought it was the 
 best thing he could do. So he did it, and they proclaimed 
 his son next day. 
 
 I wish I could close his history by saying that he lived a 
 harmless life in the castle and the castle gardens at Kenil- 
 worth many years — that he had a favorite, and plenty to eat 
 and drink — and, having that, wanted nothing. But he was 
 shamefully humiliated. He was outraged and slighted, and 
 had dirty water from ditches given him to shave with, and 
 wept and said he would have clean, warm water, and was al- 
 together very miserable. He was moved from this castle to 
 that castle, and from that castle to the other castle, because 
 this lord or that lord, or the other lord, was too kind to him: 
 until at last he came to Berkeley Castle, near the River Sev- 
 ern, where (the Lord Berkeley being then ill and absent) he 
 fell into the hands of two black ruffians, called Thomas 
 Gournay and William Ogle. 
 
 One night — it was the night of September the twenty 
 first, one thousand three hundred and twenty-seven — dread- 
 ful screams were heard, by the startled people in the neigh- 
 boring town, ringing through the thick walls of the castle, 
 and the dark deep night ; and they said, as they were thus 
 horribly awakened from their sleep, " May Heaven be merci- 
 ful to the King ; for those cries forbode that no good is being 
 done to him in his dismal prison! " Next morning he was 
 dead — not bruised or stabbed, or marked upon the body, 
 but much distorted in the face ; and it was whispered 
 afterward, that those two villains, Gournay and Ogle, had 
 burned up his inside with a red-hot iron. 
 
 If you ever come near Gloucester, and see the center 
 tower of its beautiful cathedral, with its four rich pinnacles, 
 rising lightly in the air, you may remember that the wretched 
 
i$o A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Edward the Second was buried in the old abbey of that 
 ancient city, at forty-three years old, after being for nineteen 
 years and a half a perfectly incapable King. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE THIRD. 
 
 Roger Mortimer, the Queen's lover (who escaped to 
 France in the last chapter), was far from profiting by the 
 examples he had had of the fate of favorites. Having, 
 through the Queen's influence, come into possession of the 
 estates of the two Despensers, he became extremely proud 
 and ambitious, and sought to be the real ruler of England. 
 The young King, who was crowned at fourteen years of age 
 with all the usual solemnities, resolved not to bear this, and 
 soon pursued Mortimer to his ruin. 
 
 The people themselves were not fond of Mortimer — first, 
 because he was a royal favorite ; secondly, because he was 
 supposed to have helped to make a peace with Scotland 
 which now took place, and in virtue of which the young 
 King's sister Joan, only seven years old, was promised in 
 marriage to David, the son and heir of Robert Bruce, who 
 was only five years old. The nobles hated Mortimer be- 
 cause of his pride, riches, and power. They went so far as 
 to take up arms against him : but were obliged to submit. 
 The Earl of Kent, one of those who did so, but who after- 
 ward went over to Mortimer and the Queen, was made an 
 example of in the following cruel manner : 
 
 He seems to have been any thing but a wise old earl ; and 
 he was persuaded by the agents of the favorite and the 
 Queen, that poor King Edward the Second, was not really 
 dead ; and thus was betrayed into writing letters favoring 
 his rightful claim to the throne. This was made out to be 
 high treason, and he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced 
 to be executed. They took the poor old lord outside the town 
 of Winchester, and there kept him waiting some three or four 
 hours unti, they could find somebody to cut off his head. 
 At last, a convict said he would do it, if the government 
 would pardon him in return ; and they gave him the pardon ; 
 and at one blow he put the Earl of Kent out of his last sus- 
 pense. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 151 
 
 While the Queen was in France, she had found a lovely 
 and good young lady, named Philippa, who she thought 
 would make an excellent wife for her son. The young King 
 married this lady, soon after he came to the throne ; and 
 her first child Edward, Prince of Wales, afterward became 
 celebrated, as we shall presently see, under the famous title 
 of Edward the Black Prince. 
 
 The young King, thinking the time ripe for the downfall 
 of Mortimer, took counsel with Lord Montacute how he 
 should proceed. A Parliament was going to be held at Not- 
 tingham, and that lord recommended that the favorite should 
 be seized by night in Nottingham Castle, where he was sure 
 to be. Now this, like many other things, was more easily 
 said than done ; because to guard against treachery, the 
 great gates of the castle were locked every night, and the 
 great keys were carried up stairs to the Queen, who laid 
 them under her own pillow. But the castle had a governor, 
 and the governor being Lord Montacute's friend, confided 
 to him how he knew of a secret passage under-ground, hid- 
 den from observation by the weeds and brambles with which 
 it was overgrown ; and how, through that passage, the con- 
 spirators might enter in the dead of the night, and go straight 
 to Mortimer's room. Accordingly, upon a certain dark 
 night, at midnight, they made their way through this dismal 
 place : startling the rats, and frightening the owls and bats : 
 and came safely to the bottom of the main tower of the 
 castle, where the King met them, and took them up a pro- 
 foundly-dark staircase in a deep silence. They soon heard 
 the voice of Mortimer in council with some friends ; and 
 bursting into the room with a sudden noise, took him 
 prisoner. The Queen cried out from her bed-chamber, " Oh, 
 my sweet son, my dear son, spare my gentle Mortimer ! " 
 They carried him off, however ; and, before the next Parlia- 
 ment accused him of having made differences between the 
 young King and his mother, and of having brought about 
 the death of the Earl of Kent, and even of the late King ; 
 for, as you know by this time, when they wanted to get rid 
 of a man in those old days, they were not very particular of 
 what they accused him. Mortimer was found guilty of all 
 this and was sentenced to be hanged at Tyburn. The King 
 shut his mother up in genteel confinement, where she passed 
 the rest of her life ; and now he became King in earnest. 
 
 The first effort he made was to conquer Scotland. The 
 
i 5 2 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 English lords who had lands in Scotland, finding that theii 
 rights were not respected under the late peace, made war on 
 their own account : choosing for their general, Edward, the 
 son of John Baliol, who made such a vigorous fight, that in 
 less than two months he won the whole Scottish Kingdom. 
 He was joined, when thus triumphant, by the King and par- 
 liament ; and he and the King in person besieged the Scot- 
 tish forces in Berwick. The whole Scottish army coming to 
 the assistance of their countrymen, such a furious battle en- 
 sued, that thirty thousand men are said to have been killed 
 in it. Baliol was then crowned King of Scotland, doing 
 homage to the King of England ; but little came of his suc- 
 cesses after all, for the Scottish men rose against him, within 
 no very long time, and David Bruce came back within ten 
 years and took his kingdom. 
 
 France was a far richer country than Scotland, and the 
 King had a much greater mind to conquer it. So, he let 
 Scotland alone, and pretended that he had a claim to the 
 French throne in right of his mother. He had, in reality, no 
 claim at all ; but that mattered little in those times. He 
 brought over to his cause many little princes and sovereigns, 
 and even courted the alliance of the people of Flanders — a 
 busy, working community, who had very small respect for 
 kings, and whose head man was a brewer. With such forces 
 as he raised by these means, Edward invaded France ; but 
 he did little by that, except run into debt in carrying on the 
 war to the extent of three hundred thousand pounds. The 
 next year he did better; gaining a great sea-fight in the harbor 
 of Sluys. This success, however, was very short-lived, for the 
 Flemings took fright at the siege of Saint Omer and ran away, 
 leaving their weapons and baggage behind them. Philip, the 
 French King, coming up with his army, and Edward being 
 very anxious to decide the war, proposed to settle the 
 difference by single combat with him, or by a fight of one 
 hundred knights on each side. The French King said, he 
 thanked him ; but being very well as he was, he would rather 
 not. So, after some skirmishing and talking, a short peace 
 was made. 
 
 It was soon broken by King Edward's favoring the cause 
 of John, Earl of Montford ; a French nobleman, who assert- 
 ed a claim of his own against the French King, and offered 
 to do homage to England for the Crown of France, if he 
 could obtain it through England's help. This French lord, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 153 
 
 himself, was soon defeated by the French King's son, and 
 shut up in a tower in Paris ; but his wife, a courageous and 
 beautiful woman, who is said to have had the courage of a 
 man, and the heart of a lion, assembled the people of Brit- 
 tany, where she then was ; and, showing them her infant 
 son, made many pathetic entreaties to them not to 
 desert her and their young lord. They took fire at this 
 appeal, and rallied round her .in the strong castle of 
 Hennebon. Here she was not only besieged without 
 by the French under Charles de Blois, but was endan- 
 gered within by a dreary old bishop, who was always 
 representing to the people what horrors they must un- 
 dergo if they were faithful — first from famine, and after- 
 wards from fire and sword. But this noble lady, whose 
 heart never failed her, encouraged her soldiers by her own 
 example ; went from post to post like a great general ; even 
 mounted on horseback fully armed, and, issuing from the 
 castle by a by-path, fell upon the French camp, set fire to the 
 tents, and threw the whole force into disorder. This done, 
 she got safely back to Hennebon again, and was received 
 with loud shouts of joy by the defenders of the castle, who 
 had given her up for lost. As they were now very short of 
 provisions, however, and as they could not dine off enthusi- 
 asm, and as the old bishop was always saying, " I told you 
 what it would come to ! " they began to lose heart, and to 
 talk of yielding the castle up. The brave Countess retiring 
 to an upper room and looking with great grief out to sea, 
 where she expected relief from England, saw, at this very 
 time, the English ships in the distance, and was relieved and 
 rescued ! Sir Walter Manning, the English commander, so 
 admired her courage, that, being come into the castle with 
 the English knights, and having made a feast there, he as- 
 saulted the French, by way of dessert, and beat them off 
 triumphantly. Then he and the knights came back to the 
 castle with great joy ; and the Countess who had watched 
 them from a high tower, thanked them with all her heart, and 
 kissed them every one. 
 
 This noble lady distinguished herself afterwards in a sea- 
 fight with the French off Guernsey, when she was on her way 
 to England to ask for more troops. Her great spirit roused 
 another lady, the wife of another French lord (whom the 
 French King very barbarously murdered), to distinguish her- 
 self scarcely less. The time was fast coming, however, when 
 
154 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Edward, Prince of Wales, was to be the great star of this 
 French and English war. 
 
 It was in the month of July, in the year one thousand 
 three hundred and forty-six, when the King embarked at 
 Southampton for France, with an army of about thirty thou- 
 sand men in all, attended by the Prince of Wales and by 
 several of the chief nobles. He landed at La Hogue in Nor- 
 mandy ; and, burning and destroying as he went, according 
 to custom, advanced up the left bank of the River Seine and 
 fired the small towns even close to Paris ; but, being watched 
 from the right bank of the river by the French King and all 
 his army, it came to this at last, that Edward found himself, 
 on Saturday the twenty-sixth of August, one thousand three 
 hundred and forty-six, on a rising ground behind the little 
 French village of Crecy, face to face with the French King's 
 force. And, although the French King had an enormous 
 .army — in number more than eight times his — he there re- 
 isolved to beat him or be beaten. 
 
 The young Prince, assisted by the Earl of Oxford and the 
 Earl of Warwick, led the first division of the English army ; 
 two other great earls led the second ; and the King, the 
 third. When the morning dawned, the King received the 
 sacrament, and heard prayers, and then, mounted on horse- 
 back with a white wand in his hand, rode from company to 
 company, and rank to rank, cheering and encouraging both 
 ■officers and men. Then the whole army breakfasted, each 
 man sitting on the ground where he had stood ; and then 
 they remained quietly on the ground with their weapons 
 ready. 
 
 Up came the French King with all his great force. It was 
 dark and angry weather ; there was an eclipse of the sun ; 
 there was a thunder-storm, accompanied with tremendous 
 rain ; the frightened birds new screaming above the soldiers' 
 heads. A certain captain in the French army advised 
 the French King, who was by no means cheerful, not 
 to begin the battle until the morrow. The King, taking this 
 advice, gave the word to halt. But, those behind not under- 
 standing it, or desiring to be foremost with the rest, came 
 pressing on. The roads for a great distance were covered 
 with this immense army, and with the common people from 
 the villages, who were flourishing their rude weapons, and 
 making a great noise. Owing to these circumstances, the 
 French army advanced in the greatest confusion ; every 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 155 
 
 French lord doing what he liked with his own men, and 
 putting out the men of every other French lord. 
 
 Now, their King relied strongly upon a great body of cross- 
 bowmen from Genoa ; and these he ordered to the front to 
 begin the battle, on finding that he could not stop it. They 
 shouted once, they shouted twice, they shouted three times, 
 to alarm the English archers ; but, the English would have 
 heard them shout three thousand times and would have 
 never moved. At last the cross-bowmen went forward a 
 little, and began to discharge their bolts ; upon which, the 
 English let fly such a hail of arrows, that the Genoese 
 speedily made off — for their cross-bows, besides being heavy 
 to carry, required to be wound up with a handle, and con- 
 sequently took time to re-load ; the English, on the other 
 hand, could discharge their arrows almost as fast as the 
 arrows could fly. 
 
 When the French King saw the Genoese turning, he cried 
 out to his men to kill those scoundrels, who were doing harm 
 instead of service. This increased the confusion. Meanwhile 
 the English archers, continuing to shoot as fast as ever, shot 
 down great numbers of the French soldiers and knights ; 
 whom certain sly Cornishmen and Welshmen from the En- 
 glish army, creeping along the ground, despatched with great 
 knives. 
 
 The Prince and his division were at this time so hard- 
 pressed, that the Earl of Warwick sent a message to the 
 King, who was overlooking the battle from a windmill, be- 
 seeching him to send more aid. 
 
 " Is my son killed ? " said the King. 
 
 "No, sire, please God," returned the messenger. 
 
 " Is he wounded ? " said the King. 
 
 " No, sire." 
 
 " Is he thrown to the ground ? " said the King. 
 
 " No, sire, not so ; but, he is very hard-pressed." 
 
 " Then," said the King, " go back to those who sent you, 
 and tell them I shall send no aid ; because I set my heart upon 
 my son proving himself this day a brave knight, and because 
 I am resolved, please God, that the honor of a great victory 
 shall be his ! " 
 
 These bold words, being reported to the Prince and his di- 
 vision, so raised their spirits, that they fought better than ever. 
 The King of France charged gallantly with his men many 
 times ; but it was of no use. Night closing in, his horse waj 
 
156 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 killed under him by an English arrow, and the knights and 
 nobles who had clustered thick about him early in the day, 
 were now completely scattered. At last some of his few 
 remaining followers led him off the field by force, since he 
 would not retire of himself, and they journeyed away to 
 Amiens. The victorious English, lighting their watch-fires, 
 made merry on the field, and the King, riding to meet his gal- 
 lant son, took him in his arms, kissed him, and told him that 
 he had acted nobly, and proved himself worthy of the day and 
 of the crown. While it was yet night, King Edward was hardly 
 aware of the great victory he had gained ; but, next day, it was 
 discovered that eleven princes, twelve hundred knights, and 
 thirty thousand common men lay dead upon the French side. 
 Among these was the King of Bohemia, an old blind man ; 
 who, having been told that his son was wounded in the battle, 
 and that no force could stand against the Black Prince, called 
 to him two knights, put himself on horseback between them, 
 fastened the three bridles together, and dashed in among the 
 English, where he was presently slain. He bore on his crest 
 three white ostrich feathers, with the motto Ich dien, signify- 
 ing in English "I serve." This crest and motto were taken 
 by the Prince of Wales in remembrance of that famous day, 
 and have been borne by the Prince of Wales ever since. 
 
 Five days after this great battle, the King laid siege to 
 Calais. This siege — ever .afterwards memorable — lasted 
 nearly a year. In order to starve the inhabitants out, King 
 Edward built so many wooden houses for the lodging of his 
 troops, that it is said their quarters looked like a second 
 Calais- suddenly sprung up around the first. Early in the 
 siege, the governor of the town drove out what he called the 
 useless mouths, to the number of seventeen hundred persons, 
 *ien and women, young and old. King Edward allowed 
 them to pass through his lines, and even fed them, and dis- 
 missed them with money ; but, later in the siege, he was not 
 so merciful — five hundred more, who were afterwards driven 
 out, dying of starvation and misery. The garrison were so 
 hard-pressed at last, that they sent a letter to King Philip, 
 telling him that they had eaten all the horses, all the dogs, 
 and all the rats and mice that could be found in the place ; 
 and, that if he did not relieve them, they must either surren- 
 der to the English, or eat one another. Philip made one 
 effort to give them relief ; but they were so hemmed in by the 
 English power, that he could not succeed, and was fain t(> 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 157 
 
 leave the place. Upon this they hoisted the English flag, and 
 surrendered to King Edward. "Tell your generals," said he 
 to the humble messenger who came out of the town, " that 
 I require to have sent here, six of the most distinguished cit 
 izens, bare-legged, and in their shirts, with ropes about their 
 necks ; and let those six men bring with them the keys of 
 the castle and the town." 
 
 When the governor of Calais related this to the people in 
 the Market-place, there was great weeping and distress ; in 
 the midst of which, one worthy citizen, named Eustace de 
 Saint Pierre, rose up and said, that if the six men required 
 were not sacrificed, the whole population would be ; therefore 
 he offered himself as the first. Encouraged by this bright 
 example, five other worthy citizens rose up one after another, 
 and offered themselves to save the rest. The governor, who 
 was too badly wounded to be able to walk, mounted a poor 
 old horse that had not been eaten, and conducted these good 
 men to the gate, while all the people cried and mourned. 
 
 Edward received them wrathfully, and ordered the heads 
 of the whole six to be struck off. However, the good Queen 
 fell upon her knees, and besought the King to give them up 
 to her. The King replied, " I wish you had been somewhere 
 else ; but I cannot refuse you." So she had them properly 
 dressed, made a feast for them, and sent them back with a 
 handsome present, to the great rejoicing of the whole camp. 
 I hope the people of Calais loved the daughter to whom she 
 gave birth soon afterwards, for her gentle mother's sake. 
 
 Now came that terrible disease, the Plague, into Europe, 
 hurrying from the heart of China ; and killed the wretched 
 people — especially the poor — in such enormous numbers, 
 that one-half of the inhabitants of England are related to have 
 died of it. It killed the cattle, in great numbers, too ; and 
 so few working men remained alive, that there were not 
 enough left to till the ground. 
 
 After eight years of differing and quarreling, the Prince 
 of Wales again invaded France with an army of sixty thou- 
 sand men. He went through the south of the country, burn- 
 ing and plundering wheresoever he went ; while his father, 
 who had still the Scottish war upon his hands, did the like in 
 Scotland, but was harassed and worried in his retreat from 
 that country by the Scottish men, who repaid his cruelties 
 with interest. 
 
 The French King, Philip, was now dead, and was sue- 
 
158 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ceeded by his son John. The Black Prince, called by the 
 name from the color of the armor he wore to set off his fair 
 complexion, continuing to burn and destroy in France, roused 
 John into determined opposition ; and so cruel had the Black 
 Prince been in his campaign, and so severely had the French 
 peasants suffered, that he could not find one who, for love, 
 or money, or the fear of death, would tell him what the 
 French King was doing, or where he was. Thus it happened 
 that he came upon the French King's forces, all of a sudden, 
 near the town of Poitiers, and found that the whole neigh- 
 boring country was occupied by a vast French army. " God 
 help us ! " said the Black Prince, " we must make the best 
 of it." 
 
 So, on a Sunday morning, the eighteenth of September, 
 the Prince — whose army was now reduced to ten thousand 
 men in all — prepared to give battle to the French King, 
 who had sixty thousand horse alone. While he was so en- 
 gaged, there came riding from the French camp, a cardinal, 
 who had persuaded John to let him offer terms, and try to 
 save the shedding of Christian blood. " Save my honor," 
 said the Prince to this good priest, " and save the honor of 
 my army, and I will make any reasonable terms." He offered 
 to give up all the towns, castles, and prisoners, he had taken, 
 and to swear to make no war in France for seven years ; but 
 as John would hear of nothing but his surrender, with a hun- 
 dred of his chief knights, the treaty was broken off, and the 
 Prince said quietly — " God defend the right ; we shall fight 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Therefore on the Monday morning at break of day, the 
 two armies prepared for battle. The English were posted in 
 a strong place, which could only be approached by one nar- 
 row lane, skirted by hedges on both sides. The French at- 
 tacked them by this lane ; but were so galled and slain by 
 English arrows from behind the hedges, that they were forced 
 to retreat. Then went six hundred English bowmen round 
 about, and, coming upon the rear of the French army, rained 
 arrows on them thick and fast. The French knights, thrown 
 into confusion, quitted their banners and dispersed in all 
 directions. Said Sir John Chandos to the Prince, " Ride 
 forward, noble Prince, and fhe day is yours. The King of 
 France is so valiant a gentleman, that I know he will never 
 fly, and may be taken prisoner." Said the Prince to this, 
 " Advance, English banners, in the name of God and St. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND, '159 
 
 George! " and on they pressed until they came up with the 
 French King, fighting fiercely with his battle-ax, and fc when 
 all his nobles had forsaken him, attended faithfully to the 
 last by his youngest son, Philip, only sixteen years of age. 
 Father and son fought well, and the King had already two 
 wounds in his face, and had been beaten down, when he at 
 last delivered himself to a banished French knight, and gave 
 him his right-hand glove in token that he had done so. 
 
 The Black Prince was generous as well as brave, and he 
 invited his royal prisoner to supper in his tent, and waited 
 upon him at table, and, when they afterwards rode into Lon- 
 don in a gorgeous procession, mounted the French King on. 
 a fine cream-colored horse, and rode at his side on a little- 
 pony. This was all very kind, but I think it was, perhaps, a. 
 little theatrical too, and has been made more meritorious than: 
 it deserved to be ; especially as I am inclined to think that: 
 the greatest kindness to the King of France would have beeni 
 not to have shown him to the people at all. However, it 
 must be said, for these acts of politeness, that, in course of 
 time, they did much to soften the horrors of war and the 
 passions of conquerors. It was a long, long time before the 
 common soldiers began to have the benefit of such courtly 
 deeds ; but they did at last ; and thus it is possible that a 
 poor soldier who asked for quarter at the battle of Waterloo, 
 or any other such great fight, may have owed his life indi- 
 rectly to Edward the Black Prince. 
 
 At this time there stood in the Strand, in London, a palace 
 called the Savoy, which was given up to the captive King of 
 France and his son for their residence. As the King of Scot- 
 land had now been King Edward's captive for eleven years 
 too, his success was, at this time, tolerably complete. The 
 Scottish business was settled by the prisoner being released 
 under the title of Sir David, King of Scotland, and by his 
 engaging to pay a large ransom. The state of France en- 
 couraged England to propose harder terms to that country, 
 where the people rose against the unspeakable cruelty and 
 barbarity of" its nobles ; where the nobles rose in turn against 
 the people ; where the most frightful outrages were committed 
 on all sides ; and where the insurrection of the peasants, 
 called the insurrection of the Jacquerie, from Jacques, a com- 
 mon Christian name among the country people of France, 
 awakened terrors and hatreds that have scarcely yet passed 
 away. A treaty called the Great Peace, was at last signed, 
 
i6o A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 under which King Edward agreed to give up the greater part 
 of his conquests, and King John to pay, within six years, a 
 ransom of three million crowns of gold. He was so beset by 
 his own nobles and courtiers for having yielded to these con- 
 ditions — though they could help him to no better — that he 
 came back of his own will to his old palace-prison of the 
 Savoy, and there died. 
 
 There was a sovereign of Castile at that time, called Pedro 
 the -Cruel, who deserved the name remarkably well: having 
 committed, among other cruelties, a variety of murders. 
 This amiable monarch being driven from his throne for his 
 crimes, went to the province of Bordeaux, where the Black 
 Prince — now married to his cousin Joan, a pretty widow — 
 was residing, and besought his help. The Prince, who took 
 to him much more kindly than a prince of such fame ought 
 to have taken to such a ruffian, readily listened to his fair 
 promises, and agreeing to help him, sent secret orders to 
 some troublesome disbanded soldiers of his and his father's, 
 who called themselves the Free Companions, and who had 
 been a pest to the French people, for some time, to aid this 
 Pedro. The Prince, himself, going into Spain to head the 
 army of relief, soon set Pedro on his throne again — where he 
 no sooner found himself, than, of course, he behaved like 
 the villain he was, broke his word without the least shame, 
 and abandoned all the promises he had made to the Black 
 Prince. 
 
 Now, it had cost the Prince a good deal of money to pay 
 soldiers to support this murderous King ; and finding himself, 
 w r hen he came back disgusted to Bordeaux, not only in bad 
 health, but deeply in debt, he began to tax his French sub- 
 jects to pay his creditors. They appealed to the French 
 King Charles ; war again broke out ; and the French town 
 of Limoges, which the Prince had greatly benefited, went 
 over to the French King. Upon this he ravaged the province 
 of which it was the capital ; burned, and plundered, and killed 
 in the old sickening way ; and refused mercy to the prison- 
 ers, men, women, and children taken in the offending town, 
 though he was so ill and so much in need of pity himself from 
 Heaven, that he was carried in a litter. He lived to come 
 home and. make himself popular with the people and Parlia- 
 ment, and he died on Trinity Sunday, the eighth of June, 
 one thousand three hundred and seventy-six, at forty-six 
 years old. 
 
KING JOHN OF FRANCE AT THE BATTI E 01 TOiriERG. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 161 
 
 The whole nation mourned for him as one of the most re- 
 nowned and beloved" princes it had ever had; and he was 
 buried with great lamentations in Canterbury Cathedral. 
 Near to the tomb of Edward the Confessor, his monument, 
 with his figure, carved in stone, and represented in the old 
 black armor, lying on its back, may be seen at this day, with 
 an ancient coat of mail, a helmet, and a pair of gauntlets 
 hanging from a beam above it, which most people like to be- 
 lieve were once worn by the Black Prince. 
 
 King Edward did not outlive his renowned son long. He 
 was old, and one Alice Perrers, a beautiful lady, had con- 
 trived to make him so fond of her in his old age, that he 
 could refuse her nothing, and made himself ridiculous. She 
 little deserved his love, or — what I dare say she valued a 
 great deal more — the jewels of the late Queen, which h^, 
 gave her among other rich presents. She took the very 
 ring from his finger on the morning of the day when he died, 
 and left him to be pillaged by his faithless servants. Only 
 one good priest was true to him, and attended him to the 
 last. 
 
 Besides being famous for the great victories I have related, 
 the reign of King Edward the Third was rendered memorable 
 in better ways, by the growth of architecture and the erection 
 of Windsor Castle. In better ways still, by the rising up of 
 Wickliff e, originally a poor parish priest : who devoted him- 
 self to exposing, with wonderful power and success, the 
 ambition and corruption of the Pope, and of the whole 
 church of which he was the head. 
 
 Some of those Flemings were induced to come to England 
 in this reign too, and to settle in Norfolk, where they made 
 better woolen cloths than the English had ever, had before. 
 The Order of the Garter (a very fine thing in its way, but 
 hardly so important as good clothes for the nation) also dates 
 from this period. The King is said to have picked up a 
 lady's garter at a ball, and to have said Honi soit qui mal y 
 p ense — in English " Evil be to him who evil thinks of it." 
 The • courtiers were usually glad to imitate what the King 
 said or did, and hence from a slight incident the Order of the 
 Garter was instituted, and became a great dignity. So the 
 story goes. 
 
i62 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE SECOND. 
 
 Richard, son of the Black Prince, a boy eleven years of 
 age, succeeded to the Crown under the title of King Richard 
 the Second. The whole English nation were ready to ad- 
 mire him for the sake of his brave father. As to the lords 
 and ladies about the Court, they declared him to be the 
 most beautiful, the wisest, and the best — even of princes — 
 whom the lords and ladies about the Court, generally declare 
 to be the most beautiful, the wisest, and the best of mankind. 
 To natter a poor boy in this base manner was not a very 
 likely way to develop whatever good was in him ; and it 
 brought him to any thing but a good or happy end. 
 
 The Duke of Lancaster, the young King's uncle — com- 
 monly called John of Gaunt, from having been born at 
 Ghent, which the common people so pronounced — was sup- 
 posed to have some thoughts of the throne himself ; but, as 
 he was not popular, and the memory of the Black Prince 
 was, he submitted to his nephew. 
 
 The war with France being still unsettled, the Govern- 
 ment of England wanted money to provide for the expenses 
 that might arise out of it ; accordingly a certain tax, called 
 the poll-tax, which had originated in the last reign, was 
 ordered to be levied on the people. This was a tax on every 
 person in the kingdom, male and female, above the age of 
 fourteen, of three groats (or three fourpenny pieces) a year ; 
 clergymen were charged more, and only beggars were ex- 
 empt. 
 
 I have no need to repeat that the common people of En- 
 gland had long been suffering under great oppression. They 
 were still the mere slaves of the lords of the land on which 
 they lived, and were on most occasions harshly and unjustly 
 treated. But, they had begun by this time to think very 
 seriously of not bearing quite so much ; and, probably, were 
 emboldened, by that French insurrection I mentioned in the 
 last chapter. 
 
 The people of Essex rose against the poll-tax, and being 
 severely handled by the government officers, killed some of 
 them. At this very time one of the tax-collectors, going his 
 rounds from house to house, at Dartford in Kent, came to 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. i6j 
 
 the cottage of one Wat, a tiler by trade, and claimed the tax 
 upon his daughter. Her mother, who was at home, declared 
 that she was under the age of fourteen ; upon that, the col- 
 lector (as other collectors had already done in different parts 
 of England) behaved in a savage way, and brutally insulted 
 Wat Tyler's daughter. The daughter screamed, the mother 
 screamed. Wat the Tiler, who was at work not far off, ran 
 to the spot, and did what any honest father under such prov- 
 ocation might have done — struck the collector dead at a 
 blow. 
 
 Instantly the people of that town uprose as one man. 
 They made Wat Tyler their leader ; they joined with the 
 people of Essex, who were in arms under a priest called 
 Jack Straw ; they took out of prison another priest named 
 John Ball ; and gathering in numbers as they went along, 
 advanced, in a great confused army of poor men, to Black- 
 heath. It is said that they wanted to abolish all property, 
 and to declare all men equal. I do not think this very likely ; 
 because they stopped the travelers on the roads and made 
 them swear to be true to King Richard and the people. Nor 
 were they at all disposed to injure those who had done them 
 no harm, merely because they were of high station ; for, the 
 King's mother, who had to pass through their camp at Black- 
 heath, on her way to her young son, lying for safety in the 
 Tower of London, had merely to kiss a few dirty-faced, 
 rough-bearded men who were noisily fond of royalty, and 
 so got away in perfect safety. Next day the whole mass 
 marched on to London Bridge. 
 
 There was a drawbridge in the middle, which William 
 Walworth, the Mayor, caused to be raised to prevent their 
 coming into the city ; but they soon terrified the citizens in- 
 to lowering it again, and spread themselves, with great up- 
 roar, over the streets. They broke open the prisons ; they 
 burned the papers in Lambeth Palace ; they destroyed the 
 Duke of Lancaster's Palace, the Savoy, in the Strand, said 
 to be the most beautiful and splendid in England ; they set 
 fire to the books and documents in the Temple ; and made 
 a great riot. Many of these outrages were committed in 
 drunkenness ; since those citizens, who had well-filled cellars, 
 were only too glad to throw them open to save the rest of 
 their property ; but even the drunken rioters were very care- 
 ful to steal nothing. They were so angry with one man, who 
 was seen to take a silver cup at the Savoy Palace, and put 
 
164 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 it in his breast, that they drowned him in the river, cup and 
 all. 
 
 The young King had been taken out to treat with them 
 before they committed these excesses ; but, he and the peo- 
 ple about him were so frightened by the riotous shouts, that 
 they got back to the Tower in the best way they could. 
 This made the insurgents bolder ; so they went on rioting 
 away, striking off the heads of those who did not, 
 at a moment's notice, declare for King Richard and the 
 people ; and killing as many of the unpopular persons 
 whom they supposed to be their enemies as they could 
 by any means lay hold of. In this manner they passed 
 one very violent day, and then proclamation was made 
 that the King would meet them at Mile-end, and grant their 
 requests. 
 
 The rioters went to Mile-end to the number of sixty thou- 
 sand, and the King met them there, and to the King the 
 rioters peaceably proposed four conditions. First, that 
 neither they, nor their children, nor any coming after them, 
 should be made slaves any more. Secondly, that the rent 
 of land should be fixed at a certain price in money, instead 
 of being paid in service. Thirdly, that they should have 
 liberty to buy and sell in all markets and public places, like 
 other free men. Fourthly, that they should be pardoned for 
 past offenses. Heaven knows, there was nothing very un- 
 reasonable in these proposals ! The young King deceitfully 
 pretended to think so, and kept thirty clerks up, all night, 
 writing out a charter accordingly. 
 
 Now, Wat Tyler himself wanted more than this. He 
 wanted the entire abolition of the forest laws. He was not 
 at Mile-end with the rest, but, while that meeting was being 
 held, broke into the Tower cf London and slew the arch- 
 bishop and the treasurer, for whose heads the people had 
 cried out loudly the day before. He and his men even 
 thrust their swords into the bed of the Princess of Wales 
 while the Princess was in it, to make certain that none of 
 their enemies were concealed there. 
 
 So, Wat and his men still continued armed, and rode about 
 the city. Next morning, the King with a small train of some 
 sixty gentlemen — among whom was Walworth, the Mayor — 
 rode into Smithfield, and saw Wat and his people at a little 
 distance. Says Wat to his men, " There is the King. I will 
 go speak with him, and tell him what we want." 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 165 
 
 Straightway Wat rode up to .him, and began to talk 
 " King," says Wat, " dost thou see all my men there ? " 
 
 " Ah," says the King. " Why ? " 
 
 " Because," says Wat, " they are all at my command, and 
 have sworn to do whatever I bid them." 
 
 Some declared afterward that as Wat said this, he laid his 
 hand on the King's bridle. Others declared that he was 
 seen to play with his own dagger. 1 think, myself, that he 
 just spoke to the King like a rough, angry man, as he was, 
 and did nothing more. At any rate he was expecting no at- 
 tack, and preparing for no resistance, when Walworth, the 
 Mayor did the not very valiant deed of drawing a short 
 sword and stabbing him in the throat. He dropped from his 
 horse, and one of the King's people speedily finished him. 
 So fell Wat Tyler. Fawners and flatterers made a mighty 
 triumph of it, and set up a cry which will occasionally find 
 an echo to this day. But Wat was a hard-working man, 
 who had suffered much, and had been foully outraged ; and 
 it is probable that he was a man of a much higher nature 
 and a much braver spirit than any of the parasites who ex- 
 ulted then, or have exulted since, over his defeat. 
 
 Seeing Wat down, his men immediately bent their bows to 
 avenge his fall. If the young King had not had presence of 
 mind at that dangerous moment, both he and the Mayor to 
 boot, might have followed Tyler pretty fast. But the King 
 riding up to the crowd, cried out that Tyler was a traitor, 
 and that he would be their leader. They were so taken by 
 surprise, that they set up a great shouting, and followed the 
 boy until he was met at Islington by a large body of soldiers. 
 
 The end of this rising was the then usual end. As soon 
 as the King found himself safe, he unsaid all he had said, 
 and undid all he had done ; some fifteen hundred of the 
 rioters were tried (mostly in Essex) with great rigor, and 
 executed with great cruelty. Many of them were hanged on 
 gibbets, and left there as a terror to the country people ; 
 and, because their miserable friends took some of the bodies 
 down to bury, the King ordered the rest to be chained up— 
 which was the beginning of the barbarous custom of hang- 
 ing in chains. The King's falsehood in this business makes 
 such a pitiful figure, that I think Wat Tyler appears in his- 
 tory as beyond comparison the truer and more respectable 
 man of the two. 
 
 Richard was now sixteen years of age, and married Anns 
 
166 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 of Bohemia, an excellent princess, who was called " the good 
 Queen Anne." She deserved a better husband ; for the 
 King had been fawned and nattered into a treacherous, 
 wasteful, dissolute, bad young man. 
 
 There were two Popes at this time (as if one were not 
 enough !), and their quarrels involved Europe in a great deal 
 of trouble. Scotland was still troublesome too ; and at 
 home there was much jealousy and distrust, and plotting and 
 counter-plotting, because the King feared the ambition of 
 his relations, and particularly of his uncle, the Duke of 
 Lancaster, and the duke had his party against the King, and 
 the King had his party against the duke. Nor were these 
 home troubles lessened when the duke went to Castile to urge 
 his claim to the crown of that kingdom ; for then the Duke 
 of Gloucester, another of Richard's uncles, opposed him, 
 and influenced the Parliament to demand the dismissal of the 
 King's favorite ministers. The King said in reply, that he 
 would not for such men dismiss the meanest servant in his 
 kitchen. But, it had begun to signify little what a King said 
 when a Parliament was determined ; so Richard was at last 
 obliged to give way, and to agree to another Government of 
 the kingdom, under a commission of fourteen nobles, for a 
 year. His uncle of Gloucester was at the head of this com- 
 mission, and, in fact, appointed everybody composing it. 
 
 Having done all this, the King declared as soon as he saw 
 an opportunity that he had never meant to do it, and that it 
 was all illegal ; and he got the judges secretly to sign a dec- 
 laration to that effect. The secret oozed out directly, and 
 was carried to the Duke of Gloucester. The Duke of Glou- 
 cester, at the head of forty thousand men, met the King on 
 his entering into London to enforce his authority ; the King 
 was helpless against him ; his favorites and ministers were im- 
 peached and were mercilessly executed. Among them were 
 two men whom the people regarded with very different feel- 
 ings ; one, Robert Tresilian, Chief Justice, who was hated 
 for having made what was called " the bloody circuit " to try 
 the rioters ; the.other, Sir Simon Burley, an honorable knight, 
 who had been the dear friend of the Black Prince, and the 
 governor and guardian of the King. For this gentleman's 
 life the good Queen even begged of Gloucester on her 
 knees ; but Gloucester (with or without reason) feared and 
 hated him, and replied, that if she valued her husband's 
 crown, she had better beg no more. All this was done under 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 167 
 
 what was called by some the wonderful— and by others, with 
 better reason, the merciless — Parliament. 
 
 But Gloucester's power was not to last forever. He held 
 it for only a year longer ; in which year the famous battle of 
 Otterbourne, sung in the old ballad of Chevy Chase, was 
 fought. When the year was out, the King, turning suddenly 
 to Gloucester, in the midst of a great council said, " Uncle, 
 how old am I ? " " Your highness," returned the Duke, " is 
 in your twenty-second year." " Am I so much ? " said the 
 King, " then I will manage my own affairs ! I am much 
 obliged to you, my good lords, for your past services, but I 
 need them no more." He followed this up, by appointing a 
 new Chancellor and a new Treasurer, and announced to the 
 people that he had resumed the Government. He held it 
 for eight years without opposition. Through all that time, 
 he kept his determination to revenge himself some day upon 
 his uncle Gloucester, in his own breast. 
 
 At last the good Queen died, and then the King, desiring 
 to take a second wife, proposed to his council that he should 
 marry Isabella, of France, the daughter of Charles the Sixth: 
 who, the French courtiers said (as the English courtiers had 
 said of Richard), was a marvel of beauty and wit, and quite 
 a phenomenon — of seven years old. The council were di- 
 vided about this marriage, but it took place. It secured 
 peace between England and France for a quarter of a cen- 
 tury ; but it was strongly opposed to the prejudices of the 
 English people. The Duke of Gloucester, who v/as anxious 
 to take the occasion of making himself popular, declaimed 
 against it loudly, and this at length decided the King to ex- 
 ecute the vengeance he had been nursing so long. 
 
 He went with a gay company to the Duke of Gloucester's 
 house, Pleshey Castle, in Essex, where the Duke, suspecting 
 nothing, came out into the court-yard to receive his royal 
 visitor. While the King conversed in a friendly manner with 
 the Duchess, the Duke was quietly seized, hurried away, 
 shipped for Calais, and lodged in the castle there. His 
 friends, the Earls of Arundel and Warwick, were taken in 
 the same treacherous manner, and confined to their castles. 
 A few days after, at Nottingham, they were impeached of 
 high treason. The Earl of Arundel was condemned and 
 beheaded, and the Earl of Warwick was banished. Then, a 
 writ was sent by a messenger to the Governor of Calais, re- 
 quiring him to send the Duke of Gloucester over to be tried* 
 
168 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 In three days he returned an answer that he could not do 
 that, because the Duke of Gloucester had died in prison. 
 The Duke was declared a traitor, his property was confis- 
 cated to the King, a real or pretended confession he had made 
 in the prison to one of the Justices of the Common Pleas 
 was produced against him, and there was an end of the mat- 
 ter. How the unfortunate duke died, very few cared to 
 know. Whether he really died naturally ; whether he killed 
 himself ; whether, by the King's order, he was strangled, or 
 smothered between two beds (as a serving-man of the Gov- 
 ernor'b named Hall, did afterward declare), cannot be dis- 
 covered. There is not much doubt that he was killed, some- 
 how or other, by his nephew's orders. Among the most 
 active nobles in these proceedings were the King's cousin, 
 Henry Bolingbroke, whom the King had make Duke of Here- 
 ford to smooth down the old family quarrels, and some 
 others : who had in the family-plotting times done just such 
 acts themselves as they now condemned in the duke. They 
 seem to have been a corrupt set of men ; but such men were 
 easily found about the court in such days. 
 
 The people murmured at all this, and were still very sore 
 about the French marriage. The nobles saw how little the 
 King cared for law, and how crafty he was, and began to be 
 somewhat afraid of themselves. The King's life was a life 
 of continued feasting and excess; his retinue,down to the 
 meanest servants, were dressed in the most costly manner, 
 and caroused at his tables ; it is related, to the number of 
 ten thousand persons every day. He himself, surrounded 
 by a body of ten thousand archers, and enriched by a duty 
 on wool which the Commons had granted him for life, saw 
 no danger of ever being otherwise than powerful and abso- 
 lute, and was as fierce and haughty as a King could be. 
 
 He had two of his old enemies left, in the persons of the 
 Dukes of Hereford and Norfolk. Sparing these no more 
 than the others, he tampered with the Duke of Hereford un- 
 til he got him to declare before the Council that the Duke of 
 Norfolk had lately held some treasonable talk with him, as 
 he was riding near Brentford ; and that he had told him, 
 among other things, that he could noi believe the King's 
 oath — which nobody could, I should think. For this treach- 
 ery he obtained a pardon, and the Duke of Norfolk was sum- 
 moned to appear and defend himself. As he denied the 
 charge and said his accuser was a liar and a traitor, both 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 169 
 
 noblemen, according to the manner of those times, were 
 held in custody, and the truth was ordered to be decided by 
 wager of battle at Coventry. This wager of battle meant 
 that whomsoever won the combat was to be considered in 
 the right ; which nonsense meant in effect, that no strong 
 man could ever be wrong. A great holiday was made ; a 
 great crowd assembled, with much parade and show ; and 
 the two combatants were about to rush at each other with 
 their lances, when the King, sitting in a pavilion to see fair, 
 threw down the truncheon which he carried in his hand, and 
 forbade the battle. The Duke of Hereford was to be ban- 
 ished for ten years, and the Duke of Norfolk was to be ban- 
 ished for life. So said the King. The Duke of Hereford 
 went to France and went no further. The Duke of Norfolk 
 made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and afterwards died 
 at Venice of a broken heart. 
 
 Faster and fiercer, after this, the King went on in his 
 career. The Duke of Lancaster, who was the father of the 
 Duke of Hereford, died soon after the departure of his son ; 
 and, the King, although he had solemnly granted to that son 
 leave to inherit his father's property, if it should come to him 
 during his banishment, immediately seized it all, like a rob- 
 ber. The judges were so afraid of him, that they disgraced 
 themselves by declaring this theft to be just and lawful. 
 His avarice knew no bounds. He outlawed seventeen coun- 
 ties at once, on a frivolous pretense, merely to raise money 
 by way of fines for misconduct. In short, he did as many 
 dishonest things as he could ; and cared so little for the dis- 
 content of his subjects — though even the spaniel favorites 
 began to whisper to him that there was such a thing as dis- 
 content afloat — that he took that time, of all others, for leav- 
 ing England and making an expedition against the Irish. 
 
 He was scarcely gone, leaving the Duke of York Regent 
 in his absence, when his cousin, Henry of Hereford, came 
 over from France to claim the rights of which he had been 
 so monstrously deprived. He was immediately joined by the 
 two great Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland; and 
 his uncle, the Regent, finding the King's cause unpopular, 
 and the disinclination of the army to act against Henry, 
 very strong, withdrew the royal forces towards Bristol. 
 Henry, at the head of an army, came from Yorkshire (where 
 he had landed) to London and followed him. They joined 
 their forces — how they brought that about is not distinctly 
 
X7o A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 understood — and proceeded to Bristol Castle, whither three 
 noblemen had taken the young Queen. The castle surren- 
 dering, they presently put those three noblemen to death. 
 The Regent then remained there, and Henry went on to 
 Chester. 
 
 All this time, the boisterous weather had prevented the 
 King from receiving intelligence of what had occurred. At 
 length it was conveyed to him in Ireland, and he sent over 
 the Earl of Salisbury, who, landing at Conway, rallied the 
 Welshmen, and waited for the King a whole fortnight ; at 
 the end of that time the Welshmen, who were perhaps not 
 very warm for him in the beginning, quite cooled down and 
 went home. When the King did land on the coast at last, 
 he came with a pretty good power, but his men cared noth- 
 ing for him, and quickly deserted. Supposing the Welsh- 
 men to be still at Conway, he disguised himself as a priest, 
 and made for that place in company with his two brothers 
 and some few of their adherents. But there were no Welsh- 
 men left — only Salisbury and a hundred soldiers. In this 
 distress, the King's two brothers, Exeter and Surrey, offered 
 to go to Henry to learn what his intentions were. Surrey, who 
 was true to Richard, was put into prison, Exeter, who was 
 false, took the royal badge, which was a hart, off his shield, 
 and assumed the rose, the badge of Henry. After this, it 
 was pretty plain to the King what Henry's intentions were, 
 without sending any more messengers to ask. 
 
 The fallen King, thus deserted — hemmed in on all sides, 
 and pressed with hunger — rode here and rode there, and went 
 to this castle, and went to that castle, endeavoring to obtain 
 some provisions, but could find none. He rode wretchedly 
 back to Conway, and there surrendered himself to the Earl 
 of Northumberland, who came from Henry, in reality to take 
 him prisoner, but in appearance to offer terms ; and whose 
 men were hidden not far off. By this earl he was conducted 
 to the castle of Flint, where his cousin Henry met him, and 
 dropped on his knee as if he were still respectful to his sov- 
 ereign. 
 
 " Fair cousin of Lancaster," said the King, "you are very 
 welcome " (very welcome, no doubt ; but he would have 
 been more so, in chains or without a head). 
 
 " My lord," replied Henry, " I am come a little before my 
 time ; but, with your good pleasure, I will show you the 
 reason. Your people complain with some bitterness, that 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 171 
 
 you have ruled them rigorously for two-and-twenty years. 
 Now, if it please God, I will help you to govern them better 
 in future." 
 
 " Fair cousin," replied the abject King, " since it pleaseth 
 you, it pleaseth me mightily." 
 
 After this, the trumpets sounded, and the King was stuck 
 on a wretched horse, and carried prisoner to Chester, where 
 he was made to issue a proclamation, calling a Parliament. 
 From Chester he was taken on towards London. At Lichfield 
 he tried to escape by getting out of a window and letting 
 himself down into a garden ; it was all in vain, however, 
 and he was carried on and shut up in the Tower, where no 
 one pitied him, and where the whole people, whose patience 
 he had quite tired out, reproached him without mercy. Be- 
 fore he got there, it is related, that his very dog left him 
 and departed from his side to lick the hand of Henry. 
 
 The day before the Parliament met, a deputation went to 
 this wrecked King, and told him that he had promised the 
 Earl Of Northumberland at Conway Castle to resign the 
 crown. He said he was quite ready to do it, and signed a 
 paper in which he renounced his authority and absolved his 
 people from their allegiance to him. He had so little spirit 
 left that he gave his royal ring to his triumphant cousin 
 Henry with his own hand, and said, that if he could have had 
 leave to appoint a successor, that same Henry was the man 
 of all others whom he would have named. Next day, the 
 Parliament assembled in Westminster Hall, where Henry sat 
 at the side of the throne, which was empty and covered with 
 a cloth of gold. The paper just signed by the King was read 
 to the multitude amid shouts of joy, which were echoed 
 through all the streets ; when some of the noise had died 
 away, the King was formally deposed. Then Henry arose, 
 and, making the sign of the cross on his forehead and breast, 
 challenged the realm of England as his right ; the arch- 
 bishops of Canterbury and York seated him on the throne. 
 
 The multitude shouted again, and the shouts re-echoed 
 throughout all the streets. No one remembered, now, that 
 Richard the Second had ever been the most beautiful, the 
 wisest, and the best of princes ; and he now made living (to 
 my thinking) a far more sorry spectacle in the Tower of 
 London, than Wat Tyler had made, lying dead, among the 
 hoofs of the royal horses in Smithfield. 
 
 The Poll-tax died with Wat. The smiths to the King and 
 
172 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Royal Family could make no claims in which the King 
 could hang the people's recollection of him ; so the Poll-tax 
 was never collected. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FOURTH, CALLED BOLING- 
 
 BROKE. 
 
 During the last reign, the preaching of Wickliffe against 
 the pride and cunning of the Pope and all his men, had made 
 a great noise in England. Whether the new King wished to 
 be in favor with the priests, or whether he hoped, by pre- 
 tending to be very religious, to cheat Heaven itself into the 
 belief that he was not an usurper, I don't know. Both sup- 
 positions are likely enough. It is certain that he began his 
 reign by making a strong show against the followers of 
 Wickliffe, who were called Lollards or heretics — although 
 his father, John of Gaunt, had been of that way of thinking, 
 as he himself had been more than suspected of being. It is 
 no less certain that he first established in England the detest- 
 able and atrocious custom, brought from abroad, of burning 
 those people as a punishment for their opinions. It was the 
 importation into England of one of the practices of what 
 was called the Holy Inquisition ; which was the most ten- 
 holy and the most infamous tribunal that ever disgraced 
 mankind; and made men more like demons than followers 
 of Our Saviour. 
 
 No real right to the crown, as you know, was in this King. 
 Edward Mortimer, the young Earl of March— who was only 
 eight or nine years old, and who was descended from the 
 Duke of Clarence, the elder brother of Henry's father— was, 
 by succession, the real heir to the throne. However, the 
 King got his son declared Prince of Wales ; and, obtaining 
 possession of the young Earl of March and his little brother, 
 kept them in confinement (but not severely) in Windsor Cas- 
 tle. He then required the Parliament to decide what was to 
 be done with the deposed King, who was quiet enough, and 
 who only said that he hoped his cousin Henry would be " a 
 good lord " to him. The Parliament replied that they would 
 recommend his being kept in some secret place where the 
 people could not resort, and where his friends could not be 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 173 
 
 admitted to see him. Henry accordingly passed this sentence 
 upon him, and it now began to be pretty clear to the nation 
 that Richard the Second would not live very long. 
 
 It was a noisy Parliament, as it was an unprincipled one, 
 and the lords quarreled so violently among themselves as to 
 which of them had been loyal and which disloyal, and which 
 consistent and which inconsistent, that forty gauntlets are 
 said to have been thrown upon the floor at one time as chal- 
 lenges to as many battles : the truth being that they were all 
 false and base together, and had been, at one time with the 
 old King, and at another time with the new one, and seldom 
 true for any length of time to any one. They soon began to 
 plot again. A conspiracy was formed to invite the King to a 
 tournament at Oxford, and then to take him by surprise and 
 kill him. This murderous enterprise, which was agreed upon 
 at secret meetings in the house of the Abbot of Westminster, 
 was betrayed by the Earl of Rutland — one of the conspira- 
 tors. The King, instead of going to the tournament or slay- 
 ing at Windsor (where the conspirators suddenly went, on 
 finding themselves discovered, with the hope of seizing him), 
 retired to London, proclaimed them all traitors, and advanced 
 upon them with a great force. They retired into the west of 
 England, proclaiming Richard King ; but, the people rose 
 against them, and they were all slain. Their treason hast- 
 ened the death of the deposed monarch. Whether he was 
 killed by hired assassins, or whether he was starved to death, 
 or whether he refused food on hearing of his brothers being 
 killed (who were in that plot), is very doubtful. He met his 
 death somehow ; and his body was publicly shown at St. 
 Paul's Cathedral with only the lower part of the face un- 
 covered. I can scarcely doubt that he was killed by the 
 King's orders. 
 
 The French wife of the miserable Richard was now only 
 ten years old ; and, when her father, Charles of France, 
 heard of her misfortunes and of her lonely condition in En- 
 gland, he went mad : as he had several times done before, 
 during the last five or six years. The French Dukes of Bur- 
 gundy and Bourbon took up the poor girl's cause, without 
 caring much about it, but on the chance of getting something 
 out of England. The people of Bordeaux, who had a sort 
 of superstitious attachment to the memory of Richard, be- 
 cause he was born there, swore by the Lord that he had been 
 the best man in all his kingdom — which was going rather 
 
174 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 far — and promised to do great things against the English. 
 Nevertheless, when they came to consider that they, and the 
 whole people of France, were ruined by their own nobles, 
 and that the English rule was much the better of the two, 
 they cooled down again ; and the two dukes, although they 
 were very great men, could do nothing without them. Then 
 began negotiations between France and England for the 
 sending home to Paris of the poor little Queen with all her 
 jewels and her fortune of two hundred thousand francs in 
 gold. The King was quite willing to restore the young 
 lady and even the jewels ; but he said he really could not 
 part with the money. So, at last she was safely deposited 
 at Paris without her fortune, and then the Duke of Bur- 
 gundy (who was cousin to the French King) began to quar- 
 rel with the Duke of Orleans (who was brother to the French 
 King) about the whole matter ; and those two dukes made 
 France even more wretched than ever. 
 
 As the idea of conquering Scotland was still popular at 
 home, the King marched to the river Tyne and demanded 
 homage of the King of that country. This being refused, he 
 advanced to Edinburgh, but did little there ; for, his army 
 being in want of provisions, and the Scotch being very care- 
 ful to hold him in check without giving battle, he was obliged 
 to retire. It is to his immortal honor that in this sally he 
 burned no villages and slaughtered no people, but was par- 
 ticularly careful that his army should be merciful and harm- 
 less. It was a great example in those ruthless times. 
 
 A war among the border people of England and Scotland 
 went on for twelve months, and then the Earl of Northum- 
 berland, the nobleman who had helped Henry to the crown, 
 began to rebel against him — probably because nothing that 
 Henry could do for him would satisfy his extravagant expect- 
 ations. There was a certain Welsh gentlemen, named Owen 
 Glendower, who had been a student in one of the Inns of 
 Court, and had afterward been in the service of the late 
 King, whose Welsh property was taken from him by a power- 
 ful lord related to the present King, who was his neighbor. 
 Appealing for redress, and getting none, he took up arms, 
 was made an outlaw, and declared himself sovereign of Wales. 
 He pretended to be a magician ; and not only were the Welsh 
 people stupid enough to believe him, but, even Henry be- 
 lieved him too : for, making three expeditions into Wales, 
 and being three times driven back by the wildness of the 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 175 
 
 country, the bad weather, and the skill of Glendower, he 
 thought he was defeated by the Welshman's magic arts. 
 However, he took Lord Grey and Sir Edmund Mortimer, 
 prisoners, and allowed the relatives of Lord Grey to ran- 
 som him, but would not extend such favor to Sir Edmund 
 Mortimer. Now, Henry Percy, called Hotspur, son of the 
 Earl of Northumberland, who was married to Mortimer's 
 sister, is supposed to have taken offense at this ; and, there- 
 fore, in conjunction with his father and some others, to have 
 joined Owen Glendower, and risen against Henry. It is by 
 no means clear that this was the real cause of the conspiracy; 
 but perhaps it was made the pretext. It was formed, and 
 was very powerful ; including Scroop, Archbishop of York, 
 and the Earl of Douglas, a powerful and brave Scottish 
 nobleman. The King was prompt and active, and the two 
 armies met at Shrewsbury. 
 
 There were about fourteen thousand men in each. The 
 old Earl of Northumberland being sick, the rebel forces were 
 led by his son. The King wore plain armor to deceive the 
 enemy ; and four noblemen, with the same object, wore the 
 royal arms. The rebel charge was so furious, that every 
 one of those gentlemen was killed, the royal standard was 
 beaten down, and the young Prince of Wales was severely 
 wounded in the face. But he was one of the bravest and 
 best soldiers that ever lived, and he fought so well, and the 
 King's troops were so encouraged by his bold example, that 
 they rallied immediately, and cut the enemy's forces all to 
 pieces. Hotspur was killed by an arrow in the brain, and the 
 rout was so complete that the whole rebellion was struck 
 down by this one blow. The Earl of Northumberland sur- 
 rendered himself soon after hearing of the death of his son, 
 and received a pardon for all his offenses. 
 
 There was some lingering of rebellion yet ; Owen Glen- 
 dower being retired to Wales, and a preposterous story being 
 spread among the ignorant people that King Richard was still 
 alive. How they could have believed such nonsense it is 
 difficult to imagine ; but they certainly did suppose that the 
 Court fool of the late King, who was something like him, was 
 he, himself ; so that it seemed as if, after giving so much 
 trouble to the country in his life, he was still to trouble it 
 after his death. This was not the worst. The young Earl 
 of March and his brother were stolen out of Windsor Castle. 
 Being retaken, and being found to have been spirited away 
 
176 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 by one Lady Spencer, she accused her own brother, that Earl 
 of Rutland who was in the former conspiracy and was now 
 Duke of York, of being in the plot. For this he was ruined 
 in fortune, though not put to death ; and then another plot 
 arose among the old Earl of Northumberland, some other 
 lords, and that same Scroop, Archbishop of York, who was 
 with the rebels before. These conspirators caused a writing 
 to be posted on the church doors, accusing the King of a 
 variety of crimes ; but, the King being eager and vigilant to 
 oppose them, they were all taken, and the Archbishop was 
 executed. This was the first time that a great churchman 
 had been slain by the law in England ; but the King was re- 
 solved that it should be done, and done it was. 
 
 The next most remarkable event of this time was the seiz- 
 ure, by Henry, of the heir to the Scottish throne — James, 
 a boy of nine years old. He had been put aboard-ship by 
 his father, the Scottish King Robert, to save him from the 
 designs of his uncle, when, on his way to France, he was 
 accidentally taken by some English cruisers. He remained a 
 prisoner in England for nineteen years, and became in his 
 prison a student and a famous poet. 
 
 With the exception of occasional troubles with the Welsh 
 and with the French, the rest of King Henry's reign was 
 quiet enough. But, the King was far from happy, and proba- 
 bly was troubled in his conscience by knowing that he had 
 usurped the crown, and had occasioned the death of his mis- 
 erable cousin. The Prince of Wales, though brave and gen- 
 erous, is said to have been wild and dissipated, and even to 
 have drawn his sword on Gascoigne, the Chief Justice of the 
 King's Bench, because he was firm in dealing impartially with 
 one of his dissolute companions. Upon this the Chief Justice 
 is said to have ordered him immediately to prison ; the Prince 
 of Wales is said to have submitted with a good grace ; and 
 the King is said to have exclaimed, " Happy is the monarch 
 who has so just a judge, and a son so willing to obey the 
 laws." This is all very doubtful, and so is another story (of 
 which Shakespeare has made beautiful use), that the Prince 
 once took the crown out of his father's chamber as he was 
 sleeping, and tried it on his own head. 
 
 The King's health sank more and more, and he became 
 subject to violent eruptions on the face and to bad epileptic 
 fits, and his spirits sank every day. At last, as he was pray- 
 ing before the shrine of St. Edward at Westminster Abbey, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 177 
 
 he was seized with a terrible fit, and was carried into the 
 Abbot's chamber, where he presently died. It had been fore- 
 told that he would die at Jerusalem, which certainly is not, 
 and never was, Westminster. But, as the Abbot's room had 
 long been called the Jerusalem chamber, people said it was 
 all the same thing, and were quite satisfied with the pre- 
 diction. 
 
 The King died on the 20th of March, 1413, in the forty- 
 seventh year of his age, and the fourteenth of his reign. 
 He was buried in Canterbury Cathedral. He had been twice 
 married, and had, by his first wife, a family of four sons and 
 two daughters. Considering his duplicity before he came to 
 the throne, his unjust seizure of it, and, above all, his making 
 that monstrous law for the burning of what the priests called 
 heretics, he was a reasonably good king, as kings went. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 england under henry the fifth. 
 
 Part First. 
 
 The Prince of Wales began his reign like a generous and 
 honest man. He set the young Earl of March free ; he re- 
 stored their estates and their honors to the Percy family, who 
 had lost them by their rebellion against his father ; he order- 
 ed the imbecile and unfortunate Richard to be honorably 
 buried among the Kings of England ; and he dismissed all 
 his wild companions, with assurances that they should not 
 want, if they would resolve to be steady, faithful, and true. 
 
 It is much easier to burn men than to burn their opinions; 
 and those of the Lollards were spreading every day. The 
 Lollards were represented by the priests — probably falsely 
 for the most part — to entertain treasonable designs against 
 the new King ; and Henry, suffering himself to be worked 
 upon by these representations, sacrificed his friend Sir John 
 Oldcastle, the Lord Cobham, to them, after trying in vain to 
 convert him by arguments. He was declared guilty, as the 
 head of the sect, and sentenced to the flames ; but he escaped 
 from the Tower before the day of execution (postponed for 
 fifty days by the King himself), arid summoned the Lollards 
 to meet him near London on a certain day. So the priests 
 
178 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 told the King, at least. I doubt whether there was any con- 
 spiracy beyond such as was got up by their agents. On the 
 day appointed, instead of five-and-twenty thousand men, 
 under the command of Sir John Oldcastle, in the meadows of 
 St. Giles, the King found only eighty men, and no Sir John 
 at all. There was in another place, an addle-headed brewer, 
 who had gold trappings to his horse, and a pair of gilt spurs 
 in his breast — expecting to be made a knight next day by 
 Sir John, and so to gain the right to wear them — but there 
 was no Sir John, nor did any body give information respecting 
 him, though the King offered great rewards for such intelli- 
 gence. Thirty of these unfortunate Lollards were hanged 
 and drawn immediately, and were then burned, gallows and 
 all ; and the various prisons in and around London were 
 crammed full of others. Some of these unfortunate men 
 made various confessions of treasonable designs ; but such 
 confessions were easily got, under torture and the fear of 
 fire, and are very little to be trusted. To finish the sad story 
 of Sir John Oldcastle at once, I may mention that he escaped 
 into Wales and remained there safely, for four years. When 
 discovered by Lord Powis, it is very doubtful if he would 
 have been taken alive — so great was the old soldier's bravery 
 — if a miserable old woman had not come behind him and 
 broken his legs with a stool. He was carried to London in a 
 horse litter, was fastened by an iron chain to a gibbet, and 
 so roasted to death. 
 
 To make the state of France as plain as I can in a few 
 words, I should tell you that the Duke of Orleans, and the 
 Duke of Burgundy, commonly called " John without fear," 
 had had a grand reconciliation of their quarrel in the last 
 reign and had appeared to be quite in a heavenly state of 
 mind. Immediately after which, on a Sunday, in the public 
 streets of Paris, the Duke of Orleans was murdered by a 
 party of twenty men, set on by the Duke of Burgundy- 
 according to his own deliberate confession. The widow of 
 King Richard had been married in France to the eldest son 
 of the Duke of Orleans. The poor mad King was quite 
 powerless to help her, and the Duke of Burgundy became 
 the real master of France. Isabella dying, her husband 
 (Duke of Orleans since the death of his father) married the 
 daughter of the Count of Armagnac, who, being a much 
 abler man than his young son-in-law, headed his party ; 
 thence called after him Armagnacs. Thus, France was now 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 179 
 
 in this terrible condition, that it had in it the party of the 
 King's son, the Dauphin Louis ; the party of the Duke of 
 Burgundy, who was the father of the Dauphin's ill-used wife; 
 and the party of the Armagnacs; all hating each other ; all 
 fighting together ; all composed of the most depraved nobles 
 that the earth has ever known ; and all tearing unhappy 
 France to pieces. 
 
 The late King had watched these dissensions from En- 
 gland, sensible (like the French people) that no enemy of 
 France could injure her more than her own nobility. The 
 present King now advanced a claim to the French throne. 
 His demand, being, of course, refused, he reduced his pro- 
 posal to a certain large amount of French territory, and to 
 demanding the French princess, Catherine, in marriage, with 
 a fortune of two millions of golden crowns. He was offered 
 less territory and fewer crowns, and no princess ; but he 
 called his ambassadors home and prepared for war. Then, 
 he proposed to take the princess with one million of crowns. 
 The French Court replied that he should have the princess 
 with two hundred thousand crowns less ; he said this would 
 not do (he had never seen the princess in his life), and 
 assembled his army at Southampton. There was a short 
 plot at home just at that time, for deposing him, and making 
 the Earl of March king ; but the conspirators were all speed- 
 ily condemned and executed, and the King embarked for 
 France. 
 
 It is dreadful to observe how long a bad example will be 
 followed ; but, it is encouraging to know that a good exam- 
 ple is never thrown away. The King's first act on disem- 
 barking at the mouth of the river Seine, three miles from 
 Harfleur, was to imitate his father, and to proclaim his sol- 
 emn orders that the lives and property of the peaceable 
 inhabitans should be respected on pain of death. It is 
 agreed by French writers, to his lasting renown, that even 
 while his soldiers were suffering the greatest distress from 
 want of food, these commands were rigidly obeyed. 
 
 With an army in all of thirty thousand men, he besieged 
 the town of Harfleur both by sea and land for five weeks ; at 
 the end of which time the town surrendered, and the inhabi- 
 tants were allowed to depart with only fivepence each, and a 
 part of their clothes. All the rest of their possessions was 
 divided among the English army. But that army suffered 
 so much in spite of its successes, from disease and privation, 
 
180 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 that it was already reduced one half. Still, the King was 
 determined not to retire until he had struck a greater blow. 
 Therefore, against the advice of all his counselors, he moved 
 on with his little force toward Calais. When he came up to 
 the river Somme he was unable to cross, in consequence of 
 the ford being fortified ; and, as the English moved up the 
 left bank of the river looking for a crossing, the French, who 
 had broken all the bridges, moved up the right bank, watch- 
 ing them, and waiting to attack them when they should try 
 to pass it. At last the English found a crossing and got 
 safely over. The French held a council of war at Rouen, 
 resolved to give the English battle, and sent heralds to King 
 Henry to know by which road he was going. " By the road 
 that will take me straight to Calais ! " said the King, and 
 sent them away with a present of a hundred crowns. 
 
 The English moved on until they beheld the French, and 
 then the King gave orders to form in line of battle. The 
 French not coming on, the army broke up after remaining in 
 battle array till night, and got good rest and refreshment at 
 a neighboring village. The French were now all lying in 
 another village, through which they knew the English must 
 pass. They were resolved that the English should begin the 
 battle. The English had no means of retreat, if their King 
 had any such intention ; and so the two armies passed the 
 night close together. 
 
 To understand these armies well, you must bear in mind 
 that the immense French army had, among its notable per- 
 sons, almost the whole of that wicked nobility, whose de- 
 bauchery had made France a desert ; and so besotted were 
 they by pride, and by contempt for the common people, that 
 they had scarcely any bowmen (if indeed they had any at all) 
 in their whole enormous number : which, compared with the 
 English army, was at least as six to one. For these proud 
 fools had said that the bow was not a fit weapon for knightly 
 hands, and that France must be defended by gentlemen 
 only. We shall see, presently, what hand the gentlemen 
 made of it. 
 
 Now, on the English side, among the little force, there 
 was a good proportion of men who were not gentlemen by 
 any means, but who were good stout archers for all that. 
 Among them in the morning — having slept little at night, 
 while the French were carousing and making sure of victory 
 — the King rode, on a gray horse ; wearing on his head Sk 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 181 
 
 helmet of shining steel, surmounted by a crown of gold, 
 sparkling with precious stones ; and bearing over his armor, 
 embroidered together, the arms of England and the arms of 
 France. The archers looked at the shining helmet and the 
 crown of gold and the sparkling jewels, and admired them 
 all ; but, what they admired most was the King's cheerful 
 face, and his bright blue eye, as he told them that, for him- 
 self, he had made up his mind to conquer there or to die 
 there, and that England should never have a ransom to pay 
 for him. There was one brave knight who chanced to say 
 that he wished some of the many gallant gentlemen and 
 good soldiers, who were then idle at home in England were 
 there to increase their numbers. But the King told him that, 
 for his part, he did not wish for one more man. " The fewer 
 we have," said he, " the greater will be the honor we shall 
 win!" His men, being now all in good heart, were re- 
 freshed with bread and wine, and heard prayers, and waited 
 quietly for the French. The King waited for the French, 
 because they were drawn up thirty deep (the little English 
 force was only three deep), on a very difficult and heavy 
 ground ; and he knew that when they moved, there must be 
 confusion among them. 
 
 As they did not move, he sent off two parties : — one to 
 lie concealed in a wood on the left of the French : the other, 
 to set fire to some houses behind the French after the battle 
 should be begun. This was scarcely done, when three of the 
 proud French gentlemen, who were to defend their country 
 without any help from the base peasants, came riding out, 
 calling upon the English to surrender. The King warned 
 those gentlemen himself to retire with all speed if they cared 
 for their lives, and ordered the English banners to advance. 
 Upon that, Sir Thomas Erpingham, a great English general, 
 who commanded the archers, threw his truncheon into the 
 air joyfully ; and all the Englishmen, kneeling down upon 
 the ground and biting it as if they took possession of the 
 country, rose up with a great shout and fell upon the 
 French. 
 
 Every archer was furnished with a great stake tipped with 
 iron ; and his orders were, to thrust this stake into the 
 ground, to discharge his arrow, and then to fall back, when 
 the French horsemen came on. As the haughty French 
 gentlemen, who were to break the English archers and 
 utterly destroy them with their knightly lances, came riding 
 
t8 2 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 up, they were received with such a blinding storm of arrows 
 that they broke and turned. Horses and men rolled over 
 one another, and the confusion was terrific. Those who 
 rallied and charged the archers got among the stakes on 
 slippery and boggy ground, and were so bewildered that the 
 English archers — who wore no armor, and even took off 
 their leathern coats to be more active — cut them to pieces, 
 root and branch. Only three French horsemen got within 
 the stakes, and those were instantly dispatched. All this 
 time the dense French army, being in armor, were sinking 
 knee-deep into the mire ; while the light English archers, 
 half-naked, were as fresh and active as if they were fighting 
 on a marble floor. 
 
 But now, the second division of the French coming to the 
 relief of the first, closed up in a firm mass ; the English 
 headed by the King, attacked them ; and the deadliest part 
 of the battle began. The King's brother, the Duke of Clar- 
 ence, was struck down, and numbers of the French sur- 
 rounded him ; but, King Henry, standing over the body, 
 fought like a lion until they were beaten off. 
 
 Presently, came up a band of eighteen French knights, 
 bearing the banner of a certain French lord, who had sworn 
 to kill or take the English King. One of them struck him 
 such a blow with a battle- ax that he reeled and fell upon 
 his knees ; but his faithful men, immediately closing round 
 him, killed every one of those eighteen knights, and so that 
 French lord never kept his oath. 
 
 The French Duke of Alencon, seeing this, made a desperate 
 charge, and cut his way close up to the Royal Standard of 
 England. He beat down the Duke of York, who was stand- 
 ing near it ; and when the King came to his rescue, struck off 
 a piece of the crown he wore. But, he never struck another 
 blow in this world ; for, even as he was in the act of saying 
 who he was, and that he surrendered to the King ; and even 
 as the King stretched out his hand to give him a safe and 
 honorable acceptance of the offer, he fell dead, pierced by 
 innumerable wounds. 
 
 The death of this nobleman decided the battle. The third 
 division of the French army, which had never struck a blow 
 yet, and which was, in itself, more than double the whole 
 English power, broke and fled. At this time of the fight, the 
 English, who as yet had made no prisoners, began to take 
 them in immense numbers, and were still occupied in doing 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 183 
 
 so, or in killing those who would not surrender, when a great 
 noise arose in the rear of the French — their flying banners 
 were, seen to stop — and King Henry, supposing a great re-en- 
 forcement to have arrived, gave orders that all the prisoners 
 should be put to death. As soon, however, as it was found 
 that the noise was only occasioned by a body of plundering 
 peasants, the terrible massacre was stopped. 
 
 Then King Henry called to him the French herald, and 
 asked him to whom the victory belonged. 
 
 The herald replied, " To the King of England." 
 
 " We have not made this havoc and slaughter," said the 
 King. " It is the wrath of heaven on the sins of France. 
 What is the name of that castle yonder ? " 
 
 The herald answered him, " My lord, it is the castle of 
 Azincourt." 
 
 Said the King, " From henceforth this battle shall be 
 known to posterity by the name of the battle of Azincourt." 
 
 Our English historians have made it Agincourt ; but, under 
 that name, it will ever be famous in English annals. 
 
 The loss upon the French side was enormous. Three 
 dukes were killed, two more were taken prisoners, seven 
 counts were killed, three more were taken prisoners, and ten 
 thousand knights and gentlemen were slain upon the field. 
 The English loss amounted to sixteen hundred men, 
 among whom were the Duke of York and the Earl of Suf- 
 folk. 
 
 War is a dreadful thing ; and it is appalling to know how 
 the English were obliged, next morning, to kill those pris- 
 oners mortally wounded, who yet writhed in agony upon the 
 ground ; how the dead upon the French side were stripped 
 by their own countrymen and countrywomen, and afterward 
 buried in great pits ; how the dead upon the English side 
 were piled up in a great barn, and how their bodies and the 
 barn were all burned together. It is in such things, and in 
 many more much too horrible to relate, that the real desola- 
 tion and wickedness of war consists. Nothing can make war 
 otherwise than horrible. But the dark side of it was little 
 thought of and soon forgotten ; and it cast no shade of trouble 
 on the English people, except on those who had lost friends 
 or relations in the fight. They welcomed their King home 
 with shouts of rejoicing, and plunged into the water to bear 
 him ashore on their shoulders, and flocked out in crowds to 
 welcome him in every town through which he passed, and 
 
1 84 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 hung rich carpets and tapestries out of the windows, and 
 strewed the streets with flowers, and made the fountains 
 run with wine, as the great field of Agincourt had run with 
 blood. 
 
 Second Part. 
 
 That proud and wicked French nobility who dragged their 
 country to destruction, and who were every day and every 
 year regarded with deeper hatred and detestation in the 
 hearts of the French people, learned nothing, even from the 
 defeat of Agincourt. So far from uniting against the com- 
 mon enemy, they became, among themselves, more violent, 
 more bloody, and more false — if that were possible — than 
 they had been before. The Count of Armagnac persuaded 
 the French king to plunder of her treasures Queen Isabella 
 of Bavaria, and to make her a prisoner. She, who had 
 hitherto been the bitter enemy of the Duke of Burgundy, 
 proposed to join him, in revenge. He carried her off to 
 Troyes, where she proclaimed herself Regent of France, 
 and made him her lieutenant. The Armagnac party were 
 at that time possessed of Paris ; but, one of the gates of the 
 city being secretly opened on a certain night to a party of 
 the Duke's men, they got into Paris, threw into the prisons 
 all the Armagnacs upon whom they could lay their hands, 
 and, a few nights afterward, with the aid of a furious mob 
 of sixty thousand people, broke the prisons open, and killed 
 them all. The former Dauphin was now dead, and the 
 King's third son bore the title. Him, in the height of this 
 murderous scene, a French knight hurried out of bed, wrap- 
 ped in a sheet, and bore away to Poitiers. So, when the 
 revengeful Isabella and the Duke of Burgundy entered Paris 
 in triumph after the slaughter of their enemies, the Dauphin 
 was proclaimed at Poitiers as the real Regent. 
 
 King Henry had not been idle since his victory of Agin- 
 court, but had repulsed a brave attempt of the French to 
 recover Harfleur ; had gradually conquered a great part of 
 Normandy ; and, at this crisis of affairs, took the important 
 town of Rouen, after a siege of half a year. This great 
 loss so alarmed the French, that the Duke of Burgundy pro- 
 posed that a meeting to treat of peace should be held 
 between the French and the English kings in a plain by the 
 river Seine. On the appointed day, King Henry appeared 
 there, with his two brothers, Clarence and Gloucester, and a 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 185 
 
 thousand men. The unfortunate French King, being more 
 mad than usual that day, could not come ; but the Queen 
 came, and with her the Princess Catherine : who was a very 
 lovely creature, and who made a real impression on King 
 Henry, now that he saw her for the first time. This was the 
 most important circumstance that arose out of the meeting. 
 
 As if it were impossible for a French nobleman of that 
 time to be true to his word of honor in any thing, Henry dis- 
 covered that the Duke of Burgundy was, at that very 
 moment, in secret treaty with the Dauphin ; and he there- 
 fore abandoned the negotiation. 
 
 The Duke of Burgundy and the Dauphin, each of whom 
 with the best reason distrusted the other as a noble ruffian 
 surrounded by a party of noble ruffians, were rather at a loss 
 how to proceed after this ; but, at length they agreed to meet, 
 on a bridge over the river Yonne, where it was arranged that 
 there should be two strong gates put up, with an empty space 
 between them ; and that the Duke of Burgundy should 
 come into that space by one gate, with ten men only ; and 
 that the Dauphin should come into that space by the other 
 gate, also with ten men, and no more. 
 
 So far the Dauphin kept his word, but no further. When 
 the Duke of Burgundy was on his knee before him in the 
 act of speaking, one of the Dauphin's noble ruffians cut the 
 said duke down with a small ax, and others speedily fin- 
 ished him. 
 
 It was in vain for the Dauphin to pretend that this base 
 murder was not done with his consent ; it was too bad, even 
 for France, and caused a general horror. The Duke's heir 
 hastened to make a treaty with King Henry, and the French 
 Queen engaged that her husband should consent to it, what- 
 ever it was. Henry made peace, on condition of receiving 
 the Princess Catherine in marriage, and being made Regent 
 of France during the rest of the King's lifetime, and suc- 
 ceeding to the French crown at his death. He was soon 
 married to the beautiful Princess, and took her proudly 
 home to England, where she was crowned with great honor 
 and glory. 
 
 This peace was called the Perpetual Peace ; we shall soon 
 see how long it lasted. It gave great satisfaction to the 
 French people, although they were so poor and miserable, 
 that, at the time of the celebration of the Royal marriage, 
 numbers of them were dying of starvation, on the dunghills 
 
186 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 in the streets of Paris. There was some resistance on the 
 part of the Dauphin in some few parts of France, but King 
 Henry beat it all down. 
 
 And now, with his great possessions in France secured, 
 and with his beautiful wife to cheer him, and a son born to 
 give him greater happiness, all appeared bright before him. 
 But, in the fullness of his triumph and the height of his 
 power, Death came upon him, and his day was done. When 
 he fell ill at Vincennes, and found that he could not recover, 
 he was very calm and quiet, and spoke serenely to those who 
 wept around his bed. His wife and child, he said, he left to 
 the loving care of his brother, the Duke of Bedford, and 
 his other faithful nobles. He gave them his advice that 
 England should establish a friendship with the new Duke of 
 Burgundy, and offer him the regency of France ; that it 
 should not set free the royal princess who had been taken at 
 Agincourt ; and that, whatever quarrel might arise with 
 France, England should never make peace without holding 
 Normandy. Then, he laid down his head, and asked the 
 attendant priests to chant the penitential psalms. Amid 
 which solemn sounds, on the thirty-first of August, one 
 thousand four hundred and twenty-two, in only the thirty- 
 fourth year of his age and the tenth of his reign, King Henry 
 the Fifth passed away. 
 
 Slowly and mournfully they carried his embalmed body in 
 a procession of great state to Paris, and thence to Rouen 
 where his Queen was : from whom the sad intelligence of his 
 death was concealed until he had been dead some days. 
 Thence, lying on a bed of crimson and gold, with a golden 
 crown upon the head, and a golden ball and scepter lying in 
 the nerveless hands, they carried it to Calais, with such a 
 great retinue as seemed to dye the road black. The King of 
 Scotland acted as chief mourner, all the Royal Household 
 followed, the knights wore black armor and black plumes of 
 feathers, crowds of men bore torches, making the night as 
 light as day ; and the widowed Princess followed last of all. 
 At Calais there was a fleet of ships to bring the funeral host 
 to Dover. And so, by way of London Bridge, where the 
 service for the dead was chanted as it passed along, they 
 brought the body to Westminster Abbey, and there buried it 
 with great respect. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 187 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 england under henry the sixth. 
 
 Part the First. 
 
 It had been the wish of the late King, that while his infant 
 son King Henry the Sixth, at this time only nine months old, 
 was under age, the Duke of Gloucester should be appointed 
 Regent. The English Parliament, however,preferred to appoint 
 a Council of Regency, with the Duke of Bedford at its head : 
 to be represented, in his absence only, by the Duke of Glou- 
 cester. The Parliament would seem to have been wise in 
 this, for Gloucester soon showed himself to be ambitious and 
 troublesome, and, in the gratification of his own personal 
 schemes, gave dangerous offense to the Duke of Burgundy, 
 which was with difficulty adjusted. 
 
 As that duke declined the Regency of France, it was be- 
 stowed by the poor French King upon the Duke of Bedford. 
 But, the French King dying within two months, the Dauphin 
 instantly asserted his claim to the French throne, and was 
 actually crowned under the title of Charles the Seventh. 
 The Duke of Bedford, to be a match for him, entered into a 
 friendly league with the Dukes of Burgundy and Brittany, 
 and gave them his two sisters in marriage. War with France 
 was immediately renewed, and the Perpetual Peace came to 
 an untimely end. 
 
 In the first campaign, the English aided by this alliance, 
 were speedily successful. As Scotland, however, had sent 
 the French five thousand men, and might send more, or 
 attack the North of England while England was busy with 
 France, it was considered that it would be a good thing to 
 offer the Scottish King, James, who had been so long im- 
 prisoned, his liberty, on his paying forty thousand pounds 
 for his board and lodging during nineteen years, and engag- 
 ing to forbid his subjects from serving under the flag of 
 France. It is pleasant to know, not only that the amiable 
 captive at last regained his freedom upon these terms, but 
 that he married a noble English lady, with whom he had been 
 long in love, and became an excellent King. I am afraid we 
 have met with some Kings in this history, and shall meet with 
 some more, who would have been very much the better, and 
 
z88 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 would have left the world much happier, if they had been 
 miprisoned nineteen years too. 
 
 In the second campaign, the English gained a considerable 
 victory at Verneuil, in a battle which was chiefly remarkable, 
 otherwise, for their resorting to the odd expedient of tying 
 their baggage-horses together by the heads and tails, and 
 jumbling them up with the baggage, so as to convert them 
 into a sort of live fortification — which was found useful to 
 the troops, but which I should think was not agreeable to 
 the horses. For three years afterward very little was done, 
 owing to both sides being too poor for war, which is a very 
 expensive entertainment ; but, a council was then held in 
 Paris, in which it was decided to lay seige to the town of 
 Orleans, which was a place of great importance to the Dau- 
 phin's cause. An English army of ten thousand men was 
 dispatched on this service, under the command of the Earl 
 of Salisbury, a general of fame. He being unfortunately 
 killed early in the siege, the Earl of Suffolk took his place ; 
 under whom (re-enforced by Sir John Falstaff, who brought 
 up four hundred wagons laden with salt herrings and other 
 provisions for the troops, and, beating off the French who 
 tried to intercept him, came victorious out of a hot skirmish, 
 which was afterward called in jest the battle of the Herrings), 
 the town of Orleans was so completely hemmed in, that the 
 besieged proposed to yield it up to their countryman the 
 Duke of Burgundy. The English general, however, replied 
 that his English men had won it, so far, by their blood and 
 valor, and that his English men must have it. There seemed 
 to be no hope for the town, or for the Dauphin, who was so 
 dismayed that he even thought of flying to Scotland or to 
 Spain — when a peasant girl rose up and changed the whole 
 state of affairs. 
 
 The story of this peasant girl I have now to tell 
 
 Part the Second. 
 
 the story of joan of arc. 
 
 In a remote village among some wild hills in the province 
 of Lorraine, there lived a countryman whose name was 
 Jacques d'Arc. He had a daughter, Joan of Arc, who t^as 
 at this time in her twentieth year. She had been a solitary 
 girl from her childhood *. she had often tended sheep a* 4 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 189 
 
 cattle for whole days where no human figure was seen or 
 human voiceheard ; and she had often kneeled, for hours to- 
 gether, in the gloomy empty little village chapel, looking up 
 at the altar and at the dim lamp burning before it, until 
 she fancied that she saw shadowy figures standing there, and 
 even that she heard them speak to her. The people in that part 
 of France were very ignorant and superstitious, and they had 
 many ghostly tales to tell about what they had dreamed, and 
 what they saw among the lonely hills when the clouds and 
 the mists were resting on them. So they easily believed that 
 Joan saw strange sights, and they whispered among them- 
 selves that angels and spirits talked to her. 
 
 At last, Joan told her father that she had one day been 
 surprised by a great unearthly light, and had afterward 
 heard a solemn voice, which said it was Saint Michael's 
 voice, telling her that she was to go and help the Dauphin. 
 Soon after this (she said), Saint Catherine and Saint Marga- 
 ret had appeared to her with sparkling crowns upon their 
 heads, and had encouraged her to be virtuous and resolute. 
 These visions had returned sometimes ; but the Voices very 
 often ; and the voices always said, " Joan, thou art appointed 
 by Heaven to go and help the Dauphin ! " She almost always 
 heard them while the chapel bells were ringing. 
 
 There is no doubt now that Joan believed she saw and 
 heard these things. It is very well known that such delusions 
 are a disease which is not by any means uncommon. It is 
 probable enough that there were figures of Saint Michael, 
 and Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret, in the little chapel 
 (where they would be very likely to have shining crowns upon 
 their heads), and that they first gave Joan the idea of those 
 three personages. She had long been a moping, fanciful girl, 
 and, though she was a very good girl, I dare say she was a 
 little vain and wishful for notoriety. 
 
 Her father, something wiser than his neighbors, said, " I 
 tell thee, Joan, it is thy fancy. Thou hadst better have a 
 kind husband to take care of thee, girl, and work to employ 
 thy mind ! " But Joan told him in reply, that she had taken 
 a vow never to have a husband, and that she must go as 
 Heaven directed her, to help the Dauphin. 
 
 It happened, unfortunately for her father's persuasions, 
 and most unfortunately for the poor girl, too. that a party of 
 the Dauphin's enemies found their way into the village while 
 Joan's disorder was at this point, and burned the chapel, and 
 
i 9 o A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 drove out the inhabitants. The cruelties she saw committed, 
 touched Joan's heart and made her worse. She said that the 
 voices and the figures were now continually with her ; that 
 they told her she was the girl who, according to an old proph- 
 ecy, was to deliver France ; and she must go and help the 
 Dauphin, and must remain with him until he should be 
 crowned at Rheims : and that she must travel a long way to 
 a certain lord named Baudricourt, who could and would, 
 bring her into the Dauphin's presence. 
 
 As her father still said, " I tell thee, Joan, it is thy fancy," 
 she set off to find out this lord, accompanied by an uncle, a 
 poor village wheelwright and cart-maker, who believed in the 
 reality of her visions. They traveled a long way and went 
 on and on, over a rough country, full of the Duke of Bur- 
 gundy's men, and of all kinds of robbers and marauders, un- 
 til they came to where this lord was. 
 
 When his servants told him that there was a poor peasant 
 girl named Joan of Arc, accompanied by nobody but an old 
 village wheelwright and cart-maker, who wished to see him 
 because she was commanded to help the Dauphin and save 
 France, Baudricourt burst out a-laughing, and bade them 
 send the girl away. But, he soon heard so much about her 
 lingering in the town, and praying in the churches, and see- 
 ing visions, and doing harm to no one, that he sent for her, 
 and questioned her. As she said the same things after she 
 had been well sprinkled with holy water as she had said be- 
 fore the sprinkling, Baudricourt began to think there might 
 be something in it At all events, he thought it worth while 
 to send her on to the town of Chinon, where the Dauphin 
 was. So, he bought her a horse, and a sword, and gave her 
 two squires to conduct her. As the Voices had told Joan 
 that she was to wear a man's dress, now, she put one on, and 
 girded her sword to her side, and bound spurs to her heels, 
 and mounted her horse and rode away with her two squires. 
 As to her uncle the wheelwright, he stood staring at his niece 
 in wonder until she was out of sight — as well he might — and 
 then went home again. The best place, too. 
 
 Joan and her two squires rode on and on, until they came 
 to Chinon, where she was, after some doubt, admitted into 
 the Dauphin's presence. Picking him out immediately from 
 all his court, she told him that she came commanded by 
 Heaven to subdue his enemies and conduct him to his coro- 
 nation at Rheims. She also told him (or he pretended so af- 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 191 
 
 terward, to make the greater impression upon his soldiers) 
 a number of his secrets known only to himself, and, further- 
 more, she said there was an old, old sword in the Cathedral 
 of Saint Catherine at Fierbois, marked with five old crosses 
 on the blade, which Saint Catherine had ordered her to wear. 
 
 Now, nobody knew any thing about this old, old sword, 
 but when the cathedral came to be examined — which was 
 immediately done — there, sure enough, the sword was found I 
 The Dauphin then required a number of grave priests and 
 bishops to give him their opinion whether the girl derived 
 her power from good spirits or from evil spirits, which they 
 held prodigiously long debates about, in the course of which 
 several learned men fell fast asleep and snored loudly. At 
 last, when one gruff old gentleman had said to Joan, " What 
 language do your Voices speak ? " and when Joan had re- 
 plied to the gruff old gentleman, " A pleasanter language 
 than yours," they agreed that it was all correct, and that Joan 
 of Arc was inspired from Heaven. This wonderful circum- 
 stance put new heart into the Dauphin's soldiers when they 
 heard of it, and dispirited the English army, who took Joan 
 for a witch. 
 
 So Joan mounted horse again, and again rode on and on, 
 until she came to Orleans. But she rode now, as never 
 peasant girl had ridden, yet. She rode upon a white war- 
 horse, in a suit of glittering armor ; with the old, old sword 
 from the cathedral, newly burnished, in her belt; with a 
 white flag carried before her, upon which were a picture of 
 God, and the words Jesus Maria. In this splendid state, at 
 the head of a great body of troops escorting provisions of 
 all kinds for the starving inhabitants of Orleans, she appeared 
 before that beleaguered city. 
 
 When the people on the walls beheld her, they cried 
 out, " The Maid is come ! The Maid of the prophecy is 
 come to deliver us ! " And this, and the sight of the Maid 
 fighting at the head of their men, made the French so bold, 
 and made the English so fearful, that the English line of 
 forts was soon broken, the troops and provisions were got 
 into the town, and Orleans was saved. 
 
 Joan, henceforth called The Maid of Orleans, remained 
 within the walls for a few days, and caused letters to be 
 thrown over, ordering Lord Suffolk and his Englishmen to 
 depart from before the town according to the will of Heaven. 
 As the English general very positively declined to believe 
 
i 9 2 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 that Joan knew any thing about the will of Heaven (which 
 did not mend the matter with his soldiers, for they stupidly 
 said if she were not inspired she was a witch, and it was of 
 no use to fight against a witch), she mounted her white war- 
 horse again, and ordered her white banner to advance. 
 
 The besiegers held the bridge, and some strong towers 
 upon the bridge ; and here the Maid of Orleans attacked 
 them. The fight was fourteen hours long. She planted a 
 scaling ladder with her own hands, and mounted a tower 
 wall, but was struck by an English arrow in the neck, and 
 fell into the trench. She was carried away and the arrow 
 was taken out, during which operation she screamed and 
 cried with the pain, as any other girl might have done ; but 
 presently she said that the Voices were speaking to her and 
 soothing her to rest. After a while, she got up, and was 
 again foremost in the fight. When the English who had seen 
 her fall and supposed her dead, saw this, they were troubled 
 with the strangest fears, and some of them cried out that 
 they beheld Saint Michael on a white horse (probably Joan 
 herself) fighting for the French. They lost the bridge, and 
 lost the towers, and next day set their chain of forts on fire, 
 and left the place. 
 
 But as Lord Suffolk himself retired no further than the 
 town of Jargeau, which was only a few miles off, the Maid 
 of Orleans besieged him there, and he was taken prisoner. 
 As the white banner scaled the wall, she was struck upon 
 the head with a stone, and was again tumbled down into the 
 ditch ; but she only cried all the more, as she lay there, 
 " On, on my countrymen ! And fear nothing, for the Lord 
 hath delivered them into our hands ! " After this new suc- 
 cess of the Maid's, several other fortresses and places which 
 had previously held out against the Dauphin were delivered 
 up without a battle ; and at Patay she defeated the remain- 
 der of the English army, and set up her victorious white 
 banner on a field where twelve hundred Englishmen lay 
 dead. 
 
 She now urged the Dauphin (who always kept out of the 
 way when there was any fighting) to proceed to Rheims, as 
 the first part of her mission was accomplished ; and to com- 
 plete the whole by being crowned there. The Dauphin was 
 in no particular hurry to do this, as Rheims was a long way 
 off, and the English and the Duke of Burgundy were still 
 strong in the country through which the road lay. However, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 193 
 
 they set forth, with ten thousand men, and again the Maid 
 of Orleans rode on and on, upon her white war-horse, and in 
 her shining armor. Whenever they came to a town which 
 yielded readily, the soldiers believed in her ; -but whenever 
 they came to a town which gave them any trouble, they be* 
 gan to murmur that she was an impostor. The latter was 
 particularly the case at Troyes, which finally yielded, through 
 the persuasion of one Richard, a friar of the place. Friar 
 Richard was in the old doubt about the Maid of Orleans, 
 until he had Sprinkled her well with holy water, and had 
 also well sprinkled the threshold of the gate by which she 
 came into the city. Finding that it made no change in her 
 or the gate, he said, as the other grave old gentleman had 
 said, that it was all right, and became her great ally. 
 
 So, at last, and by dint of riding on and on, the Maid of 
 Orleans, and the Dauphin, and the ten thousand sometimes 
 believing and sometimes unbelieving men, came to Rheims. 
 And in the great cathedral of Rheims, the Dauphin actually 
 was crowned Charles the Seventh in a great assembly of the 
 people. Then, the Maid, who with her white banner stood 
 beside the King in that hour of his triumph, kneeled down 
 upon the pavement at his feet, and said, with tears, that what 
 she had been inspired to do, was done, and that the only 
 recompense che asked for, was, that she should now have 
 leave to go back to her distant home, and her sturdily in- 
 credulous father, and her first simple escort the village wheel- 
 wright and cart-maker. But the King said " No ! " and made 
 her and her family as noble as a King could, and settled upon 
 her the income of a count. 
 
 Ah ! happy had it been for the Maid of Orleans, if she 
 had resumed her rustic dress that day, and had gone home 
 to the little chapel and the wild hills, and had forgotten all 
 these things, and had been a good man's wife, and had 
 heard no s\ : ranger voices than the voices of little chil- 
 dren ! 
 
 It was not to be, and she continued helping the King (she 
 did a world for him, in alliance with Friar Richard), and 
 trying to improve the lives of the coarse soldiers, and lead- 
 ing a religious, an unselfish, and a modest life, herself, 
 beyond any doubt. Still, many times she prayed the King 
 to let her go home ; and once she even took off her bright 
 armor and hung it up in a church, meaning never to wear it 
 more. But, the King always won her back again — while she 
 
i 9 4 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 was of any use to him — and so she went on and on and on 
 to her doom. 
 
 When the Duke of Bedford, who was a very able man, 
 began to be active for England, and, by bringing the war 
 back into France and by holding the Duke of Burgundy to 
 his faith, to distress and disturb Charles very much, Charles 
 sometimes asked the Maid of Orleans what the Voices said 
 about it? But the Voices had become (very like ordinary 
 voices in perplexed times) contradictory and confused, so 
 that now they said one thing, and now said another, and the 
 Maid lost credit every day. Charles marched on Paris, 
 which was opposed to him, and attacked the suburb of 
 Saint Honore. In this fight, being again struck down into 
 the ditch, she was abandoned by the whole army. She lay 
 unaided among a heap of dead, and crawled out how she 
 could. Then some of her believers went over to an oppo- 
 sition Maid, Catherine of La Rochelle, who said she was 
 inspired to tell where there were treasures of buried money — 
 though she never did — and then Joan accidentally broke the 
 old, old sword, and others said that her power was broken 
 with it. Finally, at the siege of Compiegne, held by the 
 Duke of Burgundy, where she did valiant service, she was 
 basely left alone in a retreat, though facing about and fight- 
 ing to the last ; and an archer pulled her off her horse. 
 
 the uproar that was made, and the thanksgivings that 
 were sung, about the capture of this one poor country-girl ! 
 O the way in which she was demanded to be tried for sor- 
 cery and heresy, and any thing else you like, by the Inquisi- 
 tor-General of France, and by this great man, and by that 
 great man, until it is wearisome to think of ! She was 
 bought at last by the Bishop of Beauvais for ten thousand 
 francs, and was shut up in her narrow prison : plain Joan of 
 Arc again, and Maid of Orleans no more. 
 
 1 should never have done if I were to tell you how they 
 had Joan out to examine her, and cross-examine her, and re- 
 examine her, and worry her into saying any thing and every 
 thing ; and how all sorts of scholars and doctors bestowed 
 their utmost tediousness upon her. Sixteen times she was 
 brought out and shut up again, and worried, and entrapped, 
 and argued with, until she was heart-sick of the dreary 
 business. On the last occasion of this kind she was brought 
 into a burial-place at Rouen, dismally decorated with a 
 scaffold, and a stake and faggots, and the executioner, and 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. tg$ 
 
 a pulpit with a friar therein, and an awful sermon ready. 
 It is very affecting to know that even at that pass the poor 
 girl honored the mean vermin of a King, who had so used 
 her for his purposes and so abandoned her ; and, that while 
 she had been regardless of reproaches heaped upon herself, 
 she spoke out courageously for him. 
 
 It was natural in one so young to hold to life. To save 
 her life, she signed a declaration prepared for her — signed 
 it with a cross, for she couldn't write — that all her visions 
 and Voices had come from the Devil. Upon her recanting 
 the past, and protesting that she would never wear a man's 
 dress in future, she was condemned to imprisonment for 
 life, " on the bread of sorrow and the water of affliction." 
 
 But, on the bread of sorrow and the water of affliction, 
 the visions and the Voices soon returned. It was quite 
 natural that they should do so, for that kind of disease is 
 much aggravated by fasting, loneliness, and anxiety of mind. 
 It was not only got out of Joan that she considered herself 
 inspired again, but, she was taken in a man's dress, which 
 had been left — to entrap her — in her prison, and which 
 she put on, in her solitude ; perhaps, in remembrance of her 
 past glories, perhaps, because the imaginary Voices told her. 
 For this relapse into the sorcery and heresy and any thing 
 else you like, she was sentenced to be burned to death. And, 
 in the market-place of Rouen, in the hideous dress which 
 monks had invented for such spectacles ; with priests and 
 bishops sitting in a gallery looking on, though some had the 
 Christian grace to go away, unable to endure the infamous 
 scene ; this shrieking girl — last seen amidst the smoke and 
 fire, holding a crucifix between her hands ; last heard, call- 
 ing upon Christ — was burned to ashes. They threw her ashes 
 into the river Seine ; but they will rise against her murder- 
 ers on the last day. 
 
 From the moment of her capture neither the French 
 King nor one single man in all his court raised a finger to 
 save her. It is no defense of them that they may have never 
 really believed in her, or that they may have won her vic- 
 tories by their skill and bravery. The more they pretended 
 to believe in her, the more they had caused her to believe in 
 herself ; and she had ever been true to them, ever brave, 
 ever nobly devoted. But, it is no wonder, that they, who 
 were in all things false to themselves, false to one another, 
 false to their country, false to Heaven, false to Earth, should 
 
196 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 be monsters of ingratitude and treachery to a helpless 
 peasant girl. 
 
 In the picturesque old town of Rouen, where weeds and 
 grass grow high on the cathedral towers, and the venerable 
 Norman streets are still warm in the blessed sunlight though 
 the monkish fire that once gleamed horribly upon them have 
 long grown cold, there is a statue of Joan of Arc, in the 
 scene of her last agony, the square to which she has given 
 its present name. I know some statues of modern times — 
 even in the World's metropolis, I think — which commemo- 
 rate less constancy, less earnestness, smaller claims upon the 
 world's attention, and much greater impostors. 
 
 Part the Third. 
 
 Bad deeds seldom prosper, happily for mankind ; and the 
 English cause gained no advantage from the cruel death of 
 Joan of Arc. For a long time, the war went heavily on. 
 The Duke of Bedford died ; the alliance with the Duke of 
 Burgundy was broken ; and Lord Talbot became a great 
 general on the English side in France. But two of the con- 
 sequences of wars are, Famine — because the people cannot 
 peacefully cultivate the ground — and Pestilence, which comes 
 of want, misery and suffering. Both these horrors broke 
 out in both countries, and lasted for two wretched years. 
 Then, the war went on again, and came by slow degrees to 
 be so badly conducted by the English government, that, 
 within twenty years from the execution of the Maid of 
 Orleans, of all the great French conquests, the town of 
 Calais alone remained in English hands. 
 
 While these victories and defeats were taking place in the 
 course of time, many strange things happened at home. The 
 young King, as he grew up, proved to be very unlike his 
 great father, and showed himself a miserable puny creature. 
 There was no harm in him — he had a great aversion to 
 shedding blood : which was something — but, he was a weak, 
 silly, helpless young man, and a mere shuttlecock to the 
 great lordly battledores about the Court. 
 
 Of these battledores, Cardinal Beaufort, a relation of the 
 King, and the Duke of Gloucester, were at first the most 
 powerful. The Duke of Gloucester had a wife, who was 
 nonsensically accused of practicing witchcraft to cause the 
 King's death and lead to her husband's coming to the throne, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 197 
 
 he being the next heir. She was charged with having, by 
 the help of a ridiculous old woman named Margery (who 
 was called a witch), made a little waxen doll in the King's 
 likeness, and put it before a slow fire that it might gradually 
 melt away. It was supposed in such cases, that the death 
 of the person whom the doll was made to represent, was sure 
 to happen. Whether the duchess was as ignorant as the 
 rest of them, and really did make such a doll with such an 
 intention, I don't know ; but, you and I know very well that 
 she might have made a thousand dolls, if she had been stupid 
 enough, and might have melted them all, without hurting the 
 King or any body else. However, she was tried for it, and 
 so was old Margery, and so was one of the duke's chaplains, 
 who was charged with having assisted them. Both he and 
 Margery were put to death, and the duchess, after being 
 taken on foot and bearing a lighted candle, three times round 
 the city, as a penance, was imprisoned for life. The duke 
 himself took all this pretty quietly, and made as little stir 
 about the matter as if he were rather glad to be rid of the 
 duchess. 
 
 But he was not destined to keep himself out of trouble 
 long. The royal shuttlecock being three-and-twenty, the 
 battledores were very anxious to get him married. The Duke 
 of Gloucester wanted him to marry a daughter of the Count 
 of Armagnac ; but, the Cardinal and the Earl of Suffolk were 
 all for Margaret, the daughter of the King of Sicily, who 
 they knew was a resolute ambitious woman and would govern 
 the King as she chose. To make friends with this lady, the 
 Earl of Suffolk, who went over to arrange the match, con- 
 sented to accept her for the King's wife without any fortune, 
 and even to give up the two most valuable possessions En- 
 gland then had in France. So, the marriage was arranged, on 
 terms very advantageous to the lady ; and Lord Suffolk 
 brought her to England, and she was married at Westmin- 
 ster. On what pretense this queen and her party charged the 
 Duke of Gloucester with high treason within a couple of 
 years, it is impossible to make out, the matter is so confused; 
 but, they pretended that the King's life was in danger, and 
 they took the duke prisoner. A fortnight afterward, he was 
 found dead in bed (they said), and his body was shown to 
 the people, and Lord Suffolk came in for the best part of his 
 estates. You know by this time how strangely liable state 
 prisoners were to sudden death. 
 
198 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 If Cardinal Beaufort had any hand in this matter, it did 
 him no good, for he died within six weeks ; thinking it very 
 hard and curious — at eighty years old ! — that he could not 
 live to be Pope. 
 
 This was the time when England had completed her loss of 
 all her great French conquests. The people charged the loss 
 principally upon the Earl of Suffolk, now a duke, who had 
 made those easy terms about the Royal Marriage, and who, 
 they believed, had even been bought by France. So he was 
 impeached as a traitor, on a great number of charges, but 
 chiefly on accusations of having aided the French King, and 
 of designing to make his own son King of England. The 
 Commons and the people being violent against him, the King 
 was made (by his friends) to interpose to save him, by ban- 
 ishing him for five years, and proroguing the Parliament. The 
 duke had much ado to escape from a London mob, two thou- 
 sand strong, who lay in wait for him in St. Giles's fields ; 
 but, he got down to his own estates in Suffolk, and sailed 
 away from Ipswich. Sailing across the Channel, he sent 
 into Calais to know if he might land there ; but, they kept 
 his boat and men in the harbor, until an English ship, carry- 
 ing a hundred and fifty men and called the Nicholas of the 
 Tower, came alongside his little vessel, and ordered him on 
 board. " Welcome, traitor, as men say," was the captain's 
 grim and not very respectful salutation. He was kept on 
 board, a prisoner, for eight and forty hours, and then a small 
 boat appeared rowing toward the ship. As this boat came 
 nearer, it was seen to have in it a block, a rusty sword, 
 and an executioner in a black mask. The duke was handed 
 down into it, and there his head was cut off with six strokes 
 of the rusty sword. Then, the little boat rowed away to 
 Dover beach, where the body was cast out, and left until 
 the duchess claimed it. By whom, high in authority, this 
 murder was committed, has never appeared. No one was 
 ever punished for it. 
 
 There now arose in Kent an Irishman, who gave himself 
 the name of Mortimer, but whose real name was Jack Cade. 
 Jack, in imitation of Wat Tyler, though he was a very 
 different and inferior sort of man, addressed the Kentish men 
 upon their wrongs, occasioned by the bad government of 
 England, among so many battledores and such a poor shut- 
 tlecock ; and the Kentish men rose up to the number of 
 twenty thousand. Their place of assembly was Blackheath, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 199 
 
 where, headed by Jack, they put forth two papers, which 
 they called " The Complaint of the Commons of Kent," and 
 " The Requests of the Captain of the Great Assembly in 
 Kent." They then retired to Sevenoaks. The royal army 
 coming up with them there, they beat it and killed their gen- 
 eral. Then, Jack dressed himself in the dead general's 
 armor, and led his men to London. 
 
 Jack passed into the city from Southwark, over the bridge, 
 and entered it in triumph, giving the strictest orders to his 
 men not to plunder. Having made a show of his forces 
 there, while the citizens looked on quietly, he went back into 
 Southwark in good order, and passed the night. Next day, 
 he came back again, having got hold in the meantime of Lord 
 Say, an unpopular nobleman. Says Jack to the Lord Mayor 
 and judges: "Will you be so good as to make a tribunal in 
 Guildhall, and try me this nobleman ? " The court being 
 hastily made, he was found guilty, and Jack and his men cut 
 his head off on Cornhill. They also cut off the head of his 
 son-in-law, and then went back in good order to Southwark 
 again. 
 
 But, although the citizens could bear the beheading of an 
 unpopular lord, they could not bear to have their houses pil- 
 laged. And it did so happen that Jack, after dinner — per- 
 haps he had drunk a little too much — began to plunder the 
 house where he lodged ; upon which, of course, his men be- 
 gan to imitate him. Wherefore, the Londoners took counsel 
 with Lord Scales, who had a thousand soldiers in the Tower; 
 and defended London Bridge, and kept Jack and his people 
 out. This advantage gained, it was resolved by divers great 
 men to divide Jack's army in the old way, by making a great 
 many promises on behalf of the state, that were never in- 
 tended to be performed. This did divide them ; some of 
 Jack's men saying that they ought to take the conditions 
 which were offered, and others saying that they ought not, 
 for they were only a snare ; some going home at once ; others 
 staying where they were ; and all doubting and quarreling 
 among themselves. 
 
 Jack, who was in two minds about fighting or accepting a 
 pardon, and who indeed did both, saw at last that there was 
 nothing to expect from his men, and that it was very likely 
 some of them would deliver him up and get a reward of a 
 thousand marks, which was offered for his apprehension. 
 So, after they had traveled and quareled all the way from 
 
2oo A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Southwark to Blackheath, and from Blackheath to Rochester, 
 he mounted a good horse and galloped away into Sussex. 
 But there galloped after him, on a better horse, one Alexan- 
 der Iden, who came up with him, had a hard fight with him, 
 and killed him. Jack's head was set aloft on London Bridge, 
 with the face looking towards Blackheath, where he had 
 raised his flag ; and Alexander Iden got the thousand 
 marks. 
 
 It is supposed by some, that the Duke of York, who had 
 been removed from a high post abroad through the Queen's 
 influence, and sent out of the way, to govern Ireland, was at 
 the bottom of this rising of Jack and his men, because he 
 wanted to trouble the government. He claimed (though not 
 yet publicly) to have a better right to the throne than Henry 
 of Lancaster, as one of the family of the Earl of March, 
 whom Henry the Fourth had set aside. Touching this claim, 
 which, being through female relationship, was not according 
 to the usual descent, it is enough to say that Henry the 
 Fourth was the free choice of the people and the Parliament, 
 and that his family had now reigned undisputed for sixty 
 years. The memory of Henry the Fifth was so famous, and 
 the English people loved it so much, that the Duke of York's 
 claim would, perhaps, never have been thought of (it would 
 have been so hopeless) but for the unfortunate circumstance 
 of the present King's being by this time quite an idiot, and 
 the country very ill governed. These two circumstances 
 gave the Duke of York a power he could not otherwise have 
 had. 
 
 Whether the Duke knew any thing of Jack Cade, or not, 
 he came over from Ireland while Jack's head was on Lon- 
 don Bridge ; being secretly advised that the Queen was 
 setting up his enemy, the Duke of Somerset, against him. 
 He went to Westminster, at the head of four thousand men, 
 and on his knees before the King, represented to him the baa 
 state of the country, and petitioned him to summon a Par- 
 liament to consider it. This the King promised. When the 
 Parliament was summoned, the Duke of York accused the 
 Duke of Somerset, and the Duke of Somerset accused the 
 Duke of York ; and, both in and out of Parliament, the fol- 
 lowers of each party were full of violence and hatred 
 toward the other. At length the Duke of York put himself 
 at the head of a large force of his tenants, and, in arms, 
 demanded the reformation of the Government. Being shut 
 
THE DUCHESS OP GLOUCESTER DOING VKtAHG% 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 201 
 
 out of London, he encamped at Dartford, and the royal 
 army encamped at Blackheath. According as either side 
 triumphed, the Duke of York was arrested, or the Duke of 
 Somerset was arrested. The trouble ended, for the moment, 
 in the Duke of York renewing his oath of allegiance, and 
 going in peace to one of his own castles. 
 
 Half a year afterward the Queen gave birth to a son, who 
 was very ill received by the people, and not believed to be 
 the son of the King. It shows the Duke of York to have 
 been a moderate man, unwilling to involve England in new 
 troubles, that he did not take advantage of the general dis- 
 content at this time, but really acted for the public good. 
 He was made a member of the cabinet, and. the King being 
 now so much worse that he could not be carried about and 
 shown to the people with any decency, the Duke was made 
 Lord Protector of the kingdom, until the King should re- 
 cover, or the Prince should come of age. At the same time 
 the Duke of Somerset was committed to the Tower. So, 
 now the Duke of Somerset was down, and the Duke of York 
 was up. By the end of the year, however, the King recov- 
 ered his memory and some spark of sense ; upon which the 
 Queen used her power — which recovered with him — to get 
 the Protector disgraced, and her favorite released. So now 
 the Duke of York was down, and the Duke of Somerset 
 was up. 
 
 These ducal ups and downs gradually separated the whole 
 nation into the two parties of York and Lancaster, and led 
 to those terrible civil wars long known as the Wars of the 
 Red and White Roses, because the red rose was the badge 
 of the House of Lancaster, and the white rose was the badge 
 of the House of York. 
 
 The Duke of York, joined by some other powerful noble- 
 men of the White Rose party, and leading a small army, met 
 the King with another small army at St. Alban's, and demand- 
 ed that the Duke of Somerset should be given up. The poor 
 King being made to say in answer that he would sooner 
 die, was instantly attacked. The Duke of Somerset was 
 killed, and the King himself was wounded in the neck, and 
 took refuge in the house of a poor tanner. Whereupon, 
 the Duke of York went to him, led him with great submis- 
 sion to the Abbey, and said he was very sorry for what had 
 happened. Having now the King in his possession, he got a 
 Parliament summoned and himself once more made Protec- 
 
202 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 tor, but, only for a few months ; for, on the King getting a 
 little better again, the Queen and her party got him into 
 their possession, and disgraced the Duke once more. So, 
 now the Duke of York was down again. 
 
 Some of the best men in power, seeing the danger of these 
 constant changes, tried even then to prevent the Red and 
 the White Rose Wars. They brought about a great council 
 in London between the two parties. The White Roses 
 assembled in Elackfriars, the Red Roses in Whitefriars ; and 
 some good priests communicated between them, and made 
 the proceedings known at evening to the King and the judges. 
 They ended in a peaceful agreement that there should be no 
 more quarreling ; and there was a great royal procession to 
 St. Paul's, in which the Queen walked arm-in-arm with her 
 old enemy, the Duke of York, to show the people how com- 
 fortable they all were. This state of peace lasted half a 
 year, when a dispute between the Earl of Warwick (one of 
 the Duke's powerful friends) and some of the King's serv- 
 ants at Court, led to an attack upon that Earl — who was a 
 White Rose — and to a sudden breaking out of all old ani- 
 mosities. So, here were greater ups and downs than ever. 
 
 There were even greater ups and downs than these, soon 
 after. After various battles, the Duke of York fled to Ire- 
 land, and his son the Earl of March to Calais, with their 
 friends the Earls of Salisbury and Warwick ; and a Parlia- 
 ment was held declaring them all traitors. Little the worse 
 for this, the Earl of Warwick presently came back, landed in 
 Kent, was joined by the Archbishop of Canterbury and other 
 powerful noblemen and gentlemen, engaged the King's 
 forces at Northampton, signally defeated them, and took the 
 King himself prisoner, who was found in his tent. Warwick 
 would have been glad, I dare say, to have taken the Queen 
 and Prince too, but they escaped into Wales and thence into 
 Scotland. 
 
 The King was carried by the victorious force straight to 
 London, and made to call a new Parliament, which immedi- 
 ately declared that the Duke of York and those other noble- 
 men were not traitors, but excellent subjects. Then, back 
 comes the Duke from Ireland at the head of five hundred 
 horsemen, rides from London to Westminster, and enters 
 the House of Lords. There he laid his hand upon the cloth 
 of gold which covered the empty throne, as if he had half a 
 mind to sit down in it — but he did not. On the Archbishop 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 203 
 
 of Canterbury asking him if he would visit the King, who 
 was in his palace close by, he replied, " I know nc on* m 
 this country, my lord, who ought not to visit me" None of 
 the lords present spoke a single word ; so, the Duke went 
 out as he had come in, established himself royally in the 
 King's palace, and six days afterward, sent in to the lords a 
 formal statement of his claim to the throne. The lords 
 went to the King on this momentous subject, and after a 
 great deal of discussion, in which the judges and the other 
 law officers were afraid to give an opinion on either side, the 
 question was compromised. It was agreed that the present 
 King should retain the crown for his life, and that it should 
 then pass to the Duke of York and his heirs. 
 
 But, the resolute Queen, determined on asserting her son's 
 right, would hear of no such thing. She came from Scotland 
 to the north of England, where several powerful lords armed 
 in her cause. The Duke of York, for his part, set off with 
 some five thousand men, a little time before Christmas Day, 
 one thousand four hundred and sixty, to give her battle. He 
 lodged at Sandal Castle, near Wakefield, and the Red Roses 
 defied him to come out on Wakefield Green, and fight them 
 then and there. His generals said, he had best wait until his 
 gallant son, the Earl of March, came up with his power ; but 
 he was determined to accept the challenge. He did so, in an 
 evil hour. He was hotly pressed on all sides, two thousand 
 of his men lay dead on Wakefield Green, and he himself was 
 taken prisoner. They set him down in mock state on an ant- 
 hill, and twisted grass about his head, and pretended to pay 
 court to him on their knees, saying, " O King, without a king- 
 dom, and Prince without a people, we hope your gracious 
 Majesty is very well and happy ! " They did worse than 
 this ; they cut his head off, and handed it on a pole to the 
 Queen, who laughed with delight when she saw it (you recol- 
 lect their walking so religiously and comfortably to St. 
 Paul's !), and had it fixed, with a paper crown upon its head, 
 on the walls of York. The Earl of Salisbury lost his head, 
 too ; and the Duke of York's second son, a handsome boy 
 who was flying with his tutor over Wakefield Bridge, was 
 stabbed in the heart by a murderous lord — Lord Clifford by 
 name — whose father had been killed by the White Roses in 
 the fight at St. Alban's. There was awful sacrifice of life in 
 this battle, for no quarter was given, and the Queen was wild 
 for revenge. When men unnaturally fight against their own 
 
204 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 countrymen, they are always observed to be more unnaturally 
 cruel and filled with rage than they are against any other . 
 enemy. 
 
 But, Lord Clifford had stabbed the second son of the Duke 
 of York — not the first. The eldest son, Edward Earl of 
 March, was at Gloucester ; and, vowing vengeance for the 
 death of his father, his brother, and their faithful friends, he 
 began to march against the Queen. He had to turn and 
 fight a great body of Welsh and Irish first, who worried his 
 advance. These he defeated in a great fight at Mortimer's 
 Cross, near Hereford, where he beheaded a number of the 
 Red Roses taken in battle, in retaliation for the beheading of 
 the White Roses at Wakefield. The Queen had the next turn 
 of beheading. Having moved toward London, and falling 
 in, between St. Alban's and Barnet, with the Earl of War- 
 wick and the Duke of Norfolk, White Roses both, who were 
 there with an army to oppose her, and had got the King with 
 them ; she defeated them with great loss, and struck off the 
 heads of two prisoners of note, who were in the King's tent 
 with him, and to whom the King had promised his protec- 
 tion. Her triumph, however, was very short. She had no 
 treasure, and her army subsisted by plunder. This caused 
 them to be hated and dreaded by the people, and particularly 
 by the London people, who were wealthy. As soon as 
 the Londoners heard that Edward, Earl of March, united 
 with the Earl of Warwick, was advancing toward the 
 city, they refused to send the Queen supplies, and made a 
 great rejoicing. 
 
 The Queen and her men retreated with all speed, and Ed- 
 ward and Warwick came on, greeted with loud acclamations 
 on every side. The courage, beauty, and virtues of young 
 Edward could not be sufficiently praised by the whole 
 people. He rode into London like a conqueror, and met 
 with an enthusiastic welcome. A few days afterward, Lord 
 Falconbridge and the Bishop of Exeter assembled the citi- 
 zens in St. John's Field, Clerkenwell, and asked them if they 
 would have Henry of Lancaster for their King ? To this 
 they all roared, " No, no, no ! " and " King Edward ! King 
 Edward ! " Then, said those noblemen, would they love and 
 serve young Edward? To this they all cried, "Yes, yes !" 
 and threw up their caps, and clapped their hands, and 
 cheered tremendously. 
 
 Therefore, it was declared that by joining the Queen and 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 205 
 
 not protecting those two prisoners of note, Henry of Lan- 
 caster had forfeited the crown ; and Edward of York was 
 proclaimed King. He made a great speech to the applaud- 
 ing people at Westminster, and sat down as sovereign of 
 England on that throne, on the golden covering of which 
 his father — worthy of a better fate than the bloody ax which 
 cut the thread of so many lives in England, through so many 
 years — had laid his hand. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FOURTH. 
 
 King Edward the Fourth was not quite twenty-one years 
 of age when he took that unquiet seat upon the throne of 
 England. The Lancaster party, the Red Roses, were then 
 assembling in great numbers near York, and it was necessary 
 to give them battle instantly. But, the stout Earl of War- 
 wick leading for the young King, and the young King him- 
 self closely following him, and the English people crowding 
 round the Royal standard, the White and the Red Rosesmeton 
 a wild March day when the snow was falling heavily, at Tow- 
 ton ; and there such a furious battle raged between them, 
 that the total loss amounted to forty thousand men — all 
 Englishmen, fighting, upon English ground, against one an- 
 other. The young King gained the day, took down the, 
 heads of his father and brother from the walls of York, and 
 put up the heads of some of the most famous noblemen en- 
 gaged in the battle on the other side. Then, he went to 
 London and was crowned with great splendor. 
 
 A new Parliament met. No fewer than one hundred and 
 fifty of the principal noblemen and gentlemen of the Lancas- 
 ter side were declared traitors, and the King — who had very 
 little humanity, though he was handsome in person and 
 agreeable in manners — resolved to do all he could to pluck 
 up the Red Rose root and branch. 
 
 Queen Margaret, however, was still active for her young 
 son. She obtained help from Scotland and from Normandy, 
 and took several important English castles. But Warwick 
 soon retook them; the Queen lost all her treasure on board 
 ship in a great storm ; and both she and her son suffered 
 great misfortunes. Once, in the winter weather, as they 
 
2 o6 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 were riding through a forest, they were attacked and plun- 
 dered by a party of robbers ; and, when they had escaped 
 from these men and were passing alone and on foot through a 
 thick dark part of the wood, they came, all at once, upon 
 another robber. So the Queen, with a stout heart, took the 
 little Prince by the hand, and going straight up to that rob- 
 ber, said to him, " My friend, this is the young son of your 
 lawful King ! I confide him to your care." The robber was 
 surprised, but took the boy in his arms, and faithfully re- 
 stored him and his mother to their friends. In the end, the 
 Queen's soldiers being beaten and dispersed, she went abroad 
 again, and kept quiet for the present. 
 
 Now, all this time, the deposed King Henry was concealed 
 by a Welsh knight, who kept him close in his castle. But, 
 next year, the Lancaster party recovering their spirits, raised 
 a large body of men, and called him out of his retirement to 
 put him at their head. They were joined by some powerful 
 noblemen who had sworn fidelity to the new King, but who 
 were ready, as usual, to break their oaths, whenever they 
 thought there was any thing to be got by it. One of the 
 worst things in the history of the war of the Red and White 
 Roses, is the ease with which these noblemen, who should 
 have set an example of honor to the people, left either side 
 as they took slight offense, or were disappointed in their 
 greedy expectations, and joined the other. Well ! War- 
 wick's brother soon beat the Lancastrians, and the false 
 noblemen, being taken, were beheaded without a moment's 
 loss of time. The desposed King had a narrow escape ; 
 three of his servants were taken, and one of them bore his cap 
 of estate, which was set with pearls, and embroidered with 
 two golden crowns. However, the head to which the cap be- 
 longed, got safely into Lancashire, and lay pretty quietly 
 there (the people in the secret being very true) for more than 
 a year. At length, an old monk gave such intelligence as 
 led to Henry's being taken while he was sitting at dinner in 
 a place called Waddington Hall. He was immediately sent 
 to London, and met at Islington by the Earl of Warwick, by 
 whose directions he was put upon a horse, with his legs tied 
 under it, and paraded three times round the pillory. Then, 
 he was carried off to the Tower, where he was treated well 
 enough. 
 
 The White Rose being so triumphant, the young King 
 abandoned himself entirely to pleasure, and led a jovial life. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 207 
 
 But, thorns were springing up under his bed of roses, as he 
 soon found out. For, having been privately married to 
 Elizabeth Woodville, a young widow lady, very beautiful, 
 and very captivating; and at last resolving to make his secret 
 known, and to declare her his queen; he gave some offense to 
 the Earl of Warwick,who was usually called the King-Maker, 
 because of his power and influence, and because of his having 
 lent such great help in placing Edward on the throne. This 
 offense was not lessened by the jealousy with which the Nevil 
 family (the Earl of Warwick's), regarded the promotion of the 
 Woodville family. For the young Queen was so bent on 
 providing for her relations, that she made her father an earl 
 and a great officer of state ; married her five sisters to young 
 noblemen of the highest rank; and provided for her younger 
 brother, a young man of twenty, by marrying him to an im- 
 mensely rich old duchess of eighty. The Earl of Warwick 
 took all this pretty graciously for a man of his proud temper, 
 until the question arose to whom the King's sister, Marga- 
 ret, should be married. The Earl of Warwick said, " To 
 one of the French King's sons," and was allowed to go over to 
 the French King to make friendly proposals for that purpose, 
 and to hold all manner of friendly interviews with him. But, 
 while he was so engaged, the Woodville party married the 
 young lady to the Duke of Burgundy. Upon this he came 
 back in great rage and scorn, and shut himself up discon- 
 tented in his castle of Middleham. 
 
 A reconciliation, though not a very sincere one, was 
 patched up between the Earl of Warwick and the King, and 
 lasted until the Earl married his daughter, against the King's 
 wishes, to the Duke of Clarence. While the marriage was 
 being celebrated at Calais, the people in the north of En- 
 gland, where the influence of the Nevil family was strongest, 
 broke out into rebellion ; their complaint was, that England 
 was oppressed and plundered by the Woodville family whom 
 they demanded to have removed from power. As they were 
 joined by great numbers of people, and as they openly 
 declared that they were supported by the Earl of Warwick, 
 the King did not know what to do. At last, as he wrote 
 to the Earl beseeching his aid, he and his new son-in-law 
 came over to England, and began to arrange the business by 
 shutting the King up in Middleham Castle in the safe keep- 
 ing of the Archbishop of York ; so England was not only in 
 the strange position of having two kings at once, but they 
 were both prisoners at the same time. 
 
2o8 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Even as yet, however, the King-Maker was so far true to 
 the King, that he dispersed a new rising of the Lancastrians, 
 took their leader prisoner, and brought him to the King, who 
 ordered him to be immediately executed. He presently 
 allowed the King to return to London, and there innumera- 
 ble pledges of forgiveness and friendship were exchanged 
 between them, and between the Nevils and the Woodvilles : 
 the King's eldest daughter was promised in marriage to the 
 heir of the Nevil family ; and more friendly oaths were 
 sworn, and more friendly promises made, than this book 
 would hold. 
 
 They lasted about three months. At the end of that time, 
 the Archbishop of York made a feast for the King, the Earl 
 of Warwick, and the Duke of Clarence, at his house, the 
 Moor, in Hertfordshire. The King was washing his hands 
 before supper, when some one whispered him that a body of 
 a hundred men were lying in ambush outside the house. 
 Whether this were true or untrue, the King took fright, 
 mounted his horse, and rode through the dark night to Wind- 
 sor Castle. Another reconciliation was patched up between 
 him and the King-Maker, but it was a short one, and it was 
 the last. A new rising took place in Lincolnshire, and the 
 King marched to repress it. Having done so, he proclaimed 
 that both the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence 
 were traitors, who had secretly assisted it, and who had 
 been prepared publicly to join it on the following day. In 
 these dangerous circumstances they both took ship and 
 sailed away to the French court. 
 
 And here a meeting took place between the Earl of War- 
 wick and his old enemy, the Dowager Queen Margaret, 
 through whom his father had had his head struck off, and to 
 whom he had been a bitter foe. But now, when he said 
 that he had done with the ungrateful and perfidious Edward 
 of York, and that henceforth he devoted himself to the res- 
 toration of the House of Lancaster, either in the person of 
 her husband or of her little son, she embraced him as if he 
 had ever been her dearest friend. She did more than that, 
 she married her son to his second daughter, the Lady Anne. 
 However agreeable this marriage was to the new friends, it 
 was very disagreeable to the Duke of Clarence, who per- 
 ceived that his father-in-law, the King-Maker, would never 
 make him King, now. So, being but a weak-minded young 
 traitor, possessed of very little worth or sense, he readily 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 209 
 
 listened to an artful court lady sent over for the purpose, 
 and promised to turn traitor once more, and go over to his 
 brother, King Edward, when a fitting opportunity should 
 come. 
 
 The Earl of Warwick, knowing nothing of this, soon re- 
 deemed his promise to the Dowager Queen Margaret, by in- 
 vading England, and landing at Plymouth, where he instantly 
 proclaimed King Henry, and summoned all Englishmen be- 
 tween the ages of sixteen and sixty, to join his banner. 
 Then, with his army increasing as he marched along, he 
 went northward, and came so near King Edward, who was in 
 that part of the country, that Edward had to ride hard for 
 it to the coast of Norfolk, and thence to get away in such 
 ships as he could find, to Holland. Thereupon, the trium- 
 phant King-Maker, and his false son-in-law, the Duke of 
 Clarence, went to London, took the old King out of the 
 Tower, and walked him in a great procession to Saint Paul's 
 Cathedral with the crown upon his head. This did not im- 
 prove the temper of the Duke of Clarence, who saw himself 
 further off from being King than ever ; but he kept his se- 
 cret, and said nothing. The Nevil family were restored to 
 all their honors and glories, and the Woodvilles and the rest 
 were disgraced. The King-Maker, less sanguinary than the 
 King, shed no blood except that of the Earl of Worcester, 
 who had been so cruel to the people as to have gained the 
 title of the Butcher. Him they caught hidden in a tree, and 
 him they tried and executed. No other death stained the 
 King-Maker's triumph. 
 
 To dispute this triumph, back came King Edward again, 
 next year, landing at Ravenspur, coming on to York, caus- 
 ing all his men to cry, " Long live King Henry ! " and swear- 
 ing on the altar, without a blush, that he came to lay no 
 claim to the Crown. Now was the time for the Duke of 
 Clarence, who ordered his men to assume the White Rose, 
 and declare for his brother. The Marquis of Montague, 
 though the Earl of Warwick's brother, also declining to 
 fight against King Edward, he went on successfully to Lon- 
 don, where the Archbishop of York let him into the city, 
 and where the people made great demonstrations in his favor. 
 For this they had four reasons. Firstly, there were great 
 numbers of the King's adherents hiding in the city and 
 ready to break out ; secondly, the King owed them a great 
 deal of money, which thev could never hope to get if he were 
 
zio A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 unsuccessful ; thirdly, there was a young prince to inherit 
 the crown ; and fourthly, the King was gay and handsome, 
 and more popular than a better man might have been with the 
 city ladies. After a stay of only two days with these wor- 
 thy supporters, the King marched out to Barnet Common to 
 give the Earl of Warwick battle. And now it was to be seen, 
 for the last time, whether the King or the King- Maker was 
 to carry the day. 
 
 While the battle was yet pending, the faint-hearted Duke 
 of Clarence began to repent, and sent over secret messages 
 to his father-in-law, offering his services in mediation with 
 the King. But, the Earl of Warwick disdainfully rejected 
 them, and replied that Clarence was false and perjured, 
 and that he would settle the quarrel by the sword. The 
 battle began at four o'clock in the morning and lasted until 
 ten, and during the greater part of the time it was fought in 
 a thick mist — absurdly supposed to be raised by a magician. 
 The loss of life was very great, for the hatred was strong 
 on both sides. The King-Maker was defeated, and the King 
 triumphed. Both the Earl of Warwick and his brother were 
 slain, and their bodies lay in St. Paul's for some days as a 
 spectacle to the people. 
 
 Margaret's spirit was not yet broken even by this great 
 blow. Within five days she was in arms again, and raised 
 her standard in Bath, whence she set off with her army, to 
 try and join Lord Pembroke, who had a force in Wales. 
 But, the King, coming up with her outside the town of Tewkes- 
 bury, and ordering his brother, the Duke of Gloucester, 
 who was a brave soldier, to attack her men, she sustained an 
 entire defeat, and was taken prisoner, together with her son, 
 now only eighteen years of age. The conduct of the King 
 to this poor youth was worthy of his cruel character. He 
 ordered him to be led into his tent. " And what," said he, 
 " brought you to England?" " I came to England," replied 
 the prisoner, with a spirit which a man of spirit might have 
 admired in a captive, " to recover my father's kingdom, 
 which descended to him as his right, and from him descends 
 to me as mine." The King, drawing off his iron gauntlet, 
 struck him with it in the face ; and the Duke of Clarence 
 and some other lords, who were there, drew their noble 
 swords, and killed him. 
 
 His mother survived him, a prisoner, for five years ; after 
 her ransom by the King of France, she survived for six years 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 211 
 
 more. Within three weeks of this murder, Henry died one 
 of those convenient sudden deaths which were so common 
 in the Tower ; in plainer words, he was murdered by the 
 King's order. 
 
 Having no particular excitement on his hands after this great 
 defeat of the Lancaster party, and being perhaps desirous to 
 get rid of some of his fat (for he was now getting too corpu- 
 lent to be handsome), the King thought of making war on 
 France. As he wanted more money for this purpose than 
 the Parliament could give him, though they were usually 
 ready enough for war, he invented a new way for raising it, 
 by sending for the principal citizens of London, and telling 
 them, with a grave face, that he was very much in want of 
 cash, and would take it very kind of them if they would lend 
 him some. It being impossible for them safely to refuse, 
 they complied, and the moneys thus forced from them were 
 called — no doubt to the great amusement of the King and 
 the Court — as if they were free gifts, "Benevolences." 
 What with grants from Parliament, and what with Benevo- 
 lences, the King raised an army and passed over to Calais. 
 As nobody wanted war, however, the French King made 
 proposals of peace, which were accepted, and a truce was 
 concluded for seven long years. The proceedings between 
 the Kings of France and England on this occasion, were very 
 friendly, very splendid, and very distrustful. They finished 
 with a meeting between the two Kings, on a temporary 
 bridge over the river Somrae, where they embraced through 
 two holes in a strong wooden grating like a lion's cage, and 
 made several bows and fine speeches to one another. 
 
 It was time, now, that the Duke of Clarence should be 
 punished for his treacheries ; and Fate had his punishment 
 in store. He was, probably, not trusted by the King— for 
 who could trust him who knew him ! — and he had certainly 
 a powerful opponent in his brother Richard, Duke of Glouces- 
 ter, who, being avaricious and ambitious, wanted to marry 
 that widowed daughter of the Earl of Warwick's who had 
 been espoused to the deceased young Prince at Calais. Clar- 
 ence, who wanted all the family wealth for himself, secreted 
 this lady, whom Richard found disguised as a servant in the 
 City of London, and whom he married ; arbitrators appoint- 
 ed by the King, then divided the property between the 
 brothers. This led to ill-will and mistrust between them. 
 Clarence's wife dying, and he wishing to make another mar- 
 
212 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 riage, which was obnoxious to the King, his ruin was hurried 
 by that means, too. At first, the Court struck at his retain- 
 ers and dependents, and accused some of them of magic and 
 witchcraft, and similar nonsense. Successful against this 
 small game, it then mounted to the Duke himself, who was 
 impeached by his brother the King, in person, on a variety 
 of such charges. He was found guilty and sentenced to be 
 publicly executed. He never was publicly executed, but 
 he met his death somehow, in the Tower, and, no doubt, 
 through some agency of the King or his brother Gloucester, 
 or both. It was supposed at the time that he was told to 
 choose the manner of his death, and that he chose to be 
 drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine. I hope the story may 
 be true, for it would have been a becoming death for such a 
 miserable creature. 
 
 The King survived him some five years. He died in the 
 forty-second year of his life, and twenty-third of his reign. 
 He had a very good capacity and some good points, but he 
 was selfish, careless, sensual, and cruel. He was a favorite 
 with the people for his showy manners ; and the people were 
 a good example to him in the constancy of their attachment. 
 He was penitent on his death-bed for his " benevolences," 
 and other extortions, and ordered restitution to be made to 
 the people who had suffered from them. He also called 
 about his bed the enriched members of the Woodville family, 
 and the proud lords whose honors were of older date, and 
 endeavored to reconcile them, for the sake of the peaceful 
 succession of his son and the tranquillity of England. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIFTH. 
 
 The late King's eldest son, the Prince of Wales, called 
 Edward, after him, was only thirteen years of age at his 
 father's death. He was at Ludlow Castle with his uncle, 
 the Earl of Rivers. The Prince's brother, the Duke of 
 York, only eleven years of age, was in London with his 
 mother. The boldest, most crafty, and most dreaded noble- 
 man in England at that time was their uncle Richard, Duke 
 of Gloucester, and every body wondered how the two poor 
 boys would fare with such an uncle, for a friend or a foe. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND, S13 
 
 The Queen, their mother, being exceedingly uneasy about 
 this, was anxious that instructions should be sent to Lord 
 Rivers to raise an army to escort the young King safely to 
 London. But Lord Hastings, who was of the court party 
 opposed to the Woodvilles, and who disliked the thought of 
 giving them that power, argued against the proposal, and 
 obliged the Queen to be satisfied with an escort of two 
 thousand horse. The Duke of Gloucester did nothing, at 
 first, to justify suspicion. He came from Scotland (where 
 he was commanding an army) to York, and was there the 
 first to swear allegiance to his nephew. He then wrote a 
 condoling letter to the Queen-mother, and set off to be pres- 
 ent at the coronation in London. 
 
 Now, the young King, journeying toward London too, with 
 Lord Rivers and Lord Gray, came to Stony Stratford, as 
 his uncle came to Northampton, about ten miles distant ; 
 and when those two lords heard that the Duke of Gloucester 
 was so near they proposed to the young King that they 
 should go back and greet him in his name. The boy being 
 very willing that they should do so, they rode off and were 
 received with great friendliness, and asked by the Duke of 
 Gloucester to stay and dine with him. In the evening, 
 while they were merry together, up came the Duke of Buck- 
 ingham with three hundred horsemen ; and next morning 
 the two lords and the two dukes, and the three hundred 
 horsemen, rode away together to rejoin the King. Just as 
 they were entering Stony Stratford, the Duke of Gloucester, 
 checking his horse, turned suddenly on the two lords, charged 
 them with alienating from him the affections of his sweet 
 nephew, and caused them to be arrested by the three hund- 
 red horsemen and taken back. Then, he and the Duke of 
 Buckingham went straight to the King (whom they had now 
 in their power), to whom they made a show of kneeling down, 
 and offering great love and submission ; and then they or- 
 dered his attendants to disperse, and took him, alone with 
 them, to Northampton. 
 
 A few days afterward they conducted him to London, and 
 lodged him in the Bishop's Palace. But he did not remain 
 there long ; for, the Duke of Buckingham with a tender face 
 made a speech expressing how anxious he was for the Royal 
 boy's safety, and how much safer he would be in the Tower 
 until his coronation, than he could be any where else. So, to 
 the Tower he was taken, very carefully, and the Duke of 
 Gloucester was named Protector of the State. 
 
214 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Although Gloucester had proceeded thus far with a very 
 smooth countenance — and although he was a clever man, 
 fair of speech, and not ill-looking, in spite of one of his shoul- 
 ders being something higher than the other — and although 
 he had come into the city riding bare-headed at the King's 
 side, and looking very fond of him — he had made the King's 
 mother more uneasy yet ; and when the Royal boy was taken 1 * 
 to the Tower, she became so alarmed that she took sanctuary 
 in Westminster with her five daughters. 
 
 Nor did she do this without reason, for, the Duke of Glou- 
 cester, finding that the lords who were opposed to the Wood- 
 ville family were faithful to the young King nevertheless, 
 quickly resolved to strike a blow for himself. Accordingly, 
 while those lords met in council at the Tower, he and those 
 who were in his interest met in separate council at his own 
 residence, Crosby Palace, in Bishopsgate Street. Being at 
 last quite prepared, he one day appeared unexpectedly at 
 the council in the Tower, and appeared to be very jocular 
 and merry. He was particularly gay with the Bishop of 
 Ely : praising the strawberries that grew in his garden on 
 Holborn Hill, and asking him to have some gathered that he 
 might eat them at dinner. The Bishop, quite proud of the 
 honor, sent one of his men to fetch some ; and the Duke, 
 still very jocular and gay, went out ; and the council all said 
 what a very agreeable duke he was ! In a little time, how- 
 ever, he came back quite altered — not at all jocular — frown- 
 ing and fierce — and suddenly said — 
 
 " What do those persons deserve who have compassed my 
 destruction ; I being the King's lawful, as well as natural, 
 protector ? 
 
 To this strange question, Lord Hastings replied, that they 
 deserved death, whosoever they were, 
 
 " Then," said the Duke, "I tell you that they are that 
 sorceress my brother's wife ; " meaning the Queen : " and 
 that other sorceress, Jane Shore. Who, by witchcraft, have 
 withered my body, and caused my arm to shrink as I now 
 show you." 
 
 He then pulled up his sleeve and showed them his arm, 
 which was shrunken, it is true, but which had been so, as 
 they all very well knew, from the hour of his birth. 
 
 Jane Shore, being then the lover of Lord Hastings, as she 
 had formerly been of the late King, that lord knew that he 
 himself was attacked. So, he said, in some confusion, " Cer- 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 215 
 
 tainly, my Lord, if they have done this, they be worthy of 
 punishment." 
 
 " If ? " said the Duke of Gloucester ; c ' do you talk to me 
 of ifs ? I tell you that they have so done, and I will make it 
 good upon thy body, thou traitor ! " 
 
 With that he struck the table a great blow with his fist. 
 This was a signal to some of his people outside to cry 
 " Treason ! " They immediately did so, and there was a rush 
 into the chamber of so many armed men that it was filled in 
 a moment. 
 
 "First," said the Duke of Gloucester to Lord Hastings, 
 " I arrest thee, traitor ! And let him," he added to the armed 
 men who took him, " have a priest at once, for by St. Paul 
 I will not dine until I have seen his head off ! " 
 
 Lord Hastings was hurried to the green by the Tower 
 chapel, and there beheaded on a log of wood that happened 
 to be lying on the ground. Then, the Duke dined with a 
 good appetite, and after dinner summoning the principal 
 citizens to attend him, told them that Lord Hastings and the 
 rest had designed to murder both himself and the Duke of 
 Buckingham, who stood by his side, if he had not providen- 
 tially discovered their design. He requested them to be 
 so obliging as to inform their fellow-citizens of the truth of 
 what he said and issued a proclamation (prepared and neatly 
 copied out beforehand) to the same effect. 
 
 On the same day that the Duke did these things in the 
 Tower, Sir Richard Ratcliffe, the boldest and most un- 
 daunted of his men, went down to Pontefract ; arrested 
 Lord Rivers, Lord Gray, and two other gentlemen ; and 
 publicly executed them on the scaffold, without any trial, for 
 having intended the Duke's death. Three days afterward 
 the Duke, not to lose time, went down the river to Westmin- 
 ster in his barge, attended by divers bishops, lords, and sol- 
 diers, and demanded that the Queen should deliver her sec- 
 ond son, the Duke of York, into his safe keeping. The 
 Queen, being obliged to comply, resigned the child after she 
 had wept over him ; and Richard of Gloucester placed him 
 with his brother in the Tower. Then he seized Jane Shore, 
 and, because she had been the lover of the late King, confis- 
 cated her property, and got her sentenced to do public pen- 
 ance in the streets by walking in a scanty dress, with bare 
 feet, and carrying a lighted candle, to St. Paul's Cathedral, 
 through the most crowded part of the city. 
 
2i6 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Having now all things ready for his own advancement, ne 
 caused a friar to preach a sermon at the cross which stood 
 in front of St. Paul's Cathedral, in which he dwelt upon the 
 profligate manners of the late King, and upon the late shame 
 of Jane Shore, and hinted that the princes were not his chil- 
 dren. "Whereas, good people," said the friar, whose name 
 was Shaw, "my Lord the Protector, the noble Duke of 
 Gloucester, that sweet prince, the pattern of all the noblest 
 virtues, is the perfect image and express likeness of his 
 father." There had been a little plot between the Duke and 
 the friar, that the Duke should appear in the crowd at this 
 moment, when it was expected that the people would cry 
 " Long live King Richard ! " But, either through the friar 
 saying the words too soon, or through the Duke's coming too 
 late, the Duke and the words did not come together, and the 
 people only laughed, and the friar sneaked off ashamed. 
 
 The Duke of Buckingham was a better hand at such busi- 
 ness than the friar, so he went to the Guildhall the next day 
 and addressed the citizens in the Lord Protector's behalf. A 
 few dirty men who had been hired and stationed there for 
 the purpose, crying when he had done, " God save King 
 Richard ! " he made them a great bow, and thanked them 
 with all his heart. Next day, to make an end of it, he went 
 with the mayor and some lords and citizens to Bayard Cas- 
 tle, by the river, where Richard then was, and read an ad- 
 dress, humbly entreating him to accept the crown of En- 
 gland. Richard, who looked down upon them out of a win- 
 dow and pretended to be in great uneasiness and alarm, as- 
 sured them there was nothing he desired less, and that his 
 deep affection for his nephews forbade him to think of it. 
 To this the Duke of Buckingham replied, with pretended 
 warmth, that the free people of England would never sub- 
 mit to his nephew's rule, and that if Richard, who was the 
 lawful heir, refused the Crown, why then they must find some 
 one else to wear it. The Duke of Gloucester returned, that 
 since he used that strong language, it became his painful 
 duty to think no more of himself, and to accept the Crown. 
 
 Upon that, the people cheered and dispersed ; and the 
 Duke of Gloucester and the Duke of Buckingham passed a 
 pleasant evening, talking over the play they had just acted 
 with so much success, and every word of which they had 
 prepared together. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 217 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE THIRD. 
 
 King Richard the Third was up betimes in the morning, 
 arjd went to Westminster Hall. In the Hall was a marble 
 seat, upon which he sat himself down between two great 
 noblemen, and told the people that he began the new reign 
 in that place, because the first duty of a sovereign was to ad- 
 minister the laws equally to all, and to maintain justice. He 
 then mounted his horse and rode back to the city, where he 
 was received by the clergy and the crowd as if he really had 
 a right to the throne, and really were a just man. The clergy 
 and the crowd must have been rather ashamed or themselves 
 in secret, I think, for being such poor-spirited knaves. 
 
 The new King and his Queen were soon crowned with a 
 great deal of show and noise, which the people liked very 
 much ; and then the King set forth on a royal progress 
 through his dominions. He was crowned a second time at 
 York, in order that the people might have show and noise 
 enough ; and wherever he went was received with shouts of 
 rejoicing — from a good many people of strong lungs, who 
 were paid to strain their throats in crying, " God save King 
 Richard !" The plan was so successful that I am told it has 
 been imitated since, by other usurpers, in other progresses 
 through other dominions. 
 
 While he was on this journey, King Richard staid a week 
 at Warwick. And from Warwick he sent instructions home 
 for one of the wickedest murders that ever was done — the 
 murder of the two young princes, his nephews, who were 
 shut up in the Tower of London. 
 
 Sir Robert Brackenbury was at that time Governor of the 
 Tower. To him, by the hands of a messenger named John 
 Green, did King Richard send a letter, ordering him by 
 some means to put the two young princes to death. But Sir 
 Robert — I hope because he had children of his own, and 
 loved them — sent John Green back again, riding and spur- 
 ring along the dusty roads, with the answer that he could not 
 do so horrible a piece of work. The King, having frown- 
 ingly considered a little, called to him Sir James Tyrrel, his 
 master of the horse, and to him gave authority to take com- 
 mand of the Tower, whenever he would, for twenty-four 
 
218 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 hours, and to keep all the keys of the Tower during that 
 space of time. Tyrrel, well knowing what was wanted, 
 looked about him for two hardened ruffians, and chose John 
 Dighton, one of his own grooms, and Miles Forest, who was 
 a murderer by trade. Having secured these two assistants, 
 he went, upon a day in August, to the Tower, showed his 
 authority from the King, took the command for four-and- 
 twenty hours, and obtained possession of the keys. And 
 when the black night came, he west creeping, creeping, like 
 a guilty villain as he was, up the dark stone winding stairs, 
 and along the dark stone passages, until he came to the door 
 of the room where the two young princes, having said their 
 prayers, lay fast asleep, clasped in each other's arms. And 
 while he watched and listened at the door, he sent in those 
 evil demons, John Dighton and Miles Forest, who smoth- 
 ered the two princes with the bed and pillows, and carried 
 their bodies down the stairs, and buried them under a great 
 heap of stones at the staircase foot. And when the day 
 came, he gave up the command of the Tower, and restored 
 the keys, and hurried away without once looking behind 
 him ; and Sir Robert Brackenbury went with fear and sad- 
 ness to the princes' room, and found the princes gone for- 
 ever. 
 
 You know, through all this history, how true it is that 
 traitors are never true, and you will not be surprised to learn 
 that the Duke of Buckingham soon turned against King 
 Richard, and joined a great conspiracy that was formed to 
 dethrone him, and to place the crown upon its rightful own- 
 er's head. Richard had meant to keep the murder secret ; 
 but when he heard through his spies that this conspiracy ex- 
 isted, and that many lords and gentlemen drank in secret to 
 the healths of the two young princes in the Tower, he made 
 it known that they were dead. The conspirators, though 
 thwarted for a moment, soon resolved to set up for the 
 crown against the murderous Richard, Henry Earl of Rich- 
 mond, grandson of Catherine : that widow of Henry the 
 Fifth who married Owen Tudor. And as Henry was of the 
 house of Lancaster, they proposed that he should marry the 
 Princess Elizabeth, the eldest daughter of the late King, now 
 the heiress of the house of York, and thus by uniting the 
 rival families put an end to the fatal wars of the P.ed and 
 White Roses. AH being settled, a time was appointed for 
 Henry to come over from Brittany, and for a great rising 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 219 
 
 against Richard to take place in several parts of England at 
 the same hour. On a certain day, therefore, in October, the 
 revolt took place ; but unsuccessfully. Richard was pre- 
 pared, Henry was driven back at sea by a storm, his follow- 
 ers in England were dispersed, and the Duke of Bucking- 
 ham was taken, and at once beheaded in the market-place at 
 Salisbury. 
 
 The time of his success was a good time, Richard thought, 
 for summoning a Parliament and getting some money. So, 
 a Parliament was called, and it flattered and fawned upon 
 him as much as he could possibly desire, and declared him 
 to be the rightful King of England, and his own son Edward, 
 then eleven years of age, the next heir to the throne. 
 
 Richard knew full well that, let the Parliament say what 
 it would, the Princess Elizabeth was remembered by people 
 as the heiress of the house of York ; and having accurate in- 
 formation besides, of its being designed by the conspirators 
 to marry her to Henry of Richmond, he felt that it would 
 much strengthen him and weaken them, to be beforehand 
 with them, and marry her to his son. With this view he went 
 to the Sanctuary at Westminster, where the late King's widow 
 and her daughter still were, and besought them to come to 
 Court : where (he swore by any thing and every thing) they 
 should be safely and honorably entertained. They came, 
 accordingly, but had scarcely been at Court a month when 
 his son died suddenly — or was poisoned — and his plan was 
 crushed to pieces. 
 
 In this extremity, King Richard, always active, thought, 
 "I must make another plan." And he made the plan of 
 marrying the Princess Elizabeth himself, although she was 
 his niece. There was one difficulty in the way: his wife, the 
 Queen Anne, was alive. But, he knew (remembering his 
 nephews) how to remove that obstacle, and he made love to 
 the Princess Elizabeth, telling her he felt perfectly confident 
 that the Queen would die in February. The Princess was 
 not a very scrupulous young lady, for, instead of rejecting 
 the murderer of her brothers with scorn and hatred, she 
 openly declared she loved him dearly ; and, when February 
 came and the Queen did not die, she expressed her impatient 
 opinion that she was too long about it. However, King Rich- 
 ard was not so far out in his prediction but that she died in 
 March — he took good care of that — and then this precious 
 pair hoped to be married. But they were disappointed, for 
 
22o A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 the idea of such a marriage was so unpopular in the country, 
 that the King's chief counselors, Ratcliffe and Catesby, 
 would by no means undertake to propose it, and the King 
 was even obliged to declare in public that he had never 
 thought of such a thing. 
 
 He was, by this time, dreaded and hated by all classes of 
 his subjects. His nobles deserted everyday to Henry's side; 
 he dared not call another parliament, lest his crimes should 
 be denounced there ; and for want of money, he was obliged 
 to get Benevolences from the citizens, which exasperated 
 them all against him. It was said too, that, being stricken 
 by his conscience, he dreamed frightful dreams, and started 
 up in the night-time, wild with terror and remorse. Active 
 to the last, through all this, he issued vigorous proclamations 
 against Henry of Richmond and all his followers, when he 
 heard that they were coming against him with a fleet from 
 France ; and took the field as fierce and savage as a wild 
 boar — the animal represented on his shield. 
 
 Henry of Richmond landed with six thousand men at Mil- 
 ford Haven, and came on against King Richard, then en- 
 camped at Leicester with an army twice as great, through 
 North Wales. On Bosworth Field the two armies met ; and 
 Richard, looking along Henry's ranks, and seeing them 
 crowded with the English nobles who had abandoned him. 
 turned pale when he beheld the powerful Lord Stanley and 
 his son (whom he had tried hard to retain) among them. 
 But, he was as brave as he was wicked, and plunged into the 
 thickest of the fight. He was riding hither and thither, laying 
 about him in all directions, when he observed the Earl of 
 Northumberland — one of his few great allies — to stand in- 
 active, and the main body of his troops to hesitate. At the 
 same moment, his desperate glance caught. Henry of Rich- 
 mond among a little group of his knights. Riding hard at 
 him, and crying " Treason I " he killed his standard-bearer, 
 fiercely unhorsed another gentleman, and aimed a powerful 
 stroke at Henry himself, to cut him down. But, Sir William 
 Stanley parried it as it fell, and before Richard could raise 
 his arm again, he was borne down in a press of numbers, un- 
 horsed, and killed. Lord Stanley picked up the crown, all 
 bruised and trampled, and stained with blood, and put it 
 upon Henry's head, amid loud and rejoicing cries of 
 " Long live King Henry ! ' 
 
 That night, a horse was led up to the church of the Grey 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 221 
 
 Friars at Leicester, across whose back was tied, like some 
 worthless sack, a naked body brought there for burial. It 
 was the body of the last of the Plantagenet line, King Rich- 
 ard the Third, usurper and murderer, slain at the battle of 
 Bosworth Field, in the thirty-second year of his age, after a 
 reign of two years. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SEVENTH. 
 
 King Henry the Seventh did not turn out to be as fine 
 a fellow as the nobility and people hoped, in the first joy of 
 their deliverance from Richard the Third. He was very 
 cold, crafty, and calculating, and would do almost any thing 
 for money. He possessed considerable ability, but his chief 
 merit appears to have been that he was not cruel when there 
 was nothing to be got by it. 
 
 The new King had promised the nobles who had espoused 
 his cause that he would marry the Princess Elizabeth. The 
 first thing he did, was, to direct her to be removed from the 
 castle of Sheriff Hutton in Yorkshire, where Richard had 
 placed her, and restored to "he care of her mother in London. 
 The young Earl of Warwick, Edward Plantagenet, son and 
 heir of the late Duke of Clarence, had been kept a prisoner 
 in the same old Yorkshire Castle with her. This boy, who 
 was now fifteen, the new King placed in the Tower for safety. 
 Then he came to London in great state, and gratified the 
 people with a fine procession ; on which kind of show he often 
 very much relied for keeping them in good humor. The 
 sports and feasts which took place were followed by a terrible 
 fever, called the Sweating Sickness ; of which great numbers 
 of people died. Lord Mayors and aldermen are thought to 
 have suffered most from it ; whether, because they were in 
 habit of overeating themselves, or because they were very 
 jealous of preserving filth and nuisances in the city (as they 
 have been since), I don't know. 
 
 The King's coronation was postponed on account of the 
 general ill-health, and he afterwards deferred his marriage, 
 as if he were not very anxious that it should take place : and, 
 even after that, deferred the Queen's coronation so long that 
 he gave offense to the York party. However, lie set these 
 
222 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 things right in the end, by hanging some men and seizing on 
 the rich possessions of others ; by granting more popular 
 pardons to the followers of the late King than could, at first, 
 be got from him ; and, by employing about his Court, some 
 not very scrupulous persons who had been employed in the 
 previous reign. 
 
 As this reign was principally remarkable for two very 
 curious impostures which have become famous in history, 
 we will make those two stories its principal feature. 
 
 There was a priest at Oxford of the name of Simons, who 
 had for a pupil a handsome boy named Lambert Simnel, the 
 son of a baker. Partly to gratify his own ambitious ends, 
 and partly to carry out the designs of a secret party formed 
 against the King, this priest declared that his pupil, the boy, 
 was no other than the young Earl of Warwick; who (as every 
 body might have known) was safely locked up in the Tower 
 of London. The priest and the boy went over to Ireland ; 
 and, at Dublin, enlisted in their cause all ranks of the people: 
 who seem to have been generous enough, but exceedingly 
 irrational. The Earl of Kildare, the governor of Ireland, 
 declared that he believed the boy to be what the priest repre- 
 sented; and the boy, who had been well tutored by the priest, 
 told them such things of his childhood, and gave them so 
 many descriptions of the Royal Family, that they were per- 
 petually shouting and hurrahing, and drinking his health, and 
 making all kinds of noisy and thirsty demonstrations, to ex- 
 press their belief in him. Nor was this feeling confined to 
 Ireland alone, for the Earl of Lincoln — whom the late usurper 
 had named as his successor — went over to the young Pre- 
 tender ; and after holding a secret correspondence with the 
 Dowager Duchess of Burgundy — the sister of Edward the 
 Fourth, who detested the present King and all his race — 
 sailed to Dublin with two thousand German soldiers of her 
 providing. In this promising state of the boy's fortunes, he 
 was crowned there, with a crown taken off the head of a statue 
 of the Virgin Mary ; and was then, according to the Irish 
 custom in those days, carried home on the shoulders of a big 
 chieftain possessing a great deal more strength than sense. 
 Father Simons, you may be sure, was mighty busy at the 
 coronation. 
 
 Ten days afterward, the Germans, and the Irish, and the 
 priest and the boy, and the Earl of Lincoln, all landed in 
 Lancashire to invade England. The King, who had good 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 223 
 
 intelligence of their movements, set up his standard at Not- 
 tingham, where vast numbers resorted to him every day; 
 while the Earl of Lincoln could gain but very few. With 
 this small force he tried to make for the town of Newark ; 
 but the King's army getting between him and that place, he 
 had no choice but to risk battle at Stoke. It soon ended in 
 the complete destruction of the Pretender's forces ; one- 
 half of whom were killed : among them the Earl himself. 
 The priest and the baker's boy were taken prisoners. The 
 priest, after confessing the trick, was shut up in prison, 
 where he afterward died— suddenly perhaps. The boy 
 was taken into the King's kitchen and made a turnspit. He 
 was afterward raised to the station of one of the King's 
 falconers ; and so ended this strange imposition. 
 
 There seems reason to suspect that the Dowager Queen- 
 always a restless and busy woman — had had some share in 
 tutoring the baker's son. The King was very angry with 
 her, whether or no. He seized upon her property, and shut 
 her up in a convent at Bermondsey. 
 
 One might suppose that the end of this story would have 
 put the Irish people on their guard ; but they were quite 
 ready to receive a second impostor, as they had received the 
 first, and that same troublesome Duchess of Burgundy soon 
 gave them the opportunity. All of a sudden there appeared 
 at Cork, in a vessel arriving from Portugal, a young man of 
 excellent abilities, of very handsome appearance and most 
 winning manners, who declared himself to be Richard, Duke 
 of York, the second son of King Edward the Fourth. " O," 
 said some, even of those ready Irish believers, "but surely 
 that young Prince was murdered by his uncle in the 
 Tower ! "— " It is supposed so," said the engaging young 
 man ; " and my brother was killed in that gloomy prison : 
 but I escaped — it don't matter how, at present—and have 
 been wandering about the world for seven long years." This 
 explanation being quite satisfactory to numbers of the Irish 
 people, they began again to shout and to hurrah, and to drink 
 his health, and to make the noisy and thirsty demonstrations 
 all over again. And the big chieftain in Dublin began to 
 look out for another coronation, and another young King to 
 be carried home on his back. 
 
 Now, King Henry being then on bad terms with France, 
 the French King, Charles the Eighth, saw that, by pretend- 
 ing to believe in the handsome young man, he could trouble 
 
224 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 his enemy sorely. So, he invited him over to the French 
 Court and appointed him a body-guard, and treated him in 
 all respects as it he really were the Duke of York. Peace, 
 however, being soon concluded between the two Kings, the 
 pretended Duke was turned adrift, and wandered for pro- 
 tection to the Duchess of Burgundy. She, after feigning 
 to inquire into the reality of his claims, declared him to be 
 the very picture of her dear departed brother ; gave him a 
 body-guard at her Court, of thirty halberdiers ; and called 
 him by the sounding name of the White Rose of England. 
 
 The leading members of the White Rose party in England 
 sent over an agent, named Sir Robert Clifford, to ascertain 
 whether the White Rose's claims were good ; the King also 
 sent over his agents to inquire into Rose's history. The 
 White Roses declared the young man to be really the Duke 
 of York ; the King declared him to be Perkin Warbeck, the 
 son of a merchant of the city of Tournay, who had acquired 
 his knowledge of England, its language and manners, from 
 the English merchants who traded in Flanders ; it was also 
 stated by the Royal agents, that he had been in the service 
 of Lady Brompton, the wife of an exiled English nobleman, 
 and that the Duchess of Burgundy had caused him to be 
 trained and taught, expressly for this deception. The King 
 then required the Archduke Philip — who was the sovereign 
 of Burgundy — to banish this new Pretender, or to deliver 
 him up ; but as the Archduke replied that he could not con- 
 trol the Duchess in her own land, the King, in revenge, took 
 the market of English cloth away from Antwerp, and pre- 
 vented all commercial intercourse between the two countries. 
 
 He also, by arts and bribes, prevailed on Sir Robert Clif- 
 ford to betray his employers ; and he denouncing several 
 famous English noblemen as being secretly the friends of 
 Perkin Warbeck, the King had three of the foremost exe- 
 cuted at once. Whether he pardoned the remainder because 
 they were poor, I do not know ; but it is only too probable 
 that he refused to pardon one famous nobleman against 
 whom the same Clifford soon afterward informed separately, 
 because he was rich. This was no other than Sir William 
 Stanley, who had saved the King's life at the battle of Bos- 
 worth Field. It is very doubtful whether his treason 
 amounted to much more than his having said, that if he 
 were sure the young man was the Duke of York, he would 
 not take arms against him. Whatever he had done he ad- 
 
< , < 
 
 C C f < c 
 
 LJLMBERT SIMNEL. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 225 
 
 mitted, like an honorable spirit ; and he lost his head for it, 
 and the covetous King gained all his wealth. 
 
 Perkin Warbeck kept quiet for three years, but, as the 
 Flemings began to complain heavily of the loss of their 
 trade by the stoppage of the Antwerp market on this 
 account, and that it was not unlikely that they might even 
 go so far as to take his life, or give him up, he found it 
 necessary to do something. Accordingly he made a des- 
 perate sally, and landed, with only a few hundred men, on 
 the coast of Deal. But he was soon glad to get back to the 
 place from whence he came ; for the country people rose 
 against his followers, killed a great many, and took a hund- 
 red and fifty prisoners : who were all driven to London, 
 tied together with ropes, like a team of cattle. Every one 
 of them was hanged on some part or other of the sea-shore ; 
 in order, that if any more men should come over with Perkin 
 Warbeck, they might see the bodies as a warning before 
 they landed. 
 
 Then the wary King, by making a treaty of commerce 
 with the Flemings, drove Perkin Warbeck out of that coun- 
 try ; and, by completely gaining over the Irish to his side, 
 deprived him of that asylum too. He wandered away to 
 Scotland, and told his story at that Court. King James the 
 Fourth of Scotland, who was no friend^to King Henry, and 
 had had no reason to be, (for King Henry had bribed his 
 Scotch lords to betray him more than once ; but had never 
 succeeded in his plots) gave him a great reception, called 
 him his cousin, and gave him in marriage the Lady Catherine 
 Gordon, a beautiful and charming creature related to the 
 royal house of Stuart. 
 
 Alarmed by this successful reappearance of the Pretender, 
 the King still undermined, and bought, and bribed, and kept 
 his doings and Perkin Warbeck's story in the dark, when he 
 might, one would imagine, have rendered the matter clear to 
 all England. But, for all this bribing of the Scotch lords at 
 the Scotch King's Court, he could not procure the Pretender 
 to be delivered up to him. James, though not very particu- 
 lar in many respects, would not betray him ; and the ever- 
 busy Duchess of Burgundy so provided him with arms, and 
 good soldiers, and with money besides, that he had soon a 
 little army of fifteen hundred men of various nations. 
 With these, and aided by the Scottish King in person, he 
 crossed the border into England, and made a proclamation 
 
226 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 to the people, in which he called the King {< Henry Tudor ; * 
 offered large rewards for any one who should take or distress 
 him ; and announced himself as King Richard the Fourth 
 come to receive the homage of his faithful subjects. His 
 faithful subjects, however, cared nothing for him, and hated 
 his faithful troops : who, being of different nations, quar- 
 reled among themselves. Worse than this, if worse were 
 possible, they began to plunder the country ; upon which 
 the White Rose said, that he would rather lose his rights 
 than gain them through the miseries of the English people. 
 The Scottish King made a jest of his scruples ; but they 
 and their whole force went back again without fighting a 
 battle. 
 
 The worst consequence of this attempt was that a rising 
 took place among the people of Cornwall, who considered 
 themselves too heavily taxed to meet the charges of the ex- 
 pected war. Stimulated by Flammock, a lawyer, and Joseph, 
 a blacksmith, and joined by Lord Audley and some other 
 country gentlemen, they marched on all the way to Deptford 
 Bridge, where they fought a battle with the King's army. 
 They were defeated — though the Cornish men fought with 
 great bravery — and the lord was beheaded, and the lawyer 
 and the blacksmith were hanged, drawn, and quartered. The 
 rest were pardoned. The King, who believed every man to 
 be as avaricious as himself, and thought that money could 
 settle any thing, allowed them to make bargains for their lib- 
 erty with the soldiers who had taken them. 
 
 Perkin Warbeck, doomed to wander up and down, and 
 never to find rest any where — a sad fatej almost a suffi- 
 cient punishment for an impostor, which he seems in time 
 to have half believed himself — lost his Scottish refuge 
 through a truce being made between the two Kings ; and 
 found himself, once more, without a country before him in 
 which he could lay his head. But James (always honorable 
 and true to him, alike when he melted down his plate, and 
 even the great gold chain lie had been used to wear, to pay 
 soldiers in his cause ; and now when that cause was lost 
 and hopeless) did not conclude the treaty, until he had 
 safely departed out of the Scotch dominions. He, and his 
 beautiful wife, who was faithful to him under all reverses, 
 and left her state and home to follow his poor fortunes, were 
 put aboard ship with everything necessary for their com- 
 fort and protection, and sailed for Ireland. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 327 
 
 But the Irish people had had enough of counterfeit Earls 
 Of Warwick and Dukes of York, for one while ; and would 
 give the White Rose no aid. So, the White Rose — encir- 
 cled by thorns indeed — resolved to go with his beautiful 
 wife to Cornwall as a forlorn resource, and see what might 
 be made of the Cornish men who had risen so valiantly a 
 little while before, and had fought so bravely at Deptford 
 Bridge. 
 
 To Whitsand Bay, in Cornwall, accordingly, came Perkin 
 Warbeck and his wife ; and the lovely lady he shut up for 
 safety in the Castle of St. Michael's Mount, and then marched 
 into Devonshire at the head of three thousand Cornish men. 
 These were increased to six thousand by the time of his 
 arrival in Exeter ; but there the people made a stout resist- 
 ance and he went on to Taunton, where he came in sight of 
 the King's army. The stout Cornish men, although they 
 were few in number, and badly armed, were so bold that 
 they never thought of retreating ; but bravely looked for- 
 ward to a battle on the morrow. Unhappily for them, the 
 man who was possessed of so many engaging qualities, and 
 who attracted so many people to his side when he had noth- 
 ing else with which to tempt them, was not as brave as they. 
 In the night, when the two armies lay opposite to each 
 other, he mounted a swift horse and fled. When morning 
 dawned, the poor confiding Cornish men, discovering that 
 they had no leader, surrendered to the King's power. Some 
 of them were hanged, and the rest were pardoned and went 
 miserably home. 
 
 Before the King pursued Perkin Warbeck to the sanctuary 
 of Beaulieu in the New Forest, where it was soon known that 
 he had taken refuge, he sent a body of horsemen to Saint 
 Michael's Mount to seize his wife. She was soon taken and 
 brought as a captive before the King. But she was so beau- 
 tiful, and so good, and so devoted to the man in whom she 
 believed, that the King regarded her with compassion, treated 
 her with great respect, and placed her at Court, near the 
 Queen's person. And many years after Perkin Warbeck was 
 no more, and when his strange story had become like a nur- 
 sery tale, she was called the White Rose, by the people, in 
 remembrance of her beauty. 
 
 The sanctuary at Beaulieu was soon surrounded by the 
 King's men ; and the King, pursuing his usual dark artful 
 ways, sent pretended friends to Perkin Warbeck to persuade 
 
228 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 him to come out and surrender himself. This he soon did : 
 the King having taken a good look at the man of whom he 
 had heard so much — from behind a screen — directed him to 
 be well mounted, and to ride behind him at a little distance, 
 guarded, but not bound in any way. So they entered Lon- 
 don with the King's favorite show — a procession ; and some 
 of the people hooted as the Pretender rode slowly through 
 the streets to the Tower ; but the greater part were quiet, 
 and. very curious to see him. From the Tower, he was taken 
 to the Palace at Westminster, and there lodged like a gen- 
 tleman, though closely watched. He was examined every 
 now and then as to his imposture ; but the King was so se- 
 cret in all that he did, that even then he gave it a conse- 
 quence, which it cannot be supposed to have in itself de- 
 served. 
 
 At last Perkin Warbeck ran away, and took refuge in 
 another sanctuary near Richmond in Surrey. From this he 
 was again persuaded to deliver himself up ; and, being con- 
 veyed to London, he stood in the stocks for a whole day, out- 
 side Westminster Hall, and there read a paper purporting to 
 be his full confession, and relating his history as the King's 
 agents had originally described it. He was then shut up in 
 the Tower again, in the company of the Earl of Warwick, 
 who had now been there for fourteen years : ever since his 
 removal out of Yorkshire, except when the King had had him 
 at Court and had shown him to the people, to prove the im- 
 posture of the baker's boy. It is but too probable, when we 
 consider the crafty character of Henry the Seventh, that these 
 two were brought together for a cruel purpose. A plot was 
 soon discovered between them and the keepers to murder 
 the Governor, get possession of the keys, and proclaim Per- 
 kin Warbeck as King Richard the Fourth. That there was 
 some such plot, is likely ; that they were tempted into it, is 
 at least as likely ; that the unfortunate Earl of Warwick — 
 last male of the Plantagenet line — was too unused to the 
 world, and too ignorant and simple to know much about it, 
 whatever 'it was, is perfectly certain; and that it was the 
 King's interest to get rid of him, is no less so. He was be- 
 headed on Tower Hill, and Perkin Warbeck was hanged at 
 Tyburn. 
 
 Such was the end of the pretended Duke ot York, whose 
 shadowy history was made more shadowy — and ever will 
 be — by the mystery and craft of the King. If he had turned 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 229 
 
 his great natural advantages to a more honest account, he 
 might have lived a happy and respected life even in those 
 days. But he died upon a gallows at Tyburn, leaving the 
 Scottish lady who had loved him so well, kindly protected at 
 the Queen's Court. After some time she forgot her old loves 
 and troubles, as many people do with Time's merciful assist- 
 ance, and married a Welsh gentleman. Her second hus- 
 band, Sir Matthew Cradoc, more honest and more happy 
 than her first, lies beside her in a tomb in the old church of 
 Swansea. 
 
 The ill-blood between France and England in this reign, 
 arose out of the continued plotting of the Duchess of Bur- 
 gundy, and disputes respecting the affairs of Brittany. The 
 King feigned to be very patriotic, indignant, and warlike : 
 but he always contrived so as never to make war in reality, 
 and always to make money. His taxation of the people, on 
 pretense of war with France, involved, at one time, a very 
 dangerous insurrection, headed by Sir John Egremont, and 
 a common man called John a Chambre. But it was subdued 
 by the royal forces, under the command of the Earl of Sur- 
 rey. The knighted John escaped to the Duchess of Bur- 
 gundy, who was ever ready to receive any one who gave the 
 King trouble : and the plain John was hanged at York in 
 the midst of a number of his men, but on a much higher 
 gibbet, as being a greater traitor. Hung high or low, how* 
 ever, hanging is much the same to the person hung. 
 
 Within a year after her marriage, the Queen had given 
 birth to a son, who was called Prince Arthur, in remem- 
 brance of the old British Prince of romance and story ; and 
 who, when all these events had happened, being then in his 
 fifteenth year, was married to Catherine, the daughter of the 
 Spanish monarch, with great rejoicings and bright prospects ; 
 but in a very few months he sickened and died. As soon as the 
 King had recovered from his grief, he thought it a pity that 
 the fortune of the Spanish Princess, amounting to two hund- 
 red thousand crowns, should go out of the family ; and 
 therefore arranged that the young widow should marry his 
 second son Henry, then twelve years of age, when he too 
 should be fifteen. There were objections to this marriage 
 on the part of the clergy ; but, as the infallible Pope was 
 gained over, and, as he must be right, that settled the 
 business for the time. The King's eldest daughter was 
 provided for, and a long course of disturbance was eonsid- 
 
2 3 o A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ered to be set at rest, by her being married to the Scottish 
 King. 
 
 And now the Queen died. When the King had got over 
 that grief too, his mind once more reverted to his darling 
 money for consolation, and he thought of marrying the Dow- 
 ager Queen of Naples, who was immensely rich : but, as it 
 turned out not to be practicable to gain the money, however 
 practicable it might have been to gain the lady, he gave up 
 the idea. He was not so fond of her but that he soon pro- 
 posed to marry the Dowager Duchess of Savoy ; and, soon 
 afterward, the widow of the King of Castile, who was raving 
 mad. But he made a money-bargain instead, and married 
 neither. 
 
 The Duchess of Burgundy, among the other discontented 
 people to whom she had given refuge, had sheltered Edmund 
 de la Pole (younger brother of that Earl of Lincoln who 
 was killed at Stoke), now Earl of Suffolk. The King had 
 prevailed upon him to return to the marriage of Prince 
 Arthur ; but, he soon afterwards went away again ; and then 
 the King, suspecting a conspiracy, resorted to his favorite 
 plan of sending him some treacherous friends, and buying 
 of those scoundrels the secrets they disclosed or invented. 
 Some arrests and executions took place in consequence. In 
 the end, the King, on a promise of not taking his life, ob- 
 tained possession of the person of Edmund de la Pole, and 
 shut him up in the Tower. 
 
 This was his last enemy. If he had lived much longer he 
 would have made many more among the people, by the 
 grinding exaction to which he constantly exposed them, and 
 by the tyrannical acts of his two prime favorites in all 
 money-raising matters, Edmund Dudley and Richard Emp- 
 son. But Death — the enemy who is not to be bought off or 
 deceived, and on whom no money, and no treachery, has any 
 effect — presented himself at this juncture, and ended the 
 King's reign. He died of the gout, on the twenty-second of 
 April, one thousand five hundred and nine, and in the fifty- 
 third year of his age, after reigning twenty-four years ; he 
 was buried in the beautiful Chapel of Westminster Abbey, 
 which he had himself founded, and which still bears his 
 r.ame. 
 
 It was in this reign that the great Christopher Columbus, 
 on behalf of Spain, discovered what was then called The 
 New World, Great wonder, interest, and hope of wealth 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY 'OF ENGLAND. 231 
 
 being awakened in England thereby, the King and the mer- 
 chants of London and Bristol fitted out an English expedi- 
 tion for further discoveries in the New World, and entrusted 
 it to Sebastian Cabot, of Bristol, the son of a Venetian pilot 
 there. He was very successful in his voyage, and gained 
 high reputation, both for himself and England. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 england under henry the eighth, called bluff kxng 
 hal and burly king harry. 
 
 Part First. 
 
 We now come to King Henry the Eighth, whom it has been 
 too much the fashion to call " Bluff King Hal," and " Burly 
 King Harry," and other fine names ; but whom I shall take 
 the liberty to call, plainly, one of the most detestable villains 
 that ever drew breath. You will be able to judge, long be- 
 fore we come to the end of his life, whether he deserves the 
 character. 
 
 He was just eighteen years of age when he came to the 
 throne. People said he was handsome then ; but I don't 
 believe it. He was a big, burly, noisy, small-eyed, large- 
 faced, double-chinned, swinish-looking fellow in later life, 
 (as we know from the likeness of him, painted by the famous 
 Hans Holbein), and it is not easy to believe that so bad a 
 character can ever have been veiled under a prepossessing 
 appearance. 
 
 He was anxious to make himself popular ; and the peo- 
 ple, who had long disliked the late king, were very willing 
 to believe that he deserved to be so. He was extremely fond 
 of show and display, and so were they. Therefore there was 
 great rejoicing when he married the Princess Catherine, and 
 when they were both crowned. And the King fought at 
 tournaments and always came off victorious — for the cour- 
 tiers took care of that — and there was a general outcry that 
 he was a wonderful man. Empson, Dudley, and their sup- 
 porters were accused of a variety of crimes they had never 
 committed, instead of the offenses of which they really had 
 been guilty ; and they were pilloried, and set upon horses 
 with their faces to the tails, and knocked about and be^ 
 
?3 2 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 beaded, to the satisfaction of the people, and the enrichment 
 of the King. 
 
 The Pope, so indefatigable in getting the world into trouble, 
 had mixed himself up in a war on the continent of Europe, 
 occasioned by the reigning Princes of little quarreling states 
 in Italy having at various times married into other Royal 
 families, and so led to their claiming a share in those petty 
 Governments. The King, who discovered that he was very 
 fond of the Pope, sent a herald to the King of France, to say 
 that he must not make war upon that holy personage, because 
 he was the father of all Christians. As the French King did 
 not mind this relationship in the least, and also refused to 
 admit a claim King Henry made to certain lands in France, 
 war was declared between the two countries. Not to perplex 
 this story with an account of the tricks and designs of all the 
 sovereigns who were engaged in it, it is enough to say that 
 England made a blundering alliance with Spain, and got 
 stupidly taken in by that country ; which made its own terms 
 with France when it could, and left England in the lurch. 
 Sir Edward Howard, a bold Admiral, son of the Earl of 
 Surrey, distinguished himself by his bravery against the 
 French in this business ; but, unfortunately, he was more 
 brave than' wise, for, skimming into the French harbor of 
 Brest with only a few row-boats, he attempted (in revenge 
 for the defeat and death of Sir Thomas Knyvett, another 
 bold English admiral) to take some strong French ships, well 
 defended with batteries of cannon. The upshot was that he 
 was left on board of one of them (in consequence of its 
 shooting away from his own boat), with not more than about 
 a dozen men, and was thrown into the sea and drowned ; 
 though not until he had taken from his breast his gold chain 
 and gold whistle, which were the signs of his office, and had 
 cast them into the sea to prevent their being made a boast 
 of by the enemy. After this defeat — which was a great one, 
 for Sir Edward Howard was a man of valor and fame — the 
 King took it into his head to invade France in person ; first 
 executing that dangerous Earl of Suffolk whom his father 
 had left in the Tower, and appointing Queen Catharine to 
 the charge of his kingdom in his absence. He sailed to Calais, 
 where he was joined by Maximilian, Emperor of Germany, 
 who pretended to be his soldier, and who took pay in his 
 service : with a good deal of nonsense of that sort, flattering 
 enough to the vanity of a vain blusterer. The King might 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 233 
 
 be successful enough in sham fights ; but his idea of real 
 battles, chiefly consisted in pitching silken, tents of bright 
 colors that were ignominiously blown down by the wind, and 
 in making a vast display of gaudy flags and golden curtains. 
 Fortune, however, favored him better than he deserved ; for, 
 after much waste of time in tent pitching, flag flying, gold 
 curtaining, and other such masquerading, he gave the French 
 battle at a place called Guinegate : where they took such an 
 unaccountable panic, and fled with such swiftness, that it 
 was ever afterward called by the English the Battle of Spurs. 
 Instead of following up his advantage, the King, finding that 
 he had had enough of real fighting, came home again. 
 
 The Scottish King, though nearly related to Henry by mar- 
 riage, had taken part against him in this war. The Earl of 
 Surrey, as the English general, advanced to meet him when 
 he came out of his own dominions and crossed the river 
 Tweed. The two armies came up w^th one another when the 
 Scottish King had also crossed the river Till, and was en- 
 camped upon the last of the Cheviot Hills, called the Hill of 
 Flodden. Along the plain below it, the English, when the 
 hour of battle came, advanced. The Scottish army, which 
 had been drawn up in five great bodies, then came steadily 
 down in perfect silence. So they, in their turn, advanced to 
 meet the English army, which came on in one long line ; and 
 they attacked it with a body of spearmen, under Lord Home. 
 At first they had the best of it ; but the English recovered 
 themselves so bravely, and fought with such valor, that, when 
 the Scottish King had almost made his way up to the Royal 
 standard, he was slain, and the whole Scottish power routed. 
 Ten thousand Scottish men lay dead that day on Flodden 
 Field ; and among them, numbers of the nobility and gentry. 
 For a long time afterward, the Scottish peasantry used to 
 believe that their King had not been really killed in this bat- 
 tle, because no Englishman had found an iron belt he wore 
 about his body as a penance for having been an unnatural 
 and undutiful son. But, whatever became of his belt, the 
 English had his sword and dagger, and the ring from his 
 finger, and his body, too, covered with wounds. There is no 
 doubt of it ; for it was seen and recognized by English gen- 
 tlemen who had known the Scottish King well. 
 
 When King Henry was making ready to renew the war in 
 France, the French King was contemplating peace. His 
 queen, dying at this time, he proposed, although he was up- 
 
234 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ward of fifty years old, to marry King Henry's sister, the 
 Princess Mary, who, besides being only sixteen, was betroth- 
 ed to the Duke of Suffolk. As the inclinations of young 
 Princesses were not much considered in such matters, the 
 marriage was concluded, and the poor girl was escorted to 
 France, where she was immediately left as the French King's 
 bride, with only one of all her English attendants. That one 
 Was a pretty young girl named Anne Boleyn, niece of the 
 Earl of Surrey, who had been made Duke of Norfolk, after 
 the victory of Flodden Field. Anne Boleyn's is a name to 
 be remembered, as you will presently find. 
 
 And now the French King, who was very proud of his 
 young wife, was preparing for many years of happiness, and 
 she was looking forward, I dare say, to many years of misery, 
 when he died within three months, and left her a young 
 widow. The new French monarch, Francis the First, seeing 
 how important it was to his interest that she should take 
 for her second husband no one but an Englishman, advised 
 her first lover, the Duke of Suffolk, when King Henry sent 
 him over to France to fetch her home, to marry her. The 
 Princess being herself so fond of that Duke, as to tell him 
 that he must either do so then, or forever lose her, they were 
 wedded ; and Henry afterward forgave them. In making 
 interest with the King, the Duke of Suffolk had addressed 
 his most powerful favorite and adviser, Thomas Wolsey — a 
 name very famous in history for itc rise and downfall. 
 
 Wolsey was the son of a respectable butcher at Ipswich, in 
 Suffolk, and received so excellent an education that he be- 
 came a tutor to the family of the Marquis of Dorset, who 
 afterward got him appointed one of the late King's chap- 
 lains. On the accession of Henry the Eighth, he was pro- 
 moted and taken into rreat favor, He was now Archbishop 
 of York ; the Pope had made him a Cardinal besides ; and 
 whoever wanted influence in England or favor with the King 
 — whether he were a foreign monarch or an English noble- 
 man — was obliged to make a friend of the great Cardinal 
 Wolsey. 
 
 He was a gay man, who could dance and jest, and sing 
 and drink ; and those were the roads to so much, or rather 
 so little, of a heart as King Henry had. He was wonderfully 
 fond of pomp and glitter, and so was the King. He knew a 
 good deal of the Church learning of that time ; much of 
 which consisted in finding artful excuses and pretenses for 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 235 
 
 almost any wrong thing, and in arguing that black was 
 white, or any other color. This kind of learning pleased the 
 King too. For many such reasons, the Cardinal was high in 
 estimation with the King ; and, being a man of far greater 
 ability, knew as well how to manage him, as a clever keeper 
 may know how to manage a wolf or a tiger, or any other 
 cruel and uncertain beast, that may turn upon him and tear 
 him any day. Never had there been seen in England such 
 state as my Lord Cardinal kept. His wealth was enormous; 
 equal, it was reckoned, to the riches of the Crown. His pal- 
 aces were as splendid as the King's, and his retinue was 
 eight hundred strong. He held his Court, dressed out from 
 top to toe inflaming scarlet ; and his very shoes were golden, 
 set with precious stones. His followers rode on blood horses; 
 while he, vith a wonderful affectation of humility in the 
 midst o f his great splendor, ambled on a mule with a red- 
 velvet saddle and bridle and golden stirrups. 
 
 Tnrough the influence of this stately priest, a grand meet- 
 ing was arranged to take place between the French and En- 
 tt^ons^7 e oi fc* on ground belonging to England, 
 made on § he occasion ; an*? and re J°^ing was to be 
 "Jr^S trumpets through all Were sent to proclaim 
 Eui^_, , «», on a cer tain day, the Kings of Fraat^uties of 
 gland as company and brothers in arms, each attended by 
 eighteen followers, . rould hold a tournament against all 
 knights who might choo^ t0 come> 
 
 Charles, the new Empero. of Germany (the old one being 
 dead), wanted to prevent too ~ or dial an alliance between 
 these sovereigns, and came over to England before the King 
 could repair to the place of meeting ; qndj besides making 
 an agreeable impression upon him, securer Wolsey's interest 
 by promising that his influence should make^ nT1 Pope when 
 the next vacancy occurred. On the day when iv e Emperor 
 left England, the King and all the Court went' over ^ Calais, 
 and thence to the place of meeting, between Ardru and 
 Guisnes, commonly called the Field of the Cloth of Gud. 
 Here, all manner of expense and prodigality was lavished on 
 the decorations of the show ; many of the knights and gen- 
 tlemen being so superbly dressed that it was said they car- 
 ried their whole estates upon their shoulders. 
 
 There were sham castles, temporary chapels, fountains run- 
 ning wine, great cellars full of wine free as water to all comers, 
 
236 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 silk tents, gold lace and foil, gilt lions, and such things 
 without end ; and, in the midst of all, the rich Cardinal 
 out-shone and out-glittered all the noblemen and gentlemen 
 assembled. After a treaty made between the two Kings 
 with as much solemnity as if they had intended to keep it, 
 the lists — nine hundred feet long, and three hundred and 
 twenty broad — were opened for the tournament ; the Queens 
 of France and England looking on with great array of lords 
 and ladies. Then, for ten days, the two sovereigns fought 
 five combats every day, and always beat th-ir polite adver- 
 saries; though they do write that the King of England, being 
 thrown in a wrestle one day with the King of France, lost 
 his kingly temper with his brother in arms, and wanted to 
 make a quarrel of it. Then, there is a great story belonging 
 to this Field of the Cloth of Gold, showing hov the English 
 were distrustful of the French, and the French o£ the En- 
 glish, until Francis rode alone one morning to Henrys tent ; 
 and, going in before he was out of bed, told him in ioke 
 that he was his prisoner ; and how Henry jumped GU t 
 of bed and embraced Francis ; and ho^ Francis helped 
 Henry to dress, and ^^^^^o\lL^ d \^ F ^ 
 Henry gave Francis a splen$<V oatly bracelet aimm^" 
 cis gave Henry,, in uS'so written about, and ?*-**- ~ iai » ai \ d 
 a greata3out at that time (and, indeed s^ e that time t00 )' 
 that the world has had good cause to *-> Slck of u > forever - 
 
 Of course, nothing came of a v these fine d ° m g s but a 
 speedy renewal of the war betv~ en England and France, in 
 which the two Royal compa~ ons and brothers in arms longed 
 very earnestly to dama^ on< r another. But, before it broke 
 out again, the Duke #1 Buckingham was shamefully executed 
 on Tower Hill jn tne evidence of a discharged servant, 
 really for not 1iin g> except the folly of having believed in a 
 friar of th^ flame of Hopkins, who had pretended to be a 
 prophet and wno bad mumbled and jumbled out some non- 
 sense about the Duke's son being destined to be very great 
 in ».ne land. It was believed that the unfortunate Duke had 
 given offense to the great Cardinal by expressing his mind 
 freely about the expense and absurdity of the whole business 
 of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. At any rate, he was be- 
 headed, as I have said, for. nothing. And the people who 
 saw it done were very angry, and cried out that it was the 
 work of " the butcher's son ! " 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 237 
 
 The new war was a short one, though the Earl of Surrey 
 invaded France again, and did some injury to that country. 
 It ended in another treaty of peace between the two king- 
 doms, and in the discovery that the Emperor of Germany 
 was not such a good friend to England in reality, as he pre- 
 tended to be. Neither did he keep his promise to Wolsey 
 to make him Pope, though the King urged it. Two Popes 
 died in pretty quick succession ; but the foreign priests 
 were too much for the Cardinal, and kept him out of the 
 post. So the Cardinal and King together found out that the 
 Emperor of Germany was not a man to keep faith with ; 
 broke off a projected marriage between the King's daughter 
 Mary, Princess of Wales, and that sovereign ; and began to 
 consider whether it might not be well to marry the young 
 lady, either to Francis himself, or to his eldest son. 
 
 There now arose at Wittenberg, in Germany, the great 
 leader of the mighty change in England which is called the 
 Reformation, and which set the people free from their slavery 
 to the priests. This was a learned Doctor, named Martin 
 Luther, who knew all about them, for he had been a priest, 
 and even a monk, himself. The preaching and writing of 
 Wickliffe had set a number of men thinking on this subject ; 
 and Luther, finding one day to his great surprise, that there 
 really was a book called the New Testament which the 
 priests did not allow to be read, and which contained truths 
 that they suppressed, began to be very vigorous against the 
 whole body, from the Pope downward. It happened, while 
 he was yet only beginning his vast work of awakening the 
 nation, that an impudent fellow named Tetzel, a friar of 
 very bad character, came into his neighborhood selling what 
 were called Indulgences, by wholesale, to raise money for 
 beautifying the great Cathedral of St. Peter's, at Rome. 
 Whoever bought an Indulgence of the Pope was supposed to 
 buy himself off from the punishment of Heaven for his of- 
 fenses. Luther told the people that these Indulgences were 
 worthless bits of paper, before God, and that Tetzel and his 
 masters were a crew of impostors in selling them. 
 
 The King and the Cardinal were mighty indignant at this 
 presumption ; and the King (with the help of Sir Thomas 
 More, a wise man, whom he afterwards repaid by striking off 
 his head) even wrote a book about it, with which the Pope 
 was so well pleased that he gave the King the title of De- 
 fender of the Faith. The King and the Cardinal also issued 
 
238 A CHILE'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 flaming warnings to the people not to read Luther's books, 
 on pain of excommunication. But they did read them for 
 all that ; and the rumor of what was in them spread far and 
 wide. 
 
 When this great change was thus going on, the King be- 
 gan to show himself in his truest and worst colors. Anne 
 Boleyn, the pretty little girl who had gone abroad to France 
 with his sister, was by this time grown up to be very beauti- 
 ful, and was one of the ladies in attendance on Queen 
 Catherine. Now, Queen Catherine was no longer young or 
 handsome, and it is likely that she was not particularly good- 
 tempered ; having been always rather melancholy, and hav- 
 ing been made more so by the deaths of four of her children 
 when they were very young. So, the King fell in love with 
 the fair Anne Boleyn, and said to himself, " How can I be 
 best rid of my own troublesome wife whom I am tired of, 
 and marry Anne ? " 
 
 You recollect that Queen Catherine had been the wife of 
 Henry's brother. What does the King do, after thinking it 
 over, but calls his favorite priests about him, and says, O ! 
 his mind is in such a dreadful state, and he is so frightfully 
 uneasy, because he is afraid it was not lawful for him to mar- 
 ry the Queen ! Not one of those priests had the courage to 
 hint that it was rather curious he had never thought of that 
 before, and that his mind seemed to have been in a tolerably 
 jolly condition during a great many years, in which he cer- 
 tainly had not fretted himself thin ; but, they all said, Ah ! 
 that was very true, and it was a serious business : and per- 
 haps the best way to make it right, would be for his Majesty 
 to be divorced ! The King replied, Yes, he thought that 
 would be the best way, certainly ; so they all went to 
 work. 
 
 If I were to relate to you the intrigues and plots that 
 took place in the endeavor to get this divorce, you would 
 think the History of England the most tiresome book in the 
 world. So I shall say no more, than that after a vast deal of ne- 
 gotiation and evasion, the Pope issued a commission to Car- 
 dinal Wolsey and Cardinal Campeggio (whom he sent over 
 from Italy for the purpose) to try the whole case in England. 
 It is supposed — and I think with reason — that Wolsey was 
 the Queen's enemy, because she had reproved him for his 
 proud and gorgeous manner of life. But, he did not at first 
 know that the King wanted to marry Anne Boleyn ; andl 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 239 
 
 when he did know it, he even went down on his knees, in 
 the endeavor to dissuade him. 
 
 The Cardinals opened their court in the Convent of the 
 Black Friars, near to where the bridge of that name in Lon- 
 don now stands ; and the King and Queen, that they might 
 be near it, took up their lodgings at the adjoining palace of 
 Bridewell, of which nothing now remains but a bad prison. 
 On the opening of the court, when the King and Queen 
 were called on to appear, that poor ill-used lady, with a dig- 
 nity and firmness and yet with a womanly affection worthy 
 to be always admired, went and kneeled at the King's feet, 
 and said that she had come, a stranger, to his dominions ; 
 that she had been a good and true wife to him for twenty 
 years : and that she could acknowledge no power in those 
 Cardinals to try whether she should be considered his wife 
 after all that time, or should be put away. With that, she 
 got up and left the court, and would never afterward come 
 back to it. 
 
 The King pretended to be very much overcome, and said, 
 Oh ! my lords and gentlemen, what a good woman she was 
 to be sure, and how delighted he would be to live with her 
 unto death, but for that terrible uneasiness in his mind 
 which was quite wearing him away ! So, the case went on, 
 and there was nothing but talk for two months. Then Car- 
 dinal Campeggio, who, on behalf of the Pope, wanted noth- 
 ing so much as delay, adjourned it for two more months ; 
 and before that time was elapsed, the Pope himself adjourned 
 it indefinitely, by requiring the King and Queen to come to 
 Rome and have it tried there. But by good luck for the 
 King, word was brought to him by some of his people, that 
 they had happened to meet at supper, Thomas Cranmer, a 
 learned Doctor of Cambridge, who had proposed to urge the 
 Pope on, by referring the case to all learned doctors and 
 bishops, here and there and every where, and getting their 
 opinions that the King's marriage was unlawful. The King, 
 who was now in a hurry to marry Anne Boleyn, thought this 
 such a good idea, that he sent for Cranmer, post haste, and 
 said to Lord Rochfort, Anne Boleyn's father, " Take this 
 learned Doctor down to your country-house, and there let 
 him have a good room for a study, and no end of books out 
 of which to prove that I may marry your daughter." Lord 
 Rochfort, not at all reluctant, made the learned Doctor as 
 comfortable as he could ; and the learned Doctor went to. 
 
2 4 o A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 work to prove his case. All this time, the King and Anne 
 Boleyn were writing letters to one another almost daily, full 
 of impatience to have the case settled ; and Anne Boleyn was 
 showing herself (as I think) very worthy of the fate which 
 afterward befell her. 
 
 It was bad for Cardinal Wolsey that he had left Cranmer 
 to render this help. It was worse for him that he had tried 
 to dissuade the King fromjnarrying Anne Boleyn. Such a 
 servant as he, to such a master as Henry, would probably 
 have fallen in any case ; but, between the hatred of the party 
 of the Queen that was, and the hatred of the party of the 
 Queen that was to be, he fell suddenly and heavily. Going 
 down one day to the Court of Chancery, where he now pre- 
 sided, he was waited upon by the Dukes of Norfolk and 
 Suffolk, who told him that they brought an order to him to 
 resign that offce, and to withdraw quietly to a house he had 
 at Esher, in Surrey. The Cardinal refusing, they rode off to 
 the King ; and next day came back with a letter from him, 
 on reading which, the Cardinal submitted. An inventory 
 was made out of all the riches in his palace at York Place 
 (now Whitehall), and he went sorrowfully up the river, in his 
 barge, to Putney. An abject man he was, in spite of his 
 pride ; for being overtaken, riding out of that place towards 
 Esher, by one of the King's chamberlains who brought him 
 a kind message and a ring, he alighted from his mule, took 
 off his cap, and kneeled down in the dirt. His poor Fool, 
 whom in his prosperous days he had always kept in his 
 palace to entertain him, cut a far better figure than he ; for, 
 when the Cardinal said to the chamberlain that he had noth- 
 ing to send to his lord the King as a present, but that jester 
 who was a most excellent one, it took six strong yeomen to 
 remove the faithful fool from his master. 
 
 The once proud Cardinal was soon further disgraced, and 
 wrote the most abject letters to his vile sovereign ; who hum- 
 bled him one day and encouraged him the next, according to 
 his humor, until he was at last ordered to go and reside in 
 his diocese of York. He said he was too poor ; but I don't 
 know how he made that out, for he took a hundred and sixty 
 servants with him, and seventy-two cart-loads of furniture, 
 food, and wine. He remained in that part of the country 
 for the best part of a year, and showed himself so improved 
 by his misfortunes, and was so mild and so conciliating, that 
 he won all hearts. And indeed, even in his proud days, he 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 241 
 
 had done some magnificent things for learning and educa- 
 tion. At last, he was arrested for high treason ; and, corning 
 slowly on his journey toward London, got as far as Leices- 
 ter. Arriving at Leicester Abbey after dark, and very ill, 
 he said — when the monks came out at the gate with lighted 
 torches to receive him — that he had come to lay his bones 
 among them. He had indeed ; for he was taken to a bed, 
 from which he never rose again. His last words were, " Had 
 I but served God as diligently as I have served the King, 
 He would not have given me over, in my gray hairs. How- 
 beit, this is my just reward for my pains and diligence, not 
 regarding my service to God, but only my duty to my 
 prince." The news of his death was quickly carried to the 
 King, who was amusing himself with archery in the garden 
 of the magnificent palace at Hampton Court, which that very 
 Wolsey had presented to him. The greatest emotion his 
 royal mind displayed at the loss of a servant so faithful and 
 so ruined, was a particular desire to lay hold of fifteen hund- 
 red pounds which the Cardinal was reported to have hidden 
 somewhere. 
 
 The opinions concerning the divorce, of the learned doc- 
 tors and bishops and others, being at last collected, and be- 
 ing generally in the King's favor, were forwarded to the 
 Pope, with an entreaty that he would now grant it. The 
 unfortunate Pope, who was a timid man, was half distracted 
 between his fear of his authority being set aside in En- 
 gland if he did not do as he was asked, and his dread of 
 offending the Emperor of Germany, who was Queen Cather- 
 ine's nephew. In this state of mind he still evaded and did 
 nothing. Then, Thomas Cromwell, who had been one of 
 Wolsey's faithful attendants, and had remained so even in 
 his decline, advised the King to take the matter into his 
 own hands, and make himself the head of the whole 
 Church. This, the King by various artful means, began 
 to do ; but he recompensed the clergy by allowing them to 
 burn as many people as they pleased, for holding Luther's 
 opinions. You must understand that Sir Thomas More, the 
 wise man who had helped the King with his book, had been 
 made Chancellor in Wolsey's place. But, as he was truly 
 attached to the Church as it was even in its abuses, he, in 
 this state of things resigned. 
 
 Being now quite resolved to get rid of Queen Catherine, 
 and to marry Anne Boleyn without more ado, the King made 
 
242 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Cranmer Archbishop of Canterbury, and directed Queen 
 Catherine to leave the Court. She obeyed ; but replied 
 that wherever she went, she was Queen of England still, 
 and would remain so, to the last. The King then married 
 Anne Boleyn privately ; and the new Archbishop of Can- 
 terbury, within half a year, declared his marriage with 
 Queen Catherine void, and crowned Anne Boleyn Queen. 
 
 She might have known that no good could ever come 
 from such wrong, and that the coipulent brute who had been 
 so faithless and so cruel to his first wife, could be more faith- 
 less and more cruel to his second. She might have known 
 that, even when he was in love with her, he had been a mean 
 and selfish coward, running away, like a frightened cur, from 
 her society and her house, when a dangerous sickness broke 
 broke out in it and when she might easily have taken it 
 and died, as several of the household did. But, Anne 
 Boleyn arrived at all this knowledge too late, and bought 
 it at a dear price. Her bad marriage with a worse man came 
 to its natural end. Its natural end was not, as we shall 
 too soon see, a natural death for her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 england under henry the eighth. 
 
 Part the Second. 
 
 The Pope was thrown into a very angry state of mind when 
 he heard of the King's marriage, and fumed exceedingly. 
 Many of the English monks and friars, seeing that their or- 
 der was in danger, did the same ; some even declaimed 
 against the King in church before his face, and were not to 
 be stopped until he himself roared out " Silence ! " The 
 King not much the worse for this, took it pretty quietly ; 
 and was very glad when his Queen gave birth to a daughter, 
 who was christened Elizabeth, and declared Princess of 
 Wales as her sister Mary had already been. 
 
 One of the most atrocious features of this reign was that 
 Henry the Eighth was always trimming between the reformed 
 religion and the unreformed one, so that the more he quar- 
 reled with the Pope, the more of his own subjects he roasted 
 alive for not holding the Pope's opinions. Thus, an un^ 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 243 
 
 fortunate student named John Frith, and a poor simple 
 tailor named Andrew Hewet who loved him very much, and 
 said that whatever John Frith believed he believed, were 
 burned in Smithfield— to show what a capital Christian the 
 King was. 
 
 _ But, these were speedily followed by two much greater 
 victims, Sir Thomas More, and John Fisher, the Bishop of 
 Rochester. The latter, who was a good and amiable old 
 man, had committed no greater offense than believing in 
 Elizabeth Barton, called the Maid of Kent— another of 
 those ridiculous women who pretended to be inspired, and 
 to make all sorts of heavenly revelations, though they in- 
 deed uttered nothing but evil nonsense. For this offense — 
 as it was pretended, but really for denying the King to be 
 the supreme Head of the church — he got into trouble, and 
 was put in prison ; but, even then, he might have been suf- 
 fered to die naturally (short work having been made of ex- 
 ecuting the Kentish Maid and her principal followers), but 
 that the Pope, to spite the King, resolved to make him a car- 
 dinal. Upon that the King made a ferocious joke to the 
 effect that the Pope might send Fisher a red hat — which is the 
 way they make a cardinal — but he should have no head on 
 which to wear it ; and he was tried with all unfairness and 
 injustice, and sentenced to death. He died like a noble and 
 virtuous old man, and left a worthy name behind him. The 
 King supposed, I dare say, that Sir Thomas More would be 
 frightened by this example ; but as he was not to be easily 
 terrified, and, thoroughly believing in the Pope, had made 
 up his mind that the King was not the rightful Head of the 
 church, he positively refused to say that he was. For this 
 crime he too was tried and sentenced, after having been in 
 prison a whole year. When he was doomed to death, and 
 came away from his trial with the edge of the executioner's 
 ax turned toward him — as was always done in those times 
 when a state prisoner came to that hopeless pass — he bore it 
 quite serenely, and gave his blessing to his son, who pressed 
 through the crowd in Westminster Hall and kneeled down to 
 receive it. But, when he got to the Tower Wharf on his 
 way back to his prison, and his favorite daughter, Margaret 
 Pvoper, a very good woman, rushed through the guards again 
 <and again, to kiss him and to weep upon his neck, he was 
 overcome at last. He soon recovered, and never more 
 showed any feeling but cheerfulness and courage. When he 
 
244 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 was going up the steps of the scaffold to his death, he said jok- 
 ingly to the Lieutenant of the Tower, observing that they 
 were weak and shook beneath his tread, " I pray you, master 
 Lieutenant, see me safe up ; and, for my coming down, I 
 can shift for myself. " Also he said to the executioner, after 
 he had laid his head upon the block, " Let me put my beard 
 out of the way ; for that, at least, has never committed any 
 treason." Then his head was struck off at a blow. These 
 two executions were worthy of King Henry the Eighth. Sir 
 Thomas More was one of the most virtuous men in his do- 
 minions, and the Bishop was one of his oldest and truest 
 friends. But to be a friend of that fellow was almost as 
 dangerous as to be his wife. 
 
 When the news of these two murders got to Rome, the 
 Pope raged against the murderer more than ever Pope raged 
 since the world began, and prepared a Bull, ordering his sub- 
 jects to take arms against him and dethrone him. The King 
 took all possible precautions to keep that document out of 
 his dominions, and set to work in return to suppress a great 
 number of the English monasteries and abbeys. 
 
 This destruction was begun by a body of commissioners, 
 of whom Cromwell (whom the King had taken into great 
 favor) was the head ; and was carried on through some few 
 years to its entire completion. There is no doubt that many 
 of these religious establishments were religious in nothing 
 but in name, and were crammed with lazy, indolent, and 
 sensual monks. There is no doubt that they imposed upon 
 the people in every possible way ; that they had images 
 moved by wires, which they pretended were miraculously 
 moved by Heaven ; that they had among them a whole tun 
 measure full of teeth, all purporting to have come out of the 
 head of one saint, who must indeed have been a very extra- 
 ordinary person with that enormous allowance of grinders ; 
 that they had bits of coal which they said had fried Saint 
 Lawrence, and bits of toe-nails which they said belonged to 
 other famous saints ; penknives, and boots, and girdles; 
 which they said belonged to others ; and that all these bits 
 of rubbish were called relics, and adored by the ignorant 
 people. But, on the other hand, there is no doubt either, 
 that the King's officers and men punished the good monks 
 with the bad ; did great injustice ; demolished many beau- 
 tiful things and many valuable libraries , destroyed numbers 
 of paintings, stained glass windows, fine pavements, and 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 245 
 
 carvings ; and that the whole court were ravenously greedy 
 and rapacious for the division of this great spoil among them. 
 The King seems to have grown almost mad in the ardor of 
 this pursuit ; for he declared Thomas a Becket a traitor, 
 though he had been dead so many years, and had his body 
 dug up out of his grave. He must have been as miraculous 
 as the monks pretended, if they had told the truth, for he 
 was found with one head on his shoulders, and they had 
 shown another as his undoubted and genuine head ever since 
 his death ; it had brought them vast sums of money, too. 
 The gold and jewels on his shrine rilled two great chests, 
 and eight men tottered as they carried them away. How 
 rich the monasteries were you may infer from the fact that, 
 when they were all suppressed, one hundred and thirty 
 thousand pounds a year — in those days an immense sum- 
 came to the Crown. 
 
 These things were not done without causing great discon- 
 tent among the people. The monks had been ^ood^a^J 
 lords and hospitable entejta^y-^ ~£ r ^t deal oVcorn, and 
 been accus£o.g^ ^ a nd other things. In those days it was 
 illricult to change goods into money, in consequence of the 
 roads being very few and very bad, and the carts and wagons 
 of the worst description ; and they must either have given 
 away some of the good things they possessed in enormous 
 quantities, or have suffered them to spoil and molder. So, 
 many of the people missed what it was more agreeable to 
 get idly than to work for ; and the monks who were driven 
 out of their homes and wandered about encouraged their 
 discontent ; and there were, consequently, great risings in 
 Lincolnshire and Yorkshire. These were put down by ter- 
 rific executions, from which the monks themselves did not 
 escape, and the King went on grunting and growling in his 
 own fat way, like a Royal pig. 
 
 I have told all this story of the religious houses at one 
 time, to make it plainer, and to get back to the King's 
 domestic affairs. 
 
 The unfortunate Queen Catherine was by this time dead ; 
 and the King was by this time as tired of his second Queen 
 as he had been of his first. As he had fallen in love with 
 Anne when she was in the service of Catherine, so he now 
 fell in love with another lady in the service of Anne. See 
 how wicked deeds are punished, and how bitterly and self- 
 
246 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 reproachfully the Queen must now have thought of her owt 
 rise to the throne ! The new fancy was a Lady Jane Sey- 
 mour ; and the King no sooner set his mind on her, than he 
 resolved to have Anne Boleyn's head. So, he brought a 
 number of charges against Anne, accusing her of dreadful 
 crimes which she had never committed, and implicating in 
 them her own brother and certain gentlemen in her service ; 
 among whom one Norris, and Mark Smeaton a musician, are 
 best remembered. As the lords and councilors were as 
 afraid of the King and as subservient to him as the meanest 
 peasant in England was, they brought in Anne Boleyn guilty, 
 and the other unfortunate persons accused with her, guilty 
 too. Those gentlemen died like men, with the exception of 
 Smeaton, who had been tempted by the King into telling 
 lies, which he called confessions, and who had expected to 
 be pardoned ; but who, I am very glad to say, was not. ■ 
 There was then only the Queen to dispose of. She had been 
 monstrously persecuie^ w £L Wlth women spies ; had been 
 ceived no justice. But her spiriWdered ; and had re- 
 tions : and, after having in vain tried to soften* 1 CJL afflic- 
 by writing an affecting letter to him which still exists", 
 " from her doleful prison in the Tower," she resigned her- 
 self to death. She said to those about her, very cheerfully, 
 that she had heard say the executioner was a good one, 
 and that she had a little neck (she laughed and clasped 
 it with her hands as she said that), and would soon be 
 out of her pain. And she was soon out of her pain, 
 poor creature, on the Green inside the Tower, and her body 
 was flung into an old box and put away in the ground under 
 the chapel. 
 
 There is a story that the King sat in his palace listening 
 very anxiously for the sound of the cannon which was to 
 announce this new murder ; and that, when he heard it come 
 booming on the air, he rose up in great spirits and ordered 
 out his dogs to go a-hunting. He was bad enough to do it ; 
 but whether he did it or not, it is certain that he married 
 Jane Seymour the very next day. 
 
 I have not much pleasure in recording that she lived just 
 long enough to give birth to a son who was christened 
 Edward, and then to die of a fever : for, I cannot but think 
 that any woman who married such a ruffian, and knew what 
 innocent blood was on his hands, deserved the ax that 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 247 
 
 would assuredly have fallen on the neck of Jane Seymour, 
 if she had lived much longer. 
 
 Cranmer had done what he could to save some of the 
 Church property for purposes of religion and education ; 
 but, the great families had been so hungry to get hold of it, 
 that very little could be rescued for such objects. Even 
 Miles Coverdale, who did the people the inestimable service 
 of translating the Bible into English (which the unreformed 
 religion never permitted to be done), was left in poverty 
 while the great families clutched the Church lands and 
 money. The people had been told that when the Crown 
 came into possession of these funds, it would not be neces- 
 sary to tax them ; but they were taxed afresh directly after- 
 ward. It was fortunate for them, indeed, that so many 
 nobles were so greedy for this wealth ; since, if it had re- 
 mained with the Crown, there might have been no end to 
 tyranny for hundreds of years. One of the most active 
 writers on the Church's side against rh^ ^ ; r<* «--. - TT^T* 
 of his own family— ct S un ot distant cousin, Reginald Pole 
 Dy name- who attacked 'him in the most violent manner 
 though he received a pension from him all the time), and 
 fought for the Church with his pen, day and night. As he 
 was beyond the King's reach — being in Italy — the King 
 politely invited him over to discuss the subject ; but he, 
 knowing better than to come, and wisely staying where he 
 was, the King's rage fell upon his brother Lord Montague, 
 the Marquis of Exeter, and some other gentlemen : who 
 were tried for high treason in corresponding with him and 
 aiding him — which they probably did — and were all exe- 
 cuted. The Pope made Reginald Pole a cardinal ; but, so 
 much against his will, that it is thought he even aspired in 
 his own mind to the vacant throne of England, and had 
 hopes of marrying the Princess Mary. His being made a 
 high priest, however, put an end to all that. His mother, 
 the venerable Countess of Salisbury— who was, unfortu- 
 nately for herself, within the tyrant's reach — was the last of 
 his relatives on whom his wrath fell. When she was told 
 to lay her gray head upon the block, she answered the 
 executioner, " No ! My head never committed treason, and 
 if you want it, you shall seize it." So, she ran round and 
 round the scaffold with the executioner striking at her, and 
 her gray hair bedabbled with blood ; and even when they 
 held her down upon the block she moved her head about to 
 
2 4 8 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 the last, resolved to be no party to her own barbarous mur- 
 der. All this the people bore, as they had borne every thing 
 else. 
 
 Indeed they bore much more ; for the slow fires of Smith- 
 field were continually burning, and people were constantly 
 being roasted to death — still to show what a good Christian 
 the King was. He defied the Pope and his Bull, which was 
 now issued, and had come into England ; but he burned 
 innumerable people whose only offense was that they differed 
 from the Pope's religious opinions. There was a wretched 
 man named Lambert, among others, who was tried for this 
 before the King, and with whom six bishops argued one 
 after another. When he was quite exhausted (as well he 
 might be, after six bishops), he threw himself on the King's 
 mercy ; but the King blustered out that he had no mercy ; 
 for heretics. So, he too fed the fire. 
 
 All this the people bore, and more"than all this yet. The 
 iiaii^i^ ri :„:<. ^™ c to have been banished from the kingdom 
 at this time. The very peupic «-ko w «ro executed for trea- 
 son, the very wives and friends of the "bluff " King, opoko 
 of him on the scaffold as a good prince, and a gentle prince 
 — just as serfs in similar circumstances have been known to 
 do, under the sultans and bashaws of the East, or under 
 the fierce old tyrants of Russia, who poured boiling and 
 freezing water on them alternately, until they died. The 
 Parliament were as bad as the rest, and gave the King what- 
 ever he wanted ; among other vile accommodations, they 
 gave him new powers of murdering, at his will and pleasure, 
 any one whom he might choose to call a traitor. But the 
 worst measure they passed was an Act of Six Articles, com- 
 monly called at the time " the whip with six strings ; " which 
 punished offenses against the Pope's opinions, without 
 mercy, and enforced the very worst parts of the monkish 
 religion. Cranmer would have modified it, if he could ; 
 but, being overborne by the Romish party, had not the 
 power. As one of the articles declared that priests should 
 not marry, and as he was married himself, he sent his wife 
 and children into Germany, and began to tremble at his 
 danger ; none the less because he was, and had long been, 
 the King's friend. This whip of six strings was made under 
 the King's own eye. It should never be forgotten of him 
 how cruelly he supported the worst of the Popish doctrines 
 when there was nothing to be got by opposing them. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 249 
 
 This amiable monarch now thought of taking another wife. 
 He proposed to the French King to have some of the ladies 
 of the French Court exhibited before him, that hemight make 
 his Royal choice ; but the French King answered that he 
 would rather not have his ladies trotted out to be shown like 
 horses at 'a fair. He proposed to the Duchess Dowager of 
 Milan, who replied that she might have thought of such a 
 match if she had had two heads ; but, that only owning one, 
 she mast beg to keep it safe. At last Cromwell represented 
 that there was a Protestant Princess in Germany — those who 
 held the reformed religion were called Protestants, because 
 their leaders had protested against the abuses and impositions 
 of the unreformed church — named Anne of Cleves, who 
 was beautiful, and would answer the purpose admirably. 
 The King said was she a large woman, because he must have 
 a fat wife ? " O yes," said Cromwell, " she was very large, 
 just the thing." On hearing this, the King sent over his 
 famous painter, Hans Holbein, to take her portrait. Hans 
 made her out to be so good-looking, that the King was satis- 
 fied, and the marriage was arranged. But, whether any body 
 had paid Hans to touch up the picture; or whether Hans, like 
 one or two other painters, flattered a princess in the ordinary 
 way of business, I cannot say : all I know is, that when 
 Anne came over and the King went to Rochester to meet her, 
 and first saw her without her seeing him, he swore she was 
 "a great Flanders mare," and said he would never marry 
 her. Being obliged to do it, now matters had gone so far, he 
 would not give her the presents he had prepared, and would 
 never notice her. He never forgave Cromwell his part in 
 the affair. His downfall dates from that time. 
 
 It was quickened by his enemies in the interests of the un- 
 reformed religion, putting in the King's way, at a state din- 
 ner, a niece of the Duke of Norfolk, Catherine Howard, a 
 young lady of fascinating manners, though small in stature 
 and not particularly beautiful. Falling in love with her on 
 the spot, the King soon divorced Anne of Cleves after 
 making her the subject of much brutal talk, on pretense that 
 she had been previously betrothed to some one else — which 
 would never do for one of his dignity — and married Cathe- 
 rine. It is probable that on his wedding-day, of all days in 
 the year, he sent his faithful Cromwell to the scaffold and had 
 his head struck off. He further celebrated the occasion by 
 burning at one time, and causing to be drawn to the fire on 
 
250 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 the same hurdles, some Protestant prisoners for denying the 
 Pope's doctrines, and some Roman Catholic prisoners for 
 denying his own supremacy. Still the people bore it, and 
 not a gentleman in England raised his hand. 
 
 But, by a just retribution, it soon came out that Catherine 
 Howard, before her marriage, had really been guilty of such 
 crimes as the King had falsely attributed to his second wife 
 Anne Boleyn ; so, again the dreadful ax made the King a 
 widower, and this Queen passed away as so many in that 
 reign had passed away before her. As an appropriate pur- 
 suit under the circumstances, Henry then applied himself to 
 superintending the composition of a religious book called "A 
 necessary doctrine for any Christian Man." He must have 
 been a little confused in his mind, I think, at about this pe- 
 riod ; for he was so false to himself as to be true to some 
 one: that some one being Cranmer, whom the Duke of Nor- 
 folk and others of his enemies tried to ruin ; but to whom 
 the King was steadfast, and to whom he one night gave his 
 ring, charging him when he should find himself, next day, 
 accused of treason, to show it to the council board. This 
 Cranmer did to the confusion of his enemies. I suppose 
 the King thought he might want him a little longer. 
 
 He married yet once more. Yes, strange to say, he found 
 in England another woman who would become his wife, and 
 she was Catherine Parr, widow of Lord Latimer. She 
 leaned toward the reformed religion; and it is some comfort 
 to know, that she tormented the King considerably by argu- 
 ing a variety of doctrinal points with him on all possible 
 occasions. She had very nearly done this to her own de- 
 struction. After one of these conversations, the King in a 
 very black mood actually instructed Gardiner, one of his 
 bishops who favored the Popish opinions, to draw a bill of 
 accusation against her, which would have inevitably brought 
 her to the scaffold where her predecessors had died, but that 
 one of her friends picked up the paper of instructions which 
 had been dropped in the palace, and gave her timely notice. 
 She fell ill with terror ; but managed the King so well when 
 he came to entrap her into further statements— by saying 
 that she had only spoken on such subjects to divert his mind 
 and to get some information from his extraordinary wisdom — 
 that he gave her a kiss and called her his sweetheart. And, 
 when the Chancellor came next day actually to take her to 
 the Tower, the King sent him about his business, and hon* 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 251 
 
 .Dred him with the epithets of a beast, a knave, and a fool. 
 :So near was Catherine Parr to the block, and so narrow was 
 her escape. 
 
 There was war with Scotland in this reign, and a short 
 clumsy war with France for favoring Scotland ; but, the 
 events at home were so dreadful, and leave such an enduring 
 stain on the country, that I need say no more of what hap- 
 pened abroad. 
 
 A few more horrors, and this reign is over. There was a 
 lady, Anne Askew, in Lincolnshire, who inclined to the 
 Protestant opinions, and whose husband being a fierce Catho- 
 lic, turned her out of his house. She came to London, and 
 was considered as offending against the six articles, and was 
 taken to the Tower and put upon the rack — probably be- 
 cause it was hoped that she might in her agony, criminate 
 some obnoxious persons ; if falsely, so much the better. She 
 was tortured without uttering a cry until the Lieutenant of 
 the Tower would suffer his men to torture her no more; and 
 then two priests who were present actually pulled off their 
 robes, and turned the wheels of the rack with their own 
 *iands, so rending and twisting and breaking her that she 
 *vas afterward carried to the fire in a chair. She was burned 
 with three others, a gentlemen, a clergyman, and a tailor; 
 and so the world went on. 
 
 Either the King became afraid of the power of the Duke of 
 Norfolk, and his son the Earl of Surrey, or they gave him 
 some offense, but he resolved to pull them down, to follow all 
 the rest who were gone. The son was tried first — of course 
 for nothing — and defended himself bravely ; but of course 
 he was found guilty, and of course he was executed. Then 
 his father was laid hold of and held for death too. 
 
 But the King himself was left for death by a Greater King, 
 and the earth was to be rid of him at last. He was now a 
 swollen, hideous spectacle, with a great hole in his leg, and 
 so odious to every sense that it was dreadful to approach 
 him. When he was found to be dying, Cranmer was sent 
 for from his palace at Croydon, and came with all speed, but 
 found him speechless. Happily, in that hour he perished. 
 He was in the fifty-sixth year of his age, and the thirty- 
 eighth of his reign. 
 
 Henry the Eighth has been favored by some Protestant 
 writers, because the Reformation was achieved in his time. 
 But the mighty merit of it lies with other men and not with 
 
252 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 him ; and it can be rendered none the worse by this mon- 
 ster's crimes, and none the better by any defense of them. 
 The plain truth is that he was a most intolerable ruffian, a 
 disgrace to human nature, and a blot of blood and grease 
 upon the history of England. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SIXTH. 
 
 Henry the Eighth had made a will, appointing a council 
 of sixteen to govern the kingdom for his son while he was 
 under age (he was now only ten years old), and another 
 council of twelve to help them. The most powerful of the 
 first council was the Earl of Hertford, the young King's 
 uncle, who lost no time in bringing -his nephew with great 
 state up to Enfield, and thence to the Tower. It was con- 
 sidered at the time a striking proof of virtue in the young 
 King that he was sorry for his father's death ; but, as com- 
 mon subjects have that virtue too sometimes, we will say no 
 more about it. 
 
 There was a curious part of the late King's will, requiring 
 his executors to fulfill whatever promises he had made. Some 
 of the court wondering what these might be, the Earl of 
 Hertford and the other noblemen interested, said that they 
 were promises to advance and enrich them. So, the Earl of 
 Hertford made himself Duke of Somerset, and made^ his 
 brother Edward Seymour a baron ; and there were various 
 similar promotions, all very agreeable to the parties con- 
 cerned, and very dutiful, no doubt, to the late King's memory. 
 To be more dutiful still, they made themselves rich out of 
 the Church lands, and were very comfortable. The new 
 Duke of Somerset caused himself to be declared Protector 
 of the kingdom, and was, indeed, the King. 
 
 As young Edward the Sixth had been brought up in the 
 principles of the Protestant religion, every body knew that 
 they would be maintained. But Cranmer, to whom they were 
 chiefly intrusted, advanced them steadily and temperately. 
 Many superstitions and ridiculous practices were stopped ; 
 but practices which were harmless were not interfered with. 
 
 The Duke of Somerset, the Protector, was anxious to have 
 the young King engaged in marriage to the young Queen of 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 253 
 
 Scotland, in order to prevent that princess from making an 
 alliance with any foreign power ; but, as a large party in 
 Scotland were unfavorable to this plan, he invaded that coun- 
 try. His excuse for doing so was, that the Border men-- 
 that is, the Scotch who lived in that part of the country where 
 England and Scotland joined — troubled the English very 
 much. But there were two sides to this question ; for the 
 English Border men troubled the Scotch too ; and, through 
 many long years, there were perpetual border quarrels which 
 gave rise to numbers of old tales and songs. However, the 
 Protector invaded Scotland ; and Arran, the Scottish Regent, 
 with an army twice as large as his, advanced to meet him. 
 They encountered on the banks of the river Esk, within a few 
 miles of Edinburgh ; and there, after a little skirmish, the 
 Protector made such moderate proposals, in offering to retire 
 if the Scotch would only engage not to marry their princess 
 to any foreign prince, that the Regent thought the English 
 were afraid. But in this he made a horrible mistake ; for the 
 English soldiers on land, and the English sailors on the 
 water, so set upon the Scotch, that they broke and fled, and 
 more than ten thousand of them were killed. It was a dread- 
 ful battle, for the fugitives were slain without mercy. The 
 ground for four miles, all the way to Edinburgh, was strewn 
 with dead men, and with arms, and legs, and heads. Some 
 hid themselves in streams and were drowned ; some threw 
 away their armor and were killed running, almost naked ; 
 but in this battle of Pinkey the English lost only two or three 
 hundred men. They were much better clothed than the 
 Scotch ; at the poverty of whose appearance and country they 
 were exceedingly astonished. 
 
 A Parliament was called when Somerset came back, and it 
 repealed the whip with six strings, and did one or two other 
 good things ; though it unhappily retained the punishment of 
 burning for those people who did not make believe to believe, 
 in all religious matters, what the Government had declared 
 that they must and should believe. It also made a foolish 
 law (meant to put down beggars), that any man who lived 
 idly and loitered about for three days together, should be 
 burned with a hot iron, made a slave, and wear an iron fetter. 
 But this savage absurdity soon came to an end, and went the 
 way of a great many other foolish laws. 
 
 The Protector was now so proud that he sat in Parliament 
 before all the nobles, on the right hand of the throne. Many 
 
2S4 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND, 
 
 other noblemen, who only wanted to be as proud if they cotfltf 
 get a chance, became his enemies of course ; and it is sup- 
 posed that he came back suddenly from Scotland because he 
 had received news that his brother, Lord Seymour, was be- 
 coming dangerous to him. This lord was now High Admiral 
 of England ; a very handsome man, and a great favorite with 
 the Court ladies — even with the young Princess Elizabeth, 
 who romped with him a little more than young princesses in 
 these times do with any one. He had married Catherine 
 Parr, the late King's widow, who was now dead ; and, to 
 strengthen his power, he secretly supplied the young King 
 with money. He may even have engaged with some of his 
 brother's enemies in a plot to carry the boy off. On these 
 and other accusations, at any rate, he was confined in the 
 Tower, impeached, and found guilty ; his own brother's name 
 being — unnatural and sad to tell — the first signed to the 
 warrant for his execution. He was executed on Tower Hill, 
 and died denying his treason. One of his last proceedings in 
 this world was to write two letters, one to the Princess Eliz- 
 abeth, and one to the Princess Mary, which a servant of his 
 took charge of, and concealed in his shoe. These letters are 
 supposed to have urged them against his brother, and to re- 
 venge his death. What they truly contained is not known ; 
 but there is no doubt that he had, at one time, obtained great 
 influence over the Princess Elizabeth. 
 
 All this while, the Protestant religion was making progress. 
 The images which the people had gradually come to worship 
 were removed from the churches ; the people were informed 
 that they need not confess themselves to priests unless they 
 chose ; a common prayer-book was drawn up in the English 
 language, which all could understand ; a**d many other im- 
 provements were made ; still moderately. For Cranmer was 
 a very moderate man, and even restrained the Protestant 
 clergy from violently abusing the unreformed religion — as 
 they very often did, and which was not a good example. 
 But the people were at this time in great distress. The ra- 
 pacious nobility who had come into possession of the Church 
 lands, were very bad landlords. They inclosed great quan- 
 tities of ground for the feeding of sheep, which was then more 
 profitable than the growing of crops ; and this increased the 
 general distress. So the people who still understood little 
 of what was going on about them, and still readily believed 
 what the homeless monks told them — many of whom had 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 255 
 
 been their good friends in their better days — took it into 
 their heads that all this was owing to the reformed religion, 
 and therefore rose in many parts of the country. 
 
 The most powerful risings were in Devonshire and Norfolk. 
 In Devonshire, the rebellion was so strong that ten thousand 
 men united within a few days, and even laid siege to Exeter. 
 But Lord Russell, coming to the assistance of the citizens 
 who defended that town, defeated the rebels ; and, not only 
 hanged the mayor of one place, but hanged the vicar of 
 another from his own church steeple. What with hanging 
 and killing by the sword, four thousand of the rebels are 
 supposed to have fallen in that one county. In Norfolk 
 (where the rising was more against the inclosure of open 
 lands than against the reformed religion), the popular leader 
 was a man named Robert Ket, a tanner of Wymondham. 
 The mob were, in the first instance, excited against the tan- 
 ner by one John Flowerdew, a gentleman who owed him a 
 grudge : but the tanner was more than a match for the gen- 
 tleman, since he soon got the people on his side, and estab- 
 lished himself near Norwich with quite an army. There 
 was a large oak-tree in that place, on a spot called Mouse- 
 hold Hill, which Ket named the Tree of Reformation ; and 
 under its green boughs, he and his men sat, in the midsum- 
 mer weather, holding courts of justice, and debating affairs 
 of state. They were even impartial enough to allow some 
 rather tiresome public speakers to get up into this Tree of 
 Reformation, and point out their errors to them, in long dis- 
 courses, while they lay listening (not always without some 
 grumbling and growling), in the shade below. At last, one 
 sunny July day, a herald appeared below the tree, and pro- 
 claimed Ket and all his men traitors, unless from that 
 moment they dispersed and went home : in which case they 
 were to receive a pardon. But Ket and his men made light 
 of the herald and became stronger than ever, until the Earl 
 of Warwick went after them with a sufficient force, and cut 
 them all to pieces. A few were hanged, drawn, and quar- 
 tered, as traitors, and their limbs were sent into various 
 country places to be a terror to the people. Nine of them 
 were hanged upon nine green brances of the Oak of Refor- 
 mation ; and so, for the time, that tree may be said to have 
 withered away. 
 
 The Protector, though a haughty man, had compassion 
 for the real distresses of the common people, and a sincere 
 
256 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 desire to help them. But he was too proud and too high in 
 degree to hold even their favor steadily ; and many of the 
 nobles always envied and hated him, because they were as 
 proud and not as high as he. He was at this time building 
 a great palace in the Strand : to get the stone for which he 
 blew up church steeples with gunpowder, and pulled down 
 bishops' houses : thus making himself still more disliked. 
 At length, his principal enemy, the Earl of Warwick — Dud- 
 ley by name, and the son of that Dudley who had made 
 himself so odious with Empson, in the reign of Henry the 
 Seventh — joined with seven other members of the Council 
 against him, formed a separate Council ; and, becoming 
 stronger in a few days, sent him to the tower under twenty- 
 nine articles of accusation. After being sentenced by the 
 Council to the forfeiture of all his offices and lands, he was 
 liberated and pardoned, on making a very humble submis- 
 sion. He was even taken back into the Council again, after 
 having suffered his fall, and married his daughter, Lady 
 Anne Seymour, to Warwick's eldest son. But such a recon- 
 ciliation was little likely to last, and did not outlive a year. 
 Warwick, having got himself made Duke of Northumber- 
 land, and having advanced the more important of his 
 friends, then finished the history by causing the Duke of 
 Somerset and his friend Lord Grey, and others, to be 
 arrested for treason, in having conspired to seize and de- 
 throne the King. They were also accused of having in- 
 tended to seize the new Duke of Northumberland, with his 
 friends Lord Northampton and Lord Pembroke ; to murder 
 them if they found need ; and to raise the city to revolt. 
 All this the fallen Protector positively denied ; except that 
 he confessed to having spoken of the murder of those three 
 noblemen, but having never designed it. He was acquitted 
 of the charge of treason, and found guilty of the other 
 charges ; so when the people — who remembered his having 
 been their friend, now that he was disgraced and in danger, 
 saw him come out from his trial with the ax turned from 
 him — they thought he was altogether acquitted, and set up 
 a loud shout of joy. 
 
 But the Duke of Somerset was ordered to be beheaded on 
 Tower Hill, at eight o'clock in the morning, and proclama- 
 tions were issued bidding the citizens keep at home until 
 after ten. They filled the streets, however, and crowded 
 the place of execution as soon as it was light ; and, with sad 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 257 
 
 faces and sad hearts, saw the once powerful Protector 
 ascend the scaffold to lay his head upon the dreadful block. 
 While he was yet saying his last words to them with manly 
 courage, and telling them, in particular, how it comforted 
 him, at that pass, to have assisted in reforming the national 
 religion, a member of the Council was seen riding up on 
 horseback. They again thought that the Duke was saved 
 by his bringing a reprieve, and again shouted for joy. But 
 the Duke himself told them they were mistaken, and laid 
 down his head and had it struck off at a blow. 
 
 Many of the bystanders rushed forward and steeped their 
 handkerchiefs in his blood, as a mark of their affection. He 
 had, indeed, been capable of many good acts, and one of 
 them was discovered after he was no more. The Bishop of 
 Durham, a very good man, had been informed against to the 
 Council, when the Duke was in power, as having answered a 
 treacherous letter proposing a rebellion against the reformed 
 religion. As the answer could not be found, he could not 
 be declared guilty ; but it was now discovered, hidden by 
 the Duke himself among some private papers, in his regard 
 for that good man. The Bishop lost his office, and was de- 
 prived of his possessions. 
 
 It is not very pleasant to know that while his uncle lay 
 in prison under sentence of death, the young King was being 
 vastly entertained by plays, and dances, and sham fights : 
 but there is no doubt of it, for he kept a journal himself. 
 It is pleasanter to know that not a single Roman Catholic 
 was burned in this reign for holding that religion ; though 
 two wretched victims suffered for heresy. One, a woman 
 named Joan Bocher, for professing some opinions that even 
 she could only explain in unintelligible jargon. The other, 
 a Dutchman, named Von Paris, who practiced as a surgeon 
 in London. Edward was, to his credit, exceedingly-unwill- 
 ing to sign the warrant for the woman's execution : shed- 
 ding tears before he did so, and telling Cranmer, who urged 
 him to do it (though Cranmer really would have spared the 
 woman at first, but for her own determined obstinacy), that 
 the guilt was not his, but that of the man who so strongly 
 urged the dreadful act. We shall see, too soon, whether the 
 time ever came when Cranmer is likely to have remembered 
 this with sorrow and remorse. 
 
 Cranmer and Ridley (at first Bishop of Rochester and 
 afterward Bishop of London) were the most powerful ©f 
 
258 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 the clergy of this reign. Others were imprisoned and de- 
 prived of their property for still adhering to the unreformed 
 religion ; the most important among whom were Gardiner, 
 Bishop of Winchester, Heath, Bishop of Worcester, Day, 
 Bishop of Chichester, and Bonner, that Bishop of London 
 who was superseded by Ridley. The Princess Mary, who 
 inherited her mother's gloomy temper, and hated the re- 
 formed religion as connected with her mother's wrongs and 
 sorrows — she knew nothing else about it, always refusing to 
 read a single book in which it was truly described — held by 
 the unreformed religion too, and was the only person in the 
 kingdom for whom the old Mass was allowed to be per- 
 formed ; nor would the young King have made that excep- 
 tion even in her favor, but for the strong persuasions of 
 Cranmer and Ridley. He always viewed it with horror ; 
 and when he fell into a sickly condition, after having been 
 very ill, first of the measles and then of the small-pox, he was 
 greatly troubled in mind to think that if he died, and she, 
 the next heir to the throne, succeeded, the Roman Catholic 
 religion would be set up again. 
 
 This uneasiness the Duke of Northumberland was not slow 
 to encourage : for, if the Princess Mary came to the throne, 
 he, who had taken part with the Protestants, was sure to be 
 disgraced. Now, the Duchess of Suffolk was descended from 
 King Henry the Seventh ; and, if she resigned what little or 
 no right she had, in favor of her daughter Lady Jane Grey, 
 that would be the succession to promote the Duke's great- 
 ness ; because Lord Guilford Dudley, one of his sons, was, 
 at this very time, newly married to her. So, he worked 
 upon the King's fears, and persuaded him to set aside both 
 the Princess Mary and the Princess Elizabeth, and assert his 
 right to appoint his successor. Accordingly the young King 
 handed to the Crown lawyers a writing signed half a dozen 
 times over by himself, appointing Lady Jane Grey to succeed 
 to the Crown, and requiring them to have his will made out 
 according to law. They were much against it at first, and 
 told the King so ; but the Duke of Northumberland— being 
 so violent about it that the lawyers even expected him to 
 beat them, and hotly declaring that, stripped to his shirt, he 
 would fight any man in such a quarrel — they yielded. 
 Cranmer, also, at first hesitated ; pleading that he had sworn 
 to maintain the succession of the Crown to the Prin- 
 cess Mary ; but, he was a weak man in his resolutions, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 259 
 
 and afterward signed the document with the rest of the 
 council. 
 
 It was completed none too soon ; for Edward was now 
 sinking in a rapid decline ; and by way of making him bet- 
 ter, they handed him over to a woman-doctor who pretended 
 to be able to cure it. He speedily got worse. On the sixth 
 of July, in the year one thousand five hundred and fifty-three, 
 he died, very peaceably and piously, praying God, with his 
 last breath, to protect the reformed religion. 
 
 This King died in the sixteenth year of his age, and in the 
 seventh of his reign. It is difficult to judge what the char- 
 acter of one so young might afterward have become among 
 so many bad, ambitious, quarreling nobles. But he was 
 an amiable boy, of very good abilities, and had nothing 
 coarse or cruel or brutal in his disposition — which in the'son 
 of such a father is rather surprising. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER MARY. 
 
 The Duke of Northumberland was very anxious to keep 
 the young King's death a secret, in order that he might get 
 the two Princesses into his power. But the Princess Mary, 
 being informed of that event as she was on her way to 
 London to see her sick brother, turned her horse's head, and 
 rode away into Norfolk. The Earl of Arundel was her 
 friend, and it was he who sent her warning of what had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 As the secret could not be kept, the Duke of Northum- 
 berland and the council sent for the Lord Mayor of London 
 and some of the aldermen, and made a merit of telling it to 
 them. Then, they made it known to the people, and set off 
 to inform Lady Jane Grey that she was to be Queen. 
 
 She was a pretty girl of only sixteen, and was amiable, 
 learned and clever. When the lords who came to her, fell 
 on their knees before her, and told her what tidings they 
 brought, she was so astonished that she fainted. On recov- 
 ering, she expressed her sorrow for the young King's death, 
 and said that she knew she was unfit to govern the kingdom ; 
 but that if she must be Queen, she prayed God to direct her. 
 She was then at Sion House near Brentford ; and the lords 
 
260 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 took her down the river in state to the Tower, that she might 
 remain there (as the custom was) until she was crowned. 
 But the people were not at all favorable to Lady Jane, con- 
 sidering that the right to be Queen was Mary's, and greatly 
 disliking the Duke of Northumberland. They were not put 
 into a better humor by the Duke's causing a vintner's serv- 
 ant, one Gabriel Pot, to be taken up for expressing his dis~ 
 satisfaction among the crowd, and to have his ears nailed 
 to the pillory, and cut off. Some powerful men among the 
 nobility declared on Mary's side. They raised troops to sup- 
 port her cause, had her proclaimed Queen at Norwich, and 
 gathered around her at the castle of Framlingham, which 
 belonged to the Duke of Norfolk. For she was not con- 
 sidered so safe as yet, but that it was best to keep her in a 
 castle on the sea-coast, from whence she might be sent 
 abroad, if necessary. 
 
 The Council would have dispatched Lady Jane's father, 
 the Duke of Suffolk, as the general of the army against 
 this force ; but, as Lady Jane implored that her father 
 might remain with her, and as he was known to be but 
 a weak man, they told the Duke of Northumberland that 
 he must take the command himself. He was not very 
 ready to do so, as he mistrusted the Council much ; 
 but there was no help for it, and he set forth with a 
 heavy heart, observing to a lord who rode beside him 
 through Shoreditch at the head of the troops, that although 
 the people pressed in great numbers to look at them, they 
 were terribly silent. 
 
 And his fears for himself turned out to be well founded. 
 While he was waiting at Cambridge for further help from the 
 Council, the Council took it into their heads to turn their 
 backs on Lady Jane's cause, and to take up the Princess 
 Mary's. This was chiefly owing to the before-mentioned 
 Earl of Arundel, who represented to the Lord Mayor and 
 aldermen, in a second interview with those sagacious per- 
 sons, that, as for himself, he did not perceive the Reformed 
 religion to be in much danger — which Lord Pembroke backed 
 by flourishing his sword as another kind of persuasion. The 
 Lord Mayor and aldermen, thus enlightened, said there could 
 be no doubt that the Princess Mary ought to be Queen. So, 
 she was proclaimed at the Cross by St. Paul's, and barrels of 
 wine were given to the people, and they got very drunk, 
 and danced round blazing bonfire — little thinking, poor 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 261 
 
 wretches, what other bonfires would soon be blazing in Queen 
 Mary's name. 
 
 After a ten days' dream of royalty, Lady Jane Grey re- 
 signed the Crown with great willingness, saying that she had 
 only accepted in obedience to her father and mother ; and 
 went gladly back to her pleasant house by the river, and her 
 books. Mary then came on toward London ; and at Wan- 
 stead in Essex, was joined by her half-sister, the Princess 
 Elizabeth. They passed through the streets of London to 
 the Tower, and there the new Queen met some eminent 
 prisoners then confined in it, kissed them, and gave them 
 their liberty. Among these was that Gardiner, Bishop of 
 Winchester, who had been imprisoned in the last reign for 
 holding to the unreformed religion. Him she soon made 
 chancellor. 
 
 The Duke of Northumberland had been taken prisoner, 
 and, together with his son and five others, was quickly brought 
 before the Council. He, not unnaturally, asked that Council, 
 in his defense, whether it was treason to obey orders that 
 had been issued under the great seal ; and, if it were, whether 
 they, who had obeyed them too, ought to be his judges ? 
 But they made light of these points ; and, being resolved to 
 have him out of the way, soon sentenced him to death. He 
 had risen into power upon the death of another man, and 
 made but a poor show (as might be expected) when he him- 
 self lay low. He entreated Gardiner to let him live, if it 
 were only in a mouse's hole ; and, when he ascended the 
 scaffold to be beheaded on Tower Hill, addressed the people 
 in a miserable way, saying that he had been incited by others, 
 and exhorting them to return to the unreformed religion, 
 which he told them was his faith. There seems reason to 
 suppose that he expected a pardon even then, in return for 
 this confession ; but it matters little whether he did or not. 
 His head was struck off. 
 
 Mary was now crowned Queen. She was thirty-seven 
 years of age, short and thin, wrinkled in the face, and very 
 unhealthy. But she had a great liking for show and for bright 
 colors, and all the ladies of her Court were magnificently 
 dressed. She had a great liking too for old customs, without 
 much sense in them ; and she was oiled in the oldest way, 
 and blessed in the oldest way, and done all manner of things 
 in the oldest way, at her coronation. I hope they did her 
 good. 
 
262 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 She soon began to show her desire to put down the Re- 
 formed religion, and put up the unreformed one : though it 
 was dangerous work as yet, the people being something wiser 
 than they used to be. They even cast a shower of stones — 
 and among them a dagger — at one of the royal chaplains 
 who attacked the Reformed religion in a public sermon. But 
 the Queen and her priests went steadily on. Ridley, the 
 powerful bishop of the last reign, was seized and sent to the 
 Tower. Latimer, also celebrated among the clergy of the 
 last reign, was likewise sent to the Tower, and Cranmer 
 speedily followed. Latimer was an aged man ; and, as his 
 guards took him through Sraithfield, he looked round it, and 
 said, " This is a place that hath long groaned for me." For he 
 knew well, what kind of bonfires w r ould soon be burning. 
 Nor was the knowledge confined to him. The prisons were 
 fast filled with the chief Protestants, who were there left 
 rotting in darkness, hunger, dirt, and separation from 
 their friends ; many, who had time left them for escape, fled 
 from the kingdom ; and the dullest of the people began, now, 
 to -see what was coming. 
 
 It came on fast. A Parliament was got together ; not 
 without strong suspicion of unfairness ; and they annulled 
 the divorce, formerly pronounced by Cranmer between the 
 Queen's mother and King Henry the Eighth, and unmade 
 all the laws on the subject of religion that had been made in 
 the last King Edward's reign. They began their proceed- 
 ings, in violation of the law, by having the old mass said be- 
 fore them in Latin, and by turning out a bishop who would 
 not kneel down. They also declared guilty of treason, Lady 
 Jane Grey for aspiring to the Crown ; her husband, for being 
 her husband ; and Cranmer, for not believing in the mass 
 aforesaid. They then prayed the Queen graciously to choose 
 a husband for herself, as soon as might be. 
 
 Now, the question who should be the Queen's husband 
 had given rise to a great deal of discussion, and to several 
 contending parties. Some said Cardinal Pole was the man — 
 but the Queen was of opinion that he was not the man, he 
 being too old and too much of a student. Others said that 
 the gallant young Courtenay, whom the Queen had made Earl 
 of Devonshire, was the man — and the Queen thought so too, 
 for a while ; but she changed her mind. And at last it ap- 
 peared that Philip, Prince of Spain, was certainly the man — 
 though certainly not the people's man ; for they detested the 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 263 
 
 idea of such a marriage from the beginning to the end, and 
 murmured that the Spaniard would establish in England, by 
 the aid of foreign soldiers, the worst abuses of the Popish 
 religion, and even the terrible Inquisition itself. 
 
 These discontents gave rise to a conspiracy for marrying 
 young Courtenay to the Princess Elizabeth, and setting them 
 up, with popular tumults all over the kingdom, against the 
 Queen. This was discovered in time by Gardiner ; but in 
 Kent, the bold old county, the people rose in their old bold 
 way. Sir Thomas Wyat, a man of great daring, was their leader. 
 He raised his standard at Maidstone, marched on to Roches- 
 ter, established himself in the old castle there, and prepared 
 to hold out against the Duke of Norfolk, who came against 
 him with a party of the Queen's Guards, and a body of five 
 hundred London men. The London men, however, were all 
 for Elizabeth, and not at all for Mary. They declared, under 
 the castle walls, for Wyat ; the Duke retreated ; and Wyat 
 came on to Deptford, at the head of fifteen thousand men. 
 
 But these, in their turn, fell away. When he came to 
 Southwark, there were only two thousand left. Not dis- 
 mayed by finding the London citizens in arms, and the guns 
 at the Tower ready to oppose his crossing the river there, 
 Wyat led them off to Kingston-upon-Thames, intending to 
 cross the bridge that he knew to be in that place, and so to 
 work his way round to Ludgate, one of the old gates of the 
 city. He found the bridge broken down, but mended it, 
 came across, and bravely fought his way up Fleet Street to 
 Ludgate Hill. Finding the gate closed against him, he 
 fought his way back again, sword in hand, to Temple Bar. 
 Here, being overpowered, he surrendered himself, and three 
 or four hundred of his men were taken, besides a hundred 
 killed. Wyat, in a moment of weakness (and perhaps of 
 torture) was afterwards made to accuse the Princess Eliza- 
 beth as his accomplice to some very small extent. But his 
 manhood soon returned to him, and he refused to save his 
 life by making any more false confessions. He was quartered 
 and distributed in the usual brutal way, and from fifty to a 
 hundred of his followers were hanged. The rest were led 
 out, with halters round their necks, to be pardoned and to 
 make a parade of crying out, " God save Queen Mary ! " 
 
 In the danger of this rebellion, the Queen showed herself 
 to be a woman of courage and spirit. She disdained to re- 
 treat to any place of safety, and went down to the Guildhall, 
 
264 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 scepter in hand, and made a gallant speech to the Lord 
 Mayor and citizens. But on the day after Wyat's defeat, she 
 did the most cruel act even of her cruel reign, in signing the 
 warrant for the execution of Lady Jane Grey. 
 
 They tried to persuade Lady Jane to accept the uni- 
 formed religion ; but she steadily refused. On the morning 
 when she was to die, she saw from her window the bleeding 
 and headless body of her husband brought back in a cart 
 from the scaffold on Tower Hill where he had laid down his 
 life. But, as she had declined to see him before his execu- 
 tion, lest she should be overpowered and not make a good 
 end, so, she even now showed a constancy and calmness that 
 will never be forgotten. She came up to the scaffold with a 
 firm step and a quiet face, and addressed the bystanders in a 
 steady voice. They were not numerous ; for she was too 
 young, too innocent and fair, to be murdered before the peo- 
 ple on Tower Hill, as her husband had just been ; so, the 
 place of her execution was within the Tower itself. She 
 said that she had done an unlawful act in taking what was 
 Queen Mary's right ; but she had done so with no bad intent, 
 and that she died a humble Christian. She begged the ex- 
 ecutioner to despatch her quickly, and she asked him, " Will 
 you take my head off before I lay me down ? " He answered, 
 " No, Madam," and then she was very quiet while they band- 
 aged her eyes. Being blinded, and unable to see the block 
 on which she was io lay her young head, she was seen to feel 
 about for it with her hands, and was heard to say, confused, 
 " O ^-hat shall I do ! Where is it ? " Then they guided her 
 to th i right place, and the executioner struck off her head. 
 You know too well, now, what dreadful deeds the execu- 
 tioner did in England, through many, many years, and how 
 his ax descended on the hateful block through the necKS of 
 some of the bravest, wisest, and best in the land. But it 
 never struck so cruel and so vile a blow as this. 
 
 The father of Lady Jane soon followed, but was little 
 pitied. Queen Mary's next object was to lay hold of Eliza- 
 beth, and this was pursued with great eagerness. Five hund- 
 red men were sent to her retired house at Ashridge, by 
 Berkhampstead, with orders to bring her up, alive or dead. 
 They got there at ten at night, when she was sick in bed. 
 But their leaders followed her lady into her bedchamber, 
 whence she was brought out betimes next morning, and put 
 into a litter to be conveyed to London. She was so weak and 
 
A CHILD S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 265 
 
 ill, that she was five days on the road; still, ihewas so re- 
 solved to be seen by the people that she had the cuiiains of 
 the litter opened ; and so, very pale and sickly, passed through 
 the streets. She wrote to her sister, saying she was innocent 
 of any crime, and asking why she was made a prisoner ; but 
 she got no answer, and was ordered to the Tower. They 
 took her in by the Traitor's Gate, to which she objected, but 
 in vain. One of the lords who conveyed her offered to cover 
 her with his cloak, as it was raining, but she put it away 
 from her, proudly and scornfully, and passed into the 
 Tower, and sat down in a courtyard on a stone. They be- 
 sought her to come in out of the wet ; but she answered 
 that it was better sitting there, than in a worse place. At 
 length she went to her apartment, where she was kept a 
 prisoner, though not so close a prisoner as at Woodstock, 
 whither she was afterwards removed, and where she is said 
 to have one day envied a milkmaid whom she heard singing 
 in the sunshine as she went through the green fields. 
 Gardiner, than whom there were not many worse men 
 among the fierce and sullen priests, cared little to keep 
 secret his stern desire for her death ; being used to say that 
 it was of little service to shake off the leaves, and lop the 
 branches of the tree of heresy, if its root, the hope of 
 heretics, were left. He failed, however, in his benevolent 
 design. Elizabeth was, at length, released ; and Hatfield 
 House was assigned to her as a residence, under the care of 
 one Sir Thomas Pope. 
 
 It would seem that Philip, the Prince of Spain, was a 
 main cause of this change in Elizabeth's fortunes. He was 
 not an amiable man, being, on the contrary, proud, over- 
 bearing, and gloomy ; but he and the Spanish lords who 
 came over with him, assuredly did discountenance the idea 
 of doing any violence to the Princess. It may have been 
 mere prudence, but we will hope it was manhood and honor. 
 The Queen had been expecting her husband with great im- 
 patience, and at length he came, to her great joy, though he 
 never cared much for her. They were married by Gardiner, 
 at Winchester, and there was more holiday-making among 
 the people ; but they had their old distrust of this Spanish 
 marriage, in which even the Parliament shared. Though 
 the members of that Parliament were far from honest, and 
 were strongly suspected to have been bought with Spanish 
 monev, they would pass no bill to enable the Queen to 
 
t66 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 set aside the Princess Elizabeth and appoint her own sue 
 cessor. 
 
 Although Gardiner failed in this object, as well as in the 
 darker one of bringing the Princess to the scaffold, he went 
 on at a great pace in the revival of the unreformed religion. 
 A new Parliament was packed, in which there were no 
 Protestants. Preparations were made to receive Cardinal 
 Pole in England as the Pope's messenger, bringing his holy 
 declaration that all the nobility who had acquired Church 
 property, should keep it — which was done to enlist their selfish 
 interest on the Pope's side. Then a great scene was en- 
 acted, which was the triumph of the Queen's plans. Cardinal 
 Pole arrived in great splendor and dignity, and was received 
 with great pomp. The Parliament joined in a petition ex- 
 pressive of their sorrow at the change in the national 
 religion, and praying him to receive the country again into 
 the Popish Church. With the Queen sitting on her throne, 
 and the King on one side of her, and the Cardinal on the 
 other, and the Parliament present, Gardiner read the peti- 
 tion aloud. The Cardinal then made a great speech, and 
 was so obliging as to say that all was forgotten and for- 
 given, and that the kingdom was solemnly made Roman 
 Catholic again. 
 
 Every thing was now ready for the lighting of the terrible 
 bonfires. The Queen having declared to the Council, in 
 writing, that she would wish none of her subjects to be 
 burned without some of the Council being present, and that 
 she would particularly wish there to be good sermons at all 
 burnings, the Council knew pretty well what was to be done 
 next. So, after the Cardinal had blessed all the bishops as 
 a preface to the burnings, the Chancellor Gardiner opened a 
 High Court at Saint Mary Overy, on the Southwark side of 
 London Bridge, for the trial of heretics. Here, two of the 
 late Protestant clergymen, Hooper, Bishop of Gloucester, 
 and Rogers, a Prebendary of St. Paul's, were brought to be 
 tried. Hooper was tried first for being married, though a 
 priest, and for not believing in the mass. He admitted both 
 of these accusations, and said that the mass was a wicked 
 imposition. Then they tried Rogers, who said the same. 
 Next morning the two were brought up to be sentenced ; 
 and then Rogers said that his poor wife, being a German 
 woman and a stranger in the land, he hoped might be 
 allowed to come to speak to him before he died. To this 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 267 
 
 the inhuman Gardiner replied, that she was not his wife. 
 " Yea, but she is, my lord," said Rogers, "and she hath been 
 my wife these eighteen years." His request was still re- 
 fused, and they were both sent to Newgate ; all those who 
 stood in the streets to sell things, being ordered to put out 
 their lights that the people might not see them. But the 
 people stood at their doors with candles in their hands, and 
 prayed for them as they went by. Soon afterward, Rogers 
 was taken out of jail to be burned in Smithfield ; and in the 
 crowd as he went along, he saw his poor wife and his ten 
 children, of whom the youngest was a little baby. And so 
 he was burned to death. 
 
 The next day, Hooper, who was to be burned at Gloucester, 
 was brought out to take his last journey, and was made to 
 wear a hood over his face that he might not be known by 
 the people. But they did know him for all that, down in 
 his own part of the country ; and, when he came near 
 Gloucester, they lined the road, making prayers and lamen- 
 tations. His guards took him to a lodging, where he slept 
 soundly all night. At nine o'clock next morning he was 
 brought forth leaning on a staff ; for he had taken cold in 
 prison, and was infirm. The iron stake, and the iron chain 
 which was to bind him to it, were fixed up near a great elm- 
 tree in a pleasant open place before the cathedral, where, on 
 peaceful Sundays, he had been accustomed to preach and to 
 pray, when he was bishop of Gloucester. This tree, which 
 had no leaves then, it being February, was filled with 
 people ; and the priests of Gloucester College were looking 
 complacently on from a window, and there was a great con- 
 course of spectators in every spot from which a glimpse of 
 the dreadful sight could be beheld. When the old man 
 kneeled down on the small platform at the foot of the stake, 
 and prayed aloud, the nearest people were observed to be so 
 attentive to his prayers that they were ordered to stand 
 further back ; for it did not suit the Romish Church to have 
 those Protestant words heard. His prayers concluded, he 
 went up to the stake and was stripped to his shirt, and 
 chained ready for the fire. One of his guards had such 
 compassion on him that, to shorten his agonies, he tied 
 some packets of gunpowder about him. Then they heaped 
 up wood and straw and reeds, and set them all alight. But, 
 unhappily, the wood was green and damp, and there was a 
 wind blowing that blew what flame there was away. Thus, 
 
268 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 through three-quarters of an hour, the good old man was 
 scorched and roasted and smoked, as the fire rose and sank ; 
 and all that time they saw him, as he burned, moving his 
 lips in prayer, and beating his breast with one hand, even 
 after the other was burned away and had fallen off. 
 
 Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer, were taken to Oxford to 
 dispute with a commission of priests and doctors about the 
 mass. They were shamefully treated ; and it is reported 
 that the Oxford scholars hissed and howled and groaned, 
 and misconducted themselves in any thing but a scholarly 
 way. The prisoners were taken back to jail, and afterward 
 tried in St. Mary's Church. They were all found guilty. 
 On the sixteenth of the month of October, Ridley and 
 Latimer were brought out, to make another of the dreadful 
 bonfires. 
 
 The scene of the suffering of these two good Protestant 
 men was in the City ditch, near Baliol College. On coming 
 to the dreadful spot, they kissed the stakes, and then em- 
 braced each other. And then a learned doctor got up into 
 a pulpit which was placed there, and preached a sermon from 
 the text, " Though I give my body to be burned, and have 
 not charity, it profiteth me nothing." When you think of 
 the charity of burning men alive, you may imagine that this 
 learned doctor had a rather brazen face. Ridley would have 
 answered his sermon when it came to an end, but was not 
 allowed. When Latimer was stripped, it appeared that he 
 had dressed himself under his other clothes, in a new shroud ; 
 and, as he stood in it before all the people, it was noted of 
 him, and long remembered, that, whereas, he had been stoop- 
 ing and feeble but a few minutes before, he now stood up- 
 right and handsome, in the knowledge that he was dying for 
 a just and a great cause. Ridley's brother-in-law was there 
 with bags of gunpowder ; and when they were both chained 
 up, he tied them around their bodies. Then, a light was 
 thrown upon the pile to fire it. " Be of good comfort, Mas- 
 ter Ridley," said Latimer, at that awful moment, " and play 
 the man ! We shall this day light such a candle, by God's 
 grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out." And 
 then he was seen to make motions with his hands as if he 
 were washing them in the flames, and to stroke his aged face 
 with them, and was heard to cry, " Father of Heaven, re- 
 ceive my soul ! " He died quickly, but the fire, after having 
 burned the legs of Ridley, sunk. There he lingered, chained 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 269 
 
 to the iron post, and crying, " O ! I cannot burn ! O ! for 
 Christ's sake, let the fire come unto me ! " And still, when 
 his brother-in-law had heaped on more wood, he was heard 
 through the blinding smoke, still dismally crying, " O ! I 
 cannot burn, I cannot burn ! " At last, the gunpowder 
 caught fire and ended his miseries. 
 
 Five days after this fearful scene, Gardiner went to his 
 tremendous account before God, for the cruelties he had so 
 much assisted in committing. 
 
 Cranmer remained still alive and in prison. He was 
 brought out again in February, for more examining and try- 
 ing, by Bonner, Bishop of London ; another man of blood, 
 who had succeeded to Gardiner's work, even in his lifetime, 
 when Gardiner was tired of it. Cranmer was now degraded 
 as a priest, and left for death ; but if the Queen hated any 
 one on earth, she hated him, and it was resolved that he 
 should be ruined and disgraced to the utmost. There is no 
 doubt that the Queen and her husband personally urged on 
 these deeds, because they wrote to the Council, urging them 
 to be active in the kindling of the fearful fires. As Cranmer 
 was known not to be a firm man, a plan was laid for sur- 
 rounding him with artful people, and inducing him to recant 
 to the unreformed religion. Deans and friars visited him, 
 played at bowls with him, showed him various attentions^ 
 talked persuasively with him, gave him money for his prison 
 comforts, and induced him to sign, I fear as many as six 
 recantations. But when, after all, he was taken out to be 
 burned, he was nobly true,to his better self, and made a glo- 
 rious end. 
 
 After prayers and a sermon, Dr. Cole, the preacher of the 
 day (who had been one of the artful priests about^ Cranmer 
 in prison), required him to make a public confession of his 
 faith before the people. This Cole did, expecting that he 
 would declare himself a Roman Catholic. " I will make a 
 profession of my faith," said Cranmer, " and with a good 
 will too." 
 
 Then, he arose before them all, and took from the sleeve of 
 his robe a written prayer and read it aloud. That done, he 
 kneeled and said the Lord's Prayer, all the people joining ; 
 and then he arose again and told them that he believed in the 
 Bible, and that in what he had lately written, he had written 
 what was not the truth, and that, because his right hand had 
 signed those papers, he would barn his right hand first when 
 
270 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 he came to the fire. As for the Pope, he did refuse him and 
 denounce him as the enemy of Heaven. Hereupon the pious 
 Dr. Cole cried out to the guards to stop that heretic's mouth 
 and take him away. 
 
 So they took him away, and chained him to the stake, 
 where he hastily took off his own clothes to make ready for 
 the flames. And he stood before the people with a bald head 
 and a white and flowing beard. He was so firm now, when 
 the worst was come^ that he again declared against his re- 
 cantation, and was so impressive and so undismayed, that a 
 certain lord, who was one of the directors of the execution, 
 called out to the men to make haste ! When the fire was 
 lighted, Cranmer, true to his latest word, stretched out his 
 right hand, and crying out, " This hand hath offended ! " 
 held it among the flames, until it blazed and burned away. 
 His heart was found entire among his ashes, and he left at 
 last a memorable name in English history. Cardinal Pole 
 celebrated the day by saying his first mass, and next day he 
 was made Archbishop of Canterbury in Cranmer's place. 
 
 The Queen's husband, who was now mostly abroad in his 
 own dominions, and generally made a coarse jest of her to 
 his more familiar courtiers, was at war with France, and 
 came over to seek the assistance of England. England was 
 very unwilling to engage in a French war for his sake ; but it 
 happened that the King of France, at this very time, aided 
 a descent upon the English coast. Hence, war was declared, 
 greatly to Philip's satisfaction; and the Queen raised a sum 
 of money with which to carry it on, by every unjustifiable 
 means in her power. It met with no profitable return, for 
 the French Duke of Guise surprised Calais, and the English 
 sustained a complete defeat. The losses they met with in 
 France greatly mortified the national pride, and the Queen 
 never recovered the blow. 
 
 There was a bad fever raging in England at this time, and 
 I am glad to write that the Queen took it, and the hour of 
 her death came. " When I am dead and my body is opened," 
 she said to those around her, " ye shall find Calais written 
 on my heart." I should have thought, if any thing were 
 written on it, they would have found the words — Jane Grey, 
 Hooper, Rogers, Ridley, Latimer, Cranmer, and three hund- 
 red people burned alive within four years of my wicked 
 reign, including sixty women and forty little children. 
 But it is enough that their deaths were written in Heaven. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 271 
 
 The Queen died on the seventeenth of November, fifteen 
 hundred and fifty-eight, after reigning not quite five years and 
 a half, and in the forty-fourth year of her age. Cardinal 
 Pole died of the same fever next day. 
 
 As Bloody Queen Mary, this woman has become famous, 
 and as Bloody Queen Mary, she will ever be justly remem- 
 bered with horror and detestation in Great Britain. Her 
 memory has been held in such abhorrence that some writers 
 have arisen in later years to take her part, and to show that 
 she was, upon the whole, quite an amiable and cheerful 
 sovereign ! " By their fruits ye shall know them," said Our 
 Saviour. The stake and the fire were the fruits of this reign, 
 and you will judge this Queen by nothing else. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER ELIZABETH. 
 
 There was great rejoicing all over the land when the Lords 
 of the Council went down to Hatfield, to hail the Princess 
 Elizabeth as the new Queen of England. Weary of the bar- 
 barities of Mary's reign, the people looked with hope and 
 gladness to the new Sovereign. The nation seemed to wake 
 from a horrible dream ; and heaven, so long hidden by the 
 smoke of the fires that roasted men and women to death, 
 appeared to brighten once more. 
 
 Queen Elizabeth was five-and-twenty years of age when 
 she rode through the streets of London, from the Tower to 
 Westminster Abbey, to be crowned. Her countenance was 
 strongly marked, but on the whole, commanding and digni- 
 fied ; her hair was red, and her nose something too long and 
 sharp for a woman's. She was not the beautiful creature her 
 courtiers made out ; but she was well enough, and no doubt 
 looked all the better for coming after the dark and gloomy 
 Mary. She was well educated, but a roundabout writer, and 
 rather a hard swearer and coarse talker. She was clever, but 
 cunning and deceitful, and inherited much of her father's 
 violent temper. I mention this now, because she has been 
 so overpraised by one party, and so over-abused by another, 
 that it is hardly possible to understand the greater part of 
 her reign without first understanding what kind of a woman 
 she really was. 
 
272 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 She began her reign with the great advantage of having a 
 very wise and careful Minister, Sir William Cecil, whom 
 she afterward made Lord Burleigh. Altogether, the peo- 
 ple had greater reason for rejoicing than they usually had, 
 when there were processions in the streets ; and they were 
 happy with some reason. All kinds of shows and images 
 were set up ; Gog and Magog were hoisted to the top of 
 Temple Bar ; and (which was more to the purpose) the Cor- 
 poration dutifully presented the young Queen with the sum 
 of a thousand marks in gold — so heavy a present that she 
 was obliged to take it into her carriage with both hands. 
 The coronation was a great success ; and, on the next day, 
 one of the courtiers presented a petition to the new Queen, 
 praying that as it was the custom to release some prisoners 
 on such occasions, she would have the goodness to release 
 the four Evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, and 
 also the Apostle St. Paul, who had been for some time 
 shut up in a strange language so that the people could not 
 get at them. 
 
 To this, the Queen replied that it would be better first to 
 inquire of themselves whether they desired to be released or 
 not ; and, as a means of finding out, a great public discussion 
 — a sort of religious tournament — was appointed to take 
 place between certain champions of the two religions, in 
 Westminster Abbey. You may suppose that it was soon 
 made pretty clear to common sense, that for people to benefit 
 by what they repeat or read, it is rather necessary they should 
 understand something about it. Accordingly, a Church Serv- 
 ice in plain English was settled, and other laws and regula- 
 tions were made, completely establishing the great work of 
 the Reformation. The Romish bishops and champions were 
 not harshly dealt with, all things considered ; and the Queen's 
 Ministers were both prudent and merciful. 
 
 The one great trouble of this reign, and the unfortunate 
 cause of the greater part of such turmoil and bloodshed as 
 occurred in it, was Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. We will 
 try to understand, in as few words as possible, who Mary 
 was, what she was, and how she came to be a thorn in the 
 royal pillow of Elizabeth. 
 
 She was the daughter of the Queen Regent of Scotland, 
 Mary of Guise. She had been married, when a mere child, 
 to the Dauphin, the son and heir of the King of France. 
 The Pope, who pretended that no one could rightfully wear 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 273 
 
 the crown of England without his gracious permission, was 
 strongly opposed to Elizabeth, who had not asked for the 
 said gracious permission. And as Mary Queen of Scots 
 would have inherited the English crown in right of her birth, 
 supposing the English Parliament not to have altered the 
 succession, the Pope himself, and most of the discontented 
 who were followers of his, maintained that Mary was the 
 rightful Queen of England, and Elizabeth the wrongful 
 Queen. Mary being so closely connected with France, and 
 France being jealous of England, there was far greater dan- 
 ger in this than there would have been if she had had no 
 alliance with that great power. And when her young hus- 
 band, on the death of his father, became Francis the Sec- 
 ond, King of France, the matter grew very serious. For, 
 the young couple styled themselves King and Queen of En- 
 gland, and the Pope was disposed to help them by doing all 
 the mischief he could. 
 
 Now, the reformed religion, under the guidance of a stern 
 and powerful preacher, named John Knox, and other such 
 men, had been making fierce progress in Scotland. It was 
 still a half savage country, where there was a great deal of 
 murdering and rioting continually going on ; and the Reform- 
 ers, instead of reforming those evils as they should have 
 done, went to work in the ferocious old Scottish spirit, lay- 
 ing churches and chapels waste, pulling down pictures and 
 altars, and knocking about the Gray Friars, and the Black 
 Friars, and the White Friars, and the friars of all sorts of 
 colors, in all directions. This obdurate and harsh spirit of 
 the Scottish Reformers (the Scotch have always been rather 
 a sullen and frowning people in religious matters) put up the 
 blood of the Romish French court, and caused France to send 
 troops over to Scotland, with the hope of setting the friars of 
 all sorts and colors on their legs again ; of conquering that 
 country first, and England afterward ; and so crushing the 
 Reformation all to pieces. The Scottish Reformers, who had 
 formed a great league which they called The Congregation of 
 the Lord, secretly represented to Elizabeth that, if the re- 
 formed religion got the worst of it with them, it would be 
 likely to get the worst of it in England too. And thus Eliza- 
 beth, though she had a high notion of the rights of Kings and 
 Queens to do any thing they liked, sent an army to Scotland 
 to support the Reformers, who were in arms against their 
 sovereign. All these proceedings led to a treaty of peace 
 
£74 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 at Edinburgh, under which the French consented to depart 
 from the kingdom. By a separate treaty, Mary and her young 
 husband engaged to renounce their assumed title of King 
 and Queen of England. But this treaty they never ful- 
 filled. 
 
 It happened, soon after matters had got to this state, that 
 the young French King died, leaving Mary a young widow. 
 She was then invited by her Scottish subjects to return home 
 and reign over them ; and as she was not now happy where 
 she was, she, after a little time, complied. 
 
 Elizabeth had been Queen three years, when Mary Queen 
 of Scots embarked at Calais for her own rough quarreling 
 country. As she came out of the harbor, a vessel was lost 
 before her eyes, and she said, " O ! good God ! what an 
 omen this is for such a voyage ! " She was very fond of 
 France, and sat on the deck, looking back at it and weeping, 
 until it was quite dark. When she went to bed, she directed 
 to be called at daybreak, if the French coast were still visible, 
 that she might behold it for the last time. As it proved to 
 be a clear morning, this was done, and she again wept for 
 the country she was leaving, and said many times, " Fare- 
 well, France ! Farewell, France ! I shall never see thee 
 again ! " All this was long remembered aftenvard as sor- 
 rowful and interesting in a fair young princess of nineteen. 
 Indeed, I am afraid it gradually came, together with her 
 other distresses, to surround her with greater sympathy than 
 she deserved. 
 
 When she came to Scotland and took up her abode at the 
 palace of Holyrood in Edinburgh, she found herself among 
 uncouth strangers and wild uncomfortable customs very dif- 
 ferent from her experiences in the Court of France. The 
 very people who were disposed to love her, made her head 
 ache when she was tired out by her voyage, with a serenade 
 of discordant music — a fearful concert of bagpipes, I sup- 
 pose — and brought her and her train home to her palace on 
 miserable little Scotch horses that appeared to be half 
 starved. Among the people who were not disposed to love 
 her, she found the powerful leaders of the Reformed Church, 
 who were bitter upon her amusements, however innocent, and 
 denounced music and dancing as works of the devil. John 
 Knox himself often lectured her, violently and angrily, and 
 did much to make her life unhappy. All these reasons con- 
 firmed her old attachment to the Romish religion, and caused 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 275 
 
 her, there is no doubt, most imprudently and dangerously 
 both for herself and for England too, to give a solemn pledge 
 to the heads of the Romish Church that if she ever succeeded 
 to the English crown, she would set up that religion again. 
 In reading her unhappy history, you must always remember 
 this ; and also that during her whole life she was constantly 
 put forward against the Queen, in some form or other, by 
 the Romish party. 
 
 That Elizabeth, on the other hand, was not inclined to 
 like her, is pretty certain. Elizabeth was very vain and 
 jealous, and had an extraordinary dislike to people being 
 married. She treated Lady Catherine Grey, sister of the 
 beheaded Lady Jane, with such shameful severity, for no 
 other reason than her being secretly married, that she died 
 and her husband was ruined ; so, when a second marriage 
 for Mary began to be talked about, probably Elizabeth dis- 
 liked her more. Not that Elizabeth wanted suitors of her 
 own, for they started up from Spain, Austria, Sweden, and 
 England. Her English lover at this time, and one whom she 
 much favored too, was Lord Robert Dudley, Earl of Leices- 
 ter — himself secretly married to Amy Robsart, the daughter 
 of an English gentleman, and whom he was strongly sus- 
 pected of causing to be murdered, down at his country seat, 
 Cumnor Hall in Berkshire, that he might be free to marry 
 the Queen. Upon this story, the great writer, Sir Walter 
 Scott, has founded one of his best romances. But if Eliza- 
 beth knew how to lead her handsome favorite on, for her 
 own vanity and pleasure, she knew how to stop him for her 
 own pride ; and his love, and all the other proposals, came 
 to nothing. The Queen always declared in good set speech- 
 es, that she would never be married at all, but live and die 
 a Maiden Queen. It was a very pleasant and meritorious 
 declaration I suppose ; but it has been puffed and trumpeted 
 so much, that I am rather tired of it myself. 
 
 Divers princes proposed to marry Mary, but the English 
 court had reasons of being jealous of them all, and even 
 proposed as a matter of policy that she should marry that 
 very Earl of Leicester who had aspired to be the husband of 
 Elizabeth. At last Lord Darnley, son of the Earl of Lennox, 
 and himself descended from the Royal Family of Scotland, 
 went over with Elizabeth's consent to try his fortune at Holy- 
 rood. He was a tall simpleton ; and could dance and play 
 the guitar ; but I know of nothing else he could do, unless 
 
276 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 it were to get drunk, and eat gluttonously, and make 
 a contemptible spectacle of himself in many mean and 
 vain ways. However, he gained Mary's heart, not dis- 
 daining in the pursuit of his object to ally himself with 
 one of her secretaries, David Rizzio, who had great in- 
 fluence with her. He soon married the Queen. This 
 marriage does not say much for her, but what followed 
 will presently say less. 
 
 Mary's brother, the Earl of Murray, and head of the 
 Protestant party in Scotland, had opposed this marriage, 
 partly on religious grounds, and partly perhaps from person- 
 al dislike of the very contemptible bridegroom. When it 
 had taken place, through Mary's gaining over to it the more 
 powerful of the lords about her, she banished Murray for 
 his pains ; and when he and some other nobles rose in arms 
 to support the reformed religion, she herself, within a month 
 of her wedding day, rode against them in armor with loaded 
 pistols in her saddle. Driven out of Scotland, they presented 
 themselves before Elizabeth — who called them traitors in 
 public, and assisted them in private, according to her 
 crafty nature. 
 
 Mary had been married but a little while, when she began 
 to hate her husband, who, in his turn, began to hate that 
 David Rizzio, with whom he had leagued to gain her favor, 
 and whom he now believed to be her lover. He hated Riz- 
 zio to that extent, that he made a compact with Lord Ruth- 
 ven and three other lords to get rid of him by murder. This 
 wicked agreement they made in solemn secrecy upon the 
 first of March, fifteen hundred and sixty-six, and on the 
 night of Saturday the ninth, the conspirators were brought 
 by Darnley up a private staircase, dark and steep, into a 
 range of rooms where they knew that Mary was sitting at 
 supper with her sister, Lady Argyle, and this doomed man. 
 When they went into the room, Darnley took the Queen 
 round the waist, and Lord Ruthven, who had risen from a 
 bed of sickness to do this murder, came in, gaunt and 
 ghastly, leaning on two men. Rizzio ran behind the Queen 
 for shelter and protection. " Let him come out of the 
 room," said Ruthven. " He shall not leave the room," re- 
 plied the Queen ; " I read his danger in your face, and it is 
 my will that he remain here." They then set upon him, 
 struggled with him, overturned the table, dragged him out, 
 and killed him with fifty-six stabs. When the Queen heard 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 277 
 
 that he was dead, she said, " No more tears. I will think 
 now of revenge ! " 
 
 Within a day or two she gained her husband over, and 
 prevailed on the tall idiot to abandon the conspirators and 
 fly with her to Dunbar. There, he issued a proclamation, 
 audaciously and falsely denying that he had any knowledge 
 of the late bloody business ; and there they were joined by 
 the Earl Bothwell and some other nobles. With their help, 
 they raised eight thousand men, returned to Edinburgh, and 
 drove the assassins into England. Mary soon afterward 
 gave birth to a son — still thinking of revenge. 
 
 That she should have had a greater scorn for her husband 
 after his late cowardice and treachery than she had had before, 
 was natural enough. There is little doubt that she now be- 
 gan to love Bothwell instead, and to plan with him means of 
 getting rid of -Darnley. Bothwell had such power over her 
 that he induced her even to pardon the assassins of Rizzio. 
 The arrangements for the christening of the young Prince 
 were intrusted to him, and he was one of the most import- 
 ant people at the ceremony, where the child was named 
 James : Elizabeth being his godmother, though not present 
 on the occasion. A week afterward, Darnley, who had 
 left Mary and gone to his father's house at Glasgow, being 
 taken ill with the small- pox, she sent her own physician to 
 attend him. But there is reason to apprehend that this was 
 merely a show and a pretense, and that she knew what was 
 doing, when Bothwell within another month proposed to one 
 of the late conspirators against Rizzio, to murder Darnley, 
 "for that it was the Queen's mind that he should be taken 
 away." It is certain that on that very day she wrote to her 
 ambassador in France, complaining of him, and yet went 
 immediately to Glasgow, feigning to be very anxious about 
 him, and to love him very much. If she wanted to get him 
 in her power she succeeded to her heart's content ; for she 
 induced him to go back with her to Edinburgh, and to oc- 
 cupy, instead of the palace, a lone house outside the city 
 called the Kirk of Field. Here he lived for about a week. 
 One Sunday night, she remained with him until ten o'clock, 
 and then left him, to go to Holyrood to be present at an 
 entertainment given in celebration of the marriage of one of 
 her favorite servants. At two o'clock in the morning the 
 city was shaken by a great explosion, and the Kirk of Field 
 was blown to atoms. 
 
27S A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Darnley's body was found next day lying under a tree at 
 some distance. How it came there, undisfigured and un- 
 scorched by gunpowder, and how this crime came to be so 
 clumsily and strangely committed, it is impossible to dis- 
 cover. The deceitful character of Mary, and the deceitful 
 character of Elizabeth, have rendered almost every part of 
 their joint history uncertain and obscure. But, I fear that 
 Mary was unquestionably a party to her husband's murder, 
 and that this was the revenge she had threatened. The 
 Scotch people universally believed it. Voices cried out in 
 the streets of Edinburgh in the dead of the night, for justice 
 on the murderess. Placards were posted by unknown hands 
 in the public places denouncing Bothwell as the murderer, 
 and the Queen as his accomplice ; and, when he afterwards 
 married her (though himself already married), previously 
 making a show of taking her prisoner by force, the indigna- 
 tion of the people knew no bounds. The women particularly 
 are described as having been quite frantic against the Queen, 
 and to have hooted and cried after her in the streets with 
 terrific vehemence. 
 
 Such guilty unions seldom prosper. This husband and 
 wife had lived together but a month, when they were sepa- 
 rated forever by the successes of a band of Scotch nobles 
 who associated against them for the protection of the young 
 Prince : whom Bothwell had vainly endeavored to lay hold 
 of, and whom he would certainly have murdered, if the Earl 
 of Mar, in whose hands the boy was, had not been firmly and 
 honorably faithful to his trust. Before this angry power, 
 Bothwell fled abroad, where he died, a prisoner and mad, 
 nine miserable years afterward. Mary being found by the 
 associated lords to deceive them at every turn, was sent a 
 prisoner to Lochleven Castle ; which, as it stood in the midst 
 of a lake, could only be approached by boat. Here, one 
 Lord Lindsay, who was so much of a brute that the nobles 
 would have done better if they had chosen a mere gentleman 
 for their messenger, made her sign her abdication, and ap- 
 point Murray, Regent of Scotland. Here, too, Murray saw 
 her in a sorrowing and humbled state. 
 
 She had better have remained in the castle of Lochleven, 
 dull prison as it was, with the rippling of the lake against it, 
 and the moving shadows of the water on the room-walls ; but 
 she could not rest there, and more than once tried to escape. 
 The first time she had nearly succeeded, dressed in the clothes 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 279 
 
 of her own washerwoman, but, putting up her hand to pre- 
 vent one of the boatmen from lifting her veil, the men sus- 
 pected her, seeing how white it was, and rowed her back 
 again. A short time afterward, her fascinating manners en- 
 listed in her cause a boy in the Castle, called the little Doug- 
 las, who, while the family were at supper, stole the keys of 
 the great gate, went softly out with the Queen, locked the 
 gate on the outside, and rowed her away across the lake, 
 sinking the keys as they went along. On the opposite shore 
 she was met by another Douglas, and some few lords ; and, 
 so accompanied, rode away on horseback to Hamilton, where 
 they raised three thousand men. Here, she issued a procla- 
 mation declaring that the abdication she had signed in her 
 prison was illegal, and requiring the Regent to yield to his 
 lawful Queen. Being a steady soldier, and in no way dis- 
 composed although he was without an army, Murray pre- 
 tended to treat with her, until he had collected a force about 
 half equal to her own, and then he gave her battle. In one 
 quarter of an hour he cut down all her hopes. She had an- 
 other weary ride on horseback of sixty long Scotch miles, 
 and took shelter at Dundrennan Abbey, whence she fled for 
 safety to Elizabeth's dominions. 
 
 Mary Queen of Scots came to England — to her own ruin, 
 the trouble of the kingdom, and the misery and death of many 
 — in the year one thousand five hundred and sixty-eight. 
 How she left it and the world, nineteen years afterward, we 
 have now to see. 
 
 Second Part. 
 
 When Mary Queen of Scots arrived in England, without 
 money and even without any other clothes than those she 
 wore, she wrote to Elizabeth, representing herself as an inno- 
 cent and injured piece of Royalty, and entreating her assist- 
 ance to oblige her Scottish subjects to take her back again 
 and obey her. But, as her character was already known in 
 England to be a very different one from what she made it out 
 to be, she was told in answer that she must first clear herself. 
 Made uneasy by this condition, Mary, rather than stay in 
 England, would have gone to Spain, or to France, or would 
 even have gone back to Scotland. But, as her doing either 
 would have been likely to trouble England afresh, it was 
 decided that she should be detained here. She first came to 
 
28o A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Carlisle, and, after that, was moved about from castle to 
 castle, as was considered necessary ; but England she never 
 left again. 
 
 After trying very hard to get rid of the necessity of clear- 
 ing herself, Mary, advised by Lord Herries, her best friend 
 in England, agreed to answer the charges against her, if the 
 Scottish noblemen who made them would attend to maintain 
 them before such English noblemen as Elizabeth might ap- 
 point for that purpose. Accordingly, such an assembly, 
 under the name of a conference, met, first at York, and after- 
 ward at Hampton Court. In its presence Lord Lennox, 
 Darnley's father, openly charged Mary with the murder of 
 his son ; and whatever Mary's friends may now say or write 
 in her behalf, there is no doubt that, when her brother Murray 
 produced against her a casket containing certain guilty letters 
 and verses which he stated to have passed between her and 
 Bothwell, she withdrew from the inquiry. Consequently, it 
 is to be supposed that she was then considered guilty by those 
 who had the best opportunities of judging of the truth, and 
 that the feeling which afterward arose in her behalf was a 
 very generous but not a very reasonable one. 
 
 However, the Duke of Norfolk, an honorable but rather 
 weak nobleman, partly because Mary was captivating, partly 
 because he was ambitious, partly because he was over-per- 
 suaded by artful plotters against Elizabeth, conceived a strong 
 idea that he would like to marry the Queen of Scots — though 
 he was a little frightened, too, by the letters in the casket. 
 This idea being secretly encouraged by some of the noblemen 
 of Elizabeth's court, and even by the favorite Earl of Leices- 
 ter (because it was objected to by other favorites who were his 
 rivals), Mary expressed her approval of it, and the King of 
 France and the King of Spain are supposed to have done the 
 same. It was not so quietly planned, though, but that it 
 came to Elizabeth's ears, who warned the Duke " to be care- 
 ful what sort of pillow he was going to lay his head upon." 
 He made an humble reply at the time; but turned sulky soon 
 afterward, and, being considered dangerous, was sent to the 
 Tower. 
 
 Thus, from the moment of Mary's coming to England she 
 began to be the center of plots and miseries. 
 
 A rise of the Catholics in the north was the next of these, 
 and it was only checked by many executions and much 
 bloodshed. It was followed by a great conspiracy of the Pope 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 281 
 
 and some of the Catholic sovereigns of Europe to depose 
 Elizabeth, place Mary on the throne, and restore the uni- 
 formed religion. It is almost impossible to doubt that Mary 
 knew and approved of this ; and the Pope himself was so hot 
 in the matter that he issued a bull, in which he openly called 
 Elizabeth the " pretended Queen " of England, excommuni- 
 cated her, and excommunicated all her subjects who should 
 continue to obey her. A copy of this miserable paper got 
 into London, and was found one morning publicly posted on 
 the Bishop of London's gate. A great hue and cry being 
 raised, another copy was found in the chamber of a student 
 of Lincoln's Inn, who confessed, being put upon the 
 rack, that he had received it from one John Felton, a 
 rich gentleman who lived across the Thames, near 
 Southwark. This John Felton, being put upon the 
 rack too, confessed that he had posted the placard on 
 the Bishop's gate. For this offense he was, within four 
 days, taken to St. Paul's Churchyard, and there hanged and 
 quartered. As to the Pope's bull, the people by the Refor- 
 mation having thrown off the Pope, did not care much, you 
 may suppose, for the Pope's throwing off them. It was a 
 mere dirty piece of paper, and not half so powerful as a 
 street ballad. 
 
 On the very day when Felton was brought to his trial, the 
 poor Duke of Norfolk was released. It would have been 
 well for him had he kept away from the Tower evermore, and 
 from the snares that had taken him there. But, even while 
 he was in that dismal place he corresponded with Mary, and 
 as soon as he was out of it, he began to plot again. Being 
 discovered in correspondence with the Pope, with a view to a 
 rising in England which should force Elizabeth to consent 
 to his marriage with Mary and to repeal the laws against the 
 Catholics, he was recommitted to the Tower and brought to 
 trial. He was found guilty by the unanimous verdict of the 
 lords who tried him, and was sentenced to the block. 
 
 It is very difficult to make out, at this distance of time, 
 and between opposite accounts, whether Elizabeth really was 
 a humane woman, or desired to appear so, or was fearful of 
 shedding the blood of people of great name who were popu- 
 lar in the country. Twice she commanded and counter- 
 manded the execution of this Duke, and it did not take place 
 until five months after his trial. The scaffold was erected 
 pn Tower Hill, and there he died like a brave man. He re- 
 
282 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 fused to have his eyes bandaged, saying that he was not at all 
 afraid of death ; and he admitted the justice of his sentence, 
 and was much regretted by the people. 
 
 Although Mary had shrunk at the most important time 
 *rom disproving her guilt, she was very careful never to do 
 any thing that would admit it. All such proposals as were 
 made to her by Elizabeth for her release, required that admis- 
 sion in some form or other, and therefore came to nothing. 
 Moreover, both women being artful and treacherous, and 
 neither ever trusting the other, it was not likely that they 
 could ever make an agreement. So, the Parliament, aggra- 
 vated by what the Pope had done, made new and strong laws 
 against the spreading of the Catholic religion in England, 
 and declared it treason in any one to say that the Queen and 
 her successors were not the lawful sovereigns of England. 
 It would have done more than this, but for Elizabeth's mod- 
 eration. 
 
 Since the Reformation, there had come to be three great 
 sects of religious people — or people who called themselves 
 so — in England ; that is to say, those who belonged to the 
 Reformed Church, those who belonged to the Unreformed 
 Church, and those who were called the Puritans, because they 
 said that they wanted to have every thing very pure and plain 
 in all the Church service. These last were for the most part 
 an uncomfortable people, who thought it highly meritorious 
 to dress in a hideous manner, talk through their noses, and 
 oppose all harmless enjoyments. But they were powerful 
 too, and very much in earnest, and they were one and all the 
 determined enemies of the Queen of Scots. The Protestant 
 feeling in England was further strengthened by the tremen- 
 dous cruelties to which Protestants were exposed in France 
 and in the Netherlands. Scores of thousands of them were 
 put to death in those countries with every cruelty that can be 
 imagined, and at last, in the autumn of the year one thou- 
 sand five hundred and seventy-two, one of the greatest bar- 
 barities ever committed in the world took place at Paris. 
 
 It is called in history, The Massacre of Saint Barthol- 
 omew, because it took place on St. Bartholomew's Eve. 
 The day fell on Saturday the twenty-third of August. On that 
 day all the great leaders of the Protestants (who were there 
 called Huguenots) were assembled together, for the purpose, 
 as was represented to them, of doing honor to the marriage 
 of their chief, the young King of Navarre, with the sister of 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 283 
 
 Charles the Ninth : a miserable young King who then- 
 occupied the French throne. This dull creature was made 
 to believe by his mother and other fierce Catholics about him 
 that the Huguenots meant to take his life ; and he was per- 
 suaded to give secret orders that, on the tolling of a great 
 bell, they should be fallen upon by an overpowering force of 
 armed men, and slaughtered wherever they could be found. 
 When the appointed hour was close at hand, the stupid 
 wretch, trembling from head to foot, was Aiken into a balcony 
 by his mother to see the atrocious work begun. The moment 
 the bell tolled, the murderers broke forth. During all that 
 night and the two next days, they broke into the houses, 
 fired the houses, shot and stabbed the Protestants, men, 
 women, and children, and flung their bodies into the streets. 
 They were shot at in the streets as they passed along, and 
 their blood ran down the gutters. Upward of ten thousand 
 Protestants were killed in Paris alone ; in all France four or 
 five times that number. To return thanks to Heaven for 
 these diabolical murders, the Pope and his train actually 
 went in public procession at Rome, and as if this were not 
 shame enough for them, they had a medal struck to com- 
 memorate the event. But, however comfortable the whole- 
 sale murders were to these high authorities, they had not that 
 soothing effect upon the doll-King. I am happy to state that 
 he never knew a moment's peace afterward ; that he was 
 continually crying out that he saw the Huguenots covered 
 with blood and wounds falling dead before him ; and that he 
 died within a year, shrieking and yelling and raving to that 
 degree, that if all the Popes who had ever lived had been 
 rolled into one, they would not have afforded His guilty 
 Majesty the slightest consolation. 
 
 When the terrible news of the massacre arrived in En- 
 gland, it made a powerful impression indeed upon the people. 
 If they began to run a little wild against the Catholics at 
 about this time, this fearful reason for it, coming so soon 
 after the days of bloody Queen Mary, must be remembered 
 in their excuse. The Court was not quite so honest as the 
 people — but perhaps it sometimes is not. It received the 
 French ambassador, with all the lords and ladies dressed in 
 deep mourning, and keeping a profound silence. Never- 
 theless, a proposal of marriage which he had made to Eliza- 
 beth only two days before the eve of Saint Bartholomew, on 
 behalf of the Duke of Alencon, the French King's brother, 
 
284 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 a boy of seventeen, still went on ; while on the other hand, 
 in her usual crafty way, the Queen secretly supplied the 
 Huguenots with money and weapons. 
 
 I must say that for a Queen who made all those fine 
 speeches, of which I have confessed myself to be rather tired, 
 about living and dying a Maiden Queen, Elizabeth was 
 " going " to be married pretty often. Besides always having 
 some English favorite or other whom she by turns encour- 
 aged and swore at and knocked about — for the maiden Queen 
 was very free with her fists — she held this French Duke off 
 and on through several years. When he at last came over 
 to England, the marriage articles were actually drawn up, 
 and it was settled that the wedding should take place in six 
 weeks. The Queen was then so bent upon it, that she 
 prosecuted a Puritan named Stubbs, and a poor bookseller 
 named Page, for writing and publishing a pamphlet against 
 it. Their right hands were chopped off for this crime ; and 
 poor Stubbs — more loyal than I should have been myself 
 under the circumstances — immediately pulled off his hat 
 with his left hand, and cried, " God save the Queen ! " 
 Stubbs was cruelly treated ; for the marriage never took 
 place after all, though the Queen pledged herself to the 
 Duke with a ring from her own finger. He went away no 
 better than he came, when the courtship had lasted some ten 
 years altogether ; and he died a couple of years afterward, 
 mourned by Elizabeth, who appears to have been really fond 
 of him. It is not much to her credit, for he was a bad 
 enough member of a bad family. 
 
 To return to the Catholics. There arose two orders of 
 priests who were very busy in England, and who were much 
 dreaded. These were the Jesuits (who- were every where in 
 all sorts of disguises), and the Seminary Priests. The 
 people had a great horror of the first, because they were 
 known to have taught that murder was lawful if it were done 
 with an object of which they approved ; and they had a great 
 horror of the second, because they came to teach the old 
 religion, and to be the successors of " Queen Mary's priests," 
 as those yet lingering in England were called, when they 
 should die out. The severest laws were made against them, 
 and were most unmercifully executed. Those who sheltered 
 them in their houses often suffered heavily for what was an 
 act of humanity ; and the rack, that cruel torture which tore 
 men's limbs asunder, was constantly kept going. What these 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 285 
 
 unhappy men confessed or what was ever confessed 
 by any one under that agony, must always be received with 
 great doubt, as it is certain that people have frequently 
 owned to the most absurd and impossible crimes to escape 
 such dreadful suffering. But I cannot doubt it to have been 
 proved by papers, that there were many plots, both among 
 the Jesuits, and with France, and with Scotland, and with 
 Spain, for the destruction of Queen Elizabeth, for the plac- 
 ing of Mary on the throne, and for the revival of the old 
 religion. 
 
 If the English people were too ready to believe in plots, 
 there were, as I have said, good reasons for it. When the 
 massacre of Saint Bartholomew was yet fresh in their recol- 
 lection, a great Protestant Dutch hero, the Prince of Orange, 
 was shot by an assassin, who confessed that he had been 
 kept and trained for the purpose in a college of Jesuits. The 
 Dutch, in this surprise and distress, offered to make Eliza- 
 beth their sovereign, but she declined the honor, and sent 
 them a small army instead, under the command of the Earl 
 of Leicester, who, although a capital court favorite, was not 
 much of a general. He did so little in Holland, that his 
 campaign there would probably have been forgotten, but for 
 its occasioning the death of one of the best writers, the best 
 knights, and the best gentlemen of that or any age. This 
 was Sir Philip Sidney, who was wounded by a musket ball 
 in the thigh as he mounted a fresh horse, after having had 
 his own killed under him. He had to ride back wounded, a 
 long distance, and was very faint with fatigue and loss of 
 blood, when some water, for which he had eagerly asked, 
 was handed to him. But he was so good and gentle even then, 
 that seeing a poor badly wounded common soldier lying on 
 the ground, looking at the water with longing eyes, he said, 
 " Thy necessity is greater than mine," and gave it up to 
 him. This touching action of a noble heart is perhaps as well 
 known as any incident in history — is as famous far and wide 
 as the blood-stained Tower of London, with its ax, and 
 block, and murders out of number. So delightful is an act 
 of true humanity, and so glad are mankind to remember it. 
 
 At home, intelligence of plots began to thicken every day. 
 I suppose the people never did live under such continual 
 terrors as those by which they were possessed now, of Cath- 
 olic risings, and burnings, and poisonings, and I don't 
 know what. Still, we must always remember that they lived 
 
286 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 near and close to awful realities of that kind, and that with 
 their experience it was not difficult to believe in any enor- 
 mity. The government had the same fear, and did not take 
 the_ best means of discovering the truth — for, besides tor- 
 turing the suspected, it employed paid spies, who will al- 
 ways lie for their own profit. It even made some of the 
 conspiracies it brought to light, by sending false letters to 
 disaffected people, inviting them to join in pretended plots, 
 which they too readily did. 
 
 But, one great real plot was at length discovered, and it 
 ended the career of Mary Queen of Scots. A seminary 
 priest named Ballard, and a Spanish soldier named Savage, 
 set on and encouraged by certain French priests, imparted 
 a design to one Antony Babington — a gentleman of for- 
 tune in Derbyshire, who had been for some time a secret 
 agent of Mary's — for murdering the Queen. Babington 
 then confided the scheme to some other Catholic gentlemen 
 who were his friends, and they joined in it heartily. They 
 were vain weak-headed young men, ridiculously confident, 
 and preposterously proud of their plan ; for they got a gim- 
 crack painting made, of the six choice spirits who were to 
 murder Elizabeth, with Babington in an attitude for the cen- 
 ter figure. Two of their number, however, one of whom 
 was a priest, kept Elizabeth's wisest minister, Sir Francis 
 Walsingham, acquainted with the whole project from the 
 first. The conspirators were completely deceived to the 
 final point, when Babington gave Savage, because he was 
 shabby, a ring from his finger, and some money from his 
 purse, wherewith to buy himself new clothes in which to kill 
 the Queen. Walsingham, having the full evidence against 
 the whole band, and two letters of Mary's besides, resolved 
 to seize them. Suspecting something wrong, they stole out 
 of the city one by one, and hid themselves in St. John's 
 Wood, and other places, which really were hiding places 
 then ; but they were all taken and all executed. When 
 they were seized, a gentleman was sent from Court to in- 
 form Mary of the fact, and of her being involved in the 
 discovery. Her friends have complained that she was kept 
 in very hard and severe custody. It does not appear very 
 likely, for she was going out hunting that very morning. 
 
 Queen Elizabeth had been warned long ago, by one in 
 France who had good information of what was secretly do- 
 ing, that in holding Mary alive, she held "the wolf who 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 287 
 
 would devour her." The Bishop of London had, more 
 lately, given the Queen's favorite minister the advice in 
 writing, "forthwith to cut off the Scottish Queen's head." 
 The question now was, what to do with her ? The Earl of 
 Leicester wrote a little note home from Holland, recommend- 
 ing that she should be quietly poisoned ; that noble favor- 
 ite having accustomed his mind, it is possible, to remedies 
 of that nature. His black advice, however, was disregarded, 
 and she was brought to trial at Fotheringay Gastle in North- 
 amptonshire, before a tribunal of forty, composed of both 
 religions. There, and in the Star Chamber at Westminster, 
 the trial lasted a fortnight. She defended herself with great 
 ability, but could only deny the confessions that had been 
 made by Babington and others ; could only call her own let- 
 ters, produced against her by her own secretaries, forgeries; 
 and, in short, could only deny every thing. She was found 
 guilty, and declared to have incurred the penalty of death. 
 The Parliament met, approved the sentence, and prayed the 
 Queen to have it executed. The Queen replied that she 
 requested them to consider whether no means could be found 
 of saving Mary's life without endangering her own. The 
 Parliament rejoined, No ; and the citizens illuminated their 
 houses and lighted bonfires, in token of their joy that all 
 these plots and troubles were to be ended by the death of 
 the Queen of Scots. 
 
 She, feeling sure that her time was now come, wrote a let- 
 ter to the Queen of England, making three entreaties ; first, 
 that she might be buried in France ; secondly, that she might 
 not be executed in secret, bat before her servants and some 
 others ; thirdly, that after her death, her servants should not 
 be molested, but should be suffered to go home with the leg- 
 acies she left them. It was an affecting letter, and Elizabeth 
 shed tears over it, but sent no answer. Then came a special 
 ambassador from France, and another from Scotland, to in- 
 tercede for Mary's life ; and then the nation began to clamor, 
 more and more, for her death. 
 
 What the real feelings or intentions of Elizabeth were, can 
 never be known now ; but I strongly suspect her of only 
 wishing one thing more than Mary's death, and that was to 
 keep free of the blame of it. On the first of February, one 
 thousand five hundred and eighty-seven, Lord Burleigh hav- 
 ing drawn out the warrant for the execution, the Queen 
 sent to the secretary Davison to bring it to her, that she might 
 
288 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 sign it : which she did. Next day, when Davison told her 
 it was sealed, she angrily asked him why such haste was 
 necessary ! Next day but one, she joked about it, and swore 
 a little. Again, next day but one, she seemed to complain 
 that it was not yet done, but still- she would not be plain 
 with those about her. So, on the seventh, the Earls of Kent 
 and Shrewsbury, with the Sheriff of Northamptonshire, came 
 with the warrant to Fotheringay, to tell the Queen of Scots 
 to prepare for death. 
 
 When those messengers of ill omen were gone, Mary made 
 a frugal supper, drank to her servants, read over her will, 
 went to bed, slept for some hours, and then arose and passed 
 the remainder of the night saying prayers. In the morning 
 she dressed herself in her best clothes : and, at eight 
 o'clock, when the sheriff came for her to her chapel, took 
 leave of her servants who were there assembled praying with 
 her, and went down stairs, carrying a Bible in one hand and 
 a crucifix in the other. Two of her women and four of her 
 men were allowed to be present in the hall ; where a low 
 scaffold, only two feet from the ground, was erected and 
 covered with black : and where the executioner from the 
 Tower, and his assistant, stood, dressed in black velvet. The 
 hall was full of people. While the sentence was being read 
 she sat upon a stool ; and, when it was finished, she again 
 denied her guilt, as she had done before. The Earl of Kent 
 and the Dean of Peterborough, in their Protestant zeal, made 
 some very unnecessary speeches to her : to which she re- 
 plied that she died in the Catholic religion, and they need 
 not trouble themselves about that matter. When her head 
 and neck were uncovered by the executioners, she said that 
 she had not been used to be undressed by such hands, or 
 before so much company. Finally, one of her women fas- 
 tened a cloth over her face, and she laid her neck upon the 
 block, and repeated more than once in Latin, " Into thy 
 hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit ! " Some say her head 
 was struck off in two blows, some say in three. However 
 that be, when it was held up, streaming with blood, the real 
 hair beneath the false hair she had long worn was seen to be 
 as gray as that of a woman of seventy, though she was at 
 that time only in her forty-sixth year. All her beauty was 
 gone. 
 
 But she was beautiful enough to her little dog, who cow- 
 ered under her dress, frightened, when she went upon the 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 289 
 
 scaffold, and who lay down beside her headless body when 
 all earthly sorrows were over. 
 
 Third Part. 
 
 On its being formally made known to Elizabeth that the 
 sentence had been executed on the Queen of Scots, she 
 showed the utmost grief and rage, drove her favorites from 
 her with violent indignation, and sent Davison to the Tower ; 
 from which place he was only released in the end by paying 
 an immense fine which completely ruined him. Elizabeth 
 not only overacted her part in making these pretenses, but 
 most basely reduced to poverty one of her faithful servants 
 for no other fault than obeying her commands. 
 
 James, King of Scotland, Mary's son, made a show like- 
 wise of being very angry on the occasion ; but he was a pen- 
 sioner of England to the amount of five thousand pounds a 
 year, and he had known very little of his mother, and he 
 possibly regarded her as the murderer of his father, and he 
 soon took it quietly. 
 
 Philip, King of Spain, however, threatened to do greater 
 things than ever had been done yet, to set up the Catholic 
 religion and punish Protestant England. Elizabeth, hearing 
 that he and the Prince of Parma were making great prepara- 
 tions for this purpose, in order to be beforehand with them 
 sent out Admiral Drake (a famous navigator, who had sailed 
 about the world, and had already brought great plunder 
 from Spain) to the port of Cadiz, where he burned a hundred 
 vessels full of stores. This great loss obliged the Spaniards 
 to put off the invasion for a year ; but it was .none the less 
 formidable for that, amounting to one hundred and thirty 
 ships, nineteen thousand soldiers, eight thousand sailors. 
 two thousand slaves, and between two and three thousand 
 great guns. England was not idle in making ready to resist 
 this great force. All the men between sixteen years old and 
 sixty, were trained and drilled ; the national fleet of ships 
 (in number only thirty-four at first) was enlarged by public 
 contributions and by private ships, fitted out by noblemen ; 
 the city of London, of its own accord, furnished double the 
 number of ships and men that it was required to provide ; 
 and, if ever the national spirit was up in England, it was up 
 all through the country to resist the Spaniards. Some of 
 the Queen's advisers were for seizing the principal English 
 
s 9 o A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Catholics, and putting them to death ; but the Queen — who 
 to her honor, used to say that she would never believe any 
 ill of her subjects, which a parent would not believe of her 
 own children — rejected the advice, and only confined a few 
 of those who were the most suspected, in the fens of Lincoln- 
 shire. The great body of Catholics deserved this confi 
 dence ; for they behaved most loyally, nobly, and bravely. 
 
 So, with all England firing up like one strong angry ma . 
 and with both sides of the Thames fortified, and with tne 
 soldiers under arms, and with the sailors in their ships, the 
 country waited for the coming of the proud Spanish fleet, 
 which was called The Invincible Armada. The Queen her- 
 self, riding in armor on a white horse, and the Earl of Es- 
 sex, and the Earl of Leicester holding her bridle rein, mado 
 a brave speech to the troops at Tilbury Fort opposite Graves- 
 end, which was received with such enthusiasm as is seldom 
 known. Then came the Spanish Armada into the English 
 Channel, sailing along in the form of a half moo;., of such 
 great size that it was seven miles broad. Bit the Eng'ish 
 were quickly upon it, and woe then to all the Spanish ships 
 that dropped a little out of the half moon, for the English 
 took them instantly ! And it soon appeared thnt the great 
 Armada was anything but invincible, for on a summer night, 
 bold Drake sent eight blazing fire-ships right mto the midst 
 of it. In terrible consternation the Spaniards tried to get 
 out to sea, and so became dispersed ; the English pursued 
 them at a great advantage ; a storm came on, and drove the 
 Spaniards among rocks and shoals ; and the swift end of the 
 Invincible fleet was, that it lost thirty great ships and ten 
 thousand men, and, defeated and disgraced, sailed home 
 again. Being afraid to go by the English Channel, it sailed 
 all around Scotland and Ireland ; some of the ships getting 
 cast away on the latter coast in bad weather, the Irish, who 
 were a kind of savages, plundered those vessels and killed 
 their crews. So ended this great attempt to invade and con- 
 quer England. And I think it will be a long time before any 
 other invincible fleet coming to England with the same ob- 
 ject, will fare much better than the Spanish Armada. 
 
 Though the Spanish king had had this bitter taste of En- 
 glish bravery, he was so little the wiser for it, as still to enter- 
 tain his old designs, and even to conceive the absurd idea of 
 placing his daughter on the English throne. But the Earl 
 of Essex, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Thomas Howard, and some 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. i$t 
 
 Other distinguished leaders, put to sea from Plymouth, en- 
 tered the port of Cadiz once more, obtained a complete vic- 
 tory over the shipping assembled there, and got possession of 
 the town. In obedience to the Queen's express instructions, 
 they behaved with great humanity ; and the principal loss 
 of the Spaniards was a vast sum of money which they had 
 to pay for ransom. This was one of many gallant achieve- 
 ments on the sea, effected in this reign. Sir Walter Raleigh 
 himself, after marrying a maid of honor and giving offense 
 to the Maiden Queen thereby, had already sailed to South 
 America in search of gold. 
 
 The Earl of Leicester was now dead, and so was Sir Thom- 
 as Walsingham, whom Lord Burleigh was soon to follow. 
 The principal favorite was the Earl of Essex, a spirited and 
 handsome man, a favorite with the people too as well as with 
 the Queen, and possessed of many admirable qualities. It 
 was much debated at Court whether there should be peace 
 with Spam or no, and he was very urgent for war. He also 
 tried hard to have his own way in the appointment of a dep- 
 uty to govern in Ireland. One day, while this question was 
 in dispute, he hastily took offense, and turned his back upon 
 the Queen ; as a gentle reminder of which impropriety, the 
 Queen gave him a tremendous box on the ear, and told him 
 to go to the devil. He went home instead, and did not re- 
 appear at the Court for half a year or so when he and the 
 Queen were reconciled, though never (as some suppose) 
 thoroughly. 
 
 From this time the fate of the Earl of Essex and that of 
 the Queen seemed to be blended together. The Irish were 
 Still perpetually quarreling and fighting among themselves, 
 and he went over to Ireland as Lord Lieutenant, to the great 
 joy of his enemies (Sir Walter Raleigh among the rest), who 
 were glad to have so dangerous a rival far off. Not being 
 by any means successful there, and knowing that his 
 enemies would take advantage of that circumstance to in- 
 jure him with the Queen, he came home again, though 
 against her orders. The Queen being taken by surprise 
 when he appeared before her, gave him her hand to kiss, 
 and he was overjoyed — though it was not a very lovely hand 
 by this time — but in the course of the same day she ordered 
 him to confine himself to his room, and two or three days 
 afterward had him taken into custody. With the same sort 
 of caprice — and as capricious an old woman she now was, as 
 
& 9 2 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ever wore a crown or a head either — she sent him broth 
 from her own table on his falling ill from anxiety, and cried 
 about him. 
 
 He was a man who could find comfort and occupation in 
 his books, and he did so for a time ; not the least happy- 
 time, I dare say, of his life. But it happened unfortunately 
 for him that he held a monopoly in sweet wines : which 
 means that nobody could sell them without purchasing his 
 permission. This right, which was only for a term, expir- 
 ing, he applied to have it renewed. The Queen refused, 
 with the rather strong observation — but she did make 
 strong observations — that an unruly beast must be stinted in 
 his food. Upon this, the angry Earl, who had been already 
 deprived of many offices, tnought himself in danger of com- 
 plete ruin, and turned against the Queen, whom he called a 
 vain old woman who had grown as crooked in her mind as 
 she had in her figure. These uncomplimentary expressions 
 the ladies of the Court immediately snapped up and carried 
 to the Queen, whom they did not put in a better temper, 
 you may believe. The same Court ladies, when they had 
 beautiful dark hair of their own, used to wear false red 
 hair, to be like the Queen. So they were not very high- 
 spirited ladies, however high in rank. 
 
 The worst object of the Earl of Essex, and some friends 
 of his who used to meet at Lord Southampton's house, was 
 to obtain possession of the Queen, and oblige her by force 
 to dismiss her ministers and change her favorites. One 
 Saturday, the seventh of February, one thousand six hund- 
 red and one, the council suspecting this, summoned the 
 Earl to come before them. He, pretending to be ill, de- 
 clined it ; it was then settled among his friends, that as the 
 next day would be Sunday, when many of the citizens 
 usually assembled at the Cross by St. Paul's Cathedral, he 
 should make one bold effort to induce them to rise and fol- 
 low him to the Palace. 
 
 So on the Sunday morning, he and a small body of adher- 
 ents started out of his house — Essex House by the Strand, 
 with steps to the river — having first shut up in it, as pris- 
 oners, some members of the council who came to examine 
 him — and hurried into the City with the Earl at their head, 
 crying out, " For the Queen ! For the Queen ! A plot is 
 laid for my life ! " No one heeded them, however, and 
 when they came to St. Paul's there were no citizens there. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 293 
 
 In the meantime the prisoners at Essex House had been re- 
 leased by one of the Earl's own friends ; he had been 
 promptly proclaimed a traitor in the City itself ; and the 
 streets were barricaded with carts and guarded by soldiers. 
 The Earl got back to his house by water, with difficulty, 
 and after an attempt to defend his house against the troops 
 and cannon by which it was soon surrounded, gave himself 
 up that night. He was brought to trial on the nineteenth, 
 and found guilty ; on the twenty-fifth, he was executed on 
 Tower Hill, where he died, at thirty-four years old, both 
 courageously and penitently. His step-father suffered with 
 him. His enemy, Sir Walter Raleigh, stood near the scaf- 
 fold all the time — but not so near it as we shall see him 
 stand, before we finish his history. 
 
 In this case, as in the cases of the Duke of Norfolk and 
 Mary Queen of Scots, the Queen had commanded, and 
 countermanded, and again commanded, the execution. It 
 is probable that the death of her young and gallant favorite 
 in the prime of his good qualities, was never off her mind 
 afterward, but she held out, the same vain, obstinate and 
 capricious woman, for another year. Then she danced be : 
 fore her Court on a state occasion — and cut, 1 should think, 
 a mighty ridiculous figure, doing so in an immense ruff, 
 stomacher and wig, at seventy years old. For another year 
 still, she held out, but, without any more dancing, and as a 
 moody sorrowful broken creature. At last, on the tenth of 
 March, one thousand six hundred and three, having been 
 ill of a very bad cold, and made worse by the death of the 
 Countess of Nottingham, who was her intimate friend, she 
 fell into a stupor and was supposed to be dead. She re- 
 covered her consciousness, however, and then nothing would 
 induce her to go to bed ; for she said she knew that if she 
 did she should never get up again. There she lay for ten 
 days, on cushions on the floor, without any food, until the 
 Lord Admiral got her into bed at last, partly by persuasions 
 and partly by main force. When they asked her who should 
 succeed her, she replied that her seat had been the seat of 
 Kings and that she would have for her successor, " No 
 rascal's son, but a King's." Upon this, the lords present 
 stared at one another, and took the liberty of asking whom 
 she meant ; to which she replied, " Whom should I mean, 
 but our cousin of Scotland ! " This was on the twenty- 
 third of March. They asked her once again that day, after 
 
294 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 she was speechless, whether she was still in the same mind ? 
 She struggled up in bed, and joined her hands over her 
 head in the form of a crown, as the only reply she could 
 make. At three o'clock next morning, she very quietly 
 died, in the forty-fifth year of her reign. 
 
 That reign had been a glorious one, and is made forever 
 memorable by the distinguished men who nourished in it. 
 Apart from the great voyagers, statesmen, and scholars, 
 whom it produced, the names of Bacon, Spenser, and 
 Shakespeare will always be remembered with pride a: id 
 veneration by the civilized world, and will always impart 
 (though with no great reason, perhaps) some portion of their 
 luster to the name of Elizabeth herself. It was a great 
 reign for discovery, for commerce, and for English enter- 
 prise and spirit in general. It was a great reign for the 
 Protestant religion and for the Reformation which made 
 England free. The Queen was very popular, and in her 
 progresses, or journeys about her dominions, was every 
 where received with the liveliest joy. I think the truth is, 
 that she was not half so good as has been made out, 
 and not half so bad as she has been made out. She 
 had her fine qualities, but she was coarse, capricious, and 
 treacherous, and had all the faults of an excessively vain 
 young woman long after she was an old one. On the whole, 
 she had a great deal too much of her father in her, to 
 please me. 
 
 Many improvements and luxuries were introduced in the 
 course of these five-and-forty years in the general manner 
 of living ; but cock-fighting, bull-baiting, and bear-baiting, 
 were still the national amusements ; and a coach was so 
 rarely seen, and was such an ugly and cumbersome affair 
 when it was seen, that even the Queen herself, on many 
 high occasions, rode on horseback on a pillion behind the 
 Lord Chancellor. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE FIRST. 
 
 " Our cousin of Scotland," was ugly, awkward, and shuf- 
 fling both in mind and person. His tongue was much too 
 large for his mouth, his legs were much too weak for hi* 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 295 
 
 body, and his dull goggle-eyes stared and rolled like an 
 idiot's. He was cunning, covetous, wasteful, idle, drunken, 
 greedy, dirty, cowardly, a great swearer, and the most con- 
 ceited man on earth. His figure — what is commonly called 
 rickety from his birth — presented a most ridiculous appear- 
 ance, dressed in thick padded clothes, as a safeguard against 
 being stabbed (of which he lived in continual fear) of a 
 grass-green color from head to foot, with a hunting-horn 
 dangling at his side instead of a sword, and his hat and 
 feather sticking over one eye, or hanging on the back of his 
 head, as he happened to toss it on. He used to loll on the 
 necks of his favorite courtiers, and slobber their faces, and 
 kiss and pinch their cheeks ; and the greatest favorite he ever 
 had, used to sign himself in his letters to his royal master, 
 His Majesty's " dog and slave," and used to address his 
 majesty as "his Sowship." His majesty was the worst rider 
 ever seen, and thought himself the best. He was one of the 
 most impertinent talkers (in the broadest Scotch) ever heard, 
 and boasted of being unanswerable in all manner of argument. 
 He wrote some of the most wearisome treatises ever read— 
 among others a book upon witchcraft, in which he was a de- 
 vout believer — and thought himself a prodigy of authorship. 
 He thought, and wrote, and said, that a king had a right to 
 make and unmake what laws he pleased, and ought to be 
 accountable to nobody on earth. This is the plain true 
 character of the personage whom the greatest men about the 
 court praised and flattered to that degree that I doubt if 
 there be any thing much more shameful in the annals of 
 human nature. 
 
 He came to the English throne with great ease. The mis- 
 eries of a disputed succession had been felt so long, and so 
 dreadfully that he was proclaimed within a few hours of 
 Elizabeth's death, and was accepted by the nation, even 
 without being asked to give any pledge that he would govern 
 well, or that he would redress crying grievances. He took a 
 month to come from Edinburgh to London; and, by way of 
 exercising his new power, hanged a pickpocket on the journey 
 without any trial, and knighted everybody he could lay hold 
 of. He made two hundred knights before he got to his pal- 
 ace in London, and seven hundred before he had been in it 
 three months. He also shoveled sixty-two new peers into 
 the House of Lords — and there was a pretty large sprink- 
 ling of Scotchmen among them, you may believe. 
 
s 9 6 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 His Sowship's prime Minister, Cecil (for I cannot do bet- 
 ter than call his majesty what his favorite called him), was 
 the enemy of Sir "Walter Raleigh, and also of Sir Walter's 
 political friend, Lord Cobham ; and his Sowship's first trou- 
 ble was a plot originated by these two, and entered into by 
 some others, with the old object of seizing the King and 
 keeping him in imprisonment until he should change his 
 ministers. There were Catholic priests in the plot, and there 
 were Puritan noblemen too; for, although the Catholics and 
 Puritans were strongly opposed to each other, they united at 
 this time against his Sowship, because they knew that he had 
 a design against both, after pretending to be friendly to each; 
 this design being to have only one high and convenient form 
 of the Protestant religion, which everybody should be bound 
 to belong to, whether they liked it or not. This plot was 
 mixed up with another, which may or may not have had some 
 reference to placing on the throne, at some time, the Lady 
 Arabella Stuart ; whose misfortune it was to be the 
 daughter of the younger brother of his Sowship's father, but 
 who was quite innocent of any part in the scheme. Sir Wal- 
 ter Raleigh was accused on the confession of Lord Cobham — 
 a miserable creature, who said one thing at one time, and an- 
 other thing at another time, and could be relied upon in 
 nothing. The trial of Sir Walter Raleigh lasted from eight 
 in the morning until nearly midnight; he defended himself 
 with such eloquence, genius, and spirit against all accusations, 
 and against the insults of Coke, the Attorney-General — 
 who, according to the custom of the time, foully abused him 
 — that those who went there detesting the prisoner, came 
 away admiring him, and declaring that any thing so wonderful 
 and so captivating was never heard. He was found guilty, 
 nevertheless, and sentenced to death. Execution was de- 
 ferred, and he was taken to the Tower. The two Catholic 
 priests, less fortunate, were executed with the usual atrocity; 
 and Lord Cobham and two others were pardoned on the scaf- 
 fold. His Sowship thought it wonderfully knowing in him to 
 surprise the people by pardoning these three at the very 
 block ; but, blundering, and bungling, as usual, he had very 
 nearly overreached himself. For the messenger on horse- 
 back, who brought the pardon, came so late, that he was 
 pushed to the outside of the crowd, and was obliged to shout 
 and roar out what he came for. The miserable Cobham did 
 not gain much by being spared that day. He lived, both as 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 297 
 
 a prisoner and as a beggar, utterly despised, and miserably 
 poor, for thirteen years, and then died in an old outhouse 
 belonging to one of his former servants. 
 
 This plot got rid of, and Sir Walter Raleigh safely shut up 
 in the Tower, his Sowship held a great dispute with the 
 Puritans on their presenting a petition to him, and had it all 
 his own way — not so very wonderful, as he would talk con- 
 tinually, and would not hear any body else — and filled the 
 bishops with admiration. It was comfortably settled that 
 there was to be only one form of religion, and that all men 
 were to think exactly alike. But, although this was arranged 
 two centuries and a half ago, and although the arrangement 
 was supported by much fining and imprisonment, I do not 
 find that it is quite successful, even yet. 
 
 _ His Sowship, having that uncommonly high opinion of 
 himself as a king, had a very low opinion of Parliament as a 
 power that audaciously wanted to control him. When he 
 called his first Parliament after he had been king a year, he 
 accordingly thought he would take pretty high ground with 
 them, and told them that he commanded them as an "abso- 
 lute king." The Parliament thought those strong words, and 
 saw the necessity of upholding their authority. His Sowship 
 had three children: Prince Henry, Prince Charles, and the 
 Princess Elizabeth. It would have been well for one of 
 these, and we shall too soon see which, if he had learned a 
 little wisdom concerning Parliaments from his father's ob- 
 stinacy. 
 
 Now, the people still laboring under their old dread of the 
 Catholic religion, this Parliament revived and strengthened 
 the severe laws against it. And this so angered Robert 
 Catesby, a restless Catholic gentleman of an old family, that 
 he formed one of the most desperate and terrible designs 
 ever conceived in the mind of man ; no less a scheme than 
 the Gunpowder Plot. 
 
 His object was, when the king, lords, and commons should 
 be assembled at the next opening of Parliament, to blow them 
 up, one and all, with a great mine of gunpowder. The first 
 person to whom he confided this horrible idea was Thomas 
 Winter, a Worcestershire gentleman who had served in the 
 army abroad, and had been secretly employed in Catholic 
 projects. While Winter was yet undecided, and when he 
 had gone over to the Netherlands, to learn from the Spanish 
 Ambassador there whether there was any hope of Catholice 
 
298 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 being relieved through the intercession of the King of Spain 
 with his Sowship, he found at Ostend a tall, dark, daring 
 man, whom he had known when they were both soldiers 
 abroad, and whose name was Guido — or Guy — Fawkes. 
 Resolved to join the plot, he proposed it to this man, know- 
 ing him to be the man for any desperate deed, and they two 
 came back to England together. Here they admitted two 
 other conspirators : Thomas Percy, related to the Earl of 
 Northumberland, and John Wright, his brother-in-law. All 
 these met together in a solitary house in the open fields 
 which were then near Clement's Inn, now a closely blocked- 
 up part of London ; and when they had all taken a great 
 oath of secrecy, Catesby told the rest what his plan was. 
 They then went up stairs into a garret, and received the 
 sacrament from Father Gerard, a Jesuit, who is said not to 
 have known actually of the Gunpowder Plot, but who, I 
 think, must have had his suspicions that there was something 
 desperate afoot. 
 
 Percy was a Gentleman Pensioner, and as he had occa- 
 sional duties to perform about the Court, then kept at White- 
 hall, there would be nothing suspicious in his living at West- 
 minster. So, having looked well about him, and having 
 found a house to let, the back of which joined the Parlia- 
 ment House, he hired it of a person named Ferris, for the 
 purpose of undermining the wall. Having got possession of 
 this house, the conspirators hired another on the Lambeth 
 side of the Thames, which they used as a store-house for 
 wood, gunpowder, and other combustible matters. These 
 were to..be removed at night (and afterward were removed), 
 bit by bit, to the house at Westminster ; and, that there 
 might be some trusty person to keep watch over the Lam- 
 beth stores, they admitted another conspirator, by name 
 Robert Kay, a very poor Catholic gentleman. 
 
 All these arrangements had been made some months, and 
 it was a dark wintry December night, when the conspirators, 
 who had been in the meantime dispersed to avoid observa- 
 tion, met in the house at Westminster, and began to dig. 
 They had laid in a good stock of eatables, to avoid going in 
 and out, and they dug and dug with great ardor. But, the 
 wall being tremendously thick, and the work very severe, 
 they took into their plot Christopher Wright, a younger 
 brother of John Wright, that they might have a new pair of 
 hands to help. And Christopher Wright fell to like a fresh 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 299 
 
 man, and they dug and dug by night and by day, and Fawkes 
 stood sentinel all the time. And if any man's heart seemed 
 to fail him at all, Fawkes said, " Gentlemen, we have abund 
 ance of powder and shot here, and there is no fear of our 
 being taken alive, even if discovered." The same Fawkes, 
 who, in the capacity of sentinel, was always prowling about, 
 soon picked up the intelligence that the King had prorogued 
 the Parliament again, from the seventh of February, the day 
 first fixed upon, until the third of October. When the con- 
 spirators knew this, they agreed to separate until after the 
 Christmas holidays, and to take no notice of each other in 
 the meanwhile, and never to write letters to one another on 
 any account. So, the house in Westminster was shut up 
 again, and I suppose the neighbors thought that those strange 
 looking men who lived there so gloomily, and went out so 
 seldom, were gone away to have a merry Christmas some- 
 where. 
 
 It was the beginning of February, sixteen hundred and 
 five, when Catesby met his fellow-conspirators again at this 
 Westminster house. He had now admitted three more ; 
 John Grant, a Warwickshire gentleman of a melancholy 
 temper, who lived in a double house near Stratford-upon- 
 Avon, with a frowning wall all around it, and a deep moat ; 
 Robert Winter, eldest brother of Thomas ; and Catesby's 
 own servant, Thomas Bates, who, Catesby thought, had had 
 some suspicion of what his master was about. These three 
 had all suffered more or less for their religion in Elizabeth's 
 time. And now> they all began to dig again, and they dug 
 and dug by night and by day. 
 
 They found it dismal work alone there, underground, with 
 such a fearful secret on their minds, and so many murders 
 before them. They were filled with wild fancies. Sometimes 
 they thought they heard a great bell tolling, deep down 
 in the earth under the Parliament House ; sometimes, they 
 thought they heard low voices muttering about the Gun- 
 powder Plot ; once in the morning, they really did hear a 
 great rumbling noise over their heads, as they dug and 
 sweated in their mine. Every man stopped and looked aghast 
 at his neighbor, wondering what had happened, when that 
 bold prowler, Fawkes, who had been out to look, came in 
 and told them that it was only a dealer in coals who had oc- 
 cupied a cellar under the Parliament House, removing his 
 stock in trade to some other place. Upon this, the con- 
 
3oo A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 spirators, who with all their digging and digging had not yet 
 dug through the tremendously thick wall, changed their plan ; 
 hired that cellar, which was directly under the House of 
 Lords ; put six-and-thirty barrels of gunpowder in it, and 
 covered them over with faggots and coals. Then they all dis- 
 persed again till September, when the following new con- 
 spirators were admitted ; Sir Edward Bayham, of Gloucester- 
 shire ; Sir Everard Digby, of Rutlandshire ; Ambrose Rook- 
 wood, of Suffolk ; Francis Tresham, of Northamptonshire. 
 Most of these were rich, and were to assist the plot, some 
 with money and some with horses on which the conspirators 
 were to ride through the country and rouse the Catholics 
 after the Parliament should be blown into air. 
 
 Parliament being again prorogued from the third of Octo- 
 ber to the fifth of November, and the conspirators being 
 uneasy lest their design should have been found out, Thomas 
 Winter said he would go up into the House of Lords on the 
 day of the prorogation, and see how matters looked. Noth- 
 ing could be better. The unconscious Commissioners were 
 walking about and talking to one another, just over the six- 
 and-thirty barrels of gunpowder. He came back and told 
 the rest so, and they went on with their preparations. They 
 hired a ship, and kept it ready in the Thames, in which 
 Fawkes was to sail for Flanders after firing with a slow match 
 the train that was to explode the powder. A number of 
 Catholic gentlemen not in the secret, were invited, on pre- 
 tense of a hunting party, to meet Sir Everard Digby at 
 Dunchurch on the fatal-day, that they might be ready to act 
 together. And now all was ready. 
 
 But, now, the great wickedness and danger which had 
 been all along at the bottom of this wicked plot, began to 
 show itself. As the fifth of November drew near, most of 
 the conspirators, remembering that they had friends and re- 
 lations who would be in the House of Lords that day, felt 
 some natural relenting, and a wish to warn them to ^keep 
 away. They were not much comforted by Catesby's de- 
 claring that in such a cause he would blow up his own son. 
 Lord Mounteagle, Tresham's brother-in-law, was certain to 
 be in the house ; and when Tresham found that he could 
 not prevail upon the rest to devise any means of sparing 
 their friends, he wrote a mysterious letter to this lord and 
 left it at his lodging in the desk, urging him to keep away 
 from the opening of Parliament, "since God and man had 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 301 
 
 concurred to punish the wickedness of the times." It con- 
 tained the words " that Parliament should receive a terrible 
 blow, and yet should not see who hurt them." And it added, 
 " the danger is past as soon as you have burned the letter." 
 
 The ministers and courtiers made out that his Sowship, by 
 a direct miracle from Heaven, found out what this letter 
 meant. The truth is, that they were not long (as few men 
 would be) in finding out for themselves ; and it was decided 
 to let the conspirators alone, until the very day before the 
 opening of Parliament. That the conspirators had their fears, 
 is certain ; for Tresham himself said before them all that 
 they were every one "dead men ; and, although even he did 
 not take flight, there is reason to suppose that he had warned 
 other persons besides Lord Mounteagle. However, they 
 were all firm ; and Fawkes, who was a man of iron, went 
 down every day and night to keep watch in the cellar as 
 usual. He was there about two in the afternoon of the fourth, 
 when the Lord Chamberlain and Lord Mounteagle threw open 
 the door and looked in. "Who are you, friend ?" said they. 
 " Why," said Fawkes, " I am Mr. Percy's servant, and am 
 looking after his store of fuel here." " Your master has laid, 
 in a pretty good store," they returned and shut the door, 
 and went away. Fawkes, upon this, posted off to the other 
 conspirators to tell them all was quiet, and went back and 
 shut himself up in the dark black cellar again, where he 
 heard the bell go twelve o'clock and usher in the fifth of 
 November. About two hours afterward, he slowly opened 
 the door, and came out to look about him, in his old prowl- 
 ing way. He was instantly seized and bound, by a party of 
 soldiers under Sir Thomas Knevett. He had a watch upon 
 him, some touchwood, some tinder, some slow matches ; and 
 there was a dark lantern with a candle in it, lighted, behind 
 the door. He had his boots and spurs on— to ride to the 
 ship, I suppose— and it was well for the soldiers that they 
 took him so suddenly. If they had left him but a moments 
 time to light a match, he certainly would have tossed it in 
 among the powder, and blown up himself and them. 
 
 They took him to the King's bed-chamber first of all, and 
 there the King (causing him to be held very tight, and keep- 
 ing a good way off, asked him how he could have the heart 
 to intend to destroy so many innocent people ? " Because," 
 said Guy Fawkes, " desperate diseases need desperate reme- 
 dies." To a little Scotch favorite, with a face like a terrier, 
 
302 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 who asked him (with no particular wisdom) why he had 
 collected so much gunpowder, he replied, because he had 
 meant to blow Scotchmen back to Scotland, and it would 
 take a deal of powder to do that. Next day he was carried 
 to the Tower, but would make no confession. Even after 
 being horribly tortured, he confessed nothing that the Gov- 
 ernment did not already know ; though he must have been 
 in a fearful state — as his signature, still preserved, in con- 
 trast with his natural handwriting before be was put upon 
 the dreadful rack, most frightfully shows. Bates, a very 
 different man, soon said the Jesuits had had to do with the 
 plot, and probably, under the torture, would as readily have 
 said any thing. Tresham, taken and put in the Tower too, 
 made confessions and unmade them, and died of an illness 
 that was heavy upon him. Rookwood, who had stationed 
 relays of his own horses all the way to Dunchurch, did not 
 mount to escape until the middle of the day, when the news 
 of the plot was all over London. On the road he came up 
 with the two Wrights, Catesby, and Percy : and they all gal- 
 loped together into Northamptonshire. Thence to Dun- 
 church, where they found the proposed party assembled. 
 Finding, however, that there had been a plot, and that it had 
 been discovered, the party disappeared in the course of the 
 night, and left them alone with Sir Everard Digby. Away 
 they all rode again through Warwickshire and Worcester- 
 shire, to a house called Holbeach, on the borders of Staf- 
 fordshire. They tried to raise the Catholics on their way, 
 but were indignantly driven off by them. All this time 
 they were hotly pursued by the sheriff of Worcester, 
 and a fast increasing concourse of riders. At last, resolv- 
 ing to defend themselves at Holbeach, they shut them- 
 selves up in the house, and put some wet powder before 
 the fire to dry. But it blew up, and Catesby was 
 singed and blackened, and almost killed, and some of 
 the others were sadly hurt. Still, knowing that they must 
 die, they resolved to die there, and with only- their swords 
 in their hands appeared at the windows to be shot at 
 by the sheriff and his assistants. Catesby said to Thomas 
 Winter, after Thomas had been hit in the right arm which 
 dropped powerless by his side, " Stand by me, Tom, and we 
 will die together ! " which they did, being shot through the 
 body by two bullets from one gun. John Wright, and 
 Christopher Wright, and Percy, were also shot. Rookwood 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 303 
 
 and Digby were taken : the former with a broken arm and 
 a wound in his body too. 
 
 It wa? the fifteenth of January, before the trial of Guy 
 Fawkes, and such of the other conspirators as were left alive, 
 came on. They were all found guilty, all hanged, drawn, 
 and quartered ; some, in St. Paul's Churchyard, on the top 
 of Ludgate-hill : some, before the Parliament House. A 
 Jesuit priest, named Henry Garnet, to whom the dreadful 
 design was said to have been communicated, was taken and 
 tried ; and two of his servants, as well as a poor priest who 
 was taken with him, were tortured without mercy. He him- 
 self was not tortured, but was surrounded in the Tower by 
 tamperers and traitors, and so was made unfairly to convict 
 himself out of his own mouth. He said, upon his trial, that 
 he had done all he could to prevent the deed, and that he 
 could not make public what had been told him in confession 
 — though I am afraid he knew of the plot in other ways. 
 He was found guilty and executed, after a manful defense, 
 and the Catholic Church made a saint of him ; some rich 
 and powerful persons, who had nothing to do with the 
 project, were fined and imprisoned for it by the Star Cham- 
 ber ; the Catholics, in general, who had recoiled with horror 
 from the idea of the infernal contrivance, were unjustly put 
 under more severe laws than before • and this was the end 
 of the Gunpowder Plot. 
 
 Second Part. 
 
 His Sowship would pretty willingly, I think, have blown 
 the House of Commons into the air himself ; for his dread 
 and jealousy of it knew no bounds all through his reign. 
 When he was hard pressed for money he was obliged to order 
 it to meet, as he could get no money without it ; and when it 
 asked him first to abolish some of the monopolies in neces- 
 saries of life, which were a great grievance to the people, 
 and to redress other public wrongs, he flew into a rage and 
 got rid of it again. At one time he wanted it to consent to 
 the Union of England with Scotland, and quarreled about 
 that. At another time it wanted him to put down a most 
 infamous Church abuse, called the High Commission Court, 
 and he quarreled with it about that. At another time it en- 
 treated him not to be quite so fond of his archbishops and 
 bishops who made speeches in his praise too awful to be re* 
 
304 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 lated, but to have some little consideration for the poor Pu- 
 ritan clergy who were persecuted for preaching in their own 
 way, and not according to the archbishops and bishops, and 
 they quarreled about that. In short, what with hating the 
 House of Commons, and pretending not to hate it ; and 
 what with now sending some of its members who opposed 
 him, to Newgate or to the Tower, and now telling the rest 
 that they must not presume to make speeches about the 
 public affairs which could not possibly concern them ; and 
 what with cajoling, and bullying, and frightening, and being 
 frightened ; the House of Commons was the plague of his 
 Sowship's existence. It was pretty firm, however, in main- 
 taining its rights, and insisting that the Parliament should 
 make the laws, and not the King by his own single proclama- 
 tions (which he tried hard to do) ; and his Sowship was so 
 often distressed for money, in consequence, that he sold 
 every sort of title and public office as if they were mer- 
 chandise, and even invented a new dignity called a Baron- 
 etcy, which any body could buy for a thousand pounds. 
 
 These disputes with his Parliaments, and his hunting, and 
 his drinking, and his lying in bed — for he was a great slug- 
 gard — occupied his Sowship pretty well. The rest of his 
 time he chiefly passed in hugging and slobbering his favor- 
 ites. The first of these was Sir Philip Herbert, who had no 
 knowledge whatever, except of dogs, and horses, and 
 hunting, but whom he soon made Earl of Montgomery 
 The next, and a much more famous one, was Robert Carr, 
 or Ker (for it is not certain which was his right name), who 
 came from the Border country, and whom he soon made 
 Viscount Rochester, and afterward, Earl of Somerset. The 
 way in which his Sowship doted on this handsome young 
 man, is even more odious to think of, than the way in which the 
 really great men of England condescended to bow down before 
 him. The favorite's great friend was a certain Sir Thomas 
 Overbury, who wrote his love-letters for him, and assisted 
 him in the duties of his many high places, which his own 
 ignorance prevented him from discharging. But this same 
 Sir Thomas just having manhood enough to dissuade the fa- 
 vorite from a wicked marriage with the beautiful Countess of 
 Essex, who was to get a divorce from her husband for the 
 purpose, the said countess in her rage got Sir Thomas put 
 into the Tower, and there poisoned him. Then the favorite 
 and this bad woman were publicly married by the King's pet 
 
THE SEIZURE OF GUY FAWKE8- 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 305 
 
 bishop, with as much to-do and rejoicing, as if he had been 
 the best man, and she the best woman, upon the face of the 
 earth. 
 
 But, after a longer sunshine than might have been expected 
 — of seven years or so, that is to say — another handsome 
 young man started up and eclipsed the Earl of Somerset. 
 This was George Villiers, the youngest son of a Leicester- 
 shire gentleman: who came to court with all the Paris fash- 
 ions on him, and could dance as well as the best mountebank 
 that ever was seen. He soon danced himself into the good 
 graces of his Sowship, and danced the other favorite out of 
 favor. Then, it was all at once discovered that the Earl and 
 Countess of Somerset had not deserved all those great pro- 
 motions and mighty rejoicings, and they were separately tried 
 for the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury, and for other crimes. 
 But, the King was so afraid of his late favorite's publicly 
 telling some disgraceful things he knew of him — which he 
 darkly threatened to do — that he was even examined with 
 two men standing, one on either side of him, each with a 
 cloak in his hand, ready to throw it over his head and stop 
 his mouth if he should break out with what he had it in his 
 power to tell. So, a very lame affair was purposely made of 
 the trial, and his punishment was an allowance of four thou- 
 sand pounds a year in retirement, while the Countess was 
 pardoned, and allowed to pass into retirement too. They 
 hated one another by this time, and lived to revile and tor- 
 ment each other some years. 
 
 While these events were in progress, and while his Sow- 
 ship was making such an exhibition of himself, from day to 
 day and from year to year, as is not often seen in any sty, 
 three remarkable deaths took place in England. The first 
 was that of the Minister, Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, 
 who was past sixty, and had never been strong, being de- 
 formed from his birth. He said at last that he had no wish 
 to live ; and no Minister need have had, with his experience 
 of the meanness and wickedness of those disgraceful times. 
 The second was that of the Lady Arabella Stuart, who 
 alarmed his Sowship mightily, by privately marrying Wil- 
 liam Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, who was a descend- 
 ant of King Henry the Seventh, and who, his Sowship 
 thought, might consequently increase and strengthen any 
 claim she might one day set up to the throne. She was 
 separated from her husband (who was put in the ToWer) and 
 
306 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 thrust into a boat to be confined at Durham. She escaped 
 in a man's dress to get away in a French ship from Graves- 
 end to France, but unhappily missed her husband, who had 
 escaped too, and was soon taken. She went raving mad in 
 the miserable Tower, and died there after four years. The 
 last, and the most important of these three deaths, was that 
 of Prince Henry, the heir to the throne, in the nineteenth 
 year of his age. He was a promising young prince, and 
 greatly liked ; a quiet well-conducted youth, of whom two 
 very good things are known: first, that his father was jeal- 
 ous of him ; secondly, that he was the friend of Sir Walter 
 Raleigh, languishing through all those years in the Tower, 
 and often said that no man but his father would keep such a 
 bird in such a cage. On the occasion of the preparation for 
 the marriage of his sister the Princess Elizabeth with a for- 
 eign prince (and an unhappy marriage it turned out), he 
 came from Richmond, where he had been very ill, to greet 
 his new brother-in-law, at the palace at Whitehall. There 
 ne played a great game at tennis, in his shirt, though it was 
 very cold weather, and was seized with an alarming illness, 
 and died within a fortnight of a putrid fever. For this young 
 prince Sir Walter Raleigh wrote, in his prison in the Tower, 
 the beginning of a History of the World : a wonderful 
 instance how little his Sowship could do to confine a great 
 man's mind, however long he might imprison his body. 
 
 And this mention of Sir Walter Raleigh, who had many 
 faults, but who never showed so many merits as in trouble 
 and adversity, may bring me at once to the end of his sad 
 story. After an imprisonment in the Tower of twelve long 
 years, he proposed to resume those old sea voyages of his, 
 and to go to South America in search of gold. His Sowship, 
 divided between his wish to be on good terms with the 
 Spaniards, through whose territory Sir Walter must pass (he 
 had long had an idea of marrying Prince Henry to a Spanish 
 Princess), and his avaricious eagerness to get hold of the 
 gold, did not know what to do. But, in the end, he set Sir 
 Walter free, taking securities for his return ; and Sir Walter 
 fitted out an expedition at his own cost, and, on the twenty- 
 eighth of March, one thousand six hundred and seventeen, 
 sailed away in command of one of its ships, which he omin- 
 ously called the Destiny. The expedition failed ; the^ com- 
 mon men, not finding the gold they had expected, mutinied; 
 & quarrel broke out between Sir Walter and the Spaniards, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 307 
 
 who hated him for old successes of his against them ; and he 
 took and burned a little town called Saint Thomas. For this 
 he was denounced to his Sowship by the Spanish Ambassador 
 as a pirate ; and returning almost broken-hearted, with his 
 hopes and fortunes shattered, his company of friends 
 dispersed, and his brave son (who had been one of them) 
 killed, he was taken — through the treachery of Sir Lewis 
 Stukely, his near relation, a scoundrel and a Vice- Admiral — 
 and was once again immured in his prison-home of so many 
 years. 
 
 His Sowship being mightily disappointed in not getting 
 any gold, Sir Walter Raleigh was tried as unfairly, and with 
 as many lies and evasions as the judges and law officers and 
 every other authority in Church and State habitually practiced 
 under such a King. After a great deal of prevarication on 
 all parts but his own, it was declared that he must die under 
 his former sentence, now fifteen years old. So, on the twenty- 
 eighth of October, one thousand six hundred and eighteen, 
 he was shut up in the Gate House at Westminster to pass 
 his last night on earth, and there he took leave of his good 
 and faithful lady who was worthy to have lived in better days. 
 At eight o'clock next morning, after a cheerful breakfast, 
 and a pipe, and a cup of good wine, he was taken to^ Old 
 Palace Yard in Westminster, where the scaffold was set up, 
 and where so many people of high degree were assembled to 
 see him die, that it was a matter of some difficulty to get him 
 through the crowd. He behaved most nobly, but if any 
 thing lay heavy on his mind it was that Earl of Essex, whose 
 head he had seen roll off ; and he solemnly said that he had 
 had no hand in bringing him to the block, and that he had 
 shed tears for him when he died. As the morning was very 
 cold, the sheriff said, would he come down to a fire for a 
 little space, and warm himself ? But Sir Walter thanked him, 
 and said no, he would rather it were done at once, for he was 
 ill of fever and ague, and in another quarter of an hour his 
 shaking fit would come upon him if he were still alive, and 
 his enemies might then suppose that he trembled for fear. 
 With that, he kneeled and made a very beautiful and Chris- 
 tian prayer. Before he laid his head upon the block he felt 
 the edge of the ax, and said, with a smile upon his face, 
 that it was a sharp medicine, but would cure the worst disease. 
 When he was bent down ready for death, he said to the ex- 
 ecutioner, finding that he hesitated, " What dost thou fear ? 
 
3 o8 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Strike, man ! " So, the ax came down and struck his head 
 off, in the sixty-sixth year of his age. 
 
 The new favorite got on fast. He was made a viscount, 
 he was made Duke of Buckingham, he was made a marquis, 
 he was made Master of the Horse, he was made Lord High 
 Admiral — and the Chief Commander of the gallant English 
 forces that had dispersed the Spanish Armada, was displaced 
 to make room for him. He had the whole kingdom at his 
 disposal, and his mother sold all the profits and honors of 
 the State, as if she had kept a shop. He blazed all over 
 with diamonds and other precious stones, from his hatband 
 and his earrings to his shoes. Yet he was an ignorant, pre- 
 sumptuous, swaggering compound of knave and fool, with 
 nothing but his beauty and his dancing to recommend him. 
 This is the gentleman who called himself his Majesty's dog 
 and slave, and called his Majesty Your Sowship. His Sow- 
 ship called him Steenie ; it is supposed, because that was a 
 nickname for Stephen, and because St. Stephen was generally 
 represented in pictures as a handsome saint. 
 
 His Sowship was driven sometimes to his wit's-end by his 
 trimming between the general dislike of the Catholic religion 
 at home, and his desire to wheedle and natter it abroad, as 
 his only means of getting a rich princess for his son's wife : 
 a part of whose fortune he might cram into his greasy 
 pockets. Prince Charles — or as his Sowship called him, 
 Baby Charles — being now Prince of Wales, the old project 
 of a marriage with the Spanish King's daughter had been re- 
 vived for him ; and as she could not marry a Protestant 
 without leave from the Pope, his Sowship himself secretly 
 and meanly wrote to his Infallibility, asking for it. The 
 negotiation for this Spanish marriage takes up a larger space 
 in great books than you can imagine, but the upshot of it all 
 is, that when it had been held off by the Spanish Court for a 
 long time, Baby Charles and Steenie set off in disguise as 
 Mr. Thomas Smith and Mr. John Smith, to see the Spanish 
 Princess ; that Baby Charles pretended to be desperately in 
 love with her, and jumped off walls to look at her, and made 
 a considerable fool of himself in a good many ways ; that 
 she was called Princess of Wales, and that the whole Spanish 
 Court believed Baby Charles to be all but dying for her sake, 
 as he expressly told them he was ; that Baby Charles and 
 Steenie came back to England, and were received with as 
 much rapture as if they had been a blessing to it ; that Baby 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND 309 
 
 Charles had actually fallen in love with Henrietta Maria, 
 the French King's sister, whom he had seen in Paris ; that he 
 thought it a wonderfully fine and princely thing to have de- 
 ceived the Spaniards, all through ; and that he openly said, 
 with a chuckle, as soon as he was safe and sound at home 
 again, that the Spaniards were great fools to have believed 
 him. 
 
 Like most dishonest men, the Prince and the favorite com- 
 plained that the people whom they had deluded were dishon- 
 est. They made such misrepresentations of the treachery of 
 the Spaniards in this business of the Spanish match, that the 
 English nation became eager for a war with them. Although 
 the gravest Spaniards laughed at the idea of his Sowship in 
 a warlike attitude, the Parliament granted money for the be- 
 ginning of hostilities, and the treaties with Spain were pub- 
 licly declared to be at an end. The Spanish ambassador in 
 London — probably with the help of the fallen favorite, the 
 Earl of Somerset — being unable to obtain speech with his 
 Sowship, slipped a paper into his hand, declaring that he was 
 a prisoner in his own house, and was entirely governed by 
 Buckingham and his creatures. The first effect of this letter 
 was that his Sowship began to cry and whine, and took Baby 
 Charles away from Steenie, and went down to Windsor, 
 gabbling all sorts of nonsense. The end of it was that his 
 Sowship hugged his dog and slave, and said he was quite 
 satisfied. 
 
 He had given the Prince and the favorite almost unlimited 
 power to settle any thing with the Pope as to the Spanish 
 marriage ; and he now, with a view to a French one, signed 
 a treaty that all Roman Catholics in England should exercise 
 their religion freely, and should never be required to take 
 any oath contrary thereto. In return for this, and for other 
 concessions much less to be defended, Henrietta Maria was 
 to become the Prince's wife, and was to bring him a fortune 
 of eight hundred thousand crowns. 
 
 His Sowship's eyes were getting red with eagerly looking 
 for the money, when the end of a gluttonous life came upon 
 him ; and, after a fortnight's illness, on Sunday the twenty- 
 seventh of March, one thousand six hundred and twenty- 
 five, he died. He had reigned twenty-two years, and was 
 fifty-nine years old. I know of nothing more abominable in 
 history than the adulation that was lavished on this King, and 
 the vice and corruption that such a barefaced habit of lying 
 
3io A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 produced in his court. It is much to be doubted whether 
 one man of honor, and not utterly self-disgraced, kept his 
 place near James the First. Lord Bacon, that able and wise 
 philosopher, as the First Judge in the Kingdom in this reign, 
 became a public spectacle of dishonesty and corruption ; and 
 in his base flattery of his Sowship, and in his crawling ser- 
 vility to his dog and slave, disgraced himself even more. 
 But a creature like his Sowship set upon a throne is like the 
 Plague, and every body receives infection from him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE FIRST. 
 
 Baby Charles became King Charles the First, in the 
 twenty-fifth year of his age. Unlike his father, he was 
 usually amiable in his private character, and grave and dig- 
 nified in his bearing ; but, like his father, he had monstrously 
 exaggerated notions of the rights of a king, and was evasive, 
 and not to be trusted. If his word could have been relied 
 upon, his history might have had a different end. 
 
 His first care was to send over that insolent upstart, Buck- 
 ingham, to bring Henrietta Maria from Paris to be his Queen ; 
 upon which occasion Buckingham — with his usual audacity 
 — made love to the young Queen of Austria, and was very 
 indignant indeed with Cardinal Richelieu, the French Min- 
 ister, for thwarting his intentions. The English people were 
 very well disposed to like their new Queen, and to receive 
 her with great favor when she came among them as a stran- 
 ger. But she held the Protestant religion in great dislike, 
 and brought over a crowd of unpleasant priests, who made 
 her do some very ridiculous things, and forced themselves 
 upon the public notice in many disagreeable ways. Hence, 
 the people soon came to dislike her, and she soon came to 
 dislike them ; and she did so much all through this reign in 
 setting the King (who was dotingly fond of her) against his 
 subjects, that it would have been better for him if she had 
 never been born. 
 
 Now, you are to understand that King Charles the First — 
 of his own determination to be a high and mighty King not 
 to be called to account by anybody, and urged on by his 
 Queen besides — deliberately set himself to put his Parliament 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 311 
 
 down and to put himself up. You are also to understand, 
 that even in pursuit of this wrong idea (enough in itself to 
 have ruined any king) he never took a straight course, but 
 always took a crooked one. 
 
 He was bent upon war with Spain, though neither the 
 House of Commons nor the people were quite clear as to the 
 justice of that war, now that they began to think a little more 
 about the story of the Spanish match. But the King rushed 
 into it hotly, raised money by illegal means to meet its ex- 
 penses, and encountered a miserable failure at Cadiz, in the 
 very first year of his reign. An expedition to Cadiz had been 
 made in hope of plunder, but as it was not successful, it was 
 necessary to get a grant of money from the Parliament ; and 
 when they met, in no very complying humor, the King told 
 them, " to make haste to let him have it, or it would be 
 the worse for themselves." Not put in a more complying 
 humor by this, they impeached the King's favorite, the Duke 
 of Buckingham, as the cause (which he undoubtedly was) of 
 many great public grievances and wrongs. The King, to 
 save him, dissolved the Parliament without getting the money 
 he wanted ; and when the Lords implored him to consider 
 and grant a little delay, he replied, " No, not one minute." 
 He then began to raise money for himself by the following 
 means among others. 
 
 He levied certain duties called tonnage and poundage 
 which had not been granted by the Parliament, and could law- 
 fully be levied by no other power ; he called upon the sea- 
 port towns to furnish, and to pay all the cost for three m.onths 
 of a fleet of armed ships ; and he required the people to 
 unite in lending him large sums of money, the repayment of 
 which was very doubtful. If the poor people refused, they 
 were pressed as soldiers or sailors; if the gentry .refused, 
 they were sent to prison. Five gentlemen, named Sir Thomas 
 Darnel, John Corbet, Walter Earl, John Heveningham, and 
 Everard Hampden, for refusing were taken up by a warrant 
 of the King's privy council, and were sent to prison without 
 any cause but the King's pleasure being stated for their im- 
 prisonment. Then the question came to be solemnly tried, 
 whether this was not a violation of Magna Charta, and an 
 encroachment by the King on the highest rights of the En- 
 glish people. His lawyers contended No, because to encroach 
 upon the rights of the English people would be to do wrong, 
 and the King could do no wrong. The accommodating judges 
 
312 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 decided in favor of this wicked nonsense ; and here was a 
 fatal division between the King and the people. 
 
 For all this, it became necessary to call another Parlia- 
 ment. The people, sensible of the danger in which their 
 liberties were, chose for it those who were best known for 
 their determined opposition to the King ; but still the King, 
 quite blinded by his determination to carry every thing before 
 him, addressed them when they met, in a contemptuous 
 manner, and just told them in so many words that he had 
 only called them together because he wanted money. The 
 Parliament, strong enough and resolute enough to know that 
 they would lower his tone, cared little for what he said, and 
 laid before him one of the great documents of history, which 
 is called the Petition of Right, requiring that the free men 
 of England should no longer be called upon to lend the King 
 money, and should no longer be pressed or imprisoned for 
 refusing to do so ; further, that the free men of England 
 should no longer be seized by the King's special mandate or 
 warrant, it being contrary to their rights and liberties and 
 the laws of their country. At first the King returned an an- 
 swer to this petition, in which he tried to shirk it altogether; 
 but, the House of Commons then showing their determina- 
 tion to go on with the impeachment of Buckingham the King 
 in alarm returned an answer, giving his consent to all that 
 was required of him. He not only afterward departed from 
 his word and honor on these points, over and over again, 
 but, at this very time, he did the mean and dissembling act 
 of publishing his first answer*and not his second — merely 
 that the people might suppose that the Parliament had not 
 got the better of him. 
 
 That pestilent Buckingham, to gratify his own wounded 
 vanity, had by this time involved the country in war with 
 France, as well as with Spain. For such miserable causes 
 and such miserable creatures are wars sometimes made ! But 
 he was destined to do little more mischief in this world. One 
 morning, as he was going out of his house to his carriage, he 
 turned to speak to a certain Colonel Fryer who was with him; 
 and he was violently stabbed with a knife, which the mur- 
 derer left sticking in his heart. This happened in his hall. 
 He had had angry words up stairs, just before, with some 
 French gentlemen, who were immediately suspected by his 
 servants, and had a close escape from being set upon and 
 killed. In the midst of the noise, the real murderer, who 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 313 
 
 had gone to the kitchen and might easily have got away, 
 drew his sword and cried out, " I am the man ! " His name 
 was John Felton, a Protestant and a retired officer in the 
 army. He said he had had no personal ill-will to the Duke 
 but had killed him as a curse to the country. He had aimed 
 his blow well, for Buckingham had only had time to cry out, 
 " Villain ! " and then he drew out the knife, fell against a 
 table, and died. 
 
 The council made a mighty business of examining John 
 Felton about this murder, though it was a plain case enough, 
 one would think. He had come seventy miles to do it, he 
 told them, and he did it for the reason he had declared; 
 if they put him upon the rack, as that noble Marquis of Dor- 
 set whom he saw before him, had the goodness to threaten, 
 he gave that marquis warning, that he would accuse him as 
 his accomplice! The King was unpleasantly anxious to have 
 him racked, nevertheless ; but as the judges now found out 
 that torture was contrary to the law of England — it is a pity 
 they did not make the discovery a little sooner — John Felton 
 was simply executed for the murder he had done. A murder 
 it undoubtedly was, and not in the least to be defended ; 
 though he had freed England from one of the most profligate, 
 contemptible, and base court favorites to whom it has ever 
 yielded. 
 
 A very different man now arose. This was Sir Thomas 
 Wentworth, a Yorkshire gentleman, who had sat in Parlia- 
 ment for a long time, and who had favored arbitrary and 
 haughty principles, but who had gone over to the people's 
 side on receiving offense from Buckingham. The King, 
 much wanting such a man — for, besides being naturally 
 favorable to the King's cause, he had great abilities — made 
 him first a Baron, and then a Viscount, and gave him high 
 employment, and won him most completely. 
 
 A Parliament, however, was still in existence, and was not 
 to be won. On the twentieth of January, one thousand six 
 hundred and twenty-nine, Sir John Eliot, a great man who 
 had been active in the Petition of Right, brought forward 
 other strong resolutions against the King's chief instruments, 
 and called upon the Speaker to put them to the vote. To 
 this the Speaker answered, " he was commanded otherwise 
 by the King," and got up to leave the chair — which, accord- 
 ing to the rules of the House of Commons would have 
 obliged it to adjourn without doing any thing more — whe» 
 
314 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 two members, named Mr. Hollis and Mr. Valentine, held him 
 down. A scene of great confusion arose among the members ; 
 and while many swords were drawn and flashing about, the 
 King, who was kept informed of all that was going on, told the 
 captain of his guard to go down to the House and force the 
 doors. The resolutions were by that time, however, voted, and 
 the House adjourned. Sir John Eliot and those two members 
 who had held the speaker down, were quickly summoned be- 
 fore the council. As they claimed it to be their privilege 
 not to answer out of Parliament for any thing they had said 
 in it, they were committed to the Tower. The King then 
 went down and dissolved the Parliament, in a speech wherein 
 he made mention of these gentlemen as "Vipers" — 
 which did not do him much good that ever I have heard of. 
 
 As they refused to gain their liberty by saying they were 
 sorry for what they had done, the King, always remarkably 
 unforgiving, never overlooked their offense. When they de- 
 manded to be brought up before the Court of King's Bench, 
 he even resorted to the meanness of having them moved 
 about from prison to prison, so that the writs issued for that 
 purpose should not legally find them. At last they came be- 
 fore the court and were sentenced to heavy fines, and to be 
 imprisoned during the King's pleasure. When Sir John 
 Eliot's health had quite given way, and he so longed for 
 change of air and scene as to petition for his release, the 
 King sent back the answer (worthy of his Sowship himself) 
 that the petition was not humble enough. When he sent 
 another petition by his young son, in which he pathetically 
 offered to go back to prison when his health was restored, if 
 he might be released for its recovery, the King still disre- 
 garded it. When he died in the Tower, and his children 
 petitioned to be allowed to take his body down to Cornwall, 
 there to lay it among the ashes of his forefathers, the King 
 returned for answer, "Let Sir John Eliot's body be buried 
 in the church of that parish where he died." All this was 
 like a very little King, I think. 
 
 And now, for twelve long years, steadily pursuing his de- 
 sign of setting himself up and putting the people down, the 
 King called no Parliament ; but ruled without one. If twelve 
 thousand volumes were written in his praise (as a good many 
 have been) it would still remain a fact, impossible to be de- 
 nied, that for twelve years King Charles the First reigned in 
 England unlawfully and despotically, seized upon his sub- 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 315 
 
 jects' goods and money at his pleasure, and punished accord- 
 ing to his unbridled will all who ventured to oppose him. It 
 is a fashion with some people to think that this King's career 
 was cut short ; but I must say myself that I think he ran a 
 pretty long one. 
 
 William Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury, was the King's 
 right-hand man in the religious part of the putting down of 
 the people's liberties. Laud, who was a sincere man, of 
 large learning but small sense — for the two things sometimes 
 go together in very different quantities — though a Protestant, 
 held opinions so near those of the Catholics, that the Pope 
 wanted to make a Cardinal of him, if he would have accepted 
 that favor. He looked upon vows, robes, lighted candles, 
 images, and so forth, as amazingly important in religious 
 ceremonies ; and he brought in an immensity of bowing and 
 candle-snuffing. He also regarded archbishops and bishops 
 as a sort of miraculous persons, and was inveterate in the 
 last degree against any who thought otherwise. Accordingly, 
 he offered up thanks to Heaven, and was in a state of much 
 pious pleasure, when a Scotch clergyman named Leighton, 
 was pilloried, whipped, branded in the cheek, and had one of 
 his ears cut off and one of his nostrils slit, for calling bishops 
 trumpery and the inventions of men. He originated on a 
 Sunday morning the prosecution of William Pyrnne, a bar- 
 rister who was of similar opinions, and who was fined a thou- 
 sand pounds ; who was pilloried ; who had his ears cut off 
 on two occasions — one ear at a time — and who was impris- 
 oned for life. He highly approved of the punishment of 
 Doctor Bastwick, a physician ; who was also fined a thousand 
 pounds ; and who afterwards had his ears cut off, and was 
 imprisoned for life. These were gentle methods of persua- 
 sion, some will tell you ; I think they were rather calculated 
 to be alarming to the people. 
 
 In the money part of the putting down of the people's lib- 
 erties, the King was equally gentle, as some will tell you: as 
 I think, equally alarming. He levied those duties of tonnage 
 and poundage, and increased them as he thought fit. He 
 granted monopolies to companies of merchants on their pay- 
 ing him for them, notwithstanding the great complaints that 
 had, for years and years, been made on the subject of monop- 
 olies. He fined the people for disobeying proclamations 
 issued by his Sowship in direct violation of law. He re- 
 vived the detested Forest laws, and took private property to 
 
3 i6 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 himself as his forest right. Above all, he determined to have 
 what was called Ship Money ; that is to say, money for the 
 support of the fleet — not only from the seaports, but from 
 all the counties of England : having found out that, in some 
 ancient time or other, all the counties paid it. The grievance 
 of this ship money being somewhat too strong, John Cham- 
 bers, a citizen of London, refused to pay his part of it. For 
 this the Lord Mayor ordered John Chambers to prison, and 
 for that John Chambers brought a suit against the Lord 
 Mayor. Lord Say, also, behaved like a real nobleman, and 
 declared he would not pay. But the sturdiest and best op- 
 ponent of the ship money was John Hampden, a gentleman 
 of Buckinghamshire, who had sat among the " vipers " in the 
 House of Commons when there was such a thing, and who 
 had been the bosom friend of Sir John Eliot. This case was 
 tried before the twelve judges in the Court of Exchequer, 
 and again the King's lawyers said it was impossible that ship 
 money could be wrong, because the King could do no wrong, 
 however hard he tried — and he really did try very hard 
 during these twelve years. Seven of the judges said that 
 was quite true, and Mr. Hampden was bound to pay : five of 
 the judges said that was quite false, and Mr. Hampden was 
 not bound to pay. So, the King triumphed (as he thought), 
 by making Hampden the most popular man in England ; 
 where matters were getting to that height now, that many 
 honest Englishmen could not endure their country, and sailed 
 away across the seas to found a colony in Massachusetts Bay 
 in America. It is said that Hampden himself and his rela- 
 tion Oliver Cromwell were going with a company of such 
 voyagers, and were actually on board ship, when they were 
 stopped by a proclamation, prohibiting sea captains to carry 
 out such passengers without the royal license. But O ! it 
 would have been well for the King if he had let them go ! 
 
 This was the state of England. If Laud had been a mad- 
 man just broke loose, he could not have done more mischief 
 than he did in Scotland. In his endeavors (in which he was 
 seconded by the King, then in person in that part of his do- 
 minions) to force his own ideas of bishops, and his own 
 religious forms and ceremonies, upon the Scotch, he roused 
 that nation to a perfect frenzy. They formed a solemn 
 league, which they called The Covenant, for the preservation 
 of their own religious forms ; they rose in arms throughout 
 the whole country ; they summoned all their men to prayers 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 317 
 
 and sermons twice a day by beat of drum ; they sang psalms, 
 in which they compared their enemies to all the evil spirits 
 that ever were heard of ; and they solemnly vowed to smite 
 them with the sword. At first the King tried force, then 
 treaty, then a Scottish Parliament which did not answer at 
 all. Then he tried the Earl of Strafford, formerly Sir 
 Thomas Wentworth ; who, as Lord Wentworth, had been gov- 
 erning Ireland. He, too, had carried it with a very high hand 
 there, though to the benefit and prosperity of that country. 
 
 Strafford and Laud were for conquering the Scottish people 
 by force of arms. Other lords who were taken into council, 
 recommended that a parliament should at last be called ; to 
 which the King unwillingly consented. So, on the thirteenth 
 of April, one thousand six hundred and forty, that then 
 strange sight, a Parliament, was seen at Westminster. It is 
 called the short Parliament, for it lasted a very little while. 
 While the members were all looking at one another, doubtful 
 who would dare to speak, Mr. Pym arose and set forth all 
 that the King had done unlawfully during the past twelve 
 years, and what was the position to which England was 
 reduced. This great example set, other members took cour- 
 age and spoke the truth freely, though with great patience 
 and moderation. The King, a little frightened, sent to say 
 that if they would grant him a certain sum on certain terms, 
 no more ship money should be raised. They debated the 
 matter for two days ; and then, as they would not give him 
 all he asked without promise or inquiry, he dissolved them. 
 
 But they knew very well that he must have a Parliament 
 now ; and he began to make that discovery too, though 
 rather late in the day. Wherefore, on the twenty-fourth of 
 September, being then at York with an army collected against 
 the Scottish people, but his own men sullen and discontented 
 like the rest of the nation, the King told the great council of 
 the Lords, whom he had called to meet him there, that he 
 would summon another Parliament to assemble on the third 
 of November. The soldiers of the Covenant had now forced 
 their way into England and had taken possession of the 
 northern counties, where the coals are got. As it would 
 never do to be without coals, and as the King's troops could 
 make no head against the Covenanters so full of gloomy 
 zeal, a truce was made, and a treaty with Scotland was taken 
 into consideration. Meanwhile the nothern counties paid 
 the Covenanters to leave the coals alone, and keep quiet. 
 
3 :8 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 We have now disposed of the Short Parliament. We 
 have next to see what memorable things were done by the 
 Long one. 
 
 Second Part. 
 
 The Long Parliament assembled on the third of Novem- 
 ber, one thousand six hundred and forty. On that day week 
 the Earl of Strafford arrived from York, very sensible that 
 the spirited and determined men who formed that Parliament 
 were no friends toward him, who had not only deserted the 
 cause of the people, but who had on all occasions opposed 
 himself to their liberties. The King told him, for his com- 
 fort, that the Parliament " should not hurt one hair of his 
 head." But, on the very next day Mr. Pym, in the House of 
 Commons, and with great solemnity, impeached the Earl of 
 Strafford as a traitor. He was immediately taken into cus- 
 tody and fell from his proud height. 
 
 It was the twenty-second of March before he was brought 
 to trial in Westminster Hall ; where, although he was very 
 ill and suffered great pain, he defended himself with such 
 ability and majesty, that it was doubtful whether he would 
 not get the best of it. But on the thirteenth day of the trial, 
 Pym produced in the House of Commons a copy of some 
 notes of a council, found by young Sir Harry Vane in a red 
 velvet cabinet belonging to his father (Secretary Vane, who 
 sat at the council-table with the Earl), in which Strafford 
 had distinctly told the King that he was free from all rules 
 and obligations of government, and might do with his peo- 
 ple whatever he liked ; and in which he had added — " You 
 have an army in Ireland that you may employ to reduce this 
 kingdom to obedience." It was not clear whether by the 
 words "this kingdom," he had really meant England or 
 Scotland ; but the Parliament contended that he meant 
 England, and this was treason. At the same sitting of the 
 House of Commons it was resolved to bring in a bill of at- 
 tainder declaring the treason to have been committed : in 
 preference to proceeding with the trial by impeachment, 
 which would have required the treason to be proved. 
 
 So, a bill was brought in at once, was carried through the 
 House of Commons by a large majority, and was sent up to 
 the House of Lords. While it was still uncertain whether 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 319 
 
 the House of Lords would pass it and the King consent to 
 it, Pym disclosed to the House of Commons that the King 
 and Queen had both been plotting with the officers of the 
 army to bring up the soldiers and control the Parliament, and 
 also to introduce two hundred soldiers into the Tower of 
 London to effect the Earl's escape. The plotting with 
 the army was revealed by one George Goring, the son of a 
 lord of that name : a bad fellow who was one of the original 
 plotters, and turned traitor. The King had actually given 
 his warrant for the admission of the two hundred men into 
 the Tower, and they would have got in too, but for the re- 
 fusal of the governor— a sturdy Scotchman of the name of 
 Balfour — to admit them. These matters being made public, 
 great numbers of people began to riot outside the Houses of 
 Parliament, and to cry out for the execution of the Earl of 
 Strafford, as one of the King's chief instruments against 
 them. The bill passed the House of Lords while the peopl > 
 were in this state of agitation, and was laid before the King 
 for his assent, together with another bill declaring that the 
 Parliament then assembled should not be dissolved or ad- 
 journed without their own consent. The King — not unwill- 
 ing to save a faithful servant, though he had no great at- 
 tachment for him — was in some doubt what to do ; but he 
 gave his consent to both bills, although he in his heart believed 
 that the bill against the Earl of Strafford was unlawful and 
 unjust. The Earl had written to him, telling him that he 
 was willing to die for his sake. But he had not expected that 
 his royal master would take him at his word quite so readily ; 
 for, when he heard his doom, he laid his hand upon his heart, 
 and said, " Put not your trust in Princes ! " 
 
 The King, who never could be straightforward and plain, 
 through one single day or through one single sheet of paper, 
 wrote a letter to the Lords, and sent it by the young Prince 
 of Wales, entreating them to prevail with the Commons that 
 " that unfortunate man should fulfill the natural course of his 
 life in a close imprisonment." In a postscript to the very 
 same letter, he added, " If he must die, it were charity to re- 
 prieve him till Saturday." If there had been any doubt of 
 his fate, this weakness and meanness would have settled it. 
 The very next day, which was the twelfth of May, he was 
 brought out to be beheaded on Tower Hill. 
 
 Archbishop Laud, who had been so fond of having peo- 
 ple's ears cropped off and their noses slit, was now confined 
 
3 20 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 in the Tower too ; and when the Earl went by his window to - 
 his death, he was there, at his request, to give him his bless- 
 ing. They had been great friends in the King's cause, and 
 the Earl had written to him in the days of their power that 
 he thought it would be an admirable thing to have Mr. Hamp- 
 den publicly whipped for refusing to pay the ship money. 
 However, those high and mighty doings were over now, and 
 the Earl went his way to death with dignity and heroism. 
 The Governor wished him to get into a coach at the 
 Tower gate, for fear the people should tear him to pieces ; 
 but he said it was all one to him whether he died by the ax 
 or by the people's hands. So, he walked, with a firm tread 
 and a stately look, and sometimes pulled off his hat to them 
 as he passed along. They were profoundly quiet. He made 
 a speech on the scaffold from some notes he had prepared 
 (the paper was found lying there after his head was struck 
 off), and one blow of the ax killed him, in the forty-ninth 
 year of his age. 
 
 This bold and daring act, the Parliament accompanied by 
 other famous measures, all originating (as even this did) in 
 the King's having so grossly and so long abused his power. 
 The name of Delinquents was applied to all sheriffs and 
 other officers who had been concerned in raising the ship 
 money, or any other money, from the people, in an unlawful 
 manner ; the Hampden judgment was reversed ; the judges 
 who had decided against Hampden were called upon to give 
 large securities that they would take such consequences as 
 Parliament might impose upon them ; and one was arrested 
 as he sat in High Court, and carried off to prison. Laud 
 was impeached ; the unfortunate victims whose ears had 
 been cropped and whose noses had been slit, were brought 
 out of prison in triumph ; and a bill was passed declaring 
 that a Parliament should be called every third year, and that 
 if the King and the King's officers did not call it, the people 
 should assemble of themselves and summon it, as of their 
 own right and power. Great illuminations and rejoicings 
 took place over all these things, and the country was wildly ex- 
 cited. That the Parliament took advantage of this excite- 
 ment and stirred them up by every means, there is no doubt ; 
 but you are always to remember those twelve long years, 
 during which the King had tried so hard whether he really 
 could do any wrong or not. 
 
 All this time there was a great religious outcry against the 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 321 
 
 right of the bishops to sit in Parliament ; to which the Scot- 
 tish people particularly objected. The English were divided 
 on this subject, and, partly on this account and partly be- 
 cause they had had foolish expectations that the Parliament 
 would be able to take off nearly all the taxes, numbers of 
 them sometimes wavered and inclined toward the King. 
 
 I believe myself, that if, at this or almost any other period 
 of his life, the King could have been trusted by any man not 
 out of his senses, he might have saved himself and kept his 
 throne. But, on the English army being disbanded, he 
 plotted with the officers again, as he had done before, and 
 established the fact beyond all doubt by putting his signature 
 of approval to a petition against the Parliamentary leaders, 
 which was drawn up by certain officers. When the Scottish 
 army was disbanded, he went to Edinburgh in four days — 
 which was going very fast at that time — to plot again, and 
 so darkly too, that it is difficult to decide what his whole 
 object was. Some suppose that he wanted to gain over the 
 Scottish Parliament, as he did in fact gain over, by presents 
 and favors, many Scottish lords and men of power. Some 
 think that he went to get proofs against the Parliamentary 
 leaders in England of their having treasonably invited the 
 Scottish people to come and help them. With whatever 
 object he went to Scotland, he did little good by going. At 
 the instigation of the Earl of Montrose, a desperate man 
 w T ho was then in prison for plotting, he tried to kidnap three 
 Scottish lords who escaped. A committee of the Parliament 
 at home, who had followed to watch him, writing an account 
 of this Incident, as it was called, to the Parliament, the Par- 
 liament made a fresh stir about it : were, or feigned to be, 
 much alarmed for themselves ; and wrote to the Earl of 
 Essex, the commander-in-chief, for a guard to protect them. 
 
 It is not absolutely proved that the King plotted in Ireland 
 besides, but it is very probable that he did, and that the 
 Queen did, and that he had some wild hope of gaining the 
 Irish people over to his side by favoring arise among them. 
 Whether or no, they did rise in a most brutal and savage 
 rebellion ; in which, encouraged by their priests, they com- 
 mitted such atrocities upon numbers of the English, of both 
 sexes and of all ages, as nobody could believe, but for their 
 being related on oath by eye-witnesses. Whether one hund- 
 red thousand or two hundred thousand Protestants were 
 murdered in this outbreak, is uncertain ; but, that it was as 
 
322 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 ruthless and barbarous an outbreak as ever was known among 
 any savage people, is certain. 
 
 The King came home from Scotland, determined to make 
 a great struggle for his lost power. He believed that, through 
 his presents and favors, Scotland would take no part against 
 him ; and the Lord Mayor of London received him with such 
 a magnificent dinner that he thought he must have become 
 popular again in England. It would take a good many Lord 
 Mayors, however, to make a people, and the King soon found 
 himself mistaken. 
 
 Not so soon, though, but that there was a great opposition 
 in the Parliament to a celebrated paper put forth by Pym and 
 Hampden and the rest, called " The Remonstrance," which 
 set forth all the illegal acts that the King had ever done, but 
 politely laid the blame of them on his bad advisers. Even 
 when it was passed and presented to him, the King still 
 thought himself strong enough to discharge Balfour from his 
 command in the Tower, and to put in his place a man of bad 
 character ; to whom the Commons instantly objected, and 
 whom he was obliged to abandon. At this time, the old out- 
 cry about the Bishops became louder than ever, and the old 
 Archbishop of York was so near being murdered as he went 
 down to the House of Lords — being laid hold of- by the 
 mob and violently knocked about, in return for very foolishly 
 scolding a shrill boy who was yelping out " No Bishops ! " — 
 that he sent for all the bishops who were in town, and pro- 
 posed to them to sign a declaration that, as they could no 
 longer without danger to their lives attend their duty in Par- 
 liament, they protested against the lawfulness of every thing 
 done in their absence. This they asked the King to send to 
 the House of Lords, which he did. Then the House of Com- 
 mons impeached the whole party of bishops and sent them 
 off to the Tower. 
 
 Taking no warning from this; but encouraged by there be- 
 ing a moderate party in the Parliament who objected to these 
 strong measures, the King, on the third of January, one thou- 
 sand six hundred and forty-two, took the rashest step that 
 ever was taken by mortal man. 
 
 Of his own accord and without advice, he sent the Attorney- 
 General to the House of Lords, to accuse of treason certain 
 members of parliament who as popular leaders were the most 
 obnoxious to him ; Lord Kimbolton, Sir Arthur Haselrig, 
 Denzil Hollis, John Pym (they used to call him King Pym, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 323 
 
 he possessed such power and looked so big), John Hampden, 
 and William Strode. The houses of those members he 
 caused to be entered, and their papers to be sealed up. At 
 the same time he sent a messenger to the House of Commons 
 demanding to have the five gentlemen who were members of 
 that House immediately produced. To this the House replied 
 that they should appear as soon as there was any legal charge 
 against them, and immediately adjourned. 
 
 Next day, the House of Commons send into the city to let 
 the Lord Mayor know that their privileges are invaded by the 
 King, and that there is no safety for any body or any thing. 
 Then, when the five members are gone out of the way, down 
 comes the King himself, with all his guard and from two to 
 three hundred gentlemen and soldiers, of whom the greater 
 part were armed. These he leaves in the hall ; and then, 
 with his nephew at his side, goes into the House, takes off his 
 hat, and walks up to the Speaker's chair. The Speaker 
 leaves it, the King stands in front of it, looks about him 
 steadily for a little while, and says he has come for those five 
 members. No one speaks, and then he calls John Pym by 
 name. No one speaks, and then he calls Denzil Hollis by 
 name. No one speaks, and then he asks the Speaker of the 
 House where those five members are ? The Speaker, answer- 
 ing on his knee, nobly replies that he is the servant of that 
 House, and that he has neither eyes to see, nor tongue to 
 speak, any thing but what the House commands him. Upon 
 this, the King, beaten from that time evermore, replies that 
 he will seek them himself, for they have committed treason; 
 and goes out, with his hat in his hand, amid some audible 
 murmurs from the members. 
 
 No words can describe the hurry that arose out of doors 
 when all this was known. The five members had gone for 
 safety to a house in Coleman Street, in the city, where they 
 were guarded all night; and indeed the whole city watched in 
 arms like an army. At ten o'clock in the morning, the King 
 already frightened at what he had done, came to the Guild- 
 hall, with only half a dozen lords, and made a speech to the 
 people, hoping they would not shelter those whom he accused 
 of treason. Next day, he issued a proclamation for the ap- 
 prehension of the five members ; but the Parliament minded 
 it so little that they made great arrangements for having 
 them brought down to Westminster in great state, five days 
 afterward. The King was so alarmed now at his own im- 
 
324 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAInD. 
 
 prudence, if not for his own safety, that he left his palace at 
 Whitehall, and went away with his Queen and children to 
 Hampton Court. 
 
 It was the eleventh of May, when the five members were 
 carried in state and triumph to Westminster. They were 
 taken by water. The river could not be seen for the boats 
 on it ; and the five members were hemmed in by barges full 
 of men and great guns, ready to protect them, at any cost. 
 Along the Strand a large body of the train-bands of London, 
 under their commander, Skippon, marched to be ready to as- 
 sist the little fleet. Beyond them came a crowd who choked 
 the streets, roaring incessantly about the bishops, and the 
 Papists, and crying out contemptuously as they passed White- 
 hall, " What has become of the King ? " With this great 
 noise outside the House of Commons, and with great silence 
 within, Mr. Pym rose and informed the House of the great 
 kindness with which they had been received in the city. 
 Upon that, the House called the sheriffs in and thanked them, 
 and requested the train-bands, under their commander Skip- 
 pon, to guard the House of Commons every day. Then 
 came four thousand men on horseback out of Buckingham- 
 shire, offering their services as a guard too, and bearing a 
 petition to the King, complaining of the injury that had been 
 done to Mr. Hampden, who was their county man and much 
 beloved and honored. 
 
 When the King set off for Hampton Court, the gentlemen 
 and soldiers who had been with him followed him out of town 
 as far as Kingston-upon-Thames; next day, Lord Digby 
 came to them from the King at Hampton Court, in his coach 
 and six, to inform them that the King accepted their protec- 
 tion. This, the Parliament said, was making war against the 
 kingdom, and Lord Digby fled abroad. The Parliament then 
 immediately applied themselves to getting hold of the mili- 
 tary power of the country, well knowing that the King was 
 already trying hard to use it against them, and that he had 
 secretly sent the Earl of Newcastle to Hull, to secure a valu- 
 able magazine of arms and gunpowder that was there. In 
 those times, every county had its own magazines of arms and 
 powder, for its own train-bands or militia ; so the Parliament 
 brought in a bill claiming the right (which up to this time had 
 belonged to the King) of appointing the lord lieutenants of 
 counties, who commanded these train-bands ; also of having 
 all the forts, castles, and garrisons in the kingdom, put into 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 325 
 
 the hands of such governors as they, the Parliament, could 
 confide in. It also passed a law depriving the bishops of 
 their votes. The King gave his assent to that bill, but would 
 not abandon the right of appointing the lord lieutenants, 
 though he said he was willing to appoint such as might be 
 suggested to him by the Parliament. When the Earl of 
 Pembroke asked him whether he would not give way on that 
 question for a time, he said, " By God ! not for one hour ! " 
 and upon this he and the Parliament went to war. 
 
 His young daughter was betrothed to the Prince of Orange, 
 On pretense of taking her to the country of her future hus** 
 band, the Queen was already got safely away to Holland, 
 there to pawn the Crown jewels for money to raise an army 
 on the King's side. The Lord Admiral being sick, the House 
 of Commons now named the Earl of Warwick to hold his 
 place for a year. The King named another gentleman ; the 
 House of Commons took its own way, and the Earl of War- 
 wick became Lord Admiral without the King's consent. The 
 Parliament sent orders down to Hull to have that magazine 
 removed to London ; the King went down to Hull to take it 
 himself. The citizens would not admit him into the town, 
 and the governor would not admit him into the castle. The 
 Parliament resolved that whatever the two Houses passed, 
 and the King would not consent to, should be called an Or- 
 dinance, and should be as much a law as if he did consent 
 to it. The King protested against this, and gave notice that 
 these ordinances were not to be obeyed. The King, attended 
 by the majority of the House of Peers, and by many members 
 of the House of Commons, established himself at York. The 
 Chancellor went to him with the Great Seal, and the Parlia- 
 ment made a new Great Seal. The Queen sent over a ship 
 full of arms and ammunition, and the King issued letters to 
 borrow money at high interest. The Parliament raised twenty 
 regiments of foot and seventy-five troops of horse ; and the 
 people willingly aided them with their money, plate, jewelry, 
 and trinkets — the married women even with their wedding- 
 rings. Every member of Parliament who could raise a troop 
 or a regiment in his own part of the country, dressed it ac- 
 cording to his taste and in his own colors, and commanded it. 
 Foremost among them all, Oliver Cromwell raised a troop 
 of horse, thoroughly in earnest and thoroughly well armed— 
 who were, perhaps, the best soldiers that ever were seen. 
 
 In some of their proceedings,this famous Parliament passed 
 
326 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 the bounds of previous law and custom, yielded to and fa* 
 vored riotous assemblages of the people, and acted tyranni- 
 cally in imprisoning some who differed from the popular 
 leaders. But again, you are always to remember that the 
 twelve years during which the King had had his own willful 
 way, had gone before ; and that nothing could make the 
 times what they might, could, would, or should have been, if 
 those twelve years had never rolled away* 
 
 Third Part. 
 
 I shall not try to relate the particulars of the great civil 
 war between King Charles the First and the Long Parlia- 
 ment, which lasted nearly four years, and a full account of 
 which would fill many large books. It was a sad thing that 
 Englishmen should once more be fighting against English- 
 men on English ground ; but it is some consolation to know 
 that on both sides there was great humanity, forbearance, 
 and honor. The soldiers of the Parliament were fer more 
 remarkable for these good qualities than the soldiers of the 
 King (many of whom fought for mere pay without much 
 caring for the cause); but those of the nobility and gentry 
 who were on the King's side were so brave, and so faithful 
 to him, that their conduct cannot but command our highest 
 admiration. Among them were great numbers of Catholics, 
 who took the royal side because the Queen was so strongly 
 of their persuasion. 
 
 The King might have distinguished some of these gallant 
 spirits, if he had been as generous a spirit himself, by giving 
 them the command of his army. Instead of that, however, 
 true to his old high notions of royalty, he intrusted it to his 
 two nephews, Prince Rupert and Prince Maurice, who were 
 of royal blood and came over from abroad to help him. It 
 might have been better for him if they had staid away ; 
 since Prince Rupert was an impetuous hot-headed fellow, 
 whose only idea was to dash into battle at all times and sea- 
 sons, and lay about him. 
 
 The general-in-chief of the Parliamentary army was the 
 Earl of Essex, a gentleman of honor and an excellent soldier. 
 A little while before the war broke out, there had been some 
 rioting at Westminster between certain officious law students 
 and noisy soldiers, and the shopkeepers and their apprentices, 
 and the general people in the streets. At that time the King'* 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 327 
 
 friends called the crowd, Roundheads, because the appren- 
 tices wore short hair ; the crowd, in return, called their op- 
 ponents Cavaliers, meaning that they were a blustering set, 
 who pretended to be very military. These two words now 
 began to be used to distinguish the two sides in the civil 
 war. The Royalists also called the Parliamentary men Reb- 
 els and Rogues, while the Parliamentary men called them 
 Malignants and spoke of themselves as the Godly, the Hon- 
 est, and so forth. 
 
 The war broke out at Portsmouth, where that double traitor 
 Goring had again gone over to the King and was besieged by 
 the Parliamentary troops. Upon this, the King proclaimed 
 the Earl of Essex and the officers serving under him, traitors, 
 and called upon his loyal subjects to meet him in arms at 
 Nottingham on the twenty-fifth of August. But his loyal 
 subjects came about him in scanty numbers, and it was a 
 windy, gloomy day, and the Royal Standard got blown down, 
 and the whole affair was very melancholy. The chief engage* 
 ments after this, took place in the vale of the Red Horse near 
 Banbury, at Brentford, at Devizes, at Chalgrave Field (where 
 Mr. Hampden was so sorely wounded while fighting at the 
 head of his men, that he died within a week), at Newbury 
 (in which battle Lord Falkland, one of the best noblemen 
 on the King's side, was killed), at Leicester, at Naseby, at 
 Winchester, at Marston Moor, near York, at Newcastle, and 
 in many other parts of England and Scotland. These battles 
 were attended with various successes. At one time, the King 
 was victorious ; at another time, the Parliament. But almost 
 all the great and busy towns were against the King ; and 
 when it was considered necessary to fortify London, all ranks 
 of people, from laboring men and women, up to lords and 
 ladies, worked hard together with heartiness and good will. 
 The most distinguished leaders on the Parliamentary side 
 were Hampden,. Sir Thomas Fairfax, and above all, Oliver 
 Cromwell, and his son-in-law Ireton. 
 
 During the whole of this war, the people, to whom it was 
 very expensive and irksome, and to whom it was made the 
 more distressing by almost every family being divided — some 
 of its members attaching themselves to one side and some to 
 the other — were over and over again most anxious for peace. 
 So were some of the best men in each cause. Accordingly, 
 treaties of peace were discussed between commissioners from 
 the Parliament and the King ; at York, at Oxford (where the 
 
328 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 King held a little Parliament of his own), and at Uxbridge. 
 But they came to nothing. In all these negotiations, and in 
 all his difficulties, the King showed himself at his best. He 
 was courageous, cool, self-possessed, and clever ; but, the 
 old taint of his character was always in him, and he was 
 never for one single moment to be trusted. Lord Claren- 
 don, the historian, one of his highest admirers, supposes that 
 he had unhappily promised the Queen never to make peace 
 without her consent, and that this must often be taken as his 
 excuse. He never kept his word from night to morning. 
 He signed a cessation of hostilities with the blood-stained 
 Irish rebels for a sum of money, and invited the Irish regi- 
 ments over, to help him against the Parliament. In the 
 battle of Naseby, his cabinet was seized and was found to 
 contain a correspondence with the Queen, in which he ex- 
 pressly told her that he had deceived the Parliament — a mon- 
 grel Parliament, he called it now, as an improvement on his 
 old term of vipers — in pretending to recognize it and to treat 
 with it ; and from which it further appeared that he had long 
 been in secret treaty with the Duke of Lorraine for a for- 
 eign army of ten thousand men. Disappointed in this, he 
 sent a most devoted friend of his, the Earl of Glamorgan, to 
 Ireland, to conclude a secret treaty with the Catholic pow- 
 ers, to send him an Irish army of ten thousand men ; in re- 
 turn for which he was to bestow great favors on the Catholic 
 religion. And, when this treaty was discovered in the car- 
 riage of a fighting Irish Archbishop who was killed in one 
 of the many skirmishes of those days, he basely denied and 
 deserted his attached friend, the Earl, on his being charged 
 with high treason ; and — even worse than this — had left 
 blanks in the secret instructions he gave him with his own 
 kingly hand, expressly that he might thus save himself. 
 
 At last, on the twenty-seventh day of April, one thousand 
 six hundred and forty-six, the King found himself in the city 
 of Oxford, so surrounded by the Parliamentary army who 
 were closing in upon him on all sides that he felt that if he 
 would escape he must delay no longer. So, that night, hav- 
 ing altered the cut of his hair and beard, he was dressed up 
 as a servant and put upon a horse with a cloak strapped be- 
 hind him, and rode out of the town behind one of his own 
 faithful followers, with a clergyman of that country who 
 knew the road well, for a guide. He rode toward London 
 as far as Harrow, and *nen altered his plans and resolved, it 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 329 
 
 would seem, to go to the Scottish camp. The Scottish men 
 had been invited over to help the Parliamentary army, and 
 had a large force then in England. The King was so des- 
 perately intriguing in every thing he did, that it is doubtful 
 what he exactly meant by this step. He took it, any how, 
 and delivered himself up to the Earl of Leven, the Scottish 
 general-in-chief, who treated him as an honorable prisoner. 
 Negotiations between the Parliament on the one hand and 
 the Scottish authorities on the other, as to what should be 
 done with him, lasted until the following February. Then, 
 when the King had refused to the Parliament the concession 
 of that old militia point for twenty years, and had refused to 
 Scotland the recognition of its Solemn League and Covenant, 
 Scotland got a handsome sum for its army and its help, and 
 the King into the bargain. He was taken, t>y certain Par- 
 liamentary commissioners appointed to receive him, to one 
 of his own houses, called Holmby House, near Althorpe, in 
 Northamptonshire. 
 
 While the Civil War was still in progress, John Pym died, 
 and was buried in great honor in Westminster Abbey — not 
 with greater honor than he deserved, for the liberties of En- 
 glishmen owe a mighty debt to Pym and Hampden. The 
 war was but newly over when the Earl of Essex died, of an 
 illness brought on by his having overheated himself in a stag 
 hunt in Windsor Forest. He, too, was buried in Westminster 
 Abbey, with great state. I wish it were not necessary to add 
 that Archbishop Laud died upon the scaffold when the war 
 was not yet done. His trial lasted in all nearly a year, and, 
 it being doubtful even then whether the charges brought 
 against him amounted to treason, the odious old contrivance 
 of the worst kings was resorted to, and a bill of attainder 
 was brought in against .him. He was a violently prejudiced 
 and mischievous person ; had had strong ear-cropping and 
 nose-splitting propensities, as you know ; and had done a 
 world of harm. But he died peaceably, and like a brave old 
 man. 
 
 Fourth Part. 
 
 When the Parliament had got the King into their hands, 
 they became very anxious to get rid of their army, in which 
 Oliver Cromwell had begun to acquire great power; not 
 only because of his courage and high abilities, but because 
 
330 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 he professed to be very sincere in the Scottish sort of Puri- 
 tan religion that was then exceedingly popular among the 
 soldiers. They were as much opposed to the bishops as to 
 the Pope himself ; and the very privates, drummers, and 
 trumpeters, had such an inconvenient habit of starting up 
 and preaching long-winded discourses, that I would not have 
 belonged to that army on any account. 
 
 So, the Parliament, being far from sure but that the army 
 might begin to preach and fight against them now it had 
 nothing else to do, proposed to disband the greater part of 
 it, to send another part to serve in Ireland against the 
 rebels, and to keep only a small force in England. But the 
 army would not consent to be broken up, except upon its 
 own conditions ; and, when the Parliament showed an in- 
 tention of compelling it, it acted for ifself in an unexpected 
 manner. A certain cornet, of the name of Joice, arrived at 
 Holmby House one night, attended by four hundred horse- 
 men, went into the King's room with his hat in one hand 
 and a pistol in the other, and told the King that he had 
 come to take him away. The King was willing enough to 
 go, and only stipulated that he should be publicly required 
 to do so next morning. Next morning, accordingly, he ap- 
 peared on the top of the steps of the house, and asked Cor- 
 net Joice before his men and the guard set there by the Par- 
 liament, what authority he had for taking him away ? To 
 this Cornet Joice replied, "The authority of the army." 
 " Have you a written commission ? " said the King. Joice, 
 pointing to his four hundred men on horseback, replied, 
 " That is my commission." " Well," said the King, smiling, 
 as if he were pleased, " I never before read such a com- 
 mission ; but it is written in fair and legible characters. This 
 is a company of as handsome proper gentlemen as I have 
 seen a long while." He was asked where he would like to 
 live, and he said at Newmarket. So, to Newmarket he and 
 Cornet Joice and the four hundred horsemen rode ; the 
 King remarking, in the samesmiling way, that he could 
 ride as far at a spell as Cornet Joice, or any man there. 
 
 The King quite believed, I think, that the army were his 
 friends. He said as much to Fairfax when that General, 
 Oliver Cromwell, and Ireton, went to persuade him to return 
 to the custody of the Parliament. He preferred to remain as 
 he was, and resolved to remain as he was. And when the 
 army moved nearer and nearer London to frighten the Parlia- 
 
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 h : : ; = e . 1- i : : e t 7 '. . . e : . . : - tzz — : : ". 1 - e : : -.-. H : _ : : : : _; 
 Reading— for two days. Whereas, the Parliament had been 
 zzzitz zzzz — .:'- jun. zzi :.:: : :..;- il. z~t : '— — : : 7. it : _: 
 1- i : '.:-;■• :: :■:—'.= 
 
 -• ■'- ~ -'--- '■'- : - z-ti-f t : .'..:.: .:' zit iLzz zz Li :.i~t :t;i 
 zzzr.ti ere- 1: -.'.-.. e : zzzz it zzzz '■ :.: - it z \- tz I .1 
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 - ■'■'-'- '. zz tzzy .e 7 r _ e 5 _ ; - £ :~ z<zzzz zLtrsz: zit ~ : ~z 
 had his rights. He was not unfriendly Umaid die *f™g ; 
 -- - - ---" zzz>tz: —zzz it zz-ztz~zi i e zzLiztz zzz 1 1:1 
 
 ---" — -:"- zzzzzzzzf. ' • :.-.t : : .;.':". 7 r. :. :_:r ::' :"-■= E-it't it 
 ei~ ::.e }!.- ._- :::tz it :':-.- t - - ;. iti :- . 1 ::lkrf — ± 
 1 . zz ~. zit .zzz zL.tL.zt z 1 1 ; .zis.zzz: zzzzzz: : : - t 7 : . : : T 
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 • ; - . " - ". : z - ■ Z _ . 
 
 • - Kiz^ ~ir .- ;: : : : ziz. Ei izz.z zzzzz z\z z::z.\ 
 :~: ;.z zzzz :'-■= :. : :. ■ r.: : z - : e t~ e : _;"; _t :::;..-- 7:1 t 
 bezi: :: : r ::•:".:: lis - 1~ : : r. tz is zizz zzzzj zzzi z: z z 
 
 "■"-" "" r.~e, ::•: ~ .t . it me e - : v.. \_e :: ::.:•:: 7r: — — ti 
 zzi Zztzzz zz'z'.zzzzzz. il izty —:-LL zt.z zzzz _: :: Lis :'.z 
 iz zzz. :j ~ii -:■.:.- r : ; : 7 ;_ :: :: 1: ; 7 zzzzzzz z: zzzzz 
 : tzz . r - '::::. zzzz—zzz izLzzzzZ : :: ±fj izz irtzz 
 zr.-rzzt'.y :z:;:zz.zz zizz: sz:i z '.t.zzT ~z Li it zzzzi :z z 
 
 Z. >t~ r i zz zz. z 5 ; . . ■ 
 
 : : :"r.e :::: r : zz :z Lz: : zz. :z zt >tzz z. Z z tz zzi Lzz 
 zzt ■ —tz.: zztzi i: zrz.it z zs z zzzzzzz z hz'.iizTz. izz i =2: z: - z- 
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 zz.zj r.zZ'ti -zz —;zi : :.: h r e : - ;. : : - - ; - : ; _ - z : ■ t 7 7 * 
 I see little reason to doubt the story. It is certain that Oli- 
 ver Cromwell told one of the King's most faithful foUowexs 
 :'--:: -7 K -; :: z z:: : 7 :r"5:fiTir i zzi: zt - Lz zz: .t 
 z- -.e ::.: '-- :' : ~: v ee -7-7 :: zzzz-tz. z: ': ~ S: _. 
 
 i::er zzz: z ^zzz z zzzzz:st it izz\ z.zz :. : - 11 : _. 
 
3 3 2 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 by letting him know that there was a plot with a certain por* 
 tion of the army to seize him. I believe that, in fact, he 
 sincerely wanted the King to escape abroad, and so to be got 
 rid of without more trouble or danger. That Oliver himself 
 had work enough with the army is pretty plain ; for some of 
 the troops were so mutinous against him, and against those 
 who acted with him at this time, that he found it necessary 
 to have one man shot at the head of his regiment to overawe 
 the rest. 
 
 The King, when he received Oliver's warning, made his 
 escape from Hampton Court ; after some indecision and un- 
 certainty, he went to Carisbrooke Castle in the Isle of Wight. 
 At first he was pretty free there ; but, even there, he carried 
 on a pretended treaty with the Parliament, while he was 
 really treating with commissioners from Scotland to send an 
 army into England to take his part. When he broke off 
 this treaty with the Parliament (having settled with Scot- 
 land) and was treated as a prisoner, his treatment was not 
 changed too soon, for he had plotted to escape that very 
 night to a ship sent by the Queen, which was lying off the 
 island. 
 
 He was doomed to be disappointed in his hopes from Scot- 
 land. The agreement he had made with the Scottish Com- 
 missioners was not favorable enough to the religion of that 
 country to please the Scottish clergy ; and they preached 
 against it. The consequence was, that the army raised in 
 Scotland and sent over, was too small to do much ; and that, 
 although it was helped by a rising of the Royalists in England 
 and by good soldiers from Ireland, it could make no head 
 against the Parliamentary army under such men as Cromwell 
 and Fairfax. The King's eldest son, the Prince of Wales, 
 came over from Holland with nineteen ships (a part of the 
 English fleet having gone over to him) to help his father ; 
 but nothing came of his voyage, and he was fain to return. 
 The most remarkable event of this second civil war was the 
 cruel execution by the Parliamentary General, of Sir Charles 
 Lucas and Sir George Lisle, two grand Royalist generals, 
 who had bravely defended Colchester under every disadvan- 
 tage of famine and distress for nearly three months. When 
 Sir Charles Lucas was shot, Sir George Lisle kissed his body, 
 and said to the soldiers who were to shoot him, " Come nearer, 
 and make sure of me." "I warrant you, Sir George," said 
 one of the soldiers, " we shall hit you." " Ay ? " he returned 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 333 
 
 with a smile, " but I have been nearer to you, my friends, 
 many a time, and you have missed me." 
 
 The Parliament, after being fearfully bullied by the army— 
 who demanded to have seven members whom they disliked 
 given up to them — had voted that they would have nothing 
 more to do with the King. On the conclusion, however, of 
 this second civil war (which did not last more than six 
 months), they appointed commissioners to treat with him. 
 The King, then so far released again as to be allowed to live 
 in a private house at Newport in the Isle of Wight, managed 
 his own part of the negotiation with a sense that was admired 
 by all who saw him, and gave up, in the end, all that was 
 asked of him— even yielding (which he had steadily refused, 
 so far) to the temporary abolition of the bishops, and the 
 transfer of their church land to the Crown. Still, with his 
 old fatal vice upon him, when his best friends joined the com- 
 missioners in beseeching him to yield all those points as the 
 only means of saving himself from the army, he was plotting 
 to escape from the island ; he was holding correspondence 
 with his friends and the Catholics in Ireland, though declar- 
 ing that he was not ; and he was writing, with his own hand, 
 that in what he yielded he meant nothing but to get time to 
 escape. 
 
 Matters were at this pass when the army, resolved to defy 
 the Parliament, marched up to London. The Parliament, 
 not afraid of them now, and boldly led by Hollis, voted that 
 the King's concessions were sufficient ground for settling the 
 peace of the kingdom. Upon that, Colonel Rich and Col- 
 onel Pride went down to the House of Commons with a 
 regiment of horse soldiers and a regiment of foot ; and 
 Colonel Pride, standing in the lobby with a list of the mem- 
 bers who were obnoxious to the army in his hand, had them 
 pointed out to him as they came through, and took them all 
 into custody. This proceeding; was afterward called by the 
 people, for a joke, Pride's Purge. Cromwell was in the 
 North, at the head of his men, at the time, but when he 
 came home, approved of what had been done. 
 
 What with imprisoning some members and causing others 
 to stay away, the army had now reduced the House of Com- 
 mons to some fifty or so. These soon voted that it was 
 treason in a king to make war against his parliament and his 
 people, and sent an ordinance up to the House of Lords for 
 the King's being tried as a traitor. The House of Lords, 
 
334 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 then sixteen in number, to a man rejected it. Thereupon, 
 the Commons made an ordinance of their own, that they were 
 the supreme government of the country, and would bring the 
 King to trial. 
 
 The King had been taken for security to a place called 
 Hurst Castle : a lonely house on a rock in the sea, connected 
 with the coast of Hampshire by a rough road two miles 
 long at low water. Thence, he was ordered to be removed 
 to Windsor ; thence, after being but rudely used there, and 
 having none but soldiers to wait upon him at table, he was 
 brought up to St. James's Palace in London, and told that 
 his trial was appointed for next day. 
 
 On Saturday, the twentieth of January, one thousand six 
 hundred and forty-nine, this memorable trial began. The 
 House of Commons had settled that one hundred and thirty- 
 five persons should form the Court, and these w r ere taken 
 from the House itself, from among the officers of the army, 
 and from among the lawyers and citizens. John Bradshaw, 
 sergeant-at-law, was appointed president. The place was 
 Westminster Hall. At the upper end, in a red velvet chair, 
 sat the president, with his hat (lined with plates of iron for 
 his protection) on his head. The rest of the Court sat on 
 side benches, also wearing their hats. The King's seat 
 was covered with velvet, like that of the president, and 
 was opposite to it. He was brought from St. James's to 
 Whitehall, and from Whitehall he came by water to his 
 trial. 
 
 When he came in, he looked round very steadily on the 
 Court, and on the great number of spectators, and then sat 
 down : presently he got up and looked round again. On the 
 indictment " against Charles Stuart, for high treason," being 
 read, he smiled several times, and he denied the authority of 
 the Court, saying that there could be no parliament without 
 a House of Lords, and that he saw no House of Lords there. 
 Also, that the King ought to be there, and that he saw no 
 King in the King's right place. Bradshaw replied, that the 
 Court was satisfied with its authority, and that its authority 
 was God's authority and the kingdom's. He then adjourned 
 the Court to the following Monday. On that day, the trial 
 was resumed, and went on all the week. When the Saturday 
 came, as the King passed forward to his place in the Hall, 
 some soldiers and others cried for " justice ! " and execution 
 *m him. That day, too, Bradshaw, like an angry Sultan, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 335 
 
 wore a red robe, instead of the black robe he had worn be- 
 fore. The King was sentenced to death that day. As he 
 went out, one solitary soldier said, " God bless you, Sir ! " 
 For this, his officer struck him. The King said he thought 
 the punishment exceeded the offense. The silver head of 
 his walking-stick had fallen off while he leaned upon it, at 
 one time of the trial. The accident seemed to disturb him, 
 as if he thought it ominous of the falling of his own head ; 
 and he admitted as much, now it was all over. 
 
 Being taken back to Whitehall, he sent to the House of 
 Commons, saying that as the time of his execution might be 
 nigh he wished he might be allowed to see his darling chil- 
 dren. It was granted. On the Monday he was taken back 
 to St. James's ; and his two children then in England, the 
 Princess Elizabeth thirteen years old, and the Duke of 
 Gloucester nine years old, were brought to take leave of 
 him, from Sion House, near Brentford. It was a sad and 
 touching scene, when he kissed and fondled those poor chil- 
 dren, and made a little present of two diamond seals to the 
 Princess, and gave them tender messages to their mother 
 (who little deserved them, for she had a lover of her own 
 whom she married soon afterward), and told them that he 
 died " for the laws and liberties of the land." I am bound 
 to say that I don't think he did, but I dare say be believed 
 so. 
 
 There were ambassadors from Holland that day, to inter- 
 cede for the unhappy King, whom you and I both wish the 
 Parliament had spared ; but they got no answer. The Scot- 
 tish Commissioners interceded too ; so did the Prince of 
 Wales, by a letter in which he offered as the next heir to the 
 throne, to accept any conditions from the Parliament ; so 
 did the Queen, by letter likewise. Notwithstanding all, the 
 warrant for the execution was this day signed. There is a 
 story that as Oliver Cromwell went to the table with the pen 
 in his hand to put his signature to it, he drew his pen across 
 the face of one of the commissioners who was standing near, 
 and marked it with ink. That commissioner had not signed 
 his own name yet, and the story adds that when he came to 
 do it he marked Cromwell's face with ink in the same way. 
 
 The King slept well, untroubled by the knowledge that it 
 was his last night on earth, and rose on the thirtieth of Jan- 
 uary, two hours before day, and dressed himself carefully. 
 He put on two shirts lest he should tremble with the cold, 
 
336 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 and had his hair very carefully combed. The warrant had 
 been directed to three officers of the army, Colonel Hacker, 
 Colonel Hunks, and Colonel Phayer. At ten o'clock, the 
 first of these came to the door and said it was time to go to 
 Whitehall. The King, who had always been a quick walker, 
 walked at his usual speed through the Park, and called out 
 to the guard, with his accustomed voice of command, " March 
 on apace ! " When he came to Whitehall, he was taken to 
 his own bedroom, where a breakfast was set forth. As he 
 had taken the Sacrament, he would eat nothing more ; but, 
 at about the time when the church bells struck twelve at 
 noon (for he had to wait through the scaffold not being 
 ready), he took the advice of the good Bishop Juxon who 
 was with him, and ate a little bread and drank a glass of 
 claret. Soon after he had taken this refreshment, Colonel 
 Hacker came to the chamber with the warrant in his hand, 
 and called for Charles Stuart. 
 
 And then, through the long gallery of Whitehall Palace, 
 which he had often seen light and gay and merry and 
 crowded, in very different times, the fallen King passed 
 along, until he came to the center window of the Banqueting 
 House, through which he emerged upon the scaffold, which 
 was hung with black. He looked at the two executioners, 
 who were dressed in black and masked ; he looked at the 
 troops of soldiers on horseback and on foot, and all looked 
 up at him in silence ; he looked at the vast array of specta- 
 tors, filling up the view beyond, and turning all their faces 
 upon him ; he looked at his old Palace of St. James's ; and 
 he looked at the block. He seemed a little troubled to find 
 that it was so low, and asked, " if there were no place 
 higher ? " Then, to those upon the scaffold he said, " that 
 it was the Parliament who had begun the war, and not he ; 
 but he hoped they might be guiltless too, as ill instruments 
 had gone between them. In one respect," he said, " he suf- 
 fered justly ; and that was because he had permitted an un- 
 just sentence to be executed on another." In this he re- 
 ferred to the Earl of Strafford. 
 
 He was not at all afraid to die ; but he was anxious to die 
 easily. When some one touched the ax while he was 
 speaking, he broke off and called out, " Take heed of the 
 ax ! take heed of the ax ! " He also said to Colonel 
 Hacker, " Take care that they do not put me to pain." 
 He told the executioner, "I shall say but very short 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 337 
 
 prayers, and then thrust out my hands " — as the sign to 
 strike. 
 
 He put his hair up, under a white satin cap which the 
 bishop had carried, and said, " I have a good cause and a 
 gracious God on my side." The bishop told him that he had 
 but one stage more to travel in this weary world, and that, 
 though it was a turbulent and troublesome stage, it was a 
 short one, and would carry him a great way — all the way 
 from earth to Heaven. The King's last word, as he gave his 
 cloak and the George — the decoration from his breast — to 
 the bishop, was, " Remember ! " He then kneeled down, 
 laid his head on the block, spread out his hands, and was in- 
 stantly killed. One universal groan broke from the crowd ; 
 and the soldiers, who had sat on their horses and stood in 
 their ranks immovable as statues, were of a sudden all in 
 motion, clearing the streets. 
 
 Thus, in the forty-ninth year of his age, falling at the same 
 time of his career as Strafford had fallen in his, perished 
 Charles the First. With all my sorrow for him, I cannot 
 agree with him that he died " the martyr of the people ; " for 
 the people had been martyrs to him, and to his ideas of a 
 King's rights, long before. Indeed, I am afraid that he was 
 but a bad judge of martyrs ; for he had called that infamous 
 Duke of Buckingham "the Martyr of his Sovereign." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER OLIVER CROMWELL. 
 
 Before sunset on the memorable day on which King Charles 
 the First was executed, the House of Commons passed 
 an act declaring it treason in any one to proclaim the Prince 
 of Wales — or any body else — King of England. Soon after- 
 ward, it declared that the House of Lords was useless and 
 dangerous, and ought to be abolished ; and directed that 
 the late King's statue should be taken down from the Royal 
 Exchange in the City and other public places. Having laid 
 hold of some famous Royalists who had escaped from prison, 
 and having beheaded the Duke of Hamilton, Lord Holland, 
 and Lord Capel, in the Palace Yard (all of whom died very 
 courageously), they then appointed a Council of State to 
 govern the country. It consisted of forty-one members, of 
 
338 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 whom five were peers. Bradshaw was made president. The 
 House of Commons also re-admitted members who had op- 
 posed the King's death, and made up its numbers to about 
 a hundred and fifty. 
 
 But it still had an army of more than forty thousand men 
 to deal with, and a very hard task it was to manage them. 
 Before the King's execution, the army had appointed some 
 of its officers to. remonstrate between them and the Parlia- 
 ment ; and now the common soldiers began to take that 
 office upon themselves. The regiments under orders for Ire- 
 land mutinied ; one troop of horse in the city of London 
 seized their own flag, and refused to obey orders. For this, 
 the ringleader was shot ; which did not mend the matter, 
 for, both his comrades and the people made a public funeral 
 for him, and accompanied the body to the grave with sound 
 of trumpets and with a gloomy procession of persons carrying 
 bundles of rosemary steeped in blood. Oliver was the only 
 man to deal with such difficulties as these, and he soon cut 
 them short by bursting at midnight into the town of Burford, 
 near Salisbury, where the mutineers were sheltered, taking 
 four hundred of them prisoners, and shooting a number of 
 them by sentence of court-martial. The soldiers soon found, 
 as all men did, that Oliver was not a man to be trifled with. 
 And there was an end of the mutiny. 
 
 The Scottish Parliament did not know Oliver yet ; so, on 
 hearing of the King's execution, it proclaimed the Prince of 
 Wales King Charles the Second, on condition of his respect- 
 ing the Solemn League and Covenant. Charles was abroad 
 at that time, and so was Montrose, from whose help he had 
 hopes enough to keep him holding on and off with commis- 
 sioners from Scotland, just as his father might have done. 
 These hopes were soon at an end ; for Montrose, having 
 raised a few hundred exiles in Germany, and landed with 
 them in Scotland, found that the people there, instead of join- 
 ing him, deserted the country at his approach. He was soon 
 taken prisoner and carried to Edinburgh. There he was re- 
 ceived with every possible insult, and carried to prison in a 
 cart, his officers going two and two before him. He was 
 sentenced by the Parliament to be hanged on a gallows thirty 
 feet high, to have his head set on a spike in Edinburgh, and 
 his limbs distributed in other places, according to the old 
 barbarous manner. He said he always acted under the 
 Royal orders, and only wished he had limbs enough to be 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 339 
 
 distributed through Christendom, that it might be the more 
 widely known how loyal he had been. He went to the scaf- 
 fold in a bright and brilliant dress, and made a bold end at 
 thirty- eight years of age. The breath was scarcely out of 
 his body when Charles abandoned his memory, and denied 
 that he had ever given him orders to rise in his behalf. O 
 the family failing was, strong in Charles then ! 
 
 Oliver had been appointed by the Parliament to command 
 the army in Ireland, where he took a terrible vengeance for 
 the sanguinary rebellion, and made tremendous havoc, par- 
 ticularly in the siege of Drogheda, where no quarter was 
 given, and where he found at least a thousand of the inhabi- 
 tants shut up together in the great church : every one of 
 whom was killed by his soldiers, usually known as Oliver's 
 Ironsides. There were numbers of friars and priests among 
 them, and Oliver gruffly wrote home in his dispatch that 
 these were " knocked on the head " like the rest. 
 
 But Charles having got over to Scotland where the men 
 of the Solemn League and Covenant led him a prodigiously 
 dull life and made him very weary with long sermons and 
 grim Sundays, the Parliament called the redoubtable Oliver 
 home to knock the Scottish men on the head for setting up 
 that Prince. Oliver left his son-in-law, Ireton, as general in 
 Ireland in his stead (he died there afterward), and he imi- 
 tated the example of his father-in-law with such good will 
 that he brought the country to subjection, and laid it at the 
 feet of the Parliament. In the end, they passed an act for 
 the settlement of Ireland, generally pardoning all the com- 
 mon people, but exempting from this grace such of the 
 wealthier sort as had been concerned in the rebellion, or in 
 any killing of Protestants, or who refused to lay down their 
 arms. Great numbers of Irish were got out of the country 
 to serve under Catholic powers abroad, and a quantity of 
 land was declared to have been forfeited by past offenses, 
 and was given to people who had lent money to the Par» 
 liament early in the war. These were sweeping measures ; 
 but if Oliver Cromwell had had his own way fully, and had 
 staid in Ireland, he would have done more yet. 
 
 However, as I have said, the Parliament wanted Oliver for 
 Scotland ; so, home Oliver came, and was made command- 
 er of all the Forces of the Commonwealth of England, and 
 in three days away he went with sixteen thousand soldiers to 
 fight the Scottish men. Now, the Scottish men, being then 
 
340 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 — as you will generally find them now — mighty cautious, re- 
 flected that the troops they had, were not used to war like 
 the Ironsides, and would be beaten in an open fight. There- 
 fore they said, " If we lie quiet in our trenches in Edinburgh 
 here, and if all the farmers come into the town and desert 
 the country, the Ironsides will be driven out by iron hunger 
 and be forced to go away." This was, no doubt, the wisest 
 plan ; but as the Scottish clergy would interfere with what 
 they knew nothing about, and would perpetually preach long 
 sermons exhorting the soldiers to come out and fight, the 
 soldiers got it into their heads that they absolutely must 
 come out and fight. Accordingly, in an evil hour for them- 
 selves, they came out of their safe position. Oliver fell 
 upon them instantly, and killed three thousand, and took 
 ten thousand prisoners. 
 
 To gratify the Scotch Parliament, and preserve their favor, 
 Charles signed a declaration they laid before him, reproach- 
 ing the memory of his father and mother, and representing 
 himself as a most religious Prince, to whom the Solemn 
 League and Covenant was as dear as life. He meant no 
 sort of truth in this, and soon afterward galloped away on 
 horseback to join some tiresome Highland friends, who were 
 always flourishing dirks and broadswords. He was over- 
 taken and induced to return ; but this attempt, which was 
 called '-' The Start," did him just so much service, that they 
 did not preach quite such long sermons at him afterward 
 as they had done before. 
 
 On the first of January, one thousand six hundred and 
 fifty-one, the Scottish people crowned him at Scone. He im- 
 mediately took the chief command of an army of twenty 
 thousand men, and marched to Stirling. His hopes were 
 heightened, I dare say, by the redoubtable Oliver being ill of 
 an ague ; but Oliver scrambled out of bed in no time, and 
 went to work with such energy that he got behind the Royal- 
 ist army and cut it off from all communication with Scotland. 
 There was nothing for it then, but to go on to England ; so it 
 went on as far as Worcester, where the mayor and some of 
 the gentry proclaimed King Charles the Second straightway. 
 His proclamation, however, was of little use to him, for very 
 few Royalists appeared ; and, on the very same day, two 
 people were publicly beheaded on Tower Hill for espousing 
 his cause. Up came Oliver to Worcester too, at double 
 quick speed, and he and his Ironsides so laid about them in 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 341 
 
 the great battle which was fought there, that they complete- 
 ly beat the Scottish men, and destroyed the Royalist army ; 
 though the Scottish men fought so gallantly that it took five 
 hours to do. 
 
 The escape of Charles after this battle of Worcester did 
 him good service long afterward, for it induced many of the 
 generous English people to take a romantic interest in him, 
 and to think much better of him than he ever deserved. He 
 fled in the night, with not more than sixty followers, to the 
 house of a Catholic lady in Staffordshire. There, for his 
 greater safety, the whole sixty left him. He cropped his 
 hair, stained his face and hands brown as if they were sun- 
 burned, put on the clothes of a laboringcountryman, and went 
 out in the morning with his ax in his hand, accompanied by 
 four wood-cutters who were brothers, and another man who 
 was their brother-in-law. These good fellows made a bed 
 for him under a tree, as the weather was very bad ; and the 
 wife of one of them brought him food to eat ; and the old 
 mother of the four brothers came and fell down on her knees 
 before him in the wood, and thanked God that her sons were 
 engaged in saving his life. At night, he came out of the 
 forest and went on to another house which was near the river 
 Severn, with the intention of passing into Wales ; but the 
 place swarmed with soldiers, and the bridges were guarded, 
 and all the boats were made fast. So, after lying in a hay- 
 loft covered over with hay, for some time, he came out of 
 his place, attended by Colonel Careless, a Catholic gentleman 
 who had met him there, and with whom he lay hid, all next 
 day, up in the shady branches of a fine old oak. It was 
 lucky for the King that it was September-time, and that the 
 leaves had not began to fall, since he and the Colonel, 
 perched up in this tree, could catch glimpses of the soldiers 
 riding about below, and could hear the crash in the wood as 
 they went about beating the boughs. 
 
 After this, he walked and walked until his feet were all 
 blistered ; and, having been concealed all one day in a house 
 which was searched by the troopers while he was there, went 
 with Lord Wilmot, another of his good friends, to a place 
 called Bentley, where one Miss Lane, a Protestant lady, had 
 obtained a pass to be allowed to ride through the guards to 
 see a relation of hers near Bristol. Disguised as a servant, 
 he rode in the saddle before this young lady to the house of 
 Sir John Winter, while Lord Wilmot rode there boldly, like 
 
342 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 a plain country gentleman, with dogs at his heels. It hap- 
 pened that Sir John Winter's butler had been servant in 
 Richmond Palace, and knew Charles the moment he set his 
 eyes upon him ; but the butler was faithful and kept the 
 secret. As no ship could be found to carry him abroad, it 
 was planned that he should go — still traveling with Miss 
 Lane as her servant — to another house, at Trent near Sher- 
 borne in Dorsetshire ; and then Miss Lane and her cousin, 
 Mr. Lascelles, who had gone on horseback beside her all the 
 way, went home. I hope Miss Lane was going to marry 
 that cousin, for I am sure she must have been a brave kind 
 girl. If I had been that cousin, I should certainly have loved 
 Miss Lane. 
 
 When Charles, lonely for the loss of Miss Lane, was safe 
 at Trent, a ship was hired at Lyme, the master of which en- 
 gaged to take two gentlemen to France. In the evening of the 
 same day, the King — now riding as servant before another 
 young lady — set off for a public-house at a place called 
 Charmouth, where the captain of the vessel was to take him 
 on board. But the captain's wife, being afraid of her hus- 
 band getting into trouble, locked him up and would not let 
 him sail. Then they went away to Bridport ; and, coming to 
 the inn there, found the stable-yard full of soldiers who were 
 on the look-out for Charles, and who talked about him 
 while they drank. He had such presence of mind, that he 
 led the horses of his party through the yard as any other 
 servant might have done, and said, "Come out of the way, 
 you soldiers ; let us have room to pass here ! " As he went 
 along, he met a half-tipsy hostler, who rubbed his eyes and 
 said to him, " Why, I was formerly servant to Mr. Potter at 
 Exeter, and surely I have sometimes seen you there, young 
 man?" He certainly had, for Charles had lodged there. 
 His ready answer was, " Ah, I did live with him once ; but I 
 have no time to talk now. We'll have a pot of beer together 
 when I come back.' 3 
 
 From this dangerous place he returned to Trent, and lay 
 there concealed several days. Then he escaped to Heale, 
 near Salisbury ; where, in the house of a widow lady, he was 
 hidden five days, until the master of a collier lying off Shore- 
 ham in Sussex, undertook to convey a " gentleman " to 
 France. On the night of the fifteenth of October, accom- 
 panied by two colonels and a merchant, the King rode to 
 Brighton, then a little fishing village, to give the captain of 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 343 
 
 the ship a supper before going on board ; but, so many peo- 
 ple knew him, that this captain knew him too, and not only 
 he, but the landlord and landlady also. Before he went away, 
 the landlord came behind his chair, kissed his hand, and 
 said he hoped to live to be a lord, and to see his wife a 
 lady ; at which Charles laughed. They had had a good sup- 
 per by this time, and plenty of smoking and drinking, at 
 which the King was a first-rate hand, so the captain assured 
 him that he would stand by him, and he did. It was agreed 
 that the captain should pretend to sail to Deal, and that 
 Charles should address the sailors and say he was a gentle- 
 man in debt who was running away from his creditors, and 
 that he hoped they would join him in persuading the cap- 
 tain to put him ashore in France. As the King acted his 
 part very well indeed, and gave the sailors twenty shillings 
 to drink, they begged the captain to do what such a worthy 
 gentleman asked. He pretended to yield to their entreaties, 
 and the King got safe to Normandy. 
 
 Ireland being now subdued, and Scotland kept quiet by 
 plenty of forts and soldiers put there by Oliver, the Parlia- 
 ment would have gone on quietly enough, as far as fighting 
 with any foreign enemy went, but for getting into trouble 
 with the Dutch, who in the spring of the year one thousand 
 six hundred and fifty-one sent a fleet into the Downs under 
 their Admiral Van Tromp, to call upon the bold English 
 Admiral Blake, (who was there with half as many ships as 
 the Dutch) to strike his flag. Blake fired a raging broadside 
 instead, and beat off Van Tromp ; who, in the autumn, came 
 back again with seventy ships, and challenged the bold Blake 
 — who still was only half as strong — to fight him. Blake 
 fought him all day, but, finding that the Dutch were too 
 many for him, got quietly off at night. What does Van 
 Tromp upon this, but goes cruising and boasting about the 
 Channel, between the North Foreland and the Isle of Wight, 
 with a great Dutch broom tied to his masthead, as a sign 
 that he could and would sweep the English off the sea ! 
 Within three months, Blake lowered his tone though, and 
 his broom too ; for, he and two other bold commanders, 
 Dean and Monk, fought him three whole days, took twenty- 
 three of his ships, shivered his broom to pieces, and settled 
 his business. 
 
 Things were no sooner quiet again, than the army began to 
 complain to the Parliament, that they were not governing the 
 
344 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 nation properly, and to hint that they thought they could do 
 it better themselves. Oliver, who had now made up his 
 mind to be the head of the state, or nothing at all, supported 
 them in this, and called a meeting of officers and his own 
 Parliamentary friends, at his lodgings in Whitehall, to con- 
 sider the best way of getting rid of the Parliament. It had 
 now lasted just as many years as the King's unbridled power 
 had lasted, before it came into existence. The end of the 
 deliberation was, that Oliver went down to the House in his 
 usual plain black dress, with his usual gray worsted stock- 
 ings, but with an unusual party of soldiers behind him. 
 These last he left in the lobby, and then went in and sat down. 
 Presently he got up, made the Parliament a speech, told 
 them that the Lord had done with them, stamped his foot 
 and said, " You are no Parliament. Bring them in ! Bring 
 them in ! " At this signal the door flew open, and the 
 soldiers appeared. "This is not honest," said Sir Harry 
 Vane, one of the members. " Sir Harry Vane ! " cried 
 Cromwell : " O, Sir Harry Vane ! The Lord deliver me 
 from Sir Harry Vane ! " Then he pointed out members one 
 by one, and said this man was a drunkard, and that man a 
 dissipated fellow, and that man a liar, and so on. Then he 
 caused the speaker to be walked out of his chair, told the 
 guard to clear the House, called the mace upon the table — 
 which is a sign that the House is sitting — " a fool's bauble," 
 and said, " here, carry it away ! " Being obeyed in all these 
 orders, he quietly locked the door, put the key in his pocket, 
 walked back to Whitehall again, and told his friends, who 
 were still assembled there, what he had done. 
 
 They formed a new Council of State after this extraor- 
 dinary proceeding, and got a new Parliament together in 
 their own way : which Oliver himself opened in a sort of 
 sermon, and which he said was the beginning of a perfect 
 heaven upon earth. In this Parliament there sat a well 
 known leather-seller, who had taken the singular name of 
 Praise God Barebones, and from whom it was called for a 
 joke, Barebones's Parliament, though its general name was 
 the Little Parliament. As it soon appeared that it was not 
 going to put Oliver in the first place, it turned out to be not 
 at all like the beginning of heaven upon earth, and Oliver 
 said it really was not to be borne with. So he cleared off 
 that Parliament in much the same way as he had disposed of 
 the other ; and then the council of officers decided that he 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 345 
 
 must be made the supreme authority of the kingdom, under 
 the title of the Lord Protector of the Commonwealth. 
 
 So, on the sixteenth of December, one thousand six hund- 
 red and fifty-three, a great procession was formed at Oliver's 
 door, and he came out in a black velvet suit and a big pair of 
 boots, and got into his coach and went down to Westminster, 
 attended by the judges, and the lord mayor, and the alder- 
 men, and all the other great and wonderful personages of 
 the country. There, in the Court of Chancery, he publicly 
 accepted the office of Lord Protector. Then he was sworn, 
 and the City sword was handed to him, and the seal was 
 handed^to him, and all the other things were handed to him 
 which are usually handed to Kings and Queens on state oc- 
 casions. When Oliver had handed them all back, he was 
 quite made and completely finished off as Lord Protector ; 
 and several of the Ironsides preached about it at great 
 length, all the evening. 
 
 Second Part. 
 
 Oliver Cromwell — whom the people long called Old 
 Noll — in accepting the office of Protector, had bound him- 
 self by a certain paper which was handed to him, called, "the 
 Instrument," to summon a Parliament, consisting of between 
 four and five hundred members, in the election of which 
 neither the Royalists nor the Catholics were to have any 
 share. He had also pledged himself that this Parliament 
 should not be dissolved without its own consent until it had 
 sat five months. 
 
 When this Parliament met, Oliver made a speech to them 
 of three hours long, very wisely advising them what to do for 
 the credit and happiness of the country. To keep down the 
 more violent members, he required them to sign a recognition 
 of what they were forbidden by the "Instrument" to do ; 
 which was, chiefly, to take the power from one single person 
 at the head of the state or to command the army. Then he 
 dismissed them to go to work. With his usual vigor and 
 resolution he went to work himself with some frantic preach- 
 ers — who were rather overdoing their sermons in calling him 
 a villain and a tyrant — by shutting up their chapels, and 
 sending a few of them off to prison. 
 
 There was not at that time, in England or any where else 
 a man so able to govern the country as Oliver Cromwell, 
 
346 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Although he ruled with a strong hand, and levied a very 
 heavy tax on the Royalists (but not until they had plotted 
 against his life), he ruled wisely and as the times required. 
 He caused England to be so respected abroad, that I wish 
 some lords and gentlemen who have governed it under kings 
 and queens in later days would have taken a leaf out of 
 Oliver Cromwell's book. He sent bold Admiral Blake to the 
 Mediterranean Sea, to make the Duke of Tuscany pay sixty 
 thousand pounds for injuries he had done to British subjects, 
 and spoliation he had committed on English merchants. He 
 further dispatched him and his fleet to Algiers, Tunis, and 
 Tripoli, to have every English ship and every English man 
 delivered up to him that had been taken by pirates in those 
 parts. All this was gloriously done ; and it began to be 
 thoroughly well known, all over the world, that England was 
 governed by a man in earnest, who would not allow the En- 
 glish name to be insulted or slighted anywhere. 
 
 These were not all his foreign triumphs. He sent a fleet 
 to sea against the Dutch ; and the two powers, each with 
 one hundred ships upon its side, met in the English Channel 
 off the North Foreland, where the fight lasted all day long. 
 Dean was killed in this fight ; but Monk, who commanded in 
 the same ship with him, threw his cloak over his body, that 
 the sailors might not know of his death, and be disheartened. 
 Nor were they. The English broadsides so exceedingly as- 
 tonished the Dutch that they sheered off at last, though the 
 redoubtable Van Tromp fired upon them with his own guns 
 for deserting their flag. Soon afterward, the two fleets en- 
 gaged again, off the coast of Holland. There, the valiant 
 Van Tromp was shot through the heart, and the Dutch gave 
 in, and peace was made. 
 
 Further than this, Oliver resolved not to bear the dom- 
 ineering and bigoted conduct of Spain, which country not 
 only claimed a right to all the gold and silver that could be 
 found in South America, and treated the ships of all other 
 countries who visited those regions, as pirates, but put En- 
 glish subjects into the horrible Spanish prisons of the Inqui- 
 sition. So, Oliver told the Spanish ambassador that English 
 ships must be free to go wherever they would, and that En- 
 glish merchants must not be thrown into those same dun- 
 geons, no, not for the pleasure of all the priests in Spain. ^ To 
 this, the Spanish ambassador replied that the gold and silver 
 country, and the Holy Inquisition, were his King's two eyes, 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 347 
 
 neither of which he could submit to have put out. Very well, 
 said Oliver, then he was afraid he (Oliver) must damage 
 those two eyes directly. 
 
 So, another fleet was dispatched under two commanders, 
 Penn and Venables, for Hispaniola ; where, however, the 
 Spaniards got the better of the fight. Consequently, the fleet 
 came home again, after taking Jamaica on the way. Oliver, 
 indignant with the two commanders who had not done what 
 bold Admiral Blake would have done, clapped them both into 
 prison, declared war against Spain, and made a treaty with 
 France, in virtue of which it was to shelter the King and his 
 brother the Duke of York no longer. Then, he sent a fleet 
 abroad under bold Admiral Blake, which brought the King 
 of Portugal to his senses — just to keep its hand in — and 
 then engaged a Spanish fleet, sunk four great ships, and took 
 two more, laden with silver to the value of two millions of 
 pounds : which dazzling prize was brought from Portsmouth 
 to London in wagons, with the populace of all the towns 
 and villages through which the wagons passed, shouting with 
 all their might. After this victory, bold Admiral Blake 
 sailed away to the port of Santa Cruz to cut off the Spanish 
 treasure-ships coming from Mexico. There, he found them, 
 ten in number, with seven others to take care of them, and 
 a big castle, and seven batteries, all roaring and blazing away 
 at him with great guns. Blake cared no more for great guns 
 than for pop-guns — no more for their hot iron balls than for 
 snow-balls. He dashed into the harbor, captured and burned 
 every one of the ships, and came sailing out again triumph- 
 antly, with the victorious English flag flying at his mast-head. 
 This was the last triumph of this great commander, who had 
 sailed and fought until he was quite worn out. He died, as 
 his successful ship was coming into Plymouth Harbor amidst 
 the joyful acclamations of the people, and was buried in state 
 in Westminster Abbey. Not to lie there, long. 
 
 Over and above all this, Oliver found that the Vaudois, or 
 Protestant people of the valleys of Lucerne, were insolently 
 treated by the Catholic powers, and were even put to death 
 for their religion, in an audacious and bloody manner. In- 
 stantly, he informed those powers that this was a thing which 
 Protestant England would not allow ; and he speedily 
 carried his point, through the might of his great name, aad 
 established their right to worship God in peace after their 
 own harmless manner. 
 
348 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Lastly, his English army won such admiration in fighting 
 with the French against the Spaniards, that after they had 
 assaulted the town of Dunkirk together, the French King in 
 person gave it up to the English, that it might be a token to 
 them of their might and valor. 
 
 There were plots enough against Oliver among the frantic 
 religionists (who called themselves Fifth Monarchy Men), 
 and among the disappointed Republicans. He had a difficult 
 game to play, for the Royalists were always ready to side with 
 either party against him. The " King over the water," too, 
 as Charles was called, had no scruples about plotting with 
 any one against his life ; although there is reason to suppose 
 that he would willingly have married one of his daughters, 
 if Oliver would have had such a son-in-law. There was a 
 certain Colonel Saxby of the army, once a great supporter 
 of Oliver's but now turned against him, who was a grievous 
 trouble to him through all this part of his career ; and who 
 came and went between the discontented in England and 
 Spain, and Charles who put himself in alliance with Spain 
 on being thrown off by France. This man died in prison at 
 last ; but not until there had been very serious plots between 
 the Royalists and Republicans, and an actual rising of them 
 in England, when they burst into the city of Salisbury on a 
 Sunday night, seized the judges who were going to hold the 
 assizes there next day, and would have hanged them but for 
 the merciful objections of the more temperate of their num- 
 ber. Oliver was so vigorous and shrewd that he soon put this 
 revolt down, as he did most other conspiracies ; and it was 
 well for one of its chief managers — that same Lord Wilmot 
 who had assisted in Charles's flight, and was ^now Earl of 
 Rochester — that he made his escape. Oliver seemed to 
 have eyes and ears every where, and secured such sources 
 of information as his enemies little dreamed of. There was 
 a chosen body of six persons, called the Sealed Knot, who 
 were in the closest and most secret confidence of Charles. 
 One of the foremost of these very men, a Sir Richard Willis, 
 reported to Oliver every thing that passed among them, and 
 had two hundred a year for it. 
 
 Miles Syndarcomb, also of the old army, was another con- 
 spirator against the Protector. He and a man named Cecil, 
 bribed one of his Life Guards to let them have good notice 
 when he was going out — intending to shoot him from a win- 
 dow. But ? owing either to his caution or his good fortune. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 349 
 
 they could never get an aim at him. Disappointed in this 
 design, they got into the chapel in Whitehall, with a basket* 
 ful of combustibles, which were to explode by means of a 
 slow match in six hours ; then in the noise and confusion of 
 the fire, they hoped to kill Oliver. But, the Life Guards- 
 man himself disclosed this plot ; and they were seized, ana 
 Miles died (or killed himself in prison) a little while before 
 he was ordered for execution. A few such plotters Oliver 
 caused to be beheaded, a few more to be hanged, and many 
 more, including those who rose in arms against him, to be 
 sent as slaves to the West Indies. If he were rigid, he was 
 impartial too, in asserting the laws of England. When a 
 Portuguese nobleman, the brother of the Portuguese ambas- 
 sador, killed a London citizen in mistake for another man 
 with whom he had had a quarrel, Oliver caused him to be 
 tried before a jury of Englishmen and foreigners, and had 
 him executed in spite of the entreaties of all the ambassa- 
 dors in London. 
 
 One of Oliver's own friends, the Duke of Oldenburgh, in 
 sending him a present of six fine coach-horses, was very near 
 doing more to please the Royalists than all the plotters put 
 together. One day Oliver went with his coach drawn by 
 these six horses, into Hyde Park, to dine with his secretary 
 and some of his other gentlemen under the trees there. 
 After dinner, being merry, he took it into his head to put 
 his friends inside and to drive them home : a postillion 
 riding one of the foremost horses, as the custom was. On 
 account of Oliver's being too free with the whip, the six fine 
 horses went off at a gallop, the postillion got thrown, and 
 Oliver fell upon the coach-pole and narrowly escaped being 
 shot by his own pistol, which got entangled with his clothes 
 in the harness, and went off. He was dragged some distance 
 by the foot, until his foot came out of the shoe, and then 
 he came safely to the ground under the broad body of the 
 coach, and was very little the worse. The gentlemen inside 
 were only bruised, and the discontented people of all par- 
 ties were much disappointed. 
 
 The rest of the history of the Protectorate of Oliver 
 Cromwell is a history of his Parliaments. His first one not 
 pleasing him at all, he waited until the five months were out, 
 and then dissolved it. The next was better suited to his 
 views ; and from that he desired to get — if he could with 
 safety to himself — the title of King. He had had this id 
 
350 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 his mind some time : whether because he thought that the 
 English people, being more used to the title, were more 
 likely to obey it ; or whether because he really wished to be 
 a King himself, and to leave the succession to that title in 
 his family, is far from clear. He was already as high, in 
 England and in all the world, as he would ever be, and I doubt 
 if he cared for the mere name. However, a paper, called 
 the " Humble Petition and Advice," was presented to him 
 by the House of Commons, praying him to take a high title 
 and to appoint his successor. That he would have taken the 
 title of King there is no doubt, but for the strong opposition 
 of the army. This induced him to forbear, and to assent 
 only to the other points of the petition. Upon which occa- 
 sion there was another grand show in Westminster Hall, 
 when the '.Speaker of the House of Commons formally in- 
 vested him with a purple robe lined with ermine, and pre- 
 sented him with a splendidly bound Bible, and put a golden 
 scepter in his hand. The next time the Parliament met, he 
 called a House of Lords of sixty members, as the petition 
 gave him power to do ; but as that Parliament did not 
 please him either, and would not proceed to the business of 
 the country, he jumped into a coach one morning, took 
 six Guards with him, and sent them to the right-about. 
 I wish this had been a warning to Parliaments to avoid long 
 speeches, and do more work. 
 
 It was the month of August, one thousand six hundred and 
 fifty-eight, when Oliver Cromwell's favorite daughter, Eliza* 
 beth Claypole (who had lately lost her youngest son), lay 
 very ill, and his mind was greatly troubled, because he loved 
 her dearly. Another of his daughters was married to Lord 
 Falconberg, another to the grandson of the Earl of Warwick, 
 and he had made his son Richard one of the members of the 
 Upper House. He was very kind and loving to them all, 
 being a good father and a good husband ; but he loved this 
 daughter the best of the family, and went down to Hampton 
 Court to see her, and could hardly be induced to stir from her 
 sick room until she died. Although his religion had been of 
 a gloomy kind, his disposition had been always cheerful. He 
 had been fond of music in his home, and had kept open 
 table once a week for all officers of the army not below the 
 rank of captain, and had always preserved in his house a 
 quiet sensible dignity. He encouraged men of genius and 
 learning, and loved to have them about him. Milton was 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 351 
 
 one of his great friends. He was good-humored, too, with 
 the nobility, whose dresses and manners were very different 
 from his ; and to show them what good information he had, 
 he would sometimes jokingly tell them when they were his 
 guests, where they had last drunk the health of the " King 
 over the water," and would recommend them to be more 
 private (if they could) another time. But he had lived in 
 busy times, and borne the weight of heavy State affairs, and 
 had often gone in fear of his life. He was ill of the gout 
 and ague ; and when the death of his beloved child came 
 upon him in addition, he sank, never to raise his head again. 
 He told his physicians on the twenty-fourth of August that 
 the Lord had assured him that he was not to die in that ill- 
 ness, and that he would certainly get better. This was only 
 his sick fancy, for on the third of September, which was the 
 anniversary of the great battle of Worcester, and the day of 
 the year which he called his fortunate day, he died, in the 
 sixtieth year of his age. He had been delirious, and had 
 lain insensible some hours, but he had been overheard to 
 murmur a very good prayer the day before. The whole 
 country lamented his death. If you want to know the 
 real worth of Oliver Cromwell, and his real services 
 to his country, you can hardly do better than compare 
 England under him, with England under Charles the 
 Second. 
 
 He had appointed his son Richard to succeed him, and 
 after there had been, at Somerset House in the Strand, a 
 lying in state more splendid than sensible — as all such 
 vanities after death are, I think — Richard became Lord Pro- 
 tector. He was an amiable country gentleman, but had none 
 of his father's great genius, and was quite unfit for such a 
 post in such a storm of parties. Richard's Protectorate, 
 which only lasted a year and a half, is a history of quarrels 
 between the officers of the army and the Parliament, and 
 between the officers among themselves ; and of a growing 
 discontent among the people, who had far too many long 
 sermons and far too few amusements, and wanted a change. 
 At last, General Monk got the army well into his own hands, 
 and then in pursuance of a secret plan he seems to have en- 
 tertained from the time of Oliver's death, declared for the 
 King's cause. He did not do this openly ; but, in his place 
 in the House of Commons, as one of the members for 
 Devonshire, strongly advocated the proposals of one Sir 
 
352 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 John Greenville, who came to the House with a letter from 
 Charles, dated from Breda, and with whom he had previously 
 oeen in secret communication. There had been plots and 
 counterplots, and a recall of the last members of the Long 
 Parliament, and an end of the Long Parliament, and risings 
 of the Royalists that were made too soon ; and most men 
 being tired out, and there being no one to head the country 
 now great Oliver was dead, it was readily agreed to welcome 
 Charles Stuart. Some of the wiser and better members said 
 — what was most true — that in the letter from Breda, he 
 gave no real promise to govern well, and that it would be 
 best to make him pledge himself beforehand as to what he 
 should be bound to do for the benefit of the kingdom. 
 Monk said, however, it would be all right when he came, and 
 he could not come too soon. 
 
 So, every body found out all in a moment that the country 
 must be prosperous and happy, having another Stuart to con- 
 descend to reign over it ; and there was a prodigious firing 
 off of guns, lighting of bonfires, ringing of bells, and throw- 
 ing up of caps. The people drank the King's health by 
 thousands in the open streets, and every body rejoiced. 
 Down came the Arms of the Commonwealth, up went the 
 Royal Arms instead, and out came the public money. Fifty 
 thousand pounds for the King, ten thousand pounds for his 
 brother the Duke of York, five thousand pounds for his 
 brother the Duke of Gloucester. Prayers for these gracious 
 Stuarts were put up in all the churches ; commissioners 
 were sent to Holland (which suddenly found out that 
 Charles was a great man, and that it loved him) to invite 
 the King home ; Monk and the Kentish grandees went to 
 Dover to kneel down before him as he landed. He kissed 
 and embraced Monk, made him ride in the coach with him- 
 self and his brothers, came on to London amid wonderful 
 shoutings, and passed through the army at Blackheath on 
 the twenty-ninth of May (his birthday), in the year one 
 thousand six hundred and sixty. Greeted by splendid 
 dinners under tents, by flags and tapestry streaming from all 
 the houses, by delighted crowds in all the streets, by troops 
 of noblemen and gentlemen in rich dresses, by City com- 
 panies, train-bands, drummers, trumpeters, the great Lord 
 Mayor, and the majestic aldermen, the King went on to 
 '"Whitehall. On entering it, he commemorated his Restora- 
 tion with the joke that it really would seem to have been hia 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 353 
 
 own fault that he had not come long ago, since every body 
 told him that he had always wished for him with all his 
 heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE SECOND, CALLED THE 
 MERRY MONARCH. 
 
 There never were such profligate times in England as 
 under Charles the Second. Whenever you see his portrait, 
 with his swarthy ill-looking face and great nose, you may 
 fancy him in his Court at Whitehall, surrounded by some of 
 the very worst vagabonds in the kingdom (though they were 
 lords and ladies), drinking, gambling, indulging in vicious 
 conversation, and committing every kind of profligate excess. 
 It has been a fashion to call- Charles the Second "The Merry 
 Monarch." Let me try to give you a general idea of some 
 of the merry things that were done, in the merry days when 
 this merry gentleman sat upon his merry throne, in merry 
 England. 
 
 The first merry proceeding was — of course — to declare 
 that he was one of the greatest, the wisest, and the noblest 
 kings that ever shone, like the blessed sun itself, on this be- 
 nighted earth. The next merry and pleasant piece of busi- 
 ness was, for the Parliament, in the humblest manner, to 
 give him one million two hundred thousand pounds a year, 
 and to settle upon him for life that old disputed tonnage and 
 poundage which had been so bravely fought for. Then, Gen- 
 eral Monk, being made Earl of Albemarle, and a few other 
 Royalists similarly rewarded, the law went to work to see 
 what was to be done to those persons (they were called Regi- 
 cides) who had been concerned in making a martyr of the 
 late king. Ten of these were merrily executed ; that is to 
 say, six of the judges, one of the council, Colonel Hacker 
 and another officer who had commanded the Guards, and 
 Hugh Peters, a preacher who had preached against the mar- 
 tyr with all his heart. These executions were so extremely 
 merry, that every horrible circumstance which Cromwell had 
 abandoned was revived with appalling cruelty. The hearts 
 of the sufferers were torn out of their living bodies ; their 
 bowels were burned before their faces ; the executioner cut 
 
354 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 jokes to the next victim, as he rubbed his filthy hands to* 
 gether^ that were reeking with the blood of the last ; and the 
 heads of the dead were drawn on sledges with the living to 
 the place of suffering. Still, even so merry a monarch could 
 not force one of these dying men to say that he was sorry for- 
 what he had done. Nay, the most memorable thing said 
 among them was, that if the thing were to do again they would 
 do it. 
 
 Sir Harry Vane, who had furnished the evidence against 
 Strafford, and who was one of the most staunch of the Re- 
 publicans, was also tried, found guilty, and ordered for exe- 
 cution. When he came upon the scaffold on Tower Hill, 
 after conducting his own defense with great power, his notes 
 of what he meant to say to the people were torn away from 
 him, and the drums and trumpets were ordered to sound 
 lustily and drown his voice ; for, the people had been so 
 much impressed by what the Regicides had calmly said with 
 their last breath, that it was the custom now, to have the 
 drums and trumpets always under the scaffold, ready to 
 strike up. Vane said no more than this : " It is a bad cause 
 which cannot bear the words of a dying man : " and bravely 
 died. 
 
 These merry scenes were succeeded by another, perhaps 
 even merrier. On the anniversary of the late King's death, 
 the bodies of Oliver Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw, were 
 torn out of their graves in Westminster Abbey, dragged to 
 Tyburn, hanged there on a gallows all day long, and then 
 beheaded. Imagine the head of Oliver Cromwell set upon 
 a pole to be stared at by a brutal crowd, not one of whom 
 would have dared to look the livi-ng Oliver in the face for 
 half a moment ! Think, after you have read this reign, what 
 England was under Oliver Cromwell who was torn out of his 
 grave, and what it was under this merry monarch who sold 
 it, like a merry Judas, over and over again. 
 
 Of course, the remains of Oliver's wife and daughter were 
 not to be spared either, though they had been most excellent 
 women. The base clergy of that time gave up their bodies, 
 which had been buried in the Abbey, and — to the eternal 
 disgrace of England— they were thrown into a pit, together 
 with the moldering bones of Pym and of the brave and bold 
 old Admiral Blake. 
 
 The clergy acted this disgraceful part because they hoped 
 to get the nonconformists, or dissenters, thoroughly put 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 35$ 
 
 down in this reign, and to have but one prayer-book and one 
 service for all kinds of people, no matter what their private 
 opinions were. This was pretty well, I think, for a Protest- 
 ant Church, which had displaced the Romish Church because 
 people had a right to their own opinions in religious matters. 
 However, they carried it with a high hand, and a prayer-book 
 was agreed upon, in which the extremest opinions of Arch- 
 bishop Laud were not forgotten. An act was passed, 
 too, preventing any dissenter from holding any office under 
 any corporation. So, the regular clergy in their triumph 
 were soon as merry as the King. The army being by this 
 time disbanded, and the King crowned, every thing was to go 
 on easily forevermore. 
 
 I must say a word here about the King s family. He had 
 not been long upon the throne when his brother the Duke of 
 Gloucester, and his sister the Princess of Orange, died within 
 a few months of each other, of small-pox. His remaining 
 sister, the Princess Henrietta, married the Duke of Orleans, 
 the brother of Louis the Fourteenth, King of France. His 
 brother James, Duke of York, was made High Admiral, and 
 by-and-by became a Catholic. He was a gloomy, sullen, bil- 
 ious sort of man, with a remarkable partiality for the ugliest 
 women in the country. He married, under very discredit- 
 able circumstances, Anne Hyde, the daughter of Lord Claren- 
 don, then the King's principal Minister — not at all a delicate 
 minister either, but doing much of the dirty work of a very 
 dirty palace. It became important now that the King him- 
 self should be married ; and divers foreign Monarchs, not 
 very particular about the character of their son-in-law, pro- 
 posed their daughters to him. The King of Portugal of- 
 fered his daughter Catherine of Braganza, and fifty thousand 
 pounds : in addition to which, the French King, who was 
 favorable to that match, offered a loan of another fifty thou- 
 sand. The King of Spain, on the other hand, offered any 
 one out of a dozen Princesses, and other hopes of gain. But 
 the ready money carried the day, and Catherine came over 
 in state to her merry marriage. 
 
 The whole Court was a great flaunting crowd of debauched 
 men and shameless women ; and Catherine's merry husband 
 insulted and outraged her in every possible way, until she 
 consented to receive those worthless creatures as her very 
 good friends, and to degrade herself by their companionship, 
 A Mrs. Palmer, whom the King made Lady Castlemaine, and 
 
356 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 afterward Duchess of Cleveland, was one of the most pow« 
 erful of the bad women about the Court, and had great in- 
 fluence with the King nearly all through his reign. Another 
 merry lady named Moll Davies, a dancer at the theater, was 
 afterwards her rival. So was Nell Gwyn, first an orange girl 
 and then an actress, who really had good in her, and of whom 
 one of the worst things I know is, that actually she does 
 seem to have been fond of the King. The first Duke of St. 
 Albans was this orange girl's child. In like manner the son 
 of a merry waiting-lady, whom the King created Duchess 
 of Portsmouth, became the Duke of Richmond. Upon the 
 whole it is not so bad a thing to be a commoner. 
 
 The Merry Monarch was so exceedingly merry among 
 these merry ladies, and some equally merry (and equally in- 
 famous) lords and gentlemen, that he soon got through his 
 hundred thousand pounds, and then, by way of raising a 
 little pocket-money, made a merry bargain. He sold Dun- 
 kirk to the French King for five millions of livres. When I 
 think of the dignity to which Oliver Cromwell raised En- 
 gland in the eyes of foreign powers, and when I think of the 
 manner in which he gained for England this very Dunkirk, 
 I am much inclined to consider that if the Merry Monarch . 
 had been made to follow his father for this action, he would 
 have received his just deserts. 
 
 Though he was like his father in none of that father's 
 greater qualities, he was like him in being worthy of no trust. 
 When he sent that letter to the Parliament, from Breda, he 
 did expressly promise that all sincere religious opinions 
 should be respected. Yet he was no sooner firm in his power 
 than he consented to one of the worst Acts of Parliament 
 ever passed. Under this law, every minister who should not 
 give his solemn assent to the Prayer-Book by a certain day, 
 was declared to be a minister no longer, and to be deprived 
 of his church. The consequence of this was that some two 
 thousand honest men were taken from their congregations, 
 and reduced to dire poverty and distress. It was followed by 
 another outrageous law, called the Conventicle Act, by which 
 any person above the age of sixteen who was present at any 
 religious service not according to the Prayer-Book, was to be 
 imprisoned three months for the first offense, six for the 
 second, and to be transported for the third. This Act alone 
 filled the prisons, which were then most dreadful dungeons, 
 to overflowing. 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 357 
 
 The Covenanters in Scotland had already fared no better. 
 A base Parliament, usually known as the Drunken Parlia- 
 ment, in consequence of its principal members being seldom 
 sober, had been got together to make laws against the Cove- 
 nanters, and to force all men to be of one mind in religious 
 matters. The Marquis of Argyle, relying on the King's 
 honor, had given himself up to him ; but he was wealthy, 
 and his enemies wanted his wealth. He was tried for trea- 
 son, on the evidence of some private letters in which he had 
 expressed opinions — as well he might — more favorable to 
 the government of the late Lord Protector than of the 
 present merry and religious King. He was executed, as 
 were two men of mark among the Covenanters ; and Sharp, 
 a traitor who had once been the friend of the Presbyterians 
 and betrayed them, was made Archbishop of St, Andrew's, 
 to teach the Scotch how to like bishops. 
 
 Things being in this merry state at home, the Merry Mon- 
 arch undertook a war with the Dutch ; principally because 
 they interfered with an African company, established with 
 the two objects of buying gold-dust and slaves, of which the 
 Duke of York was a leading member. After some prelim- 
 inary hostilities, the said Duke sailed to the coast of Holland 
 with a fleet of ninety-eight vessels of war, and four fire-ships. 
 This engaged with the Dutch fleet, of no fewer than one 
 hundred and thirteen ships. In the great battle between the 
 two forces, the Dutch lost eighteen ships, four admirals, and 
 seven thousand men. But the English on shore were in no 
 mood of exultation when they heard the news. 
 
 For this was the year and the time of the Great Plague in 
 London. During the winter of one thousand six hundred 
 and sixty-four it had been whispered about, that some few 
 people had died here and there of the disease called the 
 Plague, in some of the unwholesome suburbs around London. 
 News was not published at that time as it is now, ,v;id some 
 people believed these rumors, and some disbelieved them, 
 and they were soon forgotten. But, in the month of May, 
 one thousand six hundred and sixty-five, it began to be said 
 all over the town that the disease had burst out with great 
 violence in St. Giles's, and that the people were dying in 
 great numbers. This soon turned out to be awfully true. 
 The roads out of London were choked up by people endeav- 
 oring to escape from the infected city, and large sums were 
 paid for any kind of conveyance. The disease soon spread 
 
358 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 so fast, that it was necessary to shut up the houses in which 
 sick people were, and to cut them off from communication 
 with the living. Every one of these houses was marked on 
 the outside of the door with a red cross, and the words, Lord, 
 have mercy upon us ! The streets were all deserted, grass 
 grew in the public ways, and there was a dreadful silence in 
 the air. When night came on dismal rumblings used to be 
 heard, and these were the wheels of the death-carts, attended 
 by men with veiled faces and holding cloths to their mouths, 
 who rang doleful bells and cried in a loud and solemn voice, 
 " Bring out your dead ! " The corpses put into these carts 
 were buried by torchlight in great pits ; no service being per- 
 formed over them ; all men being afraid to stay for a moment 
 on the brink of the ghastly graves. In the general fear, 
 children ran away from their parents, and parents from their 
 children. Some who were taken ill, died alone, and with- 
 out any help. Some were stabbed or strangled by hired 
 nurses who robbed them of all their money, and stole the 
 very beds on which they lay. Some went mad, dropped 
 from the windows, ran through the streets, and in their pain 
 and frenzy flung themselves into the river. 
 
 These were not all the horrors of the time. The wicked 
 and dissolute, in wild desperation, sat in the taverns singing 
 roaring songs, and were stricken as they drank, and went 
 out and died. The fearful and superstitious persuaded them- 
 selves that they saw supernatural sights — burning swords in 
 the sky, gigantic arms and darts. Others pretended that 
 at nights vast crowds of ghosts walked round and round the 
 dismal pits. One madman, naked, and carrying a brazier 
 full of burning coals upon his head, stalked through the 
 streets, crying out that he was a Prophet, commissioned to 
 denounce the vengeance of the Lord on wicked London. 
 Another always went to and fro, exclaiming, "Yet forty 
 days, and London shall be destroyed ! " A third awoke 
 the echoes in the dismal streets, by night and by day, and 
 made the blood of the sick run cold, by calling out inces- 
 santly, in a deep hoarse voice, " O, the great and dreadful 
 God ! " 
 
 Through the months of July and August and September, 
 the Great Plague raged more and more. Great fires were 
 lighted in the streets, in the hope of stopping the infection ; 
 but there was a plague of rain too, and it beat the fires out. 
 At last, the winds which usually arise at that time of the 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 359 
 
 year which is called the equinox, when day and night are of 
 equal length all over the world, began to blow, and to purify 
 the wretched town. The deaths began to decrease, the red 
 crosses slowly to disappear, the fugitives to return, the shops 
 to open, pale frightened faces to be seen in the streets. The 
 Plague had been in every part of England, but in close and 
 unwholesome London it had killed one hundred thousand 
 people. 
 
 All this time, the Merry Monarch was as merry as ever, 
 and as worthless as ever. All this time, the debauched lords 
 and gentlemen and the shameless ladies danced and gamed 
 and drank, and loved and hated one another, according to 
 their merry ways. So little humanity did the government 
 learn from the late affliction, that one of the first things the 
 Parliament did when it met at Oxford (being as yet afraid to 
 come to London), was to make a law, called the Five Mile 
 Act, expressly directed against those poor ministers, who, 
 in the time of the Plague, had manfully come back to com- 
 fort the unhappy people. This infamous law, by forbidding 
 them to teach in any school, or to come within five miles of 
 any city, town, or village, doomed them to starvation and 
 death. 
 
 The fleet had been at sea, and healthy. The King of 
 France was now in alliance with the Dutch, though his navy 
 was chiefly employed in looking on while the English and 
 Dutch fought. The Dutch gained one victory; and the En- 
 glish gained another and a greater ; and Prince Rupert, one 
 of the English admirals, was out in the channel one windy 
 night, looking for the French admiral, with the intention of 
 giving him something more to do than he had had yet, when 
 the gale increased to a storm, and blew him into Saint Helen's. 
 That night was the third of September, one thousand six 
 hundred and sixty-six, and that wind fanned the Great Fire 
 of London. 
 
 It broke out at a baker's shop near London Bridge, on the 
 spot on which the Monument now stands as a remembrance 
 of those raging flames. It spread and spread, and burned 
 and burned, for three days. The nights were lighter than 
 the days ; in the day-time there was an immense cloud of 
 smoke, and in the night-time there was a great tower of fire 
 mounting up into the sky, which lighted the whole country 
 landscape for ten miles round. Showers of hot ashes rose 
 into the air and fell on distant places ; flying sparks carried 
 
360 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 the conflagration to great distances, and kindled it in twenty 
 new spots at a time ; church steeples fell down with tremen- 
 dous crashes ; houses crumbled into cinders by the hundred 
 and the thousand. The summer had been intensely hot and 
 dry, the streets were very narrow, and the houses mostly 
 built of wood and plaster. Nothing could stop the tremen- 
 dous fire, but the want of more houses to burn ; nor did it 
 stop until the whole way from the Tower to Temple Bar was 
 a desert composed of the ashes of thirteen thousand houses 
 and eighty-nine churches. 
 
 This was a terrible visitation at the time, and occasioned 
 great loss and suffering to the two hundred thousand burned- 
 out people, who were obliged to lie in the fields under the 
 open night sky, or in hastily-made huts of mud and straw, 
 while the lanes and roads were rendered impassable by carts 
 which had broken down as they tried to save their goods. 
 But the fire was a great blessing to the city afterward, for 
 it arose from its ruins very much improved — built more regu-" 
 larly, more widely, more cleanly and carefully, and therefore 
 much more healthily. It might be far more healthy than it 
 is, but there are some people in it still — even now, at this 
 time, nearly two hundred years later — so selfish, so pig- 
 headed, and so ignorant, that I doubt if even another Great 
 Fire would warm them up to do their duty. 
 
 The Catholics were accused of having willfully set London 
 in flames ; one poor Frenchman, who had been mad for 
 years, even accused himself of having with his own hand 
 fired the first house. There is no reasonable doubt, how- 
 ever, that the fire was accidental. An inscription on the 
 Monument long attributed it to the Catholics ; but it is re- 
 moved now, and was always a malicious and stupid untruth. 
 
 Second Part. 
 
 That the Merry Monarch might be very merry indeed, in 
 the merry times when his people were suffering under pesti- 
 lence and fire, he drank and gambled and flung away among 
 his favorites the money which the Parliament had voted for 
 the war. The consequence of this was that the stout-heart- 
 ed English sailors were merrily starving of want, and dying in 
 the streets; while the Dutch, under their admirals De Witt and 
 De Ruyter, came into the River Thames, and up the River 
 Medway as far as Upnor, burned the guard-ships, silenced 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 361 
 
 the weak batteries, and did what they would to the English 
 coast for six whole weeks. Most of the English ships that 
 could have prevented them had neither powder nor shot on 
 board ; in this merry reign, public officers made themselves 
 as merry as the King did with the public money ; and when 
 it was intrusted to them to spend in national defenses or 
 preparations, they put it into their own pockets with the mer- 
 riest grace in the world. 
 
 Lord Clarendon had, by this time, run as long a course as 
 is usually allotted to the unscrupulous ministers of bad kings. 
 He was impeached by his political opponents, but unsuccess- 
 fully. The King then commanded him to withdraw from 
 England and retire to France, which he did, after defending 
 himself in writing. He was no great loss at home, and died 
 abroad some seven years afterward. 
 
 There then came into power a ministry called the Cabal 
 Ministry, because it was composed of Lord Clifford, the 
 Earl of Arlington, the Duke of Buckingham (a great rascal, 
 and the King's most powerful favorite), Lord Ashley, and 
 the Duke of Lauderdale, c. a. b. a. l. As the French were 
 making conquests in Flanders, the first Cabal proceeding was 
 to make a treaty with the Dutch, for uniting with Spain to 
 appose the French. It was no sooner made than the Merry 
 Monarch, who always wanted to get money without being 
 accountable to a Parliament for his expenditure, apologized 
 to the King of France for having had any thing to do with 
 it, and concluded a secret treaty with him, making himself 
 his infamous pensioner to the amount of two millions of 
 livres down, and three millions more a year ; and engaging 
 to desert that very Spain, to make war against those very 
 Dutch, and to declare himself a Catholic when a convenient 
 time should arrive. This religious king had lately been cry- 
 ing to his Catholic brother on the subject of his strong desire 
 to be a Catholic ; and now he merrily concluded this treason- 
 able conspiracy against the country he governed, by under- 
 taking to become one as soon as he safely could. For all 
 of which, though he had had ten merry heads instead of 
 one, he richly deserved to lose them by the headsman's ax. 
 
 As his one merry head might have been far from safe, if 
 these things had been known, they were kept very quiet, and 
 war was declared by France and England against the 
 Dutch. But, a very uncommon man, afterward most im- 
 portant to English history and to the religion and iiberty of thU 
 
362 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 land, arose among them, and for many long years defeated 
 the whole projects of France. This was William of Nassau, 
 Prince of Orange, son of the last Prince of Orange of the 
 same name, who married the daughter of Charles the First 
 of England. He was a young man at this time, only just of 
 age ; but he was brave, cool, intrepid, and wise. His father 
 had been so detested that, upon his death, the Dutch had 
 abolished the authority to which this son would have other- 
 wise succeeded (Stadtholder it was called), and placed the 
 chief power in the hands of John de Witt, who educated 
 this young prince. Now, the Prince became very popular, 
 and John de Witt's brother Cornelius was sentenced to ban- 
 ishment on a fake accusation of conspiring to kill him. John 
 went to the prison where he was, to take him away to exile, 
 in his coach ; and a great mob who collected on the occasion, 
 then and there cruelly murdered both the brothers. This 
 left the government in the hands of the Prince, who was 
 really the choice of the nation ; and from this time he exer- 
 cised it with the greatest vigor, against the whole power of 
 France, under its famous generals Conde and Turenne, and 
 in support of the Protestant religion. It was full seven years 
 before this war ended in a treaty of peace made at Nime- 
 guen, and its details would occupy a very considerable space. 
 It is enough to say that William of Orange established a fa- 
 mous character with the whole world ; and that the Merry 
 Monarch, adding to and improving on his former baseness, 
 bound himself to do every thing the King of France liked, 
 and nothing the King of France did not like, for a pension 
 of one hundred thousand pounds a year, which was after- 
 ward doubled. Besides this, the king of France, by means 
 of his corrupt ambassador — who wrote accounts of his pro- 
 ceedings in England, which are not always to be believed, 
 I think — bought our English members of Parliament, as he 
 wanted them. So, in point of fact, during a considerable 
 portion of this merry reign, the King of France was the real 
 King of this country. 
 
 But there was a better time to come, and it was to come 
 (though his royal uncle little thought so) through that very 
 William, Prince of Orange. He came over to England, saw 
 Mary, the elder daughter of the Duke of York, and married 
 her. We shall see by and by what came of that marriage, 
 and why it is never to be forgotten. 
 
 This daughter was a Protestant, but her mother died a 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 363 
 
 Catholic. She and her sister Anne, also a Protestant, were 
 the only survivors of eight children. Anne afterward mar- 
 ried George, Prince of Denmark, brother to the King of 
 that country. 
 
 Lest you should do the Merry Monarch the injustice of 
 supposing that he was even good-humored (except when he 
 had every thing his own way), or that he was high-spirited 
 and honorable, I will mention here what was done to a mem- 
 ber of the House of Commons, Sir John Coventry. He 
 made a remark in a debate about taxing the theaters, which 
 gave the King offense. The King agreed with his illegiti- 
 mate son, who had been born abroad, and whom he had 
 made Duke of Monmouth, to take the following merry ven- 
 geance. To waylay him at night, fifteen armed men to one, 
 and to slit his nose with a penknife. Like master, like man." 
 The King's favorite, the Duke of Buckingham, was strongly 
 suspected of setting on an assassin to murder the Duke of 
 Ormond as he was returning home from a dinner ; and that 
 Duke's spirited son, Lord Ossory, was so persuaded of his 
 guilt, that he said to him at Court, even as he stood beside 
 the King, " My lord, I know very well that you are at the 
 bottom of this late attempt upon my father. But I give you 
 warning, if he ever come to a violent end, his blood shall be 
 upon you, and wherever I meet you I will pistol you ! I will 
 do so, though I find you standing behind the King's chair ; 
 and I tell you this in his Majesty's presence, that you may 
 be quite sure of my doing what I threaten." Those were 
 merry times indeed. 
 
 There was a fellow named Blood, who was seized for 
 making, with two companions, an audacious attempt to steal 
 the crown, the globe, and scepter, from the place where the 
 jewels were kept in the tower. This robber, who was a 
 swaggering ruffian, being taken, declared that he was the 
 man who had endeavored to kill the Duke of Ormond, and 
 that he had meant to kill the King too, but was overawed by 
 the majesty of his appearance, when he might otherwise have 
 done it, as he was bathing at Battersea. The King being but 
 an ill-looking fellow, I don't believe a word of this. Whether 
 he was flattered, or whether he knew that Buckingham had 
 really set Blood on to murder the Duke, is uncertain. But it 
 is quite certain that he pardoned this thief, gave him an es- 
 tate of five hundred a year in Ireland (which had had the 
 honor of giving him birth), and presented him at Court to 
 
364 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 the debauched lords and the shameless ladies, who made a 
 great deal of him — as I have no doubt they would have made 
 of the Devil himself, if the King had introduced him. 
 
 Infamously pensioned as he was, the King still wanted 
 money, and consequently was obliged to call Parliaments. 
 In these, the great object of the Protestants was to thwart the 
 Catholic Duke of York, who married a second time ; his new 
 wife being a young lady only fifteen years old, the Catholic 
 sister of the Duke of Modena. In this they were seconded 
 by the Protestant Dissenters, though to their own disadvan- 
 tage : since, to exclude Catholics from power, they were even 
 willing to exclude themselves. The King's object was to 
 pretend to be a Protestant, while he was really a Catholic ; 
 to swear to the bishops that he was devoutly attached to the 
 English Church, while he knew he had bargained it away to 
 the King of France ; and by cheating and deceiving them, 
 and all who were attached to royalty, to become despotic and 
 be powerful enough to confess what a rascal he was. Mean- 
 time the King of France, knowing his merry pensioner well, 
 intrigued with the King's opponents in Parliament, as well as 
 with the King and his friends. 
 
 The fears that the country had of the Catholic religion be- 
 ing restored, if the Duke of York should come to the throne, 
 and the low cunning of the King in pretending to share their 
 alarms, led to some very terrible results. A certain Dr. 
 Tonge, a dull clergyman in the city, fell into the hands of a 
 certain Titus Oates, a most infamous character, who pre- 
 tended to have acquired among the Jesuits abroad a knowl- 
 edge of a great plot for the murder of the King, and the 
 re-establishment of the Catholic religion. Titus Oates being 
 produced by this unlucky Dr. Tonge, and solemnly examined 
 before the council, contradicted himself in a thousand ways, 
 told the most ridiculous and improbable stories, and impli- 
 cated Coleman, the Secretary of the Duchess of York. Now, 
 although what he charged against Coleman was not true, and 
 although you and I know very well that the real dangerous 
 Catholic plot was that one with the King of France of which 
 the Merry Monarch was himself the head, there happened to 
 be found among Coleman's papers, some letters, in which he 
 did praise the days of Bloody Queen Mary, and abuse the 
 Protestant religion. This was great good fortune for Titus, 
 as it seemed to confirm him ; but better still was in store, 
 Sir Edmundbury Godfrey, the magistrate who had first ex- 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 365 
 
 amined him, being unexpectedly found dead near Primrose 
 Hill, was confidently believed to have been killed by the 
 Catholics. I think there is no doubt that he had been mel- 
 ancholy mad, and that he killed himself ; but he had a great 
 Protestant funeral, and Titus was called the Saver of the 
 Nation, and received a pension of twelve hundred pounds 
 a year. 
 
 As soon as Oates's wickedness had met with this success, 
 up started another villain, named William Bedloe, who, 
 attracted by a reward of five hundred pounds offered for the 
 apprehension of the murderers of Godfrey, came forward and 
 charged two Jesuits and some other persons with having 
 committed it at the Queen's desire. Oates, going into part- 
 nership with this new informer, had the audacity to accuse 
 the poor Queen herself of high treason. Then appeared a 
 third informer, as bad as either of the two, and accused 
 a Catholic banker named Stayley of having said that the 
 King was the greatest rogue in the world (which would not 
 have been far from the truth), and that he would kill him 
 with his own hand. This banker, being at once tried and 
 executed, Coleman and two others were tried and executed, 
 Then, a miserable wretch named Prance, a Catholic silver- 
 smith, being accused by Bedloe, was tortured into confessing 
 that he had taken part in Godfrey's murder, and into accus- 
 ing three other men of having committed it. Then, five Jes- 
 uits were accused by Oates, Bedloe, and Prance together, 
 and were all found guilty, and executed on the same kind of 
 contradictory and absurd evidence. The Queen's physician 
 and three monks were next put on their trial ; but Oates and 
 Bedloe had for the time gone far enough, and these four were 
 acquitted. The public mind, however, was so full of a Cath- 
 olic plot, and so strong against the Duke of York, that James 
 consented to obey a written order from his brother, and to 
 go with his family to Brussels, provided that his rights should 
 never be sacrificed in his absence to the Duke of Monmouth. 
 The House of Commons, not satisfied with this as the King 
 "hoped, passed a bill to exclude the Duke from ever succeed- 
 ing to the throne. In return, the King dissolved the Par- 
 liament. He had deserted his old favorite, the Duke of 
 Buckingham, who was now in the opposition. 
 
 To give any sufficient idea of the miseries of Scotland in 
 this merry reign, would occupy a hundred pages. Because 
 the people would not have bishops, and were resolved to 
 
366 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 stand by their Solemn League and Covenant, such cruelties 
 were inflicted upon them as make the blood run cold. Fero- 
 cious dragoons galloped through the country to punish the 
 peasants for deserting the churches ; sons were hanged up at 
 their fathers' doorsfor refusing to disclose where their fathers 
 were concealed ; wives were tortured to death for not betray- 
 ing their husbands ; people were taken out of their fields and 
 gardens, and shot on the public roads without trial ; lighted 
 matches were tied to the fingers of prisoners, and a most 
 horrible torment called the Boot was invented, and constantly 
 applied, which ground and mashed the victims' legs with iron 
 wedges. Witnesses were tortured as well as prisoners. All 
 the prisons were full ; all the gibbets were heavy with bodies ; 
 murder and plunder devastated the whole country. In spite 
 of all, the Covenanters were by no means to be dragged into 
 the churches, and persisted in worshiping God as they 
 thought right. A body of ferocious Highlanders, turned 
 upon them from the mountains of their own country, had no 
 greater effect than the English dragoons under Grahame of 
 Claverhouse, the most cruel and rapacious of all their ene- 
 mies, whose name will ever be cursed through the length and 
 breadth of Scotland. Archbishop Sharp had ever aided and 
 abetted all these outrages. But he fell at last ; for when the 
 injuries of the Scottish people were at their height, he was 
 seen, in his coach-and-six coming across a moor, by a body 
 of men, headed by one John Balfour, who were in waiting for 
 another of their oppressors. Upon this they cried out that 
 heaven had delivered him into their hands, and killed him 
 with many wounds. If ever a man deserved such a death, 
 I think Archbishop Sharp did. 
 
 It made a great noise directly, and the Merry Monarch — 
 strongly suspected of having goaded the Scottish people on, 
 that he might have an excuse for a greater army than the 
 Parliament were willing to give him — sent down his son, the 
 Duke of Monmouth, as commander-in-chief, with instructions 
 to attack the Scottish rebels, or Whigs, as they were called, 
 whenever he came up with them. Marching with ten thou- 
 sand men from Edinburgh, he found them, in number 
 four or five thousand, drawn up at Bothwell Bridge, by 
 the Clyde. They were soon dispersed ; and Monmouth 
 showed a more humane character toward them than he had 
 shown toward that Member of Parliament whose nose 
 he had caused to be slit with a penknife. But the Duke of 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 367 
 
 Lauderdale was their bitter foe, and sent Claverhouse to 
 finish them. 
 
 As the Duke of York became more and more unpopular, 
 the Duke of Monmouth became*more and more popular. It 
 would have been decent in the latter not to have voted in 
 favor of the renewed bill for the exclusion of James from the 
 throne ; but he did so, much to the King's amusement, who 
 Used to sit in the House of Lords by the fire, hearing the de- 
 bates, which he said were as good as a play. The House of 
 Commons passed the bill by a large majority, and it was 
 carried up to the Housa of Lords by Lord Russell, one of 
 the best of the leaders of the Protestant side. It was re- 
 jected there, chiefly because the bishops helped the King to 
 get rid of it; and the fear of the Catholic plots revived again, 
 There had been another got up, by a fellow out of Newgate, 
 named Dangerfield, which is more famous than it deserves 
 to be, under the name of the Meal-Tub Plot. This jail- 
 bird having been got out of Newgate by a Mrs. Cellier, a 
 Catholic nurse, had turned Catholic himself, and pretended 
 that he knew of a plot among the Presbyterians against the 
 King's life. This was very pleasant to the Duke of York, 
 who hated the Presbyterians, who returned the compliment. 
 He gave Dangerfield twenty guineas, and sent him to the 
 King his brother. But Dangerfield, breaking down alto- 
 gether in his charge, and being sent back to Newgate, almost 
 astonished the Duke out of his five senses by suddenly swear- 
 ing that the Catholic nurse had put that false design into his 
 •head, and that what he really knew about, was, a Catholic 
 plot against the King; the evidence of which would be found 
 in some papers, concealed in a meal-tub in Mrs. Cellier's 
 house. There they were, of course — for he had put them 
 there himself — and so the tub gave the name to the plot. 
 But the nurse was acquitted on her trial, and it came to 
 nothing. 
 
 Lord Ashley, of the Cabal, was now Lord Shaftesbury; and 
 was strong against the succession of the Duke of York. The 
 House of Commons aggravated to the utmost extent, as we 
 may well suppose, by suspicions of the King's conspiracy 
 with the King of France, made a desperate point of the ex- 
 clusion still, and were bitter against the Catholics generally. 
 So unjustly bitter were they, I grieve to say, that they im- 
 peached the venerable Lord Stafford, a Catholic nobleman 
 seventy years old, of a design to kill the King. The wit- 
 
368 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 nesses were that atrocious Oates and two other birds of the 
 same feather. He was found guilty, on evidence quite as 
 foolish as it was false, and was beheaded on Tower Hill. 
 The people were opposed to him when he first appeared upon 
 the scaffold; but when he had addressed them and shown 
 them how innocent he was and how wickedly he was sent 
 there, their better nature was aroused, and they said, " We 
 believe you, my lord. God bless you, my lord ! " 
 
 The House of Commons refused to let the King have any 
 money until he should consent to the Exclusion Bill; but, as 
 he could get it and did get it from his master the King of 
 France, he could afford to hold them very cheap. He called 
 a Parliament at Oxford, to which he went down with a great 
 show of being armed and protected as if he were in danger 
 of his life, and to which the opposition members also went 
 armed and protected, alleging that they were in fear of the 
 Papists, who were numerous among the King's guards. How- 
 ever, they went on with the Exclusion Bill, and were so earn- 
 est upon it that they would have carried it again, if the King 
 had not popped his crown and state robes into a sedan-chair, 
 bundled himself into it along with them, hurried down to the 
 chamber where the House of Lords met, and dissolved the 
 Parliament. After which he scampered home, and the mem- 
 bers of Parliament scampered home too, as fast as their legs 
 could carry them. 
 
 The Duke of York, then residing in Scotland, had, under 
 the law which excluded Catholics from public trust, no right 
 whatever to public employment. Nevertheless, he was openly 
 employed as the King's representative in Scotland, and there 
 gratified his sullen and cruel nature to his heart's content 
 by directing the dreadful cruelties against the Covenanters. 
 There were two ministers named Cargill and Cameron who 
 had escaped from the battle of Bothwell Bridge, and who 
 returned to Scotland, an«3 raised the miserable but still brave 
 and unsubdued Covenanters afresh, under the name of Cam- 
 eronians. As Cameron publicly posted a declaration that the 
 King wis a forsworn tyrant, no mercy was shown to his un- 
 happy followers after he was slain in battle. The Duke of 
 York, who was particularly fond of the Boot and derived 
 great pleasure from having it applied, offered their lives to 
 some of these people, if they would cry on the scaffold, " God 
 save the King ! " But their relations, friends, and country- 
 men had been so barbarously tortured and murdered in this 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 369 
 
 merry reign, that they preferred to die, and did die. The 
 Duke then obtained his merry brother's permission to hold a 
 Parliament in Scotland, which first, with most shameless de- 
 ceit, confirmed the laws for securing the Protestant religion 
 against Popery, and then declared that nothing must or 
 should prevent the succession of a Popish Duke. After this 
 double-faced beginning, it established an oath which no 
 human being could understand, but which every body was to 
 take, as a proof that his religion was the lawful religion. 
 The Earl of Argyle, taking it with the explanation that he 
 did not consider it to prevent him from favoring any alter- 
 ation either in the Church or State which was not inconsistent 
 with the Protestant religion or with his loyalty, was tried for 
 high treason before a Scottish jury, of which the Marquis of 
 Montrose was foreman, and was found guilty. He escaped 
 the scaffold, for that time, by getting away, in the disguise 
 of a page, in the train of his daughter, Lady Sophia Lindsay. 
 It was absolutely proposed, by certain members of the Scot- 
 tish Council, that this lady should be whipped through the 
 streets of Edinburgh. But this was too much even for the 
 Duke, who had the manliness then (he had very little at 
 most times) to remark that Englishmen were not accustomed 
 to treat ladies in that manner. In those merry times 
 nothing could equal the brutal servility of the Scottish fawn- 
 ers but the conduct of similar degraded beings in England. 
 
 After the settlement of these little affairs, the Duke 
 returned to England, and soon resumed his place at the Coun- 
 cil, and his office of High Admiral — all this by his brother's 
 favor, and in open defiance of the law. It would have been 
 no loss to the country; if he had been drowned when his ship, 
 in going to Scotland to fetch his family, struck on a sand-bank, 
 and was lost with two hundred souls on board. But he 
 escaped in a boat with some friends; and the sailors were so 
 brave and unselfish, that, when they saw him rowing away, they 
 gave three cheers, while they themselves were going down for- 
 ever. 
 
 The Merry Monarch having got rid of his Parliament, went 
 to work to make himself despotic, with all speed. Having 
 had the villainy to order the execution of Oliver Plunket, 
 Bishop of Armagh, falsely accused of a plot to establish Pop- 
 ery in that country by means of a French army — the very 
 thing this royal traitor was himself trying to do at home — 
 and having tried to ruin Lord Shaftesbury, and failed — he 
 
~§jo A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLANlX 
 
 turned his hand to controlling the corporations all over the 
 country ; because, if he could only ek> that, he could get what 
 juries he chose, to bring in perjured verdicts, and could get 
 what members he chose, returned to Parliament. These merry 
 times produced, and made Chief Justice of the Court of King 3 
 Bench, a drunken ruffian of the name of Jeffreys ; a red- 
 faced; swollen, bloated,horrible creature, with a bullying, roar- 
 ing v oice ? and a more savage nature perhaps than Was ever 
 lodged in any human breast. This monster was the Merry' 
 Monarch's especial favorite, and he testified his admiration 
 of him by giving him a ring from his own finger, which the 
 people used to call Judge Jeffreys's Blood-stone. Him the 
 King employed to go about and bully the corporations, begin- 
 ning with London ; or, as Jeffreys himself elegantly called i! ? 
 " to give them a lick with the rough side of his tongue/* 
 And he did it so thoroughly, that they soon became the basest 
 and most sycophantic bodies in the kingdom— except the 
 University of Oxford, which, in that respect, was quite pre- 
 eminent and unapproachable. 
 
 Lord Shaftesbury (who died soon after the King's failure 
 against him), Lord William Russell, the Duke of Mon- 
 mouth, Lord Howard, Lord Jersey, Algernon Sidney,, 
 John Hampden (grandson of the great Hampden), and some 
 others, used to hold a council together after the dissolution 
 of the Parliament, arranging what it might be necessary to 
 do, if the King carried his Popish plot to the utmost height. 
 Lord Shaftesbury having been much the most violent of this 
 party; brought two violent men into their secrets — Rumsey, 
 who had been a soldier in the Republican army ; and West, 
 a lawyer. These two knew an old officer of Cromwell's, 
 called Rumbold, who had married a maltster's widow, and so 
 had come into possession of a solitary dwelling called the Rye 
 House, near Hoddesdon, in Hertfordshire. Rumbold said 
 to them what a capital place this house of his would be from 
 which to shoot at the King, who often passed there going to 
 and fro from Newmarket. They liked the idea, and enter- 
 tained it. But one of their body gave information ; and they,, 
 together with Shepherd a wine merchant, Lord Russell,, 
 Algernon Sidney, Lord Essex, Lord Howard, and Hampden,, 
 were all arrested. 
 
 Lord Russell might have easily escaped, but scorned to do> 
 so, being innocent of any wrong ; Lord Essex might have eas- 
 ily escaped, but scorned to d&so, lest his flight should preju?- 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 371 
 
 dice Lord Russell. But it weighed upon his mind that he had 
 brought into their council, Lord Howard— who now turned 
 a miserable traitor — against a great dislike Lord Russell had 
 always had of him. He could not bear the reflection, and 
 destroyed himself before Lord Russell was brought to trial 
 at the Old Bailey. 
 
 He knew very well that he nad nothing to hope, having 
 always been manful in the Protestant cause against the two 
 false brothers, the one on the throne, and the other standing 
 next to it. He had a wife, one of the noblest and best of 
 women, who acted as his secretary on his trial, who comforted 
 him in his prison, who supped with him on the night before he 
 died, and whose love and virtue and devotion have made her 
 name imperishable. Of course, he was found guilty, and was 
 sentenced to be beheaded in Lincoln's Inn-fields, not many 
 yards from his own house. When he had parted from his 
 children on the evening before his death, his wife still staid 
 with him until ten o'clock at night ; and when their final 
 separation in this world was over, and he had kissed her many 
 times, he still sat for a long while in his prison, talking of her 
 goodness. Hearing the rain fall fast at the time, he calmly 
 said, " Such a rain to-morrow will spoil a great show, which 
 is a dull thing on a rainy day." At midnight he went to bed, 
 and slept till four ; even when his servant called him he fell 
 asleep again while his clothes were being made ready. He 
 rode to the scaffold in his own carriage, attended by two 
 famous clergymen, Tillotson and Burnet, and sang a psalm 
 to himself very softly, as he went along. He was as quiet 
 and as steady as if he had been going out for an ordinary 
 ride. After saying that he was surprised to see so great a 
 crowd, he laid down his head upon the block, as if upon the 
 pillow of his bed, and had it struck off at the second blow. 
 His noble wife was busy for him even then ; for that true- 
 hearted lady printed and widely circulated his last words, of 
 which he had given her a copy. They made the blood of all 
 the honest men in England boil. 
 
 The University of Oxford distinguished itself on the very 
 same day by pretending to believe that the accusation against 
 Lord Russell was true, and by calling the King, in a written 
 paper, the Breath of their Nostrils and the Anointed of the 
 Lord. This paper the Parliament afterward caused to be 
 burned by the common hangman ; which I am sorry for, as I 
 wish it had been framed and glazed and hung up in some 
 
372 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 public place, as a monument of baseness for the scorn of 
 mankind. 
 
 Next, came the trial of Algernon Sidney, at which Jeffreys 
 presided, like a great crimson toad, sweltering and swelling 
 with rage. " I pray God, Mr. Sidney," said this Chief Jus- 
 tice of a merry reign, after passing sentence, " to work in you 
 a temper fit to go to the other world, for I see you are not 
 fit for this." " My lord," said the prisoner, composedly 
 holding out his arm, " feel my pulse, and see if I be disor- 
 dered. I thank Heaven I never was in better temper than I 
 am now." Algerdon Sidney was executed on Tower Hill, on 
 the seventh of December, one thousand six hundred and 
 eighty-three. He died a hero, and died, in his own words, 
 " For that good old cause in' which he had been engaged 
 from his youth, and for which God had so often and so won- 
 derfully declared himself." 
 
 The Duke of Monmouth had been making his uncle, the 
 Duke of York, very jealous, by going about the country in a 
 royal sort of way, playing at the people's games, becoming 
 god-father to their children, and even touching for the King's 
 evil, or stroking the faces of the sick to cure them — though, 
 for the matter of that, I should say he did them about as 
 much good as any crowned king could have done. His 
 father had got him to write a letter, confessing his having 
 had a part in the conspiracy, for which Lord Russell had 
 been beheaded ; but he was ever a weak man, and as soon 
 as he had written it, he was ashamed of it and got it back 
 again. For this, he was banished to the Netherlands ; but 
 he soon returned and had an interview with his father, un- 
 known to his uncle. It would seem that he was coming into 
 the Merry Monarch's favor again, and that the Duke of York 
 was sliding out of it, when death appeared to the merry gal- 
 leries at Whitehall, and astonished the debauched lords and 
 gentlemen, and the shameless ladies, very considerably. 
 
 On Monday, the second of February, one thousand six 
 hundred and eighty-five, the merry pensioner and servant of 
 the King of France fell down in a fit of apoplexy. By the 
 Wednesday his case was hopeless, and on the Thursday he 
 was told so. As he made a difficulty about taking the sacra- 
 ment from the Protestant Bishop of Bath, the Duke of York 
 got all who were present away from the bed, and asked his 
 brother, in a whisper, if he should send for a Catholic priest ? 
 The King replied, " For God's sake, brother, do ! " The 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND 373 
 
 Duke smuggled in, up the back stairs, disguised in a wig and 
 gown, a priest named Huddleston, who had saved the King's 
 life after the battle of Worcester ; telling him that this 
 worthy man in the wig had once saved his body, and was 
 now come to save his soul. 
 
 The Merry Monarch lived through that night, and died 
 before noon on the next day, which was Friday, the sixth. 
 Two of the last things he said were of a human sort, and 
 your remembrance will give him the full benefit of them. 
 When the Queen sent to say she was too unwell to attend 
 him and to ask his pardon, he said, " Alas ! poor woman, 
 she beg my pardon ! I beg hers with all my heart. Take 
 back that answer to her." And he also said, in reference to 
 Nell Gwyn, " Do not let poor Nelly starve." 
 
 He died in the fifty-fifth year of his age, and the twenty- 
 fifth of his reign. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE SECOND. 
 
 King James the Second was a man so very disagreeable, 
 that even the best of historians has favored his brother 
 Charles, as becoming, by comparison, quite a pleasant char- 
 acter. The one object of his short reign was to re-establish 
 the Catholic religion in England ; and this he doggedly pur- 
 sued with such a stupid obstinacy, that his career very soon 
 came to a close. 
 
 The first thing he did, was, to assure his council that he 
 would make it his endeavor to preserve the Government, both 
 in Church and State, as it was by law established ; and that 
 he would always take care to defend and support the 
 Church. Great public acclamations were raised over this 
 fair speech, and a great deal was said, from the pulpits and 
 elsewhere, about the word of a King which was never broken, 
 by credulous people who little supposed that he had formed 
 a secret council for Catholic affairs, of which a mischievous 
 Jesuit, called Father Petre, was one of the chief members. 
 With tears of joy in his eyes, he received, as the beginning of 
 his pension from the King of France, five hundred thousand 
 livres ; yet, with a mixture of meanness and arrogance that 
 belonged to his contemptible character, he was always jealous 
 
374 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 of making some show of being indepeadent of the King of 
 France, while he pocketed his money. As — notwithstanding 
 his publishing two papers in favor of Popery (and not likely 
 to do it much service, I should think) written by the King, 
 his brother, and found in his strong-box ; and his open dis- 
 play of himself attending mass — the Parliament was very 
 obsequious, and granted him a large sum of money, he began 
 his reign with a belief that he could do what he pleased, and 
 with a determination to do it. 
 
 Before we proceed to its principal events, let us dispose of 
 Titus Oates. He was tried for perjury, a fortnight after the 
 coronation, and besides being very heavily fined, was sen- 
 tenced to stand twice in the pillory, to be whipped from Aid- 
 gate to Newgate one day, and from Newgate to Tyburn two 
 days afterwards, and to stand in the pillory five times a year 
 as long as he lived. This fearful sentence was actually in- 
 flicted on the rascal. Being unable to stand after his first 
 flogging, he was dragged on a sledge from Newgate to Ty- 
 burn, and flogged as he was drawn along. He was so strong 
 a villain that he did not die under the torture, but lived to be 
 afterward pardoned and rewarded, though not to be ever 
 believed in any more. Dangerfield, the only other one of 
 that crew left alive, was not so fortunate. He was almost 
 killed by a whipping from Newgate to Tyburn, and, as if that 
 were not punishment enough, a ferocious barrister of Gray's 
 Inn gave him a poke in the eye with his cane, which caused 
 his death ; for which the ferocious barrister was deservedly 
 tried and executed. 
 
 As soon as James was on the throne, Argyle and Mon- 
 mouth went from Brussels to Rotterdam, and attended a 
 meeting of Scottish exiles held there, to concert measures 
 fbr a rising in England. It was agreed that Argyle should 
 effect a landing in Scotland, and Monmouth in England ; and 
 that two Englishmen should be sent with Argyle to be in 
 his confidence, and two Scotchmen with the Duke of Mon- 
 mouth. 
 
 Argyle was the first to act upon this contract. But two 
 of his men being taken prisoners at the Orkney Islands, the 
 Government became aware of his intention, and was able 
 to act against him with such vigor as to prevent his raising 
 more than two or three thousand Highlanders, although he 
 sent a fiery cross, by trusty messengers, from clan to clan 
 and from glen to glen, as the custom then was when those 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 37$ 
 
 wild people were to be excited by their chiefs. As he was 
 moving toward Glasgow with his small force, he was be- 
 trayed by some of his followers, taken, and carried, with 
 his hands tied behind his back, to his old prison in Edinburgh 
 Castle. James ordered him to be executed, on his old shame- 
 fully unjust sentence, within three days ; and he appears to 
 have been anxious that his legs should have been pounded 
 with his old favorite the boot. However, the boot was not 
 applied ; he was simply beheaded, and his head was set upon 
 the top of Edinburgh Jail. One of those Englishmen who 
 had been assigned to him was that old soldier Rumbold, the 
 master of the Rve House. He was sorely wounded, and 
 within a week after Argyle had suffered with great courage, 
 was brought up for trial, lest he should die and disappoint 
 the King. He, too, was executed, after defending himself 
 with great spirit, and saying that he did not believe that God 
 had made the greater part of mankind to carry saddles on 
 their backs and bridles in their mouths, and to be ridden by 
 a few, booted and spurred for the purpose — in which 1 thor- 
 oughly agree with Rumbold. 
 
 The Duke of Monmouth, partly through being detained 
 and partly through idling his time away, was five or six 
 weeks behind his friend when he landed at Lyme, in Dorset ; 
 having at his right hand an unlucky nobleman called Lord 
 Grey of Werk, who of himself would have ruined a far more 
 promising expedition. He immediately set up his standard 
 in the market-place, and proclaimed the King a tyrant, and a 
 Popish usurper, and I know not what else ; charging him 
 not only with what he had done, which was bad enough, but 
 with what neither he nor any body else had done, such as 
 setting fire to London, and poisoning the late King. Raising 
 some four thousand men by these means, he marched on to 
 Taunton, where there were many Protestant dissenters who 
 were strongly opposed to the Catholics. Here, both the rich 
 and poor turned out to receive him, ladies waved a welcome 
 to him from all the windows as he passed along the streets, 
 flowers were strewn in his way, and every compliment and 
 honor that could be devised was showered upon him. Among 
 the rest, twenty young ladies came forward, in their best 
 clothes, and in their brightest beauty, and gave him a Bible 
 ornamented with their own fair hands, together with other 
 presents. 
 
 Encouraged by this homage, he proclaimed himself King, 
 
376 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 and went on to Bridgewater. But here the Government 
 troops, under the Earl of Feversham, were close at hand ; 
 and he was so dispirited at finding that he made but few 
 powerful friends after all, that it was a question whether he 
 should disband his army and endeavor to escape. It was 
 resolved, at the instance of that unlucky Lord Grey, to make 
 a night attack on the King's army, as it lay encamped on 
 the edge of a morass called Sedgemoor. The horsemen were 
 commanded by the same unlucky lord, who was not a brave 
 man. He gave up the battle almost at the first obstacle — 
 which was a deep drain ; and although the poor country- 
 men, who had turned out for Monmouth, fought bravely with 
 scythes, poles, pitchforks, and such poor weapons as they 
 had, they were soon dispersed by the trained soldiers, and 
 fled in all directions. When the Duke of Monmouth himself 
 fled, was not known in the confusion ; but the unlucky Lord 
 Grey was taken early next day, and then another of the party 
 was taken, who confessed he had parted fr&m the Duke 
 only four hours before. Strict search being made, he was 
 lound disguised as a peasant, hidden in a ditch under fern 
 and nettles, with a few peas in his pocket which he had gath- 
 ered in the fields to eat. The only other articles he had upon 
 him were a few papers and little books : one of the latter 
 being a strange jumble, in his own writing, of charms, songs, 
 recipes, and prayers. He was completely broken. He wrote 
 a miserable letter to the King, beseeching and entreating to 
 be allowed to see him. When he was taken to London, and 
 conveyed bound into the King's presence, he crawled to him 
 on his knees, and made a most degrading exhibition. As 
 James never forgave or relented toward any body, he was 
 not likely to soften toward the issuer of the Lyme proclama- 
 tion, so he told the suppliant to prepare for death. 
 
 On the fifteenth of July, one thousand six hundred and 
 eighty-five, this unfortunate favorite of the people was 
 brought out to die on Tower Hill. The crowd was immense, 
 and the tops of all the houses were covered with gazers. He 
 had seen his wife, the daughter of the Duke of Buccleuch, 
 in the Tower, and had talked much of a lady whom he loved 
 far better — the Lady Harriet Wentworth — who was one of 
 the last persons he remembered in this life. Before laying 
 down his head upon the block he felt the edge of the ax, 
 and told the executioner that he feared it was not sharp 
 enough, and that the ax was not heavy enough. On the 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 377 
 
 executioner replying that it was of the proper kind, the Duke 
 said, " I pray you have a care, and do not use me so awk- 
 wardly as you used ray Lord Russell." The executioner, 
 made nervous by this, and trembling, struck once, and merely 
 gashed him in the neck. Upon this, the Duke of Monmouth 
 raised his head and looked the man reproachfully in the face. 
 Then he struck twice, and then thrice, and then threw down 
 the ax, and cried out in a voice of horror that he could not 
 finish that work. The sheriffs, however, threatening him 
 with what should be done to himself, if he did not, he took it 
 up again and struck a fourth time and a fifth time. Then 
 the wretched head at last fell off, and James, Duke of Mon- 
 mouth, was dead, in the thirty-sixth year of his age. He 
 was a showy graceful man, with many popular qualities, and 
 had found much favor in the open hearts of the English. 
 
 The atrocities, committed by the Government, which fol- 
 lowed this Monmouth rebellion, form the blackest and most 
 lamentable page in English history. The poor peasants, 
 having been dispersed with great loss, and their leaders 
 having been taken, one would think that the implacable 
 King might have been satisfied. But no ; he let loose upon 
 them, among other intolerable monsters, a Colonel Kirk, 
 who had served against the Moors, and whose soldiers — 
 called by the people Kirk's lambs, because they bore a lamb 
 upon their flag, as the emblem of Christianity — were worthy 
 of their leader. The atrocities committed by these demons 
 in human shape are far too horrible to be related here. It 
 is enough to say, that besides most ruthlessly murdering 
 and robbing them, and ruining them, by making them buy 
 their pardons at the price of all they possessed, it was one of 
 Kirk's favorite amusements, as he and his officers sat drink- 
 ing after dinner, and toasting the King, to have batches of 
 prisoners hanged outside the windows for the company's di- 
 version ; and that when their feet quivered in the convul- 
 sions of death, he used to swear that they should have mu- 
 sic to their dancing, and would order the drums to beat and 
 the trumpets to play. The detestable King informed him, 
 as an acknowledgment of these services, that he was "very 
 well satisfied with his proceedings." But the King's great 
 delight was in the proceedings of Jeffreys, now a peer, who 
 went down into the west, with four other judges, to try per- 
 sons accused of having had any share in the rebellion. The 
 King pleasantly called this " Jeffreys's campaign." The peo- 
 
37* A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 pie down in that part of the country remember it to this day 
 as the Bloody Assize. 
 
 It began at Winchester, where a poor deaf old lady, Mrs. 
 Alicia Lisle, the widow of one of the judges of Charles the 
 First (who had been murdered abroad by some Royalist as- 
 sassins), was charged with having given shelter in her house 
 to two fugitives from Sedgemoor. Three times the jury re- 
 fused to find her guilty, until Jeffreys bullied and frightened 
 them into that false verdict. When he had extorted it from 
 them, he said, " Gentlemen, if I had been one of you, and 
 she had been my own mother, I would have found her guil- 
 ty ; " as I dare say he would. He sentenced her to be 
 burned alive, that very afternoon. The clergy of the cathe- 
 dral and some others interfered in her favor, and she was 
 beheaded within a week. As a high mark of his approba- 
 tion, the King made Jeffreys Lord Chancellor, and he then 
 went on to Dorchester, to Exeter, to Taunton, and to Wells. 
 It is astonishing, when we read of the enormous injustice 
 and barbarity of this beast, to know that no one struck him 
 dead on the judgment-seat. It was enough for any man or 
 woman to be accused by an enemy, before Jeffreys, to be 
 found guilty of high treason. One man who pleaded not 
 guilty, he ordered to be taken out of court upon the instant 
 and hanged, and this so terrified the prisoners in general that 
 they mostly pleaded guilty at once. At Dorchester alone, 
 in the course of a few days, Jeffreys hanged eighty people ; 
 besides whipping, transporting, imprisoning, and selling as 
 slaves, great numbers. He executed, in all, two hundred 
 and fifty, or three hundred. 
 
 These executions took place, among the neighbors and 
 friends of the sentenced, in thirty-six towns and villages. 
 Their bodies were mangled, steeped in caldrons of boiling 
 pitch and tar, and hung up by the roadsides, in the streets, 
 over the very churches. The sight and smell of heads and 
 limbs, the hissing and bubbling of the infernal caldrons, and 
 the tears and terrors of the people, were dreadful beyond all 
 description. One rustic, who was forced to steep the re- 
 mains in the black pot, was ever afterward called " Tom 
 Boilman." The hangman has ever since been called Jack 
 Ketch, because a man of that name went hanging and hang- 
 ing, all day long, in the train of Jeffreys. You will hear 
 much of the horrors of the great French Revolution. Many 
 and terrible, they were, there is no doubt ; but I know o£ 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 379 
 
 nothing worse done by the maddened people of France in 
 that awful time, than was done by the highest judge in En- 
 gland, with the express approval of the King of England, in 
 The Bloody Assize. 
 
 Nor was even this all. Jeffreys was as fond of money for 
 himself as of misery for others, and he sold pardons whole- 
 sale to fill his pockets. The King ordered, at one time, a 
 thousand prisoners to be given to certain of his favorites, in 
 order that they might bargain with them for their pardons. 
 The young ladies of Taunton, who had presented the Bible, 
 were bestowed upon the maids of honor at court ; and those 
 precious ladies made very hard bargains with them indeed. 
 When The Bloody Assize was at its most dismal height, the 
 King was diverting himself with horse-races in the very place 
 where Mrs. Lisle had been executed. When Jeffreys had 
 done his worst, and came home again, he was particularly 
 complimented in the Royal Gazette ; and when the King 
 heard that through drunkenness and raging he was very ill, 
 his odious majesty remarked that such another man could 
 not easily be found in England. Besides all this, a former 
 sheriff of London, named Cornish, was hanged within sight 
 of his own house, after an abominably conducted trial, for 
 having had a share in the Rye House Plot, on evidence 
 given by Rumsey, which that villain was obliged to confess 
 was directly opposed to the evidence he had given on the 
 trial of Lord Russell. And on the very same day, a worthy 
 widow, named Elizabeth Gaunt, was burned alive at Ty- 
 burn, for having sheltered a wretch who himself gave evi- 
 dence against her. She settled the fuel about herself with 
 her own hands, so that the flames should reach her quickly; 
 and nobly said, with her last breath, that she had obeyed 
 the sacred command of God, to give refuge to the outcast, 
 and not to betray the wanderer. 
 
 After all this hanging, beheading, burning, boiling, muti- 
 lating, exposing, robbing, transporting, and selling into slav- 
 ery, of his unhappy subjects, the King not unnaturally 
 thought that he could do whatever he would. So, he went 
 to work to change the religion of the country, with all pos- 
 sible speed ; and what he did was this. 
 
 He first of all tried to get rid of what was called the Test 
 A.ct — which prevented the Catholics from holding public em- 
 ployments — by his own power of dispensing with the pen- 
 alties. He tried it in one case, and, eleven of the twelve 
 
380 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 judges deciding in his favor, he exercised it in three others, 
 being those of three dignitaries of University College, Ox- 
 ford, who had become Papists, and whom he kept in their 
 places and sanctioned. He revived the hated Ecclesiastical 
 Commission, to get rid of Compton, Bishop of London, who 
 manfully opposed him. He solicited the Pope to favor En- 
 gland with an ambassador, which the Pope (who was a sensi- 
 ble man then) rather unwillingly did. He flourished Father 
 Petre before the eyes of the people on all possible occasions. 
 He favored the establishment of convents in several parts 
 of London. He was delighted to have the streets, and even 
 the court itself, filled with monks and friars in the habits of 
 their orders. He constantly endeavored to make Catholics 
 of the Protestants about him. He held private interviews, 
 which he called " closetings," with those Members of 
 Parliament who held offices, to persuade them to consent to 
 the design he had in view. When they did not consent, 
 they were removed, or resigned of themselves, and their 
 places were given to Catholics. He displaced Protestant 
 officers from the army, by every means in his power, and got 
 Catholics into their places too. He tried the same thing with 
 the corporations, and also (though not so successfully) with 
 the lord lieutenants of counties. To terrify the people 
 into the endurance of all these measures, he kept an army 
 of fifteen thousand men encamped on Hounslow Heath, 
 where mass was openly performed in the General's tent, and 
 where priests went among the soldiers endeavoring to per- 
 suade them to become Catholics. For circulating a paper 
 among those men advising them to be true to their religion, 
 a Protestant clergyman, named Johnson, the chaplain of the 
 late Lord Russell, was actually sentenced to stand three 
 times in the pillory, and was actually whipped from Newgate 
 to Tyburn. He dismissed his own brother-in-law from his 
 Council because he was a Protestant, and made a Privy 
 Councilor of the before-mentioned Father Petre. He handed 
 Ireland over to Richard Talbot, Earl of Tyrconnell, a 
 worthless, dissolute knave, who played the same game there 
 for his master, and who played the deeper "jgame for himself 
 of one day putting it under the protection of the French 
 King, In going to these extremities, every man of sense 
 and judgment among the Catholics, from the Pope to a 
 porter, knew that the King was a mere bigoted fool, who 
 would undo himself and the cause he sought to advance : 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 381 
 
 but he was deaf to all reason, and, happily for England ever 
 afterward, went tumbling off his throne in his own blind 
 way. 
 
 A spirit began to arise in the country, which the besotted 
 blunderer little expected. He first found it out in the Uni- 
 versity of Cambridge. Having made a Catholic a dean at 
 Oxford, without any opposition, he tried to make a monk a 
 master of arts at Cambridge : which attempt the University 
 resisted, and defeated him. He then went back to his favor- 
 ite Oxford. On the death of the President of Magdalen 
 College, he commanded that there should be elected to suc- 
 ceed him, one Mr. Anthony Farmer, whose only recommen- 
 dation was, that he was of the King's religion. The Univer- 
 sity plucked up courage at last, and refused. The King 
 substituted another man, and it still refused, resolving to 
 stand by its own election of a Mr. Hough. The dull tyrant, 
 upon this, punished Mr. Hough, and five-and-twenty more, 
 by causing them to be expelled and declared incapable 
 of holding any church preferment ; then he proceeded to 
 what he supposed to be his highest step, but to what was, in 
 fact, his last plunge head foremost in his tumble off his 
 throne. 
 
 He had issued a declaration that there should be no reli- 
 gious tests or penal laws, in order to let in the Catholics more 
 easily ; but the Protestant dissenters, unmindful of them- 
 selves, had gallantly joined the regular church in opposing it 
 tooth and nail. The King and Father Petre now resolved to 
 have this read, on a certain Sunday, in all the churches, and 
 to order it to be circulated for that purpose by the bishops. 
 The latter took counsel with the Archbishop of Canterbury, 
 who was in disgrace ; and they resolved that the declaration 
 should not be read, and that they would petition the King 
 against it. The Archbishop himself wrote out the petition, 
 and six bishops went into the King's bedchamber the same 
 night to present it, to his infinite astonishment. Next day 
 was the Sunday fixed for the reading, and it was only read 
 by two hundred clergymen out of ten thousand. The King 
 resolved against all advice to prosecute the bishops in the 
 Court of King's Bench, and within three weeks they were 
 summoned before the Privy Council, and committed to the 
 Tower. As the six bishops were taken to that dismal place, 
 by water, the people who were assembled in immense num- 
 bers fell upon their knees, and wept for diem, and prayed for 
 
382 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 them. When they got to the Tower, the officers and soldiers 
 on guard besought them for their blessing. While they were 
 confined there, the soldiers every day drank to their release 
 with wild shouts. When they were brought up to the Court 
 of King's Bench for their trial, which the Attorney-General 
 said was for the high offense of censuring the Government, 
 and giving their opinion about affairs of state, they were at- 
 tended by similar multitudes, and surrounded by a throng of 
 noblemen and gentlemen. "When the jury went out at seven 
 o'clock at night to consider of their verdict, every body (ex- 
 cept the King) knew that they would rather starve than yield 
 to the King's brewer, who was one of them, and wanted a 
 verdict for his customer. When they came into court next 
 morning, after resisting the brewer all n^ght, and gave a ver- 
 dict of not guilty, such a shout rose up in Westminster Hall as 
 it had never heard before ; and it was passed on among the 
 people away to Temple Bar, and away again to the Tower. 
 It did not pass only to the east, but passed to the west too, 
 until it reached the camp at Hounslow, where the fifteen 
 thousand soldiers took it up and echoed it. And still, when 
 the dull King, who was then with Lord Feversha.m, heard 
 the mighty roar, asked in alarm what it was, and was told 
 that it was " nothing but the acquittal of the bishops," he 
 said, in his dogged way, " Call you that nothing ? It is so 
 nruch the worse for them." 
 
 Between the petition and the trial, the Queen had given 
 birth to a son, which Father Petre rather thought was owing 
 to Saint Winifred. But I doubt if Saint Winifred had 
 much to do with it as the King's friend, inasmuch as the 
 entirely new prospect of a Catholic successor (for both the 
 King's daughters were Protestants) determined the Earls of 
 Shrewsbury, Danby, and Devonshire, Lord Lumley, the 
 Bishop of London, Admiral Russell, and Colonel Sidney, to 
 invite the Prince of Orange over to England. The Royal 
 Mole, seeing his danger at last, made, in his fright, many 
 concessions, besides raising an army of forty thousand men ; 
 but the Prince of Orange was not a man for James the Sec- 
 ond to cope with. His preparations were extraordinarily 
 vigorous, and his mind was resolved. 
 
 For a fortnight after the Prince was ready to sail for 
 England, a great wind from the west prevented the departure 
 of his fleet. Even when the wind lulled, and it did sail, it 
 was dispersed by a storm, and was obliged to put back to 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 3$$ 
 
 refit. At last, on the first of November, one thousand six 
 hundred and eighty-eight, the Protestant east wind, as it was 
 long called, began to blow ; and on the third, the people of 
 Dover and the people of Calais saw a fleet twenty miles long, 
 sailing gallantly by, between the two places. On Monday, 
 the fifth, it anchored at Torbay in Devonshire, and the Prince, 
 with a splendid retinue of officers and men, marched into 
 Exeter. But the people in that western part of the country 
 had suffered so much in the Bloody Assize, that they had 
 lost heart. Few people joined him ; and he began to think 
 of returning, and publishing the invitation he had received 
 from those lords, as his justification for having come at alb 
 At this crisis, some of the gentry joined him ; the Royal, 
 army began to falter ; an engagement was signed, by which 
 all who set their hand to it declared that they would support 
 one another in defense of the laws and liberties of the three 
 Kingdoms, of the Protestant religion, and of the Prince of 
 Orange. From that time, the cause received no check ; the 
 greatest towns in England began, one after another, to de- 
 clare for the Prince ; and he knew that it was all safe with 
 him when the University of Oxford offered to melt down its 
 plate, if he wanted any money. 
 
 By this time the king was running about in a pitiable way, 
 touching people for the King's evil in one place, reviewing 
 his troops in another, and bleeding from the nose in a third. 
 The young Prince was sent to Portsmouth, Father Petre 
 went off like a shot to France, and there was a general and 
 swift dispersal of all the priests and friars. One after 
 another, the King's most important officers and friends de- 
 serted him and went over to the Prince. In the night, his 
 daughter Anne fled from Whitehall Palace ; and the Bishop 
 of London, who had once been a soldier, rode before her 
 with a drawn sword in his hand, and pistols at his saddle. 
 " God help me ! " cried the miserable King : " my very 
 children have forsaken me ! " In his wildness, after de- 
 bating with such lords as were in London, whether he should 
 or should not call a Parliament, and after naming three of 
 them to negotiate with the Prince, he resolved to fly to 
 France. He had the little Prince of Wales brought back 
 from Portsmouth ; and the child and the Queen crossed the 
 river to Lambeth in an open boat, on a miserable wet night, 
 and got safely away. This was on the night of the ninth o£ 
 December. 
 
384 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 At one o'clock on the morning of the eleventh, the King, 
 who had, in the meantime, received a letter from the Prince 
 of Orange, stating his objects, got out of bed, told Lord 
 Noithumberland who lay in his room, not to open the door 
 until the usual hour in the morning, and went down the back 
 stairs (the same, I suppose, by which the priest in the wig 
 and gown had come up to his brother) and crossed the river 
 in a small boat : sinking the great seal of England by the 
 way. Horses having been provided, he rode, accompanied 
 by Sir Edward Hales, to Feversham, where he embarked in 
 a Custom House Hoy. The master of this Hoy, wanting 
 more ballast, ran into the Isle of Sheppy to get it, where the 
 fishermen and smugglers crowded about the boat, and in- 
 formed the King of their suspicions that he was a "hatchet- 
 faced Jesuit." As they took his money and would not let 
 him go, he told them who he was, and that the Prince of 
 Orange wanted to take his life ; and he began to scream for 
 a boat — and then to cry, because he had lost a piece of 
 wood on his ride which he called a fragment of Our Saviour's 
 cross. He put himself into the hands of the Lord Lieuten- 
 ant of the county, and his detention was made known to the 
 Prince of Orange at Windsor — who, only wanting to get rid 
 of him, and not caring where he went, so that he went 
 away, was very much disconcerted that they did not let 
 him go. However, there was nothing for it but to have him 
 brought back, with some state in the way of Life Guards, to 
 Whitehall. And as soon as he got there, in his infatuation, 
 he heard mass, and set a Jesuit to say grace at his public 
 dinner. 
 
 The people had been thrown into the strangest state of 
 confusion by his flight, and had taken it into their heads 
 that the Irish part of the army were going to murder thg 
 Protestants. Therefore, they set the bells a ringing, and 
 lighted watch-fires, and burned Catholic chapels, and looked 
 about in all directions for Father Petre and the Jesuits, while 
 the Pope's ambassador was running away in the dress of a 
 footman. They found no Jesuits ; but a man, who had 
 once been a frightened witness before Jeffreys in court, saw 
 a swollen drunken face looking through a window down at 
 Wapping, which he well remembered. The face was in a 
 sailor's dress, but he knew it to be the face of that ac- 
 cursed Judge, and he seized him. The people, to their 
 lasting honor, did not tear him to pieces. After knock- 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 385 
 
 ing him about a little, they took him, in the basest agonies 
 of terror, to the Lord Mayor, who sent him, at his own 
 shrieking petition, to the Tower for safety. There he died. 
 
 Their bewilderment continuing, the people now lighted 
 bonfires and made rejoicings, as if they had any reason to be 
 glad to have the King back again. But his stay was very 
 short, for the English guards were removed from Whitehall, 
 Dutch guards were marched up to it, and he was told by one 
 of his late ministers that the Prince would enter London next 
 day, and he had better go to Ham. He said Ham was a 
 cold damp place, and he would rather go to Rochester. He 
 thought himself very cunning in this, as he meant to escape 
 from Rochester to France. The Prince of Orange and his 
 friends knew that, perfectly well, and desired nothing more. 
 So he went to Gravesend, in his royal barge, attended by 
 certain lords, and watched by Dutch troops, and pitied by 
 the generous people, who were far more forgiving than he 
 had ever been, when they saw him in his humiliation. On 
 the night of the twenty-third of December, not even then 
 understanding that every body wanted to get rid of him, he 
 went out, absurdly, through his Rochester garden, down to 
 the Med way, and got away to France, where he rejoined 
 the Queen. 
 
 There had been a council in his absence, of the lords, and 
 the authorities of London. When the Prince came, on the 
 day after the King's departure, he summoned the lords to 
 meet him, and soon afterward, all those who had served in 
 any of the Parliaments of King Charles the Second. It 
 was finally resolved by these authorities that the throne was 
 vacant by the conduct of King James the Second ; that it 
 was inconsistent with the safety and welfare of this Protest- 
 ant kingdom, to be governed by a Popish prince ; that the 
 Prince and Princess of Orange should be King and Queen 
 during their lives and the life of the survivor of them ; and 
 that their children should succeed them, if they had any. 
 That if they had none, the Princess Anne and her children 
 should succeed ; that if she had none, the heirs of the Prince 
 of Orange should succeed. 
 
 On the thirteenth of January, one thousand six hundred 
 and eighty-nine, the Prince and Princess, sitting on a throne 
 in Whitehall, bound themselves to these conditions. The 
 Protestant religion was established in England, and England's 
 great and glorious Revolution was complete. 
 
386 A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 I have now arrived at the close of my little history. The 
 events which succeeded the famous Revolution of one 
 thousand six hundred and eighty-eight, would neither be 
 easily related nor easily understood in such a book as this. 
 
 William and Mary reigned together, five years. After the 
 death of his good wife, William occupied the throne, alone, 
 for seven years longer. During his reign, on the sixteenth 
 of September, one thousand seven hundred and one, the 
 poor weak creature who had once been James the Second of 
 England, died in France. In the meantime he had done his 
 utn.ost (which was not much) to cause William to be assassi- 
 nated, and to regain his lost dominions. James's son was 
 declared, by the French King, the rightful King of England; 
 and was called in France the Chevalier Saint George, and 
 in England The Pretender. Some infatuated people in 
 England, and particularly in Scotland, took up the Pretender's 
 cause from time to time — as if the country had not had 
 Stuarts enough ! — and many lives were sacrificed, and much 
 misery was occasioned. King William died on Sunday, the 
 seventh of March, one thousand seven hundred and two, of 
 the consequences of an accident occasioned by his horse 
 stumbling with him. He was always a brave, patriotic prince, 
 and a man of remarkable abilities. His manner was cold, 
 and he made but few friends ; but he had truly loved his 
 queen. When he was dead, a lock of her hair, in a ring, 
 was found tied with a black ribbon round his left arm. 
 
 He was succeeded by the Princess, Anne, a popular Queen, 
 who reigned twelve years. In her reign, in the month of 
 May, one thousand seven hundred and seven, the union be- 
 tween England and Scotland was effected, and the two coun- 
 tries were incorporated under the name of Great Britain. 
 Then, from the year one thousand seven hundred and four- 
 teen to the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty, 
 reigned the four Georges. 
 
 It was in the reign of George the Second, one thousand 
 seven hundred and forty-five, that the Pretender did his last 
 mischief, and made his last appearance. Being an old man 
 by that time, he and the Jacobites — as his friends were 
 called — put forward his son, Charles Edward, known as the 
 Young Chevalier. The Highlanders of Scotland, an ex 
 
A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. $&f 
 
 tremely troublesome and wrong-headed race on the subject 
 of the Stuarts, espoused his cause, and he joined them, and 
 there was a Scottish rebellion to make him king, in which 
 many gallant and devoted gentlemen lost their lives. It was 
 a hard matter for Charles Edward to escape abroad again, 
 with a high price on his head ; but the Scottish people were 
 extraordinarily faithful to him, and, after undergoing many 
 romantic adventures, not unlike those of Charles the Second, 
 he escaped to France. A number of charming stories and 
 delightful songs arose out of the Jacobite feelings, and belong 
 to the Jacobite times. Otherwise I think the Stuarts were a 
 public nuisance altogether. 
 
 It was in the reign of George the Third that England lost 
 North America, by persisting in taxing her without her own 
 consent. That immense country, made independent under 
 Washington, and left to itself, became the United States ; 
 one of the greatest nations of the earth. In these times in 
 which I write, it is honorably remarkable for protecting its 
 subjects, wherever they may travel, with a dignity and a de- 
 termination which is a model for England. Between you 
 and me, England has rather lost ground in this respect since 
 the days of Oliver Cromwell. 
 
 The union of Great Britain with Ireland — which had been 
 getting on very ill by itself — took place in the reign of 
 George the Third, on the second of July, one thousand 
 seven hundred and ninety-eight. 
 
 William the Fourth succeeded George the Fourth, in the 
 year one thousand eight hundred and thirty, and reigned 
 seven years. Queen Victoria, his niece, the only child of 
 the Duke of Kent, the fourth son of George the Third, came 
 to the throne on the twentieth of June, one thousand eight 
 hundred and thirty seven. She was married to Prince Al- 
 bert of Saxe Gotha on the tenth of February, one thousand 
 eight hundred and forty. She is very good, and much 
 beloved. So I end, like the crier, with 
 
 God save the Queen ! 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE, 
 
 [1867.] 
 
 THE OVERTURE. 
 
 Day of the month and year, November the thirtieth, one 
 thousand eight hundred and thirty-five. London time by 
 the great clock of Saint Paul's, ten at night. All the lesser 
 London churches strain their metallic throats. Some, flip- 
 pantly begin before the heavy bell of the great cathedral ; 
 some, tardily begin three, four, half a dozen strokes behind 
 it ; all are in sufficiently near accord, to leave a resonance 
 in the air, as if the winged father who devours his children, 
 had made a sounding sweep with his gigantic scythe in fly- 
 ing over the city. 
 
 What is this clock lower than most of the rest, and nearer 
 to the ear, that lags so far behind to-night as to strike into 
 the vibration alone ? This is the clock of the Hospital for 
 Foundling Children. Time was, when the foundlings were 
 received without question in a cradle at the gate. Time is, 
 when inquiries are made respecting them, and they are 
 taken as by favor from the mothers who relinquish all 
 natural knowledge of them and claim to them forevermore. 
 
 The moon is at the full, and the night is fair with light 
 clouds. The day has been otherwise than fair, for slush 
 and mud, thickened with the droppings of heavy fog, lie 
 black in the streets. The veiled lady who flutters up and 
 down near the postern-gate of the Hospital for Foundling 
 Children has need to be well shod to-night. 
 
 She flutters to and fro, avoiding the stand of hackney- 
 coaches, and often pausing in the shadow of the western end 
 of the great quadrangle wall, with her face turned toward 
 the gate. As above her there is the purity of the moonlit 
 sky, and below her there are the defilements of the pavement, 
 
2 NO THOROUGHFARE 
 
 so may she, haply, be divided in the mind between two 
 vistas of reflection or experience ? As her footprints cross- 
 ing and re-crossing one another have made a labyrinth in 
 the mire, so may her track in life have involved itself in an 
 intricate and unravelable tangle ? 
 
 The postern-gate of the Hospital for Foundling Children 
 opens, and a young woman comes out. The lady stands 
 aside, observes closely, sees that the gate is quietly closed 
 again from within, and follows the young woman. 
 
 Two or three streets have been traversed in silence before 
 she, following close behind the object of her attention, 
 stretches out her hand and touches her. Then the young 
 woman stops and looks round, startled. 
 
 " You touched me last night, and, when I turned my head, 
 you would not speak. Why do you follow me like a silent 
 ghost ? " 
 
 " It was not," returned the lady, in a low voice, " that I 
 would not speak, but that I could not when I tried." 
 
 " What do you want of me ? I have never done you any 
 harm ? " 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " Do I know you ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Then what can you want of me ? " 
 
 " Here are two guineas in this paper. Take my poor little 
 present, and I will tell you." 
 
 Into the young woman's face, which is honest and comely, 
 comes a flush as she replies : " There is neither grown 
 person nor child in all the large establishment that I belong 
 to, who hasn't a good word for Sally. I am Sally. Could 
 I be so well thought of if I was to be bought ? " 
 
 " I do not mean to buy you ; I mean to only reward you 
 very slightly." 
 
 Sally firmly, but not ungently, closes and puts back the 
 offering hand. " If there is any thing I can do for you, 
 ma'am, that I will not do for its own sake, you are much 
 mistaken in me if you think that I will do it for money. 
 What is it you want ? " 
 
 " You are one of the nurses or attendants at the hospital ; 
 I saw you leave to-night and last night." 
 
 " Yes, I am. I am Sally." 
 
 " There is a pleasant patience in your face which makes 
 me believe that very young children would take readily to 
 
 you," 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 3 
 
 " God bless 'em ! So they do." 
 
 The lady lifts her veil, and shows a face no older than the 
 nurse's. A face far more refined and capable than hers, but 
 wild and worn with sorrow. 
 
 " I am the miserable mother of a baby lately received under 
 your care. I have a prayer to make to you." 
 
 Instinctively respecting the confidence which has drawn 
 aside the veil, Sally — whose ways are all ways of simplicity 
 and spontaneity — replaces it, and begins to cry. 
 
 " You will listen to my prayer ? " the lady urges. " You 
 will not be deaf to the agonized entreaty of such a broken 
 suppliant as I am ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear, dear, dear ! " cries Sally. What shall I say, or 
 can I say ! Don't talk of prayers. Prayers are to be put 
 up to the Good Father of All, and not to nurses and such. 
 And there I am only to hold my place for half a year longer, 
 till another young woman can be trained up to it. I am 
 going to be married. I shouldn't have been out last night, 
 and I shouldn't have been out to-night, but that my Dick 
 (he is the young man I am going to be married to) lies ill, 
 and I help his mother and sister to watch him. Don't take 
 on so, don't take on so ! " 
 
 " Oh good Sally, dear Sally," moans the lady, catching at 
 her dress entreatingly. " As you are hopeful and I am 
 hopeless ; as a fair way in life is before you, which can never 
 be before me ; as you can aspire to become a respected wife, 
 and as you can aspire to become a proud mother ; as you 
 are a living, loving woman, and must die ; for God's sake 
 hear my distracted petition ! " 
 
 " Deary, deary, deary me ! " cries Sally, her desperation 
 culminating in the pronoun, " What am I ever to do ? And 
 there ! See how you turn my own words back upon me. I 
 tell you I am going to be married, on purpose to make it 
 clearer to you that I am going to leave, and therefore couldn't 
 help you if I would, poor thing, and you make it seem to 
 my own self as if I was cruel in going to be married and not 
 helping you. It ain't kind. Now, is it kind, poor thing ? " 
 
 " Sally ! Hear me, my dear. My entreaty is for no help 
 in the future. It applies to what is past. It is only to be 
 told in two words." 
 
 " There ! This is worse and worse," cries Sally, " sup- 
 posing that I understand what two words you mean." 
 
 " You do understand. What are the names they have 
 given my poor baby ? I ask no more than that. I have 
 
4 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 read of the customs of the place. He has been christened 
 in the chapel, and registered by some surname in the book. 
 He was received last Monday evening. What have they 
 called him ? " 
 
 Down upon her knees in the foul mud of the by-way into 
 which they have strayed — an empty street without a thorough- 
 fare giving on the dark gardens of the hospital — the lady 
 would drop in her passionate entreaty, but that Sally pre- 
 vents her. 
 
 " Don't ! Don't ! You make me feel as if I was setting 
 myself up to be good. Let me look in your pretty face again. 
 Put your two hands in mine. Now, promise. You will 
 never ask me any thing more than the two words ? " 
 
 " Never ! Never ! " 
 
 " You will never put them to a bad use, if I say them 
 
 " Never ! Never ! " 
 
 " Walter Wilding." 
 
 The lady lays her face upon the nurse's breast, draws her 
 close to her embrace with both arms, murmurs a blessing 
 and the words, " Kiss him for me ! " and is gone. 
 
 Day of the month and year, the first Sunday in October, 
 one thousand eight hundred and forty-seven. London time 
 by the great clock of St. Paul's half-past one in the after- 
 noon. The clock of the Hospital for Foundling Children is 
 well up with the cathedral to-day. Service in the chapel is 
 over and the foundling children are at dinner. 
 
 There are numerous lookers-on at the dinner, as the cus- 
 tom is. There are two or three governors, whole families 
 from the congregation, smaller groups of both sexes, indi- 
 vidual stragglers of various degrees. The bright autumnal 
 sun strikes freshly into the wards ; and the heavy-framed 
 windows through which it shines, and the paneled walls on 
 which it strikes, are such windows and such walls as per- 
 vade Hogarth's pictures. The girl's refectory (including 
 that of the younger children) is the principal attraction. 
 Neat attendants silently glide about the orderly and silent 
 tables ; the lookers-on move or stop as the fancy takes them ; 
 comments in whispers, on face such a number from such a 
 window are not unfrequent ; many of the faces are of a 
 character to fix attention. Some of the visitors from 
 the outside public are accustomed visitors. They have 
 established a speaking acquaintance with the occupants of 
 particular seats at the tables, and halt at those points to bend 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 5 
 
 down and say a word or two. It is no disparagement to their 
 kindness that those points are generally points where personal 
 attractions are. The monotony of the long, spacious rooms 
 and the double lines of faces is agreeably relieved by these 
 incidents, although so light. 
 
 A veiled lady, who has no companion, goes among the 
 company. It would seem that curiosity and opportunity 
 have never brought her there before. She has the air of 
 being a little troubled by the sight, and, as she goes the length 
 of the tables, it is with a hesitating step and an uneasy man- 
 ner. At length she comes to the refectory of the boys. 
 They are so much less popular than the girls that it is bare 
 of visitors when she looks in at the doorway. 
 
 But just within the doorway, chances to stand, inspecting, 
 an elderly female attendant : some order of matron or house- 
 keeper. To whom the lady addresses natural questions : 
 As, how many boys ? At what age are they usually put out 
 in life ? Do they often take a fancy to the sea ? So, lower 
 and lower in tone until the lady puts the question : " Which 
 is Walter Wilding ?" 
 
 Attendant's head shaken. Against the rules. 
 
 " You know which is Walter Wilding ? " 
 
 So keenly does the attendant feel the closeness with which 
 the lady's eyes examine her face, that she keeps her own eyes 
 fast upon the floor, lest by wandering in the right direction 
 they should betray her. 
 
 " I know which is Walter Wilding, but it is not my place, 
 ma'am, to tell names to visitors." 
 
 " But you can show me without telling me." 
 
 The lady's hand moves quietly to the attendant's hand. 
 Pause and silence. 
 
 " I am going to pass round the tables," says the lady's 
 interlocutor, without seeming to address her. u Follow me 
 with your eyes. The boy that I stop at and speak to, will 
 not matter to you. But the boy that I touch, will be Walter 
 Wilding. Say nothing more to me, and move a little away." 
 
 Quickly acting on the hint, the lady passes on into the 
 room and looks about her. After a few moments, the attend- 
 ant, in a staid, official way, walks down outside the line of 
 tables commencing on her left hand. She goes the whole 
 length of the line, turns, and comes back on the inside. 
 Very slightly glancing in the lady's direction, she stops, 
 bends forward, and speaks. The boy whom she addresses, 
 lifts his head and replies. Good-humoredly and easily, as 
 
6 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 she listens to what he says, she lays her hand upon the 
 shoulder of the next boy on his right. That the action may 
 be well noted, she keeps her hand on the shoulder while speak- 
 ing in return, and pats it twice or thrice before moving away. 
 She completes her tour of the tables, touching no one else, 
 and passes out by a door at the opposite end of the long 
 room. 
 
 Dinner is done, and the lady, too, walks down outside the 
 line of tables commencing on her left hand, goes the whole 
 length of the line, turns, and comes back on the inside. 
 Other people have strolled in, fortunately for her, and stand 
 sprinkled about. She lifts her veil, and, stopping at the 
 touched boy, asks how old he is ? 
 
 " I am twelve, ma'am," he answers, with his bright eyes 
 fixed on hers. 
 
 " Are you well and happy ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " May you take these sweetmeats from my hand ? " 
 
 " If you please to give them to, me." 
 
 In stooping low for the purpose, the lady touches the boy's 
 face with her forehead and with her hair. Then, lowering 
 her veil again, she passes on, and passes out without look- 
 ing back. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES. 
 
 In a court-yard in the City of London, which was no 
 thoroughfare either for vehicles or foot-passengers ; a court- 
 yard diverging from a steep, a slippery, and a winding street 
 connecting Tower Street with the Middlesex shore of the 
 Thames ; stood the place " business of Wilding & Co., Wine 
 Merchants. Probably as a jocose acknowledgment of the 
 obstructive character f this main approach, the point near- 
 est to its base at which one :ould take the river (if so in- 
 odorously minded) bore the appellation Break- Neck-Stairs. 
 The court-yard itself had likewise been descriptively entitled 
 in old time, Cripple Corner. 
 
 Years before the year one thousand eight hundred and 
 sixty-one, people had left off taking boat at Break-Neck-Stairs 
 and watermen had ceased to ply there. The slimy little cause- 
 way had dropped into the river by a slow process of suicide, 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. ? 
 
 and two or three stumps of piles and a rusty iron mooring- 
 ring were all that remained of the departed Break-Neck 
 glories. Sometimes, indeed, a laden coal barge would bump 
 itself into the place and certain laborious heavers, seemingly 
 mud-engendered, would arise, deliver the cargo in the 
 neighborhood, shove off and vanish ; but at most times the 
 only commerce of Break-Neck-Stairs arose out of the con- 
 veyance of casks and bottles both full and empty, both to 
 and from the cellars of Wilding & Co., Wine Merchants. 
 Even that commerce was but occasional, and through three- 
 fourths of its rising tides the dirty indecorous drab of a 
 river would come solitarily oozing and lapping at the rusty 
 ring, as if it had heard of the Doge and the Adriatic, and 
 wanted to be married to the great conserver of its filthiness 
 the Right Honorable the Lord Mayor. 
 
 Some two hundred and fifty yards on the right, up the 
 opposite hill (approaching it from the low ground of Break- 
 Neck-Stairs) was Cripple Corner. There was a pump in 
 Cripple Corner, there was a tree in Cripple Corner. All 
 Cripple Corner belonged to Wilding & Co., Wine Merchants. 
 Their cellars burrowed under it, their mansion towered over 
 it. It really had been a mansion in the days when mer- 
 chants inhabited the city, and had a ceremonious shelter to 
 the doorway without visible support, like the sounding board 
 over an old pulpit. It had also a number of long narrow 
 strips of window, so disposed in its grave brick front as to 
 render it symmetrically ugly. It had also on its roof, a 
 cupola with a bell in* it. 
 
 " When a man at flve-and-twenty can put his hat on, and 
 can say, ' This hat covers the owner of this property and of 
 the business which is transacted on this property,' I consid- 
 er, Mr. Bintrey, that, without being boastful, he may be 
 allowed to be deeply thankful. I don't know how it may 
 appear to you, but so it appears to me." 
 
 Thus Mr. Walter Wilding to his man of law, in his own 
 counting-house ; taking his hat down from its peg to suit the 
 action to the word, and hanging it up again when he had done 
 so, not to overstep the modesty of nature. 
 
 An innocent, open-speaking, unused-looking man, Mr. 
 Walter Wilding, with a remarkably pink and white com- 
 plexion, and a figure much too bulky for so young a man, 
 though of a good stature. With crispy, curling brown hair, 
 and amiable bright blue eyes. An extremely communica- 
 tive man : a man with whom loquacity was the irrestrainable 
 
8 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 outpouring of contentment and gratitude. Mr. Bintrey, oft 
 the other hand, a cautious man with twinkling beads of eyes 
 in a large overhanging bald head, who inwardly but intense- 
 ly enjoyed the comicality of openness of speech, or hand, or 
 heart. 
 • " Yes," said Mr. Bintrey. " Yes. Ha, ha ! " 
 
 A decanter, two wine-glasses, and a plate of biscuits, stood 
 on the desk. 
 
 " You like this forty-five year old port wine ? " said Mr. 
 Wilding. 
 
 11 Like it ? " repeated Mr. Bintrey. " Rather, sir ! " 
 
 " It's from the best corner of our best forty-five year old 
 bin," said Mr. Wilding. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said Mr. Bintrey. " It's most excel- 
 lent." 
 
 He laughed again as he held up his glass and ogled it, at 
 the highly ludicrous idea of giving away such wine. 
 
 "And now," said Wilding, with a childish enjoyment in 
 the discussion of affairs, " I think we have got every thing 
 straight, Mr. Bintrey." 
 
 " Every thing straight," said Bintrey. 
 
 " A partner secured — " 
 
 "Partner secured," said Bintrey. 
 
 " A housekeeper advertised for — " 
 
 " Housekeeper advertised for," said Bintrey. "Apply per- 
 sonally at Cripple Corner, Great Tower Street, from ten to 
 twelve — to-morrow, by the by." 
 
 " My late dear mother's affairs wound up — " 
 
 " Wound up," said Bintrey. 
 
 " And all charges paid." 
 
 " And all charges paid," said Bintrey, with a chuckle, 
 probably occasioned by the droll circumstance that they had 
 been paid without a haggle. 
 
 " The mention of my late dear mother," Mr. Wilding 
 continued, his eyes filling with tears and his pocket hand- 
 kerchief drying them, " unmans me still, Mr. Bintrey. You 
 know how I loved her ; you, her lawyer, know how she 
 loved me. The utmost love of mother and child was cher- 
 ished between us, and we never experienced one moment's 
 division or unhappiness from the time when she took me 
 under her care. Thirteen years in all ? Thirteen years 
 under my late dear mother's care, Mr. Bintrey, and eight of 
 them her confidentially acknowledged son. You know the 
 story, Mr. Bintrey, who but you, sir ! " Mr. Wilding sobbed 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 9 
 
 and dried his eyes, without attempt at concealment, during 
 these remarks. 
 
 Mr. Bintrey enjoyed his comical port, and said, after roll- 
 ing it in his mouth, " I know the story." 
 
 My late dear mother, Mr. Bintrey," pursued the wine mer- 
 chant, " had been deeply deceived, and had cruelly suffered. 
 But on that subject my late dear mother's lips were for- 
 ever sealed. By whom deceived, or under what circum- 
 stances, heaven only knows. My late dear mother never 
 betrayed her betrayer." 
 
 " She had made up her mind," said Mr. Bintrey, again 
 turning his wine on his palate, " and she could hold her 
 peace." An amused twinkle in his eyes pretty plainly added 
 — " A devilish deal better than jw* ever will ! " 
 
 " ' Honor ' " said Mr. Wilding, sobbing as he quoted from 
 the Commandments, " ' thy father and thy mother, that thy 
 days may be long in the land.' When I was in the Found- 
 ling, Mr. Bintrey, I was at such a loss how to do it, that I 
 apprehended my days would be short in the land. But I 
 afterward came to honor my mother deeply, profoundly. 
 And I honor and revere her memory. For seven happy 
 years, Mr. Bintrey," pursued Wilding, still with the same 
 innocent catching in his breath, and the same unabashed 
 tears, " did my excellent mother article me to my predeces- 
 sors in this business, Pebbleson Nephew. Her affectionate 
 forethought likewise apprenticed me to the Vintners' Com- 
 pany, and made me in time a free Vintner, and — and — every 
 thing else that the best of mothers could desire. When I 
 came of age, she bestowed her inherited share in this busi- 
 ness upon me ; it was her money that afterward bought out 
 Pebbleson Nephew, and painted in Wilding & Co. ; it was 
 she who left me every thing she possessed, but the mourning 
 ring you wear. And yet, Mr. Bintrey," with a fresh burst of 
 honest affection, " she is no more. It is little over half a 
 year since she came into the Corner to read on that door- 
 post with her own eyes, Wilding & Co., Wine Mer- 
 chants. And yet she is no more ! " 
 
 " Sad. But the common lot, Mr. Wilding," observed Bin- 
 trey. " At some time or other we must all be no more." 
 He placed the forty-five year old port wine in the universal 
 condition, with a relishing sigh. 
 
 " So now, Mr. Bintrey," pursued Wilding, putting away 
 his pocket handkerchief, and smoothing his eyelids with his 
 fingers, " now that I can no longer show my love and honor 
 
io NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 for the dear parent to whom my heart was mysteriously 
 turned by nature when she first spoke to me, a strange lady, I 
 sitting at our Sunday dinner-table in the Foundling, I can at 
 least show that I am not ashamed of having been a found- 
 ling, and that I, who never knew a father of my own, wish 
 to be a father to all in my employment. Therefore," contin- 
 ued Wilding, becoming enthusiastic in his loquacity, " there- 
 fore, I want a thoroughly good housekeeper to undertake 
 this dwelling-house of Wilding & Co., Wine Merchants, 
 Cripple Corner, so that I may restore it to some of the old 
 relations betwixt employer and employed ! So that I may 
 live in it on the spot where my money is made ! So that I 
 may daily sit at the head of the table at which the people 
 in my employment eat together, and may eat of the same 
 roast and boiled, and drink of the same beer ! So that the 
 people in my employment may lodge under the same roof 
 with me ! So that we may one and all — I beg your pardon, 
 Mr. Bintrey, but that old singing in my head has suddenly 
 come on, and I shall feel obliged if you will lead me to the 
 pump." 
 
 Alarmed by the excessive pinkness of his client, Mr. Bin- 
 trey lost not a moment in leading him forth into the court- 
 yard. It was easily done ; for the counting-house in which 
 they talked together opened on to it, at one side of the 
 dwelling-house. There the attorney pumped with a will, 
 obedient to a sign from the client, and the client laved his 
 head and face with both hands, and took a hearty drink. 
 After these remedies, he declared himself much better. 
 
 " Don't let your good feelings excite you," said Bintrey, 
 as they returned to the counting-house, and Mr. Wilding 
 dried himself on a jack-towel behind an inner door. 
 
 " No, no. I won't," he returned, looking out of the towel. 
 " I won't. I have not been confused, have I ? " 
 
 " Not at all. Perfectly clear." 
 
 " Where did I leave off, Mr. Bintrey ? " 
 
 " Well, you left off — but I wouldn't excite myself, if I was 
 you, by taking it up again just yet." 
 
 " I'll take care. I'll take care. The singing in my head 
 came on at where, Mr. Bintrey ? " 
 
 " At roast, and boiled, and beer," answered the lawyer, 
 prompting — " lodging under the same roof — and one and 
 all—" 
 
 " Ah ! And one and all singing in the head together — " 
 
 " Do you know, I really would not let my good feelings 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. n 
 
 excite me, if I was you,*' hinted the lawyer again, anxiously. 
 " Try some more pump." 
 
 " No occasion, no occasion. All right, Mr. Bintrey. And 
 one and all forming a kind of family ! You see, Mr. Bintrey, I 
 was not used in my childhood to that sort of individual exist- 
 ence which most individuals have led, more or less, in their 
 childhood. After that time I became absorbed in my late dear 
 mother. Having lost her, I find that I am more fit for being 
 one of a body than one by myself. To be that, and at the 
 same time to do my duty to those dependent on me, and at- 
 tach them to me, has a patriarchal and pleasant air about it. 
 I don't know how it may appear to you, Mr. Bintrey, but so 
 it appears to me." 
 
 " It is not I who am all-important in the case, but you," 
 returned Bintrey. " Consequently how it may appear to me 
 is of very small importance." 
 
 " It appears to me," said Mr. Wilding in a glow, " hope- 
 ful, useful, delightful ! " 
 
 " Do you know," hinted the lawyer again, " I really would 
 not ex — " 
 
 " I am not going to. Then there's Handel." 
 
 " There's who ? " asked Bintrey. 
 
 " Handel, Mozart, Hadyn, Kent, Purcell, Doctor Arne, 
 Greene, Mendelssohn. I know the choruses to those anthems 
 by heart. Foundling Chapel Collections. Why shouldn't 
 we learn them together?" 
 
 "Who learn them together?" asked the lawyer, rather 
 shortly. 
 
 " Employer and employed." 
 
 "Ay, ay," returned Bintrey, mollified ; as if he had half- 
 expected the answer to be lawyer and client. " That's an- 
 other thing." 
 
 " Not another thing, Mr. Bintrey ! The same thing. A 
 part of the bond among us. We will form a choir in some 
 quiet church near the corner here, and having sung together 
 of a Sunday with a relish, we will come home and take an 
 early dinner together with a relish. The object that I have 
 at heart now is, to get this system well in action without de- 
 lay, so that my new partner may find it founded when he 
 enters on his partnership." 
 
 " All good be with it ! " exclaimed Bintrey, rising. " May 
 it prosper ! Is Joey Ladle to take a share in Handel, Mo- 
 zart, Hadyn, Kent, Purcell, Doctor Arne, Greene, and Men- 
 delssohn ? " 
 
12 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " I wish them all well out of it,'* returned Bintrey, with 
 
 much heartiness. " Good-by, sir." 
 
 They shook hands and parted. Then (first knocking with- 
 his knuckles for leave) entered to Mr. Wilding from a door 
 of communication between his private counting-house and' 
 that in which his clerks sat, the head cellarman of the cel- 
 lars of Wilding & Co., Wine Merchants, and erst head cel- 
 lerman of the cellars of Pebbleson Nephew. The Joey- 
 Ladle in question. A slow and ponderous man, of the dray- 
 man order of human architecture, dressed in a corrugated 
 suit and bibbed apron, apparently a composite of door-mat 
 and rhinoceros hide. 
 
 " Respecting this same boarding and lodging, young Mas- 
 ter Wilding," said he. 
 
 " Yes, Joey ? " 
 
 " Speaking for myself, young Master Wilding — and I never 
 did speak and I never do speak for no one else — / don't 
 want no boarding nor yet no lodging. But if you wish to 
 board me and to lodge me, take me. I can peck as well as 
 most men. Where I peck ain't so high a object with me as 
 what I peck. Nor even so high an object with me as how 
 much I peck. Is all to live in the house, young Master 
 Wilding ? The two cellarmen, the three porters, the two 'pren- 
 tices, and the odd men ?" 
 
 " Yes. I hope we all shall be a united family, Joey." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Joey. u I hope they may be." 
 
 " They ? Rather say we, Joey." 
 
 Joey Ladle shook his head. " Don't look to me to make 
 we on it, young Master Wilding, not at my time of life and 
 under the circumstances which has formed my disposition. 
 I have said to Pebbleson Nephew many a time, when they 
 have said to me ' Put a livelier face upon it, Joey ' — I have 
 said to them, ' Gentlemen, it is all very well for you that 
 has been accustomed to take your wine into your systems, 
 by the conwivial channel of your throttles, to put a lively 
 face upon it ; but,' I says, * I have been accustomed to take 
 my wine in at the pores of the skin, and, took that way, it 
 acts different. It acts depressing. It's one thing, gentle- 
 men,' I says to Pebblesome Nephew, * to charge your glasses 
 in the dining-room with a hip hurrah, and a jolly compan- 
 ions every one, and it's another thing to be charged your- 
 self, through the pores, in a low dark cellar and a moldy at- 
 mosphere. It makes the difference betwixt bubbles and 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 13 
 
 wapors,' I tells Pebbleson Nephew. And so it do. I've 
 been a cellarman my life through, with my mind fully 
 given to the business. What's the consequence ? I'm as 
 muddled a man as lives — you won't find a muddler man 
 than me — nor yet you won't find my equal in molloncolly. 
 Sing of Filling the bumper fair, Every drop you sprinkle 
 O'er the brow of care, Smooths away a wrinkle ? Yes. 
 P'raps so. But try filling yourself through the pores, under- 
 ground, when you don't want to do it ! " 
 
 " I am sorry to hear this, Joey. I had even thought that 
 you might join a singing-class in the house." 
 
 " Me, sir ? No, no, young Master Wilding, you won't 
 catch Joey Ladle muddling the 'armony. A pecking ma- 
 chine, sir, is all that I am capable of proving myself out of my 
 cellars ; but that you're welcome to, if you think it's worth 
 your while to keep such a thing on your premises." 
 
 " I do, Joey." 
 
 il Say no more, sir. The business's word is my law. And 
 you're a-going to take young Master George Vendale part- 
 ner into the old business ? " 
 
 " I am, Joey." 
 
 " More changes, you see ; but don't change the name of 
 the firm again. Don't do it, young Master Wilding. It was 
 bad luck enough to make it yourself and Co. Better by 
 far have left it Pebbleson Nephew that good luck always 
 stuck to. You should never change luck when it's good, sir." 
 
 " At all events, I have no intention of changing the name 
 of the house again, Joey." 
 
 * Glad to hear it, and wish you good-day, young Master 
 Wilding. But you had better by half," muttered Joey Ladle 
 inaudibly, as he closed the door and shook his head, " have 
 let the name alone from the first. You had better by half 
 have followed the luck instead of crossing it." 
 
 Enter the Housekeeper. 
 
 The wine-merchant sat in his dining-room next morning, 
 to receive the personal applicants for the vacant post in his 
 establishment. It was an old-fashioned wainscoted room ; 
 the panels ornamented with festoons of flowers carved in 
 wood ; with an oaken floor, a well-worn Turkey carpet, and 
 dark mahogany furniture, all of which had seen service and 
 polish under Pebbleson Nephew. The great sideboard had 
 
i 4 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 assisted at many business-dinners given by Pebbleson Nephew 
 to their connection, on the principle of throwing sprats 
 overboard to catch whales ; and Pebbleson Nephew's com- 
 prehensive three-sided plate-warmer, made to fit the whole 
 front of a large fire-place, kept watch beneath it over a 
 sarcophagus-shaped cellaret that had in its time held many 
 a dozen of Pebbleson Nephew's wine. But the little rubi- 
 cund old bachelor with a pigtail, whose portrait was over 
 the sideboard (and who could easily be identified as decid- 
 edly Pebbleson and decidedly not Nephew), had retired 
 into another sarcophagus, and the plate-warmer had grown 
 as cold as he. So, the golden and black griffins that sup- 
 ported the candelabra, with black balls in their mouths at the 
 end of gilded chains, looked as if in their old age they had 
 lost all heart for playing at ball, and were dolefully exhibit- 
 ing their chains in the missionary line of inquiry, whether 
 they had not earned emancipation by this time, and were not 
 griffins and brothers. 
 
 Such a Columbus of a morning was the summer morning, 
 that it discovered Cripple Corner. The light and warmth 
 pierced in at the open windows, and irradiated the picture 
 of a lady hanging over the chimney-piece, Jhe only other 
 decoration of the walls. 
 
 " My mother at five-and-twenty," said Mr. Wilding to 
 himself, as his eyes enthusiastically followed the light to 
 the portrait's face, " I hang up here, in order that visitors 
 may admire my mother in the bloom of her youth and 
 beauty. My mother at fifty I hang in the seclusion of my 
 own chamber, as a remembrance sacred to me. Oh ! It's 
 you, Jarvis ! " 
 
 These latter words he addressed to a clerk who had tapped 
 at the door, and now looked in. 
 
 " Yes, sir. I merely wish to mention that it's gone ten, 
 sir, and that there are several females in the counting-house." 
 
 " Dear me ! " said the wine merchant, deepening in the 
 pink of his complexion and whitening in the white, " are there 
 several ? So many as several ? I had better begin before 
 there are more. I'll see them one by one, Jarvis, in the 
 order of their arrival." 
 
 Hastily entrenching himself in his easy-chair at the table 
 behind a great inkstand, having first placed a chair on the 
 other side of the table opposite his own seat, Mr. Wilding 
 entered on his task with considerable trepidation. 
 
 He ran the gauntlet that must be run on any such occasion. 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 15 
 
 There were the usual species of profoundly unsympathetic 
 women, and the usual species of much too sympathetic women. 
 There were buccaneering widows who came to seize him, and 
 who griped umbrellas under their arms, as if each umbrella 
 were he, and each griper had got him. There were towering 
 maiden ladies who had seen better days, and who came armed 
 with clerical testimonials to their theology, as if he were Saint 
 Peter with his keys. There were gentle maiden ladies who 
 came to marry him. There were professional housekeepers, 
 like non-commissioned officers, who put him through his do- 
 mestic exercise,instead of submitting themselves to catechism. 
 There were languid invalids, to whom salary was not so much 
 an object as the comforts of a private hospital. There were 
 sensitive creatures who burst into tears on being addressed, 
 and had to be restored with glasses of cold water. There 
 were some respondents who came two together, a highly 
 promising one and a wholly unpromising one : of whom the 
 promising one answered all questions charmingly, until it 
 would at last appear that she was not a candidate at all, but 
 only the friend of the unpromising one, who had glowered 
 in absolute silence and apparent injury. 
 
 At last, when the good wine-merchant's simple heart was 
 failing him, there entered an applicant quite different from 
 all the rest. A woman, perhaps fifty, but looking younger, 
 with a face remarkable for placid cheerfulness, and a man- 
 ner no less remarkable for its quiet expression of equability 
 of temper. Nothing in her dress could have been changed 
 to her advantage. Nothing in the noiseless self-possession 
 of her manner could have been changed to her advantage. 
 Nothing could have been in better unison with both, than 
 her voice when she answered the question : " What name 
 shall I have the pleasure of noting down ? " with the words, 
 " My name is Sarah Goldstraw. Mrs. Goldstraw. My hus- 
 band has been dead many years, and we had no family." 
 
 Half a dozen questions had scarcely extracted as much 
 to the purpose from any one else. The voice dwelt so 
 agreeably on Mr. Wilding's ear as he made his note, that he 
 was rather long about it. When he looked up again, Mrs. 
 Goldstraw's glance had naturally gone round the room, and 
 now returned to him from the chimney-piece. Its expres- 
 sion was one of frank readiness to be questioned, and to an- 
 swer straight. 
 
 " You will excuse my asking you a few questions ? " said 
 the modest wine-merchant. 
 
i6 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 " Oh, surely, sir. Or I should have no business here. 
 
 " Have you filled the station of housekeeper before ? " 
 
 " Only once. I have lived with the same widow lady for 
 twelve years. Ever since I lost my husband. She was an 
 invalid, and is lately dead : which is the occasion of my now 
 wearing black." 
 
 " I do not doubt that she has left you the best creden- 
 tials ? " said Mr. Wilding. 
 
 " I hope I may say, the very best. I thought it would save 
 trouble, sir, if I wrote down the name and address of her 
 representatives, and brought it with me." Laying a card 
 on the table. 
 
 " You singularly remind me, Mrs. Goldstraw," said Wild- 
 ing, taking the card beside him, " of a manner and tone of 
 voice that I was once acquainted with. Not of an indi- 
 vidual—I feel sure of that, though I can not recall what it is 
 I have in my mind — but of a general bearing. I ought to 
 add, it was a kind and pleasant one." 
 
 She smiled, as she rejoined : " At least, I am very glad of 
 that, sir." 
 
 " Yes," said the wine-merchant, thoughtfully repeating his 
 last phrase, with a momentary glance at his future house- 
 keeper, " it was a kind and pleasant one. But that is the 
 most I can make of it. Memory is sometimes like a half- 
 forgotten dream. I don't know how it may appear to you, 
 Mrs. Goldstraw, but so it appears to me." 
 
 Probably it appeared to Mrs. Goldstraw in a similar light, 
 for she quietly assented to the proposition. Mr. Wilding 
 then offered to put himself at once in communication with 
 the gentlemen named upon the card : a firm of proctors in 
 Doctors' Commons. To this, Mrs. Goldstraw thankfully as- 
 sented. Doctors' Commons not being far off, Mr. Wilding 
 suggested the feasibility of Mrs. Goldstraw's looking in again, 
 say in three hours' time. Mrs. Goldstraw readily undertook 
 to do so. In fine, the result of Mr. Wilding's inquiries be- 
 ing eminently satisfactory, Mrs. Goldstraw was that after- 
 noon engaged (on her own perfectly fair terms) to come 
 to-morrow and set up her rest as housekeeper in Cripple 
 Corner. 
 
 The Housekeeper Speaks. 
 
 On the next day Mrs. Goldstraw arrived, to enter on her 
 domestic duties. 
 
 Having settled herself in her own room, without troub- 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 17 
 
 ling the servants, and without wasting time, the new house- 
 keeper announced herself as waiting to be favored with any 
 instructions which her master might wish to give her. The 
 wine-merchant received Mrs. Goldstraw in the dining-room, 
 in which he had seen her on the previous day ; and, the 
 usual preliminary civilities having passed on either side, the 
 two sat down to take counsel together on the affairs of the 
 house. 
 
 " About the meals, sir ? " said Mrs. Goldstraw. " Have I 
 a large, or small, number to provide for ? " 
 
 " If I can carry out a certain old-fashioned plan of mine," 
 replied Mr. Wilding, " you will have a large number to provide 
 for. I am a lonely single man, Mrs. Goldstraw ; and I hope to 
 live with all the persons in my employment as if they were mem- 
 bers of my family. Until that time comes, you will only 
 have me, and the new partner whom I expect immediately, 
 to provide for. What my partner's habits may be, I can not 
 yet say. But I may describe myself as a man of regular 
 hours, with an invariable appetite that you may depend upon 
 to an ounce." 
 
 11 About breakfast, sir?" asked Mrs. Goldstraw. " Is there 
 any thing particular — ? " 
 
 She hesitated, and left the sentence unfinished. Her eyes 
 turned slowly away from her master, and looked toward the 
 chimney-piece. If she had been a less excellent and experi- 
 enced housekeeper, Mr. Wilding might have fancied that her 
 attention was beginning to wander at the very outset of the 
 interview. 
 
 " Eight o'clock is my breakfast-hour," he resumed. " It is 
 one of my virtues to be never tired of broiled bacon, and it 
 is one of my vices to be habitually suspicious of the fresh- 
 ness of eggs." Mrs. Goldstraw looked back at him, still a 
 little divided between her master's chimney-piece and her 
 master. " I take tea," Mr. Wilding went on ; " and I am 
 perhaps rather nervous and fidgety about drinking it, with- 
 in a certain time after it is made. If my tea stands too 
 long—" 
 
 He hesitated, on his side, and left the sentence unfin- 
 ished. If he had not been engaged in discussing a subject 
 of such paramount interest to himself as his breakfast, Mrs. 
 Goldstraw might have fancied that his attention was begin- 
 ning to wander at the very outset of the interview. 
 
 "If your tea stands too long, sir — ?" said the house- 
 keeper, politely taking up her master's lost thread. 
 
iS NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 " If my tea stands too long," repeated the wine-merchant 
 mechanically, his mind getting further and further away from 
 his breakfast, and his eyes fixing themselves more and more 
 inquiringly on his housekeeper's face. " If my tea — Dear, 
 dear me, Mrs. Goldstraw! what is the manner and tone of 
 voice that you remind me of ? It strikes me even more 
 strongly to-day, than it did when I saw you yesterday. What 
 can it be ? " 
 
 " What can it be ? " repeated Mrs. Goldstraw. 
 
 She said the words, evidently thinking while she spoke 
 them of something else. The wine-merchant, still looking 
 at her inquiringly, observed that her eyes wandered toward 
 the chimney-piece once more. They fixed on the portrait 
 of his mother, which hung there, and looked at it with that 
 slight contraction of the brow which accompanies a scarcely 
 conscious effort of memory. Mr. Wilding remarked : 
 
 " My late dear mother, when she was five-and-twenty." 
 
 Mrs. Goldstraw thanked him with a movement of the head 
 for being at the pains to explain the picture, and said, with a 
 cleared brow, that it was the portrait of a very beautiful lady. 
 
 Mr. Wilding, falling back into his former perplexity, tried 
 once more to recover that lost recollection, associated so 
 closely, and yet so undiscoverably, with his new house- 
 keeper's voice and manner. 
 
 " Excuse my asking you a question which has nothing to 
 do with me or my breakfast," he said. " May I inquire if 
 you have ever occupied any other situation than the situation 
 of housekeeper ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, sir. I began life as one of the nurses at the 
 Foundling." 
 
 . " Why, that's it ! " cried the wine-merchant, pushing back 
 his chair. " By heaven ! Their manner is the manner you 
 remind me of ! " 
 
 In an astonished look at him, Mrs. Goldstraw changed 
 color, checked herself, turned her eyes upon the ground, and 
 sat still and silent. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked Mr. Wilding. 
 
 " Do I understand that you were in the Foundling, sir ? " 
 
 " Certainly. I am not ashamed to own it." 
 
 " Under the name you now bear ? " 
 
 " Under the name of Walter Wilding." 
 
 " And the lady ? " Mrs. Goldstraw stopped short with a 
 look at the portrait which was now unmistakably a look of 
 alarm. 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 19 
 
 " You mean my mother," interrupted Mr. Wilding. 
 
 "Your — mother," repeated the housekeeper, a little con- 
 strainedly, " removed you from the Foundling ? At what age, 
 sir ? " 
 
 " At between eleven and twelve years old. It's quite a ro- 
 mantic adventure, Mrs. Goldstraw." 
 
 He told the story of the lady having spoken to him, while 
 he sat at dinner with the other boys in the Foundling and of 
 all that had followed, in his innocently communicative way. 
 " My poor mother could never have discovered me," he 
 added, "if she had not met with one of the matrons who 
 pitied her. The matron consented to touch the boy whose 
 name was ' Walter Wilding ' as she went round the dinner- 
 tables — and so my mother discovered me again, after having 
 parted from me as an infant at the Foundling door." 
 
 At those words Mrs. G-oldstraw's hand, resting on the table, 
 dropped helplessly into her lap. She sat, looking at her new 
 master, with a face that had turned deadly pale, and with 
 eyes that expressed an unutterable dismay. 
 
 " What does this mean ? " asked the wine-merchant. 
 " Stop ! " he cried. " Is there something else in the past 
 time which I ought to associate with you ? I remember my 
 mother telling me of another person at the Foundling, to 
 whose kindness she owed a debt of gratitude. When she 
 first parted with me, as an infant, one of the nurses informed 
 her of the name that had been given to me in the institution. 
 You were that nurse ? " 
 
 " God forgive me, sir — I was that nurse ! " 
 
 " God forgive you ? " 
 
 " We had better get back, sir (if I may make so bold as 
 to say so), to my duties in the house," said Mrs. Goldstraw. 
 " Your breakfast-hour is eight. Do you lunch, or dine, in 
 the middle of the day ? " 
 
 The excessive pinkness which Mr. Bintrey had noticed in 
 his client's face began to appear there once more. Mr. 
 Wilding put his hand to his head, and mastered some mo- 
 mentary confusion in that quarter, before he spoke again. 
 
 " Mrs. Goldstraw," he said, " you are concealing something 
 from me ! " 
 
 The housekeeper obstinately repeated, " Please to favor 
 me, sir, by saying whether you lunch, or dine, in the middle 
 of the day ? " 
 
 " I don't know what I do in the middle of the day. I 
 ian't enter into my household affairs, Mrs. Goldstraw, till I 
 
2o NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 know why you regret an act of kindness to my mother, which 
 she always spoke of gratefully to the end of her life. You 
 are not doing me "a service by your silence. You are agitat- 
 ing me, you are alarming me, you are bringing on the singing 
 in my head." 
 
 His hand went up to his head again, and the pink in his 
 face deepened by a shade or two. 
 
 " It's hard, sir, on just entering your service," said the 
 housekeeper, " to say what may cost me the loss of your 
 good-will. Please to remember, end how it may, that I only 
 speak because you have insisted on my speaking, and because 
 I see that I am alarming you by my silence. When I told 
 the poor lady, whose portrait you have got there, the name 
 by which her infant was christened in the Foundling, I al- 
 lowed myself to forget my duty, and dreadful consequences, 
 I am afraid, have followed from it. I'll tell you the truth, 
 as plainly as I can. A few months from the time when I 
 had informed the lady of her baby's name, there came to our 
 institution in the country another lady (a stranger), whose 
 object was to adopt one of our children. She brought the 
 needful permission with her, and after looking at a great 
 many of the children, without being able to make up her 
 mind, she took a sudden fancy to one of the babies — a boy 
 — under my care. Try, pray try, to compose yourself, sir ! 
 It's no use disguising it any longer. The child the stranger 
 took away was the child of that lady whose portrait hangs 
 there ! " 
 
 Mr. Wilding started to his feet. " Impossible ! " he cried 
 out, vehemently. " What are you talking about? What absurd 
 story are you telling me now ? There's her portrait ! Haven't 
 I told you so already ? The portrait of my mother ! " 
 
 " When that unhappy lady removed you from the Found- 
 ling, in after years," said Mrs. Goldstraw, gently, " she was the 
 victim, and you were the victim, sir, of a dreadful mistake." 
 
 He dropped back into his chair. " The room goes round 
 with me," he said. " My head ! my head ! " The housekeeper 
 rose in alarm, and opened the windows. Before she could 
 get to the door to call for help, a sudden burst of tears re- 
 lieved the oppression which had at first almost appeared to 
 threaten his life. He signed entreatingly to Mrs. Goldstraw 
 not to leave him. She waited until the paroxysm of weeping 
 had worn itself out. He raised his head as he recovered 
 himself, and looked at her with the angry, unreasoning sus- 
 picion of a weak man. 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 21 
 
 " Mistake ? " he said, wildly repeating her last word. 
 " How do I know you are not mistaken yourself ? " 
 
 11 There is no hope that I am mistaken, sir. I will tell 
 you why, when you are better fit to hear it." 
 
 " Now ! now ! " 
 
 The tone in which he spoke warned Mrs. Goldstraw that 
 it would be cruel kindness to let him comfort himself a mo- 
 ment longer with the vain hope that she might be wrong. A 
 few words more would end it — and those few words she de- 
 termined to speak. 
 
 M I have told you," she said, " that the child of the lady 
 whose portrait hangs there, was adopted in its infancy, and 
 taken away by a stranger. I am as certain of what I say as 
 that I am now sitting here, obliged to distress you, sir, sorely 
 against my will. Please to carry your mind on, now, to about 
 three months after that time. I was then at the Foundling, in 
 London, waiting to take some children to our institution in the 
 country. There was a question that day about naming an in- 
 fant — a boy — who had just been received. We generally 
 named them out of the directory. On this occasion one of the 
 gentlemen who managed the hospital happened to be look- 
 ing over the register. He noticed that the name of the baby 
 who had been adopted ( 4 Walter Wilding ') was scratched 
 out — for the reason, of course, that the child had been re- 
 moved for good from our care. ' Here's a name to let,' he 
 said. ' Give it to the new foundling who has been received 
 to-day.' The name was given, and the child was christened. 
 You, sir, were that child." 
 
 The wine merchant's head dropped on his breast. " I was 
 that child ! " he said to himself, trying helplessly to fix the 
 idea in his mind. " I was that child ! " 
 
 " Not very long after you had been received into the insti- 
 tution, sir," pursued Mrs. Goldstraw, " I left my situation 
 there to be married. If you will remember that, and if 
 you can give your mind to it, you will see for yourself how 
 the mistake happened. Between eleven and twelve years 
 passed before the lady, whom you have believed to be your 
 mother, returned to the Foundling, to find her son and to 
 remove him to her own home. The lady only knew that 
 her infant had been called ' Walter Wilding.' The matron 
 who took pity on her, could but point out the only ' Walter 
 Wilding ' known in the institution. I, who might have 
 set the matter right, was far away from the Foundling and 
 all that belonged to it. There was nothing — there was 
 
22 
 
 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 really nothing that could prevent this terrible mistake 
 from taking place. I feel for you — I do, indeed, sir ! You 
 must think— and with reason—that it was in an evil hour 
 that I came here (innocently enough, I am sure) to apply 
 for your housekeeper's place. I feel as if I was to blame — 
 I feel as if I ought to have had more self-command. If I 
 had only been able to keep my face from showing you what 
 that portrait and what your own words put into my mind, 
 you need never, to your dying day, have known what you 
 know now." 
 
 Mr. Wilding looked up suddenly. The inbred honesty of 
 the man rose in protest against the housekeeper's last words. 
 His mind seemed to steady itself, for the moment, under the 
 shock that had fallen on it. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you would have concealed this 
 from me if you could ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " I hope I should always tell the truth, sir, if I was 
 asked," said Mrs. Goldstraw. " And I know it is better 
 for me that I should not have a secret of this sort weighing 
 on my mind. But is it better for you 2 What use can it 
 serve now — ? " 
 
 " What use ? Why, good Lord ! if your story is true — " 
 
 " Should I have told it, sir, as I am now situated, if it had 
 not been true?" 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said the wine merchant. "You 
 must make allowance for me. This dreadful discovery is 
 something I can't realize, even yet. We loved each other 
 so dearly — I felt so fondly that I was her son. She died, 
 Mrs. Goldstraw, in my arms — she died blessing me as only 
 a mother could have blessed me. And now, after all these 
 years, to be told she was not my mother ! Oh me ! Oh me ! 
 I don't know what I am saying ! " he cried, as the impulse 
 of self-control under which he had spoken a moment since, 
 nickered and died out. " It was not this dreadful grief— it 
 was something else, that I had in my mind to speak of. 
 Yes, yes. You surprised me — you wounded me just now. 
 You talked as if you would have hidden this from me, if 
 you could. Don't talk in that way again. It would have 
 been a crime to have hidden it. You mean well, I know 
 I don't want to distress you — you are a kind-hearted woman 
 But you don't remember what my position is. She left me 
 all that I possess, in the firm persuasion that I was her son 
 I am not her son. I have taken the place, I have innocently 
 got the inheritance of another man. He must be found ' 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 23 
 
 How do I know he is not at this moment in misery, without 
 bread to eat ? He must be found ! My only hope of bearing 
 up against the shock that has fallen on me, is the hope of 
 doing something which she would have approved. You 
 must know more, Mrs. Goldstraw, than you have told me yet. 
 Who was the stranger who adopted the child ? You must 
 have heard f he lady's name ? " 
 
 " I never heard it, sir. I have never seen her, or heard of 
 her since." 
 
 " Did she say nothing when she took the child away ? 
 Search your memory. She must have said something." 
 
 " Only one thing, sir, that I can remember. It was a mis- 
 erably bad season that year ; and many of the children were 
 suffering from it. When she took the baby away the lady 
 said to me, laughing, ' Don't be alarmed about his health. 
 He will be brought up in a better climate than this — I am 
 going to take him to Switzerland." 
 
 M To Switzerland ? What part of Switzerland ? " 
 
 " She didn't say, sir." 
 
 "Only that faint clew?" said Mr. Wilding. "And a 
 quarter of a century has passed since the child was taken 
 away ? What am I to do ?" 
 
 " I hope you won't take offense at my freedom, sir," said 
 Mrs. Goldstraw; " but why should you distress yourself about 
 what is to be done ? He may not be alive now, for any 
 thing you know. And, if he is alive, it's not likely he can 
 be in any distress. The lady who adopted him was a bred 
 and born lady — it was easy to see that. And she must have 
 satisfied them at the Foundling that she could provide for 
 the child, or they would never have let her take him away. 
 If I was in your place, sir — please to excuse my saying so — 
 I should comfort myself with remembering that I had loved 
 that poor lady whose portrait you have got there — truly 
 loved her as my mother, and that she had truly loved me as 
 her son. All she gave to you, she gave for the sake of that 
 love. It never altered while she lived ; and it won't alter, 
 I'm sure, as long as you live. How can you have a better 
 right, sir, to keep what you have got than that ? " 
 
 Mr. Wilding's immovable honesty saw the fallacy in his 
 housekeeper's point of view at a glance. 
 
 "You- don't understand me," he said. " It's because I 
 loved her that I feel it a duty — a sacred duty — to do justice 
 to her son. If he is a living man, I must find him ; for my 
 own sake as well as for his. I shall break down under this 
 
24 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 dreadful trial, unless I employ myself— actively, instantly 
 employ myself— in doing what my conscience tells ought to 
 be done. I must speak to my lawyer ; I must set my lawyer 
 at work before I sleep to-night." He approached a tube in 
 the wall of the room, and called down through it to the office 
 below. " Leave me for a little, Mrs. Goldstraw," he re- 
 sumed ; " I shall be more composed, I shall be better able to 
 speak to you later in the day. We shall get on well— I hope 
 we shall get on well together — in spite of what has happened. 
 It isn't your fault ; I know it isn't your fault. There ! 
 there ! shake hands ; and— and do the best you can in the 
 house. I can't talk about it now." 
 
 The door opened as Mrs. Goldstraw advanced toward it ; 
 and Mr. Jarvis appeared. 
 
 " Send for Mr. Bintrey," said the wine-merchant. " Say 
 I want to see him directly." 
 
 The clerk unconsciously suspended the execution of the 
 order, by announcing " Mr. Vendale," and showing in the 
 new partner in the firm of Wilding & Co. 
 
 " Pray excuse me for one moment, George Vendale," said 
 Wilding. " I have a word to say to Jarvis. Send for Mr. 
 Bintrey," he repeated — "send at once." 
 
 Mr. Jarvis laid a letter on the table before he left the 
 room. 
 
 " From our correspondents at Neuchatel, I think, sir. The 
 letter has got the Swiss postmark." 
 
 New Characters on the Scene. 
 
 The words, " The Swiss Postmark," following so soon 
 upon the housekeeper's reference to Switzerland, wrought 
 Mr. Wilding's agitation to such a remarkable height, that 
 his new partner could not decently make a pretense of let- 
 ting it pass unnoticed. 
 
 " Wilding," he asked hurriedly, and yet stopping short and 
 glancing around as if for some visible cause of his state of 
 mind : " What is the matter ? " 
 
 " My good George Vendale," returned the wine-merchant, 
 giving his hand with an appealing look, rather as if he 
 wanted help to get over some obstacle, than as if he gave it 
 in welcome or salutation : " my good George Vendale, so 
 much is the matter, that I shall never be myself again. It 
 is impossible that I can ever be myself again. For, in fact, 
 I am not myself." 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 25 
 
 The new partner, a brown-cheeked, handsome fellow, of 
 about his own age, with a quick determined eye and an im- 
 pulsive manner, retorted with natural astonishment : " Not 
 yourself ? " 
 
 " Not what I supposed myself to be," said Wilding. 
 
 " What in the name of wonder, did you suppose yourself 
 to be that you are not ? " was the rejoinder, delivered with a 
 cheerful frankness, inviting confidence from a more reticent 
 man, " I may ask without impertinence, now that we are 
 partners." 
 
 " There again I " cried Wilding, leaning back in his chair, 
 with a lost look at the other. " Partners ! I had no right 
 to come into this business. It was never meant for me. My 
 mother never meant it should be mine. I mean, his mother 
 meant it should be his — if I mean any thing — or if I am 
 any body." 
 
 " Come, come," urged his partner, after a moment's pause, 
 and taking possession of him with that calm confidence 
 which inspires a strong nature when it honestly desires to 
 aid a weak one. " Whatever has gone wrong, has gone wrong 
 through no fault of yours, I am very sure. I was not in this 
 counting-house with you, under the old regi??ie, for three 
 years, to doubt you, Wilding. We were not younger men 
 than we are, together, for that. Let me begin our partner- 
 ship by being a serviceable partner, and setting right what- 
 ever isSvrong. Has that letter any thing to do with it ? " 
 
 " Hah ! " said Wilding, with his hand to his temple. 
 " There again ! My head ! I was forgetting the coinci- 
 dence. The Swiss postmark." 
 
 " At a second glance I see that the letter is unopened, so 
 it is not very likely to have much to do with the matter," 
 said Vendale, with comforting composure. " Is it for you, 
 or for us ? " 
 
 " For us," said Wilding. 
 
 " Suppose I open it and read it aloud, to get it out of 
 our way ? " 
 
 " Thank you, thank you." 
 
 " The letter is only from our champagne-making friends, 
 the house at Neuchatel. ' Dear Sir — We are in receipt of 
 yours of the 28th ult., informing us that you have taken your 
 Mr. Vendale into partnership, whereon we beg you to receive 
 the assurance of our felicitations. Permit us to embrace the 
 occasion of specially commending to you M. Jules Oben- 
 reizer.' Impossible ! " * 
 
26 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 Wilding looked up in quick apprehension, and cried 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " Impossible sort of name," returned his partner, slightly — 
 " Obenreizer. ' — Of specially commending to you M. 
 Jules Obenreizer, of Soho Square, London (north side), 
 henceforth r ully accredited as our agent, and who has 
 already had the honor of making the acquaintance of your 
 Mr. Vendale, in his (said M. Obenreizer's) native country, 
 Switzerland.' To be sure ! pooh pooh, what have I been 
 thinking of ! I remember now. ' When traveling with his 
 niece.' " 
 
 " With his — ? " Vendale had so slurred the last word, 
 that Wilding had not heard it. 
 
 " When traveling with his niece. Obenreizer's niece," 
 said Vendale, in a somewhat superfluously lucid manner. 
 "Niece of Obenreizer. (I met them in my first Swiss tour, 
 traveled a little with them, and lost them for two years ; met 
 them again, my Swiss tour before last, and have lost them 
 ever since.) Obenreizer. Niece of Obenreizer. To be 
 sure ! Passable sort of name, after all ! ' M. Obenreizer 
 is in possession of our absolute confidence, and we do not 
 doubt you will esteem his merits.' Duly signed by the 
 house, * Defresnier et C ie *' Very well. I undertake to see 
 M. Obenreizer presently, and clear him out of the way. 
 That clears the Swiss postmark out of the way. So now, 
 my dear Wilding, tell me what I can clear out of your way, 
 and I'll find a way to clear it." 
 
 More than ready and grateful to be thus taken charge of, 
 the honest wine merchant wrung his partner's hand, and 
 beginning his tale by pathetically declaring himself an im- 
 postor, told it. 
 
 " It was on this matter, no doubt, that you were sending 
 for Bintrey when I came in ? " said his partner, after 
 reflecting. 
 
 " It was." 
 
 " He has experience and a shrewd head ; I shall be 
 anxious to know his opinion. It is bold and hazardous in 
 me to give you mine before I know his, but I am not good 
 at holding back. Plainly, then, I do not see these circum- 
 stances as you see them. I do not see your position as you 
 see it. As to your being an impostor, my dear Wilding, 
 that is simply absurd, because no man can be that without 
 being a consenting party to an imposition. Clearly you 
 never were so. As to your enrichment by the lady who 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 27 
 
 believed you to be her son, and whom you were forced to 
 believe, on her showing, to be your mother, consider whether 
 that did not arise out of the personal relations between you. 
 You gradually became much attached to her ; she gradually 
 became much attached to you. It was on you, personally 
 you, as I see the case, that she conferred these worldly 
 advantages ; it was from her, personally her, that you took 
 them." 
 
 " She supposed me," objected Wilding, shaking his head, 
 " to have a natural claim upon her, which I had not." 
 
 " I must admit that," replied his partner, " to be true. 
 But if she had made the discovery that you have made, six 
 months before she died, do you think it would have can- 
 celed the years you were together, and the tenderness that 
 each of you had conceived for the other, each on increasing 
 knowledge of the other ? " 
 
 " What I think," said Wilding, simply but stoutly holding 
 to the bare fact, " can no more change the truth than it can 
 bring down the sky. The truth is that I stand possessed of 
 what was meant for another man." 
 
 " He may be dead," said Vendale. 
 
 " He may be alive," said Wilding. " And if he is alive 
 have I not — innocently, I grant you innocently — robbed him 
 of enough ? Have I not robbed him of all the happy time 
 that I enjoyed in his stead ? Have I not robbed him of 
 the exquisite delight that filled my soul when that dear 
 lady," stretching his hand toward the picture, " told me she 
 was my mother ? Have I not robbed him of all the care 
 she lavished on me ? Have I not even robbed him of all 
 the devotion and duty that I so proudly gave to her ? There- 
 fore it is that I ask myself, George Vendale, and I ask you, 
 where is he ? What has become of him ? " 
 
 " Who can tell ! " 
 
 " I must try to find out who can tell. I must institute in- 
 quiries. I must never desist from prosecuting inquiries. I 
 will live upon the interest of my share — I ought to say his 
 share — in this business, and will lay up the rest for him. When 
 I find him, I may perhaps throw myself upon his gener- 
 osity ; but I will yield up all to him. I will, I swear. As I 
 loved and honored her," said Wilding, reverently kissing his 
 hand toward the picture, and then covering his eyes with 
 it. " As I loved and honored her, and have a world of rea- 
 sons to be grateful to her ! " * And so broke down again. 
 
28 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 His partner rose from the chair he had occupied, and stood 
 beside him with a hand softly laid upon his shoulder. M Wal- 
 ter, I knew you before to-day to be an upright man, with a 
 pure conscience and a fine heart. It is very fortunate for 
 me that I have the privilege to travel on in life so near to so 
 trustworthy a man. I am thankful for it. Use me as your 
 right hand, and rely upon me to the death. Don't think the 
 worse of me if I protest to you that my uppermost feeling at 
 present is a confused, you may call it an unreasonable one. 
 I feel far more pity for the lady and for you, because you 
 did not stand in your supposed relations, than I can feel for 
 the unknown man (if he ever became a man), because he 
 was unconsciously displaced. You have done well in send- 
 ing for Mr. Bintrey. What I think will be a part of his ad- 
 vice, I know is the whole of mine. Do not move a step in 
 this serious matter precipitately. The secret must be kept 
 among us with great strictness, for to part with it lightly 
 would be to invite fraudulent claims, to encourage a host of 
 knaves, to let loose a flood of perjury and plotting. I have 
 no more to say now, Walter, than to remind you that you 
 sold me a share in your business, expressly to save yourself 
 from more work than your present health is fit for, and that 
 I bought it expressly to do work, and mean to do it." 
 
 With these words and a parting grip of his partner's shoul- 
 der that gave them the best emphasis they could have had, 
 George Vendale betook himself presently to the counting- 
 house, and presently afterward to the address of M. Jules 
 Obenreizer. 
 
 As he turned into Soho Square, and directed his steps 
 toward its north side, a deepened color shot across his sun- 
 browned face, which W r ilding, if he had been a better ob 
 server, or had been less occupied with his own trouble, might 
 have noticed when his partner read aloud a certain passage 
 in their Swiss correspondent's letter, which he had not read 
 so distinctly as the rest. 
 
 A curious colony of mountaineers has long been inclosed 
 within that small flat London district of Soho. Swiss watch- 
 makers, Swiss silver-chasers, Swiss jewelers, Swiss importers 
 of Swiss musical boxes and Swiss toys of various kinds, draw 
 close together there. Swiss professors of music, painting 
 and languages ; Swiss artificers in steady work ; Swiss 
 couriers, and other Swiss servants chronically out of place ; 
 industrious Swiss laundresses dnd clear-starchers ; mysteri- 
 ously existing Swiss of both sexes ; Swiss creditable and 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 29 
 
 Swiss discreditable ; Swiss to be trusted by all means, and 
 Swiss to be trusted by no means ; these diverse Swiss parti- 
 cles are attracted to a center in the district of Soho. Shabby 
 Swiss eating-houses, coffee-houses, and lodging-houses, 
 Swiss drinks and dishes, Swiss service for Sundays, and 
 Swiss schools for week-days, are all to be found there. 
 Even the native-born English taverns drive a sort of broken- 
 English trade ; announcing in their windows Swiss whets 
 and drams, and sheltering in their bars Swiss skirmishes of 
 love and animosity on most nights in the year. 
 
 When the new partner of Wilding and Co. rung the bell of 
 a door bearing the blunt inscription Obenreizer on a brass 
 plate — the inner door of a substantial house, whose ground 
 story was devoted to the sale of Swiss clocks — he passed at 
 once into domestic Switzerland. A white-tiled stove for 
 winter-time filled the fireplace of the room into which he 
 was shown, the room's bare floor was laid together in a neat 
 pattern of several ordinary woods, the room had a prevalent 
 air of surface bareness and much scrubbing ; and the little 
 square of flowery carpet by the sofa, and the velvet chim- 
 ney-board with its capacious clock and vases of artificial 
 flowers, contended with that tone, as if, in bringing out the 
 whole effect, a Parisian had adapted a dairy to domestic 
 purposes. 
 
 Mimic water was dropping off a mill-wheel under the clock. 
 The visitor had not stood before it, following it with his 
 eyes, a minute, when M. Obenreizer, at his elbow, startled 
 him by saying, in very good English, very slightly clipped : 
 " How do you do ? So glad ! " 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I didn't hear you come in." 
 
 " Not at all ! Sit, please." 
 
 Releasing his visitor's two arms, which he had lightly pin- 
 ioned at the elbows by way of embrace, M. Obenreizer also 
 sat, remarking, with a smile : "You are well ? So glad ! " 
 and touching his elbows again. 
 
 " I don't know," said Vendale, after exchange of saluta- 
 tions, " whether you may yet have heard of me from your 
 house at Neuchatel ? " 
 
 " Ah, yes ! " 
 
 " In connection with Wilding & Co. ? " 
 
 " Ah, surely ! " 
 
 " Is it not odd that I should come to you, in London 
 here, as one of the firm of Wilding & Co., to pay the firm's 
 respects ? " 
 
30 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 " Not at all ! What did I always observe when we were 
 on the mountains ? We called them vast ; but the world is 
 so little. So little is the world, that one can not keep away 
 from persons. There are so few persons in the world, that 
 they continually cross and re-cross. So very little in the 
 world, that one can not get rid of a person. Not," touching 
 his elbows again, with an ingratiatory smile, " that one 
 would desire to get rid of you." 
 " I hope not, M. Obenreizer." 
 
 " Please call me, in your country, Mr. I call myself so, 
 for I love your country. If I could be English ! But I am 
 born. And you ? Though descended from so fine a family, 
 you have had the condescension to come into trade ? Stop 
 though. Wines ? Is it trade in England or profession ? Not 
 fine art ? " 
 
 " Mr. Obenreizer," returned Vendale, somewhat out of 
 countenance, " I was but a silly young fellow, just of age, 
 when I first had the pleasure of traveling with you, and 
 when you and I and mademoiselle your niece — who is 
 well ? " 
 
 " Thank you. Who is well." 
 
 " — Shared some slight glacier dangers together. If, with 
 a boy's vanity, I rather vaunted my family, I hope I did so 
 as a kind of introduction of myself. It was very weak, and 
 in very bad taste ; but perhaps you know our English prov- 
 erb, ' Live and learn.' " 
 
 " You make too much of it," returned the Swiss. " And 
 what the devil ! After all, yours was a fine family." 
 
 George Vendale's laugh betrayed a little vexation as he 
 rejoined : " Well ! I was strongly attached to my parents, and 
 when we first traveled together, Mr. Obenreizer, I was in 
 the first flush of coming into what my father and mother 
 left me. So I hope it may have been, after all, more youth- 
 ful openness of speech and heart than boastfulness." 
 
 " All openness of speech and heart ! No boastfulness ! " 
 cried Obenreizer. " You tax yourself too heavily. You 
 tax yourself, my faith ! as if you were your government 
 taxing you ! Besides, it commenced with me. I remember 
 that evening in the boat upon the lake, floating among the 
 reflections of the mountains and valleys, the crags and pine 
 woods, which were my earliest remembrance, I drew a 
 word-picture of my sordid childhood. Of our poor hut, by 
 the waterfall which my mother showed to travelers ; of the 
 cow-shed where I slept with the cow ; of my idiot half- 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 31 
 
 brother always sitting at the door, or limping down the 
 pass to beg ; of my half-sister always spinning, and resting 
 her enormous goiter on a great stone ; of my being a fam- 
 ished, naked little wretch of two or three years, when they 
 were men and women with hard hands to beat me, I the 
 only child of my father's second marriage — if it even was a 
 marriage. What more natural than for you to compare 
 notes with me, and say, ' We are as one by age ; at that 
 same time I sat upon my mother's lap in my father's car- 
 riage, rolling through the rich English streets, all luxury 
 surrounding me, all squalid poverty kept far from me. Such 
 is my earliest remembrance as opposed to yours ! " 
 
 Mr. Obenreizer was a black-haired young man of a dark 
 complexion, through whose swarthy skin no red glow ever 
 shone. When color would have come into another cheek, 
 a hardly discernible beat would come into his, as if the 
 machinery for bringing up the ardent blood were there, but 
 the machinery were dry. He was robustly made, well pro- 
 portioned, and had handsome features. Many would have 
 perceived that some surface change in him would have set 
 them more at their ease with him, without being able to 
 define what change. If his lips could have been made much 
 thicker, and his neck much thinner, they would have found 
 their want supplied. 
 
 But the great Obenreizer peculiarity was, that a certain 
 nameless film would come over his eyes — apparently by the 
 action of his own will — which would impenetrably veil, not 
 only from those tellers of tales, but from his face at large, 
 every expression save one of attention. It by no means 
 followed that his attention should be wholly given to the 
 person with whom he spoke, or even wholly bestowed on 
 present sounds and objects. Rather, it was a comprehen- 
 sive watchfulness of every thing he had in his own mind, 
 and every thing that he knew to be, or suspected to be, in 
 the minds of other men. 
 
 At this stage of the conversation, Mr. Obenreizer's film 
 came over him. 
 
 " The object of my present visit," said Vendale, " is, I 
 need hardly say, to assure you of the friendliness of Wild- 
 ing & Co., and of the goodness of your credit with us, and 
 of our desire to be of service to you. We hope shortly 
 to offer you our hospitality. Things are not quite in 
 train with us yet, for my partner, Mr. W T ilding, is reorganiz- 
 ing the domestic part of our establishment, and is inter- 
 
32 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 rupted by some private affairs. You don't know Mr. Wild- 
 ing, I believe ? " 
 
 Mr. Obenreizer did not. 
 
 " You must come together soon. He will be glad to have 
 made your acquaintance, and I think I may predict that 
 you will be glad to have made his. You have not been long 
 established in London, I suppose, Mr. Obenreizer ? " 
 
 " It is only now that I have undertaken this agency." 
 
 " Mademoiselle you, niece — is — not married ? " 
 
 " Not married." 
 
 George Vendale glanced about him, as if for any tokens 
 of her. 
 
 u She has been in London ? " 
 
 " She is in London ? " 
 
 " When, and where, might I have the honor of recalling 
 myself to her remembrance ? " 
 
 Mr. Obenreizer, discarding his film and touching his vis- 
 itor's elbows as before, said lightly : " Come up stairs." 
 
 Fluttered enough by the suddenness with which the inter- 
 view he had sought was coming upon him after all, George 
 Vendale followed up stairs. In a room over the chamber 
 he had just quitted — a room also Swiss-appointed — a young 
 lady sat near one of the three windows, working at an 
 embroidery-frame ; and an older lady sat with her face 
 turned close to another white-tiled stove (though it was 
 summer, and the stove not lighted), cleaning gloves. The 
 young lady wore an unusual quantity of fair bright hair, very 
 prettily braided about a rather rounder white forehead than 
 the average English type, and so her face might have been 
 a shade — or say a light — rounder than the average English 
 face, and her figure slightly rounder than the average English 
 girl at nineteen. A remarkable indication of freedom and 
 grace of limb, in her quiet attitude, and a wonderful 
 purity and freshness of color in her dimpled face and 
 bright gray eyes, seemed fraught with mountain air. Switzer- 
 land too, though the general fashion of her dress was 
 English, peeped out of the fanciful bodice she wore, and 
 lurked in the curious clocked red stocking, and in its little 
 silver-buckled shoe. As to the elder lady, sitting with her 
 feet apart upon the lower brass edge of the stove, support- 
 ing a lap full of gloves while she cleaned one strerched on 
 her left hand, she was a true Swiss impersonation of another 
 kind ; from the breadth of her cushion-like back, and the 
 ponderosity of her respectable legs (if the word be admis- 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 33 
 
 sible), to the black velvet band tied tightly round her throat 
 for the repression of a rising tendency to goiter ; or, higher 
 still, to her great copper-colored ear-rings ; or, higher still, 
 to her head-dress of black gauze stretched on wire. 
 
 " Miss Marguerite," said Obenreizer to the young lady, 
 " do you recollect this gentleman ? " 
 
 " I think," she answered, rising from her seat, surprised 
 and a little confused, " it is Mr. Vendale ? " 
 
 " I think it is," said Obenreizer, dryly. " Permit me, Mr. 
 Vendale. Madame Dor." 
 
 The elder lady by the stove, with the glove stretched on 
 her left hand, like a glover's sign, half got up, half looked 
 over her broad shoulder, and wholly plumped down again 
 and rubbed away. 
 
 " Madame Dor," said Obenreizer, smiling, " is so kind as 
 to keep me free from stain or tear. Madame Dor humors 
 my weakness for being always neat, and devotes her time to 
 removing every one of my specks and spots." 
 
 Madame Dor, with the stretched glove in the air, and her 
 eyes closely scrutinizing its palm, discovered a tough spot 
 in Mr. Obenreizer at that instant, and rubbed hard at him. 
 George Vendale took his seat by the embroidery-frame 
 (having first taken the fair right hand that his entrance had 
 checked), and glanced at the gold cross that dipped into 
 the bodice, with something of the devotion of a pilgrim who 
 had reached his shrine at last. Obenreizer stood in the 
 middle of the room, with his thumbs in his waistcoat-pockets, 
 and became filmy. 
 
 " He was saying down stairs, Miss Obenreizer," observed 
 Vendale, " that the world is so small a place, that people 
 can not escape one another. I have found it much too large 
 for me since I saw you last." 
 
 " Have you traveled so far, then ? " she inquired. 
 
 " Not so far, for I have only gone back to Switzerland 
 each year ; but I could have wished — and indeed I have 
 wished very often — that the little world did not afford such 
 opportunities for long escapes as it does. If it had been 
 less, I might have found my fellow-travelers sooner, you 
 know." 
 
 The pretty Marguerite colored, and very slightly glanced 
 in the direction of Madame Dor. 
 
 " You find us at length, Mr. Vendale. Perhaps you may 
 lose us again." 
 
34 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 " I trust not. The curious coincidence that has enabled 
 me to find you, encourages me to hope not." 
 
 " What is that coincidence, sir, if you please ? " A dainty 
 little native touch in this turn of speech, and in its tone, made 
 it perfectly captivating, thought George Vendale, when again 
 he noticed an instantaneous glance toward Madame Dor. 
 A caution seemed to be conveyed in it, rapid flash though it 
 was ; so he quietly took heed of Madame Dor from that time 
 forth. 
 
 " It is that I happen to have become a partner in a house 
 of business in London, to which Mr. Obenreizer happens 
 this very day to be expressly recommended : and that, too, 
 by another house of business in Switzerland, in which (as it 
 turns out) we both have a commercial interest. He has not 
 told you ?" 
 
 "Ah!" cried Obenreizer, striking in, filmless. " No. I 
 had not told Miss Marguerite. The world is so small and 
 so monotonous that a surprise is worth having in such a lit- 
 tle jog-trot place. It is as he tells you, Miss Marguerite. 
 He, of so fine a family, and so proudly bred, has conde- 
 scended to trade. To trade ! Like us poor peasants who 
 have risen from ditches ! " 
 
 A cloud crept over the pale brow, and she cast down her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Why it is good for trade ! " pursued Obenreizer, enthu- 
 siastically. " It ennobles trade ! It is the misfortune of 
 trade, it is its vulgarity, that any low people — for example, 
 we poor peasants — may take to it and climb by it. See you, 
 my dear Vendale ! " He spoke with great energy. " The 
 father of Miss Marguerite, my eldest half-brother, more than 
 two times your age or mine, if living now, wandered without 
 shoes, almost without rags, from that wretched pass — wan- 
 dered — wandered — got to be fed with the mules and dogs at 
 an inn in the main valley far away — got to be boy there — 
 got to be hostler — got to be waiter — got to be cook — got to be 
 landlord. As landlord, he took me (could he take the idiot 
 beggar his brother, or the spinning monstrosity his sister ?) 
 to put as pupil to the famous watchmaker, his neighbor and 
 friend. His wife dies when Miss Marguerite is born. What 
 is his will, and what are his words, to me, when he dies, she 
 being between girl and woman ! ' All for Marguerite, ex- 
 cept so much by the year for you. You are young, but I 
 make her your ward, for you were of the obscurest and the 
 poorest peasantry, and so was I, and so was her mother ; we 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 35 
 
 were abject peasants all, and you will remember it.' The 
 thing is equally true of most of my countrymen, now in 
 trade in this your London quarter of Soho. Peasants once ; 
 low-born drudging Swiss peasants. Theu how good and 
 great for trade : " here, from having been warm, he became 
 playfully jubilant, and touched the young wine merchant's 
 elbows again with his light embrace : ik to be exalted by 
 gentlemen." 
 
 " I do not think so," said Marguerite, with a flushed 
 cheek, and a look away from the visitor, that was almost 
 defiant. " I think it is as much exalted by us peasants." 
 
 w Fie, fie, Miss Marguerite," said Obenreizer. " You 
 speak in proud England." 
 
 u I speak in proud earnest," she answered, quietly resum- 
 ing her work, " and I am not English, but a Swiss peasant's 
 daughter." 
 
 There was a dismissal of the subject in her words, which 
 Vendale could not contend against. He only said in an 
 earnest manner, " I most heartily agree with you, Miss Oben- 
 reizer, and I have already said so, as Mr. Obenreizer will 
 bear witness," which he by no means did, "in this house." 
 
 Now Vendale's eyes were quick eyes, and sharply watch- 
 ing Madame Dor by times, noted something in the broad 
 back view of that lady. There was considerable pantomi- 
 mic expression in her glove-cleaning. It had been very 
 softly done when he spoke with Marguerite, or it had alto 
 gether stopped, like the action of a listener. When Oben- 
 reizer's peasant-speech came to an end, she rubbed most 
 vigorously, as if applauding it. And once or twice, as the 
 glove (which she always held before her a little above her 
 face) turned in the air, or as this ringer went down, or that 
 went up, he even fancied that it made some telegraphic 
 communication to Obenreizer : whose back was certainly 
 never turned upon it, though he did not seem at all to 
 heed it. 
 
 Vendale observed too, that in Marguerite's dismissal of the 
 subject twice forced upon him to his misrepresentation, there 
 was an indignant treatment of her guardian which she tried to 
 check ; as though she would have flamed out against him, but 
 for the influence of fear. He also observed — though this was 
 not much — that he never advanced within the distance of her 
 at which he first placed himself : as though there were limits 
 fixed between them. Neither had he ever spoken of her with- 
 out the prefix " Miss," though whenever he uttered it, it was 
 
36 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 with the faintest trace of an air of mockery. And now it oc- 
 curred to Vendale for the first time that something curious in 
 the man, which he had never before been able to define, was 
 definable as a certain subtle essence of mockery that eluded 
 touch or analysis. He felt convinced that Marguerite was 
 in some sort a prisoner as to her free will — though she held 
 her own against those two combined, by the force of her 
 character, which was nevertheless inadequate to her release. 
 To feel convinced of this, was not to feel less disposed to 
 love her than he had always been. In a word, he was des- 
 perately in love with her, and thoroughly determined to pur- 
 sue the opportunity which had opened at last. 
 
 For the present, he merely touched upon the pleasure that 
 Wilding & Co. would soon have in entreating Miss Oben- 
 reizer to honor their establishment with her presence — a 
 curious old place, though a bachelor house withal — and so 
 did not protract his visit beyond such a visit's ordinary length. 
 Going down stairs, conducted by his host, he found the 
 Obenreizer counting-house at the back of the entrance-hall, 
 and several shabby men in outlandish garments hanging 
 about, whom Obenreizer put aside that he might pass, with a 
 few words in patois. 
 
 " Countrymen," he explained, as he attended Vendale to 
 the door. " Poor compatriots. Grateful and attached, like 
 dogs ! Good-by. To meet again. So glad ! " 
 
 Two more light touches on his elbows dismissed him into 
 the street. 
 
 Sweet Marguerite at her frame, and Madame Dor's broad 
 back at her telegraph, floated before him to Cripple Corner. 
 On his arrival there, Wilding was closeted with Bintrey. 
 The cellar doors happening to be open, Vendale lighted a 
 candle in a cleft stick, and went down for a cellarous stroll. 
 Graceful Marguerite floated before him faithfully, but 
 Madame Dor's broad back remained outside. 
 
 The vaults were very spacious, and very old. There had 
 been a stone crypt down there, when bygones were not by- 
 gones ; some said, part of a monkish refectory ; some said, 
 of a chapel ; some said, of a pagan temple. It was all one 
 now. Let who would make what he liked of a crumbled pil- 
 lar and a broken arch or so. Old time had made what he 
 liked of it, and was quite indifferent to contradiction. 
 
 The close air, the musty smell, and the thunderous rum- 
 bling in the streets above, as being out of the routine of 
 ordinary life, went well enough with the picture of pretty 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 37 
 
 Marguerite holding her own against those two. So Vendale 
 went on until, at a turning in the vaults, he saw a light like 
 the light he carried. 
 
 Oh ! You are here, are you, Joey ? " 
 
 "Oughtn't it rather to go, ' Oh ! You're here, are you, 
 Master George ? ' For it's my business to be here. But it 
 ain't yourn." 
 
 " Don't grumble, Joey." 
 
 " Oh ! / don't grumble," returned the cellarman. " If 
 any thing grumbles, it's what I've took in through the pores; 
 it ain't me. Have a care as something in you don't begin 
 a-grumbling, Master George. Stop here long enough for the 
 wapors to work, and they'll be at it." 
 
 His present occupation consisted of poking his head into 
 the bins, making measurements and mental calculations, and 
 entering them in a rhinoceros-hide-looking note-book, like a 
 piece of himself. 
 
 *' They'll be at it," he resumed, laying the wooden rod that 
 he measured with across two casks, entering his last calcula- 
 tion, and straightening his back, " trust 'em ! And so you've 
 regularly come into business, Master George !'" 
 
 " Regularly. I hope you don't object, Joey ! " 
 
 " I don't, bless you. But wapors objects that you're too 
 young. You're both on you too young." 
 
 " We shall get over that objection day by day, Joey." 
 
 " Ay, Master George ; but I shall day by day get over the 
 objection that I'm too old, and so I shan't be capable of 
 seeing much improvement in you." 
 
 The retort so tickled Joey Ladle that he grunted forth a 
 laugh and delivered it again, grunting forth another 
 laugh after the second addition of " improvement in 
 you." 
 
 " But what's no laughing matter, Master George," he re- 
 sumed, straightening his back once more, " is, that young 
 Master Wilding has gone and changed the luck. Mark my 
 words. He has changed the luck, and he'll find it out. / 
 ain't been down here all my life for nothing ! / know by 
 what I notices down here, when it's a-going to rain, when it's 
 a-going to hold up, when it's a-going to blow, when it's 
 a-going to be calm. 1 know, by what I notices down here, 
 when the luck's changed, quite as well." 
 
 " Has this growth on the roof any thing to do with your 
 divination ? " asked Vendale, holding his light toward a 
 gloomy, ragged growth of dark fungus, pendent from the 
 
3 8 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 arches with a very disagreeable and repellent effect. u We 
 are famous for this growth in this vault, aren't we ? n 
 
 " We are, Master George," replied Joey Ladle, moving a 
 step or two away, " and if you'll be advised by me, you'll 
 let it alone." 
 
 Taking up the rod just now laid across the two casks, and 
 faintly moving the languid fungus with it, Vendale asked, 
 " Ay, indeed ? Why so ? " 
 
 " Why not so much because it rises from the casks of 
 wine, and may leave you to judge what sort of stuff a cellar- 
 man takes into himself when he walks in the same all the 
 days of his life, nor yet so much because at a stage of its 
 growth it's maggots, and you'll fetch 'em down upon you," 
 returned Joey Ladle, still keeping away, " as for another 
 reason, Master George." 
 
 " What other reason ? " 
 
 " (I wouldn't keep on touchin' it, if I was you, sir.) I'll 
 tell you if you'll come out of the place. First, take a look 
 at its color, Master George." 
 
 " I am doing so." 
 
 " Done, sir. Now, come out of the place." 
 
 He moved away with his light, and Vendale followed with 
 his. When Vendale came up with him, and they were going 
 back together, Vendale, eying him as they walked through 
 the arches, said : " Well, Joey ? The color." 
 
 " Is it like clotted blood, Master George ? " 
 
 " Like enough, perhaps." 
 
 " More than enough, I think," muttered Joey Ladle, shak- 
 ing his head solemnly. 
 
 " Well, say it is like ; say it is exactly like. What then ? " 
 
 " Master George, they do say — " 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 " How should I know who ? " rejoined the cellarman, ap- 
 parently much exasperated by the unreasonable nature of 
 the question. " Them ! Them as says pretty well every 
 thing, you know. How should I know who they are, if you 
 don't ? " 
 
 " True. Go on." 
 
 " They do say that the man that gets by any accident a 
 piece of that dark growth right upon his breast, will, for sure 
 and certain, die by murder." 
 
 As Vendale laughingly stopped to meet the cellarman's 
 eyes, which he had fastened on his light while dreamily say- 
 ing those words, he suddenly became conscious of being 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 39 
 
 struck upon his own breast by a heavy hand. Instantly fol- 
 lowing with his eyes the action of the hand that struck him 
 — which was his companion's — he saw that it had beaten off 
 his breast a web or clot of the fungus, even then floating to 
 the ground. 
 
 For a moment he turned upon the cellarman almost as 
 scared a look as the cellarman turned upon him. But in 
 another moment they had reached the daylight at the foot 
 of the cellar-steps, and before he cheerfully sprang up them, 
 he blew out his candle and the superstition together. 
 
 Exit Wilding. 
 
 On the morning of the next day, Wilding went out alone, 
 after leaving a message with his clerk. " If Mr. Vendale 
 should ask for me," he said, "or if Mr. Bintrey should call, 
 tell them I am gone to the Foundling." All that his part- 
 ner had said to him, all that his lawyer, following on the 
 same side, could urge, had left him persisting unshaken in his 
 own point of view. To find the lost man, whose place he 
 had usurped, was now the paramount interest of his life, and 
 to inquire at the Foundling was plainly to take the first step 
 in the direction of discovery. To the Foundling, accord- 
 ingly, the wine merchant now went. 
 
 The once familiar aspect of the building was altered to 
 him, as the look of the portrait over the chimney-piece was 
 altered to him. His one dearest association with the 
 place which had sheltered his childhood had been broken 
 away from it forever. A strange reluctance possessed him, 
 when he stated his business at the door. His heart ached 
 as he sat alone in the waiting-room while the treasurer of 
 the institution was being sent for to see him. When the 
 interview began, it was only by a painful effort that he 
 could compose himself sufficiently to mention the nature of 
 his errand. 
 
 The treasurer listened with a face which promised all need- 
 ful attention, and promised nothing more. 
 
 "We are obliged to be cautious," he said, when it came 
 to his turn to speak, " about all inquiries which are made by 
 strangers." 
 
 " You can hardly consider me a stranger," answered Wild- 
 ing, simply, " I was one of your poor lost children here, in 
 the by-gone time." 
 
 The treasurer politely rejoined that this circumstance 
 
46 NO THOROUGHFARE, 
 
 inspired him with a special interest in his visitor. But he 
 pressed, nevertheless, for that visitor's motive, in making his 
 inquiry. Without further preface, Wilding told him his 
 motive, suppressing nothing. The treasurer rose, and led 
 the way into the room in which the registers of the institu- 
 tion were kept. " All the information which our books can 
 give is heartily at your service," he said. " After the time 
 that has elapsed, I am afraid it is the only information we 
 have to offer you." 
 
 The books were consulted, and the entry was found ex- 
 pressed as follows : 
 
 "3d March, 1836. Adopted, and removed from the 
 Foundling Hospital, a male infant, named Walter Wilding. 
 Name and condition of the person adopting the child — Mrs. 
 Jane Ann Miller, widow. Address — Lime-tree Lodge, 
 Groombridge Wells. References — the Reverend John 
 Harker, Groombridge Wells ; and Messrs. Giles, Jeremie 
 and Giles, bankers, Lombard Street." 
 
 " Is that all ? " asked the wine merchant. " Had you no 
 after-communication with Mrs. Miller ? " 
 
 " None — or some reference to it must have appeared in 
 this book." 
 
 " May I take a copy of the entry ? " 
 
 " Certainly ! You are a little agitated. Let me make a 
 copy for you." 
 
 " My only chance, I suppose," said Wilding, looking sadly 
 at the copy, " is to inquire at Mrs. Miller's residence, and to 
 try if her references can help me ? " 
 
 " That is the only chance I see at present," answered the 
 treasurer. " I heartily wish I could have been of some fur- 
 ther assistance to you." 
 
 With those farewell words to .comfort him, Wilding set 
 forth on the journey of investigation which began from the 
 Foundling doors. The first stage to make for, was plainly 
 the house of business of the bankers in Lombard Street. Two 
 of the partners in the firm were inaccessible to chance visi- 
 tors when he asked for them. The third, after raising cer- 
 tain inevitable difficulties, consented to let a clerk examine 
 the ledger marked with the initial letter " M." The account 
 of Mrs. Miller, widow, of Groombridge Wells, was found. 
 Two long lines, in faded ink, were drawn across it ; and at 
 the bottom of the page there appeared this note : " Account 
 closed, September 30th, 1837." 
 
 So the first stage of the journey was reached — and so it 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 41 
 
 ended in No Thoroughfare ! After sending a note to Cripple 
 Corner to inform his partner that his absence might be pro- 
 longed for some hours, Wilding took his place in the train 
 and started for the second stage on the journey — Mrs. Mil. 
 ler's residence at Groombridge Wells. 
 
 Mothers and children traveled with him ; mothers and 
 children met each other at the station ; mothers and chiL 
 dren were in the shops when he entered them to inquire for 
 Lime-tree Lodge. Everywhere, the nearest and dearest of 
 human relations showed itself happily in the happy light of 
 day. Everywhere, he was reminded of the treasured delu- 
 sion from which he had been awakened so cruelly — of the 
 lost memory which had passed from him like a reflection 
 from a glass. 
 
 Inquiring here, inquiring there, he could hear of no such 
 place as Lime-tree Lodge. Passing a house-agent's office, 
 he went in wearily, and put the question for the last time. 
 The house-agent pointed across the street to a dreary man- 
 sion of many windows, which might have been a manufact- 
 ory, but which was an hotel. That's where Lime-tree 
 Lodge stood, sir," said the man, "ten years ago." 
 
 The second stage reached, and No Thoroughfare again ! 
 
 But one chance was left. The clerical reference, Mr. Har- 
 ker, still remained to be found. Customers coming in at 
 the moment to occupy the house-agent's attention, Wilding 
 went down the street, and entering a bookseller's shop, asked 
 if he could be informed of the Reverend John Harker's pres- 
 ent address. 
 
 The bookseller looked unaffectedly shocked and aston- 
 ished, and made no answer. 
 
 Wilding repeated his question. 
 
 The bookseller took up from his counter a prim little vol- 
 ume in a binding of sober gray. He handed it to his visitor 
 open at the title page. Wilding read : 
 
 " The martyrdom of the Reverend John Harker in New 
 Zealand. Related by a former member of his flock." 
 
 Wilding put the book down on the counter. " I beg your 
 pardon," he said, thinking a little, perhaps, of his own pres- 
 ent martyrdom while he spoke. The silent bookseller 
 acknowledged the apology by a bow. Wilding went out. 
 
 Third and last stage, and No Thoroughfare for the third 
 and last time. 
 
 There was nothing more to be done ; there was absolutely 
 no choice but to go back to London, defeated at all points. 
 
42 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 From time to time on the return journey, the wine merchant 
 looked at his copy of the entry in the Foundling register. 
 There is one among the many forms of despair — perhaps 
 the most pitiable of all — which persists in disguising itself as 
 hope. Wilding checked himself in the act of throwing the 
 useless morsel of paper out of the carriage window. " It 
 may lead to something yet," he thought. " While I live, 
 I won't part with it. When I die, my executors shall find 
 it sealed up with my will." 
 
 Now, the mention of this will set the good wine merchant 
 on a new track of thought, without diverting his mind from 
 its engrossing subject. He must make his will immediately. 
 
 The application of the phrase No Thoroughfare to the 
 case had originated with Mr. Bintrey. In their first long 
 conference following the discovery, that sagacious personage 
 had a hundred times repeated, with an obstructive shake of 
 the head, " No Thoroughfare, sir, No Thoroughfare. My 
 belief is that there is no way out of this at this time of day, 
 and my advice is, make yourself comfortable where you 
 are." 
 
 In the course of the protracted consultation, a magnum of 
 the forty-five year old port-wine had been produced for the 
 wetting of Mr. Bintrey's legal whistle ; but the more clearly 
 he saw his way through the wine, the more emphatically he 
 did not see his way through the case ; repeating as often as 
 he set his glass down empty, " Mr. Wilding, No Thorough- 
 fare. Rest and be thankful." 
 
 It is certain that the honest wine merchant's anxiety to 
 make a will originated in profound conscientiousness; though 
 it is possible (and quite consistent with his rectitude) that he 
 may unconsciously have derived some feeling of relief from 
 the prospect of delegating his own difficulty to two other 
 men who were to come after him. Be that as it may, he 
 pursued his new track of thought with great ardor, and lost 
 no time in begging George Vendale and Mr. Bintrey to meet 
 him in Cripple Corner and share his confidence. 
 
 " Being all three assembled with closed doors," said Mr. 
 Bintrey, addressing the new partner on the occasion, " I wish 
 to observe, before our friend (and my client) intrusts us with 
 his further views, that I have indorsed what I understand 
 from him to have been your advice, Mr. Vendale, and what 
 would be the advice of every sensible man. I have told him 
 that he positively must keep his secret. I have spoken with 
 Mrs. Goldstraw, both in his presence and in his absence ; and 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 43 
 
 if any body is to be trusted (which is a very large IF), I think 
 she is to be trusted to that extent. I have pointed out to 
 our friend (and my client) that to set on foot random inqui- 
 ries would not only be to raise the devil, in the likeness of all 
 the swindlers in the kingdom, but would also be to waste the 
 estate. Now, you see, Mr. Vendale, our friend (and my client) 
 does not desire to waste the estate, but, on the contrary, de- 
 sires to husband it for what he considers — but I can't say I 
 do — the rightful owner ; if such rightful owner should ever 
 be found. I am very much mistaken if he ever will be, but 
 never mind that. Mr. Wilding and I are at least agreed that 
 the estate is not to be wasted. Now, I have yielded to Mr. 
 Wilding's desire to keep an advertisement at intervals flow- 
 ing through the newspapers, cautiously inviting any person 
 who may know any thing about that adopted infant, taken 
 from the Foundling Hospital, to come to my office ; and I 
 have pledged myself that such advertisement shall regularly 
 appear. I have gathered from our friend (and my client) 
 that I meet you here to-day to take his instructions, not to 
 give him advice. I am prepared to receive his instructions, 
 and to respect his wishes ; but you will please observe that 
 this does not imply my approval of either as a matter of pro- 
 fessional opinion." 
 
 Thus Mr. Bintrey, talking quite as much at Wilding as to 
 Vendale. And yet, in spite of his care for his client, he was 
 so amused by his client's Quixotic conduct, as to eye him 
 from time to time with twinkhV* :ves, in the light of a highly 
 comical curiosity. 
 
 " Nothing," observed Wilding, " can be clearer. I only 
 wish my head were as clear as yours, Mr. Bintrey." 
 
 " If you feel that singing in it coming on," hinted the 
 lawyer, with an alarmed glance, " put it off. I mean the 
 interview." 
 
 " Not at all, I thank you," said Wilding. " What was I 
 going to — " 
 
 " Don't excite yourself, Mr. Wilding," urged the lawyer. 
 
 " No ; I wasn't going to," said the wine merchant. u Mr. 
 Bintrey and George Vendale, would you have any hesitation 
 or objection to become my joint trustees and executors, 
 or can you at once consent ?" 
 
 " I consent," replied George Vendale, readily. 
 
 " /consent," said Bintrey, not so readily. 
 
 11 Thank you both. Mr. Bintrey, my instructions for my 
 last will and testament are short and plain. Perhaps you 
 
44 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 will now have the goodness to take them down. I leave the 
 whole of my real and personal estate, without any exception 
 or reservation whatsoever, to you two, my joint trustees and 
 executors, in trust to pay over the whole to the true Walter 
 Wilding if he shall be found and identified within two years 
 after the day of my death. Failing that, in trust to you two 
 to pay over .the whole as a benefaction and legacy to the 
 Foundling Hospital." 
 
 " Those are all your instructions, are they, Mr. Wilding ? *' 
 demanded Bintrey, after a blank silence, during which no- 
 body had looked at any body. 
 
 " The whole." 
 
 " And as to those instructions, you have absolutely made 
 up your mind, Mr. Wilding ? " 
 
 " Absolutely, decidedly, finally." 
 
 " It only remains," said the lawyer, with one shrug of his 
 shoulders, " to get them into technical and binding form, 
 and to execute and attest. Now, does that press ? Is there 
 any hurry about it ? You are not going to die yet, sir." 
 
 Mr. Bintrey," answered Wilding, gravely, " when I am 
 going to die is within other knowledge than yours or mine. 
 I shall be glad to have this matter off my mind, if you 
 please." 
 
 " We are lawyer and client again," rejoined Bintrey, who, 
 for the nonce, had become almost sympathetic. " If this day 
 week — here, at the same hour — will suit Mr. Vendale and 
 yourself, I will enter in my diary that I attended you ac- 
 cordingly." 
 
 The appointment was made, and in due sequence kept. 
 The will was formally signed, sealed, delivered, and wit- 
 nessed, and was carried off by Mr. Bintrey for safe storage 
 among the papers of his clients, ranged in their respective 
 iron boxes, with their respective owner's names outside, on 
 iron tiers in his consulting-room, as if that legal sanctuary 
 were a condensed family vault of clients. 
 
 With more heart than he had lately had for former sub- 
 jects of interest, Wilding then set about completing his patri- 
 archal establishment, being much assisted not only by Mrs. 
 Goldstraw but by Vendale too : who, perhaps, had in his 
 mind the giving of an Obenreizer dinner as soon as possible. 
 Anyhow, the establishment being reported in sound working 
 order, the Obenreizers, guardian and ward, were asked to 
 dinner, and Madame Dor was included in the invitation. If 
 Vendale had been over head and ears in love before — a 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 45 
 
 phrase not to be taken as implying the faintest doubt about 
 it — this dinner plunged him down in love ten thousand 
 fathoms deep. Yet, for the life of him, he could not get one 
 word alone with charming Marguerite. So surely as a blessed 
 moment seemed to come, Obenreizer, in his filmy state, 
 would stand at Vendale's elbow, or the broad back of 
 Madame Dor would appear before his eyes. That speech- 
 less matron was never seen in a front view, from the moment 
 of her arrival to that of her departure — except at dinner. 
 And from the instant of her retirement to the drawing-room, 
 after a hearty participation in that meal, she turned her face 
 to the wall again. 
 
 Yet, through four or five delightful though distracting 
 hours, Marguerite was to be seen, Marguerite was to be heard, 
 Marguerite was to be occasionally touched. When they 
 made the round of the old dark cellars, Vendale led her by 
 the hand ; when she sang to him in the lighted room at 
 night, Vendale, standing by her, held her relinquished gloves, 
 and would have bartered against them every drop of the 
 forty-five year old, though it had been forty-five times forty- 
 five years old, and its net price forty-five times forty-five 
 pounds per dozen. And still, when she was gone, and a 
 great gap of an extinguisher was clapped on Cripple Corner, 
 he tormented himself by wondering, Did she think that he 
 admired her ! Did she think that he adored her ! Did she 
 suspect that she had won him, heart and soul ! Did she 
 care to think at all about it ! And so did she and didn't 
 she, up and down the gamut, and above the line and below 
 the line, dear, dear ! Poor restless heart of humanity ! 
 To think that the men who were mummies thousands of 
 years ago, did the same, and ever found the secret how to be 
 quiet after it ! 
 
 "What do you think, George," Wilding asked him next 
 day, " of Mr. Obenreizer ? (I won't ask you what you think 
 of Miss Obenreizer.) " 
 
 " I don't know," said Vendale, " and I never did know, 
 what to think of him." 
 
 " He is well informed and clever," said Wilding. 
 
 " Certainly clever." 
 
 " A good musician." (He had played very well, and sung 
 very well, overnight.) 
 
 11 Unquestionably a good musician." 
 
 " And talks well." 
 
 " Yes," said George Vendale, ruminating, " and talks well. 
 
46 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 Do you know, Wilding, it oddly occurs to me, as I think 
 about him, that he doesn't keep silence well ! " 
 
 " How do you mean ? He is not obtrusively talkative." 
 
 ''No, and I don't mean that. But when he is silent, you 
 can hardly help vaguely, though perhaps most unjustly, mis- 
 trusting him. Take people whom you know and like. Take 
 any one you know and like." 
 
 " Soon done, my good fellow," said Wilding. " I take you." 
 
 " I didn't bargain for that, or foresee it," returned Ven- 
 dale, laughing. " However, take me. Reflect for a mo- 
 ment. Is your approving knowledge of my interesting face 
 mainly founded (however various the momentary expressions 
 it may include) on my face when I am silent ? " 
 
 " I think it is," said Wilding. 
 
 " I think so too. Now, you see, when Obenreizer speaks 
 — in other words, when he is allowed to explain himself away 
 — he comes out right enough ; but when he has not the oppor- 
 tunity of explaining himself away, he comes out rather wrong. 
 Therefore it is, that I say he does not keep silence well. And 
 passing hastily in review such faces as I know, and don't 
 trust, I am inclined to think, now that I give my mind to it, 
 that none of them keep silence well." 
 
 This proposition in physiognomy being new to Wilding, 
 he was at first slow to admit it, until asking himself the 
 question whether Mrs. Goldstraw kept silence well, and re- 
 membering that her face in repose decidedly invited trust- 
 fulness, he was as glad as men usually are to believe what 
 they desire to believe. 
 
 But, as he was very slow to regain his spirits or his health, 
 his partner, as another means of setting him up — and per- 
 haps also with contingent Obenreizer views — reminded him 
 of those musical schemes of his in connection with his family, 
 and how a singing-class was to be formed in the house, and 
 a choir in a neighboring church. The class was established 
 speedily, and, two or three of the people having already 
 some musical knowledge, and singing tolerably, the choir 
 soon followed. The latter was led, and chiefly taught, by 
 Wilding himself ; who had hopes of converting his depend- 
 ents into so many foundlings, in respect of their capacity to 
 sing sacred choruses. 
 
 Now the Obenreizers being skilled musicians, it was easily 
 brought to pass that they should be asked to join these 
 musical unions. Guardian and ward consenting, or guardian 
 consenting for both, it was necessarily brought to pass that 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. A1 
 
 iTendale's life became a life of absolute thraldom and en- 
 chantment. For in the moldy Christopher- Wren church 
 on Sundays, with its dearly beloved brethren assembled and 
 met together, five-and-twenty-strong, was not that her voice 
 that shot like light into the darkest places, thrilling the walls 
 and pillars as though they were pieces of his heart ! What 
 time, too, Madame Dor in a corner of the high pew, turning 
 her back upon every body and every thing, could not fail to 
 be ritualistically right at some moment of the service ; like 
 the man whom the doctors recommended to get drunk once 
 a month, and who, that he might not overlook it, got drunk 
 every day. 
 
 But even those seraphic Sundays were surpassed by the 
 Wednesday concerts established for the patriarchal family. 
 At those concerts she would sit down to the piano and sing 
 them, in her own tongue, songs of her own land, songs, call- 
 ing from the mountain-tops to Vendale, " Rise above the 
 groveling level country ; come far away from the crowd ; pur- 
 sue me as I mount higher, higher, higher, melting into the 
 azure distance ; rise to my supremest height and love me 
 here ! " Then would the pretty bodice, the clocked stock- 
 ing, and the silver-buckled shoe be, like the broad forehead 
 and the bright eyes, fraught with the spring of a very 
 chamois, until the strain was over. 
 
 Not even over Vendale himself did these songs of hers 
 cast a more potent spell than over Joey Ladle in his different 
 way. Steadily refusing to muddle the harmony by taking 
 any share in it, and evincing the supremest contempt for 
 scales and such like rudiments of music — which, indeed, 
 seldom captivate mere listeners — Joey did at first give up 
 the whole business for a bad job, and the whole of the per- 
 formers for a set of howling dervishes. But descrying 
 traces of unmuddled harmony in a part-song one day, he 
 gave his two under-cellarmen faint hopes of getting on 
 toward something in course of time. An anthem of Handel's 
 led to further encouragement from him : though he objected 
 that the great musician must have been down in some of 
 them foreign cellars pretty much, for to go and say the same 
 thing so many times over ; which, take it in how you might, 
 he considered a certain sign of your having took it in some- 
 how. On a third occasion, the public appearance of Mr. 
 Jarvis with a flute, and of an odd man with a violin, and the 
 performance of a duet by the two, did so astonish him that, 
 solely of his own impulse and motion, he became inspired 
 
48 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 with the words, " Ann Koar ! " repeatedly pronouncing them 
 as if calling in a familiar manner for some lady who had 
 distinguished herself in the orchestra. But this was his 
 final testimony to the merits of his mates, for the instru- 
 mental duet being performed at the first Wednesday con- 
 cert, and being presently followed by the voice of Marguerite 
 Obenreizer, he sat with his mouth wide open, entranced, 
 until she had finished ; when, rising in his place with much 
 solemnity, and prefacing what he was about to say with a 
 bow that specially included Mr. Wilding in it, he delivered 
 himself of the gratifying sentiment : " Arter that, ye may 
 all on ye get to bed ! " And ever afterward declined to 
 render homage in any other words to the musical powers of 
 the family. 
 
 Thus began a separate personal acquaintance between Mar- 
 guerite Obenreizer and Joey Ladle. She laughed so heartily 
 at his compliment, and yet was so abashed by it, that Joey 
 made bold to say to her, after the concert was over, he 
 hoped he wasn't so muddled in his head as to have took a 
 liberty? She made him a gracious reply, and Joey ducked 
 in return. 
 
 "You'll change the luck time about, miss," said Joey, 
 ducking again. " It's such as you in the place that can bring 
 round the luck of the place." 
 
 " Can I ? Round the luck ? " she answered, in her pretty 
 English, and with a pretty wonder, " I fear I do not under- 
 stand. I am so stupid." 
 
 " Young Master Wilding, miss," Joey explained confiden- 
 tially, though not much to her enlightenment, " changed the 
 luck afore he took in young Master George. So I say, and 
 so they'll find. Lord ! Only come into the place and sing 
 over the luck a few times, miss, and it won't be able to help 
 itself ! " 
 
 With this, and with a whole brood of ducks, Joey backed 
 out of the presence. But Joey being a privileged person, 
 and even an involuntary conquest being pleasant to youth 
 and beauty, Marguerite merrily looked out for him next 
 time. 
 
 " Where is my Mr. Joey, please ? " she asked of Vendale. 
 
 So Joey was produced and shaken hands with, and that 
 became an institution. 
 
 Another institution arose in this wise. Joey was a little 
 hard of hearing. He himself said it was " Wapors," and 
 perhaps it might have been ; but whatever the cause of the 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 49 
 
 effect, there the effect was, upon him. On this first occasion 
 he had been seen to sidle along the wall, with his left hand 
 to his left ear, until he had sidled himself into a seat pretty 
 near the singer, in which place and position he had remained, 
 until addressing to his friends the amateurs the compliment 
 before mentioned. It was observed on the following 
 Wednesday that Joey's action as a pecking machine was im- 
 paired at dinner, and it was rumored about the table that 
 this was explainable by his high-strung expectations of Miss 
 Obenreizer's singing, and his fears of not getting a place 
 where he could hear every note and syllable. The rumor 
 reaching Wilding's ears, he in his good nature called Joey 
 to the front at night before Marguerite began. Thus the 
 institution came into being that on succeeding nights, Mar- 
 guerite, running her hands over the keys before singing, 
 always said to Vendale, " Where is my Mr. Joey, please ? " 
 and that Vendale always brought him forth, and stationed 
 him near by. That he should then, when all eyes were upon 
 him, express in his face the utmost contempt for the exer- 
 tions of his friends and confidence in Marguerite alone, 
 whom he would stand contemplating, not unlike the rhino- 
 ceros out of the spelling-book, tamed and on his hind legs, 
 was a part of the institution. Also that when he remained 
 after the singing in his most ecstatic state, some bold spirit 
 from the back should say, " What do you think of it, Joey ?" 
 and he should be goaded to reply, as having that instant 
 conceived the retort, " Arter that ye may all on ye get to 
 bed ! " These were other parts of the institution. 
 
 But the simple pleasures and small jests of Cripple Corner 
 were not destined to have a long life. Underlying them 
 from the first was a serious matter, which every member of 
 the patriarchal family knew of, but which, by tacit agree- 
 ment, all forebore to speak of. Mr. Wilding's health was in 
 a bad way. 
 
 He might have overcome the shock he had sustained in 
 the one great affection of his life, or he might have over- 
 come his congciousness of being in the enjoyment of another 
 man's property ; but the two together were too much for 
 him. A man haunted by twin ghosts, he became deeply 
 depressed. The inseparable spectress sat at the board with 
 him, ate from his platter, drank from his cup, and stood by 
 his bedside at night. When he recalled his supposed 
 mother's love, he felt as though he had stolen it. When he 
 rallied a little under the respect and attachment of his de- 
 
S o NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 pendents, he felt as though he were even fraudulent in 
 making them happy, for that should have been the unknown 
 man's duty and gratification. 
 
 Gradually, under the pressure of his brooding mind, his 
 body stooped, his step lost its elasticity, his eyes were seldom 
 lifted from the ground. He knew he could not help the 
 deplorable mistake that had been made, but he knew he 
 could not mend it ; for the days and weeks went by, and no 
 one claimed his name or his possessions. And now there 
 began to creep over him a cloudy consciousness of often- 
 recurring confusion in his head. He would unaccountably 
 lose sometimes whole hours, sometimes a whole day and 
 night. Once his remembrance stopped as he sat at the head 
 of the dinner-table, and was blank until daybreak. Another 
 time it stopped as he was beating time to their singing, and 
 went on again when he and his partner were walking in the 
 court-yard by the light of the moon, half the night later. He 
 asked Vendale (always full of consideration, work and help) 
 how this was ? Vendale only replied, " You have not been 
 quite well, that's all." He looked for explanation into the 
 faces of the people. But they would put him off with, 
 " Glad to see you looking so much better, sir ; " or, " Hope 
 you're doing nicely now, sir ; " in which was no information 
 at all. 
 
 At length, when the partnership was but five months old, 
 Walter Wilding took to his bed, and his housekeeper became 
 his nurse. 
 
 " Lying here, perhaps you will not mind my calling you 
 Sally, Mrs. Goldstraw ! " said the poor wine merchant. 
 
 " It sounds more natural to me, sir, than any other name, 
 and I like it better." 
 
 " Thank you, Sally. I think, Sally, I must of late have 
 been subject to fits. Is that so, Sally ? Don't mind telling 
 me so now." 
 
 " It has happened, sir." 
 
 "Ah ! That is the explanation ! " he quietly remarked. 
 " Mr. Obenreizer, Sally, talks of the world being so small 
 that it is not strange how often the same people come to- 
 gether, and come together at various places, and in various 
 stages of life. But it does seem strange, Sally, that I should, 
 as I may say, come round to the Foundling to die." 
 
 He extended his hand to her, and she gently took it. 
 
 44 You are not going to die, dear Mr. Wilding." 
 
 " So Mr. Bintrey said, but I think he was wrong. The old 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. $1 
 
 child-feeling is coming back upon me, Sally. The old hush 
 and rest as I used to fall asleep." 
 
 After an interval he said, in a placid voice, " Please kiss 
 me, nurse," and, it was evident, believed himself to be lying 
 in the old dormitory. 
 
 As she had been used to bend over the fatherless and 
 motherless children, Sally bent over the fatherless and 
 motherless man, and put her lips to his forehead, murmur- 
 ing : 
 
 " God bless you ! " 
 
 14 God bless you ! " he replied in the same tone. 
 
 After another interval, he opened his eyes in his own char- 
 acter, and said : " Don't move me, Sally, because of what I 
 am going to say ; I lie quite easily. I think my time is 
 come. I don't know how it may appear to you, Sally, 
 but—" 
 
 Insensibility fell upon him for a few minutes ; he 
 emerged from it once more. 
 
 " I don't know how it may appear to you, Sally, but so it 
 appears to me." 
 
 When he had thus conscientiously finished his favorite 
 sentence, his time came, and he died. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 VENDALE MAKES LOVE. 
 
 The summer and the autumn had passed. Christmas and 
 the New Year were at hand. 
 
 As executors honestly bent on performing tneir duty 
 toward the dead, Vendale and Bintrey had held more than 
 one anxious consultation on the subject of Wilding's 
 will. The lawyer had declared, from the first, that it was 
 simply impossible to take any useful action in the matter at 
 all. The only obvious inquiries to make, in relation to the 
 lost man, had been made already by Wilding himself : with 
 this result, that time and death together had not left a trace 
 of him discoverable. To advertise for the claimant to the 
 property, it would be necessary to mention particulars — a 
 course of proceeding which would invite half the impostors 
 in England to present themselves in the character of the true 
 Walter Wilding. " If we find a chance of tracing the lost 
 man we will take it. If we don't, let us meet for another 
 
S 2 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 consultation on the first anniversary of Wilding's death." So 
 Bintrey advised. And so, with the most earnest desire to 
 fulfill his dead friend's wishes, Vendale was fain to let the 
 matter rest for the present. 
 
 Turning from his interest in the past to his interest in 
 the future, Vendale still found himself confronting a doubt- 
 ful prospect. Months on months had passed since his first 
 visit to Soho Square — and through all that time, the one 
 language in which he told Marguerite that he loved her was 
 the language of the eyes, assisted, at convenient opportuni- 
 ties, by the language of the hand. 
 
 What was the object in the way ? The one immovable 
 obstacle which had been in his way from the first. No mat- 
 ter how fairly the opportunities looked, Vendale's efforts to 
 speak with Marguerite alone, ended invariably in one and the 
 same result. Under the most accidental circumstances, in 
 the most innocent manner possible, Obenreizer was always 
 in the way. 
 
 With the last days of the old year came an unexpected 
 chance of spending an evening with Marguerite, which Ven- 
 dale resolved should be a chance of speaking privately to 
 her as well. A cordial note from Obenreizer invited him, 
 on New Year's Day, to a little family dinner in Soho Square. 
 " We shall be only four," the note said. " We shall be only 
 two," Vendale determined, " before the evening is out ! " _ 
 
 New Year's Day among the English is associated with 
 the giving and receiving of dinners, and with nothing more. 
 New Year's Day among the foreigners is the grand opportu- 
 nity of the year for the giving and receiving of presents. It 
 is occasionally possible to acclimatize a foreign custom. In 
 this instance Vendale felt no hesitation about making the 
 attempt. His one difficulty was to decide what his New 
 Year's gift to Marguerite should be. The defensive pride of 
 the peasant's daughter— morbidly sensitive to the inequality 
 between her social position and his — would be secretly 
 roused against him if he ventured on a rich offering. A gift, 
 which a poor man's purse might purchase, was the one gift 
 that could be trusted to find its way to her heart, for the 
 giver's sake. Stoutly resisting temptation, in the form of 
 diamonds and rubies, Vendale bought a brooch of the fila- 
 gree work of Genoa— the simplest and most unpretending 
 ornament that he could find in the jeweler's shop. 
 
 He slipped his gift into Marguerite's hand as she held it 
 out to welcome him on the day of the dinner. 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 53 
 
 " This is your first>New Year's Day in England," he said. 
 " Will you let me help to make it like a New Year's Day at 
 home ? " 
 
 She thanked him, a little constrainedly, as she looked at 
 the jeweler's box, uncertain what it might contain. Opening 
 the box, and discovering the studiously simple form under 
 which Vendale's little keepsake offered itself to her, she 
 penetrated his motive on the spot. Her face turned on him 
 brightly, with a look which said, " I own you have pleased 
 and flattered me." Never had she been so charming, in 
 Vendale's eyes, as she was at that moment. Her winter 
 dress — a petticoat of dark silk with a bodice of black velvet 
 rising to her neck, and inclosing it softly in a little circle of 
 swansdown — heightened, by all the force of contrast, the 
 dazzling fairness of her hair and her complexion. It was 
 only when she turned aside from him to the glass, and taking 
 out the brooch that she wore, put his New Year's gift in its 
 place, that Vendale's attention wandered far enough away 
 from her to discover the presence of other persons in the 
 room. He now became conscious that the hands of Oben- 
 reizer were affectionately in possession of his elbows. He 
 now heard the voice of Obenreizer thanking him for his at- 
 tention to Marguerite, with the faintest possible ring of 
 mockery in its tone. (" Such a simple present, dear sir ! 
 and showing such nice tact ! ") He now discovered, for the 
 first time, that there was one other guest, and but one, be- 
 side himself, whom Obenreizer presented as a compatriot 
 and friend. The friend's face was moldy, and the friend's 
 figure was fat. His age was suggestive of the autumnal pe- 
 riod of human life. In the course of the evening he devel- 
 oped two extraordinary capacities. One was a capacity for 
 silence ; the other was a capacity for emptying bottles. 
 
 Madame Dor was not in the room. Neither was there any 
 visible place reserved for her when they sat down to table. 
 Obenreizer explained that it was "The good Dor's simple 
 habit to dine always in the middle of the day. She would 
 make her excuses later in the evening." Vendale wondered 
 whether the good Dor had, on this occasion, varied her do- 
 mestic employment from cleaning Obenreizer's gloves to 
 cooking Obenreizer's dinner. This at least was certain — 
 the dishes served were, one and all, as achievements in cook- 
 ery, high above the reach of the rude elementary art of 
 England. The dinner was unobtrusively perfect. As for 
 the wine, the eyes of the speechless friend rolled over it, as 
 
54 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 in solemn ecstasy. Sometimes he said " Good ! " when a 
 bottle came in full ; and sometimes he said "Ah ! " when a 
 bottle went out empty — and there his contributions to the 
 gayety of the evening ended. 
 
 Silence is occasionally infectious. Oppressed by private 
 anxieties of their own, Marguerite and Vendale appeared to 
 feel the influence of the speechless friend. The whole responsi- 
 bility of keeping the talk going rested on Obenreizer's shoul- 
 ders, and manfully did Obenreizer sustain it. He opened 
 his heart in the character of an enlightened foreigner, and 
 sang the praises of England. When other topics ran dry, 
 he returned to this inexhaustible source, and always set 
 the stream running again as copiously as ever. Obenreizer 
 would have given an arm, an eye, or a leg, to have been 
 born an Englishman. Out of England there was no such 
 institution as a home, no such thing as a fireside, no such 
 object as a beautiful woman. His dear Miss Marguerite 
 would excuse him, if he accounted for her attractions on the 
 theory that English blood must have mixed at some former 
 time with their obscure and unknown ancestry. Survey this 
 English nation, and behold a tall, clean, plump, and solid 
 people ! Look at their cities ! What magnificence in their 
 public buildings ! What admirable order and prosperity in 
 their streets ! Admire their laws, combining the eternal 
 principle of justice with the oth'er eternal principle of pounds, 
 shillings, and pence ; and applying the product to all civil in- 
 juries, from an injury to a man's honor, to an injury to a man's 
 nose ! You have ruined my daughter — pounds, shillings, and 
 pence ! You have knocked me down with a blow in my face 
 — pounds, shillings, and pence ! Where was the material pros- 
 perity of such a country as that to stop ? Obenreizer, project- 
 ing himself into the future, failed to see the end of it. Oben- 
 reizer's enthusiasm entreated permission to exhale itself, En- 
 glish fashion, in a toast. Here is our modest little dinner over, 
 here is our frugal dessert on the table, and here is the admirer 
 of England conforming to national customs, and making a 
 speech ! A toast to your white cliffs of Albion, Mr. Ven- 
 dale ! to your national virtues, your charming climate, and 
 your fascinating women ! to your hearths, to your homes, to 
 your habeas corpus, and to all your other institutions ! In 
 one word — to England ! Heep-heep-heep ! hooray ! 
 
 Obenreizer's voice had barely chanted the last note of the 
 English cheer, the speechless friend had barely drained the 
 last drop out of his glass, when the festive proceedings were 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 55 
 
 interrupted by a modest tap at the door. A woman-servant 
 came in and approached her master with a little note in her 
 hand. Obenreizer opened the note with a frown, and, after 
 reading it with an expression of genuine annoyance, passed 
 it on to his compatriot and friend. Vendale's spirits rose 
 as he watched these proceedings. Had he found an ally in 
 the annoying little note ? Was the long-looked-for chance 
 actually coming at last ? " 
 
 " I am afraid there is no help for it ! " said Obenreizer, 
 addressing his fellow-countryman. " I am afraid we must go." 
 
 The speechles friend handed back the letter, shrugged his 
 heavy shoulders, and poured himself out a last glass of wine. 
 His fat fingers lingered fondly round the neck of the bottle. 
 They pressed it with a little amatory squeeze at parting. His 
 globular eyes looked dimly, as through an intervening haze, 
 at Vendale and Marguerite. His heavy articulation labored, 
 and brought forth a whole sentence at a birth. "I think," 
 he said, " I should have liked a little more wine." His 
 breath failed him after that effort ; he gasped, and walked 
 to the door. 
 
 Obenreizer addressed himself to Vendale with an appear- 
 ance of the deepest distress. 
 
 " I am so shocked, so confused, so distressed," he began. 
 " A misfortune has happened to one of my compatriots. He 
 is alone, he is ignorant of your language — I and my good 
 friend here have no choice but to go and help him. What 
 can I say in my excuse ? How can I describe my affliction 
 at depriving myself in this way of the honor of your com- 
 pany ? " 
 
 He paused, evidently expecting Vendale to take up his hat 
 and retire. Discerning his opportunity at last, Vendale de- 
 termined to do nothing of the kind. He met Obenreizer 
 dexterously, with Obenreizer's own weapons. 
 
 "Pray don't distress yourself," he said; "I'll wait here 
 with the greatest of pleasure till you come back." 
 
 Marguerite blushed deeply, and turned away to her em- 
 broidery frame in a corner by the window. The film showed 
 itself in Obenreizer's eyes, and the smile came something 
 sourly to Obenreizer's lips. To have told Vendale that there 
 was no reasonable prospect of his coming back in good time, 
 would have been to risk offending a man whose favorable 
 opinion was of solid commercial importance to him. Accept- 
 ing his defeat with the best possible grace, he declared him- 
 self to be equally honored and delighted by Vendale's pro- 
 
56 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 posal. " So frank, so friendly, so English ! " He bustled 
 about, apparently looking for something he wanted, disap. 
 peared for a moment through the folding-doors communica- 
 ting with the next room, came back with his hat and coat, 
 and protesting that he would return at the earliest possible 
 moment, embraced Vendale's elbows, and vanished from the 
 scene in company with the speechless friend. 
 
 Vendale turned to the corner by the window, in which 
 Marguerite had placed herself with her work. There, as if 
 she had dropped from the ceiling, or come up through the 
 floor — there, in the old attitude, with her face to the stove — 
 sat an obstacle that had not been foreseen, in the person of 
 Madame Dor ! She half got up, half looked over her broad 
 shoulder at Vendale, and plumped down again. Was she at 
 work ? Yes. Cleaning Obenreizer's gloves, as before ? No ; 
 darning Obenreizer's stockings. 
 
 The case was now desperate. Two serious considerations 
 presented themselves to Vendale. Was it possible to put 
 Madame Dor into the stove ? The stove wouldn't hold her. 
 Was it possible to treat Madame Dor, not as a living woman, 
 but as an article of furniture ? Could the mind be brought 
 to contemplate this respectable matron purely in the light 
 of a chest of drawers, with a black gauze head-dress acci- 
 dentally left on the top of it ? Yes, the mind could be 
 brought to do that. With a comparatively trifling effort, 
 Vendale's mind did it. As he took his place on the old- 
 fashioned window-seat, close by Marguerite and her embroid- 
 ery, a slight movement appeared in the chest of drawers, but 
 no remark issued from it. Let it be remembered that solid 
 furniture is not easy to move, and that it has this advantage 
 in consequence — there is no fear of upsetting it. 
 
 Unusually silent and unusually constrained, with the bright 
 color fast fading from her face, with a feverish energy possess- 
 ing her fingers — the pretty Marguerite bent over her embroid- 
 ery, and worked as if her life depended on it. Hardly less agi- 
 tated himself, Vendale felt the importance of leading her very 
 gently to the avowal which he was eager to make — to the other 
 sweeter avowal still, which he was longing to hear. A woman's 
 love is never to be taken by storm ; it yields insensibly to a 
 system of gradual approach. It ventures by the roundabout 
 way, and listens to the low voice. Vendale led her memory 
 back to their past meetings when they were traveling to- 
 gether in Switzerland. They revived the impressions, they 
 recalled the events, of the happy by-gone time. Little by 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 57 
 
 little Marguerite's constraint vanished. She smiled, she was, 
 interested, she looked at Vendale, she grew idle with her 
 needle, she made false stitches in her work. Their voices 
 sank lower and lower ; their faces bent nearer and nearer to 
 each other as they spoke. And Madame Dor ? Madame 
 Dor behaved like an angel. She never looked round ; she 
 never said a word ; she went on with Obenreizer's stockings. 
 Pulling each stocking up tight over her left arm, and hold- 
 ing that arm aloft from time to time, to catch the light on 
 her work, there were moments — delicate and indescribable 
 moments — when Madame Dor appeared to be sitting upside 
 down, and contemplating one of her own respectable legs 
 elevated in the air. As the minutes wore on, these eleva- 
 tions followed each other at longer and longer intervals. 
 Now and again, the black gauze head-dress nodded, dropped 
 forward, recovered itself. A little heap of stockings slid 
 softly from Madame Dor's lap, and remained unnoticed 
 on the floor. A prodigious ball of worsted followed the 
 stockings, and rolled lazily under the table. The black gauze 
 head-dress nodded, dropped forward, recovered itself, 
 nodded again, dropped forward again, and recovered itself 
 no more. A composite sound, partly as of the purring of 
 an immense cat, partly as of the planing of a board, arose 
 over the hushed voices of the lovers and hummed at regular 
 intervals through the room. Nature and Madame Dor had 
 combined together in Vendale's interests. The best of wo- 
 men was asleep. 
 
 Marguerite rose to stop — not the snoring — let us say, the 
 audible repose of Madame Dor. Vendale laid his hand on 
 her arm, and pressed her back gently into her chair. 
 
 " Don't disturb her," he whispered. " I have been wait- 
 ing to tell you a secret. Let me tell it now." 
 
 Marguerite resumed her seat. She tried to resume her 
 needle. It was useless ; her eyes failed her ; her hand 
 failed her ; she could rind nothing. 
 
 " We have been talking," said Vendale, " of the happy 
 time when we first met, and first traveled together. I have 
 a confession to make. I have been concealing something. 
 When we spoke of my first visit to Switzerland, I told you 
 of all the impressions I had brought back with me from 
 England — except one. Can you guess what that one is ? " 
 
 Her eyes looked steadfastly at the embroidery, and her 
 face turned a little way from him. Signs of disturbance 
 began to appear in her neat velvet bodice, round the region 
 
58 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 of the brooch. She made no reply. Vendale pressed the 
 question without mercy. 
 
 " Can you guess what the one Swiss impression is which I 
 have not told you yet ?" 
 
 Her face turned back toward him, and a faint smile trem- 
 bled on her lips. 
 
 "An impression of the mountains, perhaps ? " she said 
 slyly. 
 
 " No ; a much more precious impression than that." 
 
 "Of the lakes?" 
 
 " No. The lakes have not grown dearer and dearer in re- 
 membrance to me every day. The lakes are not associated 
 with my happiness in the present, and my hopes in the fu- 
 ture. Marguerite ! all that makes life worth having hangs, 
 for me, on a word from your lips. Marguerite ! I love you ! " 
 
 Her head drooped as he took her hand. He drew her to 
 him, and looked at her. -^he tears escaped from her down- 
 cast eyes, and fell slowly over her cheeks. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Vendale," she said sadly, " it would have been 
 kinder to have kept your secret. Have you forgotten the 
 distance between us ? It can never, never be ! " 
 
 " There can be but one distance between us, Marguerite — 
 a distance of your making. My love, my darling, there is 
 no higher rank in goodness, there is no higher rank in 
 beauty, than yours ! Come ! whisper the one little word 
 which tells me you will be my wife ! " 
 
 She sighed bitterly. " Think of your family," she mur- 
 mured ; " and think of mine ! " 
 
 Vendale drew her a little nearer to him. 
 
 " If you dwell on such an obstacle as that," he said, " I 
 shall think but one thought — I shall think I have offended 
 you." 
 
 She started, and looked up. "Oh, no ! " she exclaimed in- 
 nocently. The instant the words passed her lips, she saw 
 the construction that might be placed on them. Her con- 
 fession had escaped her in spite of herself. A lovely flush 
 of color overspread her face. She made a momentary effort 
 to disengage herself from her lover's embrace. She looked 
 up at him entreatingly. She tried to speak. The words 
 died on her lips in the kiss that Vendale pressed on them. 
 " Let me go, Mr. Vendale ! " she said faintly. 
 
 " Call me George." 
 
 She laid her head on his bosom. All her heart went out 
 to him at last. " George ! " she whispered. 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 59 
 
 " Say you love me ! " 
 
 Her arms twined themselves gently round his neck. Her 
 lips, timidly touching his cheek, murmured the delicious 
 words — " I love you ! " 
 
 In the moment of silence that followed, the sound of the 
 opening and closing of the house-door came clear to them 
 through the wintry stillness of the street. 
 
 Marguerite started to her feet. 
 
 " Let me go ! " she said. " He has come back ! " 
 
 She hurried from the room, and touched Madame Dor's 
 shoulder in passing. Madame Dor woke up with a loud 
 snort, looked first over one shoulder and then over the 
 other, peered down into her lap, and discovered neither 
 stockings, worsted, nor darning-needle in it. At the same 
 moment footsteps became audible ascending the stairs. 
 K Mon Dieu ! " said Madame Dor, addressing herself to the 
 stove, and trembling violently. Vendale picked up the 
 stockings and the ball, and huddled them all back in a heap 
 over her shoulder. " Mon Dieu ! " said Madame Dor, for 
 the second time, as the avalanche of worsted poured into 
 her capacious lap. 
 
 The door opened and Obenreizer came in. His first 
 glance round the room showed him that Marguerite was 
 absent. 
 
 " What ! " he exclaimed, " my niece is away ? My niece 
 is not here to entertain you in my absence ? This is unpar- 
 donable. I shall bring her back instantly." 
 
 Vendale stopped him. 
 
 " I beg you will not disturb Miss Obenreiz&r," he said. 
 " You have returned, I see, without your friend ? " 
 
 " My friend remains, and consoles our afflicted compatriot. 
 A heart-rending scene, Mr. Vendale ! The household gods 
 at the pawnbroker's — the family immersed in tears. We all 
 embraced in silence. My admirable friend alone possessed 
 his composure. He sent out, on the spot, for a bottle of 
 wine." 
 
 " Can I say a word to you in private, Mr. Obenreizer ? " 
 
 "Assuredly." He turned to Madame Dor. "My good 
 creature, you are sinking for want of repose. Mr. Vendale 
 will excuse you." 
 
 Madame Dor rose, and set forth sideways on her journey 
 from the stove to the bed. She dropped a stocking. Ven- 
 dale picked it up for her, and opened the folding-doors. 
 She advanced a step, and dropped three more stockings. 
 
6o NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 Vendale, stooping to recover them as before, Obenreizer 
 interfered with profuse apologies, and with' a warning 
 look at Madame Dor. Madame Dor acknowledged the look 
 "by dropping the whole of the stockings in a heap, and then 
 shuffling away panic-stricken from the scene of disaster. 
 Obenreizer swept up the complete collection fiercely in both 
 hands. " Go ! " he cried, giving his prodigious handful a 
 preparatory swing in the air. Madame Dor said " Mon 
 Dieu," and vanished into the next room, pursued by a shower 
 of stockings. 
 
 " What must you think, Mr. Vendale," said Obenreizer, 
 closing the door, " of this deplorable intrusion of domestic 
 details ? For myself, I blush at it. We are beginning the 
 New Year as badly as possible ; every thing has gone wrong 
 to-night. Be seated, pray — and say, what may I offer you ? 
 Shall we pay our best respects to another of your noble En- 
 glish institutions ? It is my study to be what you call, jolly. 
 I propose a grog." 
 
 Vendale declined the grog with all needful respect for that 
 noble institution. 
 
 " I wish to speak to you on a subject in which I am deeply 
 interested," he said. "You must have observed, Mr. Oben- 
 reizer, that I have, from the first, felt no ordinary admiration 
 for your charming niece?" 
 
 " You are very good. In my niece's name I thank you." 
 
 " Perhaps you may have noticed, latterly, that my admi- 
 ration for Miss Obenreizer has grown into a tender and 
 deeper feeling — ? " 
 
 " Shall I say friendship, Mr. Vendale? " 
 
 " Say love — and we shall be nearer to the truth." 
 
 Obenreizer started out of his chair. The faintly discerni- 
 ble beat, which was his nearest approach to a change of color, 
 showed itself suddenly in his cheeks. 
 
 " You are Miss Obenreizer's guardian," pursued Vendale. 
 " I ask you to confer upon me the greatest of all favors — I 
 ask you to give me her hand in marriage." 
 
 Obenreizer dropped back into his chair. " Mr. Vendale," 
 he said, "you petrify me." 
 
 " I will wait," rejoined Vendale, " until you have recovered 
 yourself." 
 
 " One word before I recover myself. You have said noth- 
 ing about this to my niece ? " 
 
 I liave opened my whole heart to y mr niece. And I have 
 reason to hope — " 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 61 
 
 " What ! " interposed Obenreizer. " You have made a pro- 
 posal to my niece, without first asking for my authority to pay 
 your addresses to her ? " He struck his hand on the table, 
 and lost his hold over himself for the first time in Vendale's 
 experience of him. " Sir ! " he exclaimed, indignantly, 
 " what sort of conduct is this ? As a man of honor, speaking 
 to a man of honor, how can you justify it ? " 
 
 " I can only justify it as one of our English institutions," 
 said Vendale quietly. " You admire our English institu- 
 tions. I can't honestly tell you, Mr. Obenreizer, that I re- 
 gret what I have done. I can only assure you that I have 
 not acted in the matter with any intentional disrespect 
 toward yourself. This said, may I ask you to tell me plainly 
 what objection you see to favoring my suit ? " 
 
 " I see this immense objection," answered Obenreizer, 
 " that my niece and you are not on a social equality together. 
 My niece is the daughter of a poor peasant ; and you are 
 the son of a gentleman. You do us an honor," he added, 
 lowering himself again gradually to his customary polite 
 level, " which deserves, and has our most grateful acknowl- 
 edgments. But the inequality is too glaring ; the sacrifice 
 is too great. You English are a proud people, Mr. Vendale. 
 I have observed enough of this country to see that such a 
 marriage as you propose would be a scandal here. Not a 
 hand would be held out to your peasant-wife ; and all your 
 best friends would desert you." 
 
 "One moment," said Vendale, interposing on his side. 
 " I may claim, without any great arrogance, to know more 
 of my country people in general, and of my own friends in 
 particular, than you do. In the estimation of every body 
 whose opinion is worth having, my wife herself would be the 
 one sufficient justification of my marriage. If I did not feel 
 certain — observe I say certain — that I am offering her a po- 
 sition which she can accept without so much as the shadow 
 of a humiliation — I would never (cost me what it might) 
 have asked her to be my wife. Is there any other obstacle 
 that you see ? Have you any personal objection to me ? " 
 
 Obenreizer spread out both his hands' in courteous pro- 
 test, " Personal objection ! " he exclaimed. " Dear sir, the 
 bare question is painful to me." 
 
 " We are both men of business," pursued Vendale, " and 
 you naturally expect me to satisfy you that I have the means 
 of supporting a wife. I can explain my pecuniary position 
 in two words. I inherit from my parents a fortune of twenty 
 
62 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 thousand pounds. In half of that sum I have only a life- 
 interest, to which, if I die, leaving a widow, my widow suc- 
 ceeds. If I die, leaving children, the money itself is divided 
 among them, as they come of age. The other half of my 
 fortune is at my own disposal, and is invested in the wine 
 business. I see my way to greatly improving that business. 
 As it stands at present I can not state my return from my 
 capital embarked at more than twelve hundred a year. Add 
 the yearly value of my life-interest — and the total reaches a 
 present annual income of fifteen hundred pounds. I have 
 the fairest prospect of soon making it more. In the mean- 
 time, do you object to me on pecuniary grounds ? " 
 
 Driven back to his last entrenchment, Obenreizer rose, 
 and took a turn backward and forward in the room. For 
 the moment, he was plainly at a loss what to say or do 
 next. 
 
 " Before I answer that last question," he said, after a little 
 close consideration with himself, " I beg leave to revert 
 for a moment to Miss Marguerite. You said something 
 just now which seemed to imply that she returns the senti- 
 ment with which you are pleased to regard her ? " 
 
 " I have the inestimable happiness," said Vendale, " of 
 knowing that she loves me." 
 
 Obenreizer stood silent for a moment, with the film over 
 his eyes, and the faintly perceptible beat becoming visible 
 again in his cheeks. 
 
 " If you will excuse me for a few minutes," he said, with 
 ceremonious politeness, " I should like to have the opportu- 
 nity of speaking to my niece." With those words, he bowed, 
 and quitted the room. 
 
 Left by himself, Vendale's thoughts (as a necessary result 
 of the interview, thus far) turned instinctively to the consid- 
 eration of Obenreizer's motives. He had put obstacles in 
 the way of the courtship ; he was now putting obstacles in 
 the way of the marriage— a marriage offering advantages 
 which even his ingenuity could not dispute. On the face of 
 it, his conduct was incomprehensible. What did it mean ? 
 Seeking, under the surface, for the answer to that question 
 — and remembering that Obenreizer was a man of about his 
 own age ; also, that Marguerite was, strictly speaking, his 
 half-niece only — Vendale asked himself, with a lover's ready 
 jealousv, whether he had a rival to fear, as well as a guard- 
 ian to conciliate. The thought just crossed his mind, and 
 no more. The sense of Marguerite's kiss still lingering on 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 63 
 
 his cheek reminded him gently that even the jealousy of a 
 moment was now a treason to her. 
 
 On reflection it seemed most likely that a personal motive 
 of another kind might suggest the true explanation of Oben- 
 reizer's conduct. Marguerite's grace and beauty were pre- 
 cious ornaments in that little household. They gave it a 
 special social attraction and a special social importance. 
 They armed Obenreizer with a certain influence in reserve, 
 which he could always depend upon to make his house 
 attractive, and which he might always bring more or less to 
 bear on the forwarding of his own private ends. Was he the 
 sort of man to resign such advantages as were here implied, 
 without obtaining the fullest possible compensation for the 
 loss ? A connection by marriage with Vendale offered him 
 solid advantages, beyond all doubt. But there were hun- 
 dreds of men in London with far greater power and far 
 wider influence than Vendale possessed. Was it possible 
 that this man's ambition secretly looked higher than the 
 highest prospects that could be afforded to him by the 
 alliance now proposed for his niece ? As the question passed 
 through Vendale's mind, the man himself reappeared — to 
 answer it, or not to answer it, as the event might prove. 
 
 A marked change was visible in Obenreizer when he re- 
 sumed his place. His manner was less assured, and there 
 were plain traces about his mouth of recent agitation which 
 had not been successfully composed. Had he said some- 
 thing, referring either to Vendale or to himself, which had 
 raised Marguerite's spirit, and which had placed him, for 
 the first time, face to face with a resolute assertion of his 
 niece's will? It might or might not be. This only was cer- 
 tain — he looked like a man who had met with a repulse. 
 
 " I have spoken to my niece," he began. " I find, Mr. 
 Vendale, that even your influence has not entirely blinded 
 her to the social objections to your proposal." 
 
 " May I ask," returned Vendale, " if that is the only result 
 of your interview with Miss Obenreizer ? " 
 
 A momentary flash leaped out through the Obenreizer film. 
 
 "You are master of the situation," he answered, in a tone 
 of sardonic submission. " If you insist on my admitting it, 
 I do admit it in those words. My niece's will and mine 
 used to be one, Mr. Vendale. You have come between us, 
 and her will is now yours. In my country, we know when 
 we are beaten, and we submit with our best grace. I submit, 
 with my best grace, on certain conditions. Let us revert to 
 
6 4 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 the statement of your pecuniary position. I have an objec- 
 tion to you, my dear sir — a most amazing, a most audacious 
 objection, from a man in my position to a man in yours." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " You have honored me by making a proposal for my 
 niece's hand. For the present (with best thanks and re- 
 spects), I beg to decline it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because you are not rich enough." 
 
 The objection, as the speaker had foreseen, took Vendale 
 completely by surprise. For the moment he was speechless. 
 
 " Your income is fifteen hundred a year," pursued Oben- 
 reizer. " In my miserable country I should fall on my knees 
 before your income, and say, 'What a princely fortune ! ' 
 In wealthy England, I sit as I am, and say, 'A modest inde- 
 pendence, dear sir, nothing more. Enough, perhaps, for a 
 wife in your own rank of life, who has no social prejudice to 
 conquer. Not more than half enough for a wife who is a 
 meanly-born foreigner, and who has all your social prej- 
 udices against her.' Sir ! if my niece is ever to marry you, 
 she will have what you call uphill work of it in taking her 
 place at starting. Yes, yes ; this is not your view, but it 
 remains, immovably remains, my view, for all that. For my 
 niece's sake, I claim that this uphill work shall be made as 
 smooth as possible. Whatever material advantages she can 
 have to help her, ought, in common justice, to be hers. 
 Now, tell me, Mr. Vendale, on your fifteen hundred a year 
 can your wife have a house in a fashionable quarter, a foot- 
 man to open her door, a butler to wait at her table, and a 
 carriage and horses to drive about in ? I see the answer in 
 your face— your face says, No. Very good. Tell me one 
 more thing, and I have done. Take the mass of your edu- 
 cated, accomplished, and lovely country women, is it, or is 
 it not, the fact that a lady who has a house in a fashionable 
 quarter, a footman to open her door, a butler to wait at her 
 table, and a carriage and horses to drive about in, is a lady 
 who has gained four steps, in female estimation, at starting ? 
 Yes? or No ? " 
 
 " Come to the point," said Vendale. " You view this 
 question as a question of terms. What are your terms ? " 
 
 " The lowest terms, clear sir, on which you can provide 
 your wife with those four steps at starting. Double your 
 present income — the most rigid economy can not do it in 
 England on less. You said just now that you expected 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 65 
 
 greatly to increase the value of your business. To work — 
 and increase it ! I am a good devil after all ! On the day 
 when you satisfy me by plain proofs, that your income has 
 risen to three thousand a year, ask me for my niece's hand, 
 and it is yours." 
 
 " May I inquire if you have mentioned this arrangement 
 to Miss Obenreizer ? " 
 
 " Certainly. She has a last little morsel of regard still left 
 for me, Mr. Vendale, which is not yours yet ; and she ac- 
 cepts my terms. In other words, she submits to be guided 
 by her guardian's regard for her welfare, and by her guard- 
 ian's superior knowledge of the world." He threw himself 
 back in his chair, in firm reliance on his position, and in full 
 possession of excellent temper. 
 
 Any open assertion of his own interests, in the situation in 
 which Vendale was now placed, seemed to be (for the pres- 
 ent at least) hopeless. He found himself literally left with 
 no ground to stand on. Whether Obenreizer's objections 
 were the genuine product of Obenreizer's own view of the 
 case, or whether he was simply delaying the marriage in the 
 hope of ultimately breaking it off altogether— in either of 
 these events, any present resistance on Vendale's part 
 would be equally useless. There was no help for it but to 
 yield, making the best terms that he could on his own 
 side. 
 
 " I protest against the condition you impose upon me," he 
 began. 
 
 " Naturally," said Obenreizer; "I dare say I should pro- 
 test, myself, in your place." 
 
 "Say, however," pursued Vendale, "that I accept your 
 terms. In that case, I must be permitted to make two stipu- 
 lations on my part. In the first place, I shall expect to be 
 allowed to see your niece." 
 
 " Aha! to see my niece, and to make her in as great a hurry 
 to be married as you are yourself ? Suppose I say, No ! you 
 would see her perhaps without my permission ? " 
 
 " Decidedly ! " 
 
 " How delightfully frank ! How exquisitely English ! You 
 shall see her, Mr. Vendale, on certain days, which we will 
 appoint together. What next ? " 
 
 " Your objection to my income," proceeded Vendale, " has 
 taken me completely by surprise. Your present views of my 
 qualifications for marriage require me to have an income of 
 three thousand a year. Can I be certain, in the future, as 
 
66 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 your experience of England enlarges, that your estimate will 
 rise no higher ? " 
 
 " In plain English," said Obenreizer, " you doubt my 
 word ? " 
 
 " Do you purpose to take my word for it when I inform 
 you that I have doubled my income ? " asked Vendale. ^ " If 
 my memory does not deceive me, you stipulated a minute 
 since for plain proofs ? " 
 
 " Well played, Mr. Vendale ! You combine the foreign 
 quickness with the English solidity. Accept my best con- 
 gratulations. Accept, also, my written guarantee." 
 
 He rose ; seated himself at a writing desk at a side-table, 
 wrote a few lines, and presented them to Vendale with a low 
 bow. The engagement was perfectly explicit, and was 
 signed and dated with scrupulous care. 
 
 " Are you satisfied with your guarantee?" 
 
 " I am satisfied." 
 
 " Charmed to hear it, I am sure. We have had our little 
 skirmish — we have really been wonderfully clever on both 
 sides. For the present our affairs are settled. I bear no 
 malice. You bear no malice. Come, Mr. Vendale, a good 
 English shake hands." 
 
 Vendale gave his hand, a little bewildered by Obenreizer's 
 sudden transition from one humor to another. 
 
 " When may I expect to see Miss Obenreizer again ? " he 
 asked, as he rose to go. 
 
 " Honor me with a visit to-morrow," said Obenreizer, 
 tl and we will settle it then. Do have a grog before you go ! 
 No ? Well ! well ! we will reserve the grog till you have 
 your three thousand a year, and are ready to be married. 
 Aha ! When will that be ? " 
 
 " I made an estimate, some months since, of the capacities 
 of my business," said Vendale. " If that estimate is correct, 
 I shall double my present income — " 
 
 " And be married ! " added Obenreizer. 
 
 '•' And be married," repeated Vendale, " within a year from 
 this time. Good-night." 
 
 VENDALE MAKES MISCHIEF. 
 
 When Vendale entered his office, the next morning, 
 the dull commercial routine at Cripple Corner met him 
 with a new face. Marguerite had an interest in it now ! 
 The whole machinery which Wilding's death had set in 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 67 
 
 motion, to realize the value of the business — the balanc- 
 ing of ledgers, the estimating of debts, the taking of stock, 
 and the rest of it — was now transformed into machinery 
 which" indicated the chances for and against a speedy 
 marriage. After looking after results, as presented by his 
 accountant, and checking additions and subtractions, as 
 rendered by the clerks, Vendale turned his attention to the 
 stock-taking department next, and sent a message to the 
 cellars, desiring to see the report. 
 
 The cellarman's appearance, the moment he put his head 
 in at the door of his master's private room, suggested that 
 something very extraordinary must have happened that morn- 
 ing. There was an approach to alacrity in Joey Ladle's 
 movements ! There was something which actually simulated 
 cheerfulness in Joey Ladle's face. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " asked Vendale. " Any thing 
 wrong ? " 
 
 " I should wish to mention one thing," answered Joey. 
 " Young Mr. Vendale, I have never set myself up for a 
 prophet." 
 
 " Who ever said you did ? " 
 
 " No prophet, as far as I've heard tell of that profession," 
 proceeded Joey, " ever lived principally underground. No 
 prophet, whatever else he might take in at the pores, ever 
 took in wine from morning to night, for a number of years 
 together. When I said to young Master Wilding, respecting 
 his changing the name of the firm, that one of these days he 
 might find he'd changed the luck of the firm — did I put my- 
 self forward as a prophet ? No, I didn't. Has what I said 
 to him come true ? Yes, it has. In the time of Pebbleson 
 Nephew, young Mr. Vendale, no such thing was ever known 
 as a mistake made in a consignment delivered at these doors. 
 There's a mistake been made now. Please to remark that 
 it happened before Miss Margaret came here. For which 
 reason it don't go against what I've said respecting Miss 
 Margaret singing round the luck. Read that, sir," con- 
 cluded Joey, pointing attention to a special passage in 
 the report, with a forefinger which appeared to be in pro- 
 cess of taking in through the pores nothing more remark- 
 able than dirt. "It's foreign to my nature to crow over 
 the house I serve, but I feel it a kind of a solemn duty to ask 
 you to read that." 
 
 Vendale read as follows : — " Note, respecting the Swiss 
 champagne. An irregularity has been discovered in the 
 
68 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 last consignment received from the firm of Defresnier and 
 Co." Vendale stopped, and referred to a memorandum- 
 book by his side. " That was in Mr. Wilding's time," he 
 said. " The vintage was a particularly good one, and he 
 took the whole of it. The Swiss champagne has done 
 very well, hasn't it ? " 
 
 " I don't say it's done badly," answered the cellarman. 
 " It may have got sick in our customers' bins, or it may have 
 bust in our customers' hands. But I don't say it's done 
 badly with us." 
 
 Vendale resumed the reading of the note : " We find the 
 number of the cases to be quite correct by the books. But 
 six of them, which present a slight difference from the rest 
 in the brand, have been opened, and have been found to 
 contain a red wine instead of champagne. The similarity 
 in the brands, we suppose, caused a mistake to be made 
 in sending the consignment from Neuchatel. The error 
 has not been found to extend beyond six cases." 
 
 " Is that all ! " exclaimed Vendale, tossing the note away 
 from him. 
 
 Joey Ladle's eyes followed the flying morsel of paper 
 drearily. 
 
 " I'm glad to see you take it easy, sir," he said. " What- 
 ever happens, it will be always a comfort to you to re- 
 member that you took it easy at first. Sometimes one 
 mistake leads to another. A man drops a bit of orange- 
 peel on the pavement by mistake, and another man treads 
 on it by mistake, and there's a job at the hospital, and a 
 party crippled for life. I'm glad you take it easy, sir. In 
 Pebbleson Nephew's time we shouldn't have taken it easy 
 till we had seen the end of it. Without desiring to crow 
 over the house, young Mr. Vendale, I wish you well 
 through it. No offense, sir," said the cellarman, opening 
 the door to go out, and looking in again ominously be- 
 fore he shut it. " I'm muddled and molloncholy, I grant 
 you. But I'm an old servant of Pebbleson Nephew, and 
 I wish you well through them six cases of red wine." 
 
 Left by himself, Vendale laughed, and took up his pen. 
 "I may as well send a line to Defresnier & Company," he 
 thought, "before I forget it." He wrote at once in these 
 terms : 
 
 " Dear Sirs — We are taking stock, and a trifling mistake 
 has been discovered in the last consignment of champagne 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 69 
 
 sent by your house to ours. Six of the cases contain red 
 wine — which we hereby return to you. The matter can easily 
 be set right either by your sending us six cases of the cham- 
 pagne, if they can be produced, or, if not, by your crediting 
 us with the value of six cases on the amount last paid 
 (five hundred pounds) by our firm to yours. Your faithful 
 servants, Wilding & Co." 
 
 This letter dispatched to the post, the subject dropped at 
 once out of Vendale's mind. He had other and far more 
 interesting matters to think of. Later in the day he paid the 
 visit to Obenreizer which had been agreed on between them. 
 Certain evenings in the week were set apart which he was 
 privileged to spend with Marguerite — always, however, in 
 the presence of a third person. On this stipulation Oben- 
 reizer politely but positively insisted. The one concession 
 he made was to give Vendale his choice of whom the third 
 person should be. Confiding in past experience, his choice 
 fell unhesitatingly upon the excellent woman who mended 
 Obenreizer's stockings. On hearing of the responsibility 
 intrusted to her, Madame Dor's intellectual nature burst 
 suddenly into a new stage of development. She waited till 
 Obenreizer's eyes were off her — and then she looked at Ven- 
 dale and dimly winked. 
 
 The time passed — the happy evenings with Marguerite 
 came and went. It was the tenth morning since Vendale 
 had written to the Swiss firm, when the answer appeared 
 on his desk, with the other letters of the day : 
 
 " Dear Sirs — We beg to offer our excuses for the little 
 mistake which has happened. At the same time, we regret 
 to add that the statement of our error, with which you have 
 favored us, has led to a very unexpected discovery. The af- 
 fair is a most serious one for you and for us. The particu- 
 lars are as follows : 
 
 " Having no more champagne of the vintage last sent to 
 you, we made arrangements to credit your firm with the value 
 of the six cases, as suggested by yourself. On taking this 
 step, certain forms observed in our mode of doing business 
 neces:itated a reference to our banker's book, as well as to 
 our ledger. The result is a moral certainty that no such re- 
 mittance as you mention can have reached our house, and a 
 literal certainty that no such remittance has been paid to our 
 account at the bank. 
 
70 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 " It is needless, at this stage of the proceedings, to trouble 
 you with details. The money has unquestionably been 
 stolen in the course of its transit from you to us. Certain 
 peculiarities which we observe, relating to the manner in 
 which the fraud has been perpetrated, lead us to conclude 
 that the thief may have calculated on being able to pay the 
 missing sum to our bankers before an inevitable discovery 
 followed the annual striking of our balance. This would not 
 have happened, in the usual course, for another three months. 
 During that period, but for your letter, we might have re- 
 mained perfectly unconscious of the robbery that has been 
 committed. 
 
 " We mention this last circumstance, as it may help to 
 show you that we have to do, in this case, with no ordinary 
 thief. Thus far we have not even a suspicion of who that 
 thief is. But we believe you will assist us in making some 
 advance toward discovery, by examining the receipt (forged, 
 of course) which has no doubt purported to come to you 
 from our house. Be pleased to look and see whether it is a 
 receipt entirely in manuscript, or whether it is a numbered 
 and printed form which merely requires the filling in of 
 the account. The settlement of this apparently trivial 
 question is, we assure you, a matter of vital importance. 
 Anxiously awaiting your reply, we remain, with high esteem 
 and consideration, Defresnier & Cie." 
 
 Vendale had the letter on his desk, and waited a moment 
 to steady his mind under the shock that had fallen on it. 
 At the time of all others when it was most important to him 
 to increase the value of his business, that business was threat- 
 ened with a loss of five hundred pounds. He thought of 
 Marguerite, as he took the key from his pocket and opened 
 the iron chamber in the wall, in which the books and papers 
 of the firm were kept. 
 
 He was still in the chamber, searching for the forged re- 
 ceipt, when he was startled by a voice speaking close behind 
 him. 
 
 " A thousand pardons," said the voice ; " I am afraid I 
 disturbed you." 
 
 He turned, and found himself face to face with Marguer- 
 ite's guardian. 
 
 " I have called," pursued Obenreizer, " to know if lean 
 be of any use. Business of my own takes me away for 
 some days to Manchester and Liverpool. Can I combine 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 7t 
 
 any business of yours with it ? I am entirely at your dis- 
 posal, in the character of commercial traveler for the firm 
 of Wilding & Co." 
 
 " Excuse me for one moment," said Vendale ; " I will 
 speak to you directly." He turned round again and con- 
 tinued his search among the papers. " You come at a time 
 when friendly offers are more than usually precious to me," 
 he resumed. " I have had very bad news this morning from 
 Neuchatel." 
 
 " Bad news ! " exclaimed Obenreizer. " From Defresnier 
 and Company ? " 
 
 " Yes. A remittance we sent to them has been stolen. I 
 am threatened with a loss of five hundred pounds. What's 
 that ? " 
 
 Turning sharply, and looking into the room for the sec- 
 ond time, Vendale discovered his envelope case overthrown 
 on the floor, and Obenreizer on his knees picking up the con- 
 tents. 
 
 " All my awkwardness ! " said Obenreizer. " This dread- 
 ful news of yours startled me ; I stepped back — " He became 
 too deeply interested in collecting the scattered envelopes to 
 finish the sentence. 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself," said Vendale. " The clerk will 
 pick the things up." 
 
 " This dreadful news ! " repeated Obenreizer, persisting 
 in collecting the envelopes. " This dreadful news ! " 
 
 " If you will read the letter," said Vendale, " you will 
 find I have exaggerated nothing. There it is, open on my 
 desk." 
 
 He resumed his search, and in a moment more discovered 
 the forged receipt. It was on the numbered and printed 
 form, described by the Swiss firm. Vendale made a mem- 
 orandum of the number and the date. Having replaced the 
 receipt and locked up the iron chamber, he had leisure to 
 notice Obenreizer, reading the letter in the recess of a window 
 at the far end of the rooim 
 
 " Come to the fire," said Vendale. " You look perished 
 with the cold out there. I will ring for some more coals." 
 
 Obenreizer rose, and came slowly back to the desk. 
 11 Marguerite will be as sorry to hear of this as I am," 
 he said, kindly. " What do you mean to do ? " 
 
 " I am in the hands of Defresnier and Company," answered 
 Vendale. " In my total ignorance of the circumstances, I 
 can only do what they commend. The receipt which I 
 
72 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 have just found, turns out to be the numbered and printed 
 form. They seem to attach some special importance to its 
 discovery. You have had experience, when you were in the 
 Swiss house, of their way of doing business. Can you guess 
 what object they have in view ? " 
 
 Obenreizer offered a suggestion. 
 
 " Suppose I examine the receipt ? " he said. 
 
 " Are you ill ? " asked Vendale, startled by the change in 
 his face, which now showed itself plainly for the first time. 
 " Pray go to the fire. You seem to be shivering — I hope you 
 are not going to be ill ? " 
 
 " Not I ! " said Obenreizer. " Perhaps I have caught 
 cold. Your English climate might have spared an admirer 
 of your English institutions. Let me look at the receipt." 
 
 Vendale opened the iron chamber. Obenreizer took a 
 chair and drew it close to the fire. He held both hands 
 over the flames. " Let me look at the receipt," he repeated, 
 eagerly, as Vendale reappeared with the paper in his hand. 
 At the same moment a porter entered the room with a fresh 
 supply cf coals. Vendale told him to make a good fire. 
 The man obeyed the order with a disastrous alacrity. As 
 he stepped forward and raised the scuttle, his foot caught 
 in a fold of the rug, and he discharged his entire scuttle of 
 coals into the grate. The result was an instant smothering 
 of the flame, and the production of a stream of yellow 
 smoke, without a visible morsel of fire to account for it. 
 
 " Imbecile ! " whispered Obenreizer to himself, with a look 
 at the man which the man remembered for many a long day 
 afterward. 
 
 " Will you come into the clerks' room ? " asked Vendale. 
 " They have a stove there." 
 
 " No, no. No matter." 
 
 Vendale handed him the receipt. Obenreizer's interest 
 in examining it appeared to have been quenched as sud- 
 denly and as effectually as the fire itself. He just glanced 
 over the document and said, " No ; I don't understand it ! 
 I am sorry to be of no use." 
 
 " I will write to Neuchatel by to-night's post," said Ven- 
 dale, putting away the receipt for the second time. " We 
 must wait, and see what comes of it." 
 
 "By to-night's post," repeated Obenreizer. ''Let me 
 see. You will get the answer in eight or nine days' time. 
 I shall be back before that. If I can be of any service, as 
 commercial traveler, perhaps you will let me know between 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 73 
 
 this and then. You will send me written instructions ? My 
 best thanks. I shall be most anxious for your answer from 
 Neuchatel. Who knows ? It may be a mistake, my dear 
 friend, after all. Courage ! courage ! courage ! " He had 
 entered the room with no appearance of being pressed for time. 
 He now snatched up his hat, and took his leave with the 
 air of a man who had not another moment to lose. 
 
 Left by himself, Vendale took a turn thoughtfully in the 
 room. 
 
 His previous impression of Obenreizer was shaken by 
 what he had heard and seen at the interview which had 
 just taken place. He was disposed, for the first time, to 
 doubt whether, in this case, he had not been a little hasty 
 and hard in his judgment on another man. Obenreizer's 
 surprise and regret, on hearing the news from Neuchatel, 
 bore the plainest marks of being honestly felt — not politely 
 assumed for the occasion. With troubles of his own to 
 encounter, suffering, to all appearance, from the first insi- 
 dious attack of a serious illness, he had looked and 
 spoken like a man who really deplored the disaster 
 that had fallen on his friend. Hitherto Vendale had tried 
 vainly to alter his first opinion of Marguerite's guardian, 
 for Marguerite's sake. All the generous instincts in his 
 nature now combined together and shook the evidence which 
 had seemed unanswerable up to this time. " Who knows ? " 
 he thought, " I may have read that man's face wrongly, after 
 all." 
 
 The time passed — the happy evenings with Marguerite 
 came and went. It was again the tenth morning since Ven- 
 dale had written to the Swiss firm ; and again the answer 
 appeared on his desk with the other letters of the day : 
 
 " Dear Sir — My senior partner, M. Defresnier, has been 
 called away, by urgent business, to Milan. In his absence 
 (and with his full concurrence and authority), I now write 
 to you again on the subject of the missing five hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 " Your discovery that the forged receipt is executed upon 
 one of our numbered and printed forms has caused inex- 
 pressible surprise and distress to my partner and to myself. 
 At the time when your remittance was stolen, but three keys 
 were in existence opening the strong-box in which our 
 receipt-forms are invariably kept. My partner had one key ; 
 
74 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 I had another. The third was in the possession of a gen- 
 tleman who, at that period, occupied a position of trust in 
 our house. We should as soon have thought of suspecting 
 one of ourselves as of suspecting this person. Suspicion now 
 points at him, nevertheless. I can not prevail on myself to 
 inform you who the person is, so long as there is the shadow 
 of a chance that he may come innocently out of the inquiry 
 which must now be instituted. Forgive my silence ; the 
 motive of it is good. 
 
 " The form our investigation must now take is simple 
 enough. The handwriting on your receipt must be com- 
 pared, by competent persons whom we have at our disposal, 
 with certain specimens of handwriting in our possession. 
 I can not send you the specimens for business reasons, which, 
 when you hear them, you are sure to approve. I must beg 
 you to send me the receipt to Neuchatel — and, in making 
 this request, I must accompany it by a word of necessary 
 warning. 
 
 " If the person at whom suspicion now points, really 
 proves to be the person who has committed this forgery and 
 theft, I have reason to fear that circumstances may have 
 already put him on his guard. The only evidence against 
 him is the evidence in your hands, and he will move heaven 
 and earth to obtain and destroy it. I strongly urge you not 
 to trust the receipt to the post. Send it to me, without loss 
 of time, by a private hand, and choose nobody for your 
 messenger but a person long established in your own employ- 
 ment, accustomed to traveling, capable of speaking French ; 
 a man of courage, a man of honesty, and, above all things, 
 a man who can be trusted to let no stranger scrape acquaint- 
 ance with him on the route. Tell no one — absolutely no 
 one — but your messenger of the turn this matter has now 
 taken. The safe transit of the receipt may depend on your 
 interpreting literally the advice which I give you at the end 
 of this letter. 
 
 " I have only to add that every possible saving of time is 
 now of the last importance. More than one of our receipt- 
 forms is missing — and it is impossible to say what new 
 frauds may not be committed, if we fail to lay our hands on 
 the thief. 
 
 " Your faithful servant, Rolland, 
 
 " (Signing for Defresnier & C ffi .) " 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 75 
 
 Who was the suspected man ? In Vendale's position, it 
 seemed useless to inquire. 
 
 Who was to be sent to Neuchatel with the receipt ? Men 
 of courage and men of honesty were to be had at Cripple 
 Corner for the asking. But where was the man who was 
 accustomed to foreign traveling, who could speak the 
 French language, and who could be really relied on to let 
 no stranger scrape acquaintance with him on his route ? 
 There was but one man at hand who combined all those 
 requisites in his own person, and that man was Vendale 
 himself. 
 
 It was a sacrifice to leave his business ; it was a greater 
 sacrifice to leave Marguerite. But a matter of five hundred 
 pounds was involved in the pending inquiry ; and a literal 
 interpretation of M. Rolland's advice was insisted on in 
 terms which there was no trifling with. The more Vendale 
 thought of it, the more plainly the necessity faced him, and 
 said, "Go!" 
 
 As he locked up the letter with the receipt, the association 
 of ideas reminded him of Obenreizer. A guess at the iden- 
 tity of the suspected man looked more possible now. Oben- 
 reizer might know. 
 
 The thought had barely passed through his mind, when 
 the door opened, and Obenreizer entered the room. 
 
 " They told me at Soho Square you were expected back 
 last night," said Vendale, greeting him. " Have you done 
 well in the country ? Are you better ?" 
 
 A thousand thanks. Obenreizer had done admirably well, 
 Obenreizer was infinitely better. And now, what news ? 
 Any letter from Neuchatel ? 
 
 " A very strange letter," answered Vendale. " The matter 
 has taken a new turn, and the letter insists — without except- 
 ing any body — on my keeping our next proceedings a pro- 
 found secret." 
 
 " Without excepting any body ? " repeated Obenreizer. As 
 he said the words, he walked away again, thoughtfully, to 
 the window at the other end of the room, looked out for a 
 moment, and suddenly came back to Vendale. " Surely 
 they must have forgotten ? " he resumed, " or they would not 
 have excepted me 2 " 
 
 " It is Monsieur Rolland who writes," said Vendale. 
 " And, as you say, he must certainly have forgotten. That 
 view of the matter quite escaped me. I was just wishing I 
 had you to consult, when you came into the room. And 
 
7& NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 here I am tied by a formal prohibition, which can not pos- 
 sibly have been intended to include you. How very annoy- 
 ing ! " 
 
 Obenreizer's filmy eyes were fixed on Vendale atten- 
 tively. 
 
 " Perhaps it is more than annoying ! " he said. " I came 
 this morning not only to hear the news, but to offer myself 
 as messenger, negotiator — what you will. Would you believe 
 it ? I have letters which oblige me to go to Switzerland 
 immediately. Messages, documents, any thing — I could 
 have taken all to Defresnier and Rolland for you." 
 
 " You are the very man I wanted," returned Vendale. 
 " I had decided, most unwillingly, on going to Neuchatel 
 myself, not five minutes since, because I could find no one 
 here capable of taking my place. Let me look at the letter 
 again." 
 
 He opened the strong room to get at the letter. Obenrei- 
 zer, after first glancing round him to make sure that they 
 were alone, followed a step or two and waited, measuring 
 Vendale with his eye. Vendale was the tallest man, and 
 unmistakably the strongest man also of the two. Obenreizer 
 turned away, and warmed himself at the fire. 
 
 Meanwhile, Vendale read the last paragraph in the letter 
 for the third time. There was the plain warning — there was 
 the closing sentence, which insisted on a literal interpretation 
 of it. The hand, which was leading Vendale in the dark, 
 led him on that condition only. A large sum was at stake : 
 a terrible suspicion remained to be verified. If he acted on 
 his own responsibility, and if any thing happened to defeat 
 the object in view, who would be blamed ? As a man of 
 business, Vendale had but one course to follow. He locked 
 the letter up again. 
 
 " It is most annoying," he said to Obenreizer — " it is a 
 piece of forgetfulness on Monsieur Rolland's part which puts 
 me to serious inconvenience, and places me in an absurdly 
 false position toward you. What am I to do ? I am acting 
 in a very serious matter, and acting entirely in the dark. I 
 have no choice but to be guided, not by the spirit, but by 
 the letter of my instructions. You understand me, I am 
 sure ? You know, if I had not been fettered in this way, 
 how gladly I should have accepted your services ? " 
 
 " Say no more ! " returned Obenreizer. " In your place 
 I should have done the same. My good friend, I take no 
 offense. I thank you for your compliment. We shall be 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 77 
 
 traveling companions, at any rate," added Obenreizer. 
 
 " You go, as I go, at once ? " 
 
 " At once. I must speak to Marguerite first, of course ! " 
 " Surely ! surely ! Speak to her this evening. Come, and 
 
 pick me up on the way to the station. We go together by 
 
 the mail train to-night ? " 
 
 It was later than Vendale had anticipated when he drove 
 up to the house in Soho Square. Business difficulties, occa- 
 sioned by his sudden departure, had presented themselves 
 by dozens. A cruelly large share of the time which he had 
 hoped to devote to Marguerite had been claimed by duties 
 at his office which it was impossible to neglect. 
 
 To his surprise and delight, she was alone in the draw- 
 ing room when he entered it. 
 
 " We have only a few minutes, George," she said. " But 
 Madame Dor has been good to me — and we can have those 
 few minutes alone." She threw her arms round his neck, 
 and whispered eagerly, " Have you done any thing to offend 
 Mr. Obenreizer ? " 
 
 " I ! " exclaimed Vendale, in amazement. 
 
 " Hush ! " she said, " I want to whisper it. You know the 
 iittle photograph I have got of you. This afternoon it hap- 
 pened to be oh the chimney-piece. He took it up and 
 looked at it — and I saw his face in the glass. I know you 
 have offended him. He is merciless ; he is revengeful ; he 
 is as secret as the grave. Don't go with him, George — don't 
 go with him ! " 
 
 " My own love," returned Vendale, " you are letting your 
 fancy frighten you ! Obenreizer and I were never better 
 friends than we are at this moment." 
 
 Before a word could be saidt ,he sudden movement of some 
 ponderous body shook the floor of the next room. The shock 
 was followed by the appearance of Madame Dor. " Oben- 
 reizer ! " exclaimed this excellent person in a whisper, and 
 plumped down instantly in her regular place by the stove. 
 
 Obenreizer came in with a courier's bag strapped over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Are you ready ? " he asked, addressing Vendale. " Can 
 I take any thing for you ? You have no traveling-bag. I 
 have got one. Here is the compartment for papers, open at 
 your service." 
 
 "Thank you," said Vendale. "I have only one paper of 
 importance with me ; and that paper I am bound to take 
 
78 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 charge of myself. Here it is," he added, touching the 
 breast-pocket of his coat, " and here it must remain till we 
 get to Neuchatel." 
 
 As he said those words, Marguerite's hand caught his, and 
 pressed it significantly. She was looking toward Obenrei- 
 zer. Before Vendale could look, in his turn, Obenreizer 
 had wheeled round, and was taking leave of Madame Dor. 
 
 " Adieu, my charming niece ! " he said, turning to Mar- 
 guerite next. " En route, my frtend, for Neuchatel ? " He 
 tapped Vendale lightly over the breast-pocket of his coat, 
 and led the way to the door. 
 
 Vendale's last look was for Marguerite. Marguerite's last 
 words to him were, " Don't go ! " 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 It was about the middle of the month of February when 
 Vendale and Obenreizer set forth on their expedition. The 
 winter being a hard one, the time was bad for travelers. So 
 bad was it that these two travelers coming to Strasburg, 
 found its great inns almost empty. And even the people 
 they did encounter in that city, who had started from En- 
 gland or from Paris on business journeys toward the interior 
 of Switzerland, were turning back. 
 
 Many of the railroads in Switzerland that tourists pass 
 easily now, were almost or quite impracticable then. Some 
 were not begun ; more were not completed. On such as 
 were open, there were still large gaps of old road where 
 communication in the winter season was often stopped ; on 
 others, there were weak points where the new work was not 
 safe, either under conditions of severe frost, or of rapid 
 thaw. The running of trains on this last class was not to be 
 counted on in the worst time of the year, was contingent 
 upon the weather, or was wholly abandoned through the 
 months considered the most dangerous. 
 
 At Strasburg there were more travelers' stories afloat, re- 
 specting the difficulties of the way further on, than there 
 were travelers to relate them. Many of these tales were as 
 wild as usual ; but the more modestly marvelous did derive 
 some color from the circumstance that people were indisputa- 
 bly turning back. However, as the road to Basle was open, 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 79 
 
 Vendale's resolution to push on was in nowise disturbed. 
 Obenreizer's resolution was necessarily Vendale_'s, seeing 
 that he stood at bay thus desperately : he must be ruined, 
 or must destroy the evidence that Vendale carried about 
 him, even if he destroyed Vendale with it. 
 
 The state of mind of each of these two fellow-travelers to- 
 ward the other was this. Obenreizer, encircled by impend- 
 ing ruin through Vendale's quickness of action, and seeing 
 the circle narrowed every hour by Vendale's energy, hated 
 him with the animosity of a fierce, cunning lower animal. 
 He had always had instinctive movements in his breast 
 against him ; perhaps, because of that old sore of gentleman 
 and peasant ; perhaps, because of the openness of his na- 
 ture ; perhaps, because of his better looks ; perhaps, because 
 of his success with Marguerite ; perhaps, on all those 
 grounds, the last two not the least. And now he saw in 
 him, besides, the hunter who was tracking him down. Ven- 
 dale, on the other hand, always contending generously against 
 his first vague mistrust, now felt bound to contend against it 
 more than ever: reminding himself, "He is Marguerite's 
 guardian. We are on perfectly friendly terms ; he is my 
 companion of his own proposal, and can have no interested 
 motive in sharing this undesirable journey." To which 
 pleas in behalf of Obenreizer, chance added one consider- 
 ation more, when they came to Basle after a journey of 
 more than twice the average duration. 
 
 They had had a late dinner, and were alone in an inn room 
 there, overhanging the Rhine : at that place rapid and deep, 
 swollen and loud. Vendale lounged upon a couch, and Oben- 
 reizer walked to and fro ; now, stopping at the window, 
 looking at the crooked reflections of the town lights in the 
 dark water (and peradventure thinking, "If I could fling 
 him into it ! "), now, resuming his walk with his eyes upon 
 the floor. 
 
 " Where shall I rob him, if I can ? Wmere shall I murder 
 him, if I must ? " So, as he paced the room, ran the river, 
 ran the river, ran the river. 
 
 The burden seemed to him, at last, to be growing so plain 
 that he stopped, thinking it as well to suggest another bur- 
 den to his companion. 
 
 "The Rhine sounds to-night," he said, with a smile, "like 
 the old waterfall at home. That waterfall which my mother 
 showed to travelers (as I told you of it once). The sound of it 
 changed with the weather, as does the sound of all falling 
 
So NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 waters and flowing waters. When I was pupil of the watch- 
 maker, I remembered it as sometimes saying to me for whole 
 days, ' Who are you, my little wretch ? Who are you, my lit- 
 tle wretch ? ' I remembered it as saying, other times, when 
 its sound was hollow, and a storm was coming up the pass : 
 1 Boom, boom, boom. Beat him, beat him, beat him.' Like 
 my mother enraged — if she was my mother." 
 
 " If she was ? " said Vendale, gradually changing his atti- 
 tude to a sitting one. " If she was ? Why do you say ' it ? ' " 
 
 " What do I know ?" replied the other negligently, throw- 
 ing up his hands and letting them fall as they would. " What 
 would you have ? I am so obscurely born, that how can I 
 say ? I was very young, and all the rest of the family were 
 men and women, and my so-called parents were old. Any 
 thing is possible of a case like that." 
 
 " Did you ever doubt — ? " 
 
 " I told you once, I doubt the marriage of those two," 
 he replied, throwing up his hands again, as if he were throw- 
 ing the unprofitable subject away. " But here I am in crea- 
 tion, /come of no fine family. What does it matter ?" 
 
 " At least you are Swiss," said Vendale, after following 
 him with his eyes to and fro. 
 
 " How do I know ? " he retorted abruptly, and stopping 
 to look back over his shoulder. " I say to you, at least you 
 are English. How do you know ? " 
 
 " By what I have been told from infancy." 
 
 "Ah! I know of myself that way." 
 
 " And," added Vendale, pursuing the thought that h& 
 could not drive back, " by my earliest recollections." 
 
 " I also. I know of myself that way — if that way satis- 
 fies." 
 
 " Does it not satisfy you ?" 
 
 "It must. There is nothing like 'it must ' in this little 
 world. It must. Two short words those, but stronger than 
 long proof of reasoning." 
 
 " You and poor Wilding were born in the same year. You 
 were nearly of an age," said Vendale, again thoughtfully 
 looking after him as he resumed his pacing up and down. 
 
 "Yes. Very nearly." 
 
 Could Obenreizer be the missing man ? In the unknown 
 associations of things, was there a subtler meaning than he 
 himself thought, in that theory so often on his lips about 
 the smallness of the world. Had the Swiss letter present- 
 ing him followed so close on Mrs. Goldstraw's revelation 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 8t 
 
 concerning the infant who had been taken away to Switzer- 
 land, because he was that infant grown a man ? In a world 
 where so many depths lie unsounded, it might be. The 
 chances, or the laws — call them either — that had wrought 
 out the revival of Vendale's own acquaintance with Oben- 
 reizer, and had ripened it into intimacy, and had brought 
 the*in here together this present winter night, were hardly 
 less curious ; while read by such a light, they were seen to 
 cohere toward the furtherance of a continuous and an intel- 
 ligible purpose. 
 
 Vendale's awakened thoughts ran high while his eye mus- 
 ingly followed Obenreizer pacing up and down the room, the 
 river ever running to the tune : " Where shall I rob him, if 
 I can ? Where shall I murder him, if I must ? " The secret 
 of his dead friend was in no hazard from Vendale's lips ; 
 but just as his friend had died of its weight, so did he in his 
 lighter succession feel the burden of the trust, and the obli- 
 gation to follow any clew, however obscure. He rapidly 
 asked himself, would he like this man to be the real Wild- 
 ing ? No. Argue down his mistrust as he might, he was 
 unwilling to put such a substitute in the place of his late 
 guileless, outspoken, childlike partner. He rapidly asked 
 himself, would he like this man to be rich ? No. He had 
 more power than enough over Marguerite as it was, and 
 wealth might invest him with more. Would he like this man 
 to be Marguerite's guardian, and yet proved to stand in no 
 degree of relationship toward her, however disconnected and 
 distant ? No. But these were not considerations to come 
 between him and fidelity to the dead. Let him see to it that 
 they passed him with no other notice than the knowledge 
 that they had passed him, and left him bent on the discharge 
 of a solemn duty. And he did see to it, so soon that he 
 followed his companion with ungrudging eyes, while he still 
 paced the room ; that companion whom he supposed to be 
 moodily reflecting on his own birth, and not on another 
 man's — least of all what man's — violent death. 
 
 The road in advance from Basle to Neuchatel was better 
 than had been represented. The latest weather had done it 
 good. Drivers, both of horses and mules, had come in that 
 evening after dark, and had reported nothing more difficult 
 to be overcome than trials of patience, harness, wheels, axles 
 and whip-cord. A bargain was soon struck for a carriage 
 and horses to take them on, in the morning, and to start 
 before daylight. 
 
82 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 " Do you lock your door at night when traveling ? " asked 
 Obenreizer, standing warming his hands by the wood-fire in 
 Vendale's chamber, before going to his own. 
 
 " Not I. I sleep too soundly." 
 
 "You are so sound a sleeper?" he retorted, with an ad- 
 miring look. " What a blessing I " 
 
 " Any thing but a blessing to the rest of the house," re« 
 joined Vendale, " if I had to be knocked up in the morning 
 from the outside of my bedroom door." 
 
 "I, too," said Obenreizer, "leave open my room. But let 
 me advise you, as a Swiss who knows ; always, when you 
 travel in my country, put your papers — and, of course, your 
 money — under your pillow. Always the same place." 
 
 "You are not complimentary to your countrymen," 
 laughed Vendale. 
 
 " My countrymen," said Obenreizer, with that light touch 
 of his friend's elbows by way of good-night and benediction, 
 " I suppose are like the majority of men. And the majority 
 of men will take what they can get. Adieu ! At four in the 
 morning." 
 
 "Adieu ! At four!" 
 
 Left to himself, Vendale raked the logs together, sprinkled 
 over them the white wood-ashes lying on the hearth, and sat 
 down to compose his thoughts. But they still ran high on 
 their latest theme, and the running of the river tended to 
 agitate rather than to quiet them. As he sat thinking, what 
 little disposition he had had to sleep departed. He felt it 
 hopeless to lie down yet, and sat dressed by the fire. Mar- 
 guerite, Wilding, Obenreizer, the business he was then upon, 
 and a thousand hopes and doubts that had nothing to do 
 with it, occupied his mind at once. Every thing seemed to 
 have power over him but slumber. The departed disposition 
 to sleep kept far away. 
 
 He had sat for a long time thinking, on the hearth, when 
 his candle burned down and its light went out. It was of 
 little moment ; there was light enough in the fire. He 
 changed his attitude, and leaning his arm on the chair-back, 
 and his chin upon that hand, sat thinking still. 
 
 But he sat between the fire and the bed, and as the fire 
 flickered in the play of air from the fast-flowing river, his en- 
 larged shadow fluttered on the white wall by the bedside. 
 His attitude gave it an air half of mourning and half of 
 bending over the bed imploring. His eyes were obser- 
 vant of it, when he became troubled by the disagreeable 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 83 
 
 fancy that it was like Wilding's shadow, and not his 
 own. 
 
 A slight change of place would cause it to disappear. He 
 made the change, and the apparition of his disturbed fancy 
 vanished. He now sat in the shade of a little nook beside 
 the fire, and the door of the room was before him. 
 
 It had a long, cumbrous iron latch. He saw the latch 
 slowly and softly rise. The door opened a very little, and 
 came to again, as though only the air had moved it. But 
 he saw that the latch was out of the hasp. 
 
 The door opened again very slowly, until it opened wide 
 enough to admit some one. It afterward remained still for 
 a while, as though cautiously held open on the other side. 
 The figure of a man then entered, with its face turned toward 
 the bed, and stood quiet just within the door. Until it said, 
 in a low half-whisper, at the same time taking one step for- 
 ward : " Vendale ! " 
 
 " What now ? " he answered, springing from his seat ; 
 "who is it ? " 
 
 It was Obenreizer, and he uttered a cry of surprise as 
 Vendale came upon him from that unexpected direction. 
 " Not in bed ? " he said, catching him by both shoulders 
 with an instinctive tendency to a struggle, " then something 
 is wrong ! " 
 
 " What do you mean?" said Vendale, releasing himself. 
 
 " First tell me ; you are not ill ? " 
 
 "111? No." 
 
 " I have had a bad dream about you. How is it that I 
 see you up and dressed ? " 
 
 " My good fellow, I may as well ask you how it is that I 
 see you up and undressed ? " 
 
 " I have told you why. - I have had a bad dream about 
 you. I tried to rest after it, but it was impossible. I could 
 not make up my mind to stay where I was without knowing 
 you were safe ; and yet I could not make up my mind to 
 come in here. I have been minutes hesitating at the door. 
 It is so easy to laugh at a dream you have not dreamed. 
 Where is your candle ?" 
 
 " Burned out." 
 
 " I have a whole one in my room. Shall I fetch it ? " 
 
 "Do so." 
 
 His room was very near, and he was absent for but a few 
 seconds. Coming back with the candle in his hand, he 
 kneeled down on the hearth and lighted it. As he blew with 
 
84 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 his breath a charred billet into flame for the purpose, Ven- 
 dale, looking down at him, saw that his lips were white and 
 not easy of control. 
 
 " Yes ! " said Obenreizer, setting the lighted candle on the 
 table, " it was a bad dream. Only look at me ! " 
 
 His feet were bare ; his red-flannel shirt was thrown back 
 at the throat, and its sleeves were rolled! above the elbows ; 
 his only other garment, a pair of under pantaloons or drawers, 
 reaching to the ankles, fitted him close and tight. A certain 
 lithe and savage appearance was on his figure, and his eyes 
 were very bright. 
 
 " If there had been a wrestle with a robber, as I dreamed," 
 said Obenreizer, "you see, I was stripped for it." 
 
 "And armed, too," said Vendale, glancing at his girdle. 
 
 "A traveler's dagger, that I always carry on the road," 
 he answered carelessly, half drawing it from its sheath with 
 his left hand, and putting it back again. " Do you carry no 
 such thing ? " 
 
 11 Nothing of the kind." 
 
 " No pistols ? " said Obenreizer, glancing at the table, and 
 from it to the untouched pillow. 
 
 " Nothing' of the sort." 
 
 " You Englishmen are so confident ! You wish to sleep ? " 
 
 " I have wished to sleep this long time, but I can't do it." 
 
 " I neither, after the bad dream. My fire has -gone the 
 way of your candle. May I come and sit by yours ? Two 
 o'clock ! It will so soon be four, that it is not worth the trou- 
 ble to go to bed again." 
 
 " I shall not take the trouble to go to bed at all, now," 
 said Vendale ; " sit here and keep me company, and wel- 
 come." 
 
 Going back to his room to arrange his dress, Oben- 
 reizer soon returned in a loose cloak and slippers, and they 
 sat down on opposite sides of the hearth. In the interval 
 Vendale had replenished the fire from the wood-basket in 
 his room, and Obenreizer had put upon the table a flask and 
 cup from his. 
 
 " Common cabaret brandy, I am afraid," he said, pouring 
 out ; " bought upon the' road, and not like yours from Crip- 
 ple Corner. But yours is exhausted ; so much the worse. 
 A cold night, a cold time of night, a cold country, and a cold 
 house. This may be better than nothing ; try it." 
 
 Vendale took the cup and did so. 
 
 " How do you find it ? " 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 85 
 
 " It has a coarse after-flavor,'' said Vendale, giving back 
 the cup with a slight shudder, " and I don't like it." 
 
 " You are right," said Obenreizer, tasting and smacking 
 his lips ; " it has a coarse after-flavor, and / don't like it. 
 Booh ! it burns, though ! " He had flung what remained in 
 the cup upon the fire. 
 
 Each of them leaned an elbow on the table, reclined his 
 head upon his hand, and sat looking at the flaring logs. 
 Obenreizer remained watchful and still ; but Vendale, after 
 certain nervous twitches and starts, in one of which he rose 
 to his feet and looking wildly about him, fell into the 
 strangest confusion of dreams. He carried his papers in a 
 leather case or pocket-book, in an inner breast-pocket of his 
 buttoned traveling coat ; and whatever he dreamed of, in 
 the lethargy that got possession of him, something import- 
 ant in these papers called him out of that dream, though he 
 could not wake from it. He was belated on the steppes of 
 Russia (some shadowy person gave that name to the place) 
 with Marguerite ; and yet the sensation of a hand at his 
 breast, softly feeling the outline of the pocket-book as he lay 
 asleep before the fire was present to him. He was ship- 
 wrecked in an open boat at sea, and having lost his clothes, 
 had no other covering than an old sail ; and yet a creeping 
 hand, tracing outside all the other pockets of the dress he 
 actually wore, for papers, and finding none answered his 
 touch, warned him to arouse himself. He was in the an- 
 cient vault at Cripple Corner, to which was transferred 
 the very bed substantial and present in that very room at 
 Basle ; and Wilding (not dead, as he had supposed, and yet 
 he did not wonder much) shook him and whispered, u Look 
 at that man ? Don't you see he has risen, and is turning 
 the pillow ? Why should he turn the pillow, if not to seek 
 those papers that are in your breast ? Awake ! " And yet 
 h'> slept, and wandered off into other dreams. 
 
 Watchful and still, with his elbow on the table and his 
 head upon that hand, his companion at length said : " Ven- 
 dale ! We are called. Past four ! " Then opening his eyes, 
 he saw, turned sideways on him, the filmy face of Obenreizer. 
 
 " You have been in a heavy sleep," he said. " The fatigue 
 of constant traveling and the cold ! " 
 
 "I am broad awake now," cried Vendale, springing up, 
 but with an unsteady footing. " Haven't you slept at 
 all ?" 
 
 " I may have dozed, but I seem to have been patiently 
 
86 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 looking at the fire. Whether or no, we must wash, and break- 
 fast, and turn out. Past four, Vendale ; past four ! " 
 
 It was said in a tone to rouse him, for already he was half 
 asleep again. In his preparation for the day, too, and at his 
 breakfast, he was often virtually asleep while in mechanical 
 action. It was not until the cold, dark day was closing in, 
 that he had any distincter impressions of the ride than jing- 
 ling bells, bitter weather, slipping horses, frowning hill-sides, 
 bleak woods, and a stoppage at some wayside house of enter- 
 tainment, where they had passed through a cowhouse to 
 reach the travelers' room above. He had been conscious of 
 little more, except of Obenreizer sitting thoughtful at his 
 side all day, and eying him much. 
 
 But when he shook off his stupor, Obenreizer was not at 
 his side. The carriage was stopping to bait at another way- 
 side house ; and a line of long narrow carts, laden with casks 
 of wine, and drawn by horses with a quantity of blue collar 
 and head-gear, were baiting too. These came from the di- 
 rection in which the travelers were going, and Obenreizer 
 (not thoughtful now, but cheerful and alert) was talking with 
 the foremost driver. As Vendale stretched his limbs, circu- 
 lated his blood, and cleared off the lees of his lethargy, with 
 a sharp run to and fro in the bracing air, the line of cars 
 moved on, the drivers all saluting Obenreizer as they passed 
 him. 
 
 " Who are those ? " asked Vendale. 
 
 " They are our carriers — Defresnier and Company's," re- 
 plied Obenreizer. " Those are our casks of wine." He was 
 singing to himself, and lighting a cigar. 
 
 " I have been drearily dull company to day," said Ven- 
 dale. " I don't know what has been the matter with me." 
 
 " You had no sleep last night ; and a kind of brain-con- 
 gestion frequently comes, at first, of such cold," said Oben- 
 reizer. " I have seen it often. After all, we shall have our 
 journey for nothing, it seems." 
 
 " How for nothing ? " 
 
 " The house is at Milan. You know, we are a wine-house 
 at Neuchatel, and a silk house at Milan ? Well, silk happen- 
 ing to press of a sudden, more than wine, Defresnier was 
 summoned to Milan. Rolland, the other partner, has been 
 taken ill since his departure, and the doctors will allow him 
 to see no one. A letter awaits you at Neuchatel to tell you. 
 I have it from our chief carrier whom you saw me talking 
 with. He was surprised to see me, and said he had 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 87 
 
 that word for you if he met you. What do you do ? Go 
 back ? " 
 
 " Go on," said Vendale. 
 
 " On ? " 
 
 " On. Yes. Across the Alps, and down to Milan." 
 
 Obenreizer stopped in his smoking to look at Vendale, and 
 then smoked heavily, looked up the road, looked down the 
 road, looked down at the stones in the road at his feet. 
 
 "I have a very serious matter in charge," said Vendale ; 
 " more of these missing forms may be turned to as bad ac- 
 count, or worse ; I am urged to lose no time in helping the 
 house to take the thief ; and nothing shall turn me back." 
 
 " No ? " cried Obenreizer, taking out his cigar to smile, 
 and giving his hand to his fellow traveler. " Then nothing 
 shall turn me back. Ho, driver ! Dispatch. Quick there ! 
 Let us push on ! 
 
 They traveled through the night. There had been snow, 
 and there was a partial thaw, and they mostly traveled at a 
 foot pace, and always with many stoppages to breathe the 
 splashed and floundering horses. After an hour's broad day- 
 light they drew reins at the inn-door at Neuchatel, having 
 been some eight-and-twenty hours in conquering some eighty 
 English miles. 
 
 When they had hurriedly refreshed and changed, they 
 went together to the house of business of Defresnier & 
 Company. There they found the letter which the wine-car- 
 rier had described, inclosing the tests and comparisons of 
 handwriting essential to the discovery of the forger. Ven- 
 dale's determination to press forward, without resting, being 
 already taken, the only question to delay them was by what 
 pass could they cross the Alps ? Respecting the state of the 
 passes of the St. Gotthard and the Simplon, the guides and 
 mule-drivers differed greatly ; and both passes were still far 
 enough off, to prevent the travelers from having the benefit 
 of any recent experience of either. Besides which, they well 
 knew that a fall of snow might altogether change the de- 
 scribed conditions in a single hour, even if they were correctly 
 stated. But, on the whole, the Simplon appearing to be the 
 more hopeful route, Vendale decided to take it. Obenreizer 
 bore little or no part in the discussion, and scarcely spoke. 
 
 To Geneva, to Lausanne, along the level margin of the lake 
 to Vevay, so into the winding valley between the spurs of the 
 mountains,and into the valley of the Rhone. The sound of the 
 carriage-wheels, as they rattled on, through the day, through 
 
88 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 the night, became as the wheels of a great clock, recording 
 the hours. No change of weather varied the journey, after it 
 had hardened into a sullen frost. In a somber yellow sky, they 
 saw Alpine ranges ; and they saw enough of snow on nearer 
 and much lower hill-tops and hill-sides, to sully, by contrast, 
 the purity of lake, torrent, and waterfall, and make the vil- 
 lages look discolored and dirty. But no snow fell, nor were 
 there any snow-drifts on the road. The stalking along the 
 vailey of more or less of white mist, changing on their hair 
 an<=J dress into icicles, was the only variety between them 
 and the gloomy sky. And still by day, and still by night, 
 the wheels. And still they rolled, in the hearing of one 
 of them, to the burden, altered from the burden of the 
 Rhine : " The time is gone for robbing him alive, and I 
 must murder him." 
 
 They came at length to the poor little town of Brieg, at 
 the foot of the Simplon. They came there after dark, but 
 yet could see how dwarfed men's works and men became 
 with the immense mountains towering over them. Here 
 they must lie for the night ; and here was warmth of fire, 
 and lamp, and dinner, and wine, and after-conference 
 resounding, with guides and drivers. No human creature 
 had come across the pass for four days. The snow above 
 the snow-line was too hard for wheeled carriage, and 
 not hard enough for sledge. There was snow in the sky. 
 There had been snow in the sky for days past, and the 
 marvel was that it had not fallen, and the certainty was 
 that it must fall. No vehicle could cross. The journey 
 might be tried on mules, or it might be tried on foot ; but 
 the best guides must be paid danger-price in either case, 
 and that, too, whether they succeeded in taking the two 
 travelers across, or turned for safety and brought them back. 
 
 In this discussion Obenreizer bore no part whatever. He 
 sat silently smoking by the fire until the room was cleared 
 and Vendale referred to him. 
 
 " Bah ! I am weary of these poor devils and their trade," 
 he said, in reply. " Always the same story. It is the story 
 of their trade to-day, as it was the story of their trade when 
 I was a ragged boy. What do you and I want ? We want a 
 knapsack each, and a mountain-staff each. We want no 
 guide ; we should guide him ; he would not guide us. We 
 leave our portmanteaus here, and we cross together. We 
 have been on the mountains together before now, and I am 
 mountain-born, and I know this pass — pass ! — rather high 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 89 
 
 road !— by heart. We will leave these poor devils, in 
 pity, to trade with others ; but they must not delay us to 
 make a pretense of earning money. Which is all they 
 mean." 
 
 Vendale, glad to be quit of the dispute, and to cut the 
 knot ; active, adventurous, bent on getting forward, and 
 therefore very susceptible to the last hint : readily assented. 
 Within two hours they had purchased what they wanted for 
 the expedition, had packed their knapsacks, and lay down to 
 sleep. 
 
 At break of day, they found half the town collected in 
 the narrow street to see them depart. The people talked 
 together in groups ; the guides and drivers whispered apart, 
 and looked up at the sky ; no one wished them a good jour- 
 ney. 
 
 As they began the ascent, a gleam of sun shone from the 
 otherwise unaltered sky, and for a moment turned the tin 
 spires of the town to silver. 
 
 " A good omen ! " said Vendale (though it died out while 
 he spoke). " Perhaps our example will open the pass on 
 this side." 
 
 " No ; we shall not be followed," returned Obenreizer, 
 looking up at the sky and back at the valley. " We shall be 
 alone up yonder." 
 
 ON THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 The road was fair enough for stout walkers, and the air 
 grew lighter and easier to breathe as the two ascended. But 
 the settled gloom remained as it had remained for days 
 back. Nature seemed to have come to a pause. The sense 
 of hearing, noless than the sense of sight, was troubled by 
 having to wait so long for the change, whatever it might be, 
 that impended. The silence was as palpable and heavy as 
 the lowering clouds — or rather cloud, for there seemed to 
 be but one in all the sky, and that one covering the whole 
 of it. 
 
 Although the light was thus dismally shrouded, the pros- 
 pect was not obscured. Down in the valley of the Rhone 
 behind them, the stream could be traced through all its 
 many windings, oppressively somber and solemn in its 
 one leaden hue, a colorless waste. Far and high above 
 them, glaciers and suspended avalanches overhung the spots 
 
9 o NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 where they must pass, by and by ; deep and dark below 
 them on their right, were awful precipice and roaring tor- 
 rent ; tremendous mountains arose in every vista. The gi- 
 gantic landscape, uncheered by a touch of changing light or 
 a solitary ray of sun, was yet terribly distinct in its ferocity. 
 The hearts of two lonely men might shrink a little, if they 
 had to win their way for many miles and hours among a legion 
 of silence and motionless men — more men like themselves— 
 all looking at them with fixed and frowning front. But how 
 much more, when the legion is of Nature's mightiest works, 
 and the frown may turn to fury in an instant ! 
 
 As they ascended, the road became gradually more rug- 
 ged and difficult. But the spirits of Vendale rose as they 
 mounted higher, leaving so much more of the road behind 
 them conquered. Obenreizer spoke little, and held on with 
 a determined purpose. Both, in respect of agility and 
 endurance, were well qualified for the expedition. What- 
 ever the born mountaineer read in the weather-tokens 
 that was illegible to the other, he kept to himself. 
 
 " Shall we get across to-day ? " asked Vendale. 
 
 " No," replied the other. " You see how much deeper 
 the snow lies here than it lay half a league lower. The 
 higher we mount, the deeper the snow will lie. Walking is 
 half wading even now. And the days are so short ! If we 
 get as high as the fifth Refuge, and lie to-night at the Hos- 
 pice, we shall do well." 
 
 " Is there no danger of the weather rising in the night," 
 asked Vendale, anxiously, " and snowing us up ? " 
 
 " There is danger enough about us," said Obenreizer, 
 with a cautious glance onward and upward, " to render si- 
 lence our best policy. You have heard of the Bridge of the 
 Ganther ?" 
 
 " I have crossed it once." 
 
 " In the summer ? " 
 
 " Yes ; in the traveling season." 
 
 " Yes ; but it is another thing at this season ; " with a 
 sneer, as though he were out of temper. " This is not a 
 time of year, or a state of things, on an Alpine pass, that 
 you gentlemen holiday-travelers know much about." 
 
 " You are my guide," said Vendale, good-humoredly. 
 " I trust to you." 
 
 " I am your guide," said Obenreizer, " and I will guide 
 you to your journey's end. There is the bridge before us." 
 
 They had made a turn into a desolate and dismal ravine, 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 91 
 
 where the snow lay deep below them, deep above them, 
 deep on every side. While speaking, Obenreizer stood 
 pointing at the bridge, observing Vendale's face, with a 
 very singular expression on his own. 
 
 " If I, as guide, had sent you over there, in advance, and 
 encouraged you to give a shout or two, you might have 
 brought down upon yourself tons and tons and tons of snow, 
 that would not only have struck you dead, but buried you 
 deep, at a blow." 
 
 " No doubt," said Vendale. 
 
 " No doubt. But that is not what I have to do, as guide. 
 So pass silently. Or, going as we go, our indiscretion might 
 else crush and bury me. Let us go on ! " 
 
 There was a great accumulation of snow on the bridge ; 
 and such enormous accumulations of snow overhung them 
 from projecting masses of rock, that they might have been 
 making their way through a stormy sky of white clouds. 
 Using his staff skillfully, sounding as he went, and looking 
 upward, with bent shoulders, as it were to resist the mere 
 idea of a fall from above, Obenreizer softly led. Vendale 
 closely followed. They were yet in the midst of their 
 dangerous way, when there came a mighty rush, followed 
 by a sound as of thunder. Obenreizer clapped his hands 
 on Vendale's mouth and pointed to the track behind them. 
 Its aspect had been wholly changed in a moment. An 
 avalanche had swept over it, and plunged into the torrent 
 at the bottom of the gulf below. 
 
 Their appearance at the solitary inn not far beyond this 
 terrible bridge, elicited many expressions of astonishment 
 from the people shut up in the house. " We stay to rest," 
 said Obenreizer, shaking the snow from his dress at the fire. 
 u This gentleman has very pressing occasion to get across ; 
 tell them, Vendale." 
 
 " Assuredly, I have very pressing occasion. I must cross." 
 
 " You hear, all of you. My friend has very pressing 
 occasion to get across, and we want no advice and no help. 
 I am as good a guide, my fellow-countrymen, as any of you. 
 Now, give us to eat and drink." 
 
 In exactly the same way, and in nearly the same words, 
 when it was coming on dark and they had struggled through 
 the greatly increased difficulties of the road, and had at 
 last reached their destination for the night, Obenreizer said 
 to the astonished people of the Hospice, gathering about 
 them at the fire, while they were yet in the act of getting 
 
92 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 their wet shoes off, and shaking the snow from their 
 clothes : 
 
 " It is well to understand one another, friends all. This 
 gentleman — " 
 
 " — Has," said Vendale, readily taking him up with a smile, 
 "very pressing occasion to get across. Must cross." 
 
 " You hear ? — has very pressing occasion to get across, 
 must cross. We want no advice and no help. I am mount- 
 ain-born, and act as guide. Do not worry us by talking 
 about it, but let us have supper, and wine, and bed." 
 
 All through the intense cold of the night, the same awful 
 stillness. Again at sunrise, no sunny tinge to gild or redden 
 the snow. The same interminable waste of deathly white ; 
 the same immovable air ; the same monotonous gloom in 
 the sky. 
 
 " Travelers ! " a friendly voice called to them from the 
 door, after they were afoot, knapsack on back and staff in 
 hand, as yesterday ; " recollect ! There are five places of 
 shelter, near together, on the dangerous road before you ; 
 and there is the wooden cross, and there is the next Hospice. 
 Do not stray from the track. If the tourmente comes on, 
 take shelter instantly ! " 
 
 " The trade of the poor devils ! " said Obenreizer to his 
 friend, with a contemptuous backward wave of his hand to- 
 ward the voice. " How they stick to their trade ! You 
 Englishmen say we Swiss are mercenary. Truly, it does 
 look like it." 
 
 They had divided between the two knapsacks such refresh- 
 ments as they had been able to obtain that morning, and as 
 they deemed it prudent to take. Obenreizer carried the 
 wine as his share of the burden ; Vendale, the bread and 
 meat and cheese, and the flask of brandy. 
 
 They had for some time labored upward and onward 
 through the snow — which was now above their knees in the 
 track, and of unknown depth elsewhere — and they were still 
 laboring upward and onward through the most frightful part 
 of that tremendous desolation, when snow began to fall. At 
 first, but a few flakes descended slowly and steadily. After 
 a little while the fall grew much denser, and suddenly it 
 began without apparent cause to whirl itself into spiral 
 shapes. Instantly ensuing upon this last change, an icy 
 blast came roaring at them, and every sound and force im- 
 prisoned until now was let loose. 
 
 One of the dismal galleries through which the road is 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 93 
 
 carried at that perilous point, a cave eked out by arches of 
 great strength, was near at hand. They struggled into it, 
 and the storm raged wildly. The noise of the wind, the 
 noise of the water, the thundering down of displaced masses 
 of rock and snow, the awful voices with which not only that 
 gorge but every gorge in the whole monstrous range seemed 
 to be suddenly endowed, the darkness as of night, the violent 
 revolving of the snow which beat and broke it into spray 
 and blinded them, the madness of every thing around in- 
 satiate for destruction, the rapid substitution of furious 
 violence for unnatural calm, and hosts of appalling sounds 
 for silence : these were things, on the edge of a deep abyss, 
 to chill the blood, though the fierce wind, made actually 
 solid by ice and snow, had failed to chill it. 
 
 Obenreizer, walking to and fro in the gallery without 
 ceasing, signed to Vendale to help him unbuckle his knap- 
 sack. They could see each other, but could not have heard 
 each other speak. Vendale complying, Obenreizer pro- 
 duced his bottle of wine, and poured some out, motioning 
 Vendale to take that for warmth's sake, and not brandy. 
 Vendal again complying, Obenreizer seemed to drink after 
 him, and the two walked backward and forward side by 
 side ; both well knowing that to rest or sleep would be to 
 die. 
 
 The snow came driving heavily into the gallery by the 
 upper end at which they would pass out of it, if they ever 
 passed out ; for greater dangers lay on the road behind 
 them than before. The snow soon began to choke the arch. 
 An hour more, and it lay so high as to block out half the 
 returning daylight. But it froze hard now, as it fell, and 
 could be clambered through or over. The violence of the 
 mountain storm was gradually yielding to a steady snow- 
 fall. The wind still raged at intervals, but not incessantly ; 
 and when it paused, the snow fell in heavy flakes. 
 
 They might have been two hours in their frightful prison, 
 when Obenreizer, now crunching into the mound, now creep- 
 ing over it with his head bowed down and his body touch- 
 ing the top of the arch, made his way out. Vendale followed 
 close upon him, but followed without clear motive or calcu- 
 lation. For the lethargy of Basle was creeping over him 
 again and mastering his senses. 
 
 How far he had followed out of the gallery, or with what 
 obstacles he had since contended, he knew not. He became 
 roused to the knowledge that Obenreizer had set upon him, 
 
94 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 and that they were struggling desperately in the snow. He 
 became roused to the remembrance of what his assailant 
 carried in a girdle. He felt for it, drew it, struck at him, 
 struggled again, struck at him again, cast him off, and stood 
 face to face with him. 
 
 " I promised to guide you to your journey's end," said 
 Obenreizer, " and I have kept my promise. The journey of 
 your life ends here. Nothing can prolong it. You are 
 sleeping as you stand." 
 
 " You are a villain. What have you done to me ? " 
 
 " You are a fool. I have drugged you. You are doubly 
 a fool, for I drugged you once before upon the journey, to try 
 you. You are trebly a fool, for I am the thief and forger, and 
 in a few moments I shall take those proofs against the thief 
 and forger from your insensible body." 
 
 The entrapped man tried to throw off the lethargy, but 
 its fatal hold upon him was so sure that, even while he 
 heard those words, he stupidly wondered which of them had 
 been wounded, and whose blood it was that he saw sprinkled 
 on the snow. 
 
 " What have I done to you," he asked, heavily and thickly, 
 "that you should be — so base — a murderer?" 
 
 " Done to me ? You would have destroyed me, but that 
 you have come to your journey's end. Your cursed activity 
 interposed between me and the time I had counted on in 
 which I might have replaced the money. Done to me ? 
 You have come in my way — not once, not twice, but again 
 and again and again. Did I try to shake you off in the be- 
 ginning, or no ! Therefore you die here." 
 
 Vendale tried to think coherently, tried to speak coher- 
 ently, tried to pick up the iron-shod staff he had let fall ; 
 failing to touch it, tried to stagger on without its aid. All 
 in vain, all in vain ! He stumbled, and fell heavily forward 
 on the brink of the deep chasm. 
 
 Stupefied, dozing, unable to stand upon his feet, a veil 
 before his eyes, his sense of hearing deadened, he made such 
 a vigorous rally that, supporting himself on his hands, he saw 
 his enemy standing calmly over him, and heard him speak. 
 
 "You call me murderer," said Obenreizer, with a grim 
 laugh. "The name matters very little. But at least I have 
 set my life against yours, for I am surrounded by dangers, 
 and may never make my way out of this place. The tour- 
 mentc is rising again. The snow is on the whirl, I must 
 have the papers now. Every moment has my life in it." 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 95 
 
 " Stop ! cried Vendale, in a terrible voice, staggering up 
 with a last flash of fire breaking out of him and clutching 
 the thievish hands at his breast, in both of his. " Stop ! 
 Stand away from me ! God bless my Marguerite ! Hap- 
 pily she will never know how I died. Stand off from me, 
 and let me look at your murderous face. Let it remind me 
 — of something — left to say." 
 
 The sight of him fighting so hard for his senses, and 
 the doubt whether he might not for the instant be possessed 
 by the strength of a dozen men, kept his opponent still. 
 Wildly glaring at him, Vendale faltered out the broken 
 words : 
 
 " It shall not be — the trust — of the dead — betrayed by 
 me — reputed parents — misinherited fortune — see to it ! " 
 
 As his head dropped on his breast, and he stumbled on 
 the brink of the chasm as before, the thievish hands once 
 more, quick and busy, to his breast. He made a convulsive 
 attempt to cry " No ! " desperately rolled himself over into 
 the gulf ; and sank away from his enemy's touch, like a 
 phantom in a dreadful dream. 
 
 The mountain storm raged again, and passed again. The 
 awful mountain voices died away, the moon rose, and the soft 
 and silent snow fell. 
 
 Two men and two large dogs came out at the door of the 
 Hospice. The men looked carefully around them, and up 
 at the sky. The dogs rolled in snow, and took it into their 
 mouths, and cast it up with their paws. 
 
 One of the men said to the other : " We may venture now. 
 We may find them in one of the five Refuges." Each 
 fastened on his back a basket ; each took in his hand a 
 strong spiked pole ; each girded under his arms a looped end 
 of a stout rope, so that they were tied together. 
 
 Suddenly the dogs desisted from their gambols in the 
 snow, stood looking down the ascent, put their noses up, put 
 their noses down, became greatly excited, and broke into a 
 deep loud bay together. 
 
 The two men looked in the faces of the two dogs. The 
 two dogs looked, with at least equal intelligence, in the faces 
 of the two men. 
 
 " Au secours, then ! Help ! To the rescue ! " cried the 
 two men. The two dogs, with a glad, deep, generous bark, 
 bounded away. 
 
 " Two more mad ones ! " said the men, stricken motion- 
 
96 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 less, and looking away in the moonlight. " Is it possible in 
 such weather ! And one of them a woman ! " 
 
 Each of the dogs had the corner of the woman's dress in 
 its mouth, and drew her along. She fondled their heads as 
 she came up, and she came up through the snow with accus- 
 tomed tread. Not so the large man with her, who was spent 
 and winded. 
 
 " Dear guides, dear friends of travelers ! I am of your 
 country. We seek two gentlemen crossing the pass who 
 should have reached the Hospice this evening." 
 
 " They have reached it, ma'amselle." 
 
 " Thank heaven ! Oh, thank heaven ! " 
 
 "But, unhappily, they have gone on again. We are set- 
 ting forth to seek them even now. We had to wait until the 
 tourjnente passed. It has been fearful up here." 
 
 " Dear guides, dear friends of travelers ! Let me go with 
 you. Let me go with you for the love of God ! One of 
 those gentlemen is to be my husband. I love him, oh, so 
 dearly. Oh, so dearly ! You see I am not faint, you see I 
 am not tired. I am born a peasant girl. I will show you 
 that I know well how to fasten myself to your ropes. I will 
 do it with my own hands. I will swear to be brave and 
 good. But let me go with you, let me go with you ! If any 
 mischance should have befallen him, my love would find 
 him, when nothing else could. On my knees, dear friends 
 of travelers ! By the love your dear mothers had for your 
 fathers ! " 
 
 The good rough fellows were moved. " After all," they 
 murmured to one another, " she speaks but the truth. She 
 knows the ways of the mountains. See how marvelously 
 she has come here. But as to the monsieur there, ma'am- 
 selle ? " 
 
 " Dear Mr. Joey," said Marguerite, addressing him in his 
 own tongue, " you will remain at the house, and wait for 
 me ; will you not ? " 
 
 " If I know'd which o' you two recommended it," growled 
 Joey Ladle, eying the two men with great indignation, "I'd 
 fight you for sixpence, and give you half-a-crown toward 
 your expenses. No, miss. I'll stick by you as long as 
 there's any sticking left in me, and I'll die for you whenT 
 can't do better." 
 
 The state of the moon rendering it highly important that 
 no time should be lost, and the dogs showing signs of great 
 uneasiness, the two men quickly took their resolution. The 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 97 
 
 rope that yoked them together was exchanged for a longer 
 one : the party were secured, Marguerite second, and the 
 cellarman last ; and they set out for the Refuges. The actual 
 distance of those places was nothing ; the whole five and 
 next Hospice to boot, being within two miles ; but the 
 ghastly way was whitened out and sheeted over. 
 
 They made no miss in reaching the gallery where the two 
 had taken shelter. The second storm of wind and snow had 
 so wildly swept over it since, that their tracks were gone. 
 But the dogs went to and fro with their noses down, and 
 were confident. The party stopping, however, at the further 
 arch, where the second storm had been especially furious, 
 and where the drift was deep, the dogs became troubled, and 
 went about, in quest of a lost purpose. 
 
 The great abyss being known to lie on the right, they wan- 
 dered too much to the left, and had to regain the way with 
 infinite labor through a deep field of snow. The leader of 
 the line had stopped it, and was taking note of the land- 
 marks, when one of the dogs fell to tearing up the snow a 
 little before them. Advancing and stooping to look at it, 
 thinking that some one might be overwhelmed there, they 
 saw that it was stained, and that the stain was red. 
 
 The other dog was now seen to look over the brink of the 
 gulf with his fore legs straightened out, lest he should fall 
 into it, and to tremble in every limb. Then the dog who 
 had found the stained snow joined him, and then they ran 
 to and fro, distressed and whining. Finally, they both 
 stopped on the brink together, and setting up their heads, 
 howled dolefully. 
 
 " There is some one lying below," said Marguerite. 
 
 " I think so," said the foremost man. " Stand well in- 
 ward, the two last, and let us look over." 
 
 The last man kindled two torches from his basket, and 
 handed them forward. The leader taking one, and Mar- 
 guerite the other, they looked down ; now shading the 
 torches, now moving them to the right or left, now raising 
 them, now depressing them, as moonlight far below con- 
 tended with black shadows. A piercing cry from Mar- 
 guerite broke a long silence — 
 
 "My God ! On a projecting point, where a wall of ice 
 stretches forward over the torrent, I see a human form ! " 
 
 11 Where, ma'amselle, where, where ? " 
 
 " See, there ! On the shelf of ice below the dogs ! " 
 
 The leader, with a sickened aspect, drew inward, and they 
 
9 8 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 were all silent. But they were not all inactive. Marguerite, 
 with swift and skillful fingers, had detached both herself and 
 him from the rope in a few seconds. 
 
 " Show me the baskets. These two are the only ropes ? " 
 
 " The only ropes here, ma'amselle ; but at the Hospice — " 
 " If he is alive — I know it is my lover — he will be dead 
 before you can return. Dear guides ! Blessed friends of 
 travelers ! Look at me. Watch my hands. If they falter 
 or go wrong, make me your prisoner by force. If they are 
 steady and go right, help me to save him ! " 
 
 She girded herself with a cord under the breast and arms, 
 she formed it into a kind of jacket, she drew it into knots, 
 she laid its end side by side with the end' of the other cord, 
 she twisted and twined the two together, she knotted them 
 together, she set her foot upon the knots, she strained them, 
 she held them for the two men to strain at. 
 
 " She is inspired," they said to one another. 
 
 " By the Almighty's mercy ! " she exclaimed. " You both 
 know that I am by far the lightest here. Give me the brandy 
 and the wine, and lower me down to him. Then go for assist- 
 ance and a stronger rope. You see that when it is lowered 
 to me — look at this about me now — I can make it fast and 
 safe to his body. Alive or dead, I will bring him up, or die 
 with him. I love him passionately. Can I saymore? " 
 
 They turned to her companion, but he was lying senseless 
 on the snow. 
 
 " Lower me down to him," she said, taking two little kegs 
 they had brought, and hanging them about her, " or I will 
 dash myself to pieces ! I am a peasant, and I know no gid- 
 diness or fear ; and this is nothing to me, and I passionately 
 love him. Lower me down ! " 
 
 " Ma'amselle, ma'amselle, he must be dying or dead." 
 
 " Dying or dead, my husband's head shall lie on my 
 breast, or I will dash myself to pieces." 
 
 They yielded, overborne. With such precaution as their 
 skill and the circumstances admitted, they let her slip from 
 the summit, guiding herself down the precipitous icy wall 
 with her hand, and they lowered down, and lowered down, 
 and lowered down, until the cry came up : " Enough ! " 
 
 " Is it really he, and is he dead ? " they called down, 
 looking over. 
 
 The cry came up : " He is insensible ; but his heart beats. 
 I* beats against mine." 
 
 " How does he lie ? " 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 99 
 
 The cry came up : " Upon a ledge of ice. It nas thawed 
 beneath him, and it will thaw beneath me. Hasten. If we 
 die, I am content." 
 
 One of the two men hurried off with the dogs at such top- 
 most speed as he could make ; the other set up the lighted 
 torches in the snow, and applied himself to recovering the 
 Englishman. Much snow-chafing and some brandy got him 
 on his legs, but delirious and quite unconscious where he 
 was. 
 
 The watch remained upon the brink, and his cry went 
 down continually : " Courage ! They will soon be here. 
 How goes it ? " And the cry came up : " His heart still 
 beats against mine. I warm him in my arms. I have cast 
 off the rope, for the ice melts under us, and the rope would 
 separate me from him ; but I am not afraid." 
 
 The moon went down behind the mountain tops, and all 
 the abyss lay in darkness. The cry went down : " How 
 goes it ? " The cry came up : " We are sinking lower, but 
 his heart still beats against mine." 
 
 At length the eager barking of the dogs, and a flare of 
 light upon the snow, proclaimed that help was coming on. 
 Twenty or thirty men, lamps, torches, litters, ropes, blankets, 
 wood to kindle a great fire, restoratives and stimulants, came 
 in fast. The dogs ran from one man to another, and from 
 this thing to that, and ran to the edge of the abyss, dumbly 
 entreating speed, speed, speed ! 
 
 The cry went down : " Thanks to God, all is ready. 
 How goes it ? " 
 
 The cry came up : We are sinking still, and we are deadly 
 cold. His heart no longer beats against mine. Let no one 
 come down to add to our weight. Lower the rope only." 
 
 The fire was kindled high, a great glare of torches lighted 
 the sides of the precipice, lamps were lowered, a strong rope 
 was lowered. She could be seen passing it round him, and 
 making it secure. 
 
 The cry came up into a deathly silence : " Raise ! Softly ! " 
 They could see her diminished figure shrink, as he was 
 swung into the air. 
 
 They gave no shout when some of them laid him on a 
 litter, and others lowered another strong rope. The cry 
 again cam e up into a deathly silence : " Raise ! Softly ! " 
 But when they caught her at the brink, then they shouted, 
 then they wept, then they gave thanks to heaven, then they 
 kissed her feet, then they kissed her dress, then the dogs 
 
ioo NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 caressed her, licked her icy hands, and with their honest 
 faces warmed her frozen bosom ! 
 
 She broke from them all, and sank over him on his litter, 
 with both her loving hands upon the heart that stood still. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 THE CLOCK-LOCK. 
 
 The pleasant scene was Neuchatel ; the pleasant month 
 was April ; the pleasant place was a notary's office ; the pleas- 
 ant person in it was the notary ; a rosy, hearty, handsome old 
 man, chief notary of Neuchatel, known far and wide in the can- 
 ton as Maitre Voigt. Professionally and personally the notary 
 was a popular citizen. His innumerable kindnesses and his 
 innumerable oddities had for years made him one of the recog- 
 nized public characters of the pleasant Swiss town. His long 
 brown frock-coat and his black skull-cap were among the 
 institutions of the place ; and he carried a snuff-box which, 
 in point of size, was popularly believed to be without a par- 
 allel in Europe. 
 
 There was another person in the notary's office, not so 
 pleasant as the notary. This was Obenreizer. 
 
 An oddly pastoral kind of office it was, and one that would 
 never have* answered in England. It stood in a neat back 
 yard, fenced off from a pretty flower garden. Goats browsed 
 in the doorway, and a cow was within half-a-dozen feet of 
 keeping company with the clerk. Maitre Voigt' s room was 
 a bright and varnished little room, with paneled walls, like 
 a toy chamber. According to the season of the year, roses, 
 sunflowers, hollyhocks, peeped in at the windows. Maitre 
 Voigt' s bees hummed through the office all the summer, in 
 at this window and out at that, taking it frequently in their 
 day's work as if honey were to be made from Maitre Voigt's 
 sweet disposition. A large musical box on the chimney- 
 piece often trilled away at the Overture to Fra Diayolo, or a 
 selection from William Tell, with a chirruping liveliness that 
 had to be stopped by force on the entrance of a client, and 
 irrepressibly broke out again the moment his back was 
 turned. 
 
 " Courage, courage, my good fellow ! " said Maitre Voigt, 
 patting Obenreizer on the knee, in a fatherly and comfort- 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 101 
 
 ing way. " You will begin a new life to-morrow morning in 
 my office here." 
 
 Obenreizer — dressed in mourning, and subdued in manner 
 — lifted his hand, with a white handkerchief in it, to the region 
 of his heart. " The gratitude is here," he said. " But the 
 words to express it are not here." 
 
 " Ta-ta-ta ! Don't talk to me about gratitude ! " said 
 Maitre Voigt. " I hate to see a man oppressed. I see you 
 oppressed, and I hold out my hand to you by instinct. 
 Besides, I am not too old yet, to remember my young days. 
 Your father sent me my first client. (It was on a question 
 of half an acre of vineyard that seldom bore any grapes.) 
 Do I owe nothing to your father's son ? I owe him a debt 
 of friendly obligation, and I pay it to you. That's rather 
 neatly expressed, I think," added Maitre Voigt, in high good- 
 humor with himself. " Permit me to reward my own merit 
 with a pinch of snuff ! " 
 
 Obenreizer dropped his eyes to the ground, as though he 
 were not even worthy to see the notary take snuff. 
 
 " Do me one last favor, sir," he said, when he raised his 
 eyes. " Do not act on impulse. Thus far, you have only a 
 general knowledge of my position. Hear the case for and 
 against me, in its details, before you take me into your office. 
 Let my claim on your benevolence be recognized by your 
 sound reason as well as by your excellent heart. In that case, 
 I may hold up my head against the bitterest of my enemies, 
 and build myself a new reputation on the ruins of the char- 
 acter I have lost." 
 
 " As you will," said Maitre Voigt. " You speak well, my 
 son. You will be a fine lawyer one of these days." 
 
 " The details are not many," pursued Obenreizer. " My 
 troubles begin with the accidental death of my late travel- 
 ing companion, my lost dear friend, Mr. Vendale." 
 
 " Mr. Vendale," repeated the notary. " Just so. I have 
 heard and read of the name several times within these two 
 months. The name of the unfortunate English gentleman 
 who was killed on the Simplon. When you got that scar 
 upon your cheek and neck." 
 
 " — From my own knife," said Obenreizer, touching what 
 must have been an ugly gash at the time of its infliction. 
 
 " From your own knife," assented the notary, " and in try- 
 ing to save him. Good, good, good. That was very good. 
 Vendale. Yes. I have several times, lately, thought it droll 
 that I should once have had a client of that name." 
 
102 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 " But the world, sir," returned Obenreizer, " is so small ! " 
 Nevertheless he made a mental note that the notary had 
 once had a client of that name. 
 
 " As I was saying, sir, the death of that dear traveling 
 comrade begins my troubles. What follows ? I save my- 
 self. I go down to Milan. I am received with coldness by 
 Defresnier and Company. Shortly afterward, I am dis- 
 charged by Defresnier and Company. Why ? They give 
 me no reason why. I ask, do they assail my honor ? No 
 answer. I ask, what is the imputation against me ? No 
 answer. I ask, where are their proofs against me ? No 
 answer. I ask, what am I to think ? The reply is, ' M. 
 Obenreizer is free to think what he will. What M. Oben- 
 reizer thinks, is of no importance to Defresnier and Com- 
 pany.' And that is all." 
 
 " Perfectly. That is all," assented the notary, taking a 
 large pinch of snuff. 
 
 " But is that enough, sir ? " 
 
 " That is not enough," said Maitre Voigt. " The house 
 of Defresnier are my fellow-townsmen — much respected, 
 much esteemed — but the house of Defresnier must not silently 
 destroy a man's character. You can rebut assertion. But 
 how can you rebut silence ? " 
 
 4 ' Your sense of justice, my dear patron," answered Oben- 
 reizer, " states in a word the cruelty of the case. Does it 
 stop there ? No. "For what follows upon that ? " 
 
 ■' True, my poor boy," said the notary, with a comforting 
 nod or two ; " your ward rebels upon that ? " 
 
 " Rebels is too soft a word," retorted Obenreizer. " My 
 ward revolts from me with horror. My ward defies me. My 
 ward withdraws herself from my authority, and takes shelter 
 (Madame Dor with her) in the house of that English lawyer, 
 Mr. Bintrey, who replies to your summons to her to submit 
 herself to my authority, that she will not do so." 
 
 " — And who afterward writes," said the notary, moving 
 his large snuff-box to look among the papers under- 
 neath it for the letter, " that he is coming to confer with 
 me." 
 
 " Indeed ? " replied Obenreizer, rather checked. " Well, 
 sir. Have I no legal rights ? " 
 
 " Assuredly, my poor boy," returned the notary. " All 
 but felons have their legal rights." 
 
 "And who calls me felon ?" said Obenreizer, fiercely. 
 
 " No one. Be calm under your wrongs. If the house of 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 103 
 
 Defresnief would call you felon, indeed, we should know how 
 to deal with them." 
 
 While saying these words, he had handed Bintrey's very 
 short letter to Obenreizer, who now read it and gave it back; 
 
 " In saying," observed Obenreizer, with recovered com- 
 posure, " that he is coming to confer with you, this English 
 lawyer means that he is coming to deny my authority over 
 my ward." 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 " I am sure of it. I know him. He is obstinate and con- 
 tentious. You will tell me, my dear sir, whether my author- 
 ity is unassailable, until my ward is of age ? " 
 
 " Absolutely unassailable." 
 
 " I will enforce it. I will make her submit herself to it. 
 For," said Obenreizer, changing his angry tone to one of 
 grateful submission, " I owe it to you, sir ; to you, who have 
 so confidingly taken an injured man under your protection, 
 and into your employment." 
 
 " Make your mind easy," said Maitre Voigt. " No more 
 of this now, and no thanks ! Be here to-morrow morning, 
 before the other clerk comes — between seven and eight. 
 You will find me in this room ; and I will myself initiate you 
 in your work. Go away ! go away ! I have letters to write. 
 I won't hear a word more." 
 
 Dismissed with this generous abruptness, and satisfied 
 with the favorable impression he had left on the old man's 
 mind, Obenreizer was at leisure to revert to the mental note 
 he had made that Maitre Voigt once had a client whose 
 name was Vendale. 
 
 " I ought to know England well enough by this time ; " 
 so his meditations ran, as he sat on a bench in the yard ; 
 " and it is not a name I have encountered there, except — " 
 he looked involuntarily over his shoulder — " as his name. 
 Is the world so small that I can not get away from him, even 
 now when he is dead ? He confessed at the last that he had 
 betrayed the trust of the dead, and misinherited a fortune. 
 And I was to see to it. And I was to stand off, that my face 
 might not remind him of it. Why my face, unless it con- 
 cerned me ? I am sure of his words, for they have been in 
 my ears ever since. Can there be any thing bearing on 
 them, in the keeping of this old idiot ? Any thing to repair 
 my fortunes, and blacken his memory ? He dwelt upon my 
 earliest remembrances, that night at Basle. Why, unless he 
 had a purpose in it ? " 
 
164 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 Maitre Voigt's two largest he-goats were butting at him to 
 butt him out of the place, as if for that disrespectful men- 
 tion of their master. So he got up and left the place. But 
 he walked alone for a long time on the border of the lake, 
 with his head drooped in deep thought. 
 
 Between seven and eight next morning, he presented him- 
 self again at the office. He found the notary ready for him, 
 at work on some papers which had come in on the previous 
 evening. In a few clear words, Maitre Voigt explained the 
 routine of the office, and the duties Obenreizer would be 
 expected to perform. It still wanted five minutes to eight, 
 when the preliminary instructions were declared to be 
 complete. 
 
 " I will show you over the house and the offices," said 
 Maitre Voigt, " but I must put away these papers first. They 
 come from the municipal authorities, and must be taken 
 special care of." 
 
 Obenreizer saw his chance, here, of finding out the repos* 
 itory in which his employer's private papers were kept. 
 
 " Can't I save you the trouble, sir ? " he asked. " Can't I 
 put those documents away under your directions ? " 
 
 Maitre Voigt laughed softly to himself ; closed the port- 
 folio in which the papers had been sent to him ; handed it 
 to Obenreizer. 
 
 " Suppose you try," he said. " All my papers of import- 
 ance are kept yonder." 
 
 He pointed to a heavy oaken door, thickly studded with 
 nails, at the lower end of the room. Approaching the door, 
 with the portfolio, Obenreizer discovered, to his astonish- 
 ment, that there were no means whatever of opening it from 
 the outside. There was no handle, no bolt, no key, and 
 (climax of passive obstruction !) no key-hole. 
 
 " There is a second door to this room ? " said Obenreizer, 
 appealing to the notary. 
 
 " No," said Maitre Voigt. " Guess again." 
 
 " There is a window ? " 
 
 " Nothing of the sort. The window has been bricked up. 
 The only way in, is the way by that door. Do you give it 
 up ? " cried Maitre Voigt, in high triumph. " Listen, my 
 good fellow, and tell me if you hear nothing inside ? " 
 
 Obenreizer listened for a moment, and started back from 
 the door. 
 
 " I know ! " he exclaimed. " I heard of this when I was 
 apprenticed here at the watchmaker's. Perrin Brothers 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 105 
 
 have finished their famous clock-lock at last — and you have 
 got it ? " 
 
 " Bravo ! " said Maitre Voigt. " The clock-lock it is ! 
 There, my son ! There you have one more of what the good 
 people of this town call, ' Daddy Voigt's follies.' With all 
 my heart ! Let those laugh who win. No thief can steal 
 my keys. No burglar can pick my lock. No power on earth, 
 short of a battering-ram or a barrel of gunpowder, can move 
 that door, till my little sentinel inside — my worthy friend 
 who goes ' Tick, Tick,' as I tell him — says ' Open ! ' The 
 big door obeys the little tick, tick, and the little tick, tick, 
 obeys me. That ! " cried Daddy Voigt, snapping his fingers, 
 " for all the thieves in Christendom ! " 
 
 " May I see it in action ? " asked Obenreizer. " Pardon 
 my curiosity, dear sir ! You know that I was once a toler- 
 able worker in the clock trade." 
 
 " Certainly you shall see it in action," said Maitre Voigt. 
 " What is the time now. One minute to eight. Watch, and 
 in one minute you will see the door open of itself." 
 
 In one minute, smoothly and slowly and silently, as if 
 invisible hands had set it free, the heavy door opened in- 
 ward, and disclosed a dark chamber beyond. On three sides 
 shelves filled the walls, from floor to ceiling. Arranged on 
 the shelves were rows upon rows of boxes made in the 
 pretty inlaid wood-work of Switzerland, and bearing inscribed 
 on their fronts (for the most part in fanciful colored letters) 
 the names of the notary's clients. 
 
 Maitre Voigt lighted a taper, and led the way into the 
 room. 
 
 " You shall see the clock," he said proudly. " I possess 
 the greatest curiosity in Europe. It is only a privileged few 
 whose eyes can look at it. I give the privilege to your good 
 father's son — you shall be one of the favored few who can 
 enter the room with me. See ! here it is, on the right hand 
 wall at the side of the door." 
 
 " An ordinary clock," exclaimed Obenreizer. " No, not 
 an ordinary clock. It has only one hand." 
 
 " Aha ! " said Maitre Voigt. " Not an ordinary clock, my 
 friend. No, no. That one hand goes round the dial. As 
 I put it, so it regulates the hour at which the door shall open. 
 See ! The hand points to eight. At eight the door opened, 
 as you saw for yourself." 
 
 " Does it open more than once in the four- and- twenty 
 hours ? " asked Obenreizer. 
 
I0 6 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 " More than once ? " repeated the notary, with great scorn. 
 " You don't know my good friend tick, tick ! He will open 
 the door as often as I ask him. All he wants is his directions, 
 and he gets them here. Look below the dial. Here is a 
 half-circle of steel let into the wall, and here is a hand 
 (called the regulator) that travels round it, just as my hand 
 chooses. Notice, if you please, that there are figures to 
 guide me on the half circle of steel. Figure I. means : Open 
 once in the four-and-twenty hours. Figure II. means : Open 
 twice ; and so on to the end. I set the regulator every 
 morning, after I have read my letters, and when I know 
 what my day's work is to be. Would you like to see me set 
 it now ? What day is to-day ? Wednesday. Good ! This 
 is the day of our rifle club ; there is little business to do ; I 
 grant a half-holiday. No work here to-day, after three 
 o'clock. Let us first put away this portfolio of municipal 
 papers. There ! No need to trouble tick, tick to open the 
 door until eight to-morrow. Good ! I leave the dial hand 
 at eight ; I put back the regulator to I. ; I close the door ; 
 and closed the door remains, past all opening by any body, 
 till to-morrow morning at eight." 
 
 Obenreizer's quickness instantly saw the means by which 
 he might make the clock-lock betray its master's confidence, 
 and place its master's papers at his disposal. 
 
 " Stop, sir ! ' he cried, at the moment when the notary 
 was closing the door. " Don't I see something moving 
 among the boxes — on the floor there ? " 
 
 (Maitre Voigt turned his back for a moment to look. In 
 that moment, Obenreizer's ready hand put the regulator on, 
 from the figure " I." to the figure " II." Unless the notary 
 looked again at the half-circle of steel, the door would open 
 at eight that evening, as well as at eight next morning, and 
 nobody but Obenreizer would know it.) 
 
 " There is nothing ! " said Maitre Voigt. " Your troub- 
 les have shaken your nerves, my son. Some shadow thrown 
 by my taper ; or some poor little beetle, who lives among 
 the old lawyer's secrets, running away from the light. Hark ! 
 I hear your fellow-clerk in the office. To work ! to work ! 
 and build to-day the first step that leads to your new for- 
 tunes ! " 
 
 He good-humoredly pushed Obenreizer out before him ; 
 extinguished the taper, with a last fond glance at his clock 
 which passed harmlessly over the regulator beneath ; and 
 closed the oaken door. 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 107 
 
 At three the office was shut up. The notary and every- 
 body in the notary's employment, with one exception, went 
 to see the rifle shooting. Obenreizer had pleaded that he 
 was not in spirits for a public festival. Nobody knew what 
 had become of him. It was believed that he had slipped 
 away for a solitary walk. 
 
 The house and offices had been closed but a few minutes, 
 when the doors of a shining wardrobe in the notary's shin- 
 ing room opened, and Obenreizer stepped out. He walked 
 to a window, unclosed the shutters, satisfied himself that he 
 could ^escape unseen by way of the garden, turned back into 
 the room, and took his place in the notary's easy chair. 
 He was locked up in the house, and there were five hours 
 to wait before eight o'clock came. 
 
 He wore his way through the five hours ; somtimes read- 
 ing the books and newspapers that lay on the table, some- 
 times thinking, sometimes walking to and fro. Sunset came 
 on. He closed the window-shutters before he kindled a 
 light. The candle lighted, and the time drawing nearer and 
 nearer, he sat watch in hand, with his eyes on the oaken 
 door. 
 
 At eight, smoothly and softly and silently the door opened. 
 
 One after another, he read the names on the outer rows of 
 boxes. No such name as Vendale ! He removed the outer 
 row, and looked at the row behind. These were older boxes 
 and shabbier boxes. The four first that he examined, were 
 inscribed with French and German names. The fifth bore 
 a name which was almost illegible. He brought it out into 
 the room, and examined it closely. There, covered thickly 
 with time-stains and dust, was the name : " Vendale." 
 
 The key hung to the box by a string. He unlocked the 
 box, took out four loose papers that were in it, spread them 
 upon the table, and began to read them. He had not so 
 occupied a minute, when his face fell from its expression of 
 eagerness and avidity, to one of haggard astonishment and 
 disappointment. But, after a little consideration, he copied 
 the papefs. He then replaced the papers, replaced the box, 
 closed the door, extinguished the candle, and stole away. 
 
 As his murderous and thievish footfall passed out of the 
 garden, the steps of the notary and some one accompanying 
 him stopped at the front door of the house. The lamps 
 were lighted in the little street, and the notary had his door- 
 key in his hand. 
 
 Pray do not pass my house, Mr. Bintrey," he said. " Do 
 
io8 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 me the honor to come in. It is one of our own town half- 
 holidays — our Tir— but my people will be back directly. It 
 is droll that you should ask your way to the hotel of me. 
 Let us eat and drink before you go there." 
 
 ''Thank you; not to-night," said Bintrey. "Shall I 
 come to you at ten to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I shall be enchanted, sir, to take so early an opportunity 
 of redressing the wrongs of my injured client," returned the 
 good notary. 
 
 " Yes," retorted Bintrey ; "your injured client is all very 
 well — but — a word in your ear." % 
 
 He whispered to the notary and walked off. When the 
 notary's housekeeper came home, she found him standing at 
 his door motionless, with the key still in his hand, and the 
 door unopened. 
 
 obenreizer's victory. 
 
 The scene shifts again — to the foot of the Simplon, on the 
 Swiss side. 
 
 In one of the dreary rooms of the dreary little inn at Brieg, 
 Mr. Bintrey and Maitre Voigt sat together at a professional 
 council of two. Mr. Bintrey was searching in his dispatch- 
 box. Maitre Voigt was looking toward a closed door, 
 painted brown to imitate mahogany, and communicating 
 with an inner room. 
 
 " Isn't it time he was here ? " asked the notary, shifting 
 his position, and glancing at a second door at the other end 
 of the room, painted yellow to imitate deal. 
 
 " He is here," answered Bintrey, after listening for a 
 moment. 
 
 The yellow door was opened by a waiter, and Obenreizer 
 walked in. 
 
 After greeting Maitre Voigt with a cordiality which ap- 
 peared to cause the notary no little embarrassment, Oben- 
 reizer bowed with grave and distant politeness to Bintrey. 
 " For what reason have I been brought from Neuchatel to 
 the foot of the mountain ? " he inquired, taking the seat 
 which the English lawyer had indicated to him. 
 
 " You shall be quite satisfied on that head before our in- 
 terview is over," returned Bintrey. " For the present, per- 
 mit me to suggest proceeding at once to business. There 
 has been a correspondence, Mr. Obenreizer, between you and 
 your niece. I am here to represent your niece," 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 109 
 
 " In other words, you, a lawyer, are here to represent an 
 infraction of the law." 
 
 " Admirably put ! " said Bintrey. M If all the people I 
 have to deal with were only like you, what an easy profession 
 mine would be ! I am here to represent an infraction of the 
 law — that is your point of view. I am here to make a com- 
 promise between you and your niece — that is my point of 
 view." 
 
 " There must be two parties to a compromise," rejoined 
 Obenreizer. " I decline, in this case, to be one of them. 
 The law gives me authority to control my niece's actions, 
 until she comes of age. She is not yet of age ; and I claim 
 my authority." 
 
 At this point Maitre Voigt attempted to speak. Bintrey 
 silenced him with a compassionate indulgence of tone and 
 manner, as if he was silencing a favorite child. 
 
 "No, my worthy friend, not a word. Don't ex ute your- 
 self unnecessarily ; leave it to me." He turned, and ad- 
 dressed himself again to Obenreizer. "I can think of 
 nothing comparable to you, Mr. Obenreizer, but granite — 
 and even that wears out in course of time. In the interests 
 of peace and quietness — for the sake of your own dignity — 
 relax a little. If you will only delegate your authority to 
 another person whom I know of, that person may be trusted 
 never to lose sight of your niece, night or day ! " 
 
 " You. are wasting your time and mine," returned Oben- 
 reizer. " If my niece is not rendered up to my authority 
 within one week from this day, I invoke the law. If you 
 resist the law, I take her by force." 
 
 He rose to his feet as he said the last word. Maitre Voigt 
 looked round again toward the brown door which led into 
 the inner room. 
 
 " Have some pity on the poor girl," pleaded Bintrey. 
 " Remember how lately she lost her lover by a dreadful 
 death ! Will nothing move you ? " 
 
 " Nothing." i 
 
 Bintrey, in his turn, rose to his feet, and looked at Maitre 
 Voigt. Maitre Voigt's hand, resting on the table, beganto 
 tremble. Maitre Voigt's eyes remained fixed, as if by irre- 
 sistible fascination, on the brown door. Obenreizer, sus- 
 piciously observing him, looked that way too. 
 
 " There is somebody listening in there ! " he exclaimed, 
 with a sharp backward glance at Bintrey. 
 
 w There are two people listening," answered Bintrey. 
 
no NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 "Who are they?" 
 
 "You shall see." 
 
 With that answer, he raised his voice and spoke the next 
 words — the two common words which are on every body's 
 lips, at every hour of the day : " Come in ! " 
 
 The brown door opened. Supported on Marguerite's arm 
 — his sunburned color gone, his right arm bandaged and 
 slung over his breast — Vendale stood before the murderer, 
 a man risen from the dead. 
 
 In the moment of silence that followed, the singing of a 
 caged bird in the court-yard outside was the one sound stir- 
 ring in the room. Maitre Voigt touched Bintrey, and 
 pointed to Obenreizer. " Look at him ! " said the notary in 
 a whisper. 
 
 The shock had paralyzed every movement in the villain's 
 body, but the movement of the blood. His face was like 
 the face of a corpse. The one vestige of color left in it was 
 a livid purple streak which marked the course of the seal 
 where his victim had wounded him on the cheek and neck. 
 Speechless, breathless, motionless alike in the eye and limb, 
 it seemed as if, at the sight of Vendale, the death to which 
 he had doomed Vendale, had struck him where he stood. 
 
 " Somebody ought to speak to him," said Maitre Voigt. 
 "Shall I?" 
 
 Even at that moment Bintrey persisted in silencing the 
 notary, and in keeping the lead in the proceedings to him- 
 self. Checking Maitre Voigt by a gesture, he dismissed 
 Marguerite and Vendale in these words : "The object of 
 your appearance here is answered," he said. " If you will 
 withdraw for the present, it may help Mr. Obenreizer to 
 recover himself." 
 
 It did help him. As the two passed through the door and 
 closed it behind them, he drew a deep breath of relief. He 
 looked round him for the chair from which he had risen, and 
 dropped into it. 
 
 " Give him time ! " pleaded Maitre Voigt. 
 
 " No," said Bintrey. " I don't know what use he may 
 make of it if I do." He turned once more to Obenreizer, 
 and went on. " I owe it to myself," he said — " I don't ad- 
 mit, mind, that I owe it to you — to account for my appear- 
 ance in these proceedings, and to state what has been done 
 under my advice, and on my sole responsibility. Can you 
 listen to me? " 
 
 " I can listen to you." 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. in 
 
 4 Recall the time when you started for Switzerland with 
 Mr. Vendale," Bintrey began. "You had not left England 
 four-and-twenty hours before your niece committed an act 
 of imprudence which not even your penetration could fore- 
 see. She followed her promised husband on his journey, 
 without asking any body's advice or permission, and without 
 any better companion to protect her than a cellarman in Mr. 
 Vendale's employment." 
 
 "Why did she follow me on the journey ? and how came 
 the cellarman to be the person who accompanied her ? " 
 
 " She followed you on the journey," answered Bintrey, 
 " because she suspected there had been some serious collision 
 between you and Mr. Vendale, which had been kept secret 
 from her ; and because she rightly believed you to be capa- 
 ble of serving your interests, or of satisfying your enmity, at 
 the price of a crime. As for the cellarman, he was one, 
 Among the other people in Mr. Vendale's establishment, to 
 whom she had applied (the moment your back was turned) 
 to know if any thing had happened between their master and 
 you. The cellarman alone had something to tell her. A 
 senseless superstition, and a common accident which had 
 happened to his master, in his master's cellar, had connected 
 Mr. Vendale in this man's mind with the idea of danger by 
 murder. Your niece surprised him into a confession, which 
 aggravated tenfold the terrors that possessed her. Aroused 
 to a sense of the mischief he had done, the man, of his own 
 accord, made the one atonement in his power. ' If my mas- 
 ter is in danger, miss,' he said, 'it's my duty to follow him, 
 too ; and it's more than my duty to take care oi you.' The 
 two set forth together — and, for once, a superstition has had 
 its use. It decided your niece on taking the journey ; and 
 it led the way to saving a man's life. Do you understand me, 
 so far ? " 
 
 " I understand you, so far." 
 
 " My first knowledge of the crime that you had committed," 
 pursued Bintrey, " came to me in the form of a letter from 
 your niece. All you need know is that her love and her 
 courage recovered the body of your victim, and aided the 
 after-efforts which brought him back to life. While he lay 
 helpless at Brieg, under her care, she wrote to me to come 
 out to him. Before starting, I informed Madame Dor that I 
 knew Miss Obenreizer to be safe, and knew where she was. 
 Madame Dor informed me, in return, that a letter had come 
 for your niece, which she knew to be in your handwriting. 
 
ii2 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 I took possession of it, and arranged for the forwarding of 
 any other letters which might follow. Arrived at Brieg, I 
 found Mr. Vendale out of danger, and at once devoted my- 
 self to hastening the day of reckoning with you. Defresnier 
 and Company turned you off on suspicion ; acting on in- 
 formation privately supplied by me. Having stripped you 
 of your false character, the next thing to do was to strip 
 you of your authority over your niece. To reach this 
 end, I not only had no scruple in digging the pitfall 
 under your feet in the dark — I felt a certain professional 
 pleasure in fighting you with your own weapons. By my 
 advice the trap into which you have walked was set for you 
 (you know why, now, as well as I do) in this place. There 
 was but one certain way of shaking the devilish self-control 
 which had hitherto made you a formidable man. That way 
 has been tried, and (look at me as you may) that way has 
 succeeded. The last thing that remains to be done," con- 
 cluded Bintrey, producing two little slips of manuscript from 
 his dispatch box, " is to set your niece free. You have at- 
 tempted murder, and you have committed forgery and theft. 
 We have the evidence ready against you in both cases. If 
 you are convicted as a felon, you know as well as I do what 
 becomes of your authority over your niece. Personally, I 
 should have preferred taking that way out of it. But con- 
 siderations are pressed on me which I am not able to resist, 
 and this interview must end, as I have told you already, in a 
 compromise. Sign those lines, resigning all authority over 
 Miss Obenreizer, and pledging yourself never to be seen in 
 England or in Switzerland again ; and I will sign an indem- 
 nity which secures you against further proceedings on our 
 part." 
 
 Obenreizer took the pen, in silence, and signed the niece's 
 release. On receiving the indemnity in return, he rose, but 
 made no movement to leave the room. He stood looking at 
 Maitre Voigt with a strange smile gathering at his lips, and 
 a strange light flashing in his filmy eyes. 
 
 " What are you waiting for ? " asked Bintrey. 
 
 Obenreizer pointed to the brown door. " Call them back," 
 he answered. " I have something to say in their presence 
 before I go." 
 
 " Say it in my presence," retorted Bintrey. " I decline 
 to call them back." 
 
 Obenreizer turned to Maitre Voigt. " Do you remember 
 telling me that you once had an English client named Ven- 
 dale ? " he aske^ 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 113 
 
 : * Well," answered the notary. " And what of that ? " 
 
 " Maitre Voigt, your clock-lock has betrayed you." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I have read the letters and certificates in your client's 
 box, I have taken copies of them. I have got copies here. 
 Is there, or is there not, a reason for calling them back ? " 
 
 For a moment the notary looked to and fro, between 
 Obenreizer and Bintrey, in helpless astonishment. Recover- 
 ing himself, he drew his brother-lawyer aside, and hurriedly 
 spoke a few words close at his ear. The face of Bintrey — 
 after first faithfully reflecting the astonishment on the face 
 of Maitre Voigt — suddenly altered its expression. He 
 sprang, with the activity of a young man, to the door of the 
 inner room, entered it, remained inside for a minute, and 
 returned, followed by Marguerite and Vendale. " Now, Mr. 
 Obenreizer," said Bintrey, " the last move in the game is 
 yours. Play it." 
 
 "Before I resign my position as that young lady's 
 guardian," said Obenreizer, " I have a secret to reveal in 
 which she is interested. In making my disclosure, I am 
 not claiming her attention for a narrative which she, or any 
 other person present, is expected to take on trust. I am 
 possessed of written proofs, copies of originals, the authen- 
 ticity of which Maitre Voigt himself can attest. Bear that 
 in mind, and permit me to refer you, at starting, to a date 
 long past — the month of February, in the year one thousand 
 eight hundred and thirty-six." 
 
 " Mark the date, Mr. Vendale," said Bintrey. 
 
 " My first proof," said Obenreizer, taking a paper from 
 his pocket-book. " Copy of a letter* written by an English 
 lady (married) to her sister, a widow. The name of the 
 person writing the letter I shall keep suppressed until I have 
 done. The name of the person to whom the letter is writ- 
 ten I am willing to reveal. It is addressed to ■ Mrs. Jane 
 Anne Miller, of Groombridge Wells, England.' " 
 
 Vendale started and opened his lips to speak. Bintrey 
 instantly stopped him, as he had stopped Maitre Voigt. 
 
 " No," said the pertinacious lawyer. " Leave it to me." 
 
 Obenreizer went on : 
 
 " It is needless to trouble you with the first half of the 
 letter," he said. "I can give the substance of it in two 
 words. The position at the time is this. She has been long 
 living in Switzerland with her husband — obliged to live 
 there for the sake of her husband's health. They are about 
 
lt 4 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 to move to a new residence on the Lake of Neuchatel in a 
 week, and they will be ready to receive Mrs. Miller as a vis- 
 itor in a fortnight from that time. This said, the writer 
 next enters into an important domestic detail. She has 
 been childless for years — she and her husband have no hope 
 of children ; they are lonely ; they want an interest in life ; 
 they have decided on adopting a child. Here the important 
 part of the letter begins ; and here, therefore, I read it to 
 you word for word." 
 
 He folded back the first page of the letter and read as 
 follows : 
 
 « * * * Will you help us, my dear sister, to realize our 
 new project ? As English people, we wish to adopt an 
 English child. This may be done, I believe, at the Found- 
 ling : my husband's lawyers in London will tell you how. 
 I leave the choice to you, with only these conditions attached 
 to it — that the child is to be an infant under a year old, and 
 is to be a boy. Will you pardon the trouble I am giving 
 you, for my sake ; and will you bring our adopted child to 
 us, with your own children, when you come to Neuchatel ? 
 
 " I must add a word as to my husband's wishes in this 
 matter. He is resolved to spare the child whom we make 
 our own any future mortification and loss of self-respect 
 which might be caused by a discovery of his true origin. 
 He will bear my husband's name, and he will be brought up 
 in the belief that he is really our son. His inheritance of 
 what we have to leave will be secure to him — not only 
 according to the laws of England in such cases, but accord- 
 ing to the laws of Switzerland also ; for we have lived so 
 long in this country, that there is a doubt whether we may 
 not be considered as ' domiciled ' in Switzerland. The one 
 precaution left to take is to prevent any after-discovery at 
 the Foundling. Now, our name is a very uncommon one ; 
 and if we appear on the register of the institution as the 
 person adopting the child, there is just a chance that some- 
 thing might result from it. Your name, my dear, is the name 
 of thousands of other people ; and if you will consent to ap- 
 pear on the register, there need be no fear of any discoveries 
 in that quarter. We are moving, by the doctor's orders, to 
 a part of Switzerland in which our circumstances are quite 
 unknown ; and you, as I understand, are about to engage a 
 new nurse for the journey when you come to see us. Under 
 these circumstances the child may appear as my child, 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 115 • 
 
 brought back to me under my sister's care. The only serv- 
 ant we take with us from our old home is my own maid, who 
 can be safely trusted. As for the lawyers in England and in 
 Switzerland, it is their profession to keep secrets — and we 
 may feel quite easy in that direction. So there you have 
 our harmless little conspiracy ! Write by return of post, my 
 love, and tell me you will join it." * * * 
 
 " Do you still conceal the name of the writer of that 
 letter ? " asked Vendale. 
 
 " I keep the name of the writer till the last," answered 
 Obenreizer, " and I proceed to my second proof — a mere 
 slip of paper, this time, as you see. Memorandum given to 
 the Swiss lawyer, who drew the documents referred to in 
 the letter I have just read, expressed as follows : — ' Adopted 
 from the Foundling Hospital of England, 3d March, 1836, 
 a male infant, called in the institution Walter Wilding. 
 Person appearing on the register, as adopting the child, 
 Mrs. Jane Anne Miller, widow, acting in this matter for 
 her married sister, domiciled in Switzerland.' Patience ! " 
 resumed Obenreizer, as Vendale, breaking loose from Bin- 
 trey, started to his feet. " I shall not keep the name con. 
 cealed much longer. Two more little slips of paper, and I 
 have done. Third proof ! Certificate of Doctor Ganz, 
 still living in practice at Neuchatel, dated July, 1838. 
 The doctor certified (you shall read it for yourselves di- 
 rectly), first, that he attended the adopted child in its infant 
 maladies ; second, that, three months before the date ot 
 the certificate, the gentleman adopting the child as his son 
 died ; third, that on the date of the certificate, his widow 
 and her maid, taking the adopted child with them, left 
 Neuchatel on their return to England. One more link now 
 added to this, and my chain of evidence is complete. The 
 maid remained with her mistress till her mistress's death, 
 only a few years since. The maid can swear to the identity 
 of the adopted infant, from his childhood to his youth — from 
 his youth to his manhood, as he is now. There is her ad- 
 dress in England — and there, Mr. Vendale, is the fourth and 
 final proof ! " 
 
 " Why do you address yourself to me ? " said Vendale, as 
 Obenreizer threw the written address on the table. 
 
 Obenreizer turned on him, in a sudden frenzy of triumph. 
 
 "Because you are the man! If my niece marries you, she 
 marries a bastard, brought up by public charity. If my 
 
n6 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 niece marries you, she marries an impostor, without name or 
 lineage, disguised in the character of a gentleman of rank 
 and family ! " 
 
 " Bravo ! " cried Bintrey. " Admirably put, Mr. Oben- 
 reizer ! It only wants one word more to complete it. She 
 marries — thanks entirely to your exertions — a man who in- 
 herits a handsome fortune, and a man whose origin will 
 make him prouder than ever of his peasant wife. George 
 Vendale, as brother-executors, let us congratulate each 
 other ! Our dear dead friend's last wish on earth is accom- 
 plished. We have found the lost Walter Wilding. As Mr. 
 Obenreizer said just now — you are the man ! " 
 
 The word passed by Vendale unheeded. For the moment 
 he was conscious of but one sensation ; he heard but one 
 voice. Marguerite's hand was clasping his. Marguerite's 
 voice was whispering to him : " I never loved you, George, 
 as I love you now ! " 
 
 The Curtain Falls. 
 
 May-day. There is merry-making in Cripple Corner, the 
 chimneys smoke, the patriarchal dining-hall is hung with 
 garlands, and Mrs. Goldstraw, the respected housekeeper, is 
 very busy. For on this bright morning the young master of 
 Cripple Corner is married to its young mistress, far away : 
 to wit, in the little town of Brieg, in Switzerland, lying at 
 the foot of the Simplon Pass, where she saved his life. 
 
 The bells ring gayly in the little town of Brieg, and flags 
 are stretched across the street, and rifle shots are heard, and 
 sounding music from brass instruments. Streamer-decorated 
 casks of wine have been rolled out under a gay awning in 
 the public way before the inn, and there will be free feasting 
 and revelry. What with bells and banners, draperies hanging 
 from windows, explosion of gunpowder, and reverberations 
 of brass music, the little town of Brieg is all in a flutter, 
 like the hearts of its simple people. 
 
 It was a stormy night last night, and the mountains are 
 covered with snow. But the sun is brighter to-day, the sweet 
 air is fresh, the tin spires of the town of Brieg are burnished 
 silver, and the Alps are ranges of far-off white cloud in a 
 deep blue sky. 
 
 The primitive people of the little town of Brieg have built a 
 greenwood arch across the street, under which the newly mar- 
 ried pair shall pass in triumph from the church. It is in- 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. it; 
 
 scribed, on that side, " Honor and Love to Marguerite 
 Vendale ! " for the people are proud of her to enthusiasm. 
 This greeting of the bride under her new name is affection- 
 ately meant as a surprise, and therefore the arrangement has 
 been made that she, unconscious why, shall be taken to the 
 church by a tortuous back way. A scheme not difficult to 
 carry into execution in the crooked little town of Brieg. 
 
 So all things are in readiness, and they are to go and 
 come on foot. Assembled in the inn's best chamber, festively 
 adorned, are the bride and bridegroom, the Neuchatel no- 
 tary, and London lawyer, Madame Dor, and a certain large 
 mysterious Englishman, popularly known as Monsieur Zhoe- 
 Ladelle. And behold Madame Dor, arrayed in a spotless 
 pair of gloves of her own, with no hand in the air, but both 
 hands clasped round the neck of the bride ; to embrace 
 whom Madame Dor has turned her broad back on the com- 
 pany, consistent to the last. 
 
 " Forgive me, my beautiful," pleads Madame Dor, " for 
 that I ever was his she-cat ! " 
 
 " She-cat, Madame Dor ? " 
 
 u Engaged to sit watching my so charming mouse," are 
 the explanatory words of Madame Dor, delivered with a 
 penitential sob. 
 
 " Why, you were our best friend ! George, dearest, tell 
 Madame Dor. Was she not our best friend ?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly, darling. What should we have done with- 
 out her ? " 
 
 " You are both so generous," cried Madame Dor, accept- 
 ing consolation, and immediately relapsing. " But I com- 
 menced as a she-cat." 
 
 " Ah ! But like the cat in the fairy story, good Madame 
 Dor," says Vendale, saluting her cheek, "you were a true 
 woman. And, being a true woman, the sympathy of your 
 heart was with true love." 
 
 " I don't wish to deprive Madame Dor of her share in the 
 embraces that are going on," Mr. Bintrey puts in, watch in 
 hand, " and I don't presume to offer any objection to your 
 having got yourselves mixed together, in the corner there, 
 like the Three Graces. I merely remark that I think it's time 
 we were moving. What are your sentiments on that subject, 
 Mr. Ladle ? " 
 
 " Clear, sir," replies Joey, with a gracious grin. " I'm 
 clearer altogether, sir, for having lived so many weeks upon 
 the surface. I never was half so long upon the surface afore, 
 
n8 NO THOROUGHFARE. 
 
 and it's done me a power of good. At Cripple Corner I was 
 too much below it. Atop of the Simpleton, I was a deal too 
 high above it. I've found the medium here, sir. And if 
 ever I take it in convivial, in all the rest of my days, I mean 
 to do it this day, to the toast of ' Bless 'em both.' " 
 
 " I too ! " says Bintrey. " And now, Monsieur Voigt, let 
 you and me be two men of Marseilles, and allons, marchons, 
 
 arm-in-arm 
 
 They go down to the door, where others are waiting for 
 them, and they go quietly to the church, and the happy 
 marriage takes place. While the ceremony is yet in prog- 
 ress, the notary is called out. When it is finished, he has 
 returned, is standing behind Vendale, and touches him on 
 the shoulder. 
 
 " Go to the side door one moment, Monsieur Vendale. 
 Alone. Leave madame to me." 
 
 At the side door of the church are the same two men from 
 the Hospice. They are snow-stained and travel-worn. They 
 wish him joy, and then each lays his broad hand upon Ven- 
 dale's breast, and one says in a low voice, while the other 
 steadfastly regards him : 
 
 " Is it here, monsieur. Your litter. The very same." 
 
 " My litter is here ? Why?" 
 
 " Hush ! For the sake of madame. Your companion of 
 that day — " 
 
 " What of him ? " 
 
 The man looks at his comrade, and his comrade takes him 
 up. Each keeps his hand laid earnestly on Vendale's breast. 
 
 " He had been living at the first Refuge, monsieur, for 
 some days. The weather was now good, now bad." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " He arrived at our Hospice the day before yesterday, and, 
 having refreshed himself with sleep on the floor before the 
 fire, wrapped in his cloak, was resolute to go on, before dark, 
 to the next Hospice. He had a great fear of that part of the 
 way, and thought it would be worse to-morrow." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " He went on alone. He had passed the gallery when an 
 avalanche— like that which fell behind you near the Bridge 
 of the Ganther — " 
 
 "Killed him?" 
 
 " We dug him out, suffocated, and broken all to pieces ! 
 But, monsieur, as to madame. We have brought him here on 
 the litter, to be buried. We must ascend the street outside, 
 
NO THOROUGHFARE. 119 
 
 madame'must not see. It would be an accursed thing to bring 
 the litter through the arch across the street, until madam e 
 has passed through. As you descend, we who accompany 
 the litter will set it down on the stones of the street the sec- 
 ond to the right and will stand before it. But do not let 
 madame turn her head toward the street the second to the 
 right. There is no time to lose. Madame will be alarmed 
 by your absence. Adieu ! " 
 
 Vendale returns to his bride and draws her hand through 
 his unmanned arm. A pretty procession awaits them at the 
 main door of the church. They take their station in it, and 
 descend the streets amidst the ringing of the bells, and 
 firing of the guns, the waving of the flags, the playing of 
 the music, the shouts, the smiles, and tears, of the excited 
 town. Heads are uncovered as she passes, hands are kissed 
 to her, all the people bless her. " Heaven's benediction on 
 the dear girl ! See where she goes in her youth and beauty ; 
 she who so nobly saved his life ! " 
 
 Near the corner of the street the second to the right, he 
 speaks to her, and calls her attention to the windows on the 
 opposite side. The corner well passed, he says : " Do not 
 look round, my darling, for a reason that I have," and turns 
 his head. Then, looking back along the street, he sees the 
 litter and its bearers passing up along under the arch, as he 
 and she and their marriage train go down toward the shin- 
 mg valley. 
 
PREFACE TO MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 When the author commenced this work, he proposed to 
 himself three-objects. 
 
 First. To establish a periodical, which should enable him 
 to present, under one general head, and not as separate and 
 distinct publications, certain fictions which he had it in 
 contemplation to write. 
 
 Secondly. To produce these tales in weekly numbers ; 
 hoping that to shorten the intervals of communication be- 
 tween himself and his readers, would be to knit more closely 
 the pleasant relations they had held for forty months. 
 
 Thirdly. In the execution of this weekly task, to have as 
 much regard as its exigencies would permit, to each story as 
 a whole, and to the possibility of its publication at some 
 distant day, apart from the machinery in which it had its 
 origin. 
 
 The characters of Master Humphrey and his three friends, 
 and the little fancy of the clock, were the result of these 
 considerations. When he sought to interest his readers 
 in those who talked, and read, and listened, he revived 
 Mr. Pickwick and his humble friends, not with any inten- 
 tion of re-opening an exhausted and abandoned mine, but 
 to connect them, in the thoughts of those whose favorites 
 they had been, with the tranquil enjoyments of Master 
 Humphrey. 
 
 It was never the author's intention to make the members 
 of Master Humphrey's Clock active agents in the stories 
 they are supposed to relate. Having brought himself, in the 
 commencement of his undertaking, to feel an interest in 
 these quiet creatures, and to imagine them in their old 
 chamber of meeting, eager listeners to all he had to tell, the 
 author hoped — as authors will — to succeed in awakening 
 some of his own emotions in the bosoms of his readers. 
 Imagining Master Humphrey in his chimney-corner, resum- 
 ing night after night the narrative — say, the Old Curiosity 
 
PREFACE. 121 
 
 Shop — picturing to himself the various sensations of his hear- 
 ers — thinking how Jack Redburn might incline to poor Kit, 
 and perhaps lean too favorably even toward the lighter 
 vices of Mr. Richard Swiveller — how the deaf gentleman 
 would have his favorite, and Mr. Miles his — and how all 
 these gentle spirits would trace some faint reflection of their 
 past lives in the varying current of the tale — he has insensibly 
 fallen into the belief that they are present to his readers as 
 they are to him, and has forgotten that, like one whose 
 vision is disordered, he may be conjuring up bright figures 
 where there is nothing but empty space. 
 
 The short papers which are to be found at the beginning 
 of this volume v/ere indispensable to the form of publica- 
 tion and the limited extent of each number, as no story of 
 lengthened interest could be begun until " The Clock " was 
 wound up and fairly going. 
 
 The author would fain hope that there are not many who 
 would disturb Master Humphrey and his friends in their 
 seclusion ; who would have them forego their present en- 
 joyments to exchange those confidences with each other, the 
 absence of which is the foundation of their mutual trust. 
 For when their occupation is gone, when their tales are 
 ended, and but their personal histories remain, the chimney- 
 corner will be growing cold, and the clock will be about to 
 stop forever. 
 
 One other word in his own person, and he returns to the 
 more grateful task of speaking for those imaginary people 
 whose little world lies within these pages. 
 
 It may be some consolation to the well-disposed ladies or 
 gentlemen who, in the interval between the conclusion of his 
 last work and the commencement of this, originated a report 
 that he had gone raving mad, to know that it spread as 
 rapidly as could be desired, and was made the subject of 
 considerable dispute ; not as regarded the fact, for that was 
 as thoroughly established as the duel between Sir Peter 
 Teazle and Charles Surface in the " School for Scandal ; " 
 but with reference to the unfortunate lunatic's place of con- 
 finement — one party insisting positively on Bedlam, another 
 inclining favorably toward St. Luke's, and a third swearing 
 strongly by the asylum at Hanwell ; while each backed its 
 case by circumstantial evidence of the same excellent nature 
 as that brought to bear by Sir Benjamin Backbite on the 
 pistol-shot which struck against the little bronze bust of 
 Shakespeare over the fireplace, grazed out of the window 
 
122 PREFACE. 
 
 at a right angle, and wounded the postman, who was corn- 
 ing to the door with a double letter from Northamptonshire. 
 It will be a great affliction to these ladies and gentlemen 
 to learn — and he is so unwilling to give pain, that he would 
 not whisper the circumstance on any account, did he not 
 feel in a manner bound to do so, in gratitude to those 
 among his friends who were at the trouble of being angry 
 with the absurdity — that their invention made the author's 
 home unusually merry, and gave rise to an extraordinary 
 number of jests, of which he will only add, in the words 
 of the good Vicar of. Wakefield, " I can not say whether we 
 had more wit among us than usual ; but I am sure we had 
 more laughing " 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK 
 
 i. 
 
 MASTER HUMPHREY, FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE 
 IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER. ' 
 
 The reader must not expect to know where I live. At 
 present, it is true, my abode may be a question of little or 
 no import to any body, but if I should carry my readers 
 with me, as I hope to do, and there should spring up, be- 
 tween them and me, feelings of homely affection and regard 
 attaching something of interest to matters ever so slightly 
 connected with my fortunes or my speculations, even my 
 place of residence might one day have a kind of charm for 
 them. Bearing this possible contingency in mind, I wish 
 them to understand in the outset, that they must never ex- 
 pect to know it. 
 
 I am not a churlish old man. Friendless I can never be, 
 for all mankind are my kindred, and I am on ill terms with 
 no one member of my great family. But for many years I 
 have led a lonely, solitary life ; — what wound I sought to 
 heal, what sorrow to forget, originally, matters not now ; it 
 is sufficient that retirement has become a habit with me, 
 and that I am unwilling to break the spell which for so long 
 a time has shed its quiet influence upon my home and heart. 
 
 I live in a venerable suburb of London, in an old house, 
 which in by-gone days was a famous resort for merry roys- 
 terers and peerless ladies, long since departed. It is a 
 silent, shady place, with a paved court-yard so full of echoes 
 that sometimes I am tempted to believe that faint responses 
 to the noises of old times linger there yet, and that these 
 ghosts of sound haunt my footsteps as I pace it up and 
 down. I am the more confirmed in this belief, because, of 
 late years, the echoes that attend my walks have been less 
 loud and marked than they were wont to be ; and it is 
 
i2 4 MASTER'S HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 pleasanter to imagine in them the rustling of silk brocade, 
 and the light step of some lovely girl, than to recognize in 
 their altered note the failing tread of an old man. 
 
 Those who like to read of brilliant rooms and gorgeous 
 furniture would derive but little pleasure from a minute de- 
 scription of my simple dwelling. It is dear to me for the 
 same reason that they would hold it in slight regard. Its 
 worm-eaten doors, and low ceilings crossed by clumsy 
 beams ; its walls of wainscot, dark stairs, and gaping closets ; 
 its small chambers, communicating with each other by wind- 
 ing passages or narrow steps ; its many nooks, scarce larger 
 than its corner-cupboards ; its very dust and dullness, all 
 are dear to me. The moth and spider are my constant 
 tenants, for in my house the one basks in his long sleep, and 
 the other plies his busy loom, secure and undisturbed. I 
 have a pleasure in thinking on a summer's day, how many 
 butterflies have sprung for the first time into light and sun- 
 shine from some dark corner of these old walls. 
 
 When I first came to live here, which was many years ago, 
 the neighbors were curious to know who I was, and whence 
 I came, and why I lived so much alone. As time went on, 
 and they still remained unsatisfied on these points, I became 
 the center of a popular ferment, extending for half a mile 
 round, and in one direction for a full mile. Various rumors 
 were circulated to my prejudice. I was a spy, an infidel, a 
 conjurer, a kidnapper of children, a refugee, a priest, a 
 monster. Mothers caught up their infants and ran into their 
 houses as I passed ; men eyed me spitefully, and muttered 
 threats and curses. I was the object of suspicion and dis- 
 trust ; ay, of downright hatred, too. 
 
 But when in course of time they found I did no harm, 
 but, on the contrary, inclined toward them despite their un- 
 just usage, they began to relent. I found my footsteps no 
 longer dogged, as they had often been before, and observed 
 that the women and children no longer retreated, but would 
 stand and gaze at me as I passed their doors. I took this 
 for a good omen, and waited patiently for better times. 
 By degrees I began to make friends among these humble 
 folks, and though they were yet shy of speaking, would 
 give them "good-day," and so pass on. In a little time, 
 those whom I had thus accosted, would make a point 
 of coming to their doors and windows at the usual hour, 
 and nod or courtesy to me ; children, too, came timidly 
 within my reach, and ran away quite scared when I 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 125 
 
 patted their heads and bade them be good at school. These 
 little people soon grew more familiar. From exchanging 
 mere words of course with my older neighbors, I gradually 
 became their friend and adviser, the depositary of their cares 
 and sorrows, and sometimes, it may be, the reliever, in my 
 small way, of their distresses. And now I never walk abroad, 
 but pleasant recognitions and smiling faces wait on Master 
 Humphrey. 
 
 It was a whim of mine, perhaps as a whet to the curiosity 
 of my neighbors, and a kind of retaliation upon them for 
 their suspicions — it was, I say, a whim of mine, when I first 
 took up my abode in this place, to acknowledge no other 
 name than Humphrey. With my detractors I was Ugly 
 Humphrey. When I began to convert them into friends, I was 
 Mr. Humphrey, and Old Mr. Humphrey. At length I settled 
 down into plain Master Humphrey, which was understood 
 to be the title most pleasant to the ear ; and so completely 
 a matter of course has it become, that sometimes when I am 
 taking my morning walk in my little court-yard, I overhear my 
 barber — who has a profound respect for me, and would not, 
 I am sure, abridge my honors for the world — holding forth 
 on the other side of the wall, touching the state of " Master 
 Humphrey's " health, and communicating to some friend 
 the substance of the conversation that he and Master 
 Humphrey have had together in the course of the shaving 
 which he has just concluded. 
 
 That I may not make acquaintance with my readers un- 
 der false pretenses, or give them cause to complain hereafter, 
 that I have withheld any matter which it was essential for 
 them to have learned at first, I wish them to know — and I 
 smile sorrowfully to think that the time has been when the 
 confession would have given me pain — that I am a mis- 
 shapen, deformed old man. 
 
 I have never been made a misanthrope by this cause. I 
 have never been stung by an insult, nor wounded by any jest 
 upon my crooked figure. As a child I was melancholy and 
 timid, but that was because the gentle consideration paid to 
 my misfortune sunk deep into my spirit and made me sad, 
 even in those early days. I was but a very young creature 
 when my poor mother died, and yet I remember that often 
 when I hung around her neck, and oftener still when I 
 played about the room before her, she would catch me to 
 her bosom, and bursting into tears, would soothe me with 
 every term of fondness and affection. God knows I was a 
 
t 2 6 MASTER HUMPHREY'S C/LOCK. 
 
 happy child at those times— happy to nestle in her breast- 
 happy to weep when she did — happy in not knowing why. 
 
 These occasions are so strongly impressed upon my mem- 
 ory, that they seem to have occupied whole years. I had 
 numbered very, very few when they ceased forever, but be- 
 fore then their meaning had been revealed to me. 
 
 I do not know whether all children are imbued with a 
 quick perception of childish grace and beauty, and a strong 
 love for it, but I was. I had no thought that I remember, 
 either that I possessed it myself or that I lacked it, but I 
 admired it with an intensity that I can not describe. A lit- 
 tle knot of playmates — they must have been beautiful, for I 
 see them now — w r ere clustered one day round my mother's 
 knee in eager admiration of some picture representing a 
 group of infant angels, which she held in her hand. Whose 
 the picture was, whether it was familiar to me or otherwise. 
 or how all the children came to be there, I forget ; I have 
 some dim thought it was my birthday, but the beginning of 
 my recollection is that we were all together in a garden, and 
 it was summer weather, — I am sure of that, for one of the: 
 little girls had roses in her sash. There were many lovely 
 angels in this picture, and I remember the fancy coming 
 upon me to point out which of them represented each child 
 there, and that when I had gone through my companions, I 
 stopped and hesitated, wondering which was most like me. 
 I remember the children looking at each other, and my 
 turning red and hot, and their crowding round to kiss me, 
 saying that they loved me all the same ; and then, and 
 when the old sorrow came into my dear mother's mild and 
 tender look, the truth broke upon me for the first time, and 
 I knew, while watching my awkward and ungainly sports, 
 how keenly she had felt for her poor crippled boy. 
 
 I used frequently to dream of it afterward, and now my 
 heart aches for that child as if I had never been he, when I 
 think how often he awoke from some fairy change to his 
 own old form, and sobbed himself to sleep again. 
 
 Well, well — all these sorrows are past. My glancing at 
 them may not be without its use, for it may help in some 
 measure to explain why I have all my life been attached to 
 the inanimate objects that people my chamber, and how I 
 have come to look upon them rather in the light of old and 
 constant friends, than as mere chairs and tables which a 
 little money could replace at will. 
 
 Chief and first among all these is my clock — my old, 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.. 127 
 
 Cheerful, companionable clock. How can I ever convey tG 
 others an idea of the comfort and consolation that this old 
 clock has been for years to me ! 
 
 It is associated with my earliest recollections. It stood 
 Upon the staircase at home (I call it home still mechani- 
 cally), nigh sixty years ago. I like it for that, but it is not 
 on that account, nor because it is a quaint old thing in a 
 huge oaken case curiously and richly carved, that I prize it 
 as I do. I incline to it as if it were alive, and could under- 
 stand and give me back the love I bear it. 
 
 And what other thing that has not life could cheer me as 
 it does ; what other thing that has not life (I will not say 
 how few things that have) could have proved the same 
 patient, true, untiring friend ! How often have I sat in the 
 long winter evenings feeling such society in its cricket- voice, 
 that raising my eyes from my book and looking gratefully 
 toward it, the face reddened by the glow of the shining fire 
 has seemed to relax from its staid expression and to regard 
 me kindly ; how often in the summer twilight, when my 
 thoughts have wandered back to a melancholy past, have its 
 regular whisperings recalled them to the calm and peaceful 
 present ; how often in the dead tranquillity of night has its 
 bell broken the oppressive silence, and seemed to give me 
 assurance that the old clock was still a faithful watcher at 
 my chamber door ! My easy-chair, my desk, my ancient 
 furniture, my very books, I can scarcely bring myself to love 
 even these last, like my old clock ! 
 
 It stands in a snug corner, midway between the fireside 
 and a low arched door leading to my bedroom. Its fame is 
 diffused so extensively throughout the neighborhood, that I 
 have often the satisfaction of hearing the publican, or the 
 baker, and sometimes even the parish-clerk, petitioning my 
 housekeeper (of whom I shall have much to say by and by) 
 to inform him the exact time by Master Humphrey's Clock. 
 My barber, to whom I have referred, would sooner believe 
 it than the sun. Nor are these its only distinctions. It has 
 acquired, I am happy to say, another, inseparably connect- 
 ing it not only with my enjoyments and reflections, but with 
 those of other men ; as I shall now relate. 
 
 I lived alone here for a long time without any friend or 
 acquaintance. In the course of my wanderings by night 
 and day, at all hours and seasons, in city streets and quiet 
 country parts, I came to be familiar with certain faces, and 
 to take it to heart as quite a heavy disappointment if they 
 
r*3 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 failed to present themselves each at its accustomed spot. 
 But these were the only friends I knew, and beyond them 
 I had none. 
 
 It happened, however, when I had gone on thus for a long 
 time, that I formed an acquaintance with a deaf gentleman, 
 which ripened into intimacy and close companionship. To 
 this hour, I am ignorant of his name. It is his humor to 
 conceal it, or he has a reason and purpose for so doing. In 
 either case I feel that he has a right to require a return of 
 the trust he has reposed, and as he has never sought to dis- 
 cover my secret, I have never sought to penetrate his. 
 There may have been something in this tacit confidence in 
 each other, flattering and pleasant to us both, and it may 
 have imparted in the beginning an additional zest, per- 
 haps, to our friendship. Be this as it may, we have grown 
 to be like brothers, and still I only know him as the deaf 
 gentleman. 
 
 I have said that retirement has become a habit with me. 
 When I add that the deaf gentleman and I have two friends, 
 I communicate nothing which is inconsistent with that 
 declaration. I spend many hours of every day in solitude 
 and study, have no friends or change of friends, but these, 
 only see them at stated periods, and am supposed to be of 
 a retired spirit by the very nature and object of our asso- 
 ciation. 
 
 We are men of secluded habits, with something of a cloud 
 upon our early fortunes, whose enthusiasm, nevertheless, has 
 not cooled with age, whose spirit of romance is not yet 
 quenched, who are content to ramble through the world in 
 a pleasant dream, rather than ever waken again to its harsh 
 realities. We are alchemists who would extract the essence 
 of perpetual youth from dust and ashes, tempt coy truth in 
 many light and airy forms from the bottom of her well, and 
 discover one crumb of comfort or one grain of good in the 
 commonest and least regarded matter that passes through 
 our crucible. Spirits of past times, creatures of imagination, 
 and people of to-day, are alike the objects of our seeking, 
 and, unlike the objects of search with most philosophers, we 
 can insure their coming at our command. 
 
 The dear gentleman and I first began to beguile our days 
 with these fancies, and our nights in communicating them 
 to each other. We are now four. But in my room there 
 are six old chairs, and we have decided that the two empty 
 seats shall always be placed at our table when we meet, to 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 129 
 
 remind us that we may yet increase our company by that 
 number, if we should find two men to our mind. When one 
 among us dies, his chair will always be set in its usual place, 
 but never occupied again ; and I have caused my will to be 
 so drawn out, that when we are all dead the house shall be 
 shut up, and the vacant chairs still left in their accustomed 
 places. It is pleasant to think that even then our shades 
 may, perhaps, assemble together as of yore we did, and join 
 in ghostly converse. 
 
 One night in every week, as the clock strikes ten, we meet. 
 At the second stroke of two, I am alone. 
 
 And now shall I tell how that my old servant, besides 
 giving us note of time, and ticking cheerful encouragement 
 of our proceedings, lends its name to our society, which for 
 its punctuality and my love, is christened " Master Hum- 
 phrey's Clock ? " Now shall I tell, how that in the bottom 
 of the old dark closet, where the steady pendulum throbs 
 and beats with healthy action, though the pulse of him who 
 made it stood still long ago, and never moved again, there 
 are piles of dusty papers constantly placed there by our 
 hands, that we may link our enjoyments with my old friend, 
 and draw means to beguile time from the heart of time itself } 
 Shall I, or can I, tell with what a secret pride I open this 
 repository when we meet at night, and still find new store of 
 pleasure in my dear old clock ? 
 
 Friend and companion of my solitude ! mine is not a self- 
 ish love ; I would not keep your merits to myself, but dis- 
 perse something of pleasant association with your image 
 through the whole wide world ; I would have men couple 
 with your name cheerful and healthy thoughts ; I would 
 have them believe that you keep true and honest time ; 
 and how it would gladden me to know that they recog- 
 nized some hearty English wortk in Master Humphrey's 
 Clock ! 
 
 THE CLOCK-CASE. 
 
 It is my intention constantly to address my readers from 
 the chimney-corner, and I would fain hope that such 
 accounts as I shall give them of our histories and proceed- 
 ings, our quiet speculations or more busy adventures, will 
 never be unwelcome. Lest, however, I should grow prolix 
 in the outset by lingering too long upon our little associa- 
 tions, confounding the enthusiasm with which I regard this 
 
i 3 o MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 chief happiness of my life with that minor degree of inter- 
 est which those to whom I address myself may be supposed 
 to feel for it, I have deemed it expedient to break off as they 
 have seen. 
 
 But, still clinging to my old friend, and naturally desir- 
 ous that all its merits should be known, I am tempted to 
 open (somewhat irregularly and against our laws, I must 
 admit) the clock-case. The first roll of paper on which I 
 lay my hand is in the writing of the deaf gentleman. I shall 
 have to speak of him in my next paper, and how can I better 
 approach that welcome task than by prefacing it with a pro- 
 duction of his own pen, consigned to the safe keeping of my 
 honest clock by his own hands ? 
 
 The manuscript runs thus : — 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE GIANT CHRONICLES. 
 
 Once upon a time, that is to say, in this our time — the 
 exact year, month, and day are of no matter — there dwelt 
 in the city of London a substantial citizen, who united in 
 his single person the dignities of wholesale fruiterer, alder- 
 man, common-councilman, and member of the worshipful 
 company of patten-makers ; who had superadded to these 
 extraordinary distinctions the important post and title of 
 sheriff, and who at length, and to crown all, stood next in 
 rotation for the high and honorable office of lord mayor. 
 
 He was a very substantial citizen indeed. His face was 
 like the full moon in a fog, w T ith two little holes punched out 
 for his eyes, a very ripe pear stuck on for his nose, and a 
 wide gash to serve for a mouth. The girth of his waistcoat 
 was hung up and lettered in his tailor's shop as an extraordi- 
 nary curiosity. He breathed like a heavy snorer, and his 
 voice in speaking came thickly forth, as if it were oppressed 
 and stifled by feather-beds. He trod the ground like an 
 elephant, and eat and drank like —like nothing but an alder- 
 man, as he was. 
 
 This worthy citizen had risen to his great eminence from 
 small beginnings. He had once been a very lean, weazen 
 little boy, never dreaming of carrying such a weight of flesh 
 upon his bones or of money in his pockets, and glad enough 
 to take his dinner at a baker's door, and his tea at a pump. 
 But he had long ago forgotten all this, as it was proper that 
 a wholesale fruiterer, alderman, common-councilman, mem- 
 ber of the worshipful company of patten-makers, past sheriff, 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 131 
 
 qnd above all, a lord mayor that was to be, should ; and he 
 never forgot it more completely in all his life than on the 
 •eighth of November in the year of his election to the great 
 ^golden civic chair, which was the day before his grand din- 
 ner at Guildhall. 
 
 It happened as he sat that evening all alone in his counting- 
 house, looking over the bill of fare for next day, and checking 
 off the fat capons in fifties and the turtle-soup by the hundred 
 quarts for his private amusement — it happened that as he sat 
 alone occupied in these pleasant calculations, a strange man 
 came in and asked him how he did, adding, " If I am half 
 as much changed as you, sir, you have no recollection of me, 
 I am sure." 
 
 The strange man was not over and above well dressed, and 
 was very far from being fat or rich-looking in any sense of 
 the word, yet he spoke with a kind of modest confidence, 
 and assumed an easy, gentlemanly sort of an air, to which 
 nobody but a rich man can lawfully presume. Besides this, 
 he interrupted the good citizen just as he had reckoned 
 three hundred and seventy-two fat capons and was carrying 
 them over to the next column, and as if that were not aggra- 
 vation enough, the learned recorder for the city of London 
 had only ten minutes previously gone out at that very same 
 door, and had turned round and said, " Good-night, my lord." 
 Yes, he had said, "my lord," — he, a man of birth and edu- 
 cation, of the Honorable Society of the Middle Temple, 
 Barrister at Law — he who had an uncle in the House of 
 Commons, and an aunt almost but not quite in the House 
 of Lords (for she had married a feeble peer, and made him 
 vote as she liked) — he, this man, this learned recorder, had 
 said, "my lord." "I'll not wait till to-morrow to give 
 you your title, my lord mayor," says he, with a bow and a 
 smile ; " you are lord mayor de facto, if not de jure. Good- 
 night, my lord ! " 
 
 The lord mayor elect thought of this, and turning to the 
 stranger, and sternly bidding him "go out of his private 
 counting-house," brought forward the three hundred and 
 seventy-two fat capons, and went on with his account. 
 
 " Do you remember," said the other, stepping forward — 
 " do you remember little Joe Toddyhigh ? " 
 
 The port-wine fled for a moment from the fruiterer's nose 
 as he muttered, " Joe Toddyhigh ! What about Joe Toddy- 
 high ? " 
 
 " / am Joe Toddyhigh," cried the visitor. " Look at me 
 
i 3 2 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 look hard at me — harder, harder. You know me now ? 
 you know little Joe again ? What a happiness to us both, 
 to meet the very night before your grandeur ! Oh ! give 
 me your hand, Jack — both hands — both, for the sake of 
 old times." 
 
 " You pinch me, sir. You're a-hurting of me," said the 
 lord mayor elect pettishly. " Don't — suppose any body 
 should come — Mr. Toddyhigh, sir." 
 
 " Mr. Toddyhigh ! " repeated the other ruefully. 
 
 " Oh ! don't bother," said the lord mayor elect, scratching 
 his head. " Dear me ! Why, I thought you was dead. 
 What a fellow you are ! " 
 
 Indeed, it was a pretty state of things, and worthy the 
 tone of vexation and disappointment in which the lord 
 mayor spoke. Joe Toddyhigh had been a poor boy with 
 him at Hull, and had oftentimes divided his last penny and 
 parted his last crust to relieve his wants ; for though Joe 
 was a destitute child in those times, he was as faithful and 
 affectionate in his friendship as ever man of might could be. 
 They parted one day to seek their fortunes in different di- 
 rections. Joe went to sea, and the now wealthy citizen 
 begged his way to London. They separated with many 
 tears, like foolish fellows as they were, and agreed to 
 remain fast friends, and, if they lived, soon to communicate 
 again. 
 
 When he was an errand-boy and even in the early days of 
 his apprenticeship, the citizen had many a time trudged to 
 the post-office to ask if there were any letters from poor 
 little Joe, and had gone home again with tears in his eyes, 
 when he found no news of his only friend. The world is a 
 wide place, and it was a long time before the letter came ; 
 when it did, the writer was forgotten. It turned from white 
 to yellow from lying in the post-office with nobody to claim 
 it, and in course of time was torn up with five hundred 
 others, and sold for waste-paper. And now at last, and when 
 it might least have been expected, here was this Joe Toddy- 
 high turning up and claiming acquaintance with a great pub- 
 lic character, who on the morrow would be cracking jokes 
 with the prime minister of England, and who had only, at 
 any time during the next twelve months, to say the word, 
 and he could shut up Temple Bar, and make it no thorough- 
 fare for the king himself ! 
 
 " I am sure I don't know what to say, Mr. Toddyhigh," 
 said the lord mayor elect ; " I really don't. It's very in- 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 133 
 
 convenient. I'd sooner have given twenty pound — it's very 
 inconvenient, really." 
 
 A thought had come into his mind that perhaps his old 
 friend might say something passionate which would give him 
 an excuse for being angry himself. No such thing. Joe 
 looked at him steadily, but very mildly, and did not open 
 his lips. 
 
 " Of course I shall pay you what I owe you," said the lord 
 mayor elect, fidgeting in his chair. " You lent me — I think it 
 was a shilling or some small coin — when we parted company, 
 and that of course I shall pay, with good interest. I can pay 
 my way with any man, and always have done. If you look 
 into the Mansion House the day after to-morrow — sometime 
 after dusk — and ask for my private clerk, you'll find he has a 
 draft for you. I haven't got time to say any thing more just 
 now, unless " — he hesitated, for, coupled with a strong de- 
 sire to glitter for once in all his glory in the eyes of his 
 former companion, was a distrust of his appearance, which 
 might be more shabby than he could tell by that feeble light 
 — " unless you'd like to come to the dinner to-morrow. I 
 don't mind your having this ticket, if you like to take it. A 
 great many people would give their ears for it, I can tell 
 you." 
 
 His old friend took the card without speaking a word, and 
 instantly departed. His sunburned face and gray hair were 
 present to the citizen's mind for a moment ; but by the time 
 he reached three hundred and eighty-one fat capons, he had 
 quite forgotten him. 
 
 Joe Toddyhigh had never been in the capital of Europe 
 before, and he wandered up and down the streets that night 
 amazed at the number of churches and other public build- 
 ings, the splendor of the shops, the riches that were heaped 
 up on every side, the glare of light in which they were dis- 
 played, and the concourse of people who hurried to and fro, 
 indifferent, apparently, to all the wonders that surrounded 
 them. But in all the long streets and broad squares, there 
 were none but strangers ; it was quite a relief to turn down 
 a by-way and hear his own footsteps on the pavement. He 
 went home to his inn ; thought that London was a dreary 
 desolate place, and felt disposed to doubt the existence of 
 one true-hearted man in the whole worshipful company of 
 patten-makers. Finally, he went to bed, and dreamed that 
 he and the lord-mayor elect were boys again. 
 
 He went next day to the dinner, and when, in a burst of 
 
i 3 4 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK* 
 
 light and music, and in the midst of splendid decorations 
 and surrounded by brilliant company, his former friend ap- 
 peared at the head of the hall, and was hailed with shouts 
 and cheering, he cheered and shouted with the best, and for 
 the moment could have cried. The next moment he cursed 
 his weakness in behalf of a man so changed and selfish, and 
 quite hated a jolly-looking old gentleman opposite, for de- 
 claring himself in the pride of his heart a patten-maker. 
 
 As the banquet proceeded, he took more and more to 
 heart the rich citizen's unkindness ; and that, not from any 
 envy, but because he felt that a man of his state and fortune 
 could all the better afford to recognize an old friend, even 
 if he were poor and obscure. The^more he thought of this, 
 the more lonely and sad he felt. When the company dis- 
 persed and adjourned to the ball-room, he paced the hall 
 and passages alone, ruminating in a very melancholy condi- 
 tion upon the disappointment he had experienced. 
 
 It chanced, while he was lounging about in this moody 
 state, that he stumbled upon a flight of stairs, dark, steep, 
 and narrow, which he ascended without any thought about 
 the matter, and so came into a little music gallery, empty 
 and deserted. From this elevated post, which commanded 
 the whole hall, he amused himself with looking down upon 
 the attendants who were clearing away the fragments of the 
 feast very lazily, and drinking out of all the bottles and 
 glasses with most commendable perseverance. 
 
 His attention gradually relaxed, and he fell fast asleep. 
 
 When he awoke, he thought there must be something the 
 matter with his eyes ; but, rubbing them a little, he soon 
 found that the moonlight was really streaming through the 
 east window, that the lamps were all extinguished, and that 
 he was alone. He listened, but no distant murmur in the 
 distant passages, not even the shutting of a door, broke the 
 deep silence ; he groped his way down the stairs, and found 
 that the door at the bottom was locked on the other side. 
 He began now to comprehend that he m:;st have slept a long 
 time, chat he had been overlooked, and was shut up there 
 for the night. 
 
 His first sensation, perhaps, was not altogether a comfort- 
 able one, for it was a dark, chilly, earthy-smelling place, and 
 something too large, for a man so situated, to feel at home 
 in. However, when the momentary consternation of his sur- 
 prise was over, he made light of the accident, and resolved 
 to feel his way up the stairs again, and make himself as com- 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 135 
 
 fortable as he could in the gallery until morning. As he 
 turned to execute this purpose, the clocks struck three. 
 
 Any such invasion of a dead stillness as the striking of 
 distant clocks, causes it to appear the more intense and in- 
 supportable when the sound has ceased. He listened with 
 strained attention in the hope that some clock, lagging be- 
 hind its fellows, had yet to strike — looking all the time into 
 the profound darkness before him until it seemed to weave 
 itself into a black tissue, patterned with a hundred reflec- 
 tions of his own eyes. But the bells had all pealed out their 
 warning for that once, and the gust of wind that moaned 
 through the place seemed cold and heavy with their iron 
 breath. 
 
 The time and circumstances were favorable to reflection. 
 He tried to keep his thoughts to the current, unpleasant though 
 it was, in which they had moved all day, and to think with what 
 a romantic feeling he had looked forward to shaking his old 
 friend by the hand before he died, and what a wide and cruel 
 difference there was between the meeting they had had, and 
 that which he had often and so long anticipated. Still, he 
 was disordered by waking to such sudden loneliness,and could 
 not prevent his mind from running upon odd tales of people 
 of undoubted courage, who, being shut up by night in vaults 
 or churches, or other dismal places, had scaled great heights 
 to get out, and fled from silence as they had never done 
 from danger. This brought to his mind the moonlight 
 through the window, and bethinking himself of it, he 
 groped his way back up the crooked stairs — but very 
 stealthily, as though he were fearful of being overheard. 
 
 He was very much astonished when he approached the 
 gallery again, to see a light in the building : still more so, 
 on advancing hastily and looking round, to observe no visi- 
 ble source from which it could proceed. But how much 
 greater yet was his astonishment at the spectacle which this 
 light revealed. 
 
 The statutes of two giants, Gog and Magog, each above 
 fourteen feet in height, those which succeeded to still older 
 and more barbarous figures after the great fire of London, 
 and which stand in the Guildhall to this day, were endowed 
 with life and motion. These guardian genii of the city had 
 quitted their pedestals, and reclined in easy attitudes in the 
 great stained-glass window. Between them was an ancient 
 cask, which seemed to be full of wine ; for the younger 
 giant, clapping his huge hand upon it, and throwing up his 
 
136 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 mighty leg, burst into an exulting laugh, which reverberated 
 through the hall like thunder. 
 
 Joe Toddyhigh instinctively stooped down, and, more 
 dead than alive, felt his hair stand on end, his knees knock 
 together, and a cold damp break out upon his forehead. 
 But even at that minute curiosity prevailed over every other 
 feeling, and somewhat reassured by the good-humor of the 
 giants and their apparent unconsciousness of his presence, 
 he crouched in a corner of the gallery in as small a space 
 as he could, and, peeping between the rails, observed them 
 closely. 
 
 It was then that the elder giant, who had a flowing gray 
 beard, raised his thoughtful eyes to his companion's face, 
 and in a grave and solemn voice addressed him thus : — 
 
 FIRST NIGHT OF THE GIANT CHRONICLES. 
 
 Turning toward his companion, the elder giant uttered 
 these words in a grave majestic tone : — 
 
 " Magog, does boisterous mirth beseem the giant warder 
 of this ancient city ? Is this becoming demeanor for a 
 watchful spirit over whose bodiless head so many years have 
 rolled, so many changes swept like empty air — in whose 
 impalpable nostrils the scent of blood and crime, pestilence, 
 cruelty and horror, has been familiar as breath to mortals, 
 ■ — in whose sight time has gathered in the harvest of cen- 
 turies, and garnered so many crops of human pride, affec- 
 tions, hopes, and sorrows ? Bethink you of your compact. 
 The night wanes ; feasting, revelry, and music have en- 
 croached upon our usual hours of solitude, and morning will 
 be here apace. Ere we are stricken mute again, bethink you 
 of our compact." 
 
 Pronouncing these latter words with more of impatience 
 than quite accorded with his apparent age and gravity, the 
 giant raised a long pole (which he still bears in his hand) 
 and tapped his brother giant rather smartly on the head ; 
 indeed, the blow was so smartly administered, that the lat- 
 ter quickly withdrew his lips from the cask to which they 
 had been applied, and catching up his shield and halberd 
 assumed an attitude of defense. His irritation was but mo- 
 mentary, for he laid these weapons aside as hastily as he 
 had assumed them, and said as he did so : — 
 
 " You know, Gog, old friend, that when we animate these 
 shapes which the Londoners of old assigned (and not unwor- 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 137 
 
 thily) to the guardian genii of their city, we are susceptible 
 of some of the sensations which belong to human kind. 
 Thus when I taste wine, I feel blows ; when I relish the one, 
 I disrelish the other. Therefore, Gog, the more especially 
 as your arm is none of the lightest, keep your good staff by 
 your side, else we my chance to differ. Peace be between 
 us." 
 
 " Amen ! " said the other, leaning his staff in the window- 
 corner. " Why did you laugh just now ? " 
 
 " To think," replied the giant Magog, laying his hand 
 upon the cask, " of him who owned this wine, and kept it in 
 a cellar hoarded from the light of day, for thirty years—' till 
 it should be fit to drink,' quoth he. He was two score and 
 ten years old when he buried it beneath his house, and yet 
 never thought that he might scarcely be ' fit to drink ' when 
 the wine became so. I wonder it never occurred to him to 
 make himself unfit to be eaten. There is very little of him 
 left by this time." 
 
 " The night is waning," said Gog mournfully. 
 
 M I know it," replied his companion, " and I see you are 
 impatient. But look. Through the eastern window — placed 
 opposite to us, that the first beams of the rising sun may 
 every morning gild our giant faces — the moon-rays fall upon 
 the pavement In a stream of light that to my fancy sinks 
 through the cold stone and gushes into the cold crypt below. 
 The night is scarcely past its noon, and our great charge is 
 sleeping heavily." 
 
 They ceased to speak and looked upward at the moon. 
 The sight of their large, black, rolling eyes filled Joe Toddy- 
 high with such horror that he could scarcely draw his 
 breath. Still they took no note of him, and appeared to 
 believe themselves quite alone. 
 
 " Our compact," said Magog, after a pause, "is, if I under- 
 stand it, that, instead of watching here in silence through 
 the dreary nights, we entertain each other with stories of 
 our past experience ; with tales of the past, the present, and 
 the future ; with legends of London and her sturdy citizens 
 from the old simple times. That every night at midnight, 
 when St. Paul's bell tolls out one and we may move and 
 speak, we thus discourse, nor leave such themes till the first 
 gray gleam of day shall strike us dumb. Is that our bar- 
 gain, brother ? " 
 
 "Yes," said the giant Gog, "that is the league between 
 us who guard this city, by day in spirit, and by night in 
 
138 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 body also ; and never on ancient holidays have its conduits 
 run wine more merrily than we will pour forth our legendary 
 lore. We are old chroniclers from this time hence. The 
 crumbled walls encircle us once more, the postern gates are 
 closed, the draw-bridge is up, and pent in its narrow den 
 beneath, the water foams and struggles with the sunken 
 starlings. Jerkins and quarter-staves are in the streets 
 again, the nightly watch is set, the rebel, sad and lonely in 
 his Tower dungeon, tries to sleep, and weeps for home and 
 children. Aloft upon the gates and walls are noble heads 
 glaring fiercely down upon the dreaming city, and vexing 
 the hungry dogs that scent them in the air, and tear the 
 ground beneath with dismal howlings. The ax, the block, 
 the rack, in their dark chambers give signs of recent use. 
 The Thames, floating past long lines of cheerful windows 
 whence come a burst of music and a stream of light, bears 
 sullenly to the palace wall the last red stain brought on the 
 tide from Traitor's Gate. But your pardon, brother. The 
 night wears, and I am talking idly." 
 
 The other giant appeared to be entirely of this opinion, 
 for during the foregoing rhapsody of his fellow-sentinel he 
 had been scratching his head with an air of comical uneasi- 
 ness, or rather with an air that would have been very comi- 
 cal if he had been a dwarf or an ordinary-sized man. He 
 winked, too, and though it could not be doubted for a 
 moment that he winked to himself, still, he certainly cocked 
 his enormous eye toward the gallery where the listener was 
 concealed. Nor was this all, for he gaped, and when he 
 gaped, Joe was horribly reminded of the popular prejudice" 
 on the subject of giants, and of their fabled power of smell- 
 ing out Englishmen, however closely concealed. 
 
 His alarm was such that he nearly swooned, and it was 
 some little time before his power of sight or hearing was 
 restored. When he recovered he found that the elder giant 
 was pressing the younger to commence the chronicles, and 
 that the latter was endeavering to excuse himself, on the 
 ground that the night was far spent and it would be better 
 to wait until the next. Well assured by this that he was 
 certainly about to begin directly, the listener collected his 
 faculties by a great effort, and distinctly heard Magog 
 express himself to the following effect : — 
 
 In the sixteenth century and in the reign of Queen Eliza- 
 beth of glorious memory (albeit her golden days are sadly 
 rusted with blood), there lived in the city of London a bold 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 139 
 
 young 'prentice who loved his master's daughter. There 
 were no doubt within the walls a great many 'prentices in 
 this condition, but I speak of only one, and his name was 
 Hugh Graham. 
 
 This Hugh was apprenticed to an honest bowyer who 
 dwelt in the ward of Cheype and was rumored to possess 
 great wealth. Rumor was quite as infallible in those days 
 as at the present time, but it happened then as now to be 
 sometimes right by accident. It stumbled upon the truth 
 when it gave the old bowyer a mint of money. His trade 
 had been a profitable one in the time of King Henry the 
 Eighth, who encouraged English archery to the utmost, and 
 he had been prudent and discreet. Thus it came to pass 
 that Mistress Alice, his only daughter, was the richest 
 heiress in all this wealthy ward. Young Hugh had often 
 maintained with staff and cudgel that she was the hand- 
 somest. To do him justice, I believe she was. 
 
 If he could have gained the heart of pretty Mistress 
 Alice by knocking this conviction into stubborn people's 
 heads, Hugh would have had no cause to fear. But 
 though the bowyer's daughter smiled in secret to hear of 
 his doughty deeds for her sake, and though her little 
 waiting-woman reported all her smiles (and many more) 
 to Hugh, and though he was at a vast expense in kisses 
 and small coin to recompense her fidelity, he made no 
 progress in his love. He durst not whisper it to Mistress 
 Alice save on sine encouragement, and that she never 
 gave him. A glance of her dark eye as she sat at the door 
 on a summer's evening after prayer-time, while he and the 
 neighboring 'prentices exercised themselves in the street with 
 blunted sword and buckler, would fire Hugh's blood so that 
 none could stand before him ; but then she glanced at 
 others quite as kindly as on him, and where was the use of 
 cracking crowns if Mistress Alice smiled upon the cracked 
 as well as on the cracker ? 
 
 Still Hugh went on, and loved her more and more. He 
 thought of her all day, and dreamed of her all night long. 
 He treasured up her every word and gesture, and had a pal- 
 pitation of the heart whenever he heard her footsteps on the 
 stairs or her voice in an adjoining room. To him, the old 
 bowyer's house was haunted by an angel ; there was en- 
 chantment in the air and space in which she moved. It 
 would have been no miracle to Hugh if flowers had sprung 
 from the rush-strewn floors beneath the tread of lovely Mis* 
 tress Alice. 
 
i4o MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 Never did 'prentice long to distinguish himself in the eyes 
 of his lady-love so ardently as Hugh. Sometimes he pic- 
 tured to himself the house taking fire by night, and he, when 
 all drew back in fear, rushing through flame and smoke and 
 bearing her from the ruins in his arms. At other times he 
 thought of a rising of fierce rebels, an attack upon the city, 
 a strong assault upon the bowyer's house in particular, and 
 he falling on the threshold pierced with numberless wounds 
 in defense of Mistress Alice. If he could only enact some 
 prodigy of valor, do some wonderful deed, and let her know 
 that she had inspired it, he thought he could die contented. 
 
 Sometimes the bowyer and his daughter would go out to 
 supper with a worthy citizen at the fashionable hour of six 
 o'clock, and on such occasions Hugh, wearing his blue 
 'prentice cloak as gallantly as 'prentice might, would attend 
 with a lantern and his trusty club to escort them home. 
 These were the brightest moments of his life. To hold the 
 light while Mistress Alice picked her steps, to touch her 
 hand as he helped her over broken ways, to have her leaning 
 on his arm — it sometimes even came to that — this was hap- 
 piness indeed ! 
 
 When the nights were fair, Hugh followed in the rear, his 
 eyes riveted on the graceful figure of the bowyer's daughter 
 as she and the old man moved on before him. So they 
 threaded the narrow winding streets of the city, now passing 
 beneath the overhanging gables of old wooden houses whence 
 creaking signs projected into the street, and now emerging 
 from some dark and frowning gateway into the clear moon- 
 light. At such times, or when the shouts of straggling 
 brawlers met her ear, the bowyer's daughter would look 
 timidly back at Hugh beseeching him to draw nearer ; and 
 then how he grasped his club and longed to do battle with a 
 dozen rufBers, for the love of Mistress Alice ! 
 
 The old bowyer was in the habit of lending money on in- 
 terest to the gallants of the court, and thus it happened that 
 many a richly dressed gentleman dismounted at his door. 
 More waving plumes and gallant steeds, indeed, were seen 
 at the bowyer's house, and more embroidered silks and vel- 
 vets sparkled in his dark shop and darker private closet, 
 than at any merchant's in the city. In those times no less 
 than in the present it would seem that the richest-looking 
 cavaliers often wanted money the most. 
 
 Of these glittering clients there was one who always came 
 alone. He was always nobly mounted, and having no at- 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 141 
 
 tendant gave his horse in charge to Hugh while he and the 
 bowyer were closeted within. Once as he sprung into the 
 saddle Mistress Alice was seated at an upper window, and 
 before she could withdraw he had doffed his jeweled cap 
 and kissed his hand. Hugh watched him caracoling down 
 the street, and burned with indignation. But how much 
 deeper was the glow that reddened in his cheeks when, rais- 
 ing his eyes to the casement, he saw that Alice watched the 
 stranger too ! 
 
 He came again and often, each time arrayed more gayly 
 than before, and still the little casement showed him Mis- 
 tress Alice. At length one heavy day, she fled from home. 
 It had cost her a hard struggle, for all her old father's gifts 
 were strewn about her chamber as if she had parted from 
 them one by one, and knew that the time must come when 
 these tokens of his love would wring her heart — yet she was 
 gone. 
 
 She left a letter commending her poor father to the care 
 of Hugh, and wishing he might be happier than he could 
 ever have been with her, for he deserved the love of a bet- 
 ter and a purer heart than she had to bestow. The old 
 man's forgiveness (she said) she had no power to ask, but 
 she prayed God to bless him — and so ended with a blot 
 upon the paper where her tears had fallen. 
 
 At first the old man's wrath was kindled, and he carried his 
 wrong to the queen's throne itself ; there was no redress he 
 learned at court, for his daughter had been conveyed abroad. 
 This afterward appeared to be the truth, as there came from 
 France, after an interval of several years, a letter in her hand. 
 It was written in trembling characters, and almost illegible. 
 Little could be made out save that she often thought of home 
 and her old dear pleasant room — and that she had dreamed 
 her father was dead and had not blessed her — and that her 
 heart was breaking. 
 
 The poor old bowyer lingered on, never suffering Hugh to 
 quit his sight, for he knew now that he had loved his daugh- 
 ter, and that was the only link that bound him to earth. It 
 broke at length and he died, bequeathing his old 'prentice 
 his trade and all his wealth, and solemnly charging him with 
 his last breath to revenge his child if ever he who had 
 worked her misery crossed his path in life again. 
 
 From the time of Alice's flight, the tilting-ground, the 
 fields, the fencing-school, the summer-evening sports, knew 
 Hugh no more. His spirit was dead within him. He rose 
 
i 4 2 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 to great eminence and repute among the citizens, but was 
 seldom seen to smile, and never mingled in their reveries or 
 rejoicings. Brave, humane, and generous, he was beloved 
 by all. He was pitied too by those who knew his story, and 
 these were so many that when he walked along the streets 
 alone at dusk, even the rude common people doffed their 
 caps and mingled a rough air of sympathy with their respect. 
 
 One night in May — it was her birthnight and twenty years 
 since she had left her home — Hugh Graham sat in the room 
 she had hallowed in his boyish days. He was now a gray- 
 haired man, though still in the prime of life. Old thoughts 
 had borne him company for many hours, and the chamber 
 had gradually grown quite dark, when he was aroused by a 
 low knocking at the outer door. 
 
 He hastened down, and opening it, saw by the light of a 
 lamp which he had seized upon the way, a female figure 
 crouching in the portal. It hurried swiftly past him and 
 glided up the stairs. He looked for pursuers. There were 
 none in sight. No, not one. 
 
 He was inclined to think it a vision of his own brain, when 
 suddenly a vague suspicion of truth flashed upon his mind. 
 He barred the door and hastened wildly back. Yes, there 
 she was — there, in the chamber he had quitted — there, in 
 her old innocent happy home, so changed that none but he 
 could trace one gleam of what she had been — there, upon 
 her knees — with her hands clasped in agony and shame be- 
 fore her burning face. 
 
 11 My God, my God ! " she cried, " now strike me dead ! 
 Though I have brought death and shame and sorrow on this 
 roof, oh, let me die at home in mercy ! " 
 
 There was no tear upon her face then, but she trembled 
 and glanced round the chamber. Every thing was in its old 
 place. Her bed looked as if she had risen from it but that 
 morning. The sight of these familiar objects, marking the 
 dear remembrance in which she had been held, and the blight 
 she had brought upon herself, was more than the woman's 
 better nature that had carried her there could bear. She 
 wept and fell upon the ground. 
 
 A rumor was spread about, in a few days' time, that the 
 bowyer's cruel daughter had come home, and that Master 
 Graham had given her lodging in his house. It was rumored 
 too that he had resigned her fortune, in order that she might 
 bestow it in acts of charity ; and that he had vowed to guard 
 her in her solitude, but that they were never to see each 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 143 
 
 other more. These rumors greatly incensed all virtuous 
 wives and daughters in the ward, especially when they ap- 
 peared to receive some corroboration from the circumstance 
 of Master Graham taking up his abode in another tenement 
 hard by. The estimation in which he was held, however, 
 forbade any questioning on the subject ; and as the bowyer's 
 house was close shut up, and nobody came forth when public 
 shows and festivities were in progress, or to flaunt in the 
 public walks, or to buy new fashions at the mercers' booths, 
 all the well-conducted females agreed among themselves 
 that there could be no woman there. 
 
 These reports had scarcely died away when the wonder of 
 every good citizen, male and female, was utterly absorbed 
 and swallowed up by a royal proclamation, in which her 
 majesty, strongly censuring the practice of wearing long 
 Spanish rapiers of preposterous length (as being a bullying 
 and swaggering custom, tending to bloodshed and public dis- 
 order), commanded that on a particular day therein named, 
 certain grave citizens should repair to the city gates, and 
 there, in public, break all rapiers worn or carried by persons 
 claiming admission, that exceeded, though it were only by a 
 quarter of an inch, three standard feet in length. 
 
 Royal proclamations usually take their course, let the pub- 
 lic wonder never so much. On the appointed day two citi- 
 zens of high repute took up their stations at each of the gates 
 attended by a party of the city guard : the main body to en- 
 force the queen's will, and take custody of all such rebels 
 (if any) as might have the temerity to dispute it ; and a few 
 to bear the standard measures and instruments for reducing 
 all unlawful sword-blades to the prescribed dimensions. In 
 pursuance of these arrangements, Master Graham and an- 
 other where posted at Lud Gate, on the hill before Saint 
 Paul's. 
 
 A pretty numerous company were gathered together at 
 this spot, for, besides the officers in attendance to enforce 
 the proclamation, there was a motley crowd of lookers-on 
 of various degrees, who raised from time to time such shouts 
 and cries as the circumstances called forth. A spruce young 
 courtier was the first who approached ; he unsheathed a 
 weapon of burnished steel that shone and glistened in the 
 sun, and handed it with the newest air to the officer, who, 
 finding it exactly three feet long, returned it with a bow. 
 Thereupon the gallant raised his hat and crying " God save 
 the Queen," passed on amidst the plaudits of the mob. 
 
144 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 Then came another — a better courtier still — who wore a 
 blade but two feet long, whereat the people laughed, much 
 to the disparagement of his honor's dignity. Then came a 
 third, a sturdy old officer of the army, girded with a rapier 
 at least a foot and a half beyond her majesty's pleasure ; 
 at him they raised a great shout, and most of the spectators 
 (but especially those who were armorers or cutlers) laughed 
 very heartily at the breakage which would ensue. But they 
 were disappointed, for the old campaigner, coolly unbuck- 
 ling his sword and bidding his servant carry it home again, 
 passed through unarmed to the great indignation of all the 
 beholders. They relieved themselves in some degree by 
 hooting a tall blustering fellow with a prodigious weapon, 
 who stopped short on coming in sight of the preparations, 
 and after a little consideration turned back again ; but all this 
 time no rapier had been broken, although it was high noon, 
 and all cavaliers of any quality or appearance were taking 
 their way toward St. Paul's church -yard. 
 
 During these proceedings Master Graham had stood 
 apart, strictly confining himself to the duty imposed upon 
 him, and taking little heed of any thing beyond. He 
 stepped forward now as a richly dressed gentleman on foot, 
 followed by a single attendant, was seen advancing up the 
 hill. 
 
 As this person drew nearer, the crowd stopped their 
 clamor, and bent forward with eager looks. Master Graham 
 standing alone in the gateway, and the stranger coming 
 slowly toward him, they seemed, as it were, set face to face. 
 The nobleman (for he looked one) had a haughty and dis- 
 dainful air which bespoke the slight estimation in which he 
 held the citizen. The citizen on the other hand preserved 
 the resolute bearing of one who was not to be frowned down 
 or daunted, and who cared very little for any nobility but 
 that of worth and manhood. It was perhaps some conscious- 
 ness on the part of each, of these feelings in the other, that 
 infused a more stern expression into their regards as they 
 came closer together. 
 
 " Your rapier, worthy sir ! " 
 
 At the instant that he pronounced these words Graham 
 started, and falling back some paces, laid his hand upon the 
 dagger in his belt. 
 
 " You are the man whose horse I used to hold before the 
 bowyer's door ? You are that man ? Speak ! " 
 
 " Out, you 'prentice hound ! " said the other. 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 145 
 
 11 You are he ! I know you well now ! " cried Graham. 
 *■ Let no man step between us two, or I shall be his mur- 
 derer." With that he drew his dagger and rushed in upon 
 him. 
 
 The stranger had drawn his weapon from the scabbard 
 ready for the scrutiny, before a word was spoken. He 
 made a thrust at his assailant, but the dagger which Graham 
 clutched in his left hand being the dirk in use at that time 
 for parrying such blows, promptly turned the point aside. 
 They closed. The dagger fell rattling upon the ground, and 
 Graham, wresting his adversary's sword from his grasp, 
 plunged it through his heart. As he drew it out it snapped 
 in two, leaving a fragment in the dead man's body. 
 
 All this passed so swiftly that the bystanders looked on 
 without an effort to interfere, but the man was no sooner 
 down than an uproar broke forth which rent the air. The 
 attendant rushing through the gate proclaimed that his 
 master, a nobleman, had been set upon and slain by a citi- 
 zen ; the word quickly spread from mouth to mouth ; Saint 
 Paul's Cathedral, and every book-shop, ordinary, and smok- 
 ing-house in the church-yard poured out its stream of cava- 
 liers and their followers, who, mingling together in a dense 
 tumultuous body, struggled, sword in hand, toward the spot. 
 
 With equal impetuosity, and stimulating each other by 
 loud cries and shouts, the citizens and common people took 
 up the quarrel on their side, and encircling Master Graham 
 a hundred deep, forced him from the gate. In vain he 
 waved the broken sword above his head, crying that he 
 would die on London's threshold for their sacred homes. 
 They bore him on, and ever keeping him in the midst so that 
 no man could attack him, fought their way into the city. 
 
 The clash of swords and roar of voices, the dust and heat 
 and pressure, the trampling under foot of men, the distracted 
 looks and shrieks of women at the windows above as they rec- 
 ognized their relatives or lovers in the crowd, the rapid tolling 
 of alarm bells, the furious rage and passion of the scene, were 
 fearful. Those who, being on the outskirts of each crowd, 
 could use their weapons with effect, fought desperately, while 
 those behind, maddened with baffled rage, struck at each 
 other over the heads of those before them, and crushed 
 their own fellows. Wherever the broken sword was seen 
 above the people's heads, toward that spot the cavaliers 
 made a new rush. Every one of these charges was marked 
 by sudden gaps in the throng where men were trodden down, 
 
146 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 but as fast as they were made, the tide swept over them, and 
 still the multitude pressed on again, a confused mass of 
 swords, clubs, staves, broken plumes, fragments of rich 
 cloaks and doublets, and angry bleeding faces, all mixed up 
 together in inextricable disorder. 
 
 The design of the people was to force Master Graham to 
 take refuge in his dwelling, and to defend it until the authori- 
 ties could interfere or they could gain time for parley. But 
 either from ignorance or in the confusion of the moment, they 
 stopped at his old house, which was closely shut. Some 
 time was lost in beating the doors open and passing him to 
 the front. About a score of the boldest of the other party 
 threw themselves into the torrent while this was being done, 
 and reaching the door at the same moment with himself, cut 
 him off from his defenders. 
 
 " I never will turn in such a righteous cause, so help me 
 heaven ! " cried Graham, in a voice that at last made itself 
 heard, and confronting them as he spoke. " Least of all 
 will I turn upon this threshold which owes its desolation to 
 such men as ye. I give no quarter, and I will have none ! 
 Strike ! " 
 
 For a moment they stood at bay. At that moment a shot 
 from an unseen hand, apparently fired by some person who 
 had gained access to one of the opposite houses, struck Gra- 
 ham in the brain and he fell dead. A low wail was heard in 
 the air — many people in the concourse cried that they had 
 seen a spirit glide across the little casement window of the 
 bowyer's house — 
 
 A dead silence succeeded. After a short time some of 
 the flushed and heated throng lay down their arms and softly 
 carried the body within doors. Others fell off or slunk 
 away in knots of two or three, others whispered together in 
 groups, and before a numerous guard which then rode up 
 could muster in the street, it was nearly empty. 
 
 Those who carried Master Graham to the bed up stairs 
 were shocked to see a woman lying beneath the window with 
 her hands clasped together. After trying to recover her in 
 vain, they laid her near the citizen, who still retained, tightly 
 grasped in his right hand, the first and last sword that was 
 broken that day at Lud Gate. 
 
 The giant uttered these concluding words with sudden 
 precipitation, and on the instant the strange light which had 
 filled the hall faded away. Joe Toddyhigh glanced involun- 
 tarily at the eastern window and saw the first pale gleam of 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 147 
 
 morning. He turned his head again toward the other win- 
 dow in which the giants had been seated. It was empty, 
 The cask of wine was gone, and he could dimly make out 
 that the two great figures stood mute and motionless upon 
 their pedestals. 
 
 After rubbing his eyes and wondering for full half an hour, 
 during which time he observed morning come creeping on 
 apace, he yielded to the drowsiness which overpowered him 
 and fell into a refreshing slumber. When he awoke it was 
 broad day ; the building was open, and workmen were 
 busily engaged in removing the vestiges of last night's feast. 
 
 Stealing gently down the little stairs and assuming the air 
 of some early lounger who had dropped in from the street, 
 he walked up to the front of each pedestal in turn, and atten- 
 tively examined the figure it supported. There could be no 
 doubt about the features of either ; he recollected the 
 exact expression they had worn at different passages of their 
 conversation, and recognized in every line and lineament 
 the giants of the night. Assured that it was no vision, but 
 that he had heard and seen with his own proper senses, he 
 walked forth, determining at all hazards to conceal himself 
 in the Guildhall again that evening. He further resolved to 
 sleep all day, so that he might be very wakeful and vigilant,, 
 and above all that he might take notice of the figures at the 
 precise moment of their becoming animated and subsiding 
 into their old state, which he greatly reproached himself for 
 not having done already. 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 TO MASTER HUMPHREY. 
 
 " Sir — Before you proceed any further in your account of 
 your friends and what you say and do when you meet to- 
 gether, excuse me if I proffer my claim to be elected to one 
 of the vacant chairs in that old room of yours. Don't reject 
 me without full consideration, for if you do you'll be sorry 
 for it afterward — you will, upon my life. 
 
 " I inclose my card, sir, in this letter. I never was ashamed 
 of my name, and I never shall be. I am considered a dev- 
 ilish gentlemanly fellow, and I act up to the character. If 
 you want a reference^ ask any of the men at our club. Ask 
 
148 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 any fellow who goes there to write his letters, what sort of 
 conversation mine is. Ask him if he thinks I have the sort 
 cf voice that will suit your deaf friend and make him hear, if 
 he can hear any thing at all. Ask the servants what they 
 '.hmk of me. There's not a rascal among 'em, sir, but will 
 tremble to hear my name. That reminds me — don't you 
 say too much about that housekeeper of yours ; it's a low 
 subject, damned low. 
 
 " I tell you what, sir. If you vote me into one of those 
 empty chairs, you'll have among you a man with a fund of 
 gentlemanly information that'll rather astonish you. I can 
 let you into a few anecdotes about some fine women of title, 
 that are quite high life, sir — the tiptop sort of thing. I 
 know the name of every man who has been out on an affair 
 of honor within the last five-and-twenty years ; I know the 
 private particulars of every cross and squabble that has taken 
 place upon the turf, the gaming-table or elsewhere, during 
 the whole of that time. I have been called the gentlemanly 
 chronicle. You may consider yourself a lucky dog ; upon 
 my soul you may congratulate yourself, though I say so. 
 
 " It's an uncommon good notion that of yours, not letting 
 any body know where you live. I have tried it, but there 
 has always been an anxiety respecting me which has found 
 me out. Your deaf friend is a cunning fellow to keep his 
 name so close. I have tried that too, but have always failed. 
 I shall be proud to make his acquaintance — tell him so, 
 with my compliments. 
 
 " You must have been a queer fellow when you were a 
 child, confounded queer. It's odd all that about the picture 
 in your first paper — prosy, but told in a devilish gentle- 
 manly sort of way. In places like that, I could come in 
 with great effect with a touch of life — Don't you feel that ? 
 
 "I am anxiously waiting for your next paper to know 
 whether your friends live upon the premises, and .at your ex- 
 pense, which I take it for granted is the case. If I am right 
 in this impression, I know a charming fellow (an excellent 
 companion and most delightful company) who will be proud 
 to join you. Some years ago he seconded a great many 
 prize-fighters, and once fought an amateur match himself ; 
 since then, he has driven several mails, broken at different 
 periods all the lamps on the right-hand side of Oxford Street, 
 and six times carried away every bell-handle in Bloomsbury 
 Square, besides turning off the gas in various thoroughfares. 
 In point of gentlemanliness he is unrivaled, and I should 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 149 
 
 say that next to myself he is of all men the best suited to 
 your purpose. 
 
 " Expecting your reply, 
 
 " I am, 
 
 "Etc., Etc." 
 
 Master Humphrey informs this gentleman that his appli- 
 cation, both as it concerns himself and his friend, is rejected. 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK 
 
 n. 
 
 MASTER HUMPHREY FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE IN 
 THE CHIMNEY-CORNER. 
 
 My old companion tells me it is midnight. The fire 
 glows brightly, crackling with a sharp and cheerful sound, 
 as if it loved to burn. The merry cricket on the hearth (my 
 constant visitor), this ruddy blaze, my clock, and I, seem 
 to share the world among us, and to be the only things 
 awake. The wind, high and boisterous but now, has died 
 away and hoarsely mutters in its sleep. I love all times and 
 seasons each in its turn, and am apt perhaps to think the 
 present one the best ; but past or coming, I always love this 
 peaceful time of night, when long-buried thoughts, favored 
 by the gloom and silence, steal from their graves, and haunt 
 the scenes of faded happiness and hope. 
 
 The popular faith in ghosts has a remarkable affinity with 
 the whole current of our thoughts at such an hour as this, 
 and seems to be their necessary and natural consequence. 
 For who can wonder that man should feel a vague belief 
 in tales of disembodied spirits wandering through those 
 places which they once dearly affected, when he himself, 
 scarcely less separated from his old world than they, is for- 
 ever lingering upon past emotions and by-gone times, and 
 hovering, the ghost of his former self, about the places and 
 people that warmed his heart of old ? It is thus that at this 
 quiet hour I haunt the house where I was born, the rooms I 
 used to tread, the scenes of my infancy, my boyhood, and 
 my youth ; it is thus that I prowl around my buried treas- 
 ure (though not of gold or silver) and mourn my loss ; it is 
 thus that I revisit the ashes of extinguished fires, and take 
 my silent stand atold bedsides. If my spirit should ever 
 glide back to this chamber when my body is mingled with 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 151 
 
 the dust, it will but follow the course it often took in the old 
 man's lifetime, and add but one more change to the subjects 
 of its contemplation. 
 
 In all my idle speculations I am greatly assisted by vari- 
 ous legends connected with my venerable house, which are 
 current in the neighborhood, and are so numerous that there 
 is scarce a cupboard or corner that has not some dismal 
 story of its own. When I first entertained thoughts of 
 becoming its tenant, I was assured that it was haunted from 
 roof to cellar, and I believe the bad opinion in which my 
 neighbors once held me had its rise in my not being torn to 
 pieces, or at least distracted with terror, on the night I took 
 possession : in either of which cases I should doubtless 
 have arrived by a short cut at the very summit of popu- 
 larity. 
 
 But traditions and rumors all taken into account, who so 
 ;abets me in every fancy and chimes with my every thought, 
 .as my dear deaf friend ; and how often have I cause to bless 
 the day that brought us two together ! Of all days in the 
 year I rejoice to think that it should have been Christmas 
 Day, with which from childhood we associate something 
 .friendly, hearty, and sincere. 
 
 I had walked out to cheer myself with the happiness of 
 .others, and, in the little tokens of festivity and rejoicing, of 
 which the streets and houses present so many upon that day, 
 had lost some hours. Now I stopped to look at a merry 
 party hurrying through the snow on foot to their place of 
 meeting, and now turned back to see a whole coachful of 
 children safely deposited at the welcome house. At one 
 time, I admired how carefully the workingman carried the 
 baby in its gaudy hat and feathers, and how his wife, trudg- 
 ing patiently on behind, forgot even -her care of her gay 
 clothes, in exchanging greetings with the child as it crowed 
 and laughed over the father's shoulder ; at another, I pleased 
 myself with some passing scene of gallantry or courtship, 
 and was glad to believe that for a season half the world of 
 poverty was gay. 
 
 As the day closed in, I still rambled through the streets, 
 feeling a companionship in the bright fires that cast their 
 warm reflection on the windows as I passed, and losing all 
 sense of my own loneliness in imagining the sociality and 
 kind fellowship that everywhere prevailed. At length I 
 happened to stop before a tavern, and, encountering a bill 
 pf fare in the window, it all at once brought it into my head 
 
152 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 to wonder what kind of people dined alone in taverns upon 
 Christmas Day. 
 
 Solitary men are accustomed, I suppose, unconsciously to 
 look upon solitude as their own peculiar property. I had 
 sat alone in my room on many, many anniversaries of this 
 great holiday, and had never regarded it but as one of 
 universal assemblage and rejoicing. I had excepted, and 
 with an aching heart, a crowd of prisoners and beggars, but 
 these were not the men for whom the tavern doors were open. 
 Had they any customers, or was it a mere form ? — a form no 
 doubt. 
 
 Trying to feel quite sure of this, I walked away, but before 
 I had gone many paces, I stopped and looked back. There 
 was a provoking air of business in the lamp above the door 
 which I could not overcome. I began to be afraid there 
 might be many customers — young men perhaps struggling 
 with the world, utter strangers in this great place, whose 
 friends lived at a long distance off, and whose means were 
 too slender to enable them to make the journey. The sup- 
 position gave rise to so many distressing little pictures, that, 
 in preference to carrying them home with me, I determined 
 to encounter the realities. So I turned, and walked in. 
 
 I was at once glad and sorry to find that there was only 
 one person in the dining-room ; glad to know that there 
 were not more, and sorry that he should be there by himself. 
 He did not look so old as I, but like me he was advanced 
 in life, and his hair was nearly white. Though I made more 
 noise in entering and seating myself than was quite neces- 
 sary, with the view of attracting his attention and saluting 
 him in the good old form of that time of year, he did not 
 raise his head, but sat with it resting on his hand, musing 
 over his half-finished meal. 
 
 I called for something which would give me an excuse for 
 remaining in the room (I had dined early, as my housekeeper 
 was engaged at night to partake of some friend's good cheer), 
 and sat where I could observe without intruding on him. 
 After a time he looked up. He was aware that somebody 
 had entered, but could see very little of me as I sat in the 
 shade and he in the light. He was sad and thoughtful, and 
 I forebore to trouble him by speaking. 
 
 Let me believe that it was something better than curiosity 
 which riveted my attention and impelled me strongly toward 
 this gentleman. I never saw so patient and kind a face. 
 He should have been surrounded by friends, and yet here 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 153 
 
 he sat dejected and alone when all men had their friends 
 about them. As often as he roused himself from his reverie 
 he would fall into it again, and it was plain that whatever 
 were the subjects of his thoughts they were of a melancholy 
 kind, and would not be controlled. 
 
 He was not used to solitude. I was sure of that, for 1 
 knew by myself that if he had been, his manner would have 
 been different, and he would have taken some slight interest 
 in the arrival of another. I could not fail to mark that he 
 had no appetite ; that he tried to eat in vain ; that time 
 after time the plate was pushed away, and he relapsed into 
 his former posture. 
 
 His mind was wandering among old Christmas Days, I 
 thought. Many of them sprung up together, not with a long 
 gap between each, but in unbroken succession like days of 
 the week. It was a great change to find himself for the first 
 time (I quite settled that it was the first) in an empty silent 
 room with no soul to care for. I could not help following 
 him in imagination through crowds of pleasant faces, and 
 then coming back to that dull place with its bough of mistle- 
 toe sickening in the gas, and sprigs of holly parched up 
 already by a simoom of roast and boiled. The very waiter 
 had gone home, and his representative, a poor, lean, hungry 
 man, was keeping Christmas in his jacket. 
 
 I grew still more interested in my friend. His dinner 
 done, a decanter of wine was placed before him. It remained 
 untouched for a long time, but at length, with a quivering 
 hand, he filled a glass and raised it to his lips. Some tender 
 wish to which he had been accustomed to give utterance on 
 that day, or some beloved name that he had been used to 
 pledge, trembled upon them at the moment. He put it 
 down very hastily — took it up once more — again put it 
 down — pressed his hand upon his face — yes — and tears stole 
 down his cheeks, I am certain. 
 
 Without pausing to consider whether I did right or wrong, 
 I stepped across the room, and sitting down beside him laid 
 my hand gently on his arm. 
 
 " My friend," I said, " forgive me if I beseech you to take 
 comfort and consolation from the lips of an old man. I will 
 not preach to you what I have not practiced, indeed. What- 
 ever be your grief, be of a good heart — be cf a good heart, 
 pray ! " 
 
 u I see that you speak earnestly," he replied, " and kindly, 
 I am very sure, but — " 
 
i 5 4 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 I nodded my head to show that I understood what he would 
 say, for I had already gathered from a certain fixed expression 
 in his face and from the attention with which he watched me 
 while I spoke, that his sense of hearing was destroyed. 
 " There should be a freemasonry between us," said I, point- 
 ing from himself to me to explain my meaning ; " if not in 
 our gray hairs, at least in our misfortunes. You see that I 
 am but a poor cripple." 
 
 I never felt so happy under my affliction since the trying 
 moment of my first becoming conscious of it, as when he 
 took my hand in his with a smile that has lighted my path 
 in life from that day, and we sat down side by side. 
 
 This was the beginning of my friendship with the deaf 
 gentleman, and when was ever the slight and easy service of 
 a kind word in season repaid by such attachment and 
 devotion as he had shown to me ! 
 
 He produced a little set of tablets and a pencil to facili- 
 tate our conversation, on that our first acquaintance, and I 
 well remember how awkward and constrained I was in 
 writing down my first share of the dialogue, and how easily 
 he guessed my meaning before I had written half of what I 
 had to say. He told me in a faltering voice that he had 
 not been accustomed to be alone on that day — that it had 
 always been a little festival with him — and seeing that I 
 glanced at his dress in the expectation that he wore mourn- 
 ing, he added hastily that it was not that ; if it had been, 
 he thought he could have borne it better. From that time 
 to the present we have never touched upon this theme. 
 Upon every return of the same day we have been together ; 
 and although we make it our annual custom to drink to 
 each other hand in hand after dinner, and to recall with 
 affectionate garrulity every circumstance of our first meet- 
 ing, we always avoid this one as if by mutual consent. 
 
 Meantime we have gone on strengthening in our friend- 
 ship and regard, and forming an attachment which, I trust 
 and believe, will only be interrupted by death, to be renewed 
 in another existence. I scarcely know how we communicate 
 as we do, but he has long since ceased to be deaf to me. 
 He is frequently the companion of my walks, and even in 
 crowded streets replies to my slightest look or gesture as 
 though he could read my thoughts. From the vast number 
 of objects which pass in rapid succession before our eyes, we 
 frequently select the same for some particular notice or re- 
 mark ; and when one of these little coincidences occurs, I 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 155 
 
 can not describe the pleasure which animates my friend, or 
 the beaming countenance he will preserve for half an hour 
 afterward at least. 
 
 He is a great thinker from living so much within himself, 
 and having a lively imagination, has a facility of conceiving 
 and enlarging upon odd ideas, which renders him invaluable 
 to our little body, and greatly astonishes our two friends. 
 His powers in this respect are much assisted by a large 
 pipe, which he assures us once belonged to a German 
 student. Be this as it may, it has undoubtedly a very 
 ancient and mysterious appearance, and is of such capacity 
 that it takes three hours and a half to smoke it out. I have 
 reason to believe that my barber, who is the chief authority 
 of a knot of gossips who congregate every evening at a small 
 tobacconist's hard by, has related anecdotes of this pipe 
 and the grim figures that are carved upon its bowl at which 
 ( all the smokers in the neighborhood have stood aghast ; 
 and I know that my housekeeper, while she holds it in high 
 veneration, has a superstitious feeling connected with it 
 which would render her exceedingly unwilling to be left 
 alone in its company after dark. 
 
 Whatever sorrow my deaf friend has known, and what- 
 ever grief may linger in some secret corner of his heart, he 
 is now a cheerful, placid, happy creature. Misfortune can 
 never have fallen upon such a man but for some good pur- 
 pose ; and when I see its traces in his gentle nature and his 
 earnest feeling, I am the less disposed to murmur at such 
 trials as I may have undergone myself. With regard to the 
 pipe, I have a theory of my own ; I can not help thinking 
 that it is in some manner connected with the event that 
 brought us together, for I remember that it was a long time 
 before he even talked about it ; that when he did, he grew re- 
 served and melancholy ; and that it was a long time yet be- 
 fore he brought it forth. I have no curiosity, however, 
 upon this subject, for I know that it promotes his tranquillity 
 and comfort, and I need no other inducement to regard it 
 with my utmost favor. 
 
 Such is the deaf gentleman. I can call up his figure now, 
 clad in sober gray, and seated in the chimney-corner. As 
 he puffs out the smoke from his favorite pipe, he casts a 
 look on me brimful of cordiality and friendship, and says 
 all manner of kind and genial things in a cheerful smile ; 
 then he raises his eyes to my clock which is just about to 
 strike, and glancing from it to me and back again, seems, to 
 
156 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 divide his heart between us. For myself, it is not too much 
 to say that I would gladly part with one of my poor limbs, 
 could he but hear the old clock's voice. 
 
 Of our two friends the first has been all his life one of that 
 easy, wayward, truant class whom the world is accustomed to 
 designate as nobody's enemies but their own. Bred to a pro- 
 fession for which he never qualified himself, and reared in the 
 expectation of a fortune he has never inherited, he has under- 
 gone every vicissitude of which such an existence is capable. 
 He and his younger brother, both orphans from their child- 
 hood, were educated by a wealthy relative who taught them 
 to expect an equal division of his property ; but too indolent 
 to court, and too honest to flatter, the elder gradually lost 
 ground in the affections of a capricious old man, and the 
 younger, who did not fail to improve his opportunity, now 
 triumphs in the possession of enormous wealth. His triumph 
 is to hoard it in solitary wretchedness, and probably to feel 
 with the expenditure of every shilling a greater pang than 
 the loss of his whole inheritance ever cost his brother. 
 
 Jack Redburn — he was Jack Redburn at the first little 
 school he went to, where every other child was mastered and 
 surnamed, and he has been Jack Redburn all his life, or he 
 would perhaps have been a richer man by this time — has 
 been an inmate of my house these eight years past. He is 
 my librarian, secretary, steward, and first minister ; director 
 of all my affairs and inspector-general of my household. He 
 is something of a musician, something of an author, some- 
 thing of an actor, something of a painter, very much of a 
 carpenter, and an extraordinary gardener ; having had all 
 his life a wonderful aptitude for learning every thing that was 
 of no use to him. He is remarkably fond of children, and 
 is the best and kindest nurse in sickness that ever drew the 
 breath of Life. He has mixed with every grade of society 
 and known the utmost distress, but there never was a less 
 selfish, a more tender-hearted ; a more enthusiastic, or a 
 more guileless man ; and I dare say if few have done less 
 good, fewer still have done less harm in the world than he. 
 By what chance nature forms such whimsical jumbles I 
 don't know, but I do know that she sends them among us 
 very often, and the king of the whole race is Jack Redburn. 
 
 I should be puzzled to say how old he is. His health is 
 none of the best, and he wears a quantity of iron-gray hair 
 which shades his face and gives it rather a worn appearance ; 
 but we consider him quite a young fellow notwithstanding, 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 157 
 
 and if a youthful spirit surviving the roughest contact with 
 the world confers upon its possessor any title to be con- 
 sidered young, then he is a mere child. The only interrup- 
 tions to his careless cheerfulness are on a wet Sunday, when 
 he is apt to be unusually religious and solemn, and some- 
 times of evening when he has been blowing a very slow 
 tune on the flute. On these last-named occasions he is apt 
 to incline toward the mysterious or the terrible. As a speci- 
 men of his powers in this mood, I refer my readers to the 
 extract from the clock-case which follows this paper : he 
 brought it to me not long ago at midnight, and informed me 
 that the main incident had been suggested by a dream of 
 the night before. 
 
 His apartments are two cheerful rooms looking toward the 
 garden, and one of his great delights is to arrange and re-ar- 
 range the furniture in these chambers and put it in every pos- 
 sible variety of position. During the whole time he has been 
 here, I do not think he has slept for two nights running with 
 the head of his bed in the same place, and every time he 
 moves it is to be the last. My housekeeper was at first well- 
 nigh distracted by these frequent changes, but she has 
 become quite reconciled to them by degrees, and has so 
 fallen in with his humor that they often consult together with 
 great gravity upon the next final alteration. Whatever his 
 arrangements are, however, they are always a pattern of 
 neatness, and every one of the manifold articles connected 
 with his manifold occupations is to be found in its own par- 
 ticular place. Until within the last two or three years he 
 was subject to an occasional fit (which usually came upon 
 him in very fine weather), under the influence of which he 
 would dress himself with peculiar care, and going out under 
 pretense of taking a walk, disappear for several days to- 
 gether. At length after the interval between each outbreak 
 of this disorder had gradually grown longer and longer, it 
 wholly disappeared, and now he seldom stirs abroad except 
 to stroll out a little way on a summer's evening. Whether 
 he yet mistrusts his own constancy in this respect, and is 
 therefore afraid to wear a coat, I know not ; but we seldom 
 see him in any other upper garment than an old spectral- 
 looking dressing-gown with very disproportionate pockets, 
 full of a miscellaneous collection of odd matters which he 
 picks up wherever he can lay his hands upon them. 
 
 Every thing that is a favorite with our friend is a favorite 
 with us, and thus it happens that the fourth among us is Mr. 
 
i 5 S MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK.. 
 
 Owen Miles, a most worthy gentleman, who had treated Jack 
 with great kindness before my deaf friend and I encountered 
 him by an accident, to which I may refer on some future occa- 
 sion. Mr. Miles was once a very rich merchant, but receiving 
 a severe shock in the death of his wife, he retired from business 
 and devoted himself to a quiet, unostentatious life. He is an 
 excellent man of thoroughly sterling character : not of quick 
 apprehension, and not without some amusing prejudice, which 
 I shall leave to their own development. He holds us all in 
 profound veneration, but Jack Redburn he esteems as a kind 
 of pleasant wonder, that he may venture to approach famil- 
 iarly. He believes, not only that no man ever lived who 
 could do so many things as Jack, but that no man ever lived 
 who could do any thing so well ; and he never calls my at- 
 tention to any of his ingenious proceedings but he whispers 
 in my ear, nudging me at the same time with his elbow, " If 
 he had only made it his trade, sir — if he had only made it 
 his trade ! " 
 
 They are inseparable companions ; one would almost sup- 
 pose that although Mr. Miles never by any chance does any 
 thing in the way of assistance, Jack could do nothing with- 
 out him. Whether he is reading, writing, painting, carpen- 
 tering, gardening, flute-playing, or what not, there is Mr. 
 Miles beside him, buttoned up to the chin in his blue coat, 
 and looking on with a face of incredulous delight, as 
 though he could not credit the testimony of his own senses, 
 and had a misgiving that no man could be so clever but in a 
 dream. 
 
 These are my friends ; I have now introduced myself and 
 them. 
 
 THE CLOCK-CASE. 
 
 A CONFESSION FOUND IN A PRISON IN THE TIME OF CHARLES 
 THE SECOND. 
 
 I held a lieutenant's commission in his majesty's army, 
 and served abroad in the campaign of 1677 and 1678. The 
 treaty of Nimeguen being concluded, I returned home, and 
 retiring from the service, withdrew to a small estate lying a 
 few miles east of London, which I had recently acquired in 
 right of my wife. 
 
 This is the last night I have to live, and I»will set down 
 the naked truth without disguise. I was never a brave man, 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 159 
 
 and had always been from my childhood of a secret, sullen, 
 distrustful nature. I speak of myself as if I had passed from 
 the world, for while I write this my grave is digging and my 
 name is written in the black book of death. 
 
 Soon after my return to England, my only brother was 
 seized with mortal illness. This circumstance gave me slight 
 or no pain, for since we had been men we had associated 
 but very little together. He was open-hearted and generous, 
 handsomer than I, more accomplished, and generally be- 
 loved. Those who sought my acquaintance abroad or at 
 home, because they were friends of his, seldom attached 
 themselves to me long, and would usually say in our first 
 conversation that they were surprised to find two brothers 
 so unlike in their manners and appearance. It was my 
 habit to lead them on to this avowal, for I knew what com- 
 parisons they must draw between us ; and having a rankling 
 envy in my heart, I sought to justify it to myself. 
 
 We had married two sisters. This additional tie between 
 us, as it may appear to some, only estranged us the more. 
 His wife knew me well. I never struggled with any secret 
 jealousy or gall when she was present, but that woman knew 
 it as well as I did. I never raised my eyes at such times but 
 I found hers fixed upon me ; I never bent them on the 
 ground or looked another way, but I felt that she overlooked 
 me always. It was an inexpressible relief to me when we 
 quarreled, and a greater relief still when I heard abroad that 
 she was dead. It seems to me now as if some strange and 
 terrible foreshadowing of what has happened since must 
 have hung over us then. I was afraid of her ; she haunted 
 me ; her fixed and steady look comes back upon me now, 
 like the memory of a dark dream, and makes my blood run 
 cold. 
 
 She died shortly after giving birth to a child — a boy. 
 When my brother knew that all hope of his own recovery 
 was passed, he called my wife to his bedside and confided 
 this orphan, a child of four years old, to her protection. He 
 bequeathed to him all the property he had, and willed that 
 in case of his child's death it should pass to my wife, as the 
 only acknowledgment he could make her for her care and 
 love. He exchanged a few brotherly words with me, de- 
 ploring our long separation, and being exhausted fell into a 
 slumber from which he never awoke. 
 
 We had no children, and as there had been a strong affec- 
 tion between the sisters, and my wife had almost supplied 
 
i6o MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 the place of a mother to this boy, she loved him as if he had 
 been her own. The child was ardently attached to her ; but 
 he was his mother's image in face and spirit, and always 
 mistrusted me. 
 
 I can scarcely fix the date when the feeling first came upon 
 me, but I soon began to be uneasy when this child was by. I 
 never roused myself from some moody train of thought, but 
 I marked him looking at me; not with mere childish wonder, 
 but with something of the purpose and meaning that I had 
 so often noted in his mother. It was no effort of my_ fancy, 
 founded on close resemblance of feature and expression. I 
 never could look the boy down. He feared me, but seemed 
 by some instinct to despise me while he did so ; and even 
 when he drew back beneath my gaze — as he would when we 
 were alone, to get nearer to the door — he would keep his 
 bright eyes upon me still. 
 
 Perhaps I hide the truth from myself, but I do not think 
 that when this began, I meditated to do him any wrong. I 
 may have thought how serviceable his inheritance would be 
 to us, and may have wished him dead, but I believe I had 
 no thought of compassing his death. Neither did the idea 
 come upon me at once, but by very slow degrees, presenting 
 itself at first in dim shapes at a very great distance, as men 
 may think of an earthquake or the last day — then drawing 
 nearer and nearer and losing something of its horror and 
 improbability— then coming to be part and parcel, nay, 
 nearly the whole sum and substance of my daily thoughts 
 and resolving itself into a question of means and safety ; not 
 of doing or abstaining from the deed. 
 
 While this was going on within me, I never could bear 
 that the child should see me looking at him, and yet I was 
 under a fascination which made it a kind of business with 
 me to contemplate his slight and fragile figure and think 
 how easily it might be done. Sometimes I would steal up 
 stairs and watch him as he slept, but usually I hovered in 
 the garden near the window of the room in which he learned 
 his little tasks ; and there, as he sat in a low seat beside my 
 wife, I would peer at him for hours together from behind a 
 tree ; starting like the guilty wretch I was at every rustling 
 of a leaf, and still gliding back to look and start again. 
 
 Hard by our cottage, but quite out of sight, and (if there 
 were any wind astir (of hearing too, was a deep sheet of wa- 
 ter. I spent days in shaping with my pocket-knife a rough 
 model of a boat, which I finished at last and dropped in the 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 161 
 
 child's way. Then I withdrew to a secret place which he 
 must pass it he stole away alone to swim this bauble, and 
 lurked there for his coming. He came neither that day nor 
 the next, though I waited from noon till nightfall. I was 
 sure that I had him in my net, for I had heard him prattling 
 of the toy and knew that in his infant pleasure he kept it by 
 his side in bed. I felt no weariness or fatigue, but waited 
 patiently, and on the third day he passed me, running joy- 
 ously along, with his silken hair streaming in the wind, and 
 he singing — God have mercy upon me ! — singing a merry 
 ballad, who could hardly lisp the words. 
 
 I stole down after him, creeping under certain shrubs 
 which grow in that place, and none but devils know with 
 what terror I, a strong, full-grown man, tracked the foot- 
 steps of that baby. As he approached the water's brink I 
 was close upon him, had sunk upon my knee and raised my 
 hand to thrust him in, when he saw my shadow in the stream 
 and turned him round. 
 
 His mother's ghost was looking from his eyes. The sun 
 burst forth from behind a cloud ; it shone in the bright sky, 
 the glistening earth, the clear water, the sparkling drops of 
 rain upon the leaves. There were eyes in every thing. The 
 whole great universe of light was there to see the murder 
 done. I know not what he said ; he came of blood and 
 manly blood, and, child as he was, he did not crouch nor 
 fawn upon me. I heard him cry that he would try to love 
 me — not that he did — and then I saw him running back to- 
 ward the house. The next I saw was my own sword naked 
 in my hand, and he lying at my feet stark dead, — dabbled 
 here and there with blood, but otherwise no different from 
 what I had seen him in his sleep — in the same attitude too, 
 with his cheek resting upon his little hand. 
 
 I took him in my'arms and laid him — very gently now 
 that he was dead — in a thicket. My wife was from home 
 that day and would not return until the next. _ Our bed- 
 room window, the only sleeping room on that side of the 
 house, was but a few feet from the ground, and I resolved 
 to descend from it at night and bury him in the garden. I 
 had no thought that I had failed in my design, no thought 
 that the water would be dragged and nothing found, that 
 the money must now lie waste since I must encourage the 
 idea that the child was lost or stolen. All my thoughts were 
 bound up and knotted together, in the one absorbing neces- 
 sity of hiding what I had done. 
 
\62 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 How I felt when they came to tell me that the child was 
 missing, when I ordered scouts in all directions, when I 
 gasped and trembled at every one's approach, no tongue can 
 tell or mind of man conceive. I buried him that night. 
 When I parted the boughs and looked into the dark thicket, 
 there was a glow-worm shining like the visible spirit of God 
 upon the murdered child. I glanced down into his grave 
 when I had placed him there, and still it gleamed upon his 
 breast ; an eye of fire looking up to heaven in supplication 
 to the stars that watched me at my work. 
 
 I had to meet my wife, and break the news, and give her 
 hope that the child would soon be found. All this I did — 
 with some appearance, I suppose, of being sincere, for I was 
 the object of no suspicion. This done, I sat at the bed- 
 room window all day long, and watched the spot where the 
 dreadful secret lay. 
 
 It was in a piece of ground which had been dug up to be 
 newly turfed, and which I had chosen on that account, as the 
 traces of my spade were less likely to attract attention. The 
 men who laid down the grass must have thought me mad. I 
 called to them continually, to expedite their work, ran out and 
 worked beside them, trod down the earth with my feet, and 
 hurried them with frantic eagerness. They had finished their 
 task before night, and then I thought myself comparatively 
 safe. 
 
 I slept — not as men do who awake refreshed and cheerful, 
 but I did sleep, passing from vague and shadowy dreams of 
 being hunted down, to visions of the plot of grass, through 
 which now a hand and now a foot and now the head 
 itself was starting out. At this point I always woke and 
 stole to the window, to make sure that it was not really so. 
 That done, I crept to bed again, and thus I spent the night 
 in fits and starts, getting up and lying down full twenty 
 times, and dreaming the same dream over and over again — 
 which was far worse than lying awake, for every dream had 
 a whole night's suffering of its own. Once I thought the 
 child was alive and that I had never tried to kill him. To 
 wake from that dream was the most dreadful agony of all. 
 
 The next day I sat at the window again, never once tak- 
 ing my eyes from the place, which, although it was covered 
 by the grass, was as plain to me — -its shape, its size, its depth, 
 its jagged sides, and all — as if it had been open to the light 
 of day. When a servant walked across it, I felt as if he 
 must sink in ; when he had passed, I looked to see that his 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 163 
 
 feet had not worn the edges. If a bird lighted there, I was 
 in terror lest by some tremendous interposition it should be 
 instrumental in the discovery ; if a breath of air sighed 
 across it, to me it whispered murder. There was not a sight 
 or a sound — how ordinary, mean, or unimportant soever — 
 but was fraught with fear. And in this state of ceaseless 
 watching I spent three days. 
 
 On the fourth, there came to the gate one who had served 
 with me abroad, accompanied by a brother officer of his 
 whom I had never seen. I felt that I could not bear to be 
 out of sight of the place. It was a summer evening, and I 
 bade my people take a table and flask of wine into the 
 garden. Then I sat down with my chair upon the grave, and 
 being assured that nobody could disturb it now, without my 
 knowledge, tried to drink and talk. 
 
 They hoped that my wife was well — that she was not 
 obliged to keep her chamber — that they had not frightened 
 her away. What could I do but tell them with a faltering 
 tongue about the child ? The officer, whom I did not 
 know, was a down-looking man, and kept his eyes upon the 
 ground while I was speaking. Even that terrified me ! I 
 could not divest myself of the idea that he saw something 
 there which caused him to suspect the truth. I asked him 
 hurriedly if he supposed that — and stopped. " That the 
 child had been murdered ? " said he, looking mildly at me. 
 " Oh no! what could a man gain by murdering a poor child ? " 
 /could have told him what a man gained by such a deed, 
 no one better, but I held my peace and shivered as with an 
 ague. 
 
 Mistaking my emotion, they were endeavoring to cheer me 
 with the hope that the boy would certainly be found — great 
 cheer that was for me — when we heard a low deep howl, and 
 presently there sprung over the wall two great dogs, who, 
 bounding into the garden, repeated the baying sound we had 
 heard before. 
 
 " Bloodhounds ? " cried my visitors. 
 
 What need to tell me that ! I had never seen one of that 
 kind in all my life, but I knew what they were and for what 
 purpose they had come. I grasped the elbows of my chair, 
 and neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 " They are of the genuine breed," said the man whom I 
 had known abroad, " and being out for exercise, have no 
 doubt escaped from their keeper." 
 
 Both he and his friend turned to look at the dogs, whq ? 
 
164 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 with their noses to the ground, moved restlessly about, run- 
 ning to and fro, and up and down, and across, and round in 
 circles, careering about like wild things, and all this time 
 taking no notice of us, but ever and again repeating the yell 
 we had heard already, then dropping their noses to the 
 ground again and tracking earnestly here and there. They 
 now began to snuff the earth more eagerly than they had 
 done yet, and although they were still very restless, no longer 
 beat about in such wide circuits, but kept near to one spot, 
 and constantly diminished the distance between themselves 
 and me. 
 
 At last they came up close to the great chair on which I sat, 
 and raising their frightful howl once more, tried to tear away 
 the wooden rails that kept them from the ground beneath. I 
 saw how I looked, in the faces of the two who were with me t 
 
 " They scent some prey," said they, both together. 
 
 " They scent no prey ! " cried I. 
 
 " In heaven's name, move," said the one I knew, very earn- 
 estly, " or you will be torn to pieces." 
 
 " Let them tear me limb from limb, I'll never leave this 
 place!" cried I. "Are dogs to hurry men to shameful 
 deaths ? Hew them down, cut them in pieces." 
 
 " There is some foul mystery here ! " said the officer whom 
 I did not know, drawing his sword. " In King Charles's 
 name, assist me to secure this man." 
 
 They both set upon me and forced me away, though I 
 fought and bit and caught at them like a madman. After a 
 struggle they got me quietly between them, and then, my 
 God ! I saw the angry dogs tearing at the earth and throw- 
 ing it up into the air like water. 
 
 What more have I to tell ! That I fell upon my knees 
 and with chattering teeth confessed the truth and prayed to 
 be forgiven. That I have since denied and now confess to 
 it again. That I have been tried for the crime, found guilty, 
 and sentenced. That I have not the courage to anticipate my 
 doom or to bear up manfully against it. That I have no 
 compassion, no consolation, no hope, no friend. That my 
 wife has happily lost for the time those faculties which would 
 enable her to know my misery or hers. That I am alone in 
 this stone dungeon with my evil spirit, and that I die to- 
 morrow !* 
 
 * Old Curiosity Shop begins here. 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 165 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 Master Humphrey has been favored with the following 
 letter, written on strong scented paper, and sealed in light 
 blue wax with the representation of two very plump doves, 
 interchanging beaks. It does not commence with any of the 
 usual forms of address, but begins as is here set forth. 
 
 Bath, Wednesday Night. 
 
 Heavens ! into what an indiscretion do I suffer myself to 
 be betrayed ! To address these faltering lines to a total 
 stranger, and that stranger one of the conflicting sex ! — and 
 yet I am precipitated into the abyss, and have no power of 
 self-snatchation (forgive me if I coin that phrase) from the 
 yawning gulf before me. 
 
 Yes, I am writing to a man, but let me not think of that, 
 for madness is in the thought. You will understand my 
 feelings ? Oh yes ! I am sure you will ! and you will respect 
 them too, and not despise them — will you ? 
 
 Let me be calm. That portrait — smiling as once he smiled 
 on me ; that cane — dangling as I have seen it dangle from 
 his hand I know not how oft ; those legs that have glided 
 through my nightly dreams and never stopped to speak ; 
 the perfectly gentlemanly, though false original — can I be 
 mistaken ? Oh no, no. 
 
 Let me be calmer yet : I would be calm as coffins. You 
 have published a letter from one whose likeness is engraved, 
 but whose name (and wherefore ?) is suppressed. Shall / 
 breathe that name ? Is it— but why ask when my heart tells 
 me too truly that it is ! 
 
 I would not upbraid him with his treachery, I would not 
 remind him of those times when he plighted the most elo- 
 quent of vows, and procured from me a small pecuniary ac- 
 commodation ; and yet I would see him — see him did I say 
 — him — alas ! such is woman's nature. For as the poet 
 beautifully says— but you will already have anticipated the 
 sentiment. Is it not sweet ? Oh yes ! 
 
 It was in this city (hallowed by the recollection) that I 
 met him first, and assuredly if mortal happiness be recorded 
 anywhere, then those rubbers with their three-and-sixpenny 
 points are scored on tables of celestial brass. He always 
 held an honor — generally two. On that eventful night, we 
 
166 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 stood at eight. He raised his eyes (luminous in their se- 
 ductive sweetness) to my agitated face. " Can you ? " said 
 he, with peculiar meaning. I felt the gentle pressure of his 
 foot on mine ; our corns throbbed in unison. " Can you ? " 
 he said again, and every lineament of his expressive counte- 
 nance added the words " resist me ? " I murmured " No," 
 and fainted. 
 
 They said when I recovered, it was the weather. / said it 
 was the nutmeg in the negus. How little did they suspect the 
 truth ! How little did they guess the deep mysterious meaning 
 of that inquiry ? He called next morning on his knees : I do 
 not mean to say that he actually came in that position to the 
 house door, but that he went down upon those joints directly 
 the servant had retired. He brought some verses in his hat 
 which he said were original, but which I have since found 
 were Milton's. Likewise a little bottle labeled laudanum ; 
 also a pistol and a swordstick. He drew the latter, uncorked 
 the former, and clicked the trigger of the pocket fire-arm. 
 He had come, he said, to conquer or to die. He did not 
 die. He wrested from me an avowal of my love, and let off 
 the pistol out of a back window previous to partaking of a 
 slight repast. 
 
 Faithless, inconstant man ! How many ages seem to have 
 elapsed since his unaccountable and perfidious disappear- 
 ance ! Could I still forgive him both that and the borrowed 
 lucre that he promised to pay next week ! Could I spurn 
 him from my feet if he approached in penitence, and with a 
 matrimonial object ! Would the blandishing enchanter still 
 weave his spells around me, or should I burst them all and 
 turn away in coldness ! I dare not trust my weakness with 
 the thought. 
 
 My brain is in a whirl again. You know his address, his 
 occupations, his mode of life — are acquainted, perhaps, with 
 his inmost thoughts. You are a humane and philanthropic 
 character ; reveal all you know — all ; but especially the 
 street and number of his lodgings. The post is departing, 
 the bellman rings — pray heaven it be not the knell of love 
 and hope too. 
 
 Belinda. 
 
 P. S. Pardon the wanderings of a bad pen and a distracted 
 mind. Address to the post-office. The bellman, rendered 
 impatient by delay, is ringing dreadfully in the passage. 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 167 
 
 P. P. S. I open this to say that the bellman is gone, and 
 that you must not expect it till the next post ; so don't be 
 surprised when you don't get it. 
 
 Master Humphrey does not feel himself at liberty to fur- 
 nish his fair correspondent with the address of the gentle- 
 man in question, but he publishes her letter as a public ap- 
 peal to his faith and gallantry. 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK, 
 
 in. 
 
 MASTER HUMPHREY'S VISITOR. 
 
 When I am in a thoughtful mood, I often succeed in 
 diverting the current of some mournful reflections, by con- 
 juring up a number of fanciful associations with the objects 
 that surround me and dwelling upon the scenes and char- 
 acters they suggest. 
 
 I have been led by this habit to assign to every room in 
 my house, and every old staring portrait on its walls, a 
 separate interest of its own. Thus, I am persuaded that a 
 stately dame, terrible to behold in her rigid modesty, who 
 hangs above the chimney-piece of my bedroom, is the former 
 lady of the mansion. In the court-yard below is a stone 
 face of surpassing ugliness, which I have somehow — in a 
 kind of jealousy, I am afraid — associated with her husband. 
 Above my study is a little room with ivy peeping through 
 the lattice, from which I bring their daughter, a lovely girl 
 of eighteen or nineteen years of age, and dutiful in all 
 respects save one, that one being her devoted attachment 
 to a young gentleman on the stairs, whose grandmother 
 (degraded to a disused laundry in the garden) piques herself 
 upon an old family quarrel, and is the implacable enemy of 
 their love. With such materials as these, I work out many 
 a little drama, whose chief merit is, that I can bring it to a 
 happy end at will ; I have so many of them on hand, that if 
 on my return home one of these evenings I were to find 
 some bluff old wight of two centuries ago comfortably seated 
 in my easy-chair, and a love-lorn damsel vainly appealing to 
 his heart and leaning her white arm upon my clock itself, I 
 verily believe I should only express my surprise that they 
 had kept me waiting so long, and never honored me with a 
 call before. 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 169 
 
 1 was in such a mocd as this, sitting in my garden yester- 
 day morning under the shade of a favorite tree reveling in 
 all the bloom and brightness about me, and feeling every 
 sense of hope and enjoyment quickened by this most beau- 
 tiful season of spring, when my meditations were interrupted 
 by the unexpected appearance of my barber at the end of 
 the walk, who I immediately saw was coming toward me 
 with a hasty step that betokened something remarkable. 
 
 My barber is at all times a very brisk, bustling, active 
 little man— for he is, as it were, chubby all over without 
 being stout or unwieldy — but yesterday his alacrity was so 
 very uncommon that it quite took me by surprise. For 
 could I fail to observe when he came up to me, that his gray 
 eyes were twinkling in a most extraordinary manner, that 
 his little red nose was in an unusual glow, that every line in 
 his round, bright face was twisted and curved into an ex- 
 pression of pleased surprise, and that his whole countenance 
 was radiant with glee ? I was still more surprised to see my 
 housekeeper, who usually preserves a very staid air, and 
 stands somewhat upon her dignity, peeping round the hedge 
 at the bottom of the walk, and exchanging nods and smiles 
 with the barber, who twice or thrice looked over his shoulder 
 for that purpose. I could conceive no announcement to 
 which these appearances could be the prelude, unless it were 
 that they had married each other that morning. 
 
 I was, consequently, a little disappointed when it only 
 came out that there was a gentleman in the house who wished 
 to speak with me. 
 
 " And who is it ? " said I. 
 
 The barber, with his face screwed up still tighter than 
 before, replied that the gentleman would not send his name, 
 but wished to see me. I pondered for a moment, wondering 
 who this visitor might be, and I remarked that he embraced 
 the opportunity of exchanging another nod with the house- 
 keeper, who still lingered in the distance. 
 
 " Well ! " said I, " bid the gentleman come here." 
 
 This seemed to be the consummation of the barber's hopes, 
 for he turned sharp round, and actually ran away. 
 
 Now, my sight is not very good at a distance, and there- 
 fore when the gentleman first appeared in the walk, I was 
 not quite clear whether he was a stranger to me or other- 
 wise. He was an elderly gentleman, but came tripping along 
 in the pleasantest manner conceivable, avoiding the garden- 
 roller and the borders of the beds with inimitable dexterity. 
 
170 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 picking his way among the flower-pots, and smiling with 
 unspeakable good humor. Before he was half way up the 
 walk he began to salute me ; then I thought I knew him ; 
 but when he came toward me with his hat in his hand, the 
 sun shining on his bald head, his bland face, his bright spec- 
 tacles, his fawn-colored tights, and his black gaiters — then, 
 my heart warmed toward him, and I felt quite certain that 
 it was Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 " My dear sir," said that gentleman, as I rose to receive 
 him, " pray be seated. Pray sit down. Now do not stand 
 on my account. I must insist upon it, really." With these 
 words Mr. Pickwick gently pressed me down into my seat, 
 and taking my hand in his, shook it again and again with a 
 warmth of manner perfectly irresistible. I endeavored to 
 express in my welcome something of that heartiness and 
 pleasure which the sight of him awakened, and made him sit 
 down beside me. All this time be kept alternately releasing 
 my hand and grasping it again, and surveying me through 
 his spectacles with such a beaming countenance as I never 
 beheld. 
 
 " You knew me directly ! " said Mr. Pickwick. "What a 
 pleasure it is to think that you knew me directly ! " 
 
 I remarked that I had read his adventures very often, and 
 his features were quite familiar to me from the published 
 portraits. As I thought it a good opportunity of adverting 
 to the circumstance, I condoled with him upon the various 
 libels on his character which had found their way into print. 
 Mr. Pickwick shook his head, and for a moment looked very 
 indignant, but smiling again directly, added that no doubt 
 I was acquainted with Cervantes's introduction to the second 
 part of Don Quixote, and that it fully expressed his senti- 
 ments on the subject. 
 
 " But now," said Mr. Pickwick, " don't you wonder how I 
 found you out ?" 
 
 " I shall never wonder, and with your good leave, never 
 know," said I, smiling in my turn. " It is enough for me 
 that you give me this gratification. I have not the least 
 desire that you should tell me by what means I have ob- 
 tained it." 
 
 "You are very kind," returned Mr. Pickwick, shaking me 
 by the hand again ; " you are so exactly what I expected ! 
 But for what particular purpose do you think I have sought 
 you, my dear sir ? Now what do you think I have come for ? " 
 
 Mr. Pickwick put this question as though he were persuaded 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 171 
 
 that it was morally impossible that I could by any means di- 
 vine the deep purpose of his visit, and that it must be hidden 
 from all human ken. Therefore, although I was rejoiced to 
 think that I had anticipated his drift, I feigned to be quite 
 ignorant of it and after a brief consideration shook my head 
 despairingly. 
 
 " What should you say," said Mr. Pickwick, laying 
 the forefinger of his left hand upon my coat-sleeve, and look- 
 ing at me with his head thrown back, and a little on one 
 side — " what should you say if I confessed that after read- 
 ing your account of yourself and your little society, I had 
 come here, a humble candidate for one of those empty 
 chairs ? " 
 
 " I should say," I returned, " that I know of only one cir- 
 cumstance which could still further endear that little society 
 to me, and that would be the associating with it my old 
 friend — for you must let me call you so — my old friend, 
 Mr. Pickwick." 
 
 As I made him this answer every feature of Mr. Pickwick's 
 face fused itself into one all-pervading expression of de- 
 light. After shaking me heartily by both hands at once, he 
 patted me gently on the back, and then — I well understand 
 why — colored up to the eyes, and hoped with great earnest- 
 ness of manner that he had not hurt me. 
 
 If he had I would have been content that he should have 
 repeated the offense a hundred times, rather than suppose 
 so : but as he had not, I had no difficulty in changing the 
 subject by making an inquiry which had been upon my lips 
 twenty times already. 
 
 " You have not told me," said I, " any thing about Sam 
 Weller." 
 
 "Oh ! Sam," replied Mr. Pickwick, "is the same as ever. 
 The same true, faithful fellow that he ever was. What should 
 I tell- you about Sam, my dear sir, except that he is more in- 
 dispensable to my happiness and comfort every day of my 
 life ? " 
 
 " And Mr. Weller, senior ? " said I. 
 
 " Old Mr. Weller," returned Mr. Pickwick, " is in no re- 
 spect more altered than Sam, unless it be that he is a little 
 more opinionated than he was formerly, and perhaps at 
 times more talkative. He spends a good deal of his time 
 now in our neighborhood, and has so constituted himself a 
 part of my body-guard, that when I ask permission for Sam 
 to have a seat in your kitchen on clock nights (supposing 
 
172 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 your three friends think me worthy to fill one of the chairs), 
 I am afraid I must often include Mr. Weller too." 
 
 I very readily pledged myself to give both Sam and his 
 father a free admission to my house at all hours and sea- 
 sons ; and this point settled, we fell into a lengthy conver- 
 sation which was carried on with as little reserve on both 
 sides as if we had been intimate friends from our youth, and 
 which conveyed to me the comfortable assurance that Mr. 
 Pickwick's buoyancy of spirit, and indeed all his old cheer- 
 ful characteristics, were wholly unimpaired. As he had 
 spoken of the consent of my friends as being yet in abey- 
 ance, I repeatedly assured him that his proposal was certain 
 to receive their most joyful sanction, and several times en- 
 treated that he would give me leave to introduce him to Jack 
 Redburn and Mr. Miles (who were near at hand) without 
 further ceremony. 
 
 To this proposal, however, Mr. Pickwick's delicacy would 
 by no means allow him to accede, for he urged that his eligi- 
 bility must be formally discussed, and that, until this had 
 been done, he could not think of obtruding himself further. 
 The utmost I could obtain from him was a promise that he 
 would attend upon our next night of meeting, that I might 
 have the pleasure of presenting him immediately on his 
 election. 
 
 Mr. Pickwick, having with many blushes placed in my 
 hands a small roll of paper, which he termed his " qualifi- 
 cation," put a great many questions to me touching my 
 friends, and particularly Jack Redburn, whom he repeatedly 
 termed " a fine fellow," and in whose favor I could see he 
 was strongly predisposed. When I had satisfied him on these 
 points, I took him up into my room that he might make ac- 
 quaintance with the old chamber which is our place of 
 meeting. 
 
 " And this," said Mr. Pickwick, stopping short, " is the 
 clock ! Dear me ! And this is really the old clock ! " 
 
 I thought he would never have come away from it. After 
 advancing toward it softly, and laying his hand upon it with 
 as much respect and as many smiling looks as if it were alive, 
 he set himself to consider it in every possible direction, now 
 mounting on a chair to look at the top, now going down upon 
 his knees to examine the bottom, now surveying the sides 
 with his spectacles almost touching the case, and now trying 
 to peep between it and the wall to get a slight view of the 
 back. Then he would retire a pace or two and look up at 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 173 
 
 the dial to see it go, and then draw near again and stand 
 with his head on One side to hear it tick : never failing to 
 glance toward me at intervals of a few seconds each, and 
 nod his head with such complacent gratification as I am 
 quite unable to describe. His admiration was not con- 
 fined to the clock, either, but extended itself to every 
 article in the room, and really, when he had gone 
 through them every one, and at last sat himself down in all the 
 six chairs, one after another, to try how they felt, I never saw 
 such a picture of good-humor and happiness as he presented, 
 from the top of his shining head down to the very last but- 
 ton of his gaiters. 
 
 I should have been well pleased, and should have had the 
 utmost enjoyment of his company, if he had remained with 
 me all day, but my favorite, striking the hour, reminded him 
 that he must take his leave. I could not forbear telling him 
 once more how glad he made me, and we shook hands all 
 the way down stairs. 
 
 We had no sooner arrived in the hall, than my house- 
 keeper, gliding out of her little room (she had changed her 
 gown and cap, I observed), greeted Mr. Pickwick with her 
 best smile and courtesy ; and the barber, feigning to be ac- 
 cidentally passing on his way out, made him a vast number 
 of bows. When the housekeeper courtesied, Mr. Pickwick 
 bowed with the utmost politeness, and when he bowed, the 
 housekeeper courtesied again ; between the housekeeper 
 and the barber, I should say that Mr. Pickwick faced 
 about and bowed with undiminished affability, fifty times 
 at least. 
 
 I saw him to the door ; an omnibus was at the moment 
 passing the corner of the lane, which Mr. Pickwick .hailed 
 and ran after with extraordinary nimbleness. When he had 
 got about half-way he turned his head, and seeing that I 
 was still looking after him and that I waved my hand, 
 stopped, evidently irresolute whether to come back and shake 
 hands again or go on. The man behind the omnibus 
 shouted, and Mr. Pickwick ran a little way toward him : 
 then he looked round at me and ran a little way back again. 
 Then there was another shout, and he turned round once 
 more and ran the other way. After several of these vibra- 
 tions, the man settled the question by taking Mr. Pickwick 
 by the arm, and putting him into the carriage ; but his last 
 action was to let down the window and wave his hat to me 
 as it drove off. 
 
i 74 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 I lost no time in opening the parcel he had left with me. 
 The following were its contents : 
 
 MR. PICKWICK S TALE. 
 
 A good many years have passed away since old John 
 Podgers lived in the town of Windsor, where he was born, and 
 where, in course of time, he came to be comfortably and 
 snugly buried. You may be sure that in the time of King 
 James the First, Windsor was a very quaint, queer old town, 
 and you may take it upon my authority that John Podgers 
 was a very quaint, queer old fellow ; consequently he and 
 Windsor fitted each other to a nicety, and seldom parted 
 company even for half a day. 
 
 John Podgers was broad, sturdy, Dutch-built, short, and 
 a very hard eater, as men of his figure often are. Being a 
 hard sleeper likewise, he divided his time pretty equally be- 
 tween these two recreations, always falling asleep when he 
 had done eating, and always taking another turn at the 
 trencher when he had done sleeping, by which means be 
 grew more corpulent and more drowsy every day of his life. 
 Indeed it used to be currently reported that when he saun- 
 tered up and down the sunny side of the street before din- 
 ner (as he never failed to do in fair weather), he enjoyed his 
 soundest nap ; but many people held this to be a fiction, as 
 he had several times been seen to look after fat oxen on 
 market-days, and had even been heard, by persons of good 
 credit and reputation, to chuckle at the sight, and say to 
 himself with great glee, " Live beef, live beef ! " It was upon 
 this evidence that the wisest people in Windsor (beginning 
 with the local authorities of course) held that John Podgers 
 was a man of strong sound sense — not what is called smart, 
 perhaps, and it might be of a rather lazy and apoplectic 
 turn, but still a man of solid parts, and one who meant much 
 more than he cared to show. This impression was con- 
 firmed by a very dignified way he had of shaking his head 
 and imparting, at the same time, a pendulous motion to his 
 double chin ; in short he passed for one of those people who, 
 being plunged into the Thames, would make no vain efforts 
 to set it a-fire, but would straightway flop" down to the bottom 
 with a deal of gravity, and be highly respected in conse- 
 quence by all good men. 
 
 Being well to do in the world, and a peaceful widower — 
 having a great appetite, which, as he could afford to gratify 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 175 
 
 it, was a luxury and no inconvenience, and a power of going 
 to sleep, which, as he had no occasion to keep awake, was 
 a most enviable faculty — you will readily suppose that 
 John Podgers was a happy man. But appearances are 
 often deceptive when they least seem so, and the truth 
 is, that notwithstanding his extreme sleekness, he was ren- 
 dered uneasy in his mind and exceedingly uncomfortable by 
 a constant apprehension that beset him night and day. 
 
 You know very well that in those times there nourished 
 divers evil old women who, under the name of witches, spread 
 great disorder through the land, and inflicted various dismal 
 tortures upon Christian men, sticking pins and needles into 
 them when they least expected it, and causing them to walk in 
 the air with their feet upward, to the great terror of their wives 
 and families, who were naturally very much disconcerted when 
 the master of the house unexpectedly came home, knocking 
 at the door with his heels and combing his hair on the 
 scraper. These were their commonest pranks, but they 
 every day played a hundred others, of which none were less 
 objectionable and many were much more so, being improper 
 besides ; the result was that vengeance was denounced 
 against all old women, with whom even the king himself had 
 no sympathy (as he certainly ought to have had), for with 
 his own most gracious hand he penned a most gracious con- 
 signment of them to everlasting wrath, and devised most 
 gracious means for their confusion and slaughter, in virtue 
 whereof scarcely a day passed but one witch at the least was 
 most graciously hanged, drowned, or roasted in some part of 
 his dominions. Still, the press teemed with strange and ter- 
 rible news from the north or the south, or the east or the 
 west, relative to witches and their unhappy victims in some 
 corner of the country, and the public's hair stood on end to 
 that degree that it lifted its hat off its head, and made its 
 face pale with terror. 
 
 You may believe that the little town of Windsor did not 
 escape the general contagion. The inhabitants boiled a 
 witch on the king's birthday and sent a bottle of the broth 
 to court, with a dutiful .address expressive of their loyalty. 
 The king, being rather frightened by the present, piously 
 bestowed it upon the Archbishop of Canterbury, and returned 
 an answer to the address, wherein he gave them golden rules 
 for discovering witches, and laid great stress upon certain 
 protecting charms, and especially horseshoes. Immediately 
 the townspeople went to work nailing up horseshoes over 
 
176 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 every door, and so many anxious parents apprenticed their 
 children to farriers, to keep them out of harm's way, that it 
 became quite a genteel trade and flourished exceedingly. 
 
 In the midst of all this bustle John Podgers ate and slept 
 as usual, but shook his head a great deal oftener than was 
 his custom, and was observed to look at the oxen less, and 
 at the old women more. He had a little shelf put up in his 
 sitting-room, whereon was displayed, in a row which grew 
 longer every week, all the witchcraft literature of the time ; 
 he grew learned in charms and exorcisms, hinted at certain 
 questionable females on broomsticks whom he had seen 
 from his chamber window, riding in the air at night, and 
 was in constant terror of being bewitched. At length, from 
 perpetual dwelling upon this one idea, which, being alone in 
 his head, had it all its own way, the fear of witches became 
 the single passion of his life. He, who up to that time had 
 never known what it was to dream, began to have visions of 
 witches whenever he fell asleep ; waking, they were inces- 
 santly present to his imagination likewise ; and, sleeping or 
 waking, he had not a moment's peace. He began to set 
 witch-traps in the highway, and was often seen lying in wait 
 round the corner for hours together, to watch their effect. 
 These engines were of simple construction, usually consist- 
 ing of two straws disposed in the form of a cross, or piece 
 of a Bible-cover with a pinch of salt upon it ; but they were 
 infallible, and if an old woman chanced to stumble over 
 them (as not unfrequently happened, the chosen spot being 
 a broken and stony place), John started from a doze, 
 pounced upon her, and hung round her neck till assistance 
 arrived, when she was immediately carried away and 
 drowned. By dint of constantly inveigling old ladies and 
 disposing of them in this summary manner, he acquired the 
 reputation of a great public character ; and as he received 
 no harm in these pursuits beyond a scratched face or so, he 
 came, in course of time, to be considered witch-proof. 
 
 There was but one person who entertained the least doubt 
 of John Podgers's gifts, and that person was his own nephew, 
 a wild, roving young fellow of twenty who had been brought 
 up in his uncle's house and lived there still — that is to say, 
 when he was at home, which was not as often as it might 
 have been. As he was an apt scholar, it was he who read 
 aloud every fresh piece of strange and terrible intelligence 
 that John Podgers bought ; and this he always did of an 
 evening in the little porch in front of the house, round which 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 177 
 
 the neighbors would flock in crowds to hear the direful 
 news, — for people like to be frightened, and when they can 
 be frightened for nothing and at another man's expense, 
 they like it all the better. 
 
 One fine midsummer evening, a group of persons were 
 gathered in this place, listening intently to Will Marks (that 
 was the nephew's name), as with his cap very much on one 
 side, his arm coiled slyly round the waist of a pretty 
 girl who sat beside him, and his face screwed into a 
 comical expression intended to represent extreme gravity, 
 he read — with heaven knows how many embellishments 
 of his own — a dismal account of a gentleman down in 
 Northamptonshire under the influence of witchcraft and 
 taken forcible possession of by the devil, who was playing 
 his very self with him. John Podgers, in a high sugar-loaf 
 hat and short cloak, filled the opposite seat, and surveyed 
 the auditory with a look of mingled pride and horror very 
 edifying to see ; while the hearers, with their heads thrust 
 forward and their mouths open, listened and trembled, 
 and hoped there was a great deal more to come. Some- 
 times Will stopped for an instant to look round upon his 
 eager audience, and then, with a more comical expression 
 of face than before and a settling of himself comfortably, 
 which included a squeeze of the young lady before men- 
 tioned, he launched into some new wonder surpassing all the 
 others. 
 
 The setting sun shed his last golden rays upon this 
 little party, who, absorbed in their present occupation, took 
 no heed of the approach of night or the glory in which 
 the day went down, when the sound of a horse approaching 
 at a good round trot, invading the silence of the hour, 
 caused the reader to make a sudden stop and the listeners 
 to raise their heads in wonder. Nor was their wonder 
 diminished when a horseman dashed up to the porch, and 
 abruptly checking his steed, inquired where one John 
 Podgers cjwelt. 
 
 " Here ! " cried a dozen voices, while a dozen hands 
 pointed out sturdy John, still basking in the terrors of the 
 pamphlet. 
 
 The rider, giving his bridle to one of those who surrounded 
 him, dismounted, and approached John, hat in hand, but with 
 great haste. 
 
 " Whence come ye ?" said John. 
 
 " From Kingston, master." 
 
173 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 " And wherefore ? " 
 
 " On most pressing business." 
 
 " Of what nature ? " 
 
 " Witchcraft." 
 
 Witchcraft ! Every body looked aghast at the breathless 
 messenger, and the breathless messenger looked equally 
 aghast at every body — except Will Marks, who finding him- 
 self unobserved, not only squeezed the young lady again, 
 but kissed her twice. Surely he must have been bewitched 
 himself, or he never could have done it — and the young 
 lady too, or she never would have let him. 
 
 11 Witchcraft ? " cried Will, drowning the sound of his last 
 kiss, which was rather a loud one. 
 
 The messenger turned toward him, and with a frown, 
 repeated the word more solemnly than before ; then told 
 his errand, which was in brief, that the people of Kingston 
 had been greatly terrified for some nights past by hideous 
 revels, held by witches beneath the gibbet within a mile of 
 the town, and related and deposed to by chance wayfarers 
 who had passed within ear-shot of the spot ; that the sound 
 of their voices in their wild orgies had been plainly heard 
 by many persons ; that three old women labored under 
 strong suspicion, and that precedents had been consulted, 
 solemn council had, and it was found that to identify the 
 hags some single person must watch upon the spot alone ; 
 that no single person had the courage to perform the task, 
 and that he had been dispatched express to solicit John 
 Podgers to undertake it that very night, as being a man of 
 great renown, who bore a charmed life, and was proof against 
 unholy spells. 
 
 John received this communication with much composure, 
 and said in a few words, that it would have afforded him in- 
 expressible pleasure to do the Kingston people so slight a serv- 
 ice if it were not for His unfortunate propensity to fall asleep, 
 which no man regretted more than himself upon the present 
 occasion, but which quite settled the question. Neverthe- 
 less, he said, there was a gentleman present (and here he 
 looked very hard at a tall farrier) who, having been engaged 
 all his life in the manufacture of horseshoes, must be quite 
 invulnerable to the power of witches, and who, he had no 
 doubt, from his own reputation for bravery and good-nature, 
 would readily accept the commission. The farrier politely 
 thanked him for his good opinion, which it would always be 
 his study to deserve, but added that, with regard to the 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 179 
 
 present little matter, he couldn't think of it on any account, 
 as his departing on such an errand would certainly occasion 
 the instant death of his wife, to whom, as they all knew, he 
 was tenderly attached. Now, so far from this circumstance 
 being notorious, every body had suspected the reverse, as 
 the farrier was in the habit of beating his lady rather more 
 than tender husbands usually do ; all the married men pres- 
 ent, however, applauded his resolution with great vehemence, 
 and one and all declared that they would stop at home and 
 die if needful (which happily it was not) in defense of their 
 lawful partners. 
 
 This burst of enthusiasm over, they began to look, as by 
 one consent, toward Will Marks, who, with his cap more on 
 one side than ever, sat watching the proceedings with extra- 
 ordinary unconcern. He had never been heard openly to 
 express his disbelief in witches, but had often cut such jokes 
 at their expense as left it to be inferred ; publicly stating on 
 several occasions that he considered a broomstick an incon- 
 venient charger, and one especially unsuited to the dignity 
 of the female character, and indulging in other free remarks 
 of the same tendency, to the great amusement of his wild 
 companions. 
 
 As they looked at Will, they began to whisper and murmur 
 among themselves, and at length one man cried, " Why don't 
 you ask Will Marks ?" 
 
 As this was what every body had been thinking of, they all 
 took up the word, and cried in concert, " Ah ! why don't you 
 ask Will ? " 
 
 " He don't care," said the farrier. 
 
 " Not he," added another voice in the crowd. 
 
 " He don't believe in it, you know," sneered a little man 
 with a yellow face and a taunting nose and chin, which he 
 thrust out from under the arm of a long man before him. 
 
 " Besides," said a red-faced gentleman with a gruff voice, 
 "he's a single man." 
 
 " That's the point ! " said the farrier ; and all the married 
 men murmured, ah ! that was it, and they only wished they 
 were single themselves ; and they would show him what 
 spirit was, very soon. 
 
 The messenger looked toward Will Marks beseechingly. 
 
 " It will be a wet night, friend, and my gray nag is tired 
 after yesterday's work — " 
 
 Here there was a general titter. 
 
 " But," resumed Will, looking about him with a smile, " if 
 
i8o MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 nobody else puts in a better claim to go, for the credit of the 
 town, I am your man, and I would be if I had to go afoot. 
 In five minutes I shall be in the saddle, unless I am depriv- 
 ing any worthy gentleman here of the honor of the adven- 
 ture, which I wouldn't do for the world." 
 
 But here arose a double difficulty, for not only did John 
 Podgers combat the resolution with all the words he had, 
 which were not many, but the young lady combated it too 
 with all the tears she had, which were very many indeed. 
 Will, however, being inflexible, parried his uncle's objections 
 w r ith a joke, and coaxed the young lady into a smile in three 
 short whispers. As it was plain that he would go and set his 
 mind upon it, John Podgers offered him a few first-rate 
 charms out of his own pocket, which he dutifully declined 
 to accept, and the young lady give him a kiss which .^e also 
 returned. 
 
 " You see what a rare thing it is to be married," said Will, 
 " and how careful and considerate all these husbands are. 
 There's not a man among them but his heart is leaping to 
 forestall me in this adventure, and yet a strong sense of duty 
 keeps him back. The husbands in this one little town are 
 a pattern to the world, and so must the wives be too, for 
 that matter, or they could never boast half the influence they 
 have ! " 
 
 Waiting for no reply to this sarcasm, he snapped his fin- 
 gers and withdrew into the house, and thence into the stable, 
 while some busied themselves in refreshing the messenger, 
 and others in baiting his steed. In less than the specified 
 time, he returned by another way, with a good cloak hang- 
 ing over his arm, a good sword girded by his side, and lead- 
 ing his good horse caparisoned for the journey. 
 
 " Now," said Will, leaping into the saddle at abound, " up 
 and away. Upon your mettle, friend, and push on. Good- 
 night ! " 
 
 He kissed his hand to the girl, nodded to his drowsy uncle, 
 waved his cap to the rest — and off they flew pell-mell, as if 
 all the witches in England were in their horses' legs. They 
 were out of sight in a minute. 
 
 The men who were left behind shook their heads doubt- 
 fully, stroked their chins, and shook their heads again. The 
 farrier said that certainly Will Marks was a good horseman, 
 nobody should say he denied that ; but he was rash, very 
 rash, and there was no telling what the end of it might be ; 
 what did he go for, that was what he wanted to know ? He 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 181 
 
 wished the young fellow no harm, but why did he go ? 
 Every body echoed these words, and shook their heads again, 
 having done which they wished John Podgers good-night, 
 and straggled home to bed. 
 
 The Kingston people were in their first sleep, when Will 
 Marks and his conductor rode through the town and up to 
 the door of a house where sundry grave functionaries were 
 assembled, anxiously expecting the arrival of the renowned 
 Podgers. They were a little disappointed to find a gay 
 young man in his place, but they put the best face upon the 
 matter, and gave him full instructions how he was to conceal 
 himself behind the gibbet, and watch and listen to the 
 witches, and how at a certain time he was to burst forth 
 and cut and slash among them vigorously, so that the sus- 
 pected parties might be found bleeding in their beds next 
 day, and thoroughly confounded. They gave him a great 
 quantity of wholesome advice besides, and — which was more 
 to the purpose with Will — a good supper. All these things 
 being done, and midnight nearly come, they sallied forth to 
 show him the spot where he was to keep his dreary vigil. 
 
 The night was by this time dark and threatening. There 
 was a rumbling of distant thunder, and alow sighing of wind 
 among the trees, which was very dismal. The potentates of 
 the town kept so uncommonly close to Will that they trod upon 
 his toes, or stumbled against his ankles, or nearly tripped up 
 his heels at every step he took, and besides these annoy- 
 ances, their teeth chattered so with fear that he seemed to 
 be accompanied by a dirge of castanets. 
 
 At last they made a halt at the opening of a lonely, deso- 
 late space, and pointing to a black object at some distance, 
 asked Will he if saw that, yonder. 
 
 " Yes/' he replied. What then ? " 
 
 Informing him abruptly that it was the gibbet where he 
 was to watch, they wished him good-night in an extremely 
 friendly manner, and ran back as fast as their feet would 
 carry them. 
 
 Will walked boldly to the gibbet, and, glancing upward 
 when he came under it, saw — certainly with satisfaction — 
 that it was empty, and that nothing dangled from the top 
 but some iron chains, which swung mournfully to and fro as 
 they were moved bv the breeze. After a careful survey of 
 every quarter, he determined to take his station with his 
 face toward the town ; both because that would place him 
 with his back to the wind, and because if any trick or sur- 
 
182 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 prise were attempted, it would probably come from that 
 direction in the first instance. Having taken these precau- 
 tions, he wrapped his cloak about him so that it left the 
 handle of his sword free, and ready to his hand, and leaning 
 against the gallows-tree, with his cap not quite so much on 
 one side as it had been before, took up his position for the 
 night. 
 
 SECOND CHAPTER OF MR. PICKWICK'S TALE. 
 
 We left Will Marks leaning under the gibbet with his face 
 toward the town, scanning the distance with a keen eye, 
 which sought to pierce the darkness and catch the earliest 
 glimpse of any person or persons that might approach 
 toward him. But all was quiet, and save the howling of the 
 wind as it swept across the heath in gusts, and the creaking 
 of the chains that dangled above his head, there was no sound 
 to break the sullen stillness of the night. After half an hour 
 or so, this monotony became more disconcerting to Will than 
 the most furious uproar would have been, and he heartily 
 wished for some one antagonist with whom he might have a 
 fair stand-up fight, if it were only to warm himself. 
 
 Truth to tell, it was a bitter wind, and seemed to blow to 
 the very heart of a man whose blood, heated but now with 
 rapid riding, was the more sensitive to the chilling blast. 
 Will was a daring fellow, and cared not a jot for hard knocks 
 or sharp blades ; but he could not persuade himself to move 
 or walk about, having just that vague expectation of a sud- 
 den assault which made it a comfortable thing to have some- 
 thing at his back, even though that something were a gallows- 
 tree. He had no great faith in the superstitions of the age, still 
 such of them as occurred to him did not serve to lighten the 
 time, or to render his situation more endurable. He remem- 
 bered how witches were said to repair at that ghostly hour 
 to church-yards and gibbets, and such like dismal spots, to 
 pluck the bleeding mandrake or scrape the flesh from dead 
 men's bones, a choice ingredient for their spells ; how, steal- 
 ing by night to lonely places, they dug graves with their 
 finger-nails, or anointed themselves before riding in the air 
 with a delicate pomatum made of the fat of infants newly 
 boiled. These, and many other fabled practices of a no less 
 agreeable nature, and all having some reference to the cir- 
 cumstances in which he was placed, passed and re-passed in 
 quick succession through the mind of Will Marks, and add- 
 ing a shadowy dread to that distrust and watchfulness which 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 183 
 
 his situation inspired, rendered it, upon the whole, suffi- 
 ciently uncomfortable. As he had foreseen, too, the rain be- 
 gan to descend heavily, and driving before the wind in a 
 thick mist, obscured even those few objects which the dark- 
 ness of the night had before imperfectly revealed. 
 
 " Look ! " shrieked a voice ; * great heaven, it has fallen 
 down and stands erect as if it lived ! " 
 
 The speaker was close behind him ; the voice was almost 
 at his ear. Will threw off his cloak, drew his sword, and 
 darting swiftly round, seized a woman by the wrist, who, 
 recoiling from him with a dreadful shriek, fell struggling 
 upon her knees. Another woman clad like her, whom he 
 had grasped, in mourning garments, stood rooted to the spot 
 on which they were, gazing upon his face with wild and 
 glaring eyes that quite appalled him. 
 
 " Say," cried Will, when they had confronted each other 
 thus for some time, " what are ye ? " 
 
 " Say, what are \you" returned the woman, "who trouble 
 even this obscene resting-place of the dead, and strip the 
 gibbet of its honored burden ? Where is the body ?" 
 
 He looked in wonder and affright from the woman who 
 questioned him to the other whose arm he clutched. 
 
 "Where is the body?" repeated his questioner more 
 firmly than before. " You wear no livery which marks you 
 for the hireling of the government. You are no friend to 
 us, or I should recognize you, for the friends of such as we 
 are few in number. What are you then, and wherefore are 
 you here ? " 
 
 " I am no foe to the distressed and helpless," said Will. 
 " Are ye among that number ? ye should be, by your looks." 
 
 " We are ! " was the answer. 
 
 " Is it ye who have been wailing and weeping here under 
 cover of the night ? " said Will. 
 
 "It is," replied the woman, sternly; and pointing, as she 
 spoke, toward her companion, " she mo.urns a husband and 
 I a brother. Even the bloody law that wreaks its vengeance 
 on the dead does not make that a crime, and if it did, 'twould 
 be alike to us, who are past its fear or favor." 
 
 Will glanced at the two females, and could barely discern 
 that the one whom he addressed was much the elder, and 
 that the other was young and of a slight figure. Both were 
 deadly pale, their garments wet and worn, their hair 
 disheveled and streaming in the wind, themselves bowed 
 down with grigf and misery ; their whole appearance most 
 
i8 4 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 dejected, wretched and forlorn. A sight so different from 
 any he had expected to encounter touched him to the quick, 
 and all idea of any thing but their pitiable condition van- 
 ished before it. 
 
 " I am a rough, blunt yeoman," said Will. " Why I came 
 here is told in a word ; you have been overheard at a dis- 
 tance in the silence of the night, and I have undertaken a 
 watch for hags or spirits. I came here expecting an adven- 
 ture, and prepared to go through with any. If there be aught 
 that I can do to help or aid you, name it, and on the faith of 
 a man who can be secret and trusty, I will stand by you to 
 the death." 
 
 " How comes this gibbet to be empty ? " asked the elder 
 female. 
 
 " I swear to you," replied Will, " that I know as little as 
 yourself. But this I know, that when I came here an hour 
 ago or so, it was as it is now ; and if, as I gather from your 
 question, it was not so last night, sure I am that it has been 
 secretly disturbed without the knowledge of the folks in 
 yonder town. Bethink you, therefore, whether you have no 
 friends in league with you or him on whom the law has done 
 its worst, by whom these sad remains have been removed for 
 burial." 
 
 The women spoke together, and Will retired a pace or 
 two while they conversed apart. He could hear them sob 
 and moan, and saw that they wrung their hands in fruitless 
 agony. He could make out little that they said, but be- 
 tween whiles he gathered enough to assure him that his sug- 
 gestion was not very wide of the mark, and that they not 
 only suspected by whom the body had been removed, but 
 also whither it had been conveyed. When they had been in 
 conversation a long time, they turned toward him once more. 
 This time the younger female spoke : 
 
 " You have offered us your help ? " 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " And given a pledge that you are still willing to re- 
 deem ? " 
 
 " Yes. So far as I may, keeping all plots and conspiracies 
 at arm's-length." 
 
 " Follow us, friend." 
 
 Will, whose self-possession was now quite restored, 
 needed no second bidding, but with his drawn sword in his 
 hand, and his cloak so muffled over his left arm as to serve 
 for a kind of shield without offering any impediment to its 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 185 
 
 free action, suffered them to lead the way. Through mud 
 and mire, and wind and rain, they walked in silence a full 
 mile. At length they turned into a dark lane, where, sud- 
 denly starting out from beneath some trees where he had 
 taken shelter, a man appeared, having in his charge three 
 saddled horses. One of these (his own, apparently), in 
 obedience to a whisper from the women, he consigned to Will, 
 who, seeing that they mounted, mounted also. Then, with- 
 out a word spoken, they rode on together, leaving the attend- 
 ant behind. 
 
 They made no halt nor slackened their pace until they ar- 
 rived near Putney. At a large wooden house which stood 
 apart from any other, they alighted, and giving their horses 
 to one who was already waiting, passed in by a side door, 
 and so up some narrow, creaking stairs into a small pan- 
 neled chamber, where Will was left alone. He had not been 
 there very long, when the door was softly opened, and there 
 entered to him a cavalier whose face was concealed beneath 
 a black mask. 
 
 Will stood upon his guard and scrutinized this figure from 
 head to foot. The form was that of a man pretty far ad- 
 vanced in life, but of a firm and stately carriage. His dress 
 was of a rich and costly kind, but so soiled and disordered 
 that it was scarcely to be recognized for one of those gor- 
 geous suits which the expensive taste and fashion of the 
 time prescribed for men of any rank or station. He was 
 booted and spurred, and bore about him even as many 
 tokens of the state of the roads as Will himself. All this 
 he noted, while the eyes behind the mask regarded him 
 with equal attention. This survey over, the cavalier broke 
 silence : 
 
 "Thou'rt young and bold, and wouldst be richer than 
 thou art ? " 
 
 " The two first I am," returned Will. " The last I have 
 scarcely thought of. But be it so. Say that I would be 
 richer than I am ; what then ? " 
 
 "The way lies before thee now," replied the Mask. 
 
 " Show it me." 
 
 " First let me inform thee, that thou wert brought here 
 to-night lest thou shouldst too soon have told thy tale to 
 those who placed thee on the watch." 
 
 " I thought as much when I followed," said Will. " But 
 I am no blab, not I." 
 
 " Good," returned the Mask. *' Now listen. He who was 
 
186 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 to have executed the enterprise of burying that body which, 
 as thou hast suspected, was taken down to-night, has left us 
 in our need." 
 
 Will nodded, and thought within himself that if the Mask 
 were to attempt to play any tricks, the first eyelet-hole on the 
 left hand side of his doublet, counting from the buttons up 
 the front, would be a very good place in which to pink him 
 neatly. 
 
 " Thou art here, and the emergency is desperate. I pro- 
 pose his task to thee. Convey the body (now coffined in this 
 house), by means that I shall show, to the church of Saint 
 Dunstan in London to-morrow night, and thy service shall be 
 richly paid. Thou'rt about to ask whose corpse it is. Seek 
 not to know. I warn thee seek not to know. Felons hang 
 in chains on every moor and heath. Believe, as others do, 
 that this was one, and ask no further. The murders of state 
 policy, its victims or avengers, had best remain unknown to 
 such as thee." 
 
 " The mystery of this service," said Will, " bespeaks its 
 danger. What is the reward ? " 
 
 " One hundred golden unities," replied the cavalier. " The 
 danger to one who can not be recognized as the friend of a 
 fallen cause is not great, but there is some hazard to be run. 
 Decide between that and the reward." 
 
 " What if I refuse ? " said Will. 
 
 " Depart in peace, in God's name," returned the Mask in 
 a melancholy tone, " and keep our secret : remembering 
 that those who brought thee here were crushed and stricken 
 women, and that those who bade thee go free could have 
 had thy life with one word, and no man the wiser." 
 
 Men were readier to undertake desperate adventures in 
 those times than they are now. In this case the temptation 
 was great, and the punishment, even in case of detection, 
 Aras not likely to be very severe, as Will came of a loyal 
 stock, and his uncle was in good repute, and a passable tale 
 to account for his possession of the body and his ignorance 
 of the identity might be easily devised. The cavalier ex- 
 plained that a covered cart had been prepared for the pur- 
 pose ; that the time of departure could be arranged so that he 
 should reach London Bridge at dusk, and proceed through 
 the city after the day had closed in ; that people would be 
 ready at his journey's end to place the coffin in a vault with- 
 out a minute's delay ; that officious inquirers in the streets 
 would be easily repelled by the tale that he was carrying for 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 187 
 
 interment the corpse of one who had died of the plague ; and 
 in short showed him every reason why he should succeed, 
 and none why he should fail. After a time they were joined 
 by another gentleman, masked like the first, who added new 
 arguments to those which had been already urged ; the 
 wretched wife, too, added her tears and prayers to their 
 calmer representations; and in the end, Will, moved by com- 
 passion and good-nature, by a love of the marvelous, by a 
 mischievous anticipation of the terrors of the Kingston peo- 
 ple when he should be missing next day, and finally, by the 
 prospect of gain, took upon himself the task, and devoted all 
 his energies to its successful execution. 
 
 The following night, when it was quite dark, the hollow 
 echoes of Old London Bridge responded to the rumbling of 
 the cart which contained the ghastly load, the object of Will 
 Marks's care. Sufficiently disguised to attract no attention 
 by his garb, Will walked at the horse's head, as uncon- 
 cerned as a man could be who was sensible that he had now 
 arrived at the most dangerous part of his undertaking, but 
 full of boldness and confidence. 
 
 It was now eight o'clock. After nine, none could walk the 
 streets without danger of their lives, and even at this hour, 
 robberies and murder were of no uncommon occurrence. 
 The shops upon the bridge were all closed ; the low wooden 
 arches thrown across the way were like so many black pits, 
 in every one of which ill-favored fellows lurked in knots of 
 three and four ; some standing upright against the wall, 
 lying in wait ; others skulking in gate-ways, and thrusting out 
 their uncombed heads and scowling eyes ; others crossing 
 and re-crossing, and constantly jostling both horse and man 
 to provoke a quarrel ; others stealing away and summoning 
 their companions in a low whistle. Once, even in that short 
 passage, there was the noise of scuffling and the clash of 
 swords behind him, but Will, who knew the city and its ways, 
 kept straight on and scarcely turned his head. 
 
 The streets being unpaved, the rain of the night before had 
 converted them into a perfect quagmire, which the splashing 
 water-spouts from the gables, and the filth and offal cast 
 from the different houses, swelled in no small degree. These 
 odious matters being left to nutrefy in the close and heavy 
 air, emitted an insupportable stench, to which every court 
 and passage poured forth a contribution of its own. Many 
 parts, even of the main streets, with their projecting stories 
 tottering overhead and nearly shutting out the sky, were 
 
i88 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 more like huge chimneys than open ways. At the corners 
 of some of these, great bonfires were burning to prevent in- 
 fection from the plague, of which it was rumored that some 
 citizens had lately died ; and few, who, availing themselves 
 of the light thus afforded, paused for a moment to look 
 around them, would have been disposed to doubt the exist- 
 ence of the disease, or wonder at its dreadful visitations. 
 
 But it was not in such scenes as these, or even in the deep 
 and miry road, that Will Marks found the chief obstacles 
 to his progress. There were kites and ravens feeding in 
 the streets (the only scavengers the city kept), who, scenting 
 what he carried, followed the cart or fluttered on its top, 
 and croaked their knowledge of its burden and their ravenous 
 appetite for prey. There were distant fires, where the poor 
 wood and plaster tenements wasted fiercely, and whither 
 crowds made their way, clamoring eagerly for plunder, 
 beating down all who came within their reach, and yelling 
 like devils let loose. There were single-handed men flying 
 from bands of ruffians, who pursued them with naked weap- 
 ons, and hunted them savagely ; there were drunken, des- 
 perate robbers issuing from their dens and staggering 
 through the open streets where no man dared molest them ; 
 there were vagabond servitors returning from the bear gar- 
 den, where had been good sport that day, dragging after 
 them their torn and bleeding dogs, or leaving them to 
 die and rot upon the road. Nothing was abroad but cruelty, 
 violence, and disorder. 
 
 Many were the interruptions which Will Marks encount- 
 ered from these stragglers, and many the narrow escapes he 
 made. Now some stout bully would take his seat upon the 
 cart, insisting to be driven to his own home, and now two or 
 three men would come upon him together and demand that 
 on peril of his life he showed them what he had inside. Then 
 a party of the city watch, upon their rounds, would draw across 
 the road, and not satisfied with details, question him closely, 
 and revenge themselves by a little cuffing and hustling and 
 maltreatment sustained at other hands that night. All these 
 assailants had to be rebutted, some by fair words, some by 
 foul, and some by blows. But Will Marks was not the man 
 to be stopped or turned back now he had penetrated so far, 
 and though he got on slowly, still he made his way down 
 Fleet Street and reached the church at last. 
 
 As he had been forewarned, all was in readiness. Di- 
 rectly he stopped, the coffin was removed by four men who 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 189 
 
 appeared so suddenly that they seemed to have started from 
 the earth. A fifth mounted the cart, and scarcely allowing 
 Will time to snatch from it a little bundle containing such 
 of his own clothes as he had thrown off on assuming his dis- 
 guises, drove briskly away. Will never saw cart nor man 
 again. 
 
 He followed the body into the church, and it was well he 
 lost no time in doing so, for the door was immediately 
 closed. There was no light in the building save that which 
 came from a couple of torches borne by two men in cloaks 
 who stood upon the brink of a vault. Each supported a 
 female figure, and all observed a profound silence. 
 
 By this dim and solemn glare, which made Will feel as 
 though light itself were dead, and its tomb the dreary arches 
 that frowned above, they placed the coffin in the vault, with 
 uncovered heads, and closed it up. One of the torch- 
 bearers then turned to Will and stretched forth his hand, in 
 which was a purse of gold. Something told him directly that 
 those were the same eyes which he had seen beneath the 
 mask. 
 
 " Take it," said the cavalier in a low voice, " and be 
 happy. Though these have been hasty obsequies, and no 
 priest has blessed the work, there will not be the less peace 
 with thee hereafter, for having laid his bones beside those 
 of his little children. Keep thy own counsel, for thy sake 
 no less than ours, and God be with thee ! " 
 
 " The blessing of a widowed mother on thy head, good 
 friend!" cried the young lady through her tears ; " the 
 blessing of one who has now no hope or rest but in this 
 grave ! " 
 
 Will stood with the purse in his hand, and involuntarily 
 made a gesture as though he would return it, for though a 
 thoughtless fellow, he was of a frank and generous nature. 
 But the two gentlemen extinguishing their torches, cautioned 
 him to be gone, as their common safety would be endan- 
 gered by a longer delay ; and at the same time their retreat- 
 ing footsteps sounded through the church. He turned, 
 therefore, toward the point at which he had entered, and 
 seeing by a faint gleam in the distance that the door was 
 again partially open, groped his way toward it and passed into 
 the street. 
 
 Meantime the local authorities of Kingston had kept watch 
 and ward all the previous night, fancying every now and 
 then that dismal shrieks were borne toward them on the 
 
i 9 o Master Humphrey's clock. 
 
 wind, and frequently winking to each other and drawing 
 closer to the- fire as they drank the health of the lonely 
 sentinel, upon whom a clerical gentleman present was espe- 
 cially severe by reason of his levity and youthful folly. Two 
 or three of the gravest in company, who were of theological 
 turn, propounded to him the question whether such a charac- 
 ter was not but poorly armed for single combat with the 
 devil, and whether he himself would not have been a stronger 
 opponent ; but the clerical gentleman, sharply reproving 
 them for their presumption in discussing such questions, 
 clearly showed that a fitter champion than Will could scarcely 
 have been selected, not only for that being a child of Satan, 
 he was the less likely to be alarmed by the appearance of. 
 his own father, but because Satan himself would be at his 
 ease in such company, and would not scruple to kick up his 
 heels to an extent which it was quite certain he would never 
 venture before clerical eyes, under whose influence (as was 
 notorious) he became quite a tame and milk-and-water 
 character. 
 
 But when next morning arrived, and with it no Will 
 Marks, and when a strong party repairing to the spot, as a 
 strong party ventured to do in broad day, found Will gone 
 and the gibbet empty, matters grew serious indeed. The 
 day passing away and no news arriving, and the night going 
 on also without any intelligence, the thing grew more tre- 
 mendous still ; in short, the neighborhood worked itself up l o 
 such a comfortable pitch of mystery and horror that it is a 
 great question whether the general feeling was not one of 
 excessive disappointment, when, on the second morning, 
 Will Marks returned. 
 
 However this may be, back Will came in a very cool and 
 collected state, and appearing not to trouble himself much 
 about anybody except old John Podgers, who having been 
 sent for, was sitting in the Town Hall crying slowly and 
 dozing between whiles. Having embraced his uncle and 
 assured him of his safety, Will mounted on a table and told 
 his story to the crowd. 
 
 And surely they would have been the most unreasonable 
 crowd that ever assembled together, if they had been in the 
 least respect disappointed with the tale he told them, for 
 besides describing the Witches' Dance to the minutest motion 
 of their legs, and performing it in character on the table, 
 with the assistance of a broomstick, he related how they 
 had carried off the body in a copper caldron, and so 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. r 9 i 
 
 bewitched him that he lost his senses until he found himself 
 lying under a hedge at least ten miles off, whence he 
 had straightway returned as they then beheld. The story 
 gained such universal applause that it soon afterward brought 
 down express from London the great witch-finder of the 
 age, the heaven-born Hopkins, who having examined Will 
 closely on several points, pronounced it the most extraor- 
 dinary and the best accredited witch story ever known, under 
 which title it was published at the Three-Bibles on London 
 Bridge, in small quarto, with a view of the caldron from an 
 original drawing, and a portrait of the clerical gentleman as 
 he sat by the fire. 
 
 On one point Will was particularly careful : and that was 
 to describe for. the witches he had seen, three impossible 
 old females whose likenesses never were or will be. Thus 
 he saved the lives of the suspected parties, and of all other 
 old women who were dragged before him to be identified. 
 
 The circumstance occasioned Jonn Podgers much grief 
 and sorrow, until happening one day to cast his eyes upon 
 his housekeeper, and observing her to be plainly afflicted 
 with rheumatism, he procured her to be burned as an 
 undoubted witch. For this service to the state he was 
 immediately knighted, and became from that time Sir John 
 Podgers. 
 
 Will Marks never gained any clew to the mystery in which 
 he had been an actor, nor did any inscription in the church, 
 which he often visited afterward, nor any of the limited 
 inquiries that he dared to make, yield him the least assist- 
 ance. As he kept his own secret, he was compelled to 
 spend the gold discreetly and sparingly. In the course of 
 time he married the young lady of whom I have already 
 told you, whose maiden name is not recorded, with whom he 
 led a prosperous and happy life. Years and years after this 
 adventure, it was his wont to tell her upon a stormy night 
 that it was a great comfort to him to think those bones, to 
 whomsoever they might have once belonged, were not bleach- 
 ing in the troubled air, but were moldering away with the 
 dust of their own kith and kindred in a quiet grave. 
 
 FURTHER PARTICULARS OF MASTER HUMPHREY'S VISITOR. 
 
 Being very full of Mr. Pickwick's application, and highly 
 pleased with the compliment he had paid me, it will be readily 
 supposed that long before our next night of meeting I com- 
 
i 9 2 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 municated it to my three friends, who unanimously voted his 
 admission into our body. We all looked forward with some 
 impatience to the occasion which would enroll him among 
 us, but I am greatly mistaken if Jack Redburn and myself 
 were not by many degrees the most impatient of the 
 party. 
 
 At length the night came, and a few minutes after ten 
 Mr. Pickwick's knock was heard at the street door. He was 
 shown into a lower room, and I directly took my crooked 
 stick and went to accompany him up stairs, in order that he 
 might be presented with all honor and formality. 
 
 " Mr. Pickwick," said I, on entering the room, " I am re- 
 joiced to see you — rejoiced to believe that this is but the 
 opening of a long series of visits to this house, and but the 
 beginning of a close and lasting friendship." 
 
 That gentleman made a suitable reply with a cordialit) 
 and frankness peculiarly his own, and glanced with a smile 
 toward two persons behind the door, whom I had not at first 
 observed, and whom I immediately recognized as Mr. Samuel 
 Weller and his father. 
 
 It was a warm evening, but the elder Mr. Weller was 
 attired, notwithstanding, in a most capacious great-coat, and 
 his chin enveloped in a large speckled shawl, such as is 
 usually worn by stage coachmen on active service. He 
 looked very rosy and very stout, especially about the legs, 
 which appeared to have been compressed into his top-boots 
 with some difficulty. His broad-brimmed hat he held under 
 his left arm, and with the forefinger of his right hand he 
 touched his forehead a great many times in acknowledgment 
 of my presence. 
 
 " I am very glad to see you in such good health, Mr. 
 Weller," said I. 
 
 "Why, thankee, sir," returned Mr. Weller, "the axle an't 
 broke yet. We keeps up a steady pace — not too sewere 
 but vith a moderate degree o' friction — and the consekens 
 is that ve're still a-runnin' and comes in to the time reg'lar. 
 — My son Samivel, sir, as you may have read on in history," 
 added Mr. Weller, introducing his first-born. 
 
 I received Sam very graciously, but before he could say a 
 word his father struck in again. 
 
 u Samivel Veller, sir," said the old gentleman, " has con- 
 ferred upon me the ancient title o' grandfather vich had 
 long laid dormouse, and wos s'posed to be nearly hex-tinct 
 in our family. Sammy, relate a anecdote o' vun o' them 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 193 
 
 boys — that 'ere little anecdote about young Tony sayin' as 
 he vould smoke a pipe unbeknown to his mother." 
 
 " Be quiet, can't you ?" said Sam ; "I never see such a 
 old magpie — never ! " 
 
 " That 'ere Tony is the blessedest boy," said Mr. Weller, 
 heedless of this rebuff — " the blessedest boy as ever / see 
 in my days ! of all the charmin'est infants as ever I heerd 
 tell on, includin' them as wos kivered over by the robin red- 
 breasts arter they'd committed sooicide with blackberries, 
 there never wos any like that 'ere little Tony. He's always 
 a playin' vith a quart pot, that boy is ! To see him a-settin' 
 down on the door-step pretending to drink out of it, and 
 fetching a long breath artervards, and smoking a bit of fire- 
 vood and sayin', ' Now I'm grandfather,' — to see him a-doin' 
 that at two year old is better than any play as wos ever 
 wrote. ' Now I'm grandfather ! ' He wouldn't take a pint 
 pot if you wos to make him a present on it, but he gets his 
 quart, and then he says, ' Now I'm grandfather ! ' " 
 
 Mr. Weller was so overpowered by this picture that he 
 straightway fell into a most alarming fit of coughing, which 
 must certainly have been attended with some fatal result 
 but for the dexterity and promptitude of Sam, who, taking 
 a firm grasp of the shawl just under his father's chin, shook 
 him to and fro with great violence, at the same time admin- 
 istering some smart blows between his shoulders. By this 
 curious mode of treatment Mr. Weller was finally recovered, 
 but with a very crimson face, and in a state of great ex- 
 haustion. 
 
 " He'll do now, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, who had been 
 in some alarm himself. 
 
 " He'll do, sir ! " cried Sam, looking reproachfully at his 
 parent. " Yes, he will do one o' these days — he'll do for 
 hisself and then he'll wish he hadn't. Did any body ever 
 see sich a inconsiderate old file — laughing into conwulsions 
 afore company, and stamping on the floor as if he'd brought 
 his own carpet vith him and wos under a wager to punch 
 the pattern out in a given time ? He'll begin again in a 
 minute. There — he's a-goin' off — I said he would ! " 
 
 In fact, Mr. Weller, whose mind was still running upon 
 his precocious grandson, was seen to shake his head from 
 side to side, while a laugh, working like an earthquake, 
 below the surface, produced various extraordinary appear- 
 ances in his face, chest, and shoulders — the more alarming 
 because unaccompanied by any noise whatever. These 
 
i 9 4 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 emotions, however, gradually subsided, and after three or 
 four short relapses he wiped his eyes with the cuff of his 
 coat and looked about him with tolerable composure. 
 
 " Afore the governor vith-draws," said Mr. Weller, " there 
 is a pint, respecting vich Sammy had a qvestion to ask. Vile 
 that qvestion is a perwadin' this here conwersation, p'raps the 
 genl'men vill permit me to re-tire." 
 
 " Wot are you goin' away for ?" demanded Sam, seizing 
 his father by the coat-tail. 
 
 " I never see such a undootiful boy as you, Samivel," re- 
 turned Mr. Weller. " Didn't you make a solemn promise, 
 amountin' almost to a speeshes o' wow, that you'd put that 
 ere qvestion on my account ? " 
 
 " Well, I'm agreeable to do it," said Sam, " but not if you 
 go cuttin' away like that, as the bull turned round and mildly 
 observed to the drover ven they wos a-goadin' him into the 
 butcher's door. The fact is, sir," said Sam, addressing me, 
 " that he wants to know somethin' respectin' that 'ere lady 
 as is housekeeper here." 
 
 " Ay. What is that ? " 
 
 " Vy, sir," said Sam, grinning still more, " he wishes to 
 know vether she — " 
 
 " In short," interposed old Mr. Weller, decisively, a per- 
 spiration breaking out upon his forehead, " vether that 'ere 
 old creetur is or rather is not a widder." 
 
 Mr. Pickwick laughed heartily, and so did T, as I replied, 
 decisively, that " my housekeeper was a spinster." 
 
 " There ! " cried Sam, " now you're satisfied. You hear 
 she's a spinster." 
 
 " A wot ? " said his father with deep scorn. 
 
 " A spinster," replied Sam. 
 
 Mr. Weller looked very hard at his son for a minute or 
 two, and then said, — 
 
 " Never mind vether she makes jokes or not, that's no 
 matter. Wot I say is, is that 'ere female a widder, or is she" 
 not?" 
 
 " What do you mean by her making jokes ?" demanded 
 Sam, quite aghast at the obscurity of his parent's speech. 
 
 " Never you mind, Samivel," returned Mr. Weller, gravely ; 
 "puns may be wery good things or they maybewerybad 
 'uns, and a female may be none the better or she maybe none 
 the vurse for making of 'em ; that's got nothing to do with 
 widders." 
 
 " Wy, now," said Sam, looking round, " would any body 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 195 
 
 believe as a man at his time o' life could be a-running his 
 head ag'in spinsters and punsters being the same thing ? " 
 
 There an't a straw's difference between 'em," said Mr. 
 Weller. " Your father didn't drive a coach for so many 
 years, not to be ekal to his own langvidge as far as that goes, 
 Sammy." 
 
 Avoiding the question of etymology, upon which the old 
 gentleman's mind was quite made up, he was several times 
 assured that the housekeeper had never been married. He 
 expressed great satisfaction on hearing this, and apologized 
 for the question, remarking that he had been greatly terri- 
 fied by a widow not long before, and that his natural timidity 
 was increased in consequence. 
 
 " It wos on the rail," said Mr. Weller, with strong em- 
 phasis ; " I wos a-goin' down to Birmingham by the rail, 
 and I was locked up in a close carriage vith a living widder. 
 Alone we wos ; the widder and me wos alone ; and I be- 
 lieve it wos only because we wos alone and there wos no 
 clergyman in the conwayance, that that 'ere widder didn't 
 marry me afore ve reached the half-way station. Ven I 
 think how she began a-screaming as we wos a-goin' under 
 them tunnels in the dark — how she kept on a-faintin' and 
 ketchin' hold o' me — and how I tried to burst open the 
 door as was tight-locked and perwented all escape — Ah ! 
 It was a awful thing, most awful ! " 
 
 Mr. Weller was so very much overcome by this retrospect 
 that he was unable, until he had wiped his brow several 
 times, to return any reply to the question whether he ap- 
 proved of railway communication, notwithstanding that it 
 would appear from the answer which he ultimately gave, 
 that he entertained strong opinions on the subject. 
 
 " I con-sider," said Mr. Weller, " that the rail is unconsti- 
 tootional and an inwaser o' priwileges, and I should wery 
 much like to know what that 'ere old carter as once stood 
 up for our . liberties and wun 'em too — I should like to 
 know wot he vould say if he wos alive now, to Englishmen 
 being locked up with widders, or with any body again their 
 wills. Wot a old carter would have said, a old coachman 
 may say, and I as-sert that in that pint o' view alone, the rail 
 is an inwaser. As to the comfort, vere's the comfort o' sit- 
 tin' in a harm-cheer lookin' at brick walls or heaps o' mud, 
 never comin' to a public-house, never seein' a glass o' ale, 
 never goin' through a pike, never meetin' a change o' no 
 kind (horses or otherwise), but alvays comin' to a place, 
 
i 9 6 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 ven you come to one at all, the wery picter o' the last, vith 
 the same p'leesemen standing about, the same blessed olebell 
 a-ringin', the same unfort'nate people standing behind the 
 bars, a-waitin' to be let in ; and every thin' the same except 
 the name, vich is wrote up in the same sized letters as the 
 last name, and vith the same colors. As to the honor and 
 dignity o' travelin', vere can that be vithout a coachman; and 
 wot's the rail to sich coachmen and guards as is sometimes 
 forced to go by it, but a outrage and a insult ? As to the 
 pace, wot sort o' pace do you think I, Tony Veller, could 
 have kept a coach goin' at for five hundred thousand pound 
 a mile, paid in adwance afore the coach was on the road ? 
 And as to the ingein — a nasty, wheezin', creaking, gasping, 
 puffin', bustin' monster, always out o' breath, vith a shiny 
 green and gold back, like a unpleasant beetle in that 'ere 
 gas magnifier — as to the ingein as is alvays a-pourin' out 
 red-hot coals at night, and black smoke in the day, the sen- 
 siblest thing it does in my opinion, is, ven there's somethin' 
 in the vay and it sets up that 'ere frightful scream vich seems 
 to say, ' Now here's two hundred and forty passengers in the 
 wery greatest extremity o' danger, and here's their two hun- 
 dred and forty screams in vun ! " 
 
 By this time I began to fear that my friends would be ren- 
 dered impatient by my protracted absence. I therefore 
 begged Mr. Pickwick to accompany me up stairs, and left the 
 two Mr. Wellersin the care of the housekeeper ; laying strict 
 injunctions upon her to treat them with all possible hos- 
 pitality. 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE CLOCK. 
 
 As we were going up stairs, Mr. Pickwick put on his spec- 
 tacles, which he had held in his hand hitherto ; arranged his 
 neckerchief, smoothed down his waistcoat, and made many 
 other little preparations of that kind which men are accus- 
 tomed to be mindful of, when they are going among stran- 
 gers for the first time, and are anxious to impress them 
 pleasantly. Seeing that I smiled, he smiled too, and said 
 that if it had occurred to him before he left home, he would 
 certainly have presented himself in pumps and silk 
 stockings. 
 
 " I would indeed, my dear sir," he said, very seriously ; 
 " I would have shown my respect for the society, by laying 
 aside my gaiters." 
 
 " You may rest assured," said I, " that they would have 
 regretted your doing so very much, for they are quite at- 
 tached to them." 
 
 " No, really ! " cried Mr. Pickwick, with manifest pleasure. 
 " Do you think they care about my gaiters ? Do you seri- 
 ously think that they identify me at all with my gaiters ?" 
 
 " I am sure they do," I replied. 
 
 "Well, now," said Mr. Pickwick, "that is one of the most 
 charming and agreeable circumstances that could possibly 
 have occurred to me ! " 
 
 I should not have written down this short conversation, 
 but that it developed a slight point in Mr. Pickwick's char- 
 acter, with which I was not previously acquainted. He has 
 a secret pride in his legs. The manner in which he spoke, 
 and the accompanying glance he bestowed upon his tights, 
 
i 9 3 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 convince me that Mr. Pickwick regards his legs with much 
 innocent vanity. 
 
 " But here are our friends," said I, opening the door and 
 taking his arm in mine ; " let them speak for themselves. 
 Gentlemen, I present to you Mr. Pickwick." 
 
 Mr. Pickwick and I must have been a good contrast just 
 then. I, leaning quietly on my crutch-stick, with something 
 of a careworn, patient air ; he, having hold of my arm, and 
 bowing in every direction with the most elastic politeness, 
 and an expression of face whose sprightly cheerfulness and 
 good-humor knew no bounds. The di'fference between us 
 must have been more striking yet as we advanced toward 
 the table, and the amiable gentleman, adopting his jocund 
 step to my poor tread, had his attention divided between 
 treating my infirmities with the utmost consideration, and 
 affecting to be wholly unconscious that I required any. 
 
 I made him personally known to each of my friends in 
 turn. First, to the deaf gentleman, whom he regarded with 
 much interest, and accosted with great frankness and cor- 
 diality. He had evidently some vague idea, at the moment, 
 that my friend being deaf must be dumb also ; for when the 
 latter opened his lips to express the pleasure it afforded him 
 to know a gentleman of whom he had heard so much, Mr. 
 Pickwick was so extremely disconcerted that I was obliged 
 to step in to his relief. 
 
 His meeting with Jack Redburn was quite a treat to see. 
 Mr. Pickwick smiled, and shook hands, and looked at him 
 through his spectacles, and under them, and over them, and 
 nodded his head approvingly, and then nodded to me, as 
 much as to say, " This is just the man ; you are quite right ; " 
 and then turned to Jack and said a few hearty words, and 
 then did and said every thing over again with unimpaired 
 vivacity. As to Jack himself, he was quite as much delighted 
 with Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Pickwick could possibly be with 
 him. Two people never can have met together since the 
 world began, who exchanged a warmer or more enthusi- 
 astic greeting. 
 
 It was amusing to observe the difference between this 
 encounter, and that which succeeded, between Mr. Pick- 
 wick and Mr. Miles. It was clear that the latter gentleman 
 viewed our new member as a kind of rival in the affections 
 of Jack Redburn, and besides this, he had more than once 
 hinted to me, in secret, that although he had no doubt Mr. 
 Pickwick was a very worthy man, still, he did consider that 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. i 9 y 
 
 some of his exploits were unbecoming a gentleman of his 
 years and gravity. Over and above these grounds of dis- 
 trust, it is one of his fixed opinions that the law never can 
 by possibility do any thing wrong ; he therefore looks upon 
 Mr. Pickwick as one who has justly suffered in curse and 
 peace for a breach of his plighted faith to an unprotected 
 female, and holds that he is called upon to regard him with 
 some suspicion on that account. These causes led to a 
 rather cold and formal reception ; which Mr. Pickwick 
 acknowledged with the same stateliness and intense polite- 
 ness as was displayed on the other side. Indeed, he 
 assumed an air of such majestic defiance that I was fearful 
 he might break out into some solemn protest or declaration, 
 and therefore inducted him into his chair without a moment's 
 delay. 
 
 This piece of generalship was perfectly successful. The 
 instant he took his seat, Mr. Pickwick surveyed us all with 
 a most benevolent aspect, and was taken with a fit of smil- 
 ing full five minutes long. His interest in our ceremonies 
 was immense. They are not very numerous or complicated, 
 and a description of them may be comprised in very few 
 words. As our transactions have already been, and must 
 necessarily continue to be, more or less anticipated by being 
 presented in these pages at different times and under various 
 forms, they do not require a detailed account. 
 
 Our first proceeding when we are assembled is to shake 
 hands all around, and greet each other with cheerful and 
 pleasant looks. Remembering that we assemble not only 
 for the promotion of our happiness, but with the view of 
 adding something to the common stock, an air of languor or 
 indifference in any member of our body would be regarded 
 by the others as a kind of treason. We have never had an 
 offender in this respect ; but if we had, there is no doubt 
 that he would be taken to task pretty severely. 
 
 Our salutation over, the venerable piece of antiquity from 
 which we take our name is wound up in silence. This 
 ceremony is always performed by Master Humphrey him- 
 self (in treating of the club, I may be permitted to assume 
 the historical style, and speak of myself in the third person), 
 who mounts upon a chair for the purpose, armed with a 
 large key. While it is in progress, Jack Redburn is required 
 to keep at the further end of the room under the guardian- 
 ship of Mr. Miles, for he is known to entertain certain aspir- 
 ing and unhallowed thoughts connected with the clock, and 
 
26o MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 has even gone so far as to state that if he might take the 
 works out for a day or two, he thinks he could improve them. 
 We pardon him his presumption in consideration of his 
 good intentions, and his keeping this respectful distance, 
 which last penalty is insisted on, lest by secretly wounding 
 the object of our regard in some tender part, in the ardor of 
 his zeal for its improvement, he should fill us all with dis- 
 may and consternation. 
 
 This regulation afforded Mr. Pickwick the highest delight, 
 and seemed, if possible, to exalt Jack in his good opinion. 
 
 The next ceremony is the opening of the clock-case (of 
 which Master Humphrey has likewise the key), the taking 
 from it as many papers as will furnish forth our evening's 
 entertainment, and arranging in the recess such new contri- 
 butions as have been provided since our last meeting. This 
 is always done with peculiar solemnity. The deaf gentleman 
 then fills and lights his pipe, and we once more take our 
 seats round the table before mentioned, Master Humphrey 
 acting as president — if we can be said to have any president, 
 where all are on the same social footing — and our friend 
 Jack as secretary. Our preliminaries being now concluded, 
 we fall into any train of conversation that happens to suggest 
 itself, or proceed immediately to one of our readings. In 
 the latter case, the paper selected is consigned to Master 
 Humphrey, who flattens it carefully on the table and makes 
 dogs' ears in the corner of every page, ready for turning 
 over easily ; Jack Redburn trims the lamp with a small ma- 
 chine of his own invention, which usually puts it out ; Mr. 
 Miles looks on with great approval notwithstanding ; the 
 deaf gentleman draws in his chair, so that he can follow the 
 words on the paper or on Master Humphrey's lips as he 
 pleases ; and Master Humphrey himself, looking round with 
 mighty gratification, and glancing up at his old clock, begins 
 to read aloud. 
 
 Mr. Pickwick's face, while his tale was being read, would 
 have attracted the attention of the dullest man alive. The 
 complacent motion of his head and forefinger as he gently 
 beat time and corrected the air with imaginary punctuation, 
 the smile that mantled on his features at every jocose pas- 
 sage, and the shy look he stole around to observe its effect, 
 the calm manner in which he shut his eyes and listened 
 when there was some little piece of description, the changing 
 expression with which he acted the dialogue to himself, his 
 agony that the deaf gentleman should know what it was all 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 201 
 
 about, and his extraordinary anxiety to correct the reader 
 when he hesitated at a word in the manuscript, or substituted 
 a wrong one, were alike worthy of remark. And when at 
 last, endeavoring to communicate with the deaf gentleman 
 by means of the finger alphabet, with which he constructed 
 such words as are unknown to any civilized or savage lan- 
 guage, he took up a slate and wrote in large text, one word 
 in a line, the question, " How — do — you — like — it ? " When 
 he did this, and handing it over the table awaited the reply, 
 with a countenance only brightened and improved by his 
 great excitement, even Mr. Miles relaxed, and could not 
 forbear looking at him for the moment with interest and 
 favor. 
 
 " It has occurred to me," said the deaf gentleman, who 
 had watched Mr. Pickwick and every body else with silent 
 satisfaction — - it has occurred to me," said the deaf gentle- 
 man, taking his pipe from his lips, " that now is our time for 
 filling our only empty chair." 
 
 As our conversation had naturally turned upon the vacant 
 seat, we lent a willing ear to this remark, and looked at our 
 friend inquiringly. 
 
 "I feel sure," said he, "that Mr. Pickwick must be ac- 
 quainted with somebody who would be an acquisition to us • 
 that he must know the man we want. Pray let us not lose 
 any time, but set this question at rest. Is it so, Mr. Pick- 
 wick ? " 
 
 The gentleman addressed was about to return a verbal 
 reply, but remembering our friend's infirmity, he substituted 
 for this kind of answer some fifty nods. Then taking up 
 the slate and printing on it a gigantic " Yes," he handed it 
 across the table, and rubbing his hands as he looked round 
 upon our faces, protested that he and the deaf gentleman 
 quite understood each other, already. 
 
 " The person I have in my mind," said Mr. Pickwick, 
 " and whom I should not have presumed to mention to you 
 until some time hence, but for the opportunity you have 
 given me, is a very strange old man. His name is Bamber." 
 
 " Bamber ! " said Jack. " I have certainly heard the 
 name before." 
 
 " I have no doubt, then," returned Mr. Pickwick, "that 
 you remember him in those adventures of mine (the Posthu- 
 mous Papers of our old club, I mean), although he is only 
 incidentally mentioned ; and, if I remember right, appears 
 but once." 
 
202 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 " That's it," said Jack. " Let me see. He is the person 
 who has a grave interest in old moldy chambers and the 
 Inns of Court, and who relates some anecdotes having refer- 
 ence to his favorite theme — and an old ghost story — is that 
 the man ? " 
 
 " The very same. Now," said Mr. Pickwick, lowering his 
 voice to a mysterious and confidential tone, " he is a very ex- 
 traordinary and remarkable person ; living, and talking, and 
 looking, like some strange spirit, whose delight is to haunt old 
 buildings ; and absorbed in that one subject which you have 
 just mentioned, to an extent which is quite wonderful. When 
 I retired into private life, I sought him out, and I do assure 
 you that the more I see of him, the more strongly I am 
 impressed with the strange and dreamy character of his 
 mind." 
 
 " Where does he live ? " I inquired. 
 
 " He lives," said Mr. Pickwick, " in one of those dull, 
 lonely old places with which his thoughts and stories are all 
 connected ; quite alone, and often shut up close, for several 
 weeks together. In this dusty solitude he broods upon the 
 fancies he has so long indulged, and when he goes into the 
 world, or any body from the world without goes- to see him, 
 they are still present to his mind and still his favorite topic. 
 I may say, I believe, that he has brought himself to enter- 
 tain a regard for me, and an interest in my visits ; feelings 
 which I am certain he would extend to Master Humphrey's 
 Clock if he were once tempted to join us. All I wish you 
 to understand is, that he is a strange secluded visionary, in 
 the world but ' not of it ; and as unlike any body here as 
 he is unlike any body elsewhere that I have ever met or 
 known." 
 
 Mr. Miles received this account of our proposed com- 
 panion with rather a wry face, and after murmuring that 
 perhaps he was a little mad, inquired if he were rich. 
 
 " I never asked him," said Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 " You might know, sir, for all that," retorted Mr. Miles, 
 sharply. 
 
 " Perhaps so, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, no less sharply than 
 the other, " but I do not. Indeed," he added, relapsing 
 into his usual mildness, " I have no means of judging. He 
 lives poorly, but that would seem to be in keeping with his 
 character. I never heard him allude to his circumstances, 
 and never fell into the society of any man who had the 
 slightest acquaintance with them. I have really told you 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 203 
 
 all I know about him, and it rests with you to say whether 
 you wish to know more, or know quite enough already." 
 
 We were unanimously of opinion that we would seek to 
 know more ; and as a sort of compromise with Mr. Miles 
 (who, although he said, " Yes — Oh, certainly — he should 
 like to know more about the gentleman — he had no right to 
 put himself in opposition to the general wish," and so forth, 
 shook his head doubtfully, and hemmed several times with 
 peculiar gravity), it was arranged that Mr. Pickwick should 
 carry me with him on an evening visit to the subject of our 
 discussion, for which purpose an early appointment between 
 that gentleman and myself was immediately agreed upon ; 
 it being understood that I was to act upon my own respon- 
 sibility, and to invite him to join us or not, as I might think 
 proper. This solemn question determined, we returned to 
 the clock-case (where we have been forestalled by the 
 reader), and between its contents, and the conversation 
 they occasioned, the remainder of our time passed very 
 quickly. 
 
 When we broke up, Mr. Pickwick took me aside to tell 
 me that he had spent a most charming and delightful 
 evening. Having made this communication with an air of 
 the strictest secrecy, he took Jack Redburn into another 
 corner to tell him the same, and then retired into another 
 with the deaf gentleman and the slate, to repeat the assur- 
 ance. It was amusing to observe the contest in his mind 
 whether he should extend his confidence to Mr. Miles, or 
 treat him with dignified reserve. Half a dozen times he 
 stepped up behind him with a friendly air, and as often 
 stepped back again without saying a word ; at last, when he 
 was close at that gentleman's ear and upon the very point of 
 whispering something conciliating and agreeable, Mr. Miles 
 happened suddenly to turn his head, upon which Mr. Pick- 
 wick skipped away, and said with some fierceness, " Good- 
 night, sir — I was about to say good-night, sir — nothing 
 more ; " and so made a bow and left him. 
 
 " Now, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, when he had got down 
 stairs. 
 
 "All right, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold hard, sir. 
 Right arm fust — now the left — now one strong conwulsion, 
 and the great-coat's on, sir." 
 
 Mr. Pickwick acted upon these directions, and being 
 further assisted by Sam, who pulled at one side of the 
 collar, and Mr. Weller, who pulled hard at the other, was 
 
2o 4 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 speedily enrobed. Mr. Weller senior then produced a full- 
 sized stable lantern, which he had carefully deposited in a 
 remote corner, on his arrival, and inquired whether Mr. 
 Pickwick would have "the lamps alight." 
 
 " I think not to-night," said Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 " Then if this here lady vill per-mit me," rejoined Mr. 
 Weller, " we'll leave it here, ready for next journey. 
 This here lantern, mum," said Mr. Weller, handing it 
 to the housekeeper, " vunce belonged to the celebrated 
 Bill Blinder as is now at grass, as all on us vill be 
 in our turns. Bill, mum, wos the hostler as had charge 
 o' them two well-known piebald leaders that run in the 
 Bristol fast coach, and vould never go to no other tune 
 but a sutherly vind and a cloudy sky, which wos consekvently 
 played incessant, by the guard, wenever they wos on duty. 
 He wos took wery bad one arternoon, arter having been off 
 his feed, and wery shaky on his legs for some veeks ; and 
 he says to his mate, ' Matey,' he says, * I think I'm a-goin' 
 the wrong side o' the post, and that my foot's werry near the 
 bucket. Don't say I an't,' he says, 'for I know I am, and 
 don't let me be interrupted/ he says, 'for I've saved a little 
 money, and I'm a-goin' into the stable to make my last vill 
 and testymint.' ' I'll take care as nobody interrupts,' says 
 his mate, ' but you on'y hold up your head, and shake your 
 ears a bit, and you're good for twenty years to come.' Bill 
 Blinder makes him no answer, but he goes away into the 
 stable, and there he soon artervards lays himself down 
 a'tween the two piebalds, and dies, prevously a-writin' out- 
 side the corn-chest, ' This is the last vill and testymint of 
 Villiam Blinder.' They wos nat'rally wery much amazed at 
 this, and arter looking among the litter, and up in the loft, 
 and vere not, they opens the corn-chest, and finds that he'd 
 been and chalked his vill inside the lid ; so the lid wos ob- 
 ligated to be took off the hinges, and sent up to Doctor 
 Commons to be proved, and under that ere wery instrument 
 this here lantern was passed to 'Tony Veller, vich circum- 
 starnce, mum, gives it a wally in my eyes, and makes me 
 rekvest, if you vill be so kind, as to take partickler care 
 on it." 
 
 The housekeeper graciously promised to keep the object 
 of Mr. Weller's regard in the safest possible custody, and Mr. 
 Pickwick, with a laughing face, took his leave. The body- 
 guard followed, side by side : old Mr. Weller buttoned and 
 wrapped up from his boots to his chin ; and Sam with his 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 205 
 
 hands in his pockets and his hat half off his head, remonstra- 
 ting with his father, as he went, on his extreme loquacity. 
 
 I was not a little surprised, on turning to go up stairs, to 
 encounter the barber in the passage at that late hour ; for 
 his attendance is usually confined to some half-hour in the 
 morning. But Jack Redburn, who finds out (by instinct, I 
 think) every thing that happens in the house, informed me 
 with great glee, that a society in imitation of our own had 
 been formed in the kitchen, under the title of " Mr Weller's 
 Watch," of which the barber was a member ; and that he 
 could pledge himself to find means of making me acquainted 
 with the whole of its future proceedings, which I begged 
 him, both on my own account and that of my readers, by 
 no means to neglect doing.* 
 
 ******* 
 
 Old Curiosity Shop is continued here to the end of No. IV. 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 v. 
 
 MR. WELLER'S WATCH. 
 
 It seems that the housekeeper and the two Mr. Wellers 
 were no sooner left together on the occasion of their first 
 becoming acquainted, than the housekeeper called to her 
 assistance, Mr. Slithers, the barber, who had been lurking in 
 the kitchen in expectation of her summons ; and with many 
 smiles and much sweetness introduced him as one who would 
 assist her in the responsible office of entertaining her distin- 
 guished visitors. 
 
 "Indeed," said she, "without Mr. Slithers I should have 
 been placed in quite an awkward position." 
 
 "There is no call for any hock'erdness, mum," said Mr. 
 Weller, with the utmost politeness ; " no call wotsumever. A 
 lady," added the old gentleman, looking about him with an 
 air of one who establishes an incontrovertible position, — " a 
 lady can't be hock'erd. Natur' has otherwise purwided." 
 
 The housekeeper inclined her head and smiled yet more 
 sweetly. The barber, who had been fluttering about Mr. 
 Weller and Sam in a state of great anxiety to improve their 
 acquaintance, rubbed his hands and cried, " Hear, hear ! 
 Very true, sir ; " whereupon Sam turned about and steadily 
 regarded him for some seconds in silence. 
 
 " I never knew," said Sam, fixing his eyes in a ruminating 
 manner upon the blushing barber, — "I never knew but vun 
 o' your trade, but he was worth a dozen, and wos indeed 
 dewoted to his callin' ! " 
 
 " Was he in the easy shaving way, sir," inquired Mr. Slith- 
 ers ; " or in the cutting and curling line ? " 
 
 "Both," replied Sam ; " easy shavin' was his natur', and 
 cuttin' and curlin' was his pride and glory. His whole de- 
 light wos in his trade. He spent all his money in bears, 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 207 
 
 and run in debt for 'em besides, and there they wos a growl- 
 ing away down in the front cellar all day long, and ineffec* 
 tooally gnashing their teeth, vile the grease o' their relations 
 and friends wos being re-tailed in gallipots in the shop above, 
 and the first-floor winder wos ornamented vith their heads ; 
 not to speak o' the dreadful aggrawation it must have been 
 to 'em to see a man always a-walkir' up and down the pave- 
 ment outside, vith the portrait of a bear in his last agonies, 
 and underneath in large letters, ' \nother fine animal wos 
 slaughtered yesterday at Jinkinson's ! ' Hows'ever, there 
 they" wos, and there Jinkinson wos till he wos took wery ill 
 with some inn'ard disorder, lost the use of his legs, and wos 
 confined to his bed vere he laid a wery long time, but sich 
 wos his pride in his profession even then, that whenever he 
 wos worse than'usual the doctor used to go down stairs and 
 say, * Jinkinson's wery low this mornin ' ; we must give the 
 bears a stir ' ; and as sure as ever they stirred 'em up a bit 
 and made 'em roar, Jinkinson open his eyes if he wos ever 
 so bad, calls out, ' There's the bears ! ' and rewives agin." 
 
 "Astonishing ! " cried the barber. 
 
 " Not a bit," said Sam, " human natur' neat as imported. 
 Vun day the doctor happenin' to say, \ I shall look in as us- 
 ual to-morrow mormn',' Jinkinson catches hold of his hand, 
 and says, ' Doctor,' he says, 'will you grant me one favor? ' **? 
 1 I will, Jinkinson,' says the doctor. ' Then, doctor,' says 
 Jinkinson, ' vill you come, unshaved, and let me shave you ? ' 
 ' I will,' says the doctor. ' God bless you,' says Jinkinson. 
 Next day the doctor came, and arter he'd been shaved all 
 skillful and reg'lar, he says, ' Jinkinson,' he says, ' it's wery 
 plain this does you good. Now,' he says, ' I've got a coach- 
 man as has got a beard that it 'ud warm your heart to work 
 on, and though-the footman,' he says, 'hasn't got much of a 
 beard, still he's a-trying it on vith a pair o' viskers to that 
 extent that razors is Christian charity. If they take it in 
 turns to mind the carriage wen it's a-waitin' below,' he says, 
 ' wot's to hinder you from operatin' on both of 'em ev'ry 
 day as well as upon me ? you've got six children,' he says, 
 1 wot's to hinder you from shavin' all their heads and keep- 
 in' 'em shaved ? you've got two assistants in the shop down 
 stairs, wot's to hinder you from cuttin' and curlin' them as 
 often' as you like ? Do this,' he says, ' and you're a man 
 agin.' Jinkinson squeedged the doctor's hand and begun 
 that wery day; he kept his tools upon the bed, and wenever 
 he felt his-self gettin' worse, he turned to at vun o' the chil- 
 
208 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 dren who wos a-runnin' about the house vith heads like clean 
 Dutch cheeses, and shaved him ag'in. Vun day the lawyer 
 come to make his vill ; all the time he wos a takin' it down, 
 Jinkinson wos secretly a-clippin' avay at his hair with a large 
 pair of scissors. ' Wot's that 'ere snippin' noise ? ' says the 
 lawyer every now and then ; 'it's like a man havin' his hair 
 cut.' ' It is wery like a man havin' his hair cut,' says poor 
 Jinkinson, hidin' the scissors, and lookin' quite innocent. 
 By the time the lawyer found it out, he was wery nearly 
 bald. Jinkinson wos kept alive in this vay for a long time, 
 but at last vun day he has in all the children, vun after an- 
 other, shaves each on 'em wery clean, and gives him vun kiss 
 on the crown o' his head; then he has in the two assistants, 
 and arter cuttin' and curlin' of 'em in the first style of ele- 
 gance, says he should like to hear the woice o' the greasiest 
 bear, vich rekvest is immediately complied with ; then he 
 says that he feels wery happy in his mind and vishes to be 
 left alone ; and then he dies, previously cuttin' his own hair 
 and makin' 'one flat curl in the wery middle of his fore- 
 head." 
 
 This anecdote produced an extraordinary effect, not only 
 upon Mr. Slithers, but upon the housekeeper also, who 
 evinced so much anxiety to please and be pleased, that Mr. 
 Weller, with a manner betokening some alarm, conveyed 
 a whispered inquiry to his son whether he had gone " too 
 fur." 
 
 " Wot do you mean by too fur ? " demanded Sam. 
 
 " In that 'ere little compliment respectin' the want of hock'- 
 erdness in ladies, Sammy," replied his father. 
 
 " You don't think she's fallen in love with you in conse- 
 kens o' that, do you ? " said Sam. 
 
 " More unlikelier things have come to pass, my boy," re- 
 plied Mr. Weller in a hoarse whisper ; " I'm always afeerd of 
 inadwertent captiwation, Sammy. If I know'd how to make 
 myself ugly or unpleasant, I'd do it, Samivel, raytherthan live 
 in this here state of perpetival terror ! " 
 
 Mr. Weller had, at that time, no further opportunity of 
 dwelling upon the apprehensions which beset his mind, for the 
 immediate occasion of his fears proceeded to lead the way 
 down stairs, apologizing as they went for conducting him into 
 the kitchen, which apartment, however, she was induced to 
 proffer for his accommodation in preference to her own little 
 room, the rather as it afforded greater facilities for smoking, 
 and was immediately adjoining the ale-cellar. The prepara- 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 209 
 
 tions which were already made sufficiently proved that these 
 were not mere words of course, for on the deal table were a 
 sturdy ale jug and glasses, flanked with clean pipes and a 
 plentiful supply of tobacco for the old gentleman and his 
 son, while on a dresser hard by was goodly store of cold 
 meat and other eatables. At sight of these arrangements 
 Mr. Wellerwas at first distracted between his love of jovial- 
 ity and his doubts whether they were not to be considered 
 as so many evidences of captivation having already taken 
 place ; but he soon yielded to his natural impulse, and took 
 his seat at the table 'with a very jolly countenance. 
 
 " As to imbibin' any o' this here flagrant veed, mum, in 
 the presence of a lady," said Mr. Weller, taking up a pipe 
 and laying it down again, " it couldn't be. Samivel, total 
 abstinence, if you please." 
 
 " But I like it of all things," said the housekeeper. 
 
 "No," rejoined Mr. Weller, shaking his head, — "no." 
 
 " Upon my word I do," said the housekeeper. " Mr. 
 Slithers knows I do." 
 
 Mr. Weller coughed, and, notwithstanding the barber's 
 confirmation of the statement, said " No " again, but more 
 feebly than before. The housekeeper lighted a piece of 
 paper, and insjsted on applying it to the bowl of the pipe 
 with her own fair hands ; Mr. Weller resisted ; the house- 
 keeper cried that her fingers would be burned ; Mr. Weller 
 gave way. The pipe was ignited, Mr. Weller drew a long 
 puff of smoke, and detecting himself in the very act of 
 smiling on the housekeeper, put a sudden constraint upon 
 his countenance and looked sternly at the candle, with a de- 
 termination not to captivate, himself, or encourage thoughts 
 of captivation in others. From this iron frame of mind he 
 was roused by the voice of his son. 
 
 " I don't think," said Sam, who was smoking with great 
 composure and enjoyment, " that if the lady was agreeable 
 it 'ud be wery far out o' the vay for us four to make up a 
 club of our own like the governors does up stairs, and let 
 him," Sam pointed with the stem of his pipe toward his 
 parent, " be the president." 
 
 The housekeeper affably declared that it was the very 
 thing she had been thinking of. The barber said the same. 
 Mr. Weller said nothing, but he laid down his pipe as if in a 
 fit of inspiration, and performed the following maneuvers. 
 
 Unbuttoning the three lower buttons of his waistcoat, and 
 pausing for a moment to enjoy the easy flow of breath con* 
 
2to MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 sequent upon this process, he laid violent hands upon his 
 watch-chain and slowly and with extreme difficulty drew 
 from his fob an immense double-cased silver watch, which 
 brought the lining of the pocket with it, and was not to be 
 disentangled but by great exertions and an amazing redness 
 of face. Having fairly got it out at last, he detached the 
 outer case and wound it up with a key of corresponding 
 magnitude ; then put the case on again, and having applied 
 the watch to his ear to ascertain that it was still going, gave 
 it some half-dozen hard knocks on the table to improve its 
 performance. 
 
 " That," said Mr. Weller, laying it on the table with its 
 face upward, " is the title and emblem o' this here society. 
 Sammy, reach them two stools this vay for the wacant cheers. 
 Ladies and gen'lmen, Mr. Weller's Watch is vound up and 
 now a-goin'. Order ! " 
 
 By way of enforcing this proclamation, Mr. Weller, using 
 the watch after the manner of a president's hammer, and 
 remarking with great pride that nothing hurt it, and that 
 falls and concussions of all kinds materially enhanced the 
 excellence of the works and assisted the regulator, knocked 
 the table a great many times, and declared the association 
 formally constituted. 
 
 " And don't let's have no grinnin' at the cheer, Samiv.el," 
 said Mr. Weller to his son, " or I shall be committin' you to 
 the cellar, and then p'r'aps we may get into wot the 'Mer- 
 rikins call a fix, and the English a qvestion o' privileges." 
 
 Having uttered this friendly caution, the president settled 
 himself in his chair with great dignity, and requested that 
 Mr. Samuel would relate an anecdote. 
 
 " I've told one," said Sam. 
 
 " Wery good, sir ; tell another," returned the chair. 
 
 " We wos a talking jist now, sir," said Sam, turning to 
 Slithers, " about barbers. Pursuing that 'ere fruitful theme, 
 sir, I'll tell you in a wery few words a romantic little story 
 about another barber as p'r'aps you may never have heerd." 
 
 " Samivel ! " said Mr. Weller, again bringing his watch 
 and the table into smart collision, " address your obser- 
 wations to the cheer, sir, and not to priwate indiwiduals ! " 
 
 " And if I might rise to order," said the barber, in a soft 
 voice, and looking round him with a conciliatory smile as he 
 leaned over the table, with the knuckles of his left hand rest- 
 ing upon it, — " if I might rise to order, I would suggest that 
 'barbers' is not exactly the kind of language which is 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 211 
 
 agreeable and soothing to our feelings. You, sir, will cor- 
 rect me if I'm wrong, but I believe there is such a word in 
 the dictionary as hair-dressers." 
 
 " Well, but suppose he wasn't a hair-dresser," suggested 
 Sam. 
 
 " Wy then, sir, be parliamentary, and call him wun all the 
 more," returned his father. " In the same way as ev'ry 
 gen'lman in another place is a honorable, ev'ry barber in this 
 place is a hair-dresser. Ven you read the speeches in the 
 papers, and see as vun gen'lman says of another, " the hon- 
 orable member, if he vill allow me to call him so,' you will 
 understand, sir, that that means, ' if he will allow me to keep 
 up that 'ere pleasant and uniwersal fiction.' " 
 
 It is a common remark, confirmed by history and experi- 
 ence, that great men rise with the circumstances in which 
 they are placed. Mr. Weller came out so strong in his ca- 
 pacity of chairman, that Sam was for some time prevented 
 from speaking by a grin of surprise, which held his faculties 
 enchained, and at last subsided in a long whistle of a single 
 note. Nay, the old gentleman appeared even to have as- 
 tonished himself, and that to no small extent, as was demon- 
 strated by the vast amount of chuckling in which he in- 
 dulged after the utterance of these lucid remarks. 
 
 " Here's the story," said Sam. " Vunce upon a time there 
 wos a young hair-dresser as opened a wery smart little shop 
 with four wax dummies in the winder, two gen'lmen and two 
 ladies — the gen'lmen vith blue dots for their beards, wery 
 large viskers, ou-dacious heads of hair, uncommon clear 
 eyes, and nostrels of amazin' pinkness — the ladies with their 
 heads o' one side, their right forefingers on their lips, and 
 their forms deweloped beautiful, in vich last respect they had 
 the advantage over the gen'lmen, as vasn't allowed but very 
 little Shoulder, and terminated rayther abrupt, in fancy 
 drapery. He had also a many hair-brushes and tooth- 
 brushes bottled up in the winder, neat glass cases on the 
 counter, a floor-clothed cuttm'-room up stairs, and a weighin'- 
 macheen in the shop, right opposite the door ; but the great 
 attraction and ornament wos the dummies, which this here 
 young hair-dresser wos constantly a-runnin' out in the road 
 to look at, and constantly a-runnin' in agin to touch up and 
 polish, in short, he was so proud on 'em that ven Sunday 
 come, he wos always wretched and mis'rable to think they 
 wos behind the shutters, and looked anxiously for Monday 
 on that account. Vun o' these dummies was a fav'rite vith 
 
2i2 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 him beyond the others, and ven any of his acquaintances 
 asked him vy he didn't get married — as the young ladies he 
 know'd, in partickler, often did — he used to say, ' Never ! 
 I never will enter into the bonds of vedlock,' he says, ' until 
 I meet with a young 'ooman as realizes my idea o' that 'ere 
 fairest dummy vith the light hair. Then and not till then,' 
 he says, ' I vill approach the altar ! ' All the young ladies 
 he know'd as had got dark hair told him this wos very sinful, 
 and that he wos vorshippin' a idle, but them as vos at all 
 near the same shade as the dummy colored up wery much, 
 and wos observed to think him a wery nice young man." 
 
 " Samivel," said Mr. Weller, gravely, "a member o' this 
 assosiashun bein' one o' that 'ere tender sex which is now 
 immediately referred to, I have to rekvest that you will make 
 no reflexions." 
 
 " I ain't a makin' any, am I ? " inquired Sam. 
 
 " Order, sir ! " rejoined Mr. Weller, with severe dignity ; 
 then, sinking the chairman in the father, he added in his 
 usual tone o' voice, ' Samivel, drive on ! " 
 
 Sam interchanged a smile with the housekeeper, and pro- 
 ceeded : — 
 
 " The young hair-dresser hadn't been in the habit o' 
 makin' this awovval above six months, ven he en-countered a 
 young lady as wos the wery picter o' the fairest dummy. 
 1 Now,' he says, ' it's all up. I am a slave ! ' The young 
 lady wos not only the picter o' the fairest dummy, but she 
 wos wery romantic, as the young hair-dresser wos, too, and 
 he says, ' Oh ! ' he says, ' here's a community o' feelin', 
 here's a flow o' soul ! ' he says, ' here's a interchange o' senti- 
 ment ! ' The young lady didn't say much, o' course, but she 
 expressed herself agreeable, and shortly afterward vent to 
 see him vith a mutual friend. The hair-dresser rushes out 
 to meet her, but d'rectly she sees the dummies she changes 
 color and falls a-tremblin' wiolently. ' Look up, my love,' 
 says the hair-dresser, ' behold your image in my winder, but 
 not corrector than in my 'eart ! ' ' My image ! ' she says. 
 ' Yourn ! ' replies the hair-dresser. ' But whose image is 
 that ! ' she says, a-pinting at vun o' the gen'lmen. ' No 
 vun's, my love,' he says, ' it is but a idea.' ' A idea ! ' she 
 cries ; ■ it is a portrait, I feel it is a portrait, and that 'ere 
 noble face must be in themillingtary ! ' ' Wot do I hear ! ' 
 says he, a-crumplin' his curls. ' Villiam Gibbs,' she says, 
 quite firm, 'never renoo the subject. I respect you as a 
 friend,' she says, ' but my affections is set upon that manly 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 213 
 
 brow.' * This,' says the hair-dresser, * is a reg'lar blight, and 
 in it I perceive the hand of fate. Farevell ! ' Vith these 
 voids he rushes into the shop, breaks the dummy's nose vith 
 a blow of his curlin'-irons, melts him down at the parlor fire, 
 and never smiles arterverds." 
 
 " The young lady, Mr. Weller ? " said the housekeeper. 
 
 " Why, ma'am," said Sam, " finding that fate had a spite 
 agin her, and every body she come into contact with, she 
 never smiled neither, but read a deal o' poetry and pined 
 avay — by rayther slow degrees, for she an't dead yet. It 
 took a deal o' poetry to kill the hair-dresser, and some 
 people say arter all, that it was more the gin-and-water as 
 caused him to be run over, p'r'aps it wos a little o' both, 
 and came o' mixing the two." 
 
 The barber declared that Mr. Weller had related one of 
 the most interesting stories that had ever come within his 
 knowledge, in which opinion the housekeeper entirely con- 
 curred. 
 
 " Are you a married man, sir ? " inquired Sam. 
 
 The barber replied that he had not that honor. 
 
 " I s'pose you mean to be ? " said Sam. 
 
 " Well," replied the barber, rubbing his hands smirkingly, 
 " I don't know, 1 don't think it's very likely." 
 
 " That's a bad sign," said Sam ; " if you'd said you meant 
 to be vim o' these days, I should ha' looked upon you as 
 bein' safe. You're in a wery precarious state." 
 
 " I am not conscious of any danger, at all events," returned 
 the barber. 
 
 " No more wos I, sir," said the elder Mr. Weller, inter- 
 posing ; " those vere my symptoms, exactly. I've been took 
 that vay twice. Keep your vether eye open, my friend, or 
 you're gone." 
 
 There was something so very solemn about this admon- 
 ition, both in its matter and manner, and also in the way in 
 which Mr. Weller still kept his eye fixed upon the unsuspect- 
 ing victim, that nobody cared to speak for some little time, 
 and might not have cared to do so for some time longer, if 
 the housekeeper had not happened to sigh, which called off 
 the old gentleman's attention and gave rise to a gallant 
 inquiry whether " there wos any thing wery piercin' in that 
 'ere little heart." 
 
 "Dear me, Mr. Weller!" said the housekeeper, laugh- 
 ing- 
 
 ' No, but is there any thin' as agitates it ? " pursued the 
 
214 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 old gentleman. " Has it always been obderrate, always 
 opposed to the happiness o' human creeturs ? Eh ? Has 
 it?" 
 
 At this critical juncture for her blushes and confusion, 
 the housekeeper discovered that more ale was wanted, and 
 hastily withdrew into the cellar to draw the same, followed 
 by the barber, who insisted on carrying the candle. Having 
 looked after her with a very complacent expression of the 
 face, and after him with some disdain, Mr. Weller caused 
 his glance to travel slowly round the kitchen until at length 
 it rested on his son. 
 
 " Sammy," said Mr. Weller, " I mistrust that barber." 
 
 " Wot for ? " returned Sam, " wot's he got to do with you ? 
 You're a nice man, you are, arter pretendin' all kinds o* 
 terror, to go to paying compliments and talkin' about hearts 
 and piercers." 
 
 The imputation of gallantry appeared to afford Mr. Weller 
 the utmost delight, for he replied in a voice choked by sup- 
 pressed laughter, and with the tears in his eyes, — 
 
 M Wos I a-talkin' about hearts and piercers — wos I though, 
 Sammy, eh ? " 
 
 " Wos you ? of course you wos." 
 
 " She don't know no better, Sammy ; there an't no harm 
 in it — no danger, Sammy ; she's only a punster. She 
 seemed pleased, though, didn't she ? O' course, she wos 
 pleased, it's nat'ral she should be, wery nat'ral." 
 
 " He's wain of it ! " exclaimed Sam, joining in his father's 
 mirth. 4< He's actually wain ! " 
 
 " Hush ! " replied Mr. Weller, composing his features, 
 " they're a-comin' back — the little heart's a comin' back. 
 But mark these wurds o' mine once more, and remember 
 'em ven your father says he said 'em. Samivel, I mistrust 
 that 'ere deceitful barber."* 
 
 *01d Curiosity Shop is continued to the end of the number. 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 VI. 
 
 MASTER HUMPHREY FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE IN 
 THE CHIMNEY-CORNER. 
 
 Two or three evenings after the institution of Mr. Weller's 
 Watch, I thought I h'eard, as I walked in the garden, the 
 voice of Mr. Weller himself at no great distance; and 
 stopping once or twice to listen more attentively, I found 
 that the sounds proceeded from my housekeeper's little sit- 
 ting-room, which is at the back of the house. I took no 
 further notice of the circumstance at the time, but it formed 
 the subject for a conversation between me and Jack Red- 
 burn next morning, when I found I had not been deceived 
 in my impression. Jack furnished me with the following 
 particulars, and as he appeared to take extraordinary pleas- 
 ure in relating them, I have begged him in future to jot down 
 any such domestic scenes or occurrences that may please 
 his humor, in order that they may be told in his own way. 
 I must confess, that as Mr. Pickwick and he are constantly 
 together, I have been influenced in making this request, by a 
 secret desire to know something of their proceedings. 
 
 On the evening in question, the housekeeper's room was 
 arranged with particular care, and the housekeeper herself 
 was very smartly dressed. The preparations, however, were 
 not confined to mere showy demonstrations, as tea was pre- 
 pared for three persons, with a small display of preserves 
 and jams and sweetcakes, which heralded some uncommon 
 occasion. Miss Benton (my housekeeper bears that name) 
 was in a state of great expectation, too, frequently going to 
 the front door, and looking anxiously down the lane, and 
 more than once observing to the servant girl that she expected 
 
2 i6 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 company, and hoped no accident had happened to delay 
 them. 
 
 A modest ring at the bell at length allayed her fears, and 
 Miss Benton, hurrying into her own room and shutting her- 
 self up in order that she might preserve that appearance of 
 being taken by surprise which is so essential to the polite 
 reception of visitors, awaited their coming with a smiling 
 countenance. 
 
 " Good ev'nin', mum," said the older Mr. Weller, looking 
 in at the door after a prefatory tap. " I am afeered we've 
 come in rayther arter the time, mam, but the young colt 
 being full o' wice, has been a-boltin' and shyin' and gettin* 
 his leg over the traces to sich a extent that if he ain't wery 
 soon broke in, he'll wex me into a broken heart, and then 
 he'll never be brought out no more except to learn his let- 
 ters from the writin' on his grandfather's tombstone." 
 
 With these pathetic words, which were addressed to some- 
 thing outside the door about two feet six from the ground, 
 Mr. Weller introduced a very small boy firmly set upon a 
 couple of very sturdy legs, who looked as if nothing could 
 ever knock him down. Besides having a very round face 
 strongly resembling Mr. Weller's, and a stout little body of 
 exactly his build, this young gentleman, standing with his 
 little legs very wide apart as if the top-boots were familiar 
 to them, actually winked upon the housekeeper with his in- 
 fant eye, in imitation of his grandfather. 
 
 " There's a naughty boy, mum," said Mr. Weller, bursting 
 with delight ; " there's a immoral Tony. Wos there ever a 
 little chap o' four year and eight months old as vinked his 
 eye at a strange lady afore ? " 
 
 As little affected by this observation as by the former ap- 
 peal to his feelings, Master Weller elevated in the air a small 
 model of a coach whip which he carried in his hand, and 
 addressing the housekeeper with a shrill "ya — hip!" in- 
 quired if she was "going down the road ;" at which happy 
 adaptation of a lesson he had been taught from infancy, Mr. 
 Weller could restrain his feelings no longer, but gave him 
 twopence on the spot. 
 
 " It's in wain to deny it, mum," said Mr. Weller, " this 
 here is a boy arter his grandfather's own heart, and beats 
 out all the boys as ever wos or will be. Though at the same 
 time, mum," added Mr. Weller, trying to look gravely down 
 upon his favorite, " it was wery wrong on him to want to — 
 over all the posts as we come along, and wery cruel on him to 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 217 
 
 force poor grandfather to lift him cross-legged over every 
 vun of 'em. He wouldn't pass one single vun of 'em. He 
 wouldn't pass vun single blessed post, mum, and at the top 
 o' the lane there's seven-and-forty on 'em all in a row, and 
 wery close together." 
 
 Here Mr. Weller, whose feelings were in a perpetual con- 
 flict between pride in his grandson's achievements, and a 
 sense of his own responsibility and the importance of im- 
 pressing him with moral truths, burst into a fit of laughter, 
 and suddenly checking himself, remarked in a severe tone 
 that little boys as made their grandfathers put 'em over posts 
 never went to heaven at any price. 
 
 By this time the housekeeper had made tea, and little 
 Tony, placed on a chair beside her, with his eyes nearly on 
 a level with the top of the table, was provided with various 
 delicacies which yielded him extreme contentment. The 
 housekeeper (who seemed rather afraid of the child, not- 
 withstanding her caresses) then patted him on the head and 
 declared that he was the finest boy she had ever seen. 
 
 " Wy, mum," said Mr. Weller, " I don't think you'll see a 
 many sich, and that's the truth. But if my son Samivel 
 would give me my vay, mum, and only dispense vith his — 
 might I wenter to say the vurd ? " 
 
 " What word, Mr. Weller ? " said the housekeeper, blush- 
 ing slightly. 
 
 " Petticuts, mum," returned that gentleman, laying his 
 hand upon the garments of his grandson. " If my son 
 Samivel, mum, vould only dis-pense' vith these here, you'd 
 see such a alteration in his appearance, as the imagination 
 can't depicter." 
 
 " But what would you have the child wear instead, Mr. 
 Weller ? " said the housekeeper. 
 
 " I've offered my son Samivel, agen and agen," returned 
 the old gentleman, " to purwide him at my own cost vith a 
 suit o' clothes as 'ud be thefmakin' on him, and form his 
 mind in infancy for those pursuits as I hope the family o' 
 the Vellers vill alvays dewote themselves to. Tony, my boy, 
 tell the lady wot them clothes are, as grandfather says, father 
 ought to let you vear." 
 
 "A little white "hat and a little sprig weskut and little 
 knee cords and little top-boots and a little green coat with 
 little bright buttons and a little welwet collar," replied 
 Tony, with great readiness and no stops. 
 
 " That's the cos-toom, mum," said Mr. Weller, looking 
 
2i3 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 proudly at the housekeeper. " Once make sich a model on 
 him as that, and you'd say he was a angel ! " 
 
 Perhaps the housekeeper thought that in such a guise 
 young Tony would look more like the angel- at Islington than 
 any thing else of that name, or perhaps she was disconcerted 
 to find her previously conceived ideas disturbed, as angels 
 are not commonly represented in top-boots and sprig waist- 
 coats. She coughed, doubtfully, but said nothing. 
 
 " How many brothers and sisters have you, my dear r " she 
 asked, after a short silence. 
 
 " One brother and no sister at all," replied Tony. " Sam 
 his name is, and so's my father's. Do you know my father ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, 1 know him," said the housekeeper, graciously. 
 
 "Is my father fond of you ? " pursued Tony. 
 
 " 1 hope so," rejoined the smiling housekeeper. 
 
 Tony considered a moment, and then said, " Is my grand- 
 father fond of you ? " 
 
 This would seem a very easy question to answer, but in- 
 stead of replying to it, the housekeeper smiled in great con- 
 fusion, and said that really children did ask such extraor- 
 dinary questions that it was the most difficult thing in the 
 world to talk to them. Mr. Weller took upon himself to 
 reply that he was very fond of the lady ; but the housekeeper 
 entreating that he would not put such things into the child's 
 head, Mr. Weller shook his own while she looked another 
 way, and seemed to be troubled with a misgiving that cap- 
 tivation was in progress. It was, perhaps, on this account 
 that he changed the subject precipitately. 
 
 " It's wery wrong in little boys to make game o' their 
 grandfathers, an't it, mum ? " said Mr. Weller, shaking his 
 head waggishly, until Tony looked at him, when he counter- 
 feited the deepest dejection and sorrow. 
 
 " Oh, very sad ! " assented the housekeeper. " But I hope 
 no little boys do that? " 
 
 " There is vim young Turl?, mum," said Mr. Weller, " as 
 havin' seen his grandfather a little overcome vith drink on 
 the occasion of a friend's birthday, goes a-reelin' and stag- 
 germ' about the house, and makin' believe that he's the old 
 genTm'n." 
 
 " Oh, quite shocking ! " cried the housekeeper. 
 
 u Yes, mum," said Mr. Weller, " and previously to so doin', 
 this here young traitor that I'm a-speakin' of, pinches his 
 little nose to make it red, and then he gives a hiccup and 
 says, ' I'm all right,' he says, ' give us another song ! ' Ha, 
 ha ! ' Give us another son/* ' *^ «»*« Ha. ha, ha I " 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. * 219 
 
 In his excessive delight, Mr. Weller was quite unmindful 
 of his moral responsibility, until little Tony kicked up his 
 legs, and laughing immoderately, cried, " That was me, that 
 was ; " whereupon the grandfather, by a great-effort, became 
 extremely solemn. 
 
 " No, Tony, not you," said Mr. Weller. " I hope it warn't 
 you, Tony. It must ha' been that 'ere naughty little chap as 
 comes sometimes out o' the empty watch-box round the cor- 
 ner — that same little chap as wos found standing on the table 
 afore the looking-glass, pretending to shave himself with an 
 oyster-knife." 
 
 "He didn't hurt himself, I hope?" observed the house- 
 keeper. 
 
 "Not he, mum," said Mr. Weller, proudly ; " bless your 
 heart, you might trust that 'ere boy vith a steam-engine 
 a most, he's such a knowin' young — " But suddenly recol- 
 lecting himself, and observing that Tony perfectly under- 
 stood and appreciated the compliment, the old gentleman 
 groaned and observed that " it wos all wery shockin' — 
 wery." 
 
 " Oh, he's a bad 'un," said Mr. Weller, " is that 'ere watch- 
 box boy, makin' such a noise and litter in the back yard, he 
 does, waterin' wooden horses and feedin' of 'em vith grass, 
 and perpetivally spillin' his little brother out of a veelbarrow 
 and frightenin' his mother out of her wits, at the wery mo- 
 ment wen she's expectin' to increase his stock of happiness 
 vith another playfeller — Oh, he's a bad 'un ! He's even gone 
 so far as to put on a pair o' paper spectacles as he got his 
 father to make for him, and walk up and down the garden 
 vith his hands behind him in imitation of Mr. Pickwick — 
 but Tony don't do sich things, oh no ! " 
 
 " Oh no ! " echoed Tony. 
 
 " He knows better, he does," said Mr. Weller. " He knows 
 that if he was to come sich games as these nobody wouldn't 
 love him, and that his grandfather in partickler couldn't 
 abear the sight on him ; for vhich reasons Tony's always 
 good." 
 
 "Always good," echoed Tony; and his grandfather im- 
 mediately took him on his knee and kissed him, at the same 
 time, with many nods and winks, slyly pointing at the child's 
 head with his thumb, in order that the housekeeper, other- 
 wise deceived by the admirable manner in which he (Mr. 
 Weller) had sustained his character, might not suppose that 
 any other young gentleman was referred to, and might 
 
220 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 clearly understand that the boy of the watch-box was but an 
 imaginary creation, and a fetch of Tony himself, invented 
 for his improvement and reformation. 
 
 Not confining himself to a mere verbal description of his 
 grandson's abilities, Mr. Weller, when tea was finished, in- 
 cited him by various gifts of pence and halfpence to smoke 
 imaginary pipes, drink visionary beer from real pots, imitate 
 his grandfather without reserve, and in particular to go 
 through the drunken scene, which threw the old gentleman 
 into ecstasies and filled the housekeeper with wonder. Nor 
 was Mr. Weller's pride satisfied with even this display, for 
 when he took his leave he carried the child, like some rare 
 and astonishing curiosity, first to the barber's house and 
 afterward to the tobacconist's, at each of which places he 
 repeated his performances with the utmost effect to applaud- 
 ing and delighted audiences. It was half past nine o'clock 
 when Mr. Weller was last seen carrying him home upon his 
 shoulder, and it has been whispered abroad that at that time 
 the infant Tony was rather intoxicated.* 
 
 [Master Humphrey is revived thus at the close of The Old Curiosity Shop, merely 
 to introduce Barnaby Rudge.] 
 
 I was musing the other evening upon the characters and 
 incidents with which I had been so long engaged ; wonder- 
 ing how I could ever have looked forward with pleasure to 
 the completion of my tale, and reproaching myself for having 
 done so, as if it were a kind of cruelty to those companions 
 of my solitude whom I had now dismissed, and could never 
 again recall ; when my clock struck ten. Punctual to the 
 hour, my friends appeared. 
 
 On our last night of meeting we had finished the story 
 which the reader has just concluded. Our conversation took 
 the same current as the meditations which the entrance of 
 my friends had interrupted, and The Old Curiosity Shop 
 was the staple of our discourse. 
 
 I may confide to the reader now, that in connection with 
 this little history I had something upon my mind ; some- 
 thing to communicate which I had all along with difficulty 
 repressed ; something 1 had deemed it, during the progress 
 of the story, necessary to its interest to disguise, and which, 
 now that it was over, I wished, and was yet reluctant to dis- 
 close. 
 
 To conceal any thing from those to whom I am attached, 
 
 * Old Curiosity Shop is continued from here to the end without interruption. 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 221 
 
 is not in my nature. I can never close my lips where I have 
 opened my heart. This temper, and the consciousness of 
 having done some violence to it in my narrative, laid me 
 under a "restraint which I should have had great difficulty 
 in overcoming, but for a timely remark from Sir. Miles, who, 
 as I hinted in a former paper, is a gentleman of business 
 habits, and of great exactness and propriety in all his trans- 
 actions. 
 
 " I could have wished," my friend objected, "that we had 
 been made acquainted with the single gentleman's name. I 
 don't like his withholding his name. It made me look upon 
 him at first with suspicion, and caused me to doubt his 
 moral character, I assure you. I am fully satisfied by this 
 time of his being a worthy creature, but in this respect he 
 certainly would not appear to have acted at all like a man 
 of business." 
 
 " My friends," said I, drawing to the table, at which they 
 were by this time seated in their usual chairs, " do you re- 
 member that this story bore another title besides that one 
 we have so often heard of late ? " 
 
 Mr. Miles had his pocket-book out in an instant, and re- 
 ferring to an entry therein, rejoined, " Certainly. Personal 
 Adventures of Master Humphrey. Here it is. I made a 
 note of it at the time." 
 
 I was about to resume what I had to tell them, when the 
 same Mr. Miles again interrupted me, observing that the 
 narrative originated in a personal adventure of my own, and 
 that was no doubt the reason for its being thus designated. 
 
 This led me to the point at once. 
 
 " You will one and all forgive me," I returned, " if, for 
 the greater convenience of the stcry, and for its better intro- 
 duction, that adventure was fictitious. I had my share, in- 
 deed—no light or trivial one — in the pages we have read, 
 but it was not the share I feigned to have at first. The 
 younger brother, the single gentleman, the nameless actor 
 in this little drama, stands before you now." 
 
 It was easy to see they had not expected this disclosure. 
 
 " Yes," I pursued. " I can look back upon my part in it 
 with a calm, half-smiling pity for myself as for some other 
 man. But I am he, indeed ; and now the chief sorrows of 
 my life are yours." 
 
 I need not say what tiue gratification I derived from the 
 sympathy and kindness with which this acknowledgment 
 was received ; nor how often it had risen to my lips before ; 
 
222 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 nor how difficult I had found it — how impossible, when 1 
 came to those passages which touched me most, and most 
 nearly concerned me — to sustain the character 1 had as- 
 sumed. It is enough to say that I replaced in the clock- 
 case the record of so many trials — sorrowfully, it is true, 
 but with a softened sorrow which was almost pleasure ; and 
 felt that in living through the past again, and communica- 
 ting to others the lessen it had helped to teach me, I had 
 been a happier man. 
 
 We lingered so long over the leaves from which I had 
 read, that as I consigned them to their former resting-place, 
 the hand of my trusty clock pointed to twelve, and there 
 came toward us upon the wind the voice cf the deep and 
 distant bell of St. Paul's as it struck the hour of midnight. 
 
 " This," said I, returning with a manuscript I had taken, 
 at the moment, from the same repository, " to be opened to 
 such music, should be a tale where London's face by night 
 is darkly seen, and where some deed of such a time as this 
 is dimly shadowed out. Which of us here has seen the 
 working of that great machine whose voice has just now 
 ceased ? " 
 
 Mr. Pickwick had, of course, and so had Mr. Miles. Jack 
 and my deaf friend were in the minority. 
 
 I had seen it but a few days before, and could not help 
 telling them of the fancy I had had about it. 
 
 I paid my fee of twopence upon entering, to one of the 
 money-changers who sit within the Temple ; and falling, 
 after a few turns up and down, into the quiet train of thought 
 which such a place awakens, paced the echoing stones like 
 some old monk whose present world lay all within its walls. 
 As I looked afar up into the lofty dome, 1 could not help 
 wondering what were his reflections whose genius reared 
 that mighty pile, when, the last small wedge of timber fixed, 
 the last nail driven into its home for many centuries, the 
 clang of hammers, and the hum of busy voices gone, and 
 the great silence whole years of noise had helped to make, 
 reigning undisturbed around, he mused as I did now, upon 
 his work, and lost himself amid its vast extent. I could not 
 quite determine whether the contemplation of it would im- 
 press him with a sense of greatness or of insignificance ; but 
 when I remembered how long a time it had taken to erect, 
 in how short a space it might be traversed even to its re- 
 motest parts, for how brief a term he or any of those who 
 cared to bear his name, would live to see it or know of its 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 223 
 
 existence, I imagined him far more melancholy than proud, 
 and looking with regret upon his labor done. With these 
 thoughts in my mind, I began to ascend, almost uncon- 
 sciously, the flight of steps leading to the several wonders of 
 the building, and found myself before a barrier where an- 
 other money-taker sat, who demanded which among them I 
 would choose to see. There were the stone-gallery, he said, 
 and the whispering gallery, the geometrical staircase, the 
 room of models, the clock — the clock being quite in my 
 way, I stopped him there, and chose that sight from all the 
 rest. 
 
 I groped my way into the turret which it occupies, and saw 
 before me, in a kind of loft, what seemed to be a great, old 
 oaken press with folding doors. These being thrown back by 
 the attendant (who was sleeping when I came upon him), 
 and looked a drowsy fellow, as though his close companion- 
 ship with time had made him quite indifferent to it), dis- 
 closed a complicated crowd of wheels and chains in iron 
 and brass — great, sturdy, rattling engines — suggestive of 
 breaking a finger put in here or there, and grinding the 
 bone to powder — and these were the clock ! Its very pulse, 
 if I may use the word, was like no other clock. It did not 
 mark the flight of every moment with a gentle second stroke, 
 as though it would check old Time, and have him stay his 
 pace in pity, but measured it with one sledge-hammer beat, 
 as if its business were to crush the seconds as they came 
 trooping on, and remorselessly to clear a path before the 
 Day of Judgment. 
 
 I sat down opposite to it, and hearing its regular and 
 never-changing voice, that one deep constant note, upper- 
 most among all the noise and clatter in the streets below — 
 marking that, let that tumult rise or fall, go on or stop — let 
 it be night or noon, to-morrow or to-day, this year or next 
 — it still performed its functions with the same dull con- 
 stancy, and regulated the progress of the life around, the 
 fancy came upon me that this was London's heart, and 
 that when it should cease to beat, the city would bt no 
 more. 
 
 It is night. Calm and unmoved amidst the scenes that 
 darkness favors, the great heart of London throbs in its 
 giant breast. Wealth and beggary, vice and virtue, guilt and 
 innocence, repletion and the direst hunger, all treading on 
 each other and crowding together, are gathered around it. 
 Draw but a little circle above the clustering house-tops, and 
 
£2 4 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 you shall have within its spaces every thing, with its opposite 
 extreme and contradiction, close beside. Where yonder 
 feeble light is shining, a man is but this moment dead. The 
 taper at a few yards' distance is seen by eyes that have this 
 instant opened on the world. There are two houses separated 
 by but an inch or two of wall In one, there are quiet 
 minds at rest ; in the other, a waking conscience that one 
 might think would trouble the very air. In that close corner 
 where the roofs shrink down and cower together as if to 
 hide their secrets from the handsome street hard by, there 
 are such dark crimes, such miseries and horrors, as could 
 be hardly told in whispers. In the handsome street, there 
 are folks asleep who have dwelt there all their lives, and 
 have no more knowledge of these things than if they had 
 never been, or were transacted at the remotest limits of the 
 world — who, if they were hinted at, would shake their 
 heads, look wise, and frown, and say they were impossible 
 and out of nature — as if all great towns were not. Does 
 not this heart of London, that nothing moves, nor stops, nor 
 quickens — that goes on the same let what will be done- 
 does it not express the city's character well ! 
 
 The day begins to break, and soon there is the hum and 
 noise of life. Those who have spent the night on door-steps 
 and cold stones crawl off to beg ; they who have slept in 
 beds come forth to their occupation, too, and business is 
 astir. The fog of sleep rolls slowly off, and London shines 
 awake. The streets are filled with carriages, and people 
 gayly clad. The jails are full, too, to the throat, nor have the 
 work-houses or hospitals much room to spare. The courts of 
 law are crowded. Taverns have their regular frequenters by 
 this time, and every mart of traffic has its throng. Each of 
 these places is a world, and has its own inhabitants ; each is 
 distinct from, and almost unconscious of the existence 
 of any other. There are some few people well to do, who 
 remember to have heard it said, that numbers of men and 
 women — thousands, they think it was — get up in London 
 every day, unknowing where to lay their heads at night : 
 and there are quarters of the town where misery and famine 
 always are. They don't believe it quite— there may be 
 some truth in it, but it is exaggerated, of course^ So, each 
 of these thousand worlds goes on, intent upon itself, until 
 night comes again — first with its lights and pleasures, and 
 cheerful streets ; then with its guilt and darkness. 
 
 Heart of London, there is a moral in thy every stroke ! as 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 225 
 
 I look on at thy indomitable working, which neither death, nor 
 press of life, nor grief, nor gladness out of doors will in- 
 fluence one jot. I seem to hear a voice within thee which 
 sinks into my heart, bidding me, as I elbow my way among 
 the crowd, have some thought for the meanest wretch that 
 passes, and, being a man, to turn away with scorn and pride 
 from none that bear the human shape. 
 
 I am by no means sure that I might not have been tempted 
 to enlarge upon the subject, had not the papers that lay be- 
 fore me on the table been a silent reproach for even this 
 digression. I took them up again when I had got thus far, 
 and seriously prepared to read. 
 
 The handwriting was strange to me, for the manuscript had 
 been fairly copied. As it is against our rules, in such a case, 
 to inquire into the authorship until the reading is concluded, I 
 could only glance at the different faces round me, in search of 
 some expression which should betray the writer. Whoever he 
 might be, he was prepared for this, and gave no sign for my 
 enlightenment. 
 
 I had the papers in my hand, when my deaf friend inter- 
 posed with a suggestion. 
 
 " It has occurred to me," he said, "bearing in mind your 
 sequel to the tale we have finished, that if such of us as have 
 any thing to relate of our own lives could interweave it with 
 our contribution to the clock, it would be well to do so. 
 This need be no restraint upon us, either as to time, or place, 
 or incident, since any real passage of this kind may be sur- 
 rounded by fictitious circumstances, and represented by fic- 
 titious characters. What if we make this an article of agree- 
 ment among ourselves ? " 
 
 The proposition was cordially received, but the difficulty 
 appeared to be that here was a long story written before we 
 had thought of it. 
 
 " Unless," said I, " it should have happened that the 
 writer of this tale — which is not impossible, for men are apt 
 to do so when they .write— has actually mingled with it 
 something of his own endurance and experience." 
 
 Nobody spoke, but I thought I detected in one quarter 
 that this was really the case. 
 
 " If I have no assurance to the contrary," I added, there- 
 fore, " I shall take it for granted that he has done so, and that 
 even these papers come within our new agreement. Every 
 body being mute, we hold that understanding, if you please.'' 
 
226 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 And there I was about to begin again, when Jack informed 
 us softly, that during the progress of our late narative, Mr. 
 Weller's Watch had adjourned its sittings from the kitchen, 
 and regularly met outside our door, where he had no doubt 
 that august body would be found at the present moment. 
 As this was for the convenience of listening to our stories, 
 he submitted that they might be suffered to come in, and 
 hear them more pleasantly. 
 
 To this we one and all yielded a ready assent, and the 
 party being discovered, as Jack had supposed, and invited 
 to walk in, entered (though not without great confusion at 
 having been detected), and were accommodated with chairs at 
 a little distance. 
 
 Then, the lamp being trimmed, the fire well stirred and 
 burning brightly, the hearth clean swept, the curtains closely 
 drawn, the clock wound up, we entered on our new story, — 
 Barnaby Rudge. 
 
 [This is, as indicated, the last appearance of Master Humphrey's Clock. It forms the 
 conclusion of Barnaby Rudge.] 
 
 It is again midnight. My fire burns cheerfully ; the room 
 is filled with my old friend's sobered voice ; and I am left 
 to muse upon the story we have just now finished. 
 
 It makes me smile, at such a time as this, to think if there 
 were any one to see me sitting in my easy-chair, my gray 
 head hanging down, my eyes bent thoughtfully upon the 
 glowing embers, and my crutch — emblem of my helplessness 
 — lying upon the hearth at my feet, how solitary I should seem. 
 Yet though I am the sole tenant of this chimney-corner, 
 though I am childless and old, I have no sense of loneliness 
 at this hour ; but am the center of a silent group whose 
 company I love. 
 
 Thus even age and weakness have their consolations. If 
 I were a young man, if I were more active, more strongly 
 bound and tied to life, these visionary friends would shun 
 me, or I should desire to fly from them. Being what I am, 
 I can court their society, and delight in it ; and pass whole 
 hours in picturing to myself the shadows that perchance 
 flocked every night into this chamber, and in imagining with 
 pleasure what kind of interest they have in the frail, feeble 
 mortal who is its sole inhabitant. 
 
 All the friends I have ever lost I find again among these 
 visitors. I love to fancy their spirits hovering about me, 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 227 
 
 feeling still some earthly kindness for their old companion, 
 and watching his decay. " He is weaker, he declines apace, 
 he draws nearer and nearer to us, and will soon be conscious 
 of our existence." What is there to alarm me in this ? It 
 is encouragement and hope. 
 
 These thoughts have never crowded on me half so fast as 
 they have done to-night. Faces I had long forgotten have 
 become familiar to me once again ; traits I had endeavored 
 to recall for years, have come before me in an instant ; 
 nothing is changed but me ; and even I can be my former 
 self at will. 
 
 Raising my eyes but now to the face of my old clock, I 
 remember, quite involuntarily, the veneration, not unmixed 
 with a sort of childish awe, with which I used to sit 
 and watch it as it ticked unheeded in a dark staircase 
 corner. I recollect looking more grave and steady when 
 I met its dusty face, as if, having that strange kind of 
 life within it, and being free from all excess of vulgar 
 appetite, and warning all the house by night and day, it were 
 a sage. How often have I listened to it as it told the 
 beads of time, and wondered at its constancy ! How often 
 watched it slowly pointing round the dial, and, while I panted 
 for the eagerly expected hour to come, admired, despite my- 
 self, its steadiness of purpose and lofty freedom from all 
 human strife, impatience and desire ! 
 
 I thought it cruel once. It was very hard of heart, to my 
 mind, I remember. It was an old servant, even then ; and I 
 felt as though it ought to show some sorrow ; as though it 
 wanted sympathy with us in our distress, and were a dull, 
 heartless, mercenary creature. Ah ! how soon I learned to 
 know that in its ceaseless going on, and in its being checked 
 or staid by nothing, lay its greatest kindness, and the only 
 balm for grief and wounded peace of mind ! 
 
 To-night, to-night, when this tranquillity and calm are on 
 my spirits, and memory presents so many shifting scenes be- 
 fore me, I take my quiet stand at will by many a fire that 
 has been long extinguished, and mingle with the cheerful 
 group that cluster round it. If I could be sorrowful in such 
 a mood, I should grow sad to think what a poor blot I was 
 upon their youth and beauty once, and now how few remain 
 to put me to the blush ; I should grow sad to think that such 
 among them as I sometimes meet with in my daily walks are 
 scarcely less infirm than I ; that time has brought us to a 
 level ; and that all distinctions fade and vanish as we take 
 our trembling steps toward the grave. 
 
228 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 But memory was given us for better purposes than this, 
 and mine is not a torment, but a source of pleasure. To 
 muse upon the gayety and youth I have known, suggest to 
 me glad scenes of harmless mirth that may be passing now. 
 From contemplating them apart, I soon become an actor in 
 these little dramas ; and, humoring my fancy, lose myself 
 among the beings it invokes. 
 
 When my fire is bright and high, and a warm blush man- 
 tles in the walls and ceiling of this ancient room ; when my 
 clock makes cheerful music, like one of those chirping in- 
 sects who delight in the warm hearth, and are sometimes, by 
 a good superstition, looked upon as the harbingers of for- 
 tune and plenty to that household in whose mercies they put 
 their humble trust ; when every thing is in a ruddy, genial 
 glow, and there are voices in the crackling flame, and smiles 
 in its flashing light ; other smiles and other voices congre- 
 gate around me, invading, with their pleasant harmony, the 
 silence of the time. 
 
 For then a knot of youthful creatures gather round my 
 fireside, and the room re-echoes to their merry voices. My 
 solitary chair no longer holds its ample place before the fire, 
 but it is wheeled into a smaller corner to leave more room 
 for the broad circle formed about the cheerful hearth. I 
 have sons, and daughters, and grandchildren ; and we are as- 
 sembled on some occasion of rejoicing common to us all. It 
 is a birthday, perhaps, or perhaps it may be Christmas-time ; 
 but be it what it may, there is rare holiday among us ; we 
 are full of glee. 
 
 In the chimney-corner, opposite myself, sits one who has 
 grown old beside me. She is changed, of course ; much 
 changed ; and yet I recognize the girl even in that gray hair 
 and wrinkled brow. Glancing from the laughing child who 
 half hides in her ample skirts, and half peeps out — and from 
 her to the little matron of twelve years old, who sits so wo- 
 manly and so demure at no great distance from me — and 
 from her again, to a fair girl in the full bloom of early wo- 
 manhood, the center of the group, who has glanced more 
 than once toward the opening door, and by whom the chil- 
 dren, whispering and tittering among themselves, will leave 
 a vacant chair, although she bids them not — I see her image 
 thrice repeated, and feel how long it is before one form and 
 set of features wholly pass away, if ever, from among the liv- 
 ing. While I am dwelling upon this, and tracing out the 
 gradual change from infancy to youth, from youth to per- 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 229 
 
 feet growth, from that to age ; and thinking, with an old 
 man's pride, that she is comely yet ; I feel a slight, thin hand 
 upon my arm, and, looking down, see seated at my feet a 
 crippled boy — a gentle, patient child — whose aspect I know 
 well. He rests upon a little crutch — I know it too — and 
 leaning on it as he climbs my footstool, whispers in my ear, 
 " I am hardly one of these, dear grandfather, although I 
 love them dearly. They are very kind to me, but you will 
 be kinder still, 1 know." 
 
 I have my hand upon his neck, and stoop to kiss him, 
 when my clock strikes, my chair is in its old spot, and I am 
 alone. 
 
 What if I be ? What if this fireside be tenantless, save for 
 the presence of one weak old man ? From my house-top I can 
 look upon a hundred homes, in every one of which these social 
 companions are matters of reality. In my daily walks I pass a 
 thousand men whose cares are all forgotten, whose labors aie 
 made light, whose dull routine of work from day to day is 
 cheered and brightened by their glimpses of domestic joy at 
 home. Amid the struggles of this struggling townwhat cheerful 
 sacrifices arc made ; what toil endured with readiness ; what 
 patience shown and fortitude displayed for the mere sake of 
 home and its affections ! Let me thank heaven that I can peo~ 
 pie my fireside with shadows such as these ; with shadows of 
 bright objects that exist in crowds about me ; and let me 
 say, " I am alone no more." 
 
 I never was less so — I write it with a grateful heart — than 
 I am to-night. Recollections of the past and visions of the 
 present come to bear me company ; the meanest man to 
 whom I have ever given alms appears to add his mite of 
 peace and comfort to my stock ; and whenever the fire 
 within me shall grow cold, to light my path upon this earth 
 no more, I pray that it may be at such an hour as this, and 
 when I love the world as well as I do now. 
 
 THE DEAF GENTLEMAN FROM HIS OWN APARTMENT. 
 
 Our dear friend laid down his pen at the end of the fore- 
 going paragraph, to take it up no more. I little thought ever 
 to employ mine upon so sorrowful a task as that which he 
 has left me, and to which I now devote it. 
 
 As he did not appear among us at his usual hour next 
 morning, we knocked gently at his door. No answer being 
 given, it was softly opened ; and then, to our surprise, we 
 
230 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 saw him seated before the ashes of his fire, with a little 
 table I was accustomed to set at his elbow when I left him 
 for the night, at a short distance from him, as though he had 
 pushed it away with the idea of rising and retiring to his 
 bed. His crutch and footstool lay at his feet as usual, and 
 he was dressed in his chamber-gown, which he had put on 
 before I left him. He was reclining in his chair, in his ac- 
 customed posture, with his face toward the fire, and seemed 
 absorbed in meditation — indeed, at first, we almost hoped 
 he was. 
 
 Going up to him, we found him dead. I have often, very 
 often, seen him sleeping, and always peacefully, but I never 
 saw him look so calm and tranquil. His face wore a se- 
 rene, benign expression, which had impressed me very 
 strongly when we last shook hands ; not that he had ever 
 any other look, God knows ; but there was something in 
 this so very spiritual, so strangely and indefinably allied to 
 youth, although his head was gray and venerable, that it 
 was new, even in him. It came upon me all at once, when, 
 on some slight pretense, he called me back upon the pre- 
 vious night to take me by the hand again, and once more 
 say, *' God bless you ! " 
 
 A bell-rope hung within his reach, but he had not moved 
 toward it, nor had he stirred, we all agreed, except, as I 
 have said, to push away his table, which he could have 
 done, and no doubt did, with a very slight motion of his 
 hand. He had relapsed for a moment into his late train of 
 meditation, and, with a thoughtful smile upon his face, had 
 died. 
 
 I had long known it to be his wish that whenever this 
 event should come to pass we might be all assembled in the 
 house. I therefore lost no time in sending for Mr. Pickwick 
 and for Mr. Miles, both of whom arrived before the messen- 
 ger's return. 
 
 It is not my purpose to dilate upon the sorrow and affec- 
 tionate emotions of which I was at once the witness and the 
 sharer. But I may say, of the humbler' mourners, that his 
 faithful housekeeper was fairly heart-broken ; that the poor 
 barber would not be comforted ; and that I shall respect the 
 homely truth and warmth of heart of Mr. Weller and his son 
 to the last moment of my life. 
 
 "And the sweet old creetur, sir," said the elder Mr. Wel- 
 ler to me in the afternoon, " has bolted. Him as had no wice, 
 and was so free from temper that a infant might ha' drove 
 
.MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 231 
 
 him, has been took at last with that 'ere unawoidable fit o' 
 staggers as we all must come to, and gone off his feed for- 
 ever ! I see him," said the old gentleman, with a moisture 
 in his eye, which could not be mistaken, — " I see him gettin', 
 every journey, more and more groggy ; I says to Samivel, 
 1 My boy ! the Gray's a-goin' at the knees ; ' and now my 
 predictions is fatally werified, and him as I could never do 
 enough to serve or show my likin' for, is up the great uni- 
 wersal spout o' natur'." 
 
 I was not the less sensible of the old man's attachment 
 because he expressed it in his peculiar manner. Indeed, I 
 can truly assert, of both him and his son, that notwithstand- 
 ing the extraordinary dialogues they held together, and the 
 strange commentaries and corrections with which each of 
 them illustrated the other's speech, I do not think it possible 
 to exceed the sincerity of their regret ; and that I am sure 
 their thoughtfulness and anxiety in anticipating the discharge 
 of many little offices of sympathy, would have done honor 
 to the most delicate-minded persons. 
 
 Our friend had frequently told us that his will would be 
 found in a box in the clock-case, the key of which was in 
 his writing-desk. As he had told us also that he desired it 
 to be opened immediately after his death, whenever that 
 should happen, we met together that night for the fulfillment 
 of his request. 
 
 We found it where he had told us, wrapped in a sealed 
 paper, and with it a codicil of recent date, in which he named 
 Mr. Miles and Mr. Pickwick his executors — as having no need 
 of any greater benefit from his estate, than a generous token 
 (which he bequeathed to them) of his friendship and re- 
 membrance. 
 
 After pointing out the spot in which he wished his ashes 
 to repose, he gave to " his dear old friends," Jack Redburn 
 and myself, his house, his books, his furniture — in short, 
 all that his house contained ; and with this legacy more 
 ample means of maintaining it in its present state than we 
 with our habits and at our terms of life, can ever exhaust. 
 Besides these gifts, he left us, in trust, an annual sum of no 
 insignificant amount, to be distributed in charity among his 
 accustomed pensionors — they are a long list — and such 
 other claimants on his bounty as might from time to time 
 present themselves. And as true charity not only covers a 
 multitude of sins, but includes a multitude of virtues, such 
 as forgiveness, liberal construction, gentleness and mercy to 
 
232 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 the faults of others, and the remembrance of our own im- 
 perfections and advantages, he bade us not inquire too closely 
 into the venial errors of the poor, but finding that they were 
 poor, first to relieve and then endeavor — at an advantage — 
 to reclaim them. 
 
 To the housekeeper he left an annuity, sufficient for her 
 comfortable maintenance and support through bfe. For the 
 barber, who had attended him many years, he made a simi- 
 lar provision. And I may make two remarks in this place : 
 first, that I think this pair are very likely to club their means 
 together and make a match of it ; and secondly, that I think 
 my friend had this result in his mind, for I have heard him 
 say, more than once, that he could not concur with the gen- 
 erality of mankind in censuring equal marriages made in 
 later life, since there were many cases in which such unions 
 could not fail to be a wise and rational source of happiness 
 to both parties. 
 
 The elder Mr. Weller is so far from viewing this prospect 
 with any feelings of jealousy, that he appears to be very 
 much relieved by its contemplation ; and his son, if I am 
 not mistaken, participates in this feeling. We are all of 
 opinion, however, that the old gentleman's danger, even at 
 its crisis, was very slight, and that he merely labored under 
 one of those transitory weaknesses to which persons- of his 
 temperament are now and then liable, and which become 
 less and less alarming at every return, until they wholly sub- 
 side. I have no doubt he will remain a jolly old widower 
 for the rest of his life, as he has already inquired of me, 
 with much gravity, whether a writ of habeas corpus would 
 enable him to settle his property upon Tony beyond the pos- 
 sibility of recall ; and has, in my presence, conjured his son, 
 with tears in his eyes, that in the event of his ever becoming 
 amorous again, he will put him in a strait-waistcoat until the 
 fit is passed, and distinctly inform that lady that his property 
 is " made over." 
 
 Although I have very little doubt that Sam would duti- 
 fully comply with these injunctions in a case of extreme 
 necessity, and that he would do so with perfect composure 
 and coolness, I do not apprehend things will ever come to 
 that pass, as the old gentleman seems perfectly happy in the 
 society of his son, his pretty daughter-in-law, and his grand- 
 children, and has solemnly announced his determination to 
 'take arter the old 'un in all respects ; " from which I infer 
 that it is his intention to regulate his conduct by the model 
 
MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 233 
 
 of Mr. Pickwick, who will certainly set him the example of 
 a single life. 
 
 I have diverged for a moment from the subject with which 
 I set out, for I know that my friend was interested in these 
 little matters, and I have a natural tendency to linger upon 
 any topic that occupied his thoughts or gave him^ pleasure 
 and amusement. His remaining wishes are very briefly told. 
 He desired that we would make him the frequent subject of 
 our conversation ; at the same time, that we would never 
 speak of him with an air of gloom or restraint, but frankly, 
 and as one whom we still loved and hoped to meet again. 
 He trusted that the old house would wear no aspect of 
 mourning, but that it would be lively and cheerful ; and that 
 we would not remove or cover up his picture, which hangs 
 in our dining-room, but make it our companion as he had 
 been. His own room, or place of meeting, remains, at his 
 desire, in its accustomed state ; our seats are placed about 
 the table as of old ; his easy-chair, his desk, his crutch, his 
 footstool, hold their accustomed places, and the clock stands 
 in its familiar corner. We go into the chamber at stated 
 times to see that all is as it should be, and to take care that 
 the light and air are not shut out, for on that point he ex- 
 pressed a strong solicitude. But it was his fancy that the 
 apartment should not be inhabited ; that it should be relig- 
 iously preserved in this condition, and that the voice of his 
 old companion should be heard no more. 
 
 My own history may be summed up in a very few words; and 
 even those I should have spared the reader but for my friend's 
 allusion to me some time since. I have no deeper sorrow than 
 the loss of a child — an only daughter, who is living, and who 
 fled from her father's house but a few weeks before our friend 
 and I first met. I had never spoken of this even to him, be- 
 cause I have always loved her, and I could not bear to tell him 
 of her error until I could tell him also of her sorrow and re- 
 gret. Happily I was enabled to do so some time ago. And 
 it will not be long, with heaven's leave, before she is restored 
 to me ; before I find in her and her husband the support of 
 my declining years. 
 
 For my pipe, it is an old relic of home, a thing of no great 
 worth, a poor trifle, but sacred to me for her sake. 
 
 Thus, since the death of our venerable friend, Jack Red- 
 burn and I have been the sole tenants of the old house ; and 
 day by day have lounged together in his favorite walks. 
 Mindful of his injunctions, we have long been able to speak 
 
234 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK. 
 
 of him with ease and cheerfulness, and to remember him as 
 he would be remembered. From certain allusions which 
 Jack has dropped, to his having been deserted and cast off 
 in early life, I am inclined to believe that some passages of 
 his youth may possibly be shadowed out in the history of 
 Mr. Chester and his son, but seeing that he avoids the sub- 
 ject, I have not pursued it. 
 
 My task is done. The chamber in which we have whiled 
 away so many hours, not, I hope, without some pleasure and 
 some profit, is deserted ; our happy hour of meeting strikes 
 no more; the chimney-corner has grown cold ; and Master 
 Humphrey's Clock has stopped forever. 
 
FULL REPORT 
 
 OF THE FIRST MEETING OF THE MUDFOG 
 ASSOCIATION FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF 
 EVERY THING. 
 
 We have made the most unparalleled and extraordinary 
 exertions to place before our readers a complete and accu- 
 rate account of the proceedings at the late grand meeting of 
 the Mudfog Association, holden in the town of Mudfog ; it 
 affords us great happiness to lay the result before them, in 
 the shape of various communications received from our able, 
 talented, and graphic correspondent, expressly sent down 
 for the purpose, who has immortalized us, himself, Mudfog, 
 and the association, all at one and the same time. We have 
 been, indeed, for some days unable to determine who will 
 transmit the greatest name to posterity — ourselves, who sent 
 our correspondent down ; our correspondent, who wrote an 
 account of the matter ; or the association, who gave our 
 correspondent something to write about. We rather'incline 
 to the opinion that we are the greatest man of the party, in- 
 asmuch, as the notion of an exclusive and authentic report 
 originated with us ; this may be prejudice ; it may arise 
 from a prepossession on our part in our own favor. Be it so. 
 We have no doubt that every gentleman concerned in this 
 mighty assemblage is troubled with the same complaint in a 
 greater or less degree ; and it is a consolation to us to know 
 that we have at least this feeling in common with the great 
 scientific stars, the brilliant and extraordinary luminaries, 
 whose speculations we record. 
 
 We give our correspondent's letters in the order in which 
 they reached us. Any attempt at amalgamating them into 
 one beautiful whole would only destroy that glowing tone, 
 that dash of wildness, and rich vein of picturesque interest, 
 which pervade them throughout. 
 
 " Mudfog, Monday night, seven o'clock. _ 
 
 " We are in a state of great excitement here, Nothing is 
 
236 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 spoken of but the approaching meeting of the association. 
 The inn-doors are thronged with waiters anxiously looking 
 for the expected arrivals ; and the numerous bills which are 
 wafered up in the windows of private houses, intimating that 
 there are beds to let within, give the streets a very animated 
 and cheerful appearance, the wafers being of a great variety 
 of colors, and the monotony of printed inscriptions being 
 relieved by every possible size and style of handwriting. It 
 is confidently rumored that Professors Snore, Doze, and 
 Wheezy have engaged three beds and a sitting-room at the 
 Pig and Tinder-Box. I give you the rumor as it has reached 
 me ; but I can not, as yet, vouch for its accuracy. The 
 moment I have been enabled to obtain any certain infor- 
 mation upon this interesting point, you may depend upon 
 receiving it." 
 
 " Half-past seven. 
 
 " I have just returned from a personal interview with the 
 landlord of the Pig and Tinder-Box. He speaks confidently 
 of the probability of Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy 
 taking up their residence at his house during the sitting of 
 the association, but denies that the beds have been yet 
 engaged ; in which representation he is confirmed by the 
 chambermaid — a girl of artless manners, and interesting 
 appearance. The boots denies that it is at all likely that 
 Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy will put up here ; but 
 I have reason to believe that this man has been suborned by 
 the proprietor of the Original Pig, which is the opposition 
 hotel. Amidst such conflicting testimony it is difficult to 
 arrive at the real truth ; but you may depend upon receiving 
 authentic information upon this point the moment the fact 
 is ascertained. The excitement still continues. A boy fell 
 through the window of the pastry-cook's shop at the corner 
 of the high street about an hour ago, which has occasioned 
 much confusion. The general impression is that it was an 
 accident. Pray heaven it may prove so ! " 
 
 " Tuesday, noon. 
 
 " At an early hour this morning the bells of all the 
 churches struck seven o'clock ; the effect of which, in the 
 present lively state of the town, was extremely singular. 
 While I was at breakfast, a yellow gig, drawn by a dark gray 
 horse, with a patch of white over his right eyelid, proceeded 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 237 
 
 at a rapid pace in the direction of the Original Pig stables ; 
 it is currently reported that this gentleman has arrived here 
 for the purpose of attending the association, and, from what 
 I have heard, I consider it extremely probable, although 
 nothing decisive is yet known regarding him. You may con- 
 ceive the anxiety with which we are all looking forward to 
 the arrival of the four o'clock coach this afternoon. 
 
 " Notwithstanding the excited state of the populace, no 
 outrage has yet been committed, owing to the admirable 
 discipline and discretion of the police, who are nowhere to 
 be seen. A barrel-organ is playing opposite my window, and 
 groups of people, offering fish and vegetables for sale, parade 
 the streets. With these exceptions every thing is quiet and 
 I trust will continue so." 
 
 " Five o'clock. 
 
 " It is now ascertained beyond all doubt that Professors 
 Snore, Doze, and Wheezy will not repair to the Pig and 
 Tinder-Box but have actually engaged apartments at the 
 Original Pig. This intelligence is exclusive; and I leave 
 you and your readers to draw their own inferences from it. 
 Why Professor Wheezy, of all people in the world, should 
 repair to the Original Pig in preference to the Pig and 
 Tinder-Box, it is not easy to conceive. The professor is a 
 man who should be above all such petty feelings. Some 
 people here openly impute treachery and a distinct breach of 
 faith to Professors Snore, and Doze ; while others, again, are 
 disposed to acquit them of any culpability in the transaction, 
 and to insinuate that the blame rests solely with Professor 
 Wheezy. I own that I incline to the latter opinion ; and, 
 although it gives me great pain to speak in terms of censure 
 or disapprobation of a man of such transcendent genius and 
 acquirements, still I am bound to say, that if my suspicions 
 be well founded, and if all the reports which have reached 
 my ears be true, I really do not well know what to make of 
 the matter. 
 
 " Mr. Slug, so celebrated for his statistical researches, 
 arrived this afternoon by the four o'clock stage. His com- 
 plexion is a dark purple, and he has a habit of sighing con- 
 stantly. He looked extremely well, and appeared in high 
 health and spirits. Mr. Woodensconse also came down in 
 the same conveyance. The distinguished gentleman was 
 fast asleep on his arrival, and I am informed by the guard 
 that he had been so, the whole way. He was, no doubt, 
 
23% THE IflUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 preparing for his approaching fatigues ; but what gigantic 
 visions must those be that flit through the brain of such a 
 man when his body is in a state of torpidity ! 
 
 " The influx of visitors increases every moment. I am told 
 (I know not how truly) that two post-chaises have arrived at 
 the Original Pig within the last half-hour ; and I myself ob- 
 served a wheelbarrow, containing three carpet-bags and a 
 bundle, entering the yard of the Pig and Tinder-Box no 
 longer ago than rive minutes since. The people are still qui- 
 etly pursuing their ordinary occupations ; but there is a wild- 
 ness m their eyes, and an unwonted rigidity in the muscles 
 of their countenances, which shows to the observant spec- 
 tator that their expectations are strained to the very utmost 
 pitch. I fear, unless some very extraordinary arrivals take 
 place to-night, that consequences may arise from this pop- 
 ular ferment, which every man of sense and feeling would 
 deplore." 
 
 a Twenty minutes past six. 
 
 " I have just heard that the boy who fell through the pastry- 
 cook's window last night has died of the fright. He was 
 suddenly called upon to pay three-and-sixpence for the 
 damage done, and his constitution, it seems, was not strong 
 enough to bear up under the shock. The inquest, it is said, 
 will be held to-morrow." 
 
 " Three-quarters past seven. 
 
 " Professors Muff and Xogo have just driven up to the 
 hotel door ; they at once ordered dinner with great conde- 
 scension. We are all very much delighted with the urban- 
 ity of their manners, and the ease with which they adapt 
 themselves to the forms and ceremonies of ordinary life. 
 Immediately on their arrival they sent for the head-waiter, 
 and privately requested him to purchase a live dog — as 
 cheap a one as he could meet with — and to send him up 
 after dinner, with a pie-board, a knife and fork, and a clean 
 plate. It is conjectured that some experiments will be tried 
 upon the dog to-night ; if any particulars should transpire I 
 will forward them by express." 
 
 " Half-past eight. 
 
 " The animal has been procured. He is a pug-dog, of 
 rather intelligent appearance, in good condition, and with 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 239 
 
 very short legs. He has been tied to a curtain-peg in a 
 dark room, and is howling dreadfully." 
 
 "Ten minutes to nine. 
 
 " The dog has just been rung for. With an instinct 
 which would appear almost the result of reason, the saga- 
 cious animal seized the waiter by the calf of the leg when 
 he approached to take him, and made a desperate, though 
 ineffectual, resistance. I have not been able to procure ad- 
 mission to the apartment occupied by the scientific gentle- 
 men ; but, judging from the sounds which reached my ears 
 when I stood upon the landing-place just now, outside the 
 door, I should be disposed to say that the dog had retreated 
 growling beneath some article of furniture, and was keeping 
 the professors at bay. This conjecture is confirmed by the 
 testimony of the hostler, who, after peeping through the key- 
 hole, assures me that he distinctly saw Professor Nogo on 
 his knees, holding forth a small bottle of prussic acid, 
 which the animal, who was crouched beneath an arm-chair, 
 obstinately declined to smell. You can not imagine the 
 feverish state of irritation we are in, lest the interests of sci- 
 ence should be sacrificed to the prejudices of a brute creat- 
 ure, who is not endowed with sufficient sense to foresee 
 the incalculable benefits which the whole human race may 
 derive from so very slight a concession on his part." 
 
 " Nine o'clock. 
 
 " The dog's tail and ears have been sent down stairs to be 
 washed ; from which circumstance we infer that the animal 
 is no more. His forelegs have been delivered to the boots 
 to be brushed, which strengthens the supposition." 
 
 " Half after ten. 
 
 " My feelings are so overpowered by what has taken place 
 in the course of the last hour and a half, that I have scarcely 
 strength to detail the rapid succession of events which have 
 quite bewildered all those who are cognizant of their occur- 
 rence. It appears that the pug-dog mentioned in my last was 
 surreptitiously obtained — stolen, in fact — by some person at- 
 tached to the stable department, from an unmarried lady resi- 
 dent in this town. Frantic on discovering the loss of her fa- 
 vorite, the lady rushed distractedly into the street, calling in 
 the most heart-rending and pathetic manner upon the pas- 
 
240 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 sengers to restore her her Augustus — for so the deceased was 
 named, in affectionate remembrance of a former lover of his 
 mistress, to whom he bore a striking personal resemblance, 
 which renders the circumstance additionally affecting. I am 
 not yet in a condition to inform you what circumstances in- 
 duced the bereaved lady to direct her steps to the hotel which 
 had witnessed the last struggles of her prot'ege. I can only 
 state that she arrived there, at the very instant when his de- 
 tached members were passing through the passage on a small 
 tray. Her shrieks still reverberate in my ears ! I grieve to 
 say that the expressive features of Professor Muff were 
 much scratched and lacerated by the injured lady ; and that 
 Professor Nogo, besides sustaining several severe bites, has 
 lost some handfuls of hair from the same cause. It must be 
 some consolation to these gentlemen to know that their 
 ardent attachment to scientific pursuits has alone occasioned 
 these unpleasant consequences ; for which the sympathy of 
 a grateful country will sufficiently reward them. The unfor- 
 tunate lady remains at the Pig and Tinder-Box, and up to 
 this time is reported in a very precarious state. 
 
 " I need scarcely tell you that this unlooked-for catas- 
 trophe has cast a damp and gloom upon us in the midst of 
 our exhilaration ; natural in any case, but greatly enhanced 
 in this, by the amiable qualities of the deceased animal, who 
 appears to have been much and deservedly respected by the 
 whole of his acquaintance." 
 
 " Twelve o'clock. 
 
 " I take the last opportunity before sealing my parcel to 
 inform you that the boy who fell through the pastry-cook's 
 window is not dead, as was universally believed, but alive 
 and well. The report appears to have had its origin in his 
 mysterious disappearance. He was found half an hour since 
 on the premises of a sweet-stuff maker, where a raffle had 
 been announced for a second-hand seal-skin cap and a tam- 
 bourine : and where — a sufficient number of members not 
 having been obtained at first — he had patiently waited until 
 the list was completed. This fortunate discovery has in 
 some degree restored our gayety and cheerfulness. It is 
 proposed to get up a subscription for him without delay. 
 
 " Every body is nervously anxious to see what to-morrow 
 will bring forth. If any one should arrive in the course of 
 the night, I have left strict directions to be called imme* 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 244 
 
 diately. I should have sat up, indeed, but the agitating 
 events of this day have been too much for me. 
 
 " No news, yet, of either of the Professors Snore, Doze, or 
 Wheezy. It is very strange ! " 
 
 "Wednesday afternoon. 
 
 " All is now over : and upon one point, at least, I am at 
 length enabled to set the minds of your readers at rest. The 
 three professors arrived at ten minutes after two o'clock, and, 
 instead of taking up their quarters at the Original Pig, as it 
 was universally understood in the course of yesterday that 
 they would assuredly have done, drove straight to the Pig 
 and Tinder-Box, where they threw off the mask at once, and 
 openly announced their intention of remaining. Professor 
 Wheezy may reconcile this very extraordinary conduct with 
 his notions of fair and equitable dealing, but I would recom- 
 mend Professor Wheezy to be cautious how he presumes too 
 far upon his well-earned reputation. How such a man as 
 Professor Snore, or, which is still more extraordinary, such 
 an individual as Professor Doze, can quietly allow himself to 
 be mixed up with such proceedings as these, you will natur- 
 ally inquire. Upon this head rumor is silent ; I have my 
 speculations, but forbear to give utterance to them just 
 now." 
 
 " Four o'clock. 
 
 " The town is filling fast ; eighteen pence has been offered 
 for a bed and refused. Several gentlemen were under the 
 necessity last night of sleeping in the brick-fields, and on 
 the steps of doors, for which they were taken before the 
 magistrates in a body this morning, and committed to prison 
 as vagrants for various terms. One of these persons I un- 
 derstand to be a highly respected tinker, of great prac- 
 tical skill, who had forwarded a paper to the president 
 of Section D., Mechanical Science, on the construction of 
 pipkins with copr.er bottoms and safety-valves, of which re- 
 port speaks highly. The incarceration of this gentleman is 
 greatly to be regretted, as his absence will preclude any dis^ 
 cussion on the subject. 
 
 " The bills are being taken down in all directions, and 
 lodgings are being secured on almost any terms. I have 
 heard of fifteen shillings a week for two rooms, exclusive 
 of coals and attendance, but I can scarcely believe it. The 
 
$42 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 excitement is dreadful. I was informed this morning that' 
 the civil authorities, apprehensive of some outbreak of pop- 
 ular feeling, had commanded a recruiting sergeant and two 
 corporals to be under arms ; and that, with the view of not 
 irritating the people unnecessarily by their presence, they 
 had been requested to take up their positions before day- 
 break in a turnpike, distant about a quarter of a mile from 
 the town. The vigor and promptness of these measures can 
 not be too highly extolled. 
 
 " Intelligence has just been brought me, that an elderly 
 female, in a state of inebriety, has declared in the open street 
 her intention to * do ' for Mr. Slug. Some statistical returns 
 compiled by that gentleman, relative to the consumption of raw 
 spiritous liquors in this place, are supposed to be the cause of 
 the wretch's animosity. It is added, that this declaration was 
 loudly cheered by a crowd of persons who had assembled on 
 the spot ; and that one man had the boldness to designate 
 Mr. Slug aloud by the opprobrious epithet of ' Stick-in-the- 
 mud ! ' It is earnestly to be hoped that now, when the 
 moment has arrived for their interference, the magistrates 
 will not shrink from the exercise of that power which is 
 vested in them by the constitution of their common 
 country." 
 
 " Half-past ten. 
 
 " The disturbance, I am happy to inform you, has been 
 completely quelled, and the ringleader taken into custody. 
 She had a pail of cold water thrown over her, previous to 
 being locked up, and expresses great contrition and uneasi- 
 ness. We are all in a fever of anticipation about to-morrow ; 
 but now that we are within a few hours of the associ- 
 ation, and at last enjoy the proud consciousness of having 
 its illustrious members among us, I trust and hope every 
 thing may go off peaceably. I shall send you a full report 
 of to-morrow's proceedings by the night coach." 
 
 " Eleven o'clock. 
 
 " I opened my letter to say nothing whatever has occurred 
 since I folded it up." 
 
 " Thursday. 
 
 " The sun rose this morning at the usual hour. I did not 
 observe any thing particular in the aspect of the glorious 
 planet, except that he appeared to me (it might have been a 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 243 
 
 delusion of my heightened fancy) to shine with more than 
 common brilliancy, and to shed a refulgent luster upon the 
 town, such as I had never observed before. This is the 
 more extraordinary, as the sky was perfectly cloudless, and 
 the atmosphere peculiarly fine. At half past nine o'clock 
 the general committee assembled, with the last year's presi- 
 dent in the chair. The report of the council was read ; and 
 one passage, which stated that the council had corresponded 
 with no less than three thousand five hundred and seventy- 
 one persons (all of whom paid their own postage), on no 
 fewer than seven thousand two hundred and forty-three 
 topics, was received with a degree of enthusiasm which no 
 effort could suppress. The various committees and sections 
 having been appointed, and the mere formal business trans- 
 acted, the great proceedings of the meeting commenced at 
 eleven o'clock precisely. I had the happiness of occupy- 
 ing a most eligible position at that time, in 
 
 11 SECTION A. — ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY. 
 " GREAT ROOM, PIG AND TINDER-BOX. 
 " PRESIDENT — PROFESSOR SNORE. VICE-PRESIDENTS — 
 " PROFESSORS DOZE AND WHEEZY. 
 
 "The scene at this moment was particularly striking. 
 The sun streamed through the windows of the apartments, 
 and tinted the whole scene with its brilliant rays, bringing 
 out in strong relief the noble visages of the professors and 
 scientific gentlemen, who, some with bald heads, some with 
 red heads, some with brown heads, some with gray heads, 
 some with black heads, some with block heads, presented a 
 coup-d'ceil which no eye-witness will readily forget. In front 
 of these gentlemen were papers and inkstands ; and round 
 the room, on elevated benches extending as far as the forms 
 could reach, were assembled a brilliant concourse of those . 
 lovely and elegant women for which Mudfog is justly 
 acknowledged to be without a rival in the whole world. 
 The contrast between their fair faces and the dark coats 
 and trowsers of the scientific gentlemen I shall never cease 
 to remember while memory holds her seat. 
 
 " Time having been allowed for a slight confusion, occa- 
 sioned by the falling down of the greater part of the plat- 
 forms, to subside, the president called on one of the secre- 
 taries to read a communication entitled, ' Some remarks on 
 the industrious fleas, with considerations on the importance 
 of establishing infant schools among that numerous class of 
 society ; of directing their industry to useful and practical 
 
i>44 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 ends ; and of applying the surplus fruits thereof, toward pro- 
 viding for them a comfortable and respectable mainte- 
 ance in their old age.' 
 
 " The author stated, that, having long turned his atten- 
 tion to the moral and social condition of these interesting 
 animals, he had been induced to visit an exhibition in 
 Regent Street, London, commonly known by the designation 
 of ' The Industrious Fleas.' He had there seen many fleas, 
 occupied certainly in various pursuits and avocations, 
 but occupied, he was bound to add, in a manner which no 
 man of well-regulated mind could fail to regard with sorrow 
 and regret. One flea, reduced to the level of a beast of 
 burden, was drawing about a miniature gig, containing a 
 particularly small effigy of his Grace the Duke of Wellington ; 
 while another was staggering beneath the weight of a golden 
 model of his great adversary Napoleon Bonaparte. Some, 
 brought up as mountebanks and ballet-dancers, were per- 
 forming a figure-dance (he regretted to observe that, of the 
 fleas so employed, several were females) ; others were in 
 training, in a small card-board box, for pedestrians — mere 
 sporting characters — and two were actually engaged in the 
 cold-blooded and barbarous occupation of dueling ; a pur- 
 suit from which humanity recoiled with horror and disgust. 
 He suggested that measures should be immediately taken to 
 employ the labor of these fleas as part and parcel of the 
 productive power of the country, which might easily be 
 done by tne establishment among them of infant schools 
 and houses of industry, in which a system of virtuous 
 education, based upon sound principles, should be observed, 
 and moral precepts strictly inculcated. He proposed that 
 every flea who presumed to exhibit, for hire, music or 
 dancing, or any species of theatrical entertainment, without 
 a license, should be considered a vagabond, and treated 
 accordingly ; in which respect he only placed him upon a 
 level with the rest of mankind. He would further suggest 
 that their labor should be placed under the control and 
 regulation of the state, who should set apart from the profits 
 a fund for the support of superannuated or disabled fleas, 
 their widows and orphans. With this view, he proposed 
 that liberal premiums should be offered for the three best 
 designs for a general alms-house ; from which — as insect 
 architecture was well known to be in a very advanced 
 and perfect state — we might possibly derive many valuable 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 245 
 
 hints for the improvement of our metropolitan universities, 
 national galleries, and other public edifices. 
 
 '* The president wished to be informed how the ingenious 
 gentleman proposed to open a communication with fleas 
 generally, in the first instance, so that they might be 
 thoroughly imbued with a sense of the advantages they must 
 necessarily derive from changing their mode of life, and 
 apply themselves to honest labor. This appeared to him 
 the only difficulty. 
 
 "The author submitted that this difficulty was easily 
 overcome, or rather that there was no difficulty at all in the 
 case. Obviously the course to be pursued, if her majesty's 
 government could be prevailed upon to take up the plan, 
 would be to secure, at a remunerative salary, the individual 
 to whom he had alluded as presiding over the exhibition in 
 Regent Street at the period of his visit. That gentleman 
 would at once be able to put himself in communication 
 with the mass of the fleas, and to instruct them in pursuance 
 of some general plan of education, to be sanctioned by 
 parliament, until such time as the more intelligent among 
 them were advanced enough to officiate as teachers to the 
 rest. 
 
 " The president and several members of the section 
 highly complimented the author of the paper last read, on 
 his most ingenious and important treatise. It was deter- 
 mined that the subject should be recommended to the 
 immediate consideration of the council. 
 
 " Mr. Wigsby produced a cauliflower somewhat larger than 
 a chaise-umbrella, which had been raised by no other arti- 
 ficial means than the simple application of highly carbon- 
 ated soda water as manure. He explained that by scooping 
 out the head, which would afford a new and delicious 
 species of nourishment for the poor, a parachute, in princi- 
 ple somewhat similar to that constructed by M. Garnerin, 
 was at once obtained ; the stalk of course being kept down- 
 ward. He added that he was perfectly willing to make a 
 descent from a height of not less than three miles and a 
 quarter ; and had, in fact, already proposed the same to the 
 proprietors of the Vauxhall Gardens, who, in the handsomest 
 manner, at once consented to his wishes, and appointed an 
 early day next summer for the -undertaking ; merely stipu- 
 lating that the rim of the cauliflower should be previously 
 broken in three or four places to insure the safety of the 
 descent. 
 
246 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 " The president congratulated the public on the grand gala 
 in store for them, and warmly eulogized the proprietors of 
 the establishment alluded to, for their love of science, and 
 regard for the safety of human life, both of which did them 
 the highest honor. 
 
 " A member wished to know how many thousand addi- 
 tional lamps the royal property would be illuminated with, 
 on the night after the descent. 
 
 " Mr. Wigsby replied that the point was not yet finally 
 decided ; but he believed it was proposed, over and above 
 the ordinary illuminations, to exhibit in various devices 
 eight millions and a half of additional lamps. 
 
 " The member expressed himself much gratified with this 
 announcement. 
 
 " Mr. Blunderum delighted the section with a most inter- 
 esting and valuable paper ' on the last moments of the 
 learned pig,' which produced a very strong impression 
 upon the assembly, the account being compiled from the 
 personal recollections of his favorite attendant. The 
 account stated in the most emphatic terms that the 
 animal's name was not Toby, but Solomon ; and distinctly 
 proved that he could have no near relatives in the profes- 
 sion, as many designing persons had falsely stated, inasmuch 
 as his father, mother, brothers and sisters, had all fallen vic- 
 tims to the butcher at different times. An uncle of his, indeed, 
 had with very great labor been traced to a sty in Somers Town; 
 but as he was in a very infirm state at the time, being afflicted 
 with measles, and shortly afterward disappeared, there ap- 
 peared too much reason to conjecture that he had been con- 
 verted into sausages. The disorder of the learned pig was 
 originally a severe cold, which, being aggravated by exces- 
 sive trough indulgence, finally settled upon the lungs, and 
 terminated in a general decay of the constitution. A melan- 
 choly instance of a presentiment entertained by the animal 
 of his approaching dissolution was recorded. After gratify- 
 ing a numerous and fashionable company with his perform- 
 ances, in which no falling off whatever was visible, he 
 fixed his eyes on the biographer, and, turning to the watch, 
 which lay on the floor, and on which he was accustomed to 
 point out the hour, deliberately passed his snout twice 
 around the. dial. In precisely four-and-twenty hours from 
 that time he had ceased to exist ! 
 
 " Professor Wheezy inquired, whether, previous to his 
 demise, the animal had expressed, by signs or other- 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 247 
 
 wise, any wishes regarding the disposal of his little prop- 
 erty. 
 
 " Mr. Blunderum replied, that, when the biographer took 
 up the pack of cards at the conclusion of the performance, 
 the animal grunted several times in a significant manner, 
 and nodded his head as he was accustomed to do when 
 gratified. From these gestures, it was understood he wished 
 the attendant to keep the cards, which he had ever since 
 done. He had not expressed any wish relative to his watch, 
 which had accordingly been pawned by the same individual 
 
 " The president wished to know whether any member of 
 the section had ever seen or conversed with the pig -faced 
 lady, who was reported to have worn a black velvet mask, 
 and to have taken her meals from a golden trough. 
 
 " After some hesitation a member replied that the pig-faced 
 lady was his mother-in-law, and that he trusted the president 
 would not violate the sanctity of private life. 
 
 " The president begged pardon. He had considered the 
 pig-faced lady a public character. Would the honorable 
 member object to state, with a view to the advancement of 
 science, whether she was in any way connected with the 
 learned pig ? 
 
 " The member replied in the same low tone, that, as the 
 question appeared to involve a suspicion that the learned 
 pig might be his half-brother, he must decline answering it. 
 
 " SECTION B. — ANATOMY AND MEDICINE. 
 
 " COACH-HOUSE, PIG AND TINDER-BOX. 
 
 " PRESIDENT— DR. TOORELL. VICE-PRESIDENTS— PROFESSORS MUFF AND NOGO. 
 
 " Dr. Kutankumagen (of Moscow) read to the section a 
 report of a case which had occurred within his own practice, 
 strikingly illustrative of the power of medicine, as exempli- 
 fied in his successful treatment of a virulent disorder. He 
 had been called in to visit the patient on the 1st of April, 
 1837. He was then laboring under symptoms peculiarly 
 alarming to any medical man. His frame was stout and 
 muscular, his step firm and elastic, his cheeks plump and 
 red, his voice loud, his appetite good, his pulse full and 
 round. He was in the constant habit of eating three meals 
 per diem, and of drinking at least one bottle of wine, and 
 one glass of spirituous liquors diluted with water, in the 
 course of four-and-twenty hours. He laughed constantly^ 
 and in so hearty a manner that it was terrible to hear him. 
 By dint of powerful medicine, low diet and bleeding, the 
 
248 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 symptoms in the course of three days perceptibly decreased. 
 A rigid perseverance in the same course of treatment for 
 only one week, accompanied with small doses of water-gruei, 
 weak broth and barley-water, led to their entire disappear- 
 ance. In the course of a month he was sufficiently recovered 
 to be carried down stairs by two nurses, and to enjoy an 
 airing in a close carriage, supported by soft pillows. At the 
 present moment he was restored so far as to walk about, 
 with the slight assistance of a crutch and a boy. It would 
 perhaps be gratifying to the section to learn that he ate 
 little, drank little, slept little, and was never heard to laugh 
 by any accident whatever. 
 
 " Dr. W. R. Fee, in complimenting the honorable member 
 upon the triumphant cure he had effected, begged to ask 
 whether the patient still bled freely ? 
 
 " Dr. Kutankumagen replied in the affirmative. 
 " Dr. W. R. Fee. — And you found that he bled freely 
 during the whole course of the disorder ? 
 
 " Dr. Kutankumagen. — Oh dear, yes ; most freely. 
 "Dr. Neeshawts supposed, that if the patient had not 
 submitted to be bled with great readiness and perseverance, 
 so extraordinary a cure could never, in fact, have been 
 accomplished. Dr. Kutankumagen rejoined certainly not. 
 
 " Mr. Knight Bell (M. R. C. S.) exhibited a wax prepara- 
 tion of the interior of a gentleman who in early life had 
 inadvertently swallowed a door-key. It was a curious fact 
 that a medical student of dissipated habits, being present at 
 the post-mortem examination, found means to escape unob- 
 served from the room, with that portion of the coats of the 
 stomach upon which an exact model of the instrument was 
 distinctly impressed, with which he hastened to a locksmith 
 of doubtful character, who made a new key from the pattern 
 so shown to him. With this key the medical student 
 entered the house of the deceased gentleman, and committed 
 a burglary to a large amount, for which he was subsequently 
 tried and executed. 
 
 " The president wished to know what became of the orig- 
 inal key after the lapse of years. Mr. Knight Bell replied 
 that the gentleman was always much accustomed to punch, 
 and it was supposed the acid had gradually devoured it. 
 
 " Dr. Neeshawts and several of the members were of opin- 
 ion that the key must have lain very cold and heavy upon 
 the gentleman's stomach. 
 
 " Mr. Knight Bell believed it did at first. It was worthy 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 249 
 
 of remark, perhaps, that for some years the gentleman was 
 troubled with nightmare, under the influence of which he 
 always imagined himself a wine-cellar door. 
 
 " Professor Muff related a very extraordinary and con 
 vincing proof of the wonderful efficacy of the system of 
 infinitesimal doses, which the section were doubtless aware 
 was based upon the theory that the very minutest amount 
 of any given drug, properly dispersed through the human 
 frame, would be productive of precisely the same result as 
 a very large dose administered in the usual manner. Thus, 
 the fortieth part of a grain of calomel was supposed to be 
 equal to a five-grain calomel pill, and so on in proportion 
 throughout the whole range of medicine. He had tried the 
 experiment in a curious manner upon a publican who had 
 been brought into the hospital with a broken head, and was 
 cured upon the infinitesimal system in the incredibly short 
 space of three months. This man was a hard drinker. He 
 (Professor Muff) had dispersed three drops of rum through 
 a bucket of water, and requested the man to drink the whole. 
 What was the result ? Before he had drunk a quarter, he 
 was in a state of beastly intoxication ; and five other men 
 were made dead-drunk with the remainder. 
 
 " The president wished to know whether an infinitesimal 
 dose of soda-water would have recovered them ? Professor 
 Muff replied that the twenty-fifth part of a teaspoonful, 
 properly administered to each patient, would have sobered 
 him immediately. The president remarked that this was a 
 most important discovery, and he hoped the lord mayor 
 and court of aldermen would patronize it immediately. 
 
 " A member begged to be informed whether it would be 
 possible to administer— say, the twentieth part of a grain of 
 bread and cheese to all grown-up paupers, and the fortieth 
 part to children, with the same satisfying effect as their 
 present allowance. 
 
 " Professor Muff was willing to stake his professional rep- 
 utation on the perfect adequacy of such a quantity of food 
 to the support of human life — in work-houses ; the addition 
 of the fifteenth part of a grain of pudding twice a week 
 would render it a high diet. 
 
 " Professor Nogo called the attention of the section to a 
 very extraordinary case of animal magnetism. A private 
 watchman, being merely looked at by the operator from the 
 opposite side of a wide street, was at once observed to be in 
 a very drowsy and languid state. He was followed to his 
 
250 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION, 
 
 box, and being once slightly rubbed on the paims of the 
 hands, fell into a sound sleep, in which he continued without 
 intermission for ten hours. 
 
 " SECTION C. — STATISTICS. 
 
 " HAY-LOFT, ORIGINAL PIG. 
 
 41 PRESIDENT — MR. WOODENSCONSE. VICE-PRESIDENTS — MR. LEDERAIN AND MR. 
 
 TIMBERED. 
 
 " Mr. Slug stated to the section the result of some calcu- 
 lations he had made with great difficulty and labor, regard- 
 ing the state of infant education among the middle classes 
 of London. He found that, within a circle of three miles 
 from the Elephant and Castle, the following were the names 
 and numbers of children's books principally in circulation : — 
 
 " Jack the Giant-killer , 7,943 
 
 Ditto and Bean-stalk 8,621 
 
 Ditto and Eleven Brothers 2,845 
 
 Ditto and Jill 1,998 
 
 Total 
 
 ,407 
 
 " He found that the proportion of Robinson Crusoes to 
 Philip Quarles was as four and a half to one ; and that the 
 preponderance of Valentine and Orsons over Goody Two 
 Shoeses was as three and an eighth of the former to half a one 
 of the latter ; a comparison of Seven Champions with Simple 
 Simons gave the same result. The ignorance that prevailed 
 was lamentable. One child, on being asked whether he would 
 rather be Saint George of England or a respectable tallow- 
 chandler, instantly replied, 'Taint George of Ingland.' An- 
 other, a little boy of eight years old, was found to be firmly 
 impressed with a belief in the existence of dragons, and openly 
 stated that it was his intention when he grew up, to rush forth 
 sword in hand for the deliverance of captive princesses, and 
 the promiscuous slaughter of giants. Not one child among the 
 number interrogated had ever heard of Mungo Park — some 
 inquiring whether he was at all connected with the black man 
 that swept the crossing ; and others whether he was in any 
 way related to the Regent's Park. They had not the slightest 
 conception of the commonest principles of mathematics, and 
 considered Sinbad the Sailor the most enterprising voyager 
 that the world had ever produced. 
 
 "A member strongly deprecating the use of all the other 
 books mentioned, suggested that Jack and Jill might per- 
 haps be exempted from the general censure, inasmuch as 
 the hero and heroine, in the very outset of the tale, were de- 
 
The mudfog association. 2^1 
 
 picted as going up a hill to fetch a pail of water, which was 
 a laborious and useful occupation — supposing the family 
 linen was being washed, for instance. 
 
 " Mr. Slug feared that the moral effect of this passage was 
 more than counterbalanced by another in a subsequent part 
 of the poem in which very gross allusion was made to the 
 node in which the heroine was personally chastised by her 
 mother. 
 
 " ' For laughing at Jack's disaster ' ; 
 
 besides, the whole work had this one great fault, it was not 
 true. 
 
 " The president complimented the honorable member on 
 the excellent distinction he had drawn. Several other mem- 
 bers, too, dwelt upon the immense and urgent necessity of 
 storing the minds of children with nothing but facts and 
 figures ; which process the president very forcibly remarked, 
 had made them (the section) the men they were. 
 
 " Mr. Slug then stated some curious calculations respect- 
 ing the dogs'-meat barrows of London. He found that the 
 total number of small carts and barrows engaged in dispens- 
 ing provisions to the cats and dogs of the metropolis was one 
 thousand seven hundred and forty-three. The average 
 number of skewers delivered daily with the provender by 
 each dogs'-meat cart or barrow was thirty-six. Now, multi- 
 plying the number of skewers so delivered, by the number of 
 barrows, a total of sixty-two thousand seven hundred and 
 forty-eight skewers daily would be obtained. Allowing that, 
 of these sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty- eight 
 skewers, the odd two thousand seven hundred and forty- 
 eight were accidentally devoured with the meat, by the most 
 voracious of the animals supplied, it followed that sixty 
 thousand skewers per day, or the enormous number of 
 twenty-one millions nine hundred thousand skewers an- 
 nually, were wasted in the kennels and dust-holes of Lon- 
 don ; which, if collected and warehoused, would in ten 
 years' time afford a mass of timber more than sufficient for 
 the construction of a first-rate vessel of war for the use of 
 her majesty's navy, to be called ' The Royal Skewer,' and to 
 become under that name the terror of all the enemies of this 
 island. 
 
 " Mr.-X. Ledbrain read a very ingenious communication, 
 from which it appeared that the total number of legs belong- 
 ing to the manufacturing population of one great town in 
 
252 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 Yorkshire was, in round numbers, forty thousand, while the 
 total number of chair and stool legs in their houses was only 
 thirty thousand, which, upon the very favorable average of 
 three legs to a seat, yielded only ten thousand seats in all. 
 From this calculation it would appear — not taking wooden 
 or cork legs into the account, but allowing two legs to every 
 person — that ten thousand individuals (one half of the whole 
 population) were either destitute of any rest for their legs at 
 all, or passed the whole of their leisure time in sitting upon 
 boxes. 
 
 " SECTION D. — MECHANICAL SCIENCE. 
 
 '• COACH-HOUSE, ORIGINAL PIG. 
 
 PRESIDENT— MR. CARTER. VICE-PRESIDENTS— MK. TRUCK AND MR. WAGHORN. 
 
 " Professor Queerspeck exhibited an elegant model of a 
 portable railway, neatly mounted in a green case, for the 
 waistcoat pocket. By attaching this beautiful instrument to 
 his boots, any bank or public office clerk could transport 
 himself from his place of residence to his place of business, 
 at the easy rate of sixty-five miles an hour, which, to gentle- 
 men of sedentary pursuits, would be an incalculable advan- 
 tage. 
 
 " The president was desirous of knowing whether it was 
 necessary to have a level surface on which the gentleman 
 was to run. 
 
 " Professor Queerspeck explained that city gentlemen 
 would run in trains, being handcuffed together to prevent 
 confusion or unpleasantness. For instance, trains would 
 start every morning at eight, nine, and ten o'clock, from 
 Camden Town, Islington, Camberwell, Hackney, and various 
 other places in which city gentlemen are accustomed to re- 
 side. It would be necessary to have a level, but he had pro- 
 vided for this difficulty by proposing that the best line that 
 the circumstances would admit of should be taken through 
 the sewers which undermine the streets of the metropolis, 
 and which, well lighted by jets from the gas-pipes which 
 ran immediately above them, would form a pleasant and 
 commodious arcade, especially in winter-time, when the in- 
 convenient custom of carrying umbrellas, now general, could 
 be wholly dispensed with. In reply to another question, 
 Professor Queerspeck stated that no substitute for the pur- 
 poses to which these arcades were at present devoted had 
 yet occurred to him, but that he hoped no fanciful objection 
 on this head would be allowed to interfere with so great an 
 undertaking. 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 253 
 
 11 Mr. Jobba produced a forcing-machine on a novel plan, 
 for bringing joint-stock railway shares prematurely to a pre- 
 mium. The instrument was in the form of an elegant gilt 
 weather-glass of most dazzling appearance, and was worked 
 behind, by strings, after the manner of a pantomime trick, 
 the strings being always pulled by the directors of the com- 
 pany to which the machine belonged. The quicksilver was 
 so ingeniously placed, that when the acting directors held • 
 shares in their pockets, figures denoting very small expenses 
 and very large returns appeared upon the glass ; but the 
 moment the directors parted with these pieces of paper, 
 the estimate of needful expenditure suddenly increased itself 
 to an immense extent, while the statements of certain 
 profits became reduced in the same proportion. Mr. Jobba 
 stated that the machine had been in constant requisition for 
 some months past, and he had never once known it to fail. 
 
 " A member expressed his opinion that it was extremely 
 neat and pretty. He wished to know whether it was not 
 liable to accidental derangement ? Mr. Jobba said that the 
 whole machine was undoubtedly liable to be blown up, but 
 that was the only objection to it. 
 
 " Professor Nogo arrived from the anatomical section to 
 exhibit a model of a safety fire-escape, which could be fixed 
 at any time, in less than half an hour, and by means of 
 which, the youngest or most infirm persons (successfully re- 
 sisting the progress of the flames until it was quite ready) 
 could be preserved if they merely balanced themselves for a 
 few minutes on the sill of their bedroom window, and got 
 into the escape without falling into the street. The profes- 
 sor stated that the number of boys who had been rescued in 
 the day-time by this machine from houses which were not on 
 fire was almost incredible. Not a conflagration had oc- 
 curred in the whole of London for many months past to which 
 the escape had not been carried on the very next day, and 
 put in action before a concourse of persons. 
 
 "The president inquired whether there was not some 
 difficulty in ascertaining which was the top of the machine, 
 and which the bottom, in cases of pressing emergency ? 
 
 " Professor Nogo explained that of course it could not be 
 expected to act quite as well when there was a fire as when 
 there was not a fire ; but in the former case he thought it 
 would be of equal service whether the top were up or down." 
 
 With the last section, our correspondent concludes his 
 
254 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 most able and faithful report, which will never cease to re- 
 flect credit upon him for his scientific attainments, and 
 upon us for our enterprising spirit. It is needless to take a 
 review of the subjects which have been discussed ; of the 
 mode in which they have been examined ; of the great 
 truths which they have elicited. They are now before 
 the world, and we leave them to read, to consider, and to 
 profit. 
 
 The place of meeting for next year has undergone dis- 
 cussion, and has at length been decided ; regard being had 
 to, and evidence being taken upon, the goodness of its wines, 
 the supply of its markets, the hospitality of its inhabitants, 
 and the quality of its hotels. We hope at this next meeting 
 our correspondent may again be present, and that we may 
 be once more the means of placing his communications be- 
 fore the world. Until that period we have been prevailed 
 upon to allow this number of our Miscellany to be retailed 
 to the public, or wholesaled to the trade, without any ad- 
 vance upon our usual price. 
 
 We have only to add, that the committees are now broken 
 up, and that Mudfog is once again restored to its accus- 
 tomed tranquillity — that professors and members have had 
 balls, and soirees, and suppers, and great mutual cornpli- 
 mentations, and have at length dispersed to their several 
 homes — whither all good wishes and joys attend them, until 
 next year ! 
 
 FULL REPORT 
 
 OF THE SECOND MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION FOR 
 THE ADVANCEMENT OF EVERY THING. 
 
 In October last, we did ourselves the immortal credit of re- 
 cording, at an enormous expense, and by dint of exertions 
 unparalleled in the history of periodical publications, the pro- 
 ceedings of the Mudfog Association for the Advancement of 
 Every Thing, which in that month held its firstgreat half-yearly 
 meeting, to the wonder and delight of the whole empire. We 
 announced, at the conclusion of that extraordinary and most 
 remarkable report, that when the second meeting of the 
 society should take place, we should be found again at our 
 post renewing our gigantic and spirited endeavors, and once 
 more making the world ring with the accuracy, authenticity, 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 255 
 
 immeasurable superiority, and intense remarkability of our 
 account of its proceedings. In redemption of this pledge, 
 we caused to be dispatched, per steam, to Oldcastle, at 
 which place this second meeting of the society was held on 
 the 20th instant, the same superhumanly endowed gentle- 
 man who furnished the former report, and who — gifted by 
 nature with transcendent abilities, and furnished by us with 
 a body of assistants scarcely inferior to himself — has for- 
 warded a series of letters, which for faithfulness of descrip- 
 tion, power of language, fervor of thought, happiness of 
 expression, and importance of subject-matter, have no equal 
 in the epistolary literature of any age or country. We give 
 this gentleman's correspondence entire, and in the order in 
 which it reached our office. 
 
 " Saloon of Steamer, Thursday night, half-past eight. 
 
 " When I left New Burlington Street this evening in the 
 hackney cabriolet, number four thousand two hundred and 
 eighty-five, I experienced sensations as novel as they were 
 oppressive. A sense of importance of the task I had under- 
 taken ; a consciousness that I was leaving London, and 
 stranger still, going somewhere else ; a feeling of loneliness, 
 and a sensation of jolting quite bewildered my thoughts, 
 and for a time rendered me even insensible to the presence 
 of my carpet-bag and hat-box. I shall ever feel grateful to 
 the driver of a Blackwall omnibus, who, by thrusting the 
 pole of his vehicle through the small door of the cabriolet, 
 awakened me from a tumult of imaginings that are wholly 
 indescribable. But of such materials is our imperfect nature 
 composed ! 
 
 " I am happy to say that I am the first passenger or, 
 board, and shall thus be enabled to give you an account oi 
 all that happens in the order of its occurrence. The chim- 
 ney is smoking a good deal, and so are the crew ; and the 
 captain, I am informed, is very drunk in a little house upon 
 the deck, something like a black turnpike. I should infer, 
 from all I hear, that he has got the steam up. 
 
 "You will readily guess with what feelings I have just 
 made the discovery that my berth is in the same closet with 
 those engaged by Professor Woodensconce, Mr. Slug, and 
 Professor Grime". Professor Woodensconce has taken the 
 shelf above me, and Mr. Slug and Professor Grime, the two 
 shelves opposite. Their luggage has already arrived. Ofc 
 
256 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 Mr. Slug's bed is a long tin tube of about three inches in 
 diameter, carefully closed at both ends. What can this 
 contain ? Some powerful instrument of a new construction 
 doubtless." 
 
 " Ten minutes past nine. 
 
 " Nobody has yet arrived, nor has any thing fresh come in 
 my way except several joints of beef and mutton, from which 
 I conclude that a good plain dinner has been provided for 
 to-morrow. There is a singular smell below, which gave 
 me some uneasiness at first ; but, as the steward says it is 
 always there, and never goes away, I am quite comfortable 
 again. I learn from this man that the different sections will 
 be distributed at the Black Boy and Stomach-Ache, and the 
 Boot-Jack and Countenance. If this intelligence be true, 
 and I have no reason to doubt it, your readers will draw 
 such conclusions as their different opinions may suggest. 
 
 " I write down these remarks as they occur to me, or as 
 the facts come to my knowledge, in order that my first im- 
 pressions may lose nothing of their original vividness. I 
 shall dispatch them in small packets as opportunities 
 arise." 
 
 " Half-past nine. 
 
 " Some dark object has just appeared upon the wharf. I 
 think it is a traveling carriage." 
 
 " A quarter to ten. 
 
 " No, it isn't." 
 
 " Half-past ten. 
 
 11 The passengers are pouring in every instant. Four 
 omnibuses full have just arrived upon the wharf, and all is 
 bustle and activity. The noise and confusion are very great. 
 Cloths are laid in the cabins, and the steward is placing 
 blue plates full of knobs of cheese at equal distances down 
 the center of the tables. He drops a great many knobs ', 
 but, being used to it, picks them up again with great dex- 
 terity, and, after wiping them on his sleeve, throws them 
 back into the plates. He is a young man of exceedingly 
 prepossessing appearance — either dirty or a mulatto, but I 
 think the former. 
 
 " An interesting old gentleman who came to the wharf in 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 257 
 
 an omnibus has just quarreled violently with the porters, 
 and is staggering toward the vessel with a large trunk in 
 his arms. I trust and hope that he may reach it in safety ; 
 but the board he has to cross is narrow and slippery. Was 
 that a splash ? Gracious powers ! 
 
 " I have just returned from the deck. The trunk h 
 standing upon the extreme brink of the wharf, but the old 
 gentleman is nowhere to be seen. The watchman is not 
 sure whether he went down or not, but promises to drag for 
 him the first thing to-morrow morning. May his humane 
 efforts prove successful ! 
 
 " Professor Nogo has this moment arrived with his night- 
 cap on under his hat. He has ordered a glass of cold 
 brandy-and-water, with a hard biscuit and a basin, and has 
 gone straight to bed. What can this mean ? 
 
 " The three other scientific gentlemen to whom I have 
 already alluded have come on board, and have all tried their 
 beds, with the exception of Professor Woodensconce, who 
 sleeps in one of the top ones, and can't get into it. Mr. 
 Slug, who sleeps in the other top one is unable to get out of 
 his, and is to have his supper handed up by a boy. I have 
 had the honor to introduce myself to these gentlemen, and 
 we have amicably arranged the order in which we shall retire 
 to rest ; which is necessary to agree upon, because, although 
 the cabin is very comfortable, there is not room for more 
 than one gentleman to be out of bed at a time, and even he 
 must take his boots off in the passage. 
 
 " As I anticipated, the knobs of cheese were provided for 
 the passengers' supper, and are now in course of consump- 
 tion. Your readers will be surprised to hear that Professor 
 Woodensconce has abstained from cheese for eight years, 
 although he takes butter in considerable quantities. Pro- 
 fessor Grime, having lost several teeth, is unable, I observe, 
 to eat his crusts without previously soaking them in his 
 bottled porter. How interesting are these peculiarities ! " 
 
 " Half-past eleven. 
 
 " Professors Woodensconce and Grime, with a degree of 
 good humor that delights us all, have just arranged to toss 
 for a bottle of mulled port. There has been some discus- 
 sion whether the payment should be decided by the first 
 toss or the best out of three. Eventually the latter course 
 has been determined on. Deeply do I wish that both gen- 
 tlemen could win ; but that being impossible, I own that my 
 
258 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 personal aspirations (I speak as an individual, and do not 
 compromise either you or your readers by this expression of 
 feeling) are with Professor Woodensconce. I have backed 
 that gentleman to the amount of eighteen pence." 
 
 " Twenty minutes to twelve. 
 
 " Professor Grime has inadvertently tossed his half-crown 
 out of one of the cabin windows, and it has been arranged 
 the steward shall toss for him. Bets are offered on any side 
 to any amount, but there are no takers. 
 
 " Professor Woodensconce has just called 'woman ; ' but 
 the coin having lodged in a beam is a long time coming 
 down again. The interest and suspense of this one moment 
 are beyond any thing that can be imagined." 
 
 " Twelve o'clock. 
 
 " The mulled port is smoking on the table before me, and 
 Professor Grime has won. Tossing is a game of chance ; 
 but on every ground, whether of public or private character, 
 intellectual endowments, or scientific attainments, I can not 
 help expressing my opinion that Professor Woodensconce 
 ought to have come off victorious. There is an exultation 
 about Professor Grime incompatible, I fear, with greatness." 
 
 " A quarter past twelve. 
 
 " Professor Grime continues to exult, and to boast of his 
 victory in no very measured terms, observing that he always 
 does win, and that he knew it would be a ' head ' beforehand, 
 with many other remarks of a similar nature. Surely this 
 gentleman is not so lost to every feeling of decency and pro- 
 priety as not to feel and know the superiority of Professor 
 Woodensconce. Is Professor Grime insane ? or does he wish 
 to be reminded in plain language of his true position in 
 society, and the precise level of his acquirements and abili- 
 ties ? Professor Grime will do well to look to this." 
 
 " One o'clock. 
 
 " I am writing in bed. The small cabin is illuminated by 
 the feeble light of a flickering lamp suspended from the ceil- 
 ing ; Professor Grime is lying on the opposite shelf, on the 
 broad of his back, with his mouth wide open. The scene 
 is indescribably solemn. The ripple of the tide, the noise of 
 the sailors' feet overhead, the gruff voices on the river, the 
 dogs on the shore, the snoring of the passengers, and a con- 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 259 
 
 stant creaking of every plank in the vessel, are the only 
 sounds that meet the ear. With these exceptions, all is pro- 
 found silence. 
 
 " My curiosity has been within the last moment very much 
 excited. Mr. Slug, who lies above Professor Grime, has cau- 
 tiously withdrawn the curtains of his berth, and after looking 
 anxiously out, as if to satisfy himself that his companions 
 are asleep, has taken up the tin tube of which I have before 
 spoken, and is regarding it with great interest. What rare 
 mechanical combinations can be obtained in that mysterious 
 case ? It is evidently a profound secret to all." 
 
 " A quarter past one." 
 
 " The behavior of Mr. Slug grows more and more mys- 
 terious. He has unscrewed the top of the tube, and now 
 renews his observation upon his companion ; evidently to 
 make sure that he is wholly unobserved. He is clearly on 
 the eve of some great experiment. Pray heaven that it be 
 not a dangerous one ; but the interests of science must be 
 promoted, and I am prepared for the worst." 
 
 " Five minutes later. 
 
 " He has produced a large pair of scissors, and drawn a 
 roll of some substance, not unlike parchment in appearance, 
 from the tin case. The experiment is about to begin. I 
 must strain my eyes to the utmost, in the attempt to follow 
 its minutest operation." 
 
 " Twenty minutes before two. 
 
 " I have at length been enabled to ascertain that the tin 
 tube contains a few yards of some celebrated plaster recom- 
 mended — as I discover on regarding the label attentively 
 through my eye-glass — as a preservative against sea-sickness. 
 Mr. Slug has cut it up into small portions, and is now stick- 
 ing it over himself in every direction." 
 
 " Three o'clock. 
 
 " Precisely a quarter of an hour ago we weighed anchor, 
 and the machinery was suddenly put in motion with a noise 
 so appalling, that Professor Woodensconce, who had 
 ascended to his berth by means of a platform of carpet-bags 
 arranged by himself on geometrical principles, darted from 
 his shelf headforemost, and gaining his feet with all the 
 rapidity of extreme terror, ran wildly into the ladies' cabin, 
 
2 6o TPIE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 under the impression that we were sinking, and uttering 
 loud cries for aid. I am assured that the scene which 
 ensued baffles all description. There were one hundred 
 and forty-seven ladies in their respective berths at the 
 time. 
 
 " Mr. Slug has remarked, as an additional instance of 
 the extreme ingenuity of the steam-engine as applied to 
 purposes of navigation, that, in whatever part of the vessel 
 a passenger's berth may be situated, the machinery always 
 appears to be exactly under his pillow. He intends stating 
 this very beautiful, though simple, discovery to the associa- 
 tion." 
 
 " Half-past three. 
 
 " We are still in smooth water ; that is to say, in as smooth 
 water as a steam-vessel ever can be, for, as Professor Wood- 
 ensconce, who has just woke up, learnedly remarks, another 
 great point of ingenuity about a steamer is that it always 
 carries a little storm with it. You can scarcely conceive 
 how exciting the jerking pulsation of the ship becomes. It 
 is a matter of positive difficulty to get to sleep." 
 
 " Friday afternoon, six o'clock. 
 
 " I regret to inform you that Mr. Slug's plaster has 
 proved of no avail. He is in great agony, but has applied 
 several large additional pieces, notwithstanding. How affect- 
 ing is this extreme devotion to science and pursuit of knowl- 
 edge under the most trying circumstances ! 
 
 " We were extremely happy this morning and the break- 
 fast was one of the most animated description. Nothing 
 unpleasant occurred until noon, with the exception of Dr. 
 Foxey's brown silk umbrella and white hat becoming entan- 
 gled in the machinery while he was" explaining to a knot of 
 ladies the construction of the steam-engine. I fear the 
 gravy-soup for lunch was injudicious. We lost a great many 
 passengers almost immediately afterward." 
 
 " Half-past six. 
 
 " I am again in bed. Any thing so heart-rending as Mr. 
 Slug's sufferings it has never yet been my lot to witness." 
 
 ** Seven o'clock. 
 
 " A messenger has just come down for a clean pocket- 
 handkerchief from Professor Woodensconce's bag, that 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 261 
 
 unfortunate gentleman being quite unable to leave the deck, 
 and imploring constantly to be thrown overboard. From 
 this man I understand that Professor Nogo, though in a state 
 of utter exhaustion, clings feebly to the hard biscuit and 
 cold brandy-and-water, under the impression that they 
 will yet restore him. Such is the triumph of mind over 
 matter. 
 
 " Professor Grime is in bed, to all appearance quite well ; 
 but he will eat, and it is disagreeable to see him. Has this 
 gentleman no sympathy with the sufferings of his fellow- 
 creatures ? If he has, on what principle can he call for 
 mutton-chops, — and smile ? " 
 
 " Black Boy and Stomach-Ache, Oldcastle, ) 
 
 Saturday noon. ) 
 
 " You will be happy to learn that I have at length arrived 
 here in safety. The town is excessively crowded, and all the 
 private lodgings and hotels are filled with savans of both 
 sexes. The tremendous assemblage of intellect that one 
 encounters in every street is in the last degree overwhelm- 
 ing. 
 
 " Notwithstanding the throng of people here, I have been 
 fortunate enough to meet with very comfortable accommoda- 
 tion on very reasonable terms, having secured a sofa in the 
 first-floor passage at one guinea per night, which includes 
 permission to take my meals in the bar, on condition that I 
 walk about the streets at other times, to make room for 
 other gentlemen similarly situated. I have been over the 
 outhouses intended to be devoted to the reception of the 
 various sections, both here and at the Boot-Jack and Coun- 
 tenance, and am much delighted with the arrangements. 
 Nothing can exceed the fresh appearance of the sawdust 
 with which the floors are sprinkled. The forms are en- 
 planed deal, and the general effect, as you can well imagine, 
 is extremely beautiful." 
 
 " Half-past nine. 
 
 " The number and rapidity of the arrivals are quite bewil- 
 dering. Within the last ten minutes a stage coach has driven 
 up to the door, filled, inside and out, with distinguished 
 characters, comprising Mr. Muddlebrains, Mr. Drawley, 
 Professor Muff, Mr. X. Misty, Mr. X. X. Misty, Mr. Purblind, 
 Professor Rummin, The Honorable and Reverend Mr. Long 
 ' Ears, Professor John Ketch, Sir William Joltered, Dr. Buffer, 
 
262 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 Mr. Smith, of London, Mr. Brown, of Edinburgh, Sir Hook- 
 ham Snivey, and Professor Pumpkinskull. The last ten named 
 gentlemen were wet through, and looked extremely intelli- 
 gent." 
 
 " Sunday, two o'clock, p. m. 
 
 " The Honorable and Reverend Mr. Long Ears, accom- 
 panied by Sir William Joltered, walked and drove this morn- 
 ing. They accomplished the former feat in boots, and the 
 latter in a hired fly. This has naturally given rise to much 
 discussion. 
 
 " I have just learned that an interview has taken place at 
 the Boot-Jack and Countenance between Sowster, the active 
 and intelligent beadle of this place, and Professor Pumpkin- 
 skull, who, as your readers are doubtless aware, is an influ- 
 ential member of the council. I forbear to communicate 
 any of the rumors to which this very extraordinary proceed- 
 ing has given rise until I have seen Sowster, and endeavor 
 to ascertain the truth from him." 
 
 " Half-past six. 
 
 "I engaged a donkey- chaise shortly after writing the 
 above, and proceeded at a brisk trot in the direction of 
 Sowster's residence, passing through a beautiful expanse of 
 country, with red brick buildings on either side, and stop- 
 ping in the market-place to observe the spot where Mr. 
 Kwakley's hat was blown off yesterday. It is an uneven 
 piece of paving, but has certainly no appearance which would 
 lead one to suppose that any such event had recently oc- 
 curred there. From this point I proceeded — passing the 
 gas-works and tallow-melter's — to a lane which had been 
 pointed out to me as the beadle's place of residence ; and 
 before I had driven a dozen yards further, I had the good 
 fortune to meet Sowster himself, advancing toward me. 
 
 " Sowster is a fat man, with a more enlarged development 
 of that peculiar formation of countenance which is vulgarly 
 termed a double chin than I remember to have ever seen 
 before. He has also a very red nose, which he attributes to 
 a habit of early rising — so red, indeed, that but for this ex- 
 planation I should have supposed it to proceed from occa- 
 sional inebriety. He informed me that he did not feel at 
 liberty to relate what had passed between himself and Pro- 
 fessor Pumpkinskull, but had no objection to state that it 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 263 
 
 was connected with a matter of police regulation, and added 
 with a peculiar significance, ' Never wos sitch times ! ' 
 
 "You will easily believe that this intelligence gave me con- 
 siderable surprise, not wholly unmixed with anxiety, and 
 that I lost no time in waiting on Professor Pumpkinskull, 
 and stating the object of my visit. After a few moments' 
 reflection, the professor, who, I am bound to say, behaved 
 with the utmost politeness, openly avowed, (I marked the 
 passage in italics) that he had requested Sowster to attend on 
 the Monday morning at the Boot- Jack and Cowitenance, to 
 keep off the boys ; and that he had further desired that the 
 under-beadle might be stationed, with the same object, at the 
 Black-Boy and Stomach- Ache ! 
 
 " Now I leave this unconstitutional proceeding to your 
 comments and the consideration of your readers. I have yet to 
 learn that a beadle, without the precincts of a church, church- 
 yard, or work-house, and acting otherwise than under the 
 express orders of churchwardens and overseers in council 
 assembled, to enforce the law against people who come 
 upon the parish, and other offenders, has any lawful au- 
 thority whatever over the rising youth of this country. I 
 have yet to learn that a beadle can be called out by any 
 civilian to exercise a domination and despotism over 
 the boys of Britain. I have yet to learn that a beadle 
 will be permitted by the commissioners of poor-law regula- 
 tion to wear out the soles and heels of his boots in illegal 
 interference with the liberties of people not proved poor, or 
 otherwise criminal. I have yet to learn that a beadle has 
 power to stop up the queen's highway at his will and pleas- 
 ure, or that the whole width of the street is not free and 
 open to any man, boy, or woman in existence, up to the 
 very walls of the houses — ay, be they Black Boys and 
 Stomach-aches, or Boot-jacks and Countenances, I care not." 
 
 " Nine o'clock. 
 
 " I have procured a local artist to make a faithful sketch 
 of the tyrant Sowster, which, as he has acquired this in- 
 famous celebrity, you will no doubt wish to have engraved, 
 for the purpose of presenting a copy with every copy of your 
 next number. The under-beadle has consented to write his 
 life, but it is to be strictly anonymous. 
 
 " The likeness is of course from the life, and complete in 
 every respect. Even if I had been totally ignorant of the 
 man's real character, and it had been placed before me with- 
 
264 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION, 
 
 out remark, I should have shuddered involuntarily. There 
 is an intense malignity of expression in the features, and a 
 baleful ferocity of purpose in the ruffian's eye, which ap- 
 palls and sickens. His whole air is rampant with cruelty, 
 nor is the stomach less characteristic of his demoniac pro- 
 pensities. 
 
 " Monday. 
 
 " The great day has at length arrived. I have neither 
 eyes, nor ears, nor pens, nor ink, nor paper, for any thing 
 but the wonderful proceedings that have astounded my 
 senses. Let me collect my energies and proceed to the ac- 
 count. 
 
 "SECTION A. — ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY. 
 
 " FRONT PARLOR, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE. 
 
 PRESIDENT— SIR WILLIAM JOLTERED. VICE PRESIDENTS— MR. 
 
 MUDDLEBRAINS AND MR. DRAWLEY. 
 
 " Mr. X. X. Misty communicated some remarks on the 
 disappearance of dancing bears from the streets of London, 
 with observations on the exhibition of monkeys as connected 
 with barrel-organs. The writer had observed with feel- 
 ings of the utmost pain and regret, that some years ago a 
 sudden and unaccountable change in the public taste took 
 place with reference to itinerant bears, who, being dis- 
 countenanced by the populace, gradually fell off one by one 
 from the streets of the metropolis, until not one remained to 
 create a taste for natural history in the breasts of the poor 
 and uninstructed. One bear, indeed — a brown and ragged 
 animal, — had lingered about the haunts of his former tri- 
 umphs, with a worn and dejected visage and feeble limbs, 
 and had essayed to wield his quarter-staff for the amuse- 
 ment of the multitude ; but hunger and an utter want of 
 any due recompense for his abilities, had at length driven 
 him from the field, and it was only too probable that he had 
 fallen a sacrifice to the rising taste for grease. He regretted 
 to add that a similar and no less lamentable change had 
 taken place with reference to monkeys. Those delightful 
 animals had formerly been almost as plentiful as the organs 
 on the tops of which they were accustomed to sit ; the pro- 
 portion in the year 1829, it appeared by the parliamentary 
 return, being as one monkey to three organs. Owing how- 
 ever to an altered taste in musical instruments and the sub- 
 stitution in a great measure of narrow boxes of music for 
 organs, which left the monkeys nothing to sit upon, this 
 source of public amusement was wholly dried up. Con- 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 265 
 
 sidering it a matter of the deepest importance in connec- 
 tion with national education, that the people should not lose 
 such opportunities of making themselves acquainted with 
 the manners and customs of two most interesting species of 
 animals, the author submitted that some measures should 
 be immediately taken for the restoration of those pleasing 
 and- truly intellectual amusements. 
 
 " The president inquired by what means the honorable 
 member proposed to attain this most desirable end ? 
 
 " The author submitted that it could be most fully and 
 satisfactorily accomplished, if her majesty's government 
 would cause to be brought over to England, and maintained 
 at the public expense, and for the public amusement, such 
 a number of bears as would enable every quarter of the 
 town to be visited — say at least by three bears a week. No 
 difficulty whatever need be experienced in providing a fit- 
 ting place for the reception of those animals, as a commodi- 
 ous bear-garden could be erected in the immediate neigh- 
 borhood of both houses of parliament ; obviously the most 
 proper and eligible spot for such an establishment. 
 
 " Professor Mull doubted very much whether any cor- 
 rect ideas of natural history were propagated by the 
 means to which the honorable member had so ably 
 adverted. On the contrary, he believed that they had 
 been the means of diffusing' very incorrect and imperfect 
 notions on the subject. He spoke from personal obser- 
 vations and personal experience, when he said that many 
 children of great abilities had been induced to believe, 
 from what they had observed in the streets, at and before 
 the period to which the honorable gentleman had referred, 
 that all monkeys were born in red coats and spangles, and 
 that their hats and features also came by nature. He wished 
 to know distinctly whether the honorable gentleman attrib- 
 uted the want of encouragement the bears had met with to 
 the decline of public taste in that respect, or to a want of 
 ability on the part of the bears themselves ? 
 
 " Mr. X. X. Misty replied that he could not bring himself 
 to believe but that there must be a great deal of floating 
 talent among the bears and monkeys generally ; which, in 
 the absence of any proper encouragement, was dispersed in 
 other directions. 
 
 " Professor Pumpkinskull wished to take that opportunity 
 of calling the attention of the section to a most important 
 and serious point. The author of the treatise just read had 
 
266 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 alluded to the prevalent taste for bear's grease as a means 
 of promoting the growth of hair, which undoubtedly was 
 diffused to a very great and, as it appeared to him, very 
 alarming extent. No gentleman attending that section could 
 fail to be aware of the fact that the youth of the present age 
 evinced, by their behavior in the streets and all places of 
 public resort, a considerable lack of that gallantry and gentle- 
 manly feeling which, in more ignorant times, had been 
 thought becoming. He wished to know whether it were 
 possible that a constant outward application of bear's grease 
 by the young gentlemen about town, had imperceptibly in- 
 fused into those unhappy persons something of the nature 
 and quality of the bear ? He shuddered as he threw out the 
 remark ; but if this theory, on inquiry, should prove to be 
 well founded, it would at once explain a great deal of un- 
 pleasant eccentricity of behavior, which, without some such 
 discovery, was wholly unaccountable. 
 
 "The president highly complimented the learned gentle- 
 man on his most valuable suggestion, which produced the 
 greatest effect upon the assembly ; and remarked that only 
 a week previous he had seen some young gentlemen at a 
 theater eying a box of ladies with a fierce intensity, which 
 nothing but the influence of some brutish appetite could 
 possibly explain. It was dreadful to reflect that our youth 
 were so rapidly verging into a generation of bears. 
 
 " After a scene of scientific enthusiasm it was resolved 
 that this important question should be immediately sub- 
 mitted to the consideration of the council. 
 
 "The president wished to know whether any gentleman 
 could inform the section what had become of the dancing 
 dogs ? 
 
 " A member replied, after some hesitation, that on the day 
 after three glee-singers had been committed to prison as 
 criminals by a late most zealous police-magistrate of the 
 metropolis, the dogs had abandoned their professional duties, 
 and dispersed themselves in different quarters of the town 
 to gain a livelihood by less dangerous means. He was given 
 to understand that since that period they had supported 
 themselves by lying in wait for and robbing blind men's 
 poodles. 
 
 " Mr. Flummery exhibited a twig, claiming to be a veritable 
 branch of that noble tree known to naturalists as the Shake- 
 speare, which has taken root in every land and climate, and 
 gathered under the shade of its broad green boughs the great 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 267 
 
 family of mankind. The learned gentleman remarked that 
 the twig had been undoubtedly called by other names in its 
 time ; but that it had been pointed out to him by an old lady 
 in Warwickshire, where the great tree had grown, as a shoot 
 of the genuine Shakespeare, by which name he begged to 
 introduce it to his countrymen. 
 
 "The president wished to know what botanical definiti n 
 the honorable gentleman could afford of the curiosity ? 
 
 " Mr. Flummery expressed his opinion that it was a 
 
 DECIDED PLANT. 
 
 " SECTION B.— DISPLAY OF MODELS AND MECHANICAL SCIENCE. 
 
 "LARGE ROOM, BOOT-JACK AND COUNTENANCE. 
 
 '* PRESIDENT— MR. MALLET. VICE-PRESIDENTS — MESSRS. LEAVER AND SCROO. 
 
 " Mr. Crinkles exhibited a most beautiful and delicate 
 machine, of a little larger size than an ordinary snuff-box, 
 manufactured entirely by himself, and composed exclusively 
 of steel ; by the aid of which more pockets were picked in 
 one hour than by the present slow and tedious process in 
 four-and-twenty. The inventor remarked that it had been 
 put into active operation in Fleet Street, the Strand, and 
 other thoroughfares, and had never been once known to fail. 
 
 " After seme slight delay, occasioned by the various mem- 
 bers of the section buttoning their pockets, the president 
 narrowly inspected the invention, and declared that he had 
 never seen a machine of more beautiful or exquisite con- 
 struction. Would the inventor be good enough to inform 
 the section whether he had taken any and what means for 
 bringing it into general operation ? 
 
 " Mr. Crinkles stated that after encountering some prelim- 
 inary difficulties, he had succeeded in putting himself in com- 
 munication with Mr. Fogle Hunter, and other gentlemen con- 
 nected with the swell mob, who had awarded the invention 
 the very highest and most unqualified approbation. He re- 
 gretted to say, however, that those distinguished practition- 
 ers, in common with a gentleman of the name of Gimlet-eyed 
 Tommy, and other members of a secondary grade of the 
 profession whom he was understood to represent, enter- 
 tained an insuperable objection to its being brought into 
 general use, on the ground that it would have the inevitable 
 effect of almost entirely superseding manual labor, and 
 throwing a great number of highly deserving persons out of 
 employment. 9 
 
 " The president hoped that no such fanciful objections 
 
268 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION 
 
 would be allowed to stand in the way of such a great public 
 improvement. 
 
 " Mr. Crinkles hoped so too ; but he feared that if the 
 gentlemen of the swell mob persevered in their objection, 
 nothing could be done. 
 
 " Professor Grime suggested that surely in that case her 
 majesty's government might be prevailed upon to take it up. 
 
 " Mr. Crinkles said that if the objection were found to be 
 insuperable, he should apply to parliament, who, he thought, 
 could not fail to recognize the utility of the invention. 
 
 " The president observed that up to his time parliament 
 had certainly got on very well without it ; but as they did 
 their business on a very large scale, he had no doubt they 
 would gladly adopt the improvement. His only fear was 
 that the machine might be worn out by constant working. 
 
 " Mr. Coppernose called the attention of the section to a 
 proposition of great magnitude and interest, illustrated by a 
 vast number of models, and stated with much clearness and 
 perspicuity, in a treatise entitled ' Practical suggestions on 
 the necessity of providing some harmless and wholesome re- 
 laxation for the young noblemen of England.' His propo- 
 sition was that a space of ground of not less than ten miles 
 in length and four in breadth should be purchased by a new 
 company, to be incorporated by act of parliament, and in- 
 closed by a brick wall of not less than twelve feet in heigh'.. 
 He proposed that it should be laid out with highway roads, 
 turnpikes, bridges, miniature villages, and every object that 
 could conduce to the comfort and glory of four-in-hand 
 clubs, so that they might be fairly presumed to require no 
 drive beyond it. This delightful retreat would be fitted up 
 with most commodious and extensive stables, for the con- 
 venience of such of the nobility and gentry as had a taste 
 for hostlering, and with houses of entertainment furnished 
 in the most expensive and handsome style. It would be 
 further provided with whole streets ,of door-knockers and 
 bell-handles, of extra size, so constructed that they could 
 be easily wrenched off at night, and regularly screwed on 
 again by attendants provided for the purpose, every day. 
 There would also be gas-lamps of real glass, which could be 
 broken at a comparatively small expense per dozen, and a 
 broad and handsome foot-pavement for gentlemen to drive 
 their cabriolets upon when they were humorously disposed — 
 for the full enjoyment of which feat, live pedestrians would 
 be procured from the work-house at a very small charge per 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 269 
 
 head. The place being inclosed and carefully screened 
 from the intrusion of the public, there would be no objec- 
 tion to gentlemen laying aside any article of their costume 
 that was considered to interfere with a pleasant frolic, or, 
 indeed, to their walking about without any costume at all, 
 if they liked that better. In short, every facility of enjoy- 
 ment would be afforded that the most gentlemanly person 
 could possibly desire. But as even these advantages would 
 be incomplete, unless there were some means provided of 
 enabling the nobility and gentry to display their prowess 
 when they sallied forth after dinner, and as some inconven- 
 ience might be experienced in the event of their being re- 
 duced to the necessity of pummeling each other, the inventor 
 had turned his attention to the construction of an entirely 
 new police-force, composed exclusively of automaton figures, 
 which, with the assistance of the ingenious Signor Gagliardi, 
 of Windmill Street, in the Haymarket, he had succeded in 
 making, with such nicety that a policeman, cab-driver, or old 
 woman, made upon the principle of the models exhibited, 
 would walk about until knocked down, like any real man ; 
 nay, more, if set upon and beaten by six or eight noblemen 
 or gentlemen, after it was down the figure would utter divers 
 groans, mingled with entreaties for mercy ; thus rendering the 
 illusion complete, and the enjoyment perfect. But the inven- 
 tion did not stop even here, for station-houses would be 
 built, containing good beds for noblemen and gentlemen 
 during the night, and in the morning they would repair to a 
 commodious police-office, where a pantomimic investigation 
 would take place before automaton magistrates— quite equal 
 to life — who would fine them so many counters, with which 
 they would be previously provided for the purpose. This 
 office would be furnished with an inclined plane for the con- 
 venience of any nobleman or gentleman who might wish to 
 bring in his horse as a witness, and the prisoners would be at 
 perfect liberty, as they were now, to interrupt the complainants 
 as much as they pleased, and to make any remarks that they 
 thought proper. The charge of those amusements would 
 amount to very little more than they already cost, and the 
 inventor submitted that the public would be much benefited 
 and comforted by the proposed arrangement. 
 
 " Professor Nogo wished to be informed what amount of 
 automaton police-force it was proposed to raise in the first 
 instance. 
 
 " Mr. Coppernose replied that it was proposed to begin 
 
270 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 with seven divisions of police of a score each, lettered from 
 A to G inclusive. It was proposed that not more than half 
 the number should be placed on active duty, and that the 
 remainder should be kept on shelves in the police-office, 
 ready to be called out at a moment's notice. 
 
 " The president, awarding the utmost merit to the in- 
 genious gentleman who had originated the idea, doubted 
 whether the automaton police would quite answer the pur- 
 pose. He feared that noblemen and gentlemen would per- 
 haps require the excitement of thrashing living subjects. 
 
 " Mr. Coppernose submitted, that as the usual odds in such 
 cases were ten noblemen to one policeman or cab-driver, it 
 could make very little difference, in point of excitement, 
 whether the policeman or cab-driver were a man or a block. 
 The great advantage would be that the policeman's limb 
 might be knocked off, and yet he would be in a condition 
 to do duty next day. He might even give his evidence next 
 morning with his head in his hand, and give it equally well. 
 
 " Professor Muff. — Will you allow me to ask you, sir, of 
 what materials it is intended that the magistrates' heads 
 shall be composed ? 
 
 " Mr. Coppernose. — The magistrates will have wooden 
 heads of course, and they will be made of the toughest and 
 thickest materials that can possibly be obtained. 
 
 " Professor Muff. — I am quite satisfied. This is a great 
 invention. 
 
 " Professor Nogo. — I see but one objection to it. It ap- 
 pears to me that the magistrates ought to talk. 
 
 " Mr. Coppernose no sooner heard this suggestion than h& 
 toucned a small spring in each of the two models of magis- 
 trates which were placed upon the table ; one of the figures 
 immediately began to exclaim with great volubility, that he 
 was sorry to see gentlemen in such a situation, and the other 
 to express a fear that the policeman was intoxicated. 
 
 " The section as with one accord declared with a shout of 
 applause, that the invention was complete ; and the presi- 
 dent, much excited, retired with Mr. Coppefnose, to lay it 
 before the council. On his return, — 
 
 " Mr. Tickle displayed his newly invented spectacles, 
 which enabled the wearer to discern in very bright colors 
 objects at a great distance, and rendered him wholly blind 
 to those immediately before him. It was, he said, a most 
 valuable and useful invention, based strictly upon the prin- 
 ciple of the human eye 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 271 
 
 "The president required some information upon this 
 point. He had yet to learn that the human eye was remark- 
 able for the peculiarities of which the honorable gentleman 
 had spoken. 
 
 " Mr. Tickle was rather astonished to hear this, when the 
 president could not fail to be aware that a large number of 
 most excellent persons and great statesmen could see with 
 the naked eye most marvelous horrors on West India plant- 
 ations, while they could discern nothing whatever in the 
 interior of Manchester cotton-mills. He must know, too, 
 with what quickness of perception most people could dis- 
 cover their neighbor's faults, and how very blind they were 
 to their own. If the president differed from the great ma- 
 jority of men in this respect, his eye was a defective one, 
 and it was to assist his vision that these glasses were made. 
 
 " Mr. Blank exhibited a model of a fashionable annual, 
 composed of copper-plates, gold leaf, and silk boards, and 
 worked entirely by milk and water. 
 
 " Mr. Prosee, after examining the machine, declared it to 
 be so ingeniously composed, that he was whollv unable to 
 discover how it went on at all. 
 
 " Mr. Blank. — Nobody can, and that is the beauty of it. 
 
 " SECTION C. — ANATOMY AND MEDICINE. 
 " BAR-ROOM, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE. 
 " PRESIDENT — DR. SOEMUP. VICE-PRESIDENTS — MESSRS. PESSEL AND MORTAIR. 
 
 " Dr. Grummidge stated to the section a most interesting 
 case of monomania, and described the course of treatment he 
 had pursued with perfect success. The patient was a mar- 
 ried lady in the middle rank of life, who, having seen another 
 lady at an evening party in a full suit of pearls, was suddenly 
 seized with a desire to possess a similar equipment, although 
 her husband's finances were by no means equal to the neces- 
 sary outlay. Finding her wish ungratified, she fell sick, and the 
 symptoms soon became so alarming, that he, Dr. Grummidge, 
 was called in. At this period the prominent tokens of the dis- 
 order were sullenness, a total indisposition to perform domestic 
 duties, great peevishness, and extreme languor, except when 
 pearls were mentioned, at which times the pulse quickened, 
 the eyes grew brighter, the pupils dilated, and the patient, 
 after various incoherent exclamations, burst into a passion 
 of tears and exclaimed that nobody cared for her. and that 
 she wished herself dead. Finding that the patient's appe- 
 tite was affected in the presence of company, he began by 
 
272 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 ordering a total abstinence from all stimulants, and forbid- 
 ding any sustenance but weak gruel ; he then took twenty 
 ounces of blood, applied a blister under each ear, one upon 
 the chest, and another on the back ; having done which, and 
 administered five grains of calomel, he left the patient to 
 her repose. The next day she was somewhat low, but decid- 
 edly better ; and all appearances of irritation were removed. 
 The next day she improved still further, and on the next 
 again. On the fourth there was some appearance of a re- 
 turn of the old symptoms, which no sooner developed them- 
 selves than he administered another dose of calomel, 
 and left strict orders, that unless a decidedly favorable 
 change occurred within two hours, the patient's head should 
 be immediately shaved to the very last curl. From that mo- 
 ment she began to mend, and in less than four-and-twenty 
 hours was perfectly restored ; she did not now betray the 
 least emotion at the sight or mention of pearls or any other 
 ornaments. She was cheerful and good-humored, and a 
 most beneficial change had been effected in her whole 
 temperament and condition, 
 
 " Mr. Pipkin, M. R. C. S., read a short but most interest- 
 ing communication in which he sought to prove the com- 
 plete belief of Sir William Courtenay, otherwise Thom, re- 
 cently shot at Canterbury, in the homoeopathic system. The 
 section would bear in mind that one of the homoeopathic 
 doctrines was, that infinitesimal doses of any medicine 
 which would occasion the disease under which the patient 
 labored, supposing him to be in a healthy state, would cure 
 it. Now it was a remarkable circumstance — proved in the 
 evidence — that the diseased Thom employed a woman to 
 follow him about all day with a pail of water, assuring her 
 that one drop, a purely homoeopathic remedy, the section 
 would observe, placed upon his tongue after death, would 
 restore him. What was the obvious inference ? That Thom, 
 who was marching and countermarching in osier beds, and 
 other swampy places, was impressed with a presentiment 
 that he should be drowned ; in which case, had his instruc- 
 tions been complied with, he could not fail to have been 
 brought to life again instantly by his own prescriptions. As 
 it was, if this woman, or any other person, had administered 
 an infinitesimal dose of lead and gunpowder, immediately 
 after he fell, he would have recovered forthwith. But un- 
 happily the woman concerned did not possess the power of 
 reasoning by analogy, or carrying out a principle, and thus 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. ±73 
 
 the unfortunate gentleman had been sacrificed to the igno- 
 rance of the peasantry. 
 
 " SECTION D. — STATISTICS. 
 
 " OUT-HOUSE, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE. 
 
 " PRESIDENT — MR. SLUG, VICE-PRESIDENTS — MESSRS. NOAKES AND STYLES. 
 
 " Mr. Kwakley stated the result of some most ingenious 
 statistical inquiries relative to the difference between the 
 value of the qualification of several members of parliament, 
 as published to the world, and its real nature and amount. 
 After reminding the section that every member of parliament 
 for a town or borough was supposed to possess a clear free- 
 hold estate of three hundred pounds per annum, the honor- 
 able gentleman excited great amusement and laughter by 
 stating the exact amount of freehold property possessed by 
 a column of legislators, in which he had included himself. 
 It appeared from this table that the amount of such income 
 possessed by each was o pounds, o shillings, and o pence, 
 yielding an average of the same. (Great laughter.) It was 
 pretty well known that there were accommodating gentlemen 
 in the habit of furnishing new members with temporary 
 qualifications, to the ownership of which they swore 
 solemnly, of course, as a mere matter of form. He argued 
 from these data that it was wholly unnecessary for members of 
 parliament to possess any property at all, especially as, when 
 they had none, the public could get them so much cheaper. 
 
 " SUPPLEMENTARY SECTION E.— UMBUGOLOGY AND DITCH— 
 WATERISTICS. 
 " PRESIDENT — MR. GRUB. VICE-PRESIDENTS — MESSRS. DULL AND DUMMY. 
 
 " A paper was read by the secretary, descriptive of a bay 
 pony with one eye, which had been seen by the author standing 
 in a' butcher's cart at the corner of Newgate Market. The 
 communication described the author of the paper as having 
 in the prosecution of a mercantile pursuit, betaken himself one 
 Saturday morning last summer from Somers Town to Cheap- 
 side; in the course of which expedition he had beheld the ex- 
 traordinary appearance above described. The pony had one 
 distinct eye ; it had been pointed out by his friend Captain 
 Blunderbore of the Horse Marines, who assisted the author in 
 his search, that whenever he winked his eye he whisked his 
 tail, possibly to drive the flies off, but that he always winked 
 and whisked at the same time. The animal was lean, spav- 
 ined and tottering ; and the author proposed to constitute 
 it of the family of Fitfordogsmeataurious. It certainly did 
 occur to him that there was no case on record of a pony 
 
*74 THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 
 
 with one clearly defined and distinct organ of vision, wink- 
 ing and whisking at the same moment. 
 
 " Mr. Q. j. Snuffletoffle had heard of a pony winking his 
 eye, and likewise of a pony whisking his tail, but whether 
 they were two ponies or the same pony he could not under- 
 take positively to say. At all events he was acquainted with 
 no authenticated instance of a simultaneous winking and 
 whisking, and he really could not but doubt the existence of 
 such a marvelous pony in opposition to all those natural 
 laws by which ponies were governed. Referring, however, 
 to the mere question of his one organ of vision, might he 
 suggest the possibility of this pony having been literally half 
 asleep at the time he was seen, and having closed only one 
 eye ? 
 
 " The president observed that whether the pony was half 
 asleep or fast asleep, there could be no doubt that the asso- 
 ciation was awake, and therefore that they had better get 
 the business over and go to dinner. He had certainly never 
 seen any thing analogous to this pony ; but he was not pre- 
 pared to doubt its existence, for he had seen many queerer 
 ponies in his time, though he did not pretend to have seen 
 any more remarkable donkeys than the other gentlemen 
 around him. 
 
 " Professor John Ketch was then called upon to exhibit 
 the skull of the late Mr. Greenacre, which he produced from 
 a blue bag, remarking, on being invited to make any obser- 
 vations that occurred to him, 'that he'd 'pound it as that 
 'ere 'spectable section had never seed a more gamerer cove 
 nor he vos.' 
 
 " A most animated discussion upon this interesting relic 
 ensued ; and some difference of opinion arising respecting 
 the real character of the deceased gentleman, Mr. Blubb 
 delivered a lecture upon the cranium before him, clearly 
 showing that Mr. Greenacre possessed the organ of destruc- 
 tiveness to a most unusual extent, with a most remarkable 
 development of the organ of carveativeness. Sir Hookham 
 Snivey was proceeding to combat this opinion, when Pro- 
 fessor Ketch suddenly interrupted the proceedings by ex- 
 claiming, with great excitement of manner, ' Walker ! ' 
 
 " The president begged to call the learned gentleman to 
 order. 
 
 " Professor Ketch. — ' Order be blowed ! you've got the 
 wrong 'un, I tell you. It ain't no 'ed at all ; it's a coker-nut 
 as my brother-in-law has been a-carvin' to hornament his new 
 
THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION. 2^5 
 
 baked 'tatur-stall vot's a-coming down here vile the 'socia- 
 tion's in the town. Hand over, vill you ? " 
 
 u With these words Professor Ketch hastily re-possessed 
 himself of the cocoanut, and drew forth the skull, in mistake 
 for which he had exhibited it. A most interesting conversa- 
 tion ensued ; but, as there appeared some doubt ultimately 
 whether the skull was Mr. Greenacres', or a hospital patient's, 
 or a pauper's, or a man's, or a woman's, or a monkey's, no 
 particular result was attained. 
 
 " I can not," says our talented correspondent, in conclu- 
 sion — " I can not close my account of these gigantic re- 
 searches, and sublime and noble triumphs, without repeating 
 a bon-mot of Professor Woodensconce's, which shows how the 
 greatest minds may occasionally unbend, when truth can be 
 presented to listening ears, clothed in an attractive and play- 
 ful form. I was standing by, when, after a week of feasting 
 and feeding, that learned gentleman, accompanied by the 
 whole body of wonderful men, entered the hall yesterday, 
 where a sumptuous dinner was prepared ; where the richest 
 wines sparkled on the board, and fat bucks — propitiatory 
 sacrifices to learning — sent forth their savory odors. ' Ah ! ' 
 said Professor Woodensconce, rubbing his hands, ' this is 
 what we meet for ; this is what inspires us ; this is what 
 keeps us together, and beckons us onward ; this is the sj>*-ead 
 of science, and a glorious spread it is ! " 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 IN FOUR PARTS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY ROMANCE. FROM THE PEN OF WILLIAM 
 TINKLING, ESQUIRE.* 
 
 This beginning-part is not made out of any body's head, 
 you know. It's real. You must believe this beginning-part 
 more than what comes after, else you won't understand how 
 what comes after came to be written. You must believe it 
 all ; but you must believe this most, please. I am the 
 editor of it. Bob Redforth (he's my cousin, and shaking 
 the table on purpose) wanted to be the editor of it ; but I 
 said he shouldn't because he couldn't. He has no idea of 
 being an editor. 
 
 Nettie Ashford is my bride. We were married in the right- 
 hand closet in the corner of the dancing-school where first 
 we met, with a ring (a green one) from Wilkingwater's toy- 
 shop. / owed for it out of my pocket-money. When the 
 rapturous ceremony was over, we all four went up the lane 
 and let off a cannon (brought loaded in Bob Redforth's 
 waistcoat-pocket) to announce our nuptials. It flew right 
 up when it went off, and turned over. Next day, Lieu- 
 tenant-Colonel Robin Redforth was united, with similar 
 ceremonies, to Alice Rainbird. This time, the cannon 
 burst with a most terrific explosion, and made a puppy 
 bark. 
 
 My peerless bride was, at the period of which we now 
 speak, in captivity at Miss Gnmmer's. Drowvey and Grim- 
 mer is the partnership, and opinion is divided which is the 
 greatest beast. The lovely bride of the colonel was also 
 
 * Aged eight. 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 277 
 
 immured in the dungeons of the same establishment. A vow 
 was entered into, between the colonel and myself, that we 
 would cut them out on the following Wednesday when walk- 
 ing two and two. 
 
 Under the desperate circumstances of the case, the active 
 brain of the colonel, combining with his lawless pursuit (he 
 is a pirate), suggested an attack with fire-works. This, 
 however, from motives of humanity, was abandoned as too 
 expensive. 
 
 Lightly armed with a paper-knife buttoned up under his 
 jacket, and waving the dreaded black flag at the end of a 
 cane, the colonel took command of me at two p. m. on the 
 eventful and appointed day. He had drawn out the plan of 
 attack on a piece of paper, which was rolled up round a 
 hoop-stick. He showed it to me. My position and my full- 
 length portrait (but my real ears don't stick out horizontal) 
 was behind a corner lamp-post, with written orders to remain 
 there till I should see Miss Drowvey fall. The Drowvey 
 who was to fall was the one in spectacles, not the one in the 
 large lavender bonnet. At that signal, I was to rush forth, 
 seize my bride, and fight my way to the lane. There a 
 junction would be effected between myself and the colonel ; 
 and putting our brides behind us, between ourselves and the 
 palings, we were to conquer or die. 
 
 The enemy appeared — approached. Waving his black 
 flag, the colonel attacked. Confusion ensued. Anxiously 
 I awaited my signal ; but my signal came not. So far from 
 falling, the hated Drowvey in spectacles appeared to me to 
 have muffled the colonel's head in his outlawed banner, and 
 to be pitching into him with a parasol. The one in the 
 lavender bonnet also performed prodigies of valor with her 
 fists on his back. Seeing that all was for the moment lost, 
 I fought my desperate way, hand-to-hand, to the lane. 
 Through taking the back road, I was so fortunate as to 
 meet nobody, and arrived there uninterrupted. 
 
 It seemed an age ere the colonel joined me. He had been 
 to the jobbing-tailor's to be sewn up in several places, and 
 attributed our defeat to the refusal of the detested Drowvey 
 to fall. Finding her so obstinate, he had said to her, " Die, 
 recreant ! " but had found her no more open to reason on 
 that point than the other. 
 
 My blooming bride appeared, accompanied by the colonel's 
 bride, at the dancing-school next day. What ? Was her fac^ 
 averted from me ? Hah ! Even so. With a look of-scorn 
 
278 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 she put into my hand a bit of paper, and took another partner. 
 On the paper was penciled, " Heavens ! Can I write the 
 word ? Is my husband a cow ? " 
 
 In the first bewilderment of my heated brain, I tried to 
 think what slanderer could have traced my family to the 
 ignoble animal mentioned above. Vain were my endeavors. 
 At the end of that dance I whispered the colonel to come 
 into the cloak-room, and I showed him the note. 
 
 " There is a syllable wanting," said he, with a gloomy 
 brow. 
 
 " Hah ! What syllable ? " was my inquiry. 
 
 " She asks, can she write the word ? And no ; you see 
 she couldn't," said the colonel, pointing out the passage. 
 
 " And the word was ?" said I. 
 
 " Cow — cow — coward," hissed the pirate-colonel in my 
 ear, and gave me back the note. 
 
 Feeling that I must forever tread the earth a branded boy 
 - — person, I mean — or that I must clear up my honor, I 
 demanded to be tried by a court-martial. The colonel ad- 
 mitted my right to be tried. Some difficulty was found in 
 composing the court, on account of the Emperor of France's 
 aunt refusing to let him come out. He was to be president. 
 Ere yet we had appointed a substitute, he made his escape 
 over the back wall, and stood among us, a free monarch. 
 
 The court was held on the grass by the pond. I recog- 
 nized, in a certain admiral among my judges, my deadliest 
 foe. A cocoanut had given rise to language that I could 
 not brook ; but confiding in my innocence, and also in the 
 knowledge that the President of the United States (who sat 
 next to him) owed me a knife, I braced myself for the 
 ordeal. 
 
 It was a solemn spectacle, that court. Two executioners 
 with pinafores reversed led me in. Under the shade of an 
 umbrella I perceived my bride, supported by the bride of 
 the pirate-colonel. The president, having reproved a little 
 female ensign for tittering, on a matter of life or death, called 
 upon me to plead, " Coward or no coward, guilty or not 
 guilty." (The little female ensign being again reproved by 
 the president for misconduct, mutinied, left the court, and 
 threw stones.) 
 
 My implacable enemy, the admiral, conducted the case 
 against me. The colonel's bride was called to prove that I 
 had remained behind the corner lamp-post during the en- 
 gagement. I might have been spared the anguish of my 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 279 
 
 own bride's being also made a witness to the same point, 
 but the admiral knew where to wound me. Be still, my soul, 
 no matter. The colonel was then brought forward with his 
 evidence. 
 
 It was for this point that I had saved myself up, as the 
 turning-point of my case. Shaking myself free of my guards, 
 — who had no business to hold me, the stupids, unless I was 
 found guilty — I asked the colonel what he considered the 
 first duty of a soldier? Ere he could reply the President of 
 the United States rose and informed the court, .that my foe 
 the admiral suggested " bravery," and that prompting a wit- 
 ness wasn't fair. The president of the court immediately 
 ordered the admiral's mouth to be filled with leaves, and 
 tied up with string. I had the satisfaction of seeing the 
 sentence carried, into effect before the proceedings went fur- 
 ther. 
 
 I then took a paper from my trowsers-pocket, and asked, 
 " What do you consider, Colonel Redford, the first duty of 
 a soldier ? Is it obedience ? " 
 " It is," said the colonel. 
 
 " Is that paper — please to look at it — in your hand ? " 
 " It is," said the colonel. 
 " Is it a military sketch ? " 
 " It is," said the colonel. 
 u Of an engagement ? " 
 " Quite so," said the colonel, 
 " Of the late engagement ? " 
 "Of the late engagement." 
 
 " Please to describe it, and then hand it to the president of 
 the court." 
 
 From that triumphant moment my sufferings and my dan- 
 gers were at an end. The court rose up and jumped, on dis- 
 covering that I had strictly obeyed orders. My foe the ad- 
 miral, who though muzzled, was malignant yet, contrived to 
 suggest that I was dishonored by having quitted the field. 
 But the colonel himself had done as much, and gave his 
 opinion, upon his word and honor as a pirate, that when all 
 was lost the field might be quitted without disgrace. I was 
 going to be found " No coward and not guilty," and my 
 blooming bride was going to be publicly restored to my 
 arms in a procession when an unlooked-for event disturbed 
 the general rejoicing. This was no other than the Emperor 
 of France's aunt catching hold of his hair. The proceedings 
 abruptly terminated, and the court tumultuously dissolved. 
 
2 8o HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 It was when the shades of the next evening but one were 
 beginning to fall, ere yet the silver beams of Luna touched the 
 earth,that four forms might have been descried slowly advanc- 
 ing toward the weeping willow on the borders of the pond, 
 the now deserted scene of the day-before-yesterday's agonies 
 and triumphs. On a nearer approach, and by a practical eye, 
 these might have been identified as the forms of the pirate- 
 colonel with his bride, and of the day-before-yesterday's gal- 
 lant prisoner with his bride. 
 
 On the beauteous faces of the Nymphs dejection sat en- 
 throned. All four reclined under the willow for some min- 
 utes without speaking, till at length the bride of the colonel 
 poutingly observed, " It's of no use pretending any more, 
 and we had better give it up." 
 
 " Hah ! " exclaimed the pirate. " Pretending ? " 
 
 " Don't go on like that ; you worry me," returned the 
 bride. ■ 
 
 The lovely bride of Tinkling echoed the incredible dec- 
 laration. The two warriors exchanged stony glances. 
 
 " If," said the bride of the pirate- colonel, " grown-up people 
 won't do what they ought to do, and will put us out, what 
 comes of our pretending ? " 
 
 " We only get into scrapes," said the bride of Tinkling. 
 
 " You know very well," pursued the colonel's bride, " that 
 Miss Drowvey wouldn't fall. You complained of it yourself. 
 And you know how disgracefully the court-martial ended. 
 As to our marriage ; would my people acknowledge it at 
 home ? " 
 
 " Or would my people acknowledge ours ? " said the bride 
 of Tinkling. 
 
 Again the two warriors exchanged stony glances. 
 
 " If you knocked at the door, and claimed me, after 
 you were told to go away," said the colonel's bride, "you 
 would only have your hair pulled, or your ears, or your 
 nose." 
 
 "If you persisted in ringing at the bell and claiming 
 me," said the bride of Tinkling to that gentleman, " you 
 would have things dropped on your head from the window 
 over the handle, or you would be played upon by the gai- 
 den-engine." 
 
 " And at your own homes," resumed the bride of the 
 colonel, " it would be just as bad. You would be sent to bed, 
 or something equally undignified. Again, how would you 
 support us ? " 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 2S1 
 
 The pirate-colonel, replied in a courageous voice, " By rap- 
 ine ! " But his bride retorted, " Suppose the grown-up 
 people wouldn't be rapined ?" " Then," said the colonel, 
 u they should pay the penalty in blood." " But suppose they 
 should object," retorted his bride, " and wouldn't pay the 
 penalty in blood or any thing else ? " 
 
 A mournful silence ensued. 
 
 " Then do you no longer love me, Alice ? " asked the 
 colonel. 
 
 " Redforth ! I am ever thine," returned his bride. 
 
 "Then do you no longer love me, Nettie?" asked the 
 present writer. 
 
 " Tinkling ! I am ever thine," returned my bride. 
 
 We all four embraced. Let me not be misunderstood by 
 the giddy. The colonel embraced his own bride, and I em- 
 braced mine. But two times two make four. 
 
 " Nettie and I," said Alice mournfully, " have been consid- 
 ering the position. The grown-up people are too strong for 
 us. They make us ridiculous. Besides, they have changed the 
 times. William Tinkling's baby brother was christened yes- 
 terday. What took place ? Was any king present. Answer, 
 William." 
 
 I said No, unless disguised as Great-uncle Chopper. 
 
 " Any queen ? " 
 
 There had been no queen that I know of at our house. 
 There might have been in the kitchen ; but I didn't think 
 so, or the servants would have mentioned it. 
 
 " Any fairies ?" 
 
 None that were visible. 
 
 " We had an idea among us, I think," said Alice, with a 
 melancholy smile, " we four, that Miss Grimmer would prove 
 to be the wicked fairy, and would come in at the christening 
 with her crutch-stick, and give the child a bad gift. Was 
 there any thing of that sort ? Answer, William." 
 
 I said that ma had said afterward (and so she had), that 
 Great-uncle Chopper's gift was a shabby one ; but she hadn't 
 said a bad one. She had called it shabby, electrotyped, 
 second-hand, and below his income. 
 
 " It must be the grown-up people who have changed all 
 this," said Alice. " We couldn't have changed it, if we had 
 been so inclined, and we never should have been. Or per- 
 haps Miss Grimmer is a wicked fairy after all, and won't act 
 up to it, because the grown-up people have persuaded her 
 not to. Either way, they would make us ridiculous if we 
 told them what we exoect<?.^ " 
 
282 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 "Tyrants ! " muttered the pirate colonel. 
 
 " Nay, my Redforth," said Alice, " say not so. Call not 
 names, my Redforth, or they will apply to pa." 
 
 " Let 'em ! " said the colonel. " I don't care. W no's 
 he?" 
 
 Tinkling here undertook the perilous task of remonstrating 
 with his lawless friend, who consented to withdraw the moody 
 expressions above quoted. 
 
 " What remains for us to do ? " Alice went on in her mild, 
 wise way. "We must educate, we must pretend in a new 
 manner, we must wait." 
 
 The colonel clenched his teeth — four out in front, and a 
 piece of another, and he had been twice dragged to the door 
 of a dentist-despot, but had escaped from his guards. " How 
 educate ? How pretend in a new manner ? How wait ? " 
 
 " Educate the grown-up people," replied Alice. " We 
 part to-night. Yes, Redforth," — for the colonel tucked up 
 his cuffs — " part to-night ! Let us in these next holidays, 
 now going to begin, throw our thoughts into something edu- 
 cational for the grown-up people, hinting to them how things 
 ought to be. Let us veil our meaning under a mask of ro- 
 mance ; you, I and Nettie. William Tinkling being the 
 plainest and quickest writer, shall copy out. Is it agreed ? " 
 
 The colonel answered sulkily, " I don't mind." He then 
 asked, " How about pretending ? " 
 
 " We will pretend ! " said Alice, "that we are children ; 
 not that we are those grown-up people who won't help us 
 out as they ought, and who understand us so badly." 
 
 The colonel, still much dissatisfied, growled, " How about 
 waiting ? " 
 
 " We will wait," answered little Alice, taking Nettie's hand 
 in hers, and looking up to the sky, " w r e will wait — ever con- 
 stant and true — till the times have got so changed as that 
 every thing helps us out, and nothing makes us ridiculous, 
 and the fairies have come back. We will wait — ever con- 
 stant and true — till we are eighty, ninety, or one hundred. 
 And then the fairies wall send us children, and we will help 
 them out, poor pretty little creatures, if they pretend ever 
 so much." 
 
 " So we will, dear," said Nettie Ashford, taking her round 
 the waist with both arms, and kissing her. " And now if my 
 husband will go and buy some cherries for us, I have got 
 some money." 
 
 In the friendliest manner I invited the colonel to go with 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 283 
 
 me ; but he so far forgot himself as to acknowledge the in- 
 vitation by kicking out behind, and then lying down on his 
 stomach on the grass, pulling it up and chewing it. When I 
 came back, however, Alice had nearly brought him out of 
 his vexation, and was soothing him by telling him how soon 
 we should all be ninety. 
 
 As we sat under the willow-tree and ate the cherries (fair, 
 for Alice shared them out), we played at being ninety. 
 Nettie complained that she had a bone in her old back, and 
 it made her hobble ; and Alice sang a song in an old woman's 
 way, but it was very pretty, and we were all merry. At least, 
 I don't know about merry exactly, but all comfortable. 
 
 There was a most tremendous lot of cherries ; and Alice 
 always had with her some neat little bag or box or case, to 
 hold things. In it that night was a tiny wine-glass. So 
 Alice and Nettie said they would make some cherry-wine to 
 drink our love at parting. 
 
 Each of us had a glassful, and it was delicious ; and each 
 of us drank the toast, "Our love at parting." The colonel 
 drank his wine last ; and it got into my head directly that it 
 got into his directly. Anyhow, his eyes rolled immediately 
 after he had turned the glass upside down ; and he took me 
 on one side, and proposed, in a hoarse whisper, that we 
 should " Cut 'em out still." 
 
 " How did he mean ? " I asked my lawless friend. 
 
 " Cut our brides out," said the colonel, " and then cut our 
 way, without going down a single turning, bang to the 
 Spanish main ! " 
 
 We might have tried it, though I didn't think it would 
 answer ; only we looked round and saw that there was noth- 
 ing but moonlight under the willow tree, and that our pretty, 
 pretty wives were gone. We burst out crying. The colonel 
 gave in second, and came to first ; but he gave in strong. 
 
 We were ashamed of our red eyes, and hung about for 
 half an hour to whiten them. Likewise a piece of chalk 
 round the rims, J doing the colonel's, and he mine, but after- 
 ward found in the bedroom looking-glass not natural, be- 
 sides inflammation. Our conversation turned on being 
 ninety. The colonel told me he had a pair of boots that 
 wanted soling and heeling ; but he thought it hardly worth 
 while to mention it to his father, as he himself should so 
 soon be ninety, when he thought shoes would be more con- 
 venient. The colonel also told me, with his hand upon his 
 hip, that he felt himself already getting on in life, and turn- 
 
2$ 4 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 ing rheumatic. And I told him the same. And when they 
 said at our house at supper (they are always bothering about 
 something) that I stooped, I felt so glad ! 
 
 This is the end of the beginning-part that you were to 
 believe most. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 There was once a king, and he had a queen ; and he was 
 the manliest of his sex, and she was the loveliest of hers. 
 The king was, in his private profession, under government. 
 The queen's father had been a medical man out of town. 
 
 They had nineteen children, and were always having more. 
 Seventeen of these children took care of the baby ; and 
 Alicia, the eldest, took care of them all. Their ages varied 
 from seven years to seven months. 
 
 Let us now resume our story. 
 
 One day the king was going to the office, when he stopped 
 at the fishmonger's to buy a pound and a half of salmon, not 
 too near the tail, which the queen (who was a careful house- 
 keeper), had requested him to send home. Mr. Pickles, the 
 fishmonger, said, " Certainly, sir, is there any other article ? 
 Good-morning." 
 
 The king went on toward the office in a melancholy mood ; 
 for quarter-day was such a long way off, and several of the 
 dear children were growing out of their clothes. He had not 
 proceeded far, when Mr. Pickles's errand-boy came running 
 after him, and said, " Sir, you didn't notice the old lady in 
 our shop." 
 
 " What old lady ?" inquired the king. " I saw none." 
 
 Now, the king had not seen any old lady, because this old 
 lady had been invisible to him, though visible to Mr. Pickles's 
 boy. Probably because he messed and splashed the water 
 about to that degree, and flapped the pairs of soles down in 
 that violent manner, that, if she had not been visible to him, 
 he would have spoiled her clothes. 
 
 Just then the old lady came trotting up. She was dressed 
 in shot silk of the richest quality, smelling of dried lavender. 
 
 11 King Watkins the First, I believe ?" said the old lady. 
 
 " Watkins," replied the king, " is my name." 
 
 * Aged seven. 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 285 
 
 u Papa, if I am not mistaken, of the beautiful Princess 
 Alicia ? " said the old lady. 
 
 "And of eighteen other darlings," replied the king. 
 
 "Listen. You are going to the office," said the old lady. 
 
 It instantly flashed upon the king that she must be a fairy, 
 or how could she know that ? 
 
 " You are right," said the old lady, answering his thoughts, 
 " I am the good Fairy Grandmarina. Attend ! When you 
 return home to dinner, politely invite the Princess Alicia to 
 have some of the salmon you bought just now." 
 
 " It may disagree with her," said the king. 
 
 The old lady became so very angry at this absurd idea, 
 that the king was quite alarmed, and humbly begged her 
 pardon. 
 
 " We hear a great deal too much about this thing disagree- 
 ing, and that thing disagreeing," said the old lady, with the 
 greatest contempt it was possible to express. " Don't be 
 greedy. I think you want it all yourself." 
 
 The king hung his head under this reproof, and said he 
 wouldn't talk about things disagreeing any more. 
 
 " Be good, then," said the Fairy Grandmarina, " and 
 don't ! When the beautiful Princess Alicia consents to par- 
 take of the salmon — as I think she will — you will find she 
 will leave a fish-bone on her plate. Tell her to dry it, and to 
 rub it, and to polish it till it shines like mother-of-pearl, and 
 to take care of it as a present from me." 
 
 " Is that all ? " asked the king. 
 
 " Don't be impatient, sir," returned the Fairy Grandma- 
 rina, scolding him severely. " Don't catch people short be- 
 fore they have done speaking. Just the way with you grown- 
 up persons. You are always doing it." 
 
 The king again hung his head, and said he wouldn't do so 
 any more. 
 
 " Be. good, then," said the Fairy Grandmarina, " and 
 don't ! Tell the Princess Alicia, with my love, that the fish- 
 bone is a magic present which can only be used once ; but 
 that it will bring her, that once, whatever she wishes for, 
 
 PROVIDED SHE WISHES FOR IT AT THE RIGHT TIME. That is 
 
 the message. Take care of it." 
 
 The king was beginning, " Might I ask the reason ? " 
 when the fairy became absolutely furious. 
 
 " Will you be good, sir ? " she exclaimed, stamping her 
 foot on the ground. " The reason for this, and the reason 
 for that, indeed ! You are always wanting the reason. No 
 
2 S6 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 reason. There ! Hoity toity me ! I am sick of your 
 grown-up reasons." 
 
 The king was extremely frightened by the old lady's flying 
 into such a passion, and said he was very sorry to have of- 
 fended her, and he wouldn't ask for reasons any more. 
 
 " Be good, then," said the old lady, " and don't ! " 
 
 With those words Grandmarina vanished, and the king 
 went on and on and on, till he came to the office. There 
 he wrote and wrote and wrote, till it was time to go home 
 again. Then he politely invited the Princess Alicia, as the 
 fairy had directed him, to partake of the salmon. And when 
 she had enjoyed it very much, he saw the fish-bone on her 
 plate, as the fairy had told him he would, and he delivered 
 the fairy's message, and the Princess Alicia took care to dry 
 the bone, and to rub it, and to polish it till it shone like 
 mother-of-pearl. 
 
 And so, when the queen was going to get up in the morn- 
 ing, she said, " Oh, dear me, dear me ; my head, my head ! " 
 and then she fainted away. 
 
 The Princess Alicia, who happened to be looking in at the 
 chamber-door asking about breakfast, was very much 
 alarmed when she saw her royal mamma in this state, and she 
 rang the bell for Peggy, which was the name of the lord 
 chamberlain. But remembering where the smelling-bottle 
 was, she climbed on the chair and got it ; and after that she 
 climbed on another chair by the bedside, and held the smell- 
 ing-bottle to the queen's nose ; and after that she jumped 
 down and got some water ; and after that she jumped up 
 again and wetted the queen's forehead ; and in short, when 
 the lord chamberlain came in, that dear old woman said to 
 the little princess, " What a trot you are ! I couldn't have 
 done it better myself ! " 
 
 But that was not the worst of the good queen's illness. 
 Oh, no ! She was very ill indeed for a long time. The 
 Princess Alicia kept the seventeen young princes and prin- 
 cesses quiet, and dressed and undressed and danced the 
 baby, and made the kettle boil, and heated the soup, and 
 swept the hearth, and poured out the medicine, and nursed 
 the queen, and did all that ever she could, and was as busy, 
 busy, busy as busy could be ; for there were not many serv- 
 ants at that place for three reasons : because the king was 
 short of money, because a rise in his office never seemed to 
 come, and because quarter day was so far off that it looked 
 almost as far off and as little as one of the stars. 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 287 
 
 feut on the morning when the queen fainted away, whert 
 was the magic fish-bone ? Why there it was in the Princess 
 Alicia's pocket ! She had almost taken it out to bring the 
 queen to life again, when she put it back, and looked for the 
 smelling-bottle. 
 
 After the queen had come out of her swoon that morning 
 and was dozing, the Princess Alicia hurried up stairs to tell 
 a most particular secret to a most particular confidential 
 friend of hers, who was a duchess. People did suppose her 
 to be a doll, but she was really a duchess, though nobody 
 knew it except the princess. 
 
 This most particular secret was the secret about the magic 
 fish-bone, the history of which was well-known to the duch- 
 ess, because the princess told her every thing. The princess 
 kneeled down by the bed on which the duchess was lying, 
 full-dressed and wide awake, and whispered the secret to 
 her. The duchess smiled and nodded. People might have 
 supposed that she never smiled and nodded ; but she often 
 did, though nobody knew it except the princess. 
 
 Then the Princess Alicia hurried down stairs again, to 
 keep watch in the queen's room. She often kept watch by 
 herself in the queen's room ; but every evening, while the 
 illness lasted, she sat there watching with the king. And 
 every evening the king sat looking at her with a cross look, 
 wondering why she never brought out the magic fish-bone. 
 As often as she noticed this, she ran up stairs, whispered the 
 secret to the duchess over again, and said to the duchess, 
 " They think we children never have a reason or a mean- 
 ing ! " And the duchess, though the most fashionable duch- 
 ess that ever was heard of, winked her eye. 
 
 " Alicia," said the king, one evening when she wished him 
 good-night. 
 
 " Yes, papa." 
 
 " What is become of your magic fish-bone ? " 
 
 " In my pocket, papa ! " 
 
 " I thought you had lost it ? " 
 
 "Oh no, papa." 
 
 " Or forgotten it? " 
 
 " No. indeed, papa." 
 
 And so another time the dreadful little snapping pug-dog, 
 next door, made a rush at one of the young princes as he stood 
 on the steps coming home from school, and terrified him out 
 of his wits ; and he put his hand through a pane of glass, and 
 bled, bled, bled. When the seventeen other young princes 
 and princesses saw him bleed, bleed, bleed, they were terrified 
 
288 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 out of their wits too, and screamed themselves black in their 
 seventeen faces all at once. But the Princess Alicia put her 
 hands over all their seventeen mouths, one after another, and 
 persuaded them to be quiet because of the sick queen. And 
 then she put the wounded prince's hand in a basin of fresh 
 cold water, while they stared with their twice seventeen are 
 thirty-four, put down four and carry three, eyes, and then 
 she looked in the hand for bits of glass, and there were 
 fortunately no bits of glass there. And then she said to 
 two chubby-legged princes, who were sturdy though small, 
 " Bring me in the royal rag-bag : I must snip and stitch and 
 cut and contrive." So these two young princes tugged at the 
 royal rag-bag, and lugged it in ; and the Princess Alicia sat 
 down on the floor, with a large pair of scissors and a needle 
 and thread, and snipped and stitched and cut and contrived, 
 and made a bandage, and put it on, and it fitted beautifully ; 
 and so when it was all done, she saw the king her papa look- 
 ing on by the door. 
 " Alicia." 
 " Yes, papa." 
 
 " What have you been doing ? " 
 " Snipping, stitching, cutting, and contriving, papa." 
 " Where is the magic fish-bone ?" 
 " In my pocket, papa." 
 " I thought you had lost it ? " 
 " Oh no, papa ! " 
 " Or forgotten it ? " 
 " No, indeed, papa." 
 
 After that, she ran up stairs to the duchess, and told her 
 what had passed, and told her the secret over again : and 
 the duchess shook her flaxen curls, and laughed with her 
 rosy lips. 
 
 Well ! and so another time the baby fell under the grate. 
 The seventeen young princes and princesses were used to it ; 
 for they were almost always falling under the grate or down 
 the stairs ; but the baby was not used to it yet, and it gave 
 him a swelled face and a black eye. The way the poor 
 little darling came to tumble was, that he was out of the 
 Princess Alicia's lap just as she was sitting, in a great coarse 
 apron that quite smothered her, in front of the kitchen fire, 
 beginning to peel the turnips for the broth for dinner ; and 
 the way she came to be doing that was, that the king's cook 
 had run away that morning with her own true love, who was 
 a very tall but very tipsy soldier. Then the seventeen young 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 289 
 
 princes and princesses, who cried at every thing that hap- 
 pened, cried and roared. But the Princess Alicia (who 
 couldn't help crying a little herself) quietly called to them 
 to be still, on account of not throwing back the queen up 
 stairs, who was fast getting well, and said, " Hold your 
 tongues, you wicked little monkeys, every one of you, while 
 I examine baby ! " Then she examined baby, and found 
 that he hadn't broken any thing ; and she held cold iron to 
 his poor dear eye, and smoothed his poor dear face, and he 
 presently fell asleep in her arms. Then she said to the 
 seventeen princes and princesses, " I am afraid to let him 
 down yet, lest he should wake and feel pain ; be good, and 
 you shall all be cooks." They jumped for joy when they 
 heard that, and began making themselves cooks' caps out of 
 old newspapers. So to one she gave the salt-box, and to 
 one she gave the barley, and to one she gave the herbs, and 
 to one she gave the turnips, and to one she gave the carrots, 
 and to one she gave the onions, and to one she gave the 
 spice-box, till they were all cooks, and all running about at 
 work, she sitting in the middle, smothered in the great 
 coarse apron, nursing baby. By and by the broth was done ; 
 and the baby woke up, smiling like an angel, and was trusted 
 to the sedatest princess to hold, while the other princes and 
 princesses were squeezed into a far-off corner to look at the 
 Princess Alicia turning out the saucepanful of broth, for fear 
 (as they were always getting into trouble) they should get 
 splashed and scalded. When the broth came tumbling out, 
 steaming beautifully, and smelling like a nosegay good to 
 eat, they clapped their hands. That made the baby clap 
 his hands ; and that, and his looking as if he had a comic 
 toothache, made all the princes and princesses laugh. So 
 the Princess Alicia said, " Laugh and be good ; and after 
 dinner we will make him a nest on the floor in a corner, and 
 he shall sit in his nest and see a dance of eighteen cooks." 
 That delighted the young princes and princesses, and they 
 ate up all the broth, and washed up all the plates and dishes, 
 and cleared away, and pushed the table into a corner ; and 
 then they in their cooks' caps, and the Princess Alicia in the 
 smothering coarse apron that belonged to the cook that had 
 run away with her own true love that was the very tall but 
 very tipsy soldier, danced a dance of eighteen cooks before 
 the angelic baby, who forgot his swelled face and his black 
 eye, and crowed with joy. 
 
 And so then, once more the Princess Alicia saw King 
 
290 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 Watkins the First, hsr father, standing in the doorway look- 
 ing on, and he said, " What have you been doing, Alicia ? " 
 
 " Cooking and contriving, papa." 
 
 " What else have you been doing, Alicia ? " 
 
 " Keeping the children light-hearted, papa." 
 
 " Where is the magic fish-bone, Alicia ? " 
 
 '■ In my pocket, papa." 
 
 "I thought you had lost it?" 
 
 11 Oh no, papa." 
 
 "Or forgotten it?" 
 
 " No, indeed, papa." 
 
 The king then sighed so heavily, and seemed so low- 
 spirited, and sat down so miserably, leaning his head upon 
 his hand, and his elbow upon the kitchen-table pushed away 
 in the corner, that the seventeen princes and princesses 
 crept softly out of the kitchen, and left him alone with the 
 Princess Alicia and the angelic baby. 
 
 " What is the matter, papa ? " 
 
 " I am dreadfully poor, my child. 
 
 " Have you no money at all, papa? " 
 
 " None, my child." 
 
 " Is there no way of getting any, papa ? " 
 
 " No way," said the king. " I have tried very hard, and 
 I have tried all ways." 
 
 When she heard these last words, the Princess Alicia began 
 to put her hand into the pocket where she kept the magic 
 fish-bone. 
 
 " Papa," said she, " when we have tried very hard, and 
 tried all ways, we must have done our very, very best ? " 
 
 " No doubt, Alicia." 
 
 " When we have done our very, very best, papa, and that 
 is not enough, then I think the right time must have come 
 for asking help of others." This was the very secret con- 
 nected with the magic fish-bone, which she had found out 
 for herself from the good Fairy Grandmarina's words, and 
 which she had so often whispered to her beautiful and fash- 
 ionable friend, the duchess. 
 
 So she took out of her pocket the magic fish-bone that had 
 been dried and rubbed and polished, till it shone like 
 mother-of-pearl ; and she gave it one little kiss, and wished 
 it was quarter day. And immediately it was quarter-day ; 
 and the king's quarter's salary came rattling down the chim- 
 ney, and bounced into the middle of the floor. 
 
 But this was not half of what happened — no, not a quar- 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 291 
 
 ter ; for immediately afterward the good Fairy Grandmarina 
 came riding in, with a carriage and four (peacocks), with Mr. 
 Pickles's boy up behind, dressed in silver and gold, with a 
 cocked-hat, powdered hair, pink silk stockings, a jeweled 
 cane, and a nosegay. Down jumped Mr. Pickles's boy, with 
 his cocked hat in his hand, and wonderfully polite (being 
 entirely changed by enchantment), and handed Grandma- 
 rina out ; and there she stood, in her rich shot-silk smelling 
 of dried lavender, fanning herself with a sparkling fan. 
 
 "Alicia, my dear," said this charming old fairy, "how do 
 you do ? I hope I see you pretty well ? Give me a kiss." 
 
 The Princess Alicia embraced her ; and then Grandma- 
 rina turned to the king, and said rather sharply, " Are you 
 good ? " 
 
 The king said he hoped so. 
 
 " I suppose you know the reason now why my god-daugh- 
 ter here," kissing the princess again, " did not apply to the 
 fish-bone sooner ? " said the fairy. 
 
 The king made a shy bow. 
 
 " Ah ! but you didn't then ? " said the fairy. 
 
 The king made a shyer bow. 
 
 " Any more reasons to ask for ? " said the fairy. 
 
 The king said, No, and he was very sorry. 
 
 " Be good, then," said the fairy, " and live happy ever 
 afterward." 
 
 Then Grandmarina waved her fan, and the queen came 
 in most splendidly dressed ; and the seventeen young princes 
 and*princesses, no longer grown out of their clothes, came 
 in, newly fitted out from top to toe, with tucks in every 
 thing to admit of its being let out. After that, the fairy 
 tapped the Princess Alicia with her fan ; and the smothering 
 coarse apron flew away, and she appeared exquisitely dressed, 
 like a little bride, with a wreath of orange flowers and a sil- 
 ver veil. After that, the kitchen dresser changed of itself 
 into a wardrobe, made of beautiful woods and gold and 
 looking-glass, which was full of dresses of all sorts, all for 
 her and all exactly fitting her. After that, the angelic baby 
 came in, running alone, with his face and eye not a bit the 
 worse, but much the better. Then Grandmarina begged to 
 be introduced to the duchess ; and, when the duchess was 
 brought down, many compliments passed between them. 
 
 A little whispering took place between the fairy and the 
 duchess ; and then the fairy said out loud, " Yes, I thought 
 
292 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 she would have told you." Grandmarina then turned to the 
 king and queen, and said, " We are going in search of Prince 
 Certainpersonio. The pleasure of your company is re- 
 quested at the church in half an hour precisely." So she 
 and the Princess Alicia got into the carriage ; and Mr. 
 Pickles's boy handed in the duchess, who sat by herself on the 
 opposite seat ; and then Mr. Pickles's boy put up the steps 
 and got up behind, and the peacocks flew away with their 
 tails behind. 
 
 Prince Certainpersonio was sitting by himself, eating bar- 
 ley-sugar, and waiting to be ninety. When he saw the pea- 
 cocks, followed by the carriage, coming in at the window, it 
 immediately occurred to him that something uncommon 
 was going to happen. 
 
 " Prince," said Grandmarina, " I bring you your bride." 
 
 The moment the fairy said those words, Prince Certain- 
 personio's face left off being sticky, and his jacket and cor- 
 duroys changed to peach-bloom velvet, and his hair curled, 
 and a cap and feather flew in like a bird and settled on his 
 head. He got into the carriage by the fairy's invitation ; 
 and there he renewed his acquaintance with the duchess, 
 whom he had seen before. 
 
 In the church were the prince's relations and friends, and 
 the Princess Alicia's relations and friends, and the seventeen 
 princes and princesses, and the baby, and a crowd of "the 
 neighbors. The marriage was beautiful beyond expression. 
 The duchess was bridesmaid, and beheld the ceremony 
 from the pulpit, where she was supported by the cushion of 
 the desk. 
 
 Grandmarina gave a magnificent wedding-feast afterward, 
 in which there was every thing and more to eat, and every 
 thing and more to drink. The wedding-cake was delicately 
 ornamented with white satin ribbons, frosted silver, and 
 white lilies, and was forty-two yards round. 
 
 When Grandmarina had drunk her love to the young 
 couple, and Prince Certainpersonio had made a speech, and 
 every body had cried, hip, hip, hip, hurrah ! Grandmarina 
 announced to the king and queen that in future there would 
 be eight quarter-days in every year, except leap-year, when 
 there would be ten. She then turned to Certainpersonio 
 and Alicia, and said, " My dears, you will have thirty-five 
 children, and they will be good and beautiful. Seventeen 
 of your children will be boys, and eighteen girls. The hair 
 of the whole of your children will curl naturally. They will 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 293 
 
 never have the measles, and will have recovered from the 
 whooping-cough before being born." 
 
 On hearing such good news, every body cried out, " Hip, 
 hip, hip, hurrah ! " again. 
 
 " It only remains," said Grandmarina in conclusion, "to 
 make an end of the fish-bone." 
 
 So she took it from the hand of the Princess Alicia, and 
 it instantly flew down the throat of the dreadful little snap- 
 ping pug-dog, next door, and choked him, and he expired in 
 convulsions. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 ROMANCE. FROM THE PEN OF LIEUTENANT-COLONEL ROBIN 
 REDFORTH.* 
 
 The subject of our present narrative would appear to have 
 devoted himself to the pirate profession at a comparatively 
 early age. We find him in command of a splendid schooner 
 of one hundred guns loaded to the muzzle, ere yet he had 
 had a party in honor of his tenth birthday. 
 
 It seems that our hero, considering himself spited by a 
 Latin grammar master, demanded the satisfaction due from 
 one man of honor to another. Not getting it, he privately 
 withdrew his haughty spirit from such low company, bought 
 a second-hand pocket-pistol, folded up some sandwiches in 
 a paper-bag, made a bottle of Spanish liquorice-water, and 
 entered on a career of valor. 
 
 It were tedious to follow Boldheart (for such was his 
 name) through the commencing stages of his story. Suffice 
 it, that we find him bearing the rank of Captain Boldheart, 
 reclining in full uniform on a crimson hearth-rug spread out 
 upon the quarter-deck of his schooner, " The Beauty," in 
 the China Seas. It was a lovely evening ; and, as his crew 
 lay grouped about him, he favored them with the following 
 melody : — 
 
 Oh, landsmen are folly ! 
 Oh, pirates are jolly ! 
 Oh, diddleum Dolly, 
 
 Di! 
 Chorus. — Heave yo ! 
 
 The soothing effect of these animated sounds floating over 
 the waters, as the common sailors united their rough voices 
 
 * Aged nine. 
 
2 9 4 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 to take up the rich tones of Boldheart, may be more easily 
 conceived than described. 
 
 It was under these circumstances that the lookout at the 
 mast-head gave the word " Whales ! " 
 
 All was now activity. 
 
 " Where away ?" cried Captain Boldheart, starting up. 
 
 " On the larboard bow, sir," replied the fellow at the mast- 
 head, touching his hat. For such was the height of discipline 
 on board of " The Beauty," that even at that height, he was 
 obliged to mind it, or be shot through the head. 
 
 " This adventure belongs to me," said Boldheart. " Boy, 
 my harpoon. Let no man follow ; " and, leaping alone into 
 his boat, the captain rowed with admirable dexterity in the 
 direction of the monster. 
 
 All now was excitement. 
 
 " He nears him ! " said an elderly seaman, following the 
 captain through his spy-glass. 
 
 " He strikes him ! " said another seaman, a mere stripling, 
 but also with a spy-glass. 
 
 "He tows him toward us ! " said another seaman, a man 
 in the full vigor of life, but also with a spy-glass. 
 
 In fact, the captain was seen approaching with the huge 
 bulk following. We will not dwell on the deafening cries of 
 " Boldheart ! Boldheart ! " with which he was received, when, 
 carelessly leaping on the quarter-deck, he presented his prize 
 to his men. They afterward made two thousand four hun- 
 dred and seventeen pound ten and sixpence by it. 
 
 Ordering the sails to be braced up, the captain now stood 
 W. N. W. " The Beauty " flew rather than floated over the 
 dark blue waters. Nothing particular occurred for a fort- 
 night, except taking, with considerable slaughter, four Span- 
 ish galleons, and a snow from South America, all richly 
 laden. Inaction began to tell upon the spirits of the men. 
 Captain Boldheart called all hands aft, and said, " My lads, 
 I hear there are discontented ones among ye. Let any such 
 stand forth." 
 
 After some murmurings, in which the expressions, " Ay, 
 ay, sir ! " "Union Jack," "Avast," "Starboard," "Port," 
 " Bowsprit," and similar indications of a mutinous under- 
 current, though subdued, were audible. Bill Boozey, cap- 
 tain of the foretop, came out from the rest. His form was 
 that of a giant, but he quailed under the captain's eye. 
 
 " What are your wrongs ? " said the captain. 
 
 " Why, d'ye see, Captain Boldheart," replied the towering 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 295 
 
 mariner, " I've sailed, man and boy, for many a year, but I 
 never yet know'd the milk served out for the ship's com- 
 pany's teas to be so sour as 'tis aboard this craft." 
 
 At this moment the thrilling cry, " Man overboard ! " an- 
 nounced to the astonished crew that Boozey, in stepping 
 back, as the captain (in mere thoughtfulness) Jaid his hand 
 upon the faithful pocket-pistol which he wore in his belt, 
 had lost his balance and was struggling with the foaming tide, 
 
 All was now stupefaction. 
 
 But with Captain Boldheart, to throw off his uniform 
 coat, regardless of the various rich orders with which it was 
 decorated, and to plunge into the sea after the drowning 
 giant, was the work of a moment. Maddening was the ex- 
 citement when boats were lowered ; intense the joy when 
 the captain was seen holding up the drowning man with his 
 teeth ; deafening the cheering when both were restored to 
 the main deck of " The Beauty." And, from the instant of 
 his changing his wet clothes for dry ones, Captain Bold- 
 heart had no such devoted though humble friend as William 
 Boozey. 
 
 Boldheart now pointed to the horizon, and called the at- 
 tention of his crew to the taper spars of a ship lying snug in 
 harbor under the guns of a fort. 
 
 " She shall be ours at sunrise," said he. " Serve out a 
 double allowance of grog, and prepare for action." 
 
 All was now preparation. 
 
 When morning dawned, after a sleepless night, it was seen 
 that the stranger was crowding on all sail to come out of the 
 harbor and offer battle. As the two ships came nearer to 
 each other, the stranger fired a gun and hoisted Roman 
 colors. Boldheart then perceived her to be the Latin gram- 
 mar master's bark. Such indeed she was, and had been 
 tacking about the world in unavailing pursuit, from the time 
 of his first taking to a roving life. 
 
 Boldheart now addressed his men, promising to blow them 
 up if he should feel convinced that their reputation required 
 it, and giving orders that the Latin grammar master should 
 be taken alive. He then dismissed them to their quarters, 
 and the fight began with a broadside from ■' The Beauty." 
 She then veered around, and poured in another. "Th- 
 Scorpion " (so was the barque of the Latin grammar mastei 
 appropriately called) was not slow to return her fire ; and a 
 terrific cannonading ensued, in which the guns of " The 
 Beauty " did tremendous execution. 
 
296 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 The Latin grammar master was seen upon the poop, in the 
 midst of the smoke and fire, encouraging his men. To do 
 him justice, he was no craven, though his white hat, his short 
 gray trowsers, and his long snuff-colored surtout reaching to 
 his heels (the self-same suit in which he had spited Bold- 
 heart), contrasted most unfavorably with the- brilliant uni- 
 form of the Tatter. At this moment, Boldheart, seizing a 
 pike and putting himself at the head of his men, gave the 
 word to board. 
 
 A desperate conflict ensued in the hammock-nettings — or 
 somewhere in about that direction — until the Latin grammar 
 master, having all his masts gone, his hull and rigging shot 
 through and through, and seeing Boldheart slashing a path 
 toward him, hauled down his flag himself, gave up his sword 
 to Boldheart, and asked for quarter. Scarce had he been 
 put into the captain's boat, ere " The Scorpion " went down 
 with all on board. 
 
 On Captain Boldheart's now assembling his men, a cir- 
 cumstance occurred. He found it necessary with one blow 
 of his cutlass to kill the cook, who, having lost his brother 
 in the late action, was making at the Latin grammar master 
 in an infuriated state, intent on his destruction with a carv- 
 ing-knife. 
 
 Captain Boldheart then turned to the Latin grammar mas- 
 ter, severely reproaching him with his perfidy, and put it to 
 his crew what they considered that a master who spited a 
 boy deserved. 
 
 They answered, with one voice, " Death ! " 
 "It may be so," said the captain, "but it shall never be 
 said that Boldheart stained his hour of triumph with the 
 blood of his enemy. Prepare the cutter." 
 The cutter was immediately prepared. 
 " Without taking your life," said the captain, " I must 
 -yet forever deprive you of the power of spiting other boys. 
 I shall turn you adrift in this boat. You will find in her two 
 oars, a compass, a bottle of rum, a small cask of water, a 
 piece of pork, a bag of biscuit, and my Latin grammar. 
 Go ! and spite the natives, if you can find any." 
 
 Deeply conscious of this bitter sarcasm, the unhappy 
 wretch was put into the cutter, and was soon left far be- 
 hind. He made »o effort to row, but was seen lying on his 
 back with his legs up, when last made out by the ships tele- 
 scopes. 
 
 A stiff breeze now beginning to blow, Captain Boldheart 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 297 
 
 gave orders to keep her S. S. W., easing her a little 
 during the night by falling off a point or two W. by W., or 
 even by W. S., if she complained much. He then retired for 
 the night, having in truth much need of repose. In addition 
 to the & fatigues he had undergone, this brave officer had re- 
 ceived sixteen wounds in the engagement, but had not men- 
 tioned it. 
 
 In the morning a white squall came on, and was succeeded 
 by other squalls of various colors. It thundered and light- 
 ened heavily for six weeks. Hurricanes then set in for two 
 months. Water-spouts and tornadoes followed. The old- 
 est sailor on board— and he was a very old one — had never 
 seen such weather. " The Beauty " lost all idea where she 
 was, and the carpenter reported six feet two of water in the 
 hold. Every body fell senseless at the pumps every day. 
 
 Provisions now ran very low. Our hero put the crew on 
 short allowance, and put himself on shorter allowance than 
 any man in the ship. But his spirit kept him fat. In this 
 extremity the gratitude of Boozey, the captain of the foretop, 
 whom our readers may remember, was truly affecting. The 
 loving though lowly William repeatedly requested to be 
 killed and preserved for the captain's table. 
 We now approach a change in affairs. _ 
 One day, during a gleam of sunshine, and when the 
 weather had moderated, the man at the mast-head— too 
 weak now to touch his hat, besides it having been blown 
 away — called out, 
 " Savages ! " 
 
 All was now expectation. 
 
 Presently fifteen hundred canoes, each paddled by twenty 
 savages, were seen advancing in excellent order. They 
 were of a light-green color (the savages were), and sang, 
 with great energy, the following strain : 
 
 Choo a choo a choo tooth. 
 
 Muntch, muntch. Nycey I 
 Choo a choo a choo tooth. 
 
 Muntch, muntch. Nyce I 
 
 As the shades of night were by this time closing in, these 
 expressions were supposed to embody this simple people's 
 views of the evening hymn. But it too soon appeared that 
 the song was a translation of " For what we are going to re- 
 ceive," etc. 
 
 The chief, imposingly decorated with feathers of lively 
 colors, and having the majestic appearance of a fighting 
 
298 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 parrot, no sooner understood (he understood English per- 
 fectly) that the ship was "The Beauty," Captain Boldheart, 
 than he fell upon his face on the deck, and could not be 
 persuaded to rise until the captain had lifted him up, and 
 told him he wouldn't hurt him. All the rest of the savages 
 also fell on their faces with marks of terror, and had also to 
 be lifted up one by one. Thus the fame of the great Bold- 
 heart had gone before him, even among these children of 
 nature. 
 
 Turtles and oysters were now produced in astonishing 
 numbers ; and on these and yams the people made a hearty 
 meal. After dinner the chief told Captain Boldheart that 
 there was better feeding up at the village, and that he would 
 be glad to take him and his officers there. Apprehensive of 
 treachery, Boldheart ordered his boat's crew to attend him, 
 completely armed. And well were it for other commanders 
 if their precautions — but let us not anticipate. 
 
 When the canoes arrived at the beach, the darkness of the 
 night was illuminated by the light of an immense fire. Or- 
 dering his boat's crew (with the intrepid though illiterate 
 William at their head) to keep close and be upon their 
 guard, Boldheart bravely went on, arm in arm with the 
 chief. 
 
 But how to depict the captain's surprise when he found a 
 ring of savages singing in chorus that barbarous translation 
 of " For what we are going to receive," etc., which has been 
 given above, and dancing hand in hand round the Latin 
 grammar master, in a hamper with his head shaved, while 
 two savages floured him, before putting him to the fire to be 
 cooked ! 
 
 Boldheart now took counsel with his officers on the course 
 to be adopted. In the meantime, the miserable captive never 
 ceased begging pardon and imploring to be delivered. On 
 the generous Boldheart's proposal, it was at length resolved 
 that he should not be cooked, but should be allowed to re- 
 main raw, on two conditions ; namely : — 
 
 i. That he should never, under any circumstances, pre- 
 sume to teach any boy any thing any more. 
 
 2. That, if taken back to England, he should pass his life 
 in traveling to find out boys who wanted their exercises 
 done, and should do their exercises for those boys for noth- 
 ing, and never say a word about it. 
 
 Drawing the sword from its sheath, Boldheart swore him 
 to these conditions on its shining blade. The prisoner wept 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 299 
 
 bitterly, and appeared acutely to feel the errors of his past 
 career. 
 
 The captain then ordered his boat's crew to make ready 
 for a volley, and after firing to re-load quickly. " And ex- 
 pect a score or two on ye to go head over heels," murmured 
 William Boozey ; " for I'm looking at ye." With those words, 
 the derisive though deadly William took a good aim. 
 " Fire ! " 
 
 The ringing voice of Boldheart was lost in the report of 
 the guns and the screeching of the savages. Volley after 
 volley awakened the numerous echoes. Hundreds of savages 
 were killed, hundreds wounded, and thousands ran howling 
 in the woods. The Latin grammar master had a spare night- 
 cap lent him, and a long-tailed coat, which he wore hind 
 side before. He presented a ludicrous though pitiable ap- 
 pearance, and serve him right. 
 
 We now find Captain Boldheart, with this rescued wretch 
 on board, standing off for other islands. At one of these, 
 not a cannibal island, but a pork and vegetable one, he mar- 
 ried (only in fun on his part) the king's daughter. Here he 
 rested some time, receiving from the natives great quantities 
 of precious stones, gold dust, elephants' teeth, and sandal 
 wood, and getting very rich. This, too, though he almost 
 every day made presents of enormous value to his men. 
 
 The ship being at length as full as she could hold of all 
 sorts of valuable things, Boldheart gave orders to weigh the 
 anchor and turn " The Beauty's " head toward England. 
 The orders were obeyed with three cheers ; and ere the sun 
 went down full many a hornpipe had been danced on deck 
 by the uncouth though agile William. 
 
 We next find Captain Boldheart about three leagues off 
 Madeira, surveying through his spy-glass a stranger of sus- 
 picious appearance making sail toward him. On his firing 
 a gun ahead of her to bring her to, she ran up a flag, which 
 he instantly recognized as the flag from the mast in the back- 
 garden at home. 
 
 Inferring from this, that his father had put to sea to seek 
 his long-lost son, the captain sent his own boat on board the 
 stranger to inquire if this was so, and, if so, whether his 
 father's intentions were strictly honorable. The boat came 
 back with a present of greens and fresh meal, and reported 
 that the stranger was " The Family," of twelve hundred 
 tons, and had not only the captain's father on board, but 
 also his mother, with the majority of his aunts and uncles, 
 
3 oo HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 and all his cousins. It was further reported to Boldheart 
 that the whole of these relations had expressed themselves 
 in a becoming manner, and were anxious to embrace him 
 and thank him for the glorious credit he had done them. 
 Boldheart at once invited them to breakfast next morning 
 on board " The Beauty," and gave orders for a brilliant ball 
 that should last all day. 
 
 It was in the course of the night that the captain discov- 
 ered the hopelessness of reclaiming the Latin grammar mas- 
 ter. That thankless traitor *was found out, as the two ships 
 lay near each other, communicating with " The Family " by 
 signals, and offering to give up Boldheart. He was hanged 
 at the yard-arm the first thing in the morning, after having 
 it impressively pointed out to him by Boldheart that this was 
 what spiters came to. 
 
 The meeting between the captain and his parents was at- 
 tended with tears. His uncles and aunts would have attended 
 their meeting with tears too, but he wasn't going to stand that. 
 His cousins were very much astonished by the size of his ship 
 and the discipline of his men, and were greatly overcome by 
 the splendor of his uniform. He kindly conducted them round 
 the vessel, and pointed out every thing worthy of notice. 
 He also fired his hundred guns, and found it amusing to 
 witness their alarm. 
 
 The entertainment surpassed every thing ever seen on 
 board ship, and lasted from ten in the morning until seven 
 the next morning. Only one disagreeable incident occurred. 
 Captain Boldheart found himself obliged to put his Cousin 
 Tom in irons, for being disrespectful. On the boy's 
 promising amendment, however, he was humanely released, 
 after a few hours' close confinement. 
 
 Boldheart now took his mother down into the great cabin, 
 and asked after the young lady with whom, it was well 
 known to the world, he was in love. His mother replied 
 that the object of his affections was then at school at Mar- 
 gate, for the benefit of sea-bathing (it was the month of Sep- 
 tember), but that she feared the young lady's friends were 
 still opposed to the union. Boldheart at once resolved, if 
 necessary, to bombard the town. 
 
 Taking the command of his ship with this intention, and 
 putting all but fighting men on board " The Family," with 
 orders to that vessel to keep in company, Boldheart soon 
 anchored in Margate Roads. Here he went ashore well 
 armed, and attended by his boat's crew (at their head the 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 301 
 
 faithful though ferocious William), and demanded to see the 
 mayor, who came out of his office. 
 
 " Dost know the name of yon ship, mayor ? " asked Bold- 
 heart fiercely. 
 
 " No," said the mayor, rubbing his eyes, which he could 
 scarce believe when he saw the goodly vessel riding at 
 anchor. 
 
 " She is named ' The Beauty,* " said the captain. 
 
 " Hah ! " exclaimed the mayor with a start. " And you, 
 then, are Captain Boldheart ? " 
 
 " The same." 
 
 A pause ensued. The mayor trembled. 
 
 " Now, mayor," said the Captain, " choose ! Help me to 
 my bride, or be bombarded." 
 
 The mayor begged for two hours' grace in which to make 
 inquiries respecting the young lady. Boldheart accorded 
 him but one ; and during that one placed William Boozey 
 sentry over him, with a drawn sword, and instructions to 
 accompany him wherever he went, and to run him through 
 the body if he showed a sign of playing false. 
 
 At the end of the hour the mayor re-appeared more dead 
 than alive, closely waited on by Boozey more alive than 
 dead. . 
 
 " Captain," said the mayor, " I have ascertained that the 
 young lady is going to bathe. Even now she waits her turn 
 for a machine. The tide is low, though rising. I, in one 
 of our town-boats, shall not be suspected. W T hen she comes 
 forth in her bathing-dress into the shallow water from 
 behind the hood of the machine, my boat shall intercept her 
 and prevent her return. Do you the rest." 
 
 " Mayor," returned Captain Boldheart, " thou hast saved 
 thv town." 
 
 The captain then signaled his boat to take him off, and, 
 steering her himself, ordered her crew to row toward the 
 bathing-ground, and there to rest upon their oars. All 
 happened as had been arranged. His lovely bride came 
 . forth, the mayor glided in behind her, she became confused, 
 and had floated out of her depth, when, with one skillful 
 touch of the rudder and one quivering stroke from the 
 boat's crew, her adoring Boldheart held her in his strong 
 arms. There her shrieks of terror were changed to cries of 
 joy. . . 
 
 Before " The Beauty " could get under way, the hoisting 
 of all the flags in the town and harbor, and the ringing of 
 
302 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 all the bells, announced to the brave Boldheart that he had 
 nothing to fear. He therefore determined to be married on 
 the spot, and signaled for a clergyman and clerk, who canle 
 off promptly in a sailing-boat named "The Skylark." 
 Another great entertainment was then given on board 
 " The Beauty," in the midst of which the mayor was called 
 out by a messenger. He returned with the news that the 
 government had sent down to know whether Captain Bold 
 heart, in acknowledgment of the great services he had done 
 his country by being a pirate, would consent to be made a 
 lieutenant-colonel. For himself he would have spurned 
 the worthless boon ; but his bride wished it, and he con- 
 sented. 
 
 Only one thing further happened before the good ship 
 "Family" was dismissed, with rich presents to all on board. 
 It is painful to record (but such is human nature in some 
 cousins) that Captain Boldheart's unmannerly Cousin 'torn 
 was actually tied up to receive three dozen with a rope's end 
 " for cheekiness and making game," when Captain Bold- 
 heart's lady begged for him, and he was spared. " The 
 Beauty " then refitted, and the captain and his bride 
 departed for the Indian Ocean to enjoy themselves forever- 
 more. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 ROMANCE. FROM THE PEN OF MISS NETTIE ASHFORD.* 
 
 There is a country, which I will show you when I get 
 into maps, where the children have every thing their own 
 way. It is a most delightful country to live in. The grown- 
 up people are obliged to obey the children, and are never 
 allowed to sit up to supper, except on their birthdays. The 
 children order them to make jam, and jelly, and marmalade, 
 and tarts, and pies, and puddings, and all manner of pastry. 
 If they say they won't they are put in the corner till they do. 
 They are sometimes allowed to have some ; but when 
 they have some, they generally have powders given them 
 afterward. 
 
 One of the inhabitants of this country, a truly sweet young 
 creature of the name of Mrs. Orange, had the misfortune to 
 
 Aged half past six. 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 303 
 
 be sadly plagued by her numerous family. Her parents 
 required a great deal of looking after, and they had connec- 
 tions and companions who were scarcely ever out of mis- 
 chief. So Mrs. Orange said to herself, " I really can not be 
 troubled with these torments any longer ; I must put them 
 all to school." 
 
 Mrs. Orange took off her pinafore, and dressed herself 
 very nicely, and took up her baby, and went out to call upon 
 another lady of the name of Mrs. Lemon, who kept a pre- 
 paratory establishment. Mrs. Orange stood upon the 
 scraper to pull at the bell, and gave a ring-ting-ting. 
 
 Mrs. Lemon's neat little housemaid, pulling up her socks 
 as she came along the passage, answered the ring-ting-ting. 
 
 " Good-morning," said Mrs. Orange. " Fine day. How 
 do you do ? Mrs. Lemon at home ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Will you say Mrs. Orange and baby ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. Walk in." 
 
 Mrs. Orange's baby was a very fine one, and real wax all 
 over. Mrs. Lemon's baby was leather and bran. However, 
 when Mrs. Lemon came into the drawing-room with her 
 baby in her arms, Mrs. Orange said politely, " Good-morn- 
 ing, Fine day. How do you do ? And how is little 
 Tootleum-boots ? " 
 
 " Well, she is but poorly. Cutting her teeth, ma'am," said 
 Mrs. Lemon. 
 
 11 Oh, indeed, ma'am ! " said Mrs. Orange. " No fits, I 
 hope ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am." 
 
 " How many teeth has she, ma'am ?" 
 
 " Five, ma'am." 
 
 " My Emilia, ma'am, has eight," said Mrs. Orange. " Shall 
 we lay them on the mantle-piece side by side, while we con- 
 verse ?" 
 
 " By all means, ma'am," said Mrs. Lemon. " Hem ! " 
 
 " The first question is, ma'am," said Mrs. Orange, " I 
 don't bore you ?" 
 
 " Not in the least, ma'am," said Mrs. Lemon. " Far from 
 it, I assure you." 
 
 " Then pray have you," said Mrs. Orange, "have — you 
 any vacancies ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. How many might you require ? " 
 
 " Why the truth is, ma'am," said Mrs. Orange, " I have 
 come to the conclusion that my children," — Oh, I forgot to 
 
3 o4 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 say that they call the grown-up people children in that coun- 
 try ! — " that my children are getting positively too much for 
 me. Let me see. Two parents, two intimate friends of theirs, 
 one godfather, two godmothers, and an aunt. Have you 
 as many as eight vacancies ? " 
 
 " I have just eight, ma'am," said Mrs. Lemon. 
 
 " Most fortunate ! Terms moderate, I think ? " 
 
 " Very moderate, ma'am." 
 
 " Diet good, I believe ? " 
 
 " Excellent, ma'am." 
 
 "Unlimited?" 
 
 " Unlimited." 
 
 " Most satisfactory. Corporal punishment dispensed 
 with ? " 
 
 " Why, we do occasionally shake," said Mrs. Lemon, " and 
 we have slapped. But only in extreme cases." 
 
 " Could I, ma'am," said Mrs. Orange,—-" could I see the 
 establishment ? " 
 
 " With the greatest of pleasure, ma'am," said Mrs. 
 Lemon. 
 
 Mrs. Lemon took Mrs. Orange into the school-room, where 
 there was a number of pupils. " Stand up, children ! " said 
 Mrs. Lemon ; and they all stood up. 
 
 Mrs. Orange whispered to Mrs. Lemon : " There is a 
 pale, bald child, with red whiskers, in disgrace Might I 
 ask what he has done ? " 
 
 " Come here, White," said Mrs. Lemon, " and tell this lady 
 what you have been doing." 
 
 " Betting on horses," said White, sulkily. 
 
 " Are you sorry for it, you naughty child ? " said Mrs. 
 Lemon. 
 
 " No," said White. " Sorry to lose, but shouldn't be sorry 
 to win." 
 
 " There's a vicious boy for you, ma'am," said Mrs, Lemon. 
 " I Go along with you, sir. This is Brown, Mrs. Orange. Oh, 
 a sad case, Brown's ! Never knows when he has had enough. 
 Greedy. How is your gout, sir ? " 
 
 " Bad," said Brown. 
 
 " What else can you expect ? " said Mrs. Lemon. " Your 
 stomach is the size of two. Go and take exercise directly. 
 Mrs. Black, come here to me. Now, here is a child, Mrs. 
 Orange, ma'am, who is always at play. She can't be kept at 
 home a single day together ; always gadding about and spoil- 
 ing her clothes. Play, play, play, play, from morning to 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 305 
 
 night, and to morning again. How can she expect to 
 improve ? " 
 
 " Don't expect to improve," sulked Mrs. Black. " Don't 
 want to." 
 
 " There is a specimen of her temper, ma'am," said Mrs. 
 Lemon. " To see her when she is tearing about, neglecting 
 every thing else, you would suppose her to be at least good- 
 humored. But bless you, ma'am, she is as pert and flounc- 
 ing a minx as ever you met with in all your days ! " 
 
 " You must have a great deal of trouble with them, 
 ma'am," said Mrs. Orange. 
 
 " Ah, I have, indeed, ma'am ! " said Mrs. Lemon. " What 
 with their tempers, what with their quarrels, what with their 
 never knowing what's good for them, and what with their 
 always wanting to domineer, deliver me from these unreason- 
 able children ! " 
 
 " Well, I wish you good-morning, ma'am," said Mrs. 
 Orange. 
 
 " Well, I wish you good-morning, ma'am," said Mrs. 
 Lemon. 
 
 So Mrs. Orange took up her baby and went home, and 
 told the family that plagued her so that they were all going 
 to be sent to school. They said they didn't want to go to 
 school ; but she packed up their boxes, and packed them off. 
 
 " Oh dear me, dear me ! Rest and be thankful ! " said Mrs. 
 Orange, throwing herself back in her little arm-chair. 
 " Those troublesome troubles are got rid of, please the 
 pigs ! " 
 
 Just then another lady, named Mrs. Alicumpaine, came 
 calling at the street-door with a ring-ting-ting. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Alicumpaine," said Mrs. Orange, "how do 
 you do ? Pray stay to dinner. We have but a simple joint 
 of sweet-stuff, followed by a plain dish of bread and treacle, 
 but, if you will take us as you find us, it will be so kind! " 
 
 " Don't mention it," said Mrs. Alicumpaine. " I shall be 
 too glad. But what do you think I have come for, ma'am ? 
 Guess, ma'am." 
 
 " I really can not guess, ma'am," said Mrs. Orange. 
 
 " Why, I am going to have a small juvenile party to-night," 
 said Mrs. Alicumpaine ; " and if you and Mr. Orange and 
 baby would but join us, we should be complete." 
 
 " More than charmed, I am sure ! " said Mrs. Orange. 
 
 tl So kind of you ! " said Mrs. Alicumpaine. " But I hope 
 the children won't boie you ? " 
 
3o6 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 " Dear things ! Not at all," said Mrs. Orange. " I dote 
 upon them." 
 
 Mr. Orange here came home from the city and he came, 
 too, with a ring-ting-ting. 
 
 " James, love," said Mrs. Orange, fi you look tired, What 
 has been doing in the city to-day ? " 
 
 "Trap, bat, and ball, my dear," said Mr. Orange ; " and 
 it knocks a man up." 
 
 " That dreadfully anxious city, ma'am," said Mrs. Orange 
 to Mrs. Alicumpaine ; " so wearing, is it not ?" 
 
 " Oh, so trying ! " said Mrs. Alicumpaine. " John has 
 lately been speculating in the peg-top ring ; and I often say 
 to him at night, ' John, is the result worth the wear and 
 tear?" 
 
 Dinner was ready by this time ; so they sat down to dinner ; 
 and while Mr. Orange carved the joint of sweet-stuff, he said, 
 " It's a poor heart that never rejoices. Jane, go down to the 
 cellar, and fetch a bottle of the Upest ginger-beer." 
 
 At tea-time, Mr. and Mrs. Orange, and baby, and Mrs. 
 Alicumpaine went off to Mrs. Alicumpaine's house. The 
 children had not come yet ; but the ball-room was ready for 
 them, decorated with paper flowers. 
 
 " How very sweet ! " said Mrs. Orange. " The dear 
 things ! How pleased they will be ! " 
 
 " I don't care for children myself," said Mr. Orange gaping. 
 
 " Not for girls ? " said Mrs. Alicumpaine. " Come ! you 
 care for girls ? " 
 
 Mr. Orange shook his head, and gaped again. " Frivolous 
 and vain, ma'am." 
 
 " My dear James," cried Mrs. Orange, who had been 
 peeping about, " do look here. Here's the supper for the 
 darlings, ready laid in the room behind the folding-doors. 
 Here's their little pickled salmon, I do declare ! And here's 
 their little salad, and their little roast beef and fowls, and 
 their little pastry, and their wee, wee, wee champagne ! " 
 
 "Yes, I thought it best, ma'am," said Mrs. Alicumpaine, 
 " that they should have their supper by themselves. Our 
 table is in the corner here, where the gentlemen can have 
 their wine-glass of negus, and their egg- sandwich, and their 
 quiet game at beggar-my-neighbor, and look on. As for us, 
 ma'am, we shall have quite enough to do to manage the 
 company." 
 
 " Oh, indeed, you may say so ! Quite enough, ma'am ! " 
 said Mrs. Orange. 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 307 
 
 The company began to come. The first of them was a 
 stout boy, with a white top-knot and spectacles. The house- 
 maid brought him in and said, " Compliments, and at what 
 time was he to be fetched ! " Mrs. Alicumpaine said, " Not 
 a moment later than ten. How do you do, sir ? Go and sit 
 down." Then a number of other children came ; boys by 
 themselves, and girls by themselves, and boys and girls to- 
 gether. They didn't behave at all well. Some of them 
 looked through quizzing-glasses at others, and said, " Who 
 are those ? Don't know them." Some of them looked 
 through quizzing-glasses at others, and said, ." How do ? " 
 Some of them had cups of tea or coffee handed to them by 
 others, and said, " Thanks ; much ! " A good many boys 
 stood about, and felt their shirt collars. Four tiresome fat 
 boys would stand in the doorway, and talk about the news- 
 papers, till Mrs. Alicumpaine went to them and said, " My 
 dears, I really can not allow you to prevent people from 
 coming in. I shall be truly sorry to do it ; but, if you put 
 yourselves in every body's way, I must positively send you 
 home." One boy, with a beard and a large white waistcoat, 
 who stood straddling on the hearth-rug warming his coat- 
 tails, was sent home. " Highly incorrect, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Alicumpaine, handing him out of the room, " and I 
 can not permit it." 
 
 There was a children's band, — harp, cornet, and piano, 
 — and Mrs. Alicumpaine and Mrs. Orange bustled among 
 the children to persuade them to take partners and dance. 
 But they were so obstinate ! For quite a long time 
 they would not be persuaded to take partners and dance. 
 Most of the boys said," Thanks ; much ! But not at pres- 
 ent." And most of -the rest of the boys said, "Thanks; 
 much ! But never do." 
 
 " Oh, these children are very wearing ! " said Mrs. Ali- 
 cumpaine to Mrs. Orange. 
 
 " Dear things ! I dote upon them ; but they are wearing," 
 said Mrs. Orange to Mrs. Alicumpaine. 
 
 At last they did begin in a slow and melancholy way 
 to slide about to the music ; though even then they 
 wouldn't mind what they were told, but would have this 
 partner, and would have that partner, and showed temper 
 about it. And they wouldn't smile — no, not on any ac- 
 count they wouldn't ; but, when the music stopped, went 
 round and round the room in dismal twos as if every body 
 else was dead. 
 
3o8 HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 '• Oh, it's very hard indeed to get these vexing children to 
 be entertained ! " said Mrs. Alicumpaine to Mrs. Orange. 
 
 " I dote upon the darlings ; but it is hard," said Mrs. 
 Orange to Mrs. Alicumpaine. 
 
 They were trying children, that's the truth. First, they 
 wouldn't sing when they were asked ; and then, when every 
 body fully believed they wouldn't, they would. " If you serve 
 us so any more, my love," said Mrs. Alicumpaine to a tall 
 child, with a good deal of white back, in mauve silk trimmed 
 with lace, " it will be my painful privilege to offer you a bed, 
 and to send you to it immediately." 
 
 The girls were so ridiculously dressed, too, that they were 
 in rags before supper. How could the boys help treading 
 on their trains ? And yet when their trains were trodden on, 
 they often showed temper again, and looked as black, they 
 did ! However, they all seemed to be pleased when Mrs. 
 Alicumpaine said, " Supper is ready, children ! " And they 
 went crowding and pushing in, as if they had had dry bread 
 for dinner. 
 
 " How are the children getting on ? " said Mr. Orange 
 to Mrs. Orange, when Mrs. Orange came to look after baby. 
 Mrs. Orange had left baby on a shelf near Mr. Orange while 
 he played at beggar-my-neighbor, and had asked him to 
 keep his eye upon her now and then. 
 
 " Most charmingly, my dear ! " said Mrs. Orange. " So 
 droll to see their little flirtations and jealousies ! Do come 
 and look ! " 
 
 " Much obliged to you, my dear," said Mr. Orange ; " but 
 I don't care about children myself." 
 
 So Mrs. Orange, having seen that baby was safe, went back 
 without Mr. Orange to the room where the children were 
 having supper. . 
 
 " What are they doing now ? " said Mrs. Orange to Mrs. 
 Alicumpaine. 
 
 " They are making speeches, and playing at parliament," 
 said Mrs. Alicumpaine to Mrs. Orange. 
 
 On hearing this, Mrs. Orange set off once more back again 
 to Mr. Orange, and said, " James, dear, do come. The 
 children are playing at parliament." 
 
 "Thank you, my dear," said Mr. Orange, "but I don't 
 care about parliament myself." 
 
 So Mrs. Orange went once again without Mr. Orange to 
 the room where the children were having supper, to see 
 them playing at parliament. And she found some of the 
 
HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 309 
 
 boys crying, " Hear, hear, hear ! " while other boys cried, 
 "No, no!" and others "Question!" "Spoke!" and all 
 sorts of nonsense that you ever heard. Then one of those 
 tiresome fat boys who had stopped the doorway told them 
 that he was on his legs (as if they couldn't see that he wasn't 
 on his head, or on his any thing else) to explain, and that, 
 with the permission of his honorable friend, if he would allow 
 him to call him so (another tiresome boy bowed), he would 
 proceed to explain. Then he went on for a long time in a 
 sing-song (whatever he meant), did this troublesome fat 
 boy, about that he held in his hand a glass ; and about that 
 he had come down to that house that night to discharge what 
 he would call a public duty, and about that, on the present 
 occasion, he would lay his hand (his other hand) upon his 
 heart, and would tell honorable gentlemen that he was about 
 to open the door to general approval. Then he opened the 
 door by saying, " To our hostess ! " and every body else said 
 " To our hostess ! " and then there were cheers. Then an- 
 other tiresome boy started up in sing-song, and then half a 
 dozen noisy nonsensical boys at once. But at last Mrs. Ali- 
 cumpaine said, " I can not have this din. Now, children, 
 you have played at parliament very nicely ; but parliament 
 gets tiresome after a little while, and it's time you left off, 
 for you will soon be fetched." 
 
 After another dance (with more tearing to rags than be- 
 fore supper), they began to be fetched ; and you will be very 
 glad to be told that the tiresome fat boy who had been on 
 his legs was walked off first without any ceremony. When 
 they were all gone, poor Mrs. Alicumpaine dropped on a sofa, 
 and said to Mrs. Orange, " These children will be the death 
 of me at last, ma'am — they will indeed ! " 
 
 "I quite adore them, ma'am," said Mrs. Orange ; " but 
 they do want variety." 
 
 Mr. Orange got his hat, and Mrs. Orange got her bonnet 
 and her baby, and they set out to walk home. They had to 
 pass Mrs. Lemon's preparatory establishment on their way. 
 
 " I wonder, James dear," said Mrs. Orange, looking up at 
 the window, " whether the precious children are asleep ! " 
 
 " I don't care much whether they are or not, myself," said 
 Mr. Orange. 
 
 " James, dear ! " 
 
 " You dote upon them you know," said Mr. Orange* 
 " That's another thing." 
 
 " I do," said Mrs, Orange, rapturously. " Oh, I do ! " 
 
3 jo HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 
 
 ' I don't," said Mr. Orange. 
 
 11 But I was thinking, James, love," said Mrs. Orange, 
 pressing his arm, " whether our dear, good, kind Mrs. Lemon 
 would like them to stay the holidays with her." 
 
 " If she was paid for it, I dare say she would," said Mr. 
 Orange. 
 
 " I adore them, James," said Mrs. Orange ; "but suppose 
 we pay her, then ! " 
 
 This was what brought that country to such perfection, 
 and made it such a delightful place to live in. The grown- 
 up people (that would be in other countries) soon left off be- 
 ing allowed any holidays after Mr. and Mrs. Orange tried 
 the experiment ; and the children (that would be in other 
 countries) kept them at school as long as ever they lived, 
 andraadi them do whatever they were told. 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 FIRST CHAPTER 
 
 It happened in this wise, — 
 
 But sitting with my pen in my hand looking at those words 
 again, without descrying any hint in them of the words that 
 should follow, it comes into my mind that they have an 
 abrupt appearance. They may serve, however, if I let them 
 remain, to suggest how very difficult I find it to begin to 
 explain my explanation. An uncouth phrase ; and yet I do 
 not see my way to a better. 
 
 SECOND CHAPTER. 
 
 It happened in this wise, — 
 
 But looking at those words, and comparing them with my 
 former opening, I find they are the self-same words repeated. 
 This is the more surprising to me, because I employ them 
 in quite a new connection. For indeed I declare that my 
 intention was to discard the commencement I first had in 
 my thoughts, and to give the preference to another of an 
 entirely different nature, dating my explanation from an an- 
 terior period of my life. I will make a third trial, without 
 erasing this second failure, protesting that it is not my de- 
 sign to conceal any of my infirmities, whether they be of 
 head or heart. 
 
 THIRD CHAPTER. 
 
 Not as yet directly aiming at how it came to pass, I will 
 come upon it by degrees. The natural manner, after all, 
 for God knows that is how it came upon me. 
 
 My parents were in a miserable condition of life, and my 
 
3 i2 GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 infant home was a cellar in Preston. I recollect the sound 
 of father's Lancashire clogs on the street pavement above, 
 as being different in my young hearing from the sound of all 
 other clogs ; and I recollect that, when mother came down 
 the cellar-steps, I used tremblingly to speculate on her feet 
 having a good or an ill-tempered look — on her knees — on 
 her waist — until finally her face came into view, and settled 
 the question. From this it will be seen that I was timid, 
 and that the cellar-steps were steep, and that the doorway, 
 was very low. 
 
 Mother had the gripe and clutch of poverty upon her 
 face, upon her figure, and not least of all upon her voice. 
 Her sharp and high-pitched words were squeezed out of her, 
 as by the compression of bony fingers on a leathern bag ; 
 and she had a way of rolling her eyes about and about the 
 cellar, as she scolded, that was gaunt and hungry. Father, 
 with his shoulders rounded, would sit quiet on a three-legged 
 stool, looking at the empty grate, until she would pluck the 
 stool from under him, and bid him go bring some money 
 home. Then he would dismally ascend the steps ; and I, 
 holding my ragged shirt and trowsers together with a hand 
 (my only braces), would feint and dodge from mother's pur- 
 suing grasp at my hair. 
 
 A worldly little devil was mother's usual name for me. 
 Whether I cried for that I was in the dark, or for that it 
 was cold, or for that I was hungry, or whether I squeezed 
 myself into a warm corner when there was a fire, or ate 
 voraciously when there was food, she would still say, " Oh 
 you worldly little devil ! " And the sting of it was, that I 
 quite well knew myself to be a worldly little devil. Worldly 
 as to wanting to be housed and warmed, worldly as to want- 
 ing to be fed, worldly as to the greed with which I inwardly 
 compared how much I got of those good things with how 
 much father and mother got, when, rarely, those good things 
 were going. 
 
 Sometimes they both went away seeking work ; and then I 
 would be locked up in the cellar for a day or two at a time. I 
 was at my worldliest then. Left alone, I yielded myself up to 
 a worldly yearning for enough of any thing (except misery), 
 and for the death of mother's father, who was a machine- 
 maker at Birmingham, and in whose decease, I had heard 
 mother say, she would come into a whole court full of houses 
 " if she had her rights." Worldly little devil, I would stand 
 about, musingly fitting my bare feet into cracked bricks and. 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 313 
 
 crevices of the damp cellar floor — walking over my grand- 
 father's body, so to speak, into the court full of houses, and 
 selling them for meat and drink, and clothes to wear. 
 
 At last a change came down into our cellar. The uni- 
 versal came down even as low as that — so will it mount to 
 any height on which a human creature can perch — and 
 brought other changes with it. 
 
 We had a heap of I don't know what foul litter in the 
 darkest corner, which we called " the bed." For three days 
 mother lay upon it without getting up, and then began at 
 times to laugh. If I had ever heard her laugh before, it had 
 been so seldom that the strange sound frightened me. It 
 frightened father too ; and we took it by turns to give her 
 water. Then she began to move her head from side to 
 side, and sing. After that, she getting no better, father fell 
 a-laughing and a-singing ; and then there was only I to give 
 them both water, and they both died. 
 
 FOURTH CHAPTER. 
 
 When I was lifted out of the cellar by two men, of whom 
 one came peeping down alone first, and ran away and brought 
 the other, I could hardly bear the light of the street. I was 
 sitting in the roadway blinking at it, and at a ring of peo- 
 ple collected around me, but not close to me, when, true to 
 my character of worldly little devil, I broke silence by say- 
 ing, " I am hungry and thirsty ! " 
 
 " Does he know they are dead ? " asked one of another. 
 
 " Do you know your father and mother are both dead of 
 fever ! " asked a third of me, severely. 
 
 " I don't know what it is to be dead. I suppose it meant 
 that, when the cup rattled against their teeth, and the water 
 spilt over them. I am hungry and thirsty." That was all I 
 had 'to say about it. 
 
 The ring of people widened outward from the inner side 
 as I looked around me ; and I smelt vinegar, and what I 
 knew to be camphor, thrown in toward where I sat. Pres- 
 ently some one put a great vessel of smoking vinegar on the 
 ground near me ; and then they all looked at me in silent 
 horror as I ate and drank of what was brought me. I knew 
 at the time they had a horror of me, but I couldn't help it. 
 
 I was still eating and drinking, and a murmur of discus- 
 sion had begun to arise respecting what was to be done 
 
3 i4 GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 with me next, when I heard a cracked voice somewhere in 
 the ring say, " My name is Hawkyard, Mr. Verity Hawkyard, 
 of West Broomwich." Then the ring split in one place ; and 
 a yellow-faced, peak-nosed gentleman, clad all in iron-gray 
 to his gaiters, pressed forward close to the vessel of smok- 
 ing vinegar ; from which he sprinkled himself carefully, and 
 me copiously. 
 
 " He had a grandfather at Birmingham, this young boy, 
 who is just dead too," said Mr. Hawkyard. 
 
 I turned my eyes upon the speaker, and said in a ravening 
 manner, " Where's his houses ? " 
 
 " Hah ! Horrible worldliness on the edge of the grave," 
 said Mr. Hawkyard, casting more of the vinegar over me, as 
 if to get my devil out of me. " I have undertaken a slight — 
 a ve-ry slight — trust in behalf of this boy ; quite a volun- 
 tary trust ; a matter of mere honor, if not of mere sentiment ; 
 still I have taken it upon myself, and it shall be (oh yes, it 
 shall be !) discharged. 
 
 The bystanders seemed to form an opinion of this gentle- 
 man much more favorable than their opinion of me. 
 
 " He shall be taught," said Mr. Hawkyard. " (Oh yes, he 
 shall be taught !) but what is to be done with him for the 
 present ? He may be infected. He may disseminate infec- 
 tion." The ring widened considerably. " What is to be 
 done with him ? " 
 
 He held some talk with the two officials. I could distin- 
 guish no word save " farm-house." There was another 
 sound several times repeated, which was wholly meaning- 
 less in my ears then, but which I knew afterward to be 
 " Hoghton Towers." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Hawkyard. " I think that sounds promis- 
 ing ; I think that sounds hopeful. And he can be put by 
 himself in a ward, for a night or two, you say ? " 
 
 It seemed to be the police-officer who had said so, for it 
 was he who replied, Yes ! It was he, too, who finally took me 
 by the arm, and walked me before him through the streets, into 
 a whitewashed room in a bare building, where I had a chair to 
 sit in, a table to sit at, an iron bedstead and good mattress to 
 lie upon, and a rug and blanket to cover me. Where I had 
 enough to eat, too, and was shown how to clean the tin porrin- 
 ger in which it was conveyed to me, until it was as good as 
 a looking-glass. Here, likewise, I was put in a bath, and 
 had new clothes brought to me ; and my old rags were 
 burned, and I was camphored and vinegared and disinfected 
 in a variety of ways. 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 315 
 
 When all this was done — 1 don't know in how many days 
 or how few, but it matters not — Mr. Hawkyard stepped in 
 at the door, remaining close to it, and said, " Go and stand 
 against the opposite wall, George Silverman. As far off as 
 you can. That'll do. How do you feel ? " 
 
 I told him that 1 didn't feel cold, and didn't feel hungry, 
 and didn't feel thirsty. That was the whole round of human 
 feelings, as far as I knew, except the pain of being beaten. 
 
 " Well," said he, " you are going, George, to a healthy 
 farm-house to be purified. Keep in the air there as much 
 as you can. Live an out-of-door life there, until you are 
 fetched away. You had better not say much — in fact, you 
 had better be very careful not to say any thing — about what 
 your parents died of, or they might not like to take you in. 
 Behave well, and I'll put you to school ; oh yes ! I'll put 
 you to school, though I am not obligated to do it. I am 
 a servant of the Lord, George ; and I have been a good serv- 
 ant to him, I have, these five-and-thirty years. The Lord 
 has had a good servant in me, and he knows it." 
 
 What I then supposed him to mean by this, I can not 
 imagine. As little do I know when I began to comprehend 
 that he was a prominent member of some obscure denomi- 
 nation or congregation, every member of which held forth 
 to the rest when so inclined, and among whom he was called 
 Brother Hawkyard. It was enough for me to know, on that 
 day in the ward, that the farmer's cart was waiting for me at 
 the street corner. I was not slow to get into it ; for it was 
 the first ride I ever had in my life. 
 
 It made me sleepy, and I slept. First, I stared at Preston 
 streets as long as they lasted ; and, meanwhile, I may have 
 had some small dumb wondering within me whereabouts 
 our cellar was ; but t doubt it. Such a worldly little devil 
 was I, that I took no thought who would bury father and 
 mother, or where they would be buried, or when. The 
 question whether the eating or drinking by day, and the 
 covering by night, would be as good at the farm-house as at 
 the ward superseded those questions. 
 
 The jolting of the cart on a loose stony road awoke me ; 
 and I found that we were mounting a steep hill, where the 
 road was a rutty by-road through a field. And so, by frag- 
 ments of an ancient terrace, and by some rugged out-build- 
 ings that had once been fortified, and passing under a ruined 
 gateway, we came to the old farm-house in the thick stone 
 wall outside the old quadrangle of Hoghton Towers, which 
 
3*6 GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 I looked at like a stupid savage, seeing no specialty in, see- 
 ing no antiquity in ; assuming all farm-houses to resemble 
 it ; assigning the decay I noticed to the one potent cause of 
 all ruin that I knew — poverty ; eying the pigeons in their 
 flights, the cattle in their stalls, the ducks in the pond, and 
 the fowls pecking about the yard, with a hungry hope that 
 plenty of them might be killed for dinner while I staid 
 there ; wondering whether the scrubbed dairy vessels, drying 
 in the sunlight, could be goodly porringers out of which the 
 master ate his belly-filling food, and which he polished 
 when he had done, according to my ward experience ; 
 shrinkingly doubtful whether the shadows passing over that 
 airy height on the bright spring day, were not something 
 in the nature of frowns — sordid, afraid, unadmiring — a 
 small brute to shudder at. 
 
 To that time I had never had the faintest impression of 
 duty. I had had no knowledge whatever that there was any 
 thing lovely in this life. When I had occasionally slunk up 
 the cellar-steps into the street, and glared in at shop windows, 
 I had done so w T ith no higher feelings than we may suppose 
 to animate a mangy young dog or wolf-cub. It is equally 
 the fact that I had never been alone, in the sense of holding 
 unselfish converse with myself. I had been solitary often 
 enough, but nothing better. 
 
 Such w r as my condition when I sat down to my dinner that 
 day, in the kitchen of the old farm-house. Such was my con- 
 dition when I lay on my bed in the old farm-house that 
 night, stretched out opposite the narrow mullioned window, 
 in the cold light of the moon, like a young vampire. 
 
 FIFTH CHAPTER. 
 
 What do I know now of Hoghton Towers ? Very little ; 
 for I have been gratefully unwilling to disturb my first impres- 
 sions. A house, centuries old, on high ground a mile or so re- 
 moved from the road between Preston and Blackburn, where 
 the first James of England, in his hurry to make money 
 by making baronets, perhaps made some of those remu- 
 nerative dignitaries. A house, centuries old, deserted and 
 falling to pieces, its woods and gardens long since grass- 
 land or plowed up, the rivers Ribble and Darwen glancing 
 below it, and a vague haze of smoke, against which not even 
 the supernatural prescience of the first Stuart could fore- 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 317 
 
 see a counterblast, hinting at steam-power, powerful in two 
 distances. 
 
 What did I know then of Hoghton Towers ? When I 
 first peeped in at the gate of the lifeless quadrangle, and 
 started from the molding statue becoming visible to me like 
 its guardian ghost ; when I stole round by the back of the 
 farm-house, and got in among the ancient rooms, many of 
 them with their floors and ceilings falling, the beams and 
 rafters hanging dangerously down, the plaster dropping as 
 I trod, the oaken panels stripped away, the windows half 
 walled up, half broken ; when I discovered a gallery com- 
 manding the old kitchen, and looked down between balus- 
 trades upon a massive old table and benches, fearing to see 
 I know not what dead-alive creatures come in and seat 
 themselves, and look up with I know not what dreadful eyes, 
 or lack of eyes, at me ; when all over the house I was awed 
 by gaps and chinks where the sky stared sorrowfully at me, 
 where the birds passed, and the ivy rustled, and the stains 
 of winter weather blotched the rotten floors ; when down at 
 the bottom of dark pits of staircase, into which the stairs 
 had sunk, green leaves trembled, butterflies fluttered, and 
 bees hummed in and out through the broken doorways ; 
 when encircling the whole ruin were sweet scents, and 
 sights of fresh green growth, and ever-renewing life, that 
 I had never dreamed of — I say, when I passed into such 
 clouded perception of these things as my dark soul could 
 compass, what did I know then of Hoghton Towers ? 
 
 I have written that the sky stared sorrowfully at me. 
 Therein have I anticipated the answer. I knew that all 
 these things looked sorrowfully at me ; that they seemed to 
 sigh or whisper, not without pity for me, " Alas ! poor, 
 worldly little devil ! " 
 
 There were two or three rats at the bottom of one of the 
 smaller pits of broken staircase when I craned over and 
 looked in. They were scuffling for some prey that was 
 there ; and when they started and hid themselves close 
 together in the dark, I thought of the old life (it had grown 
 old already) in the cellar. 
 
 How not to be this worldly little devil ? how not to have 
 a repugnance toward myself as I had toward the rats ? 
 I hid in a corner of one of the smaller chambers fright- 
 ened at myself, and crying (it was the first time I had ever 
 cried for any cause not purely physical), and I tried to 
 think about it. One of the farm-plows came into my 
 
jiS GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 range of view just then ; and it seemed to help me as it 
 went on with its two horses up and down the field so peace- 
 fully and quietly. 
 
 There was a girl of about my own age in the farm-house 
 family, and she sat opposite to me at the narrow table at 
 meal-times. It had come into my mind, at our first dinner, 
 that she might take the fever from me. The thought had 
 not disquieted me then. I had only speculated how she 
 would look under the altered circumstances, and whether 
 she would die. But it came into my mind now, that I might 
 try to prevent her taking the fever by keeping away from 
 her. I knew I should have but scrambling board if I did ; 
 so much the less worldly and less devilish the deed would 
 be, I thought. 
 
 From that hour I withdrew myself at early morning into 
 secret corners of the ruined house, and remained hidden 
 there until she went to bed. At first, when meals were 
 ready, I used to hear them calling me ; and then my resolu- 
 tion weakened. But I strengthened it again, by going fur- 
 ther off into the ruin, and getting out of hearing. I often 
 watched for her at the dim windows ; and when I saw that 
 she was fresh and rosy, felt much happier. 
 
 Out of this holding her in my thoughts, to the humaniz- 
 ing of myself, I suppose some childish love arose within me. 
 I felt, in some sort, dignified by the pride of protecting her 
 — by the pride of making the sacrifice for her. As my heart 
 swelled with that new feeling, it insensibly softened about 
 mother and father. It seemed to have been frozen before, 
 and now to be thawed. The old ruin and all the lovely 
 things that haunted it were not sorrowful for me only, but 
 sorrowful for mother and father as well. Therefore did I 
 cry again, and often too. 
 
 The farm-house family conceived me to be of a morose 
 temper, and were very short with me ; though they never 
 stinted me in such broken fare as was to be got out of regu- 
 lar hours. One night, when I lifted the kitchen latch at my 
 usual time, Sylvia (that was her pretty name) had but just 
 gone out of the room. Seeing her ascending the opposite 
 stairs, I stood still at the door. She had heard the clink of 
 the latch, and looked round. 
 
 " George," she called to me in a pleased voice, " to-mor- 
 row is my birthday; and we are to have a fiddler, and there's a 
 party of boys and girls coming in a cart, and we shall dance. 
 I invite you. Be sociable for once, George." 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 3 tc) 
 
 " I am very sorry, miss," I answered ; " but I — but, no ; 
 I can't come." 
 
 " You are a disagreeable, ill-humored lad," she returned 
 disdainfully ; " and I ought not to have asked you. I shall 
 never speak to you again." 
 
 As I stood with my eyes fixed on the fire, after she was 
 gone, I felt that the farmer bent his brows upon me. 
 
 " Eh, lad ! " said he ; " Sylvy's right. You're as moody 
 and broody a lad as never I set eyes on yet." 
 
 I tried to assure him that I meant no harm ; but he only 
 said coldly, " May be not, may be not ! There ! get thy sup- 
 per, get thy supper ; and then thou canst sulk to thy heart's 
 content again." 
 
 Ah ! if they could have seen me next day, in the ruin, 
 watching for the arrival of the cart full of merry young 
 guests ; if they could have seen me at night, gliding out 
 from behind the ghostly statue, listening to the music and 
 the fall of dancing feet, and watching the lighted farm-house 
 windows from the quadrangle when all the ruin was dark ; 
 if they could have read my heart, as I crept up to bed by 
 the back way, comforting myself with the reflection, " They 
 will take no hurt from me," — they would not have thought 
 mine a morose or an unsocial nature. 
 
 It was in these ways that I began to form a shy disposi- 
 tion ; to be of a timidly silent character under misconstruc- 
 tion ; to have an inexpressible, perhaps a morbid, dread of 
 ever being sordid or worldly. It was in these ways that my 
 nature came to shape itself to such a mold, even before it 
 was affected by the influences of the studious and retired 
 life of a poor scholar. 
 
 SIXTH CHAPTER. 
 
 Brother Hawkyard (as he insisted on my calling him) 
 put me to school, and told me to work my way : " You are 
 all right, George," he said. " I have been the best servant 
 the Lord has had in his service for this five-and-thirty year ; 
 (Oh I have !) and he knows the value of such a servant as 
 I have been to him ; (Oh, yes, he does !) and he'll prosper 
 your schooling as a part of my reward. That's what Zie'll 
 do, George. He'll do it for me." 
 
 From the first I could not like this familiar knowledge of 
 the ways of the sublime, inscrutable Almighty, on Brother 
 
32o GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 Hawkyard's part. As I grew a little wiser, and still a little 
 wiser, I liked it less and less. His manner, too, of con- 
 firming himself in a parenthesis — as if, knowing himself, he 
 doubted his own word — I found distasteful. I can not tell 
 how much these dislikes cost me ; for I had a dread that 
 they were worldly. 
 
 As time went on, I became a Foundation-boy on a good 
 foundation, and I cost Brother Hawkyard nothing. When 
 I had worked my way so far, I worked yet harder, in the 
 hope of ultimately getting a presentation to college and a 
 fellowship. My health has never been strong (some vapor 
 from the Preston cellar cleaves to me, I think) ; and what 
 with much work and some weakness, I came again to be 
 regarded — that is, by my fellow students — as unsocial. 
 
 All through my time as a Foundation-boy, I was within a 
 few miles of Brother Hawkyard's congregation ; and when- 
 ever I was what we called a leave-boy on a Sunday, I went 
 over there at his desire. Before the knowledge became 
 forced upon me that outside of their place of meeting these 
 brothers and sisters were no better than the rest of the 
 human family, but on the whole were, to put the case mildly, 
 as bad as most, in respect of giving short weight in their 
 shops, and not speaking the truth — I say, before this knowl- 
 edge became forced upon me, their prolix' addresses, their 
 inordinate conceit, their daring ignorance, their investment 
 of the Supreme Ruler of heaven and earth with their own 
 miserable meannesses and littlenesses, greatly shocked me. 
 Still, as their term for the frame of mind that could not 
 perceive them to be in an exalted state of grace was the 
 " worldly " state, I did for a time suffer tortures under my 
 inquiries of myself whether that young worldly-devilish spirit 
 of mine could secretly be lingering at the bottom of my 
 non-appreciation. 
 
 Brother Hawkyard was the popular expounder in this assem- 
 bly, and generally occupied the platform (there was a little plat- 
 form with a table on it, in lieu of a pulpit) first on a Sunday 
 afternoon. He was by trade a drysalter. Brother Gimblet, an 
 elderly man with a crabbed face, a large dog's-eared shirt-col- 
 lar, and a spotted blue neckerchief reaching up behind to the 
 crown of his head, was also a drysalter, and an expounder. 
 Brother Gimblet professed the greatest admiration for 
 Brother Hawkyard, but (I had thought more than once) 
 bore him a jealous grudge. 
 
 Let whosoever may peruse these lines kindly take the 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 321 
 
 pains here to read twice my solemn pledge, that what I write 
 of the language and customs of the congregation in question 
 I write scrupulously, literally, exactly, from the life and the 
 truth. 
 
 On the first Sunday after I had won what I had so long 
 tried for, and when it was certain that I was going up to 
 college, Brother Hawkyard concluded a long exhortation 
 thus : — 
 
 "Well, my friends and fellow-sinners, now I told you 
 when I began, that I didn't know a word of what I was 
 going to say to you, (and no, I did not ! ) but that it was all 
 one to me, because I knew the Lord would put into my 
 mouth the words I wanted." 
 
 (" That's it ! " from Brother Gimblet.) 
 
 " And he did put into my mouth the words I wanted." 
 
 (" So he did ! " from Brother Gimblet.) 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 (" Ah, let's have that ! " from Brother Gimblet.) 
 
 11 Because I have been his faithful servant for five-and 
 thirty years, and because he knows it. For five-and-thirty 
 years ! And he knows it, mind you ! I got those words 
 that I wanted, on account of my wages. I got 'em from the 
 Lord, my fellow-sinners. Down ! I said, ' Here's a heap of 
 wages due ; let us have something down, on account.' 
 And I got it down, and I paid it over to you ; and you won't 
 wrap it up in a napkin, nor yet in a towel, nor yet pocket- 
 ankercher, but you'll put it out at good interest. Very well. 
 Now, my brothers and sisters and fellow-sinners, I am going 
 to conclude with a question, and I'll make it so plain (with 
 the help of the Lord, after five-and-thirty years, I should 
 rather hope !) as that the devil shall not be able to con- 
 fuse it in your heads, which he would be overjoyed 
 to do." 
 
 ("Just his way. Crafty old blackguard ! " from Brother 
 Gimblet.) 
 
 " And the question is this, Are the angels learned ? " 
 
 (" Not they. Not a bit on it ! " from Brother Gimblet, 
 with the greatest confidence.) 
 
 " Not they. And where's the proof ? sent ready-made by 
 the hand of the Lord. Why. there's one among us here 
 now, that has got all the learning that can be crammed into 
 him. His grandfather" (this I had never heard before) 
 "was a brother of ours. He was Brother Parksop. That's 
 what he was. Parksop ; Brother Parksop. His worldly name 
 
322 GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 was Parksop, and he was a brother of this brotherhood. 
 Then wasn't he Brother Parksop ? " 
 
 (" Must be. Couldn't help hisself ! " from Brother Gimb- 
 let.) 
 
 " Well, he left that one now here present among us to the 
 care of a brother-sinner of his (and that brother sinner, 
 mind you, was a sinner of a bigger size in his time 
 than any of you ; praise the Lord ! ), Brother Hawkyard. 
 Me. / got him, without fee or reward — without a mor- 
 sel of myrrh, or frankincense, nor yet amber, letting 
 alone the honeycomb — all the learning that could be 
 crammed into him. Has it brought him into our temple, in 
 the spirit ? No. Have we had any ignorant brothers and 
 sisters that didn't know round O from crooked S, come in 
 among us meanwhile ? Many. Then the angels are not 
 learned ; then they don't so much as know their alphabet. 
 And now my friends and fellow-sinners, having brought it 
 to that, perhaps some brothers present — perhaps you, 
 Brother Gimblet — will pray a bit for us ? " 
 
 Brother Gimblet undertook the sacred function, after 
 having drawn his sleeve across his mouth, and muttered, 
 " Well ! I don't know as I see my way to hitting any of you 
 quite in the right place neither." He said this with a dark 
 smile, and then began to bellow. What we were specially 
 to be preserved from, according to his solicitations, was, des- 
 poilment of the orphan, suppression of testamentary inten- 
 tions on the part of a father or (say) grandfather, appropri- 
 ation of the orphan's house-property, feigning to give in 
 charity to the wronged one from whom we withheld his due ; 
 and that class of sins. He ended with the petition, " Give 
 us peace ! " which, speaking for myself, was very much 
 needed after twenty minutes of his bellowing. 
 
 Even though I had not seen him when he rose from his 
 knees, steaming with perspiration, glance at Brother Hawk- 
 yard, and even though I had not heard Brother Hawkyard's 
 tone of congraulating him on the vigor with which he had 
 roared, I should have detected a malicious application in this 
 prayer. Unformed suspicions to a similar effect had 
 sometimes passed through my mind in my earlier school- 
 days, and had always caused me great distress ; for 
 they were worldly in their nature, and wide, very 
 wide, of the spirit that had drawn me from Sylvia. 
 They were sordid suspicions, without a shadow of proof. 
 They were worthy to have originated in the unwholesome 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 323 
 
 cel]ar. They were not only without proof, but against proof , 
 for was I not myself a living proof of what Brother Hawk- 
 yard had done ? and without him, how should I ever have 
 seen the sky look sorrowfully down upon that wretched boy 
 at Hoghton Towers ? 
 
 Although the dread of a relapse into the stage of savage 
 selfishness was less strong upon me as I approached man- 
 hood, and could act in an increased degree for myself, yet 
 I was always on my guard against any tendency to such 
 relapse. After getting these suspicions under my feet, I 
 had been troubled by not being able to like Brother Hawk- 
 yard's manner, or his professed religion. So it came about, 
 that, as I walked back that Sunday evening, I thought it 
 would be an act of reparation for any such injury my strug- 
 gling thoughts had unwillingly done him, if I wrote and 
 placed in his hands, before going to college, a full acknowl- 
 edgment of his goodness to me, and an ample tribute of 
 thanks. It might serve- as an implied vindication of him 
 against any dark scandal from a rival brother and expounder, 
 or from any other quarter. 
 
 Accordingly, I wrote the document with much care. I 
 may add with much feeling too ; for it affected me as I 
 went on. Having no set studies to pursue, in the brief 
 interval between leaving the Foundation and going to Cam- 
 bridge, I determined to walk out to his place of business, 
 and give it into his own hands. 
 
 It was a winter afternoon, when I tapped at the door of 
 his little counting house, which was at the further end of his 
 long, low shop. As I did so (having entered by the back 
 yard, where casks and boxes were taken in, and where there 
 was the inscription, " Private way to the counting-house "), 
 a shopman called to me from the counter that he was engaged. 
 
 " Brother Gimblet " (said the shopman, who was one of 
 the brotherhood) " is with him." 
 
 I thought this all the better for my purpose, and made 
 bold to tap again. They were talking in a low tone, and 
 money was passing ; for I heard it being counted out. 
 
 u Who is it ? " asked Brother Hawkyard sharply. 
 
 " George Silverman," I answered, holding the door open. 
 " May I come in ? " 
 
 Both brothers seemed so astounded to see me that I felt 
 shyer than usual. But they looked quite cadaverous in the 
 early gaslight, and perhaps that accidental circumstance 
 exaggerated the expression of their faces. 
 
3 2 4 GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked Brother Hawkyard. 
 
 " Ay ! what is the matter ? " asked Brother Gimblet. 
 
 " Nothing at all," I said, diffidently producing my docu- 
 ment : " I am only the bearer of a letter from myself." 
 
 " From yourself, George?" cried Brother Hawkyard. 
 
 " And to you," said I. 
 
 " And to me, George ? " 
 
 He turned paler, and opened it hurriedly ; but looking 
 over it, and seeing generally what it was, became less hur- 
 ried ; recovered his color, and said, " Praise the Lord ! " 
 
 " That's it ! " cried Brother Gimblet. "Well put ! Amen." 
 
 Brother Hawkyard then said, in a livelier strain, " You 
 must know, George, that Brother Gimblet and I are going 
 to make our two businesses one. We are going into partner- 
 ship. We are settling it now. Brother Gimblet is to take 
 one clear half of the profits (Oh yes ! he shall have it ; he 
 shall have it to the last farthing)." 
 
 " D. V.! " said Brother Gimblet, with his right fist firmly 
 clinched on his right leg. 
 
 " There is no objection," pursued Brother Hawkyard, " to 
 my reading this aloud, George ? " 
 
 As it was what I expressly desired should be done, after 
 yesterday's prayer, I more than readily begged him to read 
 it aloud. He did so, and Brother Gimblet listened with a 
 crabbed smile. 
 
 " It was in a good hour that I came here," he said, wrink- 
 ling up his eyes. " It was in a good hour, likewise, that I 
 was moved yesterday to depict for the terror of evil-doers a 
 character the direct opposite of Brother Hawkyard's. But 
 it was the Lord that done it ; I felt him at it while I was 
 perspiring." 
 
 After that it was proposed, by both of them, that I should 
 attend the congregation once more before my final depart- 
 ure. What my shy reserve would undergo, from being 
 expressly preached at and prayed at, I knew beforehand. 
 But I reflected that it would be for the last time, and that 
 it might add to the weight of my letter. It was well known 
 to the brothers and sisters that there was no place taken for 
 me in their paradise ; and if I showed this last token of 
 deference to Brother Hawkyard, notoriously in despite of 
 my own sinful inclinations, it might go some little way in 
 aid of my statement that he had been good to me, and that 
 I was grateful to him. Merely stipulating, therefore, that 
 no express endeavor should be made for my conversion—^ 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 325 
 
 Which would involve the rolling of several brothers and 
 sisters on the floor, declaring that they felt all their sins in a 
 heap on their left side, weighing so many pounds avoirdupois, 
 as I knew from what I had seen of those repulsive mysteries 
 — I promised. 
 
 Since the reading of my letter, Brother Gimblet had been at 
 intervals wiping one eye with an end of his spotted blue 
 neckerchief, and grinning to himself. It was, however, a 
 habit that brother had, to grin in an ugly manner even when 
 expounding. I call to mind a delighted snarl with which he 
 used to detail from the platform the torments reserved for 
 the wicked (meaning all human creation except the brother- 
 hood), as being remarkably hideous. 
 
 I left the two to settle their articles of partnership, and 
 count money ; and I never saw them again but on the follow- 
 ing Sunday. Brother Hawkyard died within two or three 
 years, leaving all he possessed to Brother Gimblet, in virtue 
 of a will dated (as I have been told) that very day. 
 
 Now I was so far at rest with myself, when Sunday came, 
 knowing that I had conquered my own mistrust, and righted 
 Brother Hawkyard in the jaundiced vision of a rival, that I 
 went, even to that coarse chapel, in a less sensitive state than 
 usual. How could I foresee that the delicate, perhaps the 
 diseased, corner of my mind, where I winced and shrunk 
 when it was touched, or was even approached, would be 
 handled as the theme of the whole proceedings ? 
 
 On this occasion it was assigned to Brother Hawkyard to 
 pray, and to Brother Gimblet to preach. The prayer was to 
 open the ceremonies ; the discourse was to come next. 
 Brothers Hawkyard and Gimblet were both on the platform; 
 Brother Hawkyard on his knees at the table, unmusically 
 ready to pray ; Brother Gimblet sitting against the wall, grin- 
 ning ready to preach. 
 
 " Let us offer up the sacrifice of prayer, my brothers and 
 sisters and fellow-sinners." Yes ! but it was I who was the 
 sacrifice. It was our poor," sinful worldly-minded brother 
 here present who was wrestled for. The now- opening career 
 of this our unawakened brother might lead to his becoming a 
 minister of what was called " the church." That was what 
 he looked to. The church. Not the chapel, Lord. The 
 church. No rectors, no vicars, no archdeacons, no bishops, 
 no archbishops, in the chapel, O Lord ! many such in the 
 church. Protect our sinful brother from his love of lucre. 
 Cleanse from our unawakened brother's breast his sin of 
 
326 GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 worldly-mindedness. The prayer said infinitely more in 
 words, but nothing more to any intelligible effect. 
 
 Then Brother Gimbletcame forward, and took (as I knew 
 he would) the text, " My kingdom is not of this world." Ah! 
 but whose was, my fellow-sinners ? Whose ? Why, our broth- 
 er's here present was. The only kingdom he had an idea of 
 was of this world. (" That's it ! " from several of the con- 
 gregation.) What did the woman do when she lost the piece 
 of money ? Went and looked for it. W T hat should our brother 
 do when he lost his way ? (" Go and look for it," from 
 a sister.) Go and look for it, true. But must he look for 
 it in the right direction, or in the wrong ? (" In the right," 
 from a brother.) There spake the prophets ! He must look for 
 it in the right direction, or he couldn't find it. But he had 
 turned his back upon the right direction, and he wouldn't find 
 it. Now, my fellow-sinners, to show you the difference betwixt 
 worldly mindedness and unworldly-mindedness, betwixt 
 kingdoms not of this world and kingdoms 0/this world, here 
 was a letter wrote by even our worldly-minded brother unto 
 Brother Hawkyard. Judge, from hearing of it read, whether 
 Brother Hawkyard was the faithful steward that the Lord 
 had in his mind only t'other day, when, in this very place, 
 he drew you the picture of the unfaithful one ; for it was 
 him that done it, not me. Don't doubt that ! " 
 
 Brother Gimblet then groaned and bellowed his way 
 through my composition and subsequently through an hour. 
 The service closed with a hymn, in which the brothers 
 unanimously roared, and the sisters unanimously shrieked at 
 me. That I by wiles of worldly gain was mocked, and they 
 on waters of sweet love were rocked ; that I with mammon 
 struggled in the dark, while they were floating in a second 
 ark. 
 
 I went out from all this with an aching heart and a weary 
 spirit ; not because I was quite so weak as to consider these 
 narrow creatures interpreters of the divine Majesty and Wis- 
 dom ; but because I was weak enough to feel as though it 
 were my hard fortune to be misrepresented and misunder- 
 stood when I most tried to subdue any risings of mere 
 worldliness within me, and when I most hoped, that, by dint 
 of trying earnestly, I had succeeded. 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 32? 
 
 SEVENTH CHAPTER. 
 
 My timidity and my obscurity occasioned me to live a se- 
 cluded life at college, and to be little known. No relative ever 
 came to visit me, for I had no relative. No intimate friends 
 broke in upon my studies, for I made no intimate friends. I 
 supported myself on my scholarship, and read much. My col- 
 lege time was otherwise not so very different from my time 
 at Hoghton Towers. 
 
 Knowing myself to be unfit for the noisier stir of social 
 existence, but believing myself qualified to do my duty in a 
 moderate, though earnest way, if I could obtain some small 
 preferment in the church, I applied my mind to the clerical 
 profession. In due sequence I took orders, was ordained, 
 and began to look about me for employment. I must ob- 
 serve that I had taken a good degree, that I had succeeded 
 in winning a good fellowship, and that my means were ample 
 for my retired way of life. By this time I had read with 
 several young men ; and the occupation increased my in- 
 come, while it was highly interesting to me. I once acci- 
 dentally overheard our greatest don say to my boundless 
 joy, " That he heard it reported of Silverman that his gift of 
 quiet explanation, his patience, his amiable temper, and his 
 conscientiousness, made him the best of coaches." May my 
 " gift of quiet explanation " come more seasonably and 
 powerfully to my aid in this present explanation than 1 think 
 it will ! 
 
 It may be in a certain degree owing to the situation of my 
 college rooms (in a corner where the daylight was sobered), 
 but it is in a much larger degree referable to the state of my 
 own mind, that I seem to myself, on looking back to this 
 time of my life, to have been always in the peaceful shade. 
 I can see others in the sunlight ; I can see our boats' crews 
 and our athletic young men on the glistening water, or 
 speckled with the moving lights of sunlit leaves ; but I my- 
 self am always in the shadow looking on. Not unsympa- 
 thetically— God forbid ! — but looking on alone, much as I 
 looked at Sylvia from the shadows of the ruined house, or 
 looked at the red gleam shining through the farmer's win- 
 dows, and listened to the fall of dancing feet, when all the 
 ruin was dark that night in the quadrangle. 
 
 I now come to the reason of my quoting that laudation of 
 
328 GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 myself above given. Without such reason, to repeat it would 
 have been mere boastfulness. 
 
 Among those who had read with me was Mr. Fareway, 
 second son of Lady Fareway, widow of Sir Gaston Fareway, 
 baronet. This young gentleman's abilities were much above 
 the average ; but he came of a rich family, and was idle and 
 luxurious. He presented himself to me too late, and after- 
 ward came to me too irregularly, to admit of my being of 
 much service to him. In the end I considered it my duty 
 to dissuade him from going up for an examination which he 
 could never pass ; and he left college without a ^.degree. 
 After his departure, Lady Fareway wrote to me, represent- 
 ing the justice of my returning half my fee, as I had been 
 of so little use to her son. Within my knowledge a similar 
 demand had not been made in any other case ; and I most 
 freely admit that the justice of it had not occurred to me 
 until it was pointed out. But I at once perceived it, yielded 
 to it, and returned the money. 
 
 Mr. Fareway had been gone two years or more, and I had 
 forgotten him, when he one day walked into my rooms as I 
 was sitting at my books. 
 
 Said he, after the usual salutations had passed, " Mr. Sil- 
 verman, my mother is in town here, at the hotel, and wishes 
 me to present you to her." 
 
 I was not comfortable with strangers, and I dare say I be- 
 trayed that I was a little nervous or unwilling. " For," said 
 he, without my having spoken, " I think the interview may 
 tend to the advancement of your prospects." 
 
 It put me to the blush to think that I should be tempted 
 by a worldly reason, and I rose immediately. 
 
 Said Mr. Fareway, as we went along, " Are you a good 
 hand at business ? " 
 
 " I think not," said I. 
 
 Said Mr. Fareway then, " My mother is." 
 
 "Truly?" said I. 
 
 " Yes ; my mother is what is usually called a managing 
 woman. Doesn't make a bad thing, for instance, even out 
 of the spendthrift habits of my eldest brother abroad. In 
 short, a managing woman. This is in confidence." 
 
 He had never spoken to me in confidence, and I was sur- 
 prised by his doing so. I said I should respect his confi- 
 dence, of course, and said no more on the delicate subject. 
 We had but a little way to walk, and I was soon in his 
 mother's company. He presented me, shook hands with me, 
 and left us two (as he said) to business. 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 329 
 
 I saw in my Lady Fareway a handsome, well-preserved 
 lady of somewhat large stature, with a steady glare in her 
 great round dark eyes that embarrassed me. 
 
 Said my lady, " I have heard from my son, Mr. Silverman, 
 that you would be glad of some preferment in the church." 
 
 I gave my lady to understand that was so. 
 
 " I don't know whether you are aware," my lady pro- 
 ceeded, " that we have a presentation to a living ? I say we 
 have ; but, in point of fact, / have." 
 
 I gave my lady to understand that I had not been aware 
 of this. 
 
 Said my lady, " So it is ; indeed, I have two presentations, 
 — one to two hundred, a year, one to six. Both livings are 
 in our county — North Devonshire — as you probably know. 
 The first is vacant. Would you like it ? " 
 
 What with my lady's eyes, and what with the suddenness 
 of this proposed gift, I was much confused. 
 
 " I am sorry it is not the larger presentation," said my 
 lady, rather coldly ; " though I will not, Mr. Silverman, pay 
 you the bad compliment of supposing that you are, because 
 that would be mercenary, — and mercenary I am persuaded 
 you are not." 
 
 Said I, with my utmost earnestness, " Thank you, Lady 
 Fareway, thank you, thank you ! I should be deeply hurt 
 if I thought I bore the character." 
 
 " Naturally," said my lady. " Always detestable, but par- 
 ticularly in a clergyman. You have not said whether you 
 will like the living ?" 
 
 With apologies for my remissness or indistinctness, I as- 
 sured my lady that I accepted it most readily and gratefully. 
 I added that I hoped she would not estimate my apprecia- 
 tion of the generosity of her choice by my flow of words ; 
 for I was not a ready man in that respect when taken by 
 surprise or touched at heart. 
 
 "The affair is concluded," said my lady ; "concluded. 
 You will find the duties very light, Mr. Silverman. Charm- 
 ing house ; charming little garden, orchard, and all that. 
 You will be able to take pupils. By the by ! No : I will 
 return to the word afterward. What was I going to men- 
 tion, when it put me out ? " 
 
 My lady stared at me, as if I knew. And I didn't know. 
 And that perplexed me afresh. 
 
 Said my lady, after some consideration, " Oh, of course ! 
 How very dull of me ! The last incumbent — least mer* 
 
33o GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 cenary man I ever saw — in consideration of the duties being 
 so light and the house so delicious, couldn't rest, he said, 
 unless I permitted him to help me with my correspondence, 
 accounts, and various little things of that kind ; nothing in 
 themselves, but which it worries a lady to cope with. Would 
 Mr. Silverman also like to — Or shall I — " 
 
 I hastened to say that my poor help would be always at 
 her ladyship's service. 
 
 " I am absolutely blessed," said my lady, casting up her 
 eyes (and so taking them off me for one moment), " in hav- 
 ing to do with gentlemen who can not endure an approach to 
 the idea of being mercenary ! " She shivered at the word. 
 u And now as to the pupil." 
 
 " The ? " — I was quite at a loss. 
 
 " Mr. Silverman, you have no idea what she is. She is," 
 said my lady, laying her touch upon my coat-sleeve, " I do 
 verily believe, the most extraordinary girl in this world. 
 Already knows more Greek and Latin than Lady Jane Grey. 
 And taught herself ! Has not yet, remember, derived a mo- 
 ment's advantage from Mr. Silverman's classical acquire- 
 ments. To say nothing of mathematics, which she is bent 
 upon becoming versed in, and in which (as I hear from my 
 son and others) Mr. Silverman's reputation is so deservedly 
 high ! " 
 
 Under my lady's eyes, I must have lost the clew, I felt 
 persuaded ; and yet I did not know where I could have 
 dropped it. 
 
 " Adelina," said my lady, " is my only daughter. If I did 
 not feel quite convinced that I am not blinded by a mother's 
 partiality ; unless I was absolutely sure that when you know 
 her, Mr. Silverman, you will esteem it a high and unusual 
 privilege to direct her studies — I should introduce a mer- 
 cenary element into this conversation, and ask you on what 
 terms — " 
 
 I entreated my lady to go no further. My lady saw that I 
 was troubled, and did me the honor to comply with my re- 
 quest. 
 
 EIGHTH CHAPTER. 
 
 Every thing in mental acquisition that her brother might 
 have been, if he would, and every thing in all gracious 
 charms and admirable qualities that no one but herself could 
 J?e — this was Adelina, 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 331 
 
 I will not expatiate upon her beauty ; I will not expatiate 
 upon her intelligence, her quickness of perception, her pow- 
 ers of memory, her sweet consideration, from the first mo- 
 ment, for the slow-paced tutor who ministered to her won- 
 derful gifts. I was thirty then ; I am over sixty now ; she 
 is ever present to me in these hours as she was in those, 
 bright and beautiful and young, wise and fanciful and good. 
 
 When I discovered that I loved her, how can I say ? In 
 the first day ? in the first week ? in the first month ? Im- 
 possible to trace. If I be (as I am) unable to represent to 
 myself any previous period of my life as quite separable 
 from her attracting power, how can I answer for this one de- 
 tail ? 
 
 Whensoever I made the discovery, it laid a heavy burden 
 on me. And yet, comparing it with the far heavier burden that 
 I afterward took up, it does not seem to me now to have 
 been very hard to bear. In the knowledge that I did love 
 her, and that I should love her while my life lasted, and that 
 I was ever to hide my secret deep in my own breast, and she 
 was never to find it, there was a kind of sustaining joy or 
 pride or comfort mingled with my pain. 
 
 But later on, say a year later on — when I made another 
 discovery, then indeed my suffering and my struggle were 
 strong. That other discovery was — 
 
 These words will never see the light, if ever, until my heart 
 is dust ; until her bright spirit has returned to the regions of 
 which, when imprisoned here, it surely retained some unusual 
 glimpse of remembrance ; until all the pulses that ever beat 
 around us shall have long been quiet ; until all the fruits of 
 all the tiny victories and defeats achieved in our little breasts 
 shall have withered away. That discovery was, that she 
 loved me. 
 
 She may have enhanced my knowledge, and loved me for 
 that ; she may have overvalued my discharge of duty to her, 
 and loved me for that ; she may have refined upon a playful 
 compassion which she would sometimes show for what she 
 called my want of wisdom, according to the light of the 
 world's dark lantern, and loved me for that ; she may — she 
 must — have confused the borrowed light of what I had only 
 learned, with its brightness in its pure, original rays ; but she 
 loved me at that time, and she made me know it. 
 
 Pride of family and pride of wealth put me as far off from 
 her in my lady's eyes as if I had been some domesticated 
 creature of another kind, But they could not put me further 
 
332 GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 from her than I put myself when I set my merits against 
 hers. More than that. They could not put me, by millions 
 of fathoms, half so low beneath her as I put myself when in 
 imagination I took advantage of her noble trustfulness, took 
 the fortune that I knew she must possess in her own right, 
 and left her to find herself, in the zenith of her beauty and 
 genius, bound to poor, rusty, plodding me. 
 
 No ! Worldliness should not enter here, at any cost. If 
 I had tried to keep it out of other ground, how much harder 
 was I bound to try to keep it from this sacred place ! 
 
 But there was something daring in her broad, generous 
 character, that demanded at so delicate a crisis to be deli- 
 cately and patiently addressed. After many and many a 
 bitter night (oh, I found I could cry for reasons not purely 
 physical, at this pass of my life !) I took my course. 
 
 My lady had, in our first interview, unconsciously over- 
 stated the accommodation of my pretty house. There was 
 room in it for only one pupil. He was a young gentleman 
 near coming of age, very well connected, but what is called 
 a poor relation. His parents were dead. The charges of 
 his living and reading with me were defrayed by an uncle ; 
 and he and I were to do our utmost together for three years 
 toward qualifying him to make his way. At this time he 
 had entered into his second year with me. He was well- 
 looking, clever, energetic, enthusiastic, bold ; in the best 
 sense of the term, a thorough young Anglo-Saxon. 
 
 I resolved to bring these two together. 
 
 NINTH CHAPTER. 
 
 Said I, one night, when I had conquered myself, " Mr. 
 Granville " — Mr. Granville Wharton his name was, — " I 
 doubt if you have ever yet so much as seen Miss Fareway." 
 
 "Well, sir," returned he, laughing, "you see her so much 
 yourself, that you hardly give another fellow a chance of 
 seeing her." 
 
 " I am her tutor, you know," said I. 
 
 And there the subject dropped for that time. But I so 
 contrived as that they should come together shortly after- 
 ward. I had previously so contrived as to keep them 
 asunder ; for while I loved her — I mean before I had deter- 
 mined on my sacrifice — a lurking jealousy of Mr. Granville 
 Jay within my unworthy breast. 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 333 
 
 It was quite an ordinary interview in the Fareway Park ; 
 but they talked easily together for some time ; like takes to 
 like, and they had many points of resemblance. Said Mr. 
 Granville to me, when he and I sat at our supper that night, 
 " Miss Fareway is remarkably beautiful, sir, remarkably en- 
 gaging. Don't you think so ? " "I think so," said I. And 
 I stole a glance at him, and saw that he had reddened and 
 was thoughtful. I remember it most vividly, because the 
 mixed feeling of grave pleasure and acute pain that the slight 
 circumstance caused me was the first of a long, long series 
 of such mixed impressions under which my hair turned 
 slowly gray. 
 
 I had not much need to feign to be subdued ; but I counter- 
 feited to be older than I was in all respects (heaven knows ! 
 my heart being all too young the while), and feigned to be 
 more of a recluse and bookworm than I had really become, 
 and gradually set up more and more of a fatherly manner 
 toward Adelina. Likewise I made my tuition less imagina- 
 tive than before ; separated myself from my poets and 
 philosophers ; was careful to present them in their own 
 light, and me, their lowly servant, in my own shade. More- 
 over in the matter of apparel I was equally mindful ; not 
 that I had ever been dapper that way ; but that I was 
 slovenly now. 
 
 As I depressed myself with one hand, so did I labor to 
 raise Mr. Granville with the other ; directing his attention 
 to such subjects as I too well knew most interested her, and 
 fashioning him (do not deride or misconstrue the expression, 
 unknown reader of this writing ; for I have suffered !) into 
 a greater resemblance to myself in my solitary one strong 
 aspect. And gradually, gradually, as I saw him take more 
 and more to these thrown-out lures of mine, then did I come 
 to know better and better that love was drawing him on, and 
 was drawing her from me. 
 
 So passed more than another year ; every day a year in 
 its number of my mixed impressions of grave pleasure and 
 acute pain ; and then these two, being of age and free to act 
 legally for themselves, came before me hand in hand (my 
 hair being now quite white), and entreated me that I would 
 unite them together. " And indeed, dear tutor," said Ade- 
 lina, " it is but consistent in you that you should do this 
 thing for us, seeing that we should never have spoken to- 
 gether that first time but for you, and that but for you we 
 could never have met so often afterward." The whole of 
 
334 GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 which was literally true ; for I had availed myself of my 
 many business attendances on, and conferences with, my 
 lady, to take Mr. Granville to the house, and leave him ip 
 the outer room with Adelina. 
 
 I knew that my lady would object to such a marriage for 
 her daughter, or to any marriage that was other than an 
 exchange of her for stipulated lands, goods, and moneys. 
 But looking on the two, and seeing with full eyes that they 
 were both young and beautiful ; and knowing that they were 
 alike in the tastes and acquirements that will outlive youth 
 and beauty ; and considering that Adelina had a fortune 
 now, in her own keeping ; and considering further that Mr. 
 Granville, though for the present poor, was of a good family 
 that had never lived in a cellar in Preston ; and believing 
 that their love would endure, neither having any great dis- 
 crepancy to find out in the other — I told them of my readi- 
 ness to do this thing which Adelina asked of her dear tutor, 
 and to send them forth husband and wife, into the shining 
 world with golden gates that awaited them. 
 
 It was on a summer morning, that I rose before the sun 
 to compose myself for the crowning of my work with this 
 end ; and my dwelling being near to the sea, I walked down 
 to the rocks on the shore, in order that I might behold the 
 sun rise in his majesty. 
 
 The tranquillity upon the deep and on the firmament, the 
 orderly withdrawal of the stars, the calm promise of coming 
 day, the rosy suffusion of the sky and waters, the ineffable 
 splendor that then burst forth, attuned my mind afresh after 
 the discords of the night. Methought that all I looked on 
 said to me, and that all I heard in the sea and in the air 
 said to me, " Be comforted, mortal, that thy life is so short. 
 Our preparation for what is to follow has endured, and shall 
 endure, for unimaginable ages." 
 
 I married them. I knew that my hand was cold when- 1 
 placed it on their hands clasped together ; but the words 
 with which I had to accompany the action I could say with- 
 out faltering, and I was at peace. 
 
 They being well away from my house and from the place 
 after our simple breakfast, the time was come when I must 
 do what I had pledged myself to them that I would do — 
 break the intelligence to my lady. 
 
 I went up to the house, and found my lady in her ordinary 
 business-room. She happened to have an unusual amount 
 of commissions to intrust to me that day, and she had 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPl ANATION. 335 
 
 filled my hands with papers before I could originate a 
 word. 
 
 " My lady," I then began, as I stood beside her table. 
 
 " Why, what's the matter ?" she said quickly, looking up. 
 
 " Not much, I would fain hope, after you shall have pre- 
 pared yourself, and considered a little." 
 
 " Prepared myself ; and considered a little ! You appear 
 to have prepared yourseli but indifferently, anyhow, Mr. 
 Silverman." This mighty scornfully, as I experienced my 
 usual embarrassment under her stare. 
 
 Said I, in self-extenuation once for all, " Lady Fareway, I 
 have but to say for myself that I have tried to do my duty." 
 
 " For yourself ? " repeated my lady. " Then there are 
 others concerned, I see. Who are they ? " 
 
 I was about to answer, when she made toward the bell 
 with a dart that stopped me, and said, " Why, where is Ade- 
 Iina ? " 
 
 " Forbear ! be calm, my lady. I married her this morn- 
 ing to Mr. Granville Wharton." 
 
 She set her lips, looked more intently at me than ever, 
 raised her right hand, and smote me hard upon the cheek. 
 
 " Give me back those papers ! give me back those pa- 
 pers ! " She tore them out of my hands, and tossed them 
 on her,' table. Then seating herself defiantly in her great 
 chair, and folding her arms, she stabbed me to the heart 
 with the unlooked-for reproach, " You worldly wretch ! " 
 
 "Worldly?" I cried. "Worldly?" 
 
 " This, if you please," she went on with supreme scorn, 
 pointing me out, as if there was some one there to see, — 
 " this, if you please, is the disinterested scholar, with not a 
 design beyond his books ! This, if you please, is the simple 
 creature whom any one could overreach in a bargain ! This, 
 if you please, is Mr. Silverman ! Not of this world ; not he ! 
 He has too much simplicity for this world's cunning. He 
 has too much singleness of purpose to be a match for this 
 world's double-dealing. What did he give you for it ? " 
 
 " For what ? And who ? " 
 
 " How much," she asked, bending forward in her great 
 chair, and insultingly tapping the fingers of her right hand 
 on the palm of her left,—" how much does Mr. Granville 
 Wharton pay you for getting him Adelina's money ? What 
 is the amount of your percentage upon Adelina's fortune ! 
 What were the terms of the agreement that you proposed to 
 this boy when you, the Rev. George Silverman, licensed to 
 
$$6 GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 
 
 marry, engaged to put him in possession of the girl ? You 
 made good terms for yourself, whatever they were. He 
 would stand a poor chance against your keenness." 
 
 Bewildered, horrified, stunned by this cruel perversion, I 
 could not speak. But I trust that I looked innocent, being so. 
 
 " Listen to me, shrewd hypocrite," said my lady, whose 
 anger increased as she gave it utterance ; " attend to my 
 words, you cunning schemer, who have carried this plot 
 through with such a practiced double face that I have never 
 suspected you. I had my projects for my daughter ; pro- 
 jects for family connection ; projects for fortune. You have 
 thwarted them, and overreached me ; but I am not one to 
 be thwarted and overreached without retaliation. Do you 
 mean to hold this living another month ?" 
 
 " Do you deem it possible, Lady Fareway, that I can hold 
 it another hour, under your injurious words ? " 
 
 " Is it resigned, then ? " 
 
 " It was mentally resigned, my lady, some minutes ago." 
 
 " Don't equivocate, sir. Is it resigned ? " 
 
 " Unconditionally and entirely ; and I would that I had 
 never, never come near it ! " 
 
 "A cordial response from me to that wish, Mr. Silverman ! 
 But take this with you, sir. If you had not resigned it, I 
 would have had you deprived of it. And though you have 
 resigned it, you will not get quit of me as easily as you think 
 for. I will pursue you with this story. I will make this 
 nefarious conspiracy of yours, for money, known. You have 
 made money by it, but you have at the same time made an 
 enemy by it. You will take good care that the money 
 sticks to you ; I will take good care that the enemy sticks 
 to you." 
 
 Then said I finally, " Lady Fareway, I think my heart is 
 broken. Until I came into this room just now, the possibility 
 of such mean wickedness as you have imputed to me never 
 dawned upon my thoughts. Your suspicions " — 
 
 "Suspicions! Pah!" said she, indignantly. "Certain- 
 ties." 
 
 " Your certainties, my lady, as you call them, your sus- 
 picions, as I call them, are cruel, unjust, wholly devoid of 
 foundation in fact. I can declare no more ; except that I 
 have not acted for my own profit or my own pleasure. I 
 have not in this proceeding considered myself. Once again, 
 I think my heart is broken. If I have unwittingly done any 
 wrong with a righteous motive, that is some penalty to pay." 
 
GEORGE SILVERMAN'S EXPLANATION. 337 
 
 She received this with another and a more indignant 
 " Pah ! " and I made my way out of her room (I think I felt 
 my way out with my hands, although my eyes were open), 
 almost suspecting that my voice had a repulsive sound, and 
 that I was a repulsive object. 
 
 There was a great stir made, the bishop was appealed to, 
 I received a severe reprimand, and narrowly escaped suspen- 
 sion. For years a cloud hung over me, and my name was 
 tarnished. But my heart did not break, if a broken heart 
 involves death ; for I lived through it. 
 
 They stood by me, Adelina and her husband, through it 
 all. Those who had known me at college, and even most of 
 those who had only known me there by reputation, stood by 
 me too. Little by little, the belief widened that I was not 
 capable of what was laid to my charge. At length I was 
 presented to a college-living in a sequestered place, and 
 there I now pen my explanation. I pen it at my open win- 
 dow in the summer-time, before me lying, in the church-yard, 
 equal resting-place for sound hearts, wounded hearts, and 
 broken hearts. I pen it for the relief of my own mind, not 
 foreseeing whether or no it will ever have a reader. 
 
THE 
 
 WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 [1856.] 
 
 THE WRECK. 
 
 I was apprenticed to the sea when I was twelve years old, 
 and I have encountered a great deal of rough weather, both 
 literal and metaphorical. It has always been my opinion 
 since I first possessed such a thing as an opinion, that the 
 man who knows only one subject is next tiresome to the man 
 who knows no subject. Therefore, in the course of my life 
 I have taught myself whatever I could, and although I am 
 not an educated man, I am able, I am thankful to say, to 
 have an intelligent interest in most things. 
 
 A person might suppose, from reading the above, that I 
 an in the habit of holding forth about number one. That 
 is not the case. Just as if I was to come into a room 
 among strangers, and must either be introduced or introduce 
 myself, so I have taken the liberty of passing these few re- 
 marks, simply and plainly that it may be known who and 
 what I am. I will add no more of the sort than that my 
 name is William George Ravender, that I was born at Penrith 
 half a year after my own father was drowned, and that I am 
 on the second day of this present blessed Christmas week of 
 one thousand eight hundred and fifty-six, fifty-six years of age. 
 
 When the rumor first went flying up and down that there 
 was gold in California — which, as most people know, was 
 before it was discovered in the British colony of Australia — 
 I was in the West Indies, trading among the islands. Being 
 in command and likewise part owner of a smart schooner, I 
 hr-d my work cut out for me, arid I was doing it. Conse- 
 quently, gold in California was no business of mine. 
 
 But by the time when I came home to England again, the 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 339 
 
 thing was as clear as your hand held up before you at noon- 
 day. There was California gold in the museums and in the 
 goldsmiths' shops, and the very first time I went upon 
 'Change, I met a friend of mine (a seafaring man like my- 
 self), with a California nugget hanging to his watch-chain. 
 I handled it. It was as like a peeled walnut, with its bits 
 unevenly broken off here and there, and then electrotyped 
 all over, as ever I saw any thing in my life. 
 
 I am a single man (she was too good for this world and 
 for me, and she died six weeks before our marriage-day), so 
 when I am ashore, I live in my house at Poplar. My house 
 at Poplar is taken care of and kept ship-shape by an old 
 lady who was my mother's maid before I was born. She is 
 as handsome and as upright as any old lady in the world. 
 She is as fond of me as if she ever had an only son, and I 
 was he. Well do I know wherever I sail that she never lays 
 down her head at night without having said, " Merciful 
 Lord ! bless and preserve William George Ravender, and 
 send him safe home, through Christ, our Saviour ! " I have 
 thought of it in many a dangerous moment, when it has 
 done me no harm, I am sure. 
 
 In my house at Poplar, along with this old lady, I lived 
 quiet for the best part of a year ; having had a long spell of 
 it among the islands, and having (which was very uncommon 
 in me) taken the fever rather badly. At last, being strong 
 and hearty, and having read every book I could lay hold of, 
 right out, I was walking down Leadenhall Street in the city 
 of London, thinking of turning-to again, when I met what I 
 call Smithick and Watersby of Liverpool. I chanced to 
 lift up my eyes from looking in at a ship's chronometer in a 
 window, and I saw him bearing down upon me, head on. 
 
 It is, personally, neither Smithick, nor Watersby, that I 
 here mention, nor was I ever acquainted with any man of 
 either of those names, nor do I think that there has been 
 any one of either of those names in that Liverpool house 
 for years back. But it is in reality the house itself that I 
 refer to ; and a wiser merchant or a truer gentleman never 
 stepped. 
 
 " My dear Captain Ravender," says he. " Of all the men 
 on earth, I wanted to see you most. I was on my way to 
 you." 
 
 "Well ! " says I. " That looks as if you were to see me, 
 don't it ? " With that I put my arm in his, and we walked on 
 toward the Royal Exchange, and when we got there, walked 
 
340 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 up and down at the back of it where the clock-tower is. Ws 
 walked an hour or more, for he had much to say to me. He 
 had a scheme for chartering a new ship of their own to take 
 out cargo to the diggers and emigrants in California, and to 
 buy and bring back gold. Into the particulars of that scheme 
 I will not enter, and I have no right to enter. All I say of 
 it is, that it was a very original one, a very fine one, a very 
 sound one, and a very lucrative one, beyond doubt. 
 
 He imparted it to me as freely as if I had been part of 
 himself. After doing so, he made me the handsomest shar- 
 ing offer that ever was made to me, boy or man — or I be- 
 lieve to any other captain in the merchant navy — and he 
 took this round turn to finish with : 
 
 " Ravender, you are well aware that the lawlessness of 
 that coast and country at present, is as special as the circum- 
 stances in which it is placed. Crews of vessels outward- 
 bound, desert as soon as they make the land ; crews of ves- 
 sels homeward-bound, ship at enormous wages, with the ex- 
 press intention of murdering the captain and seizing the gold 
 freight ; no man can trust another, and the devil seems let 
 loose. Now," says he, " you know my opinion of you, and 
 you know I am only expressing it, and with no singularity, 
 when I tell you that you are almost the only man on whose 
 integrity, discretion, and energy — " etc., etc. For, I don't 
 want to repeat what he said, though I was and am sensible 
 of it. 
 
 Notwithstanding my being, as I have mentioned, quite 
 ready for a voyage, still I had some doubts of this voyage. 
 Of course I knew, without being told, that there were pe- 
 culiar difficulties and dangers in it, a long way over and 
 above those which attend all voyages. It must not be sup- 
 posed that I was afraid to face them ; but in my opinion a 
 man has no manly motive or sustainment in his own breast 
 for facing dangers, unless he has well considered what they 
 are, and is able quietly to say to himself, " None of these 
 perils can now take me by surprise ; I shall know what to 
 do for the best in any of them ; all the rest lies in the higher 
 and greater hands to which I humbly commit myself." On 
 this principle I have so attentively considered (regarding it 
 as my duty) all the hazards I have ever been able to think 
 of, in the ordinary way of storm, shipwreck, and fire at sea, 
 that I hope I should be prepared to do, in any of those 
 cases, whatever could be done, to save the lives intrusted to 
 my charge. 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 341 
 
 As I was thoughtful, my good friend proposed that he 
 should leave me to walk there as long as I liked, and that I 
 should dine with him by and by at his club at Pall Mall. I 
 accepted the invitation, and I walked up and down there, 
 quarter-deck fashion, a matter of a couple of hours ; now and 
 then looking up at the weathercock as I might have looked 
 up aloft ; and now and then taking a look into Cornhill, as I 
 might have taken a look over the side. 
 
 All dinner-time, and all after dinner-time, we talked it 
 over again. I gave him my views of his plan, and he very 
 much approved of the same. I told him I had nearly de- 
 cided, but not quite. " Well, well," says he, " Come down 
 to Liverpool to-morrow with me, and see the Gulden Mary" 
 I liked the name (her name was Mary, and she was golden, 
 if golden stands for good), so I began to feel that it was 
 almost done when I said I would go to Liverpool. On the 
 next morning but one we were on board the Golden Mary. 
 I might have known, from his asking me to come down and 
 see her, what she was. I declare her to have been the com- 
 pletest and most exquisite beauty that ever I set my eyes 
 upon. 
 
 We had inspected every timber in her, and had come back 
 to the gangway to go ashore from the dock- basin, when I 
 put out my hand to my friend. "Touch upon it," says I, 
 and touch heartily. I take command of this ship, and I 
 am hers and yours, if I can get John Steadiman for my chief 
 mate." 
 
 John Steadiman had sailed with me four voyages. The 
 first voyage John was third mate out to China, and came 
 home second. The other three voyages he was my first of- 
 ficer. At this time of chartering the Golden Mary, he was 
 aged thirty-two. A brisk, bright, blue-eyed fellow, a very 
 neat figure and rather under the middle size, never out of 
 the way and never in it, a face that pleased every body and 
 all the children took to, a habit of going about singing as 
 cheerily as a blackbird, and a perfect sailor. 
 
 We were in one of those Liverpool hackney-coaches in less 
 than a minute, and we cruised about in her upward of three 
 hours, looking for John. John had come home from Van Die- 
 men's Land barely a month before, and I had heard of him as 
 taking a frisk in Liverpool. We asked after him, among many 
 other places, at the two boarding-houses he was fondest of, and 
 we found he had had a week's spell at each of them ; but, he 
 had gone here and gone there, and had set off " to lay out on 
 
342 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 the main-to'-gallant-yard of the highest Welsh mountain " 
 (so he had told the people of the house), and where he might 
 be then, or when he might come back nobody could tell us. 
 But it was surprising to be sure, to see how every face 
 brightened the moment there was mention made of the name 
 of Mr. Steadiman. 
 
 We were taken aback at meeting with no better luck, and 
 we had wore ship and put her head for my friends, when as 
 we were jogging through the streets, I clap my eyes on John 
 himself coming out of a toyshop ! He was carrying a little 
 boy, and conducting two uncommon pretty women to their 
 coach, and he told me afterward that he had never in his 
 life seen one of the three before, but that he was so taken 
 with them on looking in at the toyshop while they were buy- 
 ing the child a cranky Noah's Ark, very much down by the 
 head, that he had gone in and asked the ladies permission to 
 treat them to a tolerably correct cutter there was in the win- 
 dow, in order that such a handsome boy might not grow up 
 with a lubberly idea of naval architecture. 
 
 We stood off and on until the ladies' coachman began to 
 give way, and then we hailed John. On his coming aboard 
 of us, I told him, very gravely, what I had said to my friend. 
 It struck him, as he said himself, amidships. He was quite 
 shaken by it. " Captain Ravender," were John Steadiman's 
 words, " such an opinion from you is true commendation, and 
 I'll sail round the world with you for twenty years if you 
 hoist the signal, and stand by you forever ! " And now in- 
 deed I felt that it was done, and that the Golden Mary was 
 afloat. 
 
 Grass never grew yet under the feet of Smithick and Wa- 
 tersby. The riggers were out of that ship in a fortnight's time, 
 and we had begun taking in cargo. John was always aboard, 
 seeing every thing stowed with his own eyes ; and whenever 
 I went aboard myself, early or late, whether he was below in 
 the hold, or on deck at the hatchway, or overhauling his 
 cabin, nailing up pictures in it of the Blue Rose of England, 
 and the Blue Bells of Scotland, and the female Shamrock of 
 Ireland : of a certainty I heard John singing like a blackbird. 
 
 We had room for twenty passengers. Our sailing adver- 
 tisement was no sooner out then we might have taken these 
 twenty times over. In entering our men, I and John (both 
 together) picked them, and we entered none but good hands 
 — as good as were to be found in that port. And so, in a 
 good ship of the best build, well owned, well arranged, well 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 343 
 
 officered, well manned, well found in all respects, we parted 
 with our pilot at a quarter past four o'clock in the afternoon 
 of the seventh of March one thousand eight hundred and 
 fifty-one, and stood with a fair wind out to sea. 
 
 It may be easily believed that up to that time I had had 
 no leisure to be intimate with my passengers. The rnost of 
 them were then in their berths sea-sick ; however, in going 
 among them, telling them what was good for them, persuad- 
 ing them not to be there, but to come up on deck and feel 
 the breeze, and in rousing them with a joke, or a comfortable 
 word, I made acquaintance with them, perhaps in a more 
 friendly and confidential way from the first, than I might 
 have done at the cabin table. 
 
 Of my passengers, I need only particularize just at 
 present, a bright-eyed, blooming young wife who was going 
 out to join her husband in California, taking with her their 
 only child, a little girl three years old, whom he had never 
 seen ; a sedate young woman in black, some five years older 
 (about thirty as I should say), who was going out to join a 
 brother ; and an old gentleman, a good deal like a hawk if 
 his eyes had been better and not so red, who was always 
 talking, morning, noon, and night, about the gold discovery. 
 But, whether he was making the voyage, thinking his old 
 arms could dig for gold, or whether his speculation was to 
 buy it, or to barter for it, or to cheat for it, or to snatch it 
 anyhow from other people, was his secret. He kept his 
 secret. 
 
 These three and the child were the soonest well. The 
 child was a most engaging child, to be sure, and very fond 
 of me ; though I am bound to admit that John Steadiman 
 and I were borne on her pretty little books in reverse order, 
 and that he was captain there, and I was mate. It was 
 beautiful to watch her with John, and it was beautiful to 
 watch John with her. Few would have thought it possible, 
 to see John playing at bopeep round the mast, that he was 
 the man who had caught up an iron bar and struck a Malay 
 and a Maltese dead, as they were gliding with their knives 
 down the cabin stair aboard the bark Old England, when the 
 captain lay ill in his cot, off Sanger Point. But he was ; 
 and give him his back against a bulwark, he would have 
 done the same by half a dozen of them. The name of the 
 young mother was Mrs. Atherfield, the name of the young 
 lady in black was Miss Coleshaw, and the name of the old 
 gentleman was Mr. Rarx ? 
 
344 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 As the child had a quantity of shining fair hair, clustering 
 in curls all about her face, and as her name was Lucy, Steadi- 
 man gave her the name of Golden Lucy. So we had the Gol- 
 den Lucy and the Golden Mary ; and John kept up the idea 
 to that extent as he and the child went playing about the decks, 
 that I believe she used to think the ship was alive somehow — a 
 sister or companion, going to the same place as herself. She 
 liked to be by the wheel, and in fine weather, I have often 
 stood by the man whose trick it was at the wheel, only to 
 hear her, sitting near my feet, talking to the ship. Never 
 had a child such a doll before, I suppose ; but she made a 
 doll of the Golden Mary, and used to dress her up by tying 
 bits of ribbons and little bits of finery to the belaying-pins ; 
 and nobody ever moved them, unless it was to save them 
 from being blown away. 
 
 Of course I took charge of the two young women, and I 
 called them "my dear," and they never minded, knowing 
 that whatever I said was said in a fatherly and protecting 
 spirit. I gave them their places on each side of me at din- 
 ner, Mrs. Atherfield on my right, and Miss Coleshaw on my 
 left ; and I directed the unmarried lady to serve out the 
 breakfast, and the married lady to serve out the tea. 
 Likewise I said to my black steward in their presence, " Tom 
 Snow, the two ladies are equally the mistresses of this house, 
 and do you obey their orders equally ; " at which Tom 
 laughed, and they all laughed. 
 
 Old Mr. Rarx was not a pleasant man to look at, nor yet 
 to talk to, or to be with, for no one could help seeing that 
 he was a sordid and selfish character, and that he had 
 warped further and further out of the straight with time. 
 Not but what he was on his best behavior with us, as every 
 body was ; for we had no bickering among us, for'ard or 
 aft. I only mean to say, he was not the man one would have 
 chosen for a messmate. If choice there had been one might 
 even have gone a few points out of one's course, to say, " No ! 
 Not him ! " But there was one curious inconsistency in 
 Mr. Rarx. That was, that he took an astonishing interest in 
 the child. He looked, and I may add, he was, one of the 
 last of men to care at all for a child, or to care much for any 
 human creature. Still, he went so far as to be habitually 
 uneasy, if the child was long on deck, out of his sight. He 
 was always afraid of her falling overboard, or falling down 
 a hatchway, or of a block or what not coming down upon 
 her from the rigging in the working of the ship, or of her 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 345 
 
 getting some hurt or other. He used to look at her and 
 touch her, as if she was something precious to him. He 
 was always solicitous about her not injuring her health, and 
 constantly entreated her mother to be careful of it. This 
 was so much the more curious, because the child did not 
 like him, but used to shrink away from him, and would not 
 even put out her hand to him without coaxing from others. 
 I believe that every soul on board frequently noticed this, 
 and not one of us understood it. However, it was such a 
 plain fact, that John Steadiman said more than once when 
 old Mr. Rarx was not within earshot, that if the Golden 
 Mary felt a tenderness for the dear old gentleman she car- 
 ried in her lap, she must be bitterly jealous of the Golden 
 Lucy. 
 
 Before I go any further with this narrative, I will state 
 that our ship was a bark of three hundred tons, carrying a 
 crew of eighteen men, a second mate in addition to John, 
 a carpenter, an armorer or smith, and two little apprentices 
 (one a Scotch boy, poor little fellow). We had three boats ; 
 the longboat, capable of carrying twenty-five men ; the cut- 
 ter, capable of carrying fifteen ; and the surf boat, capable 
 of carrying ten. I put down the capacity of these boats ac- 
 cording to the numbers they were really meant to hold. 
 
 We had tastes of bad weather and head-winds, of course ; 
 but, on the whole, we had as fine a run as any reasonable 
 man could expect, for sixty days. I then began to enter two 
 remarks in the ship's log and in my journal ; first, that there 
 was an unusual and amazing quantity of ice ; second, that 
 the nights were most wonderfully dark, in spite of the ice. 
 
 For five days and a half, it seemed quite useless and hope- 
 less to alter the ship's course so as to stand out of the way 
 of this ice. I made what southing I could ; but, all that 
 time, we were beset by it. Mrs. Atherfield, after standing by 
 me on deck once, looking for some time in an awed manner 
 at the great bergs that surrounded us, said in a whisper, 
 " Oh ! Captain Ravender, it looks as if the whole solid earth 
 had changed into ice, and broken up ! " I said to her, laugh- 
 ing, " I don't wonder that it does, to your inexperienced 
 eyes, my dear." But I had never seen a twentieth part of 
 the quantity, and, in reality, I was pretty much of her 
 opinion. 
 
 However, at two p. m. on the afternoon of the sixth day, 
 that is to say, when we were sixty-three days out, John 
 Steadiman, who had gone aloft, sang out from the top that 
 
346 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 the sea was clear ahead. Before four p. m. a strong breeze 1 
 springing up right astern, we were in open water at sunset. 
 The breeze then freshening into half a gale of wind, and the 
 Golde?i Mary being a very fast sailer, we went before the 
 wind merrily, all night. 
 
 I had thought it impossible that it could be darker than 
 it had been, until the sun, moon, and stars should fall out of 
 the heavens, and time should be destroyed ; but it had been 
 next to light, in comparison with what it was now. The dark- 
 ness was so profound, that looking into it was painful and 
 oppressive — like looking, without a ray of light, into a dense 
 black bandage put as close before the eyes as it could be, 
 without touching them. I doubled the look-out, and John 
 and I stood in the bow side-by-side, never leaving it all 
 night. Yet I should no more have known that he was near 
 me when he was silent, without putting out my arm and 
 touching him, than I should if he had turned in and been 
 fast asleep below. We were not so much looking out, all of 
 us, as listening to the utmost, both with our eyes and ears. 
 
 Next day, I found that the mercury in the barometer, 
 which had risen steadily since we cleared the ice, remained 
 steady. I had had very good observations with now and 
 then the interruption of a day or so, since our departure. I 
 got the sun at noon, and found that we were in Lat. 58 S., 
 Long. 60 ° W., off New South Shetland ; in the neighbor- 
 hood of Cape Horn. We were sixty-seven days out, that 
 day. The ship's reckoning was accurately worked and 
 made up. The ship did her duty admirably, all on board 
 were well, and all hands were as smart, efficient, and con- 
 tented, as it was possible to be. 
 
 When the night came on again as dark as before, it was 
 the eighth night I had been on deck. Nor had I taken 
 more than a very little sleep in the day-time, my station being 
 always near the helm, and often at it, while we were among 
 the ice. Few but those who have tried it can imagine the 
 difficulty and pain of only keeping the eyes open — physically 
 open — under such circumstances, in such darkness. They 
 get struck by the darkness, and blinded by the darkness. 
 They make patterns in it, and they flash in it, as if they had 
 gone out of your head to look at you. On the turn of mid- 
 night, John Steadiman, w r ho was alert and fresh (for I had 
 always made him turn in by day), said to me, " Captain 
 Ravender, I entreat of you to go below. I am sure you can 
 hardly stand, and your voice is getting weak, sir. Go below, 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 34? 
 
 and take a little rest. I'll call you if a block chafes." I 
 said to John in answer, " Well, well, John ! Let us wait till 
 the turn of one o'clock, before we talk about that." I had 
 just had one of the ship's lanterns held up, that I might see 
 how the night went by my watch, and it was then twenty 
 minutes after twelve. 
 
 At five minutes before one, John sang out to the boy to 
 bring the lantern again, and when I told him once more 
 what the time was, entreated and prayed of me to go below. 
 " Captain Ravender," says he, " all's well ; we can't afford 
 to have you laid up for a single hour ; and I respectfully 
 and earnestly beg of you to go below." The end of it was, 
 that I agreed to do so, on the understanding that if I failed 
 to come up of my own accord within three hours, I was to 
 be punctually called. Having settled -that, I left John in 
 charge. But I called him to me once afterward, to ask him 
 a question. I had been to look at the barometer, and had 
 seen the mercury still perfectly steady, and had come up the 
 companion again to take a last look about me — if I can use 
 such a word in reference to such darkness — when I thought 
 that the waves, as the Golden Mary parted them and shook 
 them off, had a hollow sound in them ; something that I 
 fancied was a rather unusual reverberation. I was standing by 
 the quarter-deck rail on the starboard side, when I called 
 John aft to me, and bade him listen. He did so with the 
 greatest attention. Turning to me he then said, " Rely 
 upon it, Captain Ravender, you have been without rest too 
 long, and the novelty is only in the state of your sense of 
 hearing." I thought so too by that time, and I think so 
 now, though I can never know for absolute certain in this 
 world, whether it was or not. 
 
 When I left John Steadiman in charge, the ship was still 
 going at a great rate through the water. The wind still blew 
 right astern. Though she was making great way, she was 
 under shortened sail, and had no more than she could easily 
 carry. All was snug, and nothing complained. There was 
 a pretty sea running, but not a very high sea neither, nor at 
 all a confused one. 
 
 I turned in, as we seamen say, all standing, The meaning 
 of that is, I did not pull my clothes off — no, not even as 
 much as my coat : though I did my shoes, for my feet were 
 badly swelled with the deck. There was a little swing-lamp 
 alight in my cabin. I thought, as I looked at it before shut- 
 ting my eyes, that I was so tired of darkness, and troubled 
 
348 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 by darkness, that I could have gone to sleep best in the 
 midst of a million of naming gas-lights. That was the last 
 thought I had before I went off, except the prevailing 
 thought that I should not be able to get to sleep at all. 
 
 I dreamed that I was back at Penrith again, and was trying 
 to get round the church, which had altered its shape very 
 much since I last saw it, and was cloven all down the middle 
 of the steeple in a most singular manner. Why I wanted to get 
 round the church, I don't know ; but I was as anxious to do it 
 as if my life depended on it. Indeed, I believe it did, in the 
 dream. For all that, I could not get round the church. I was 
 still trying, when I came against it with a violent shock, and 
 was flung out of my cot against the ship's side. Shrieks and a 
 terrific outcry struck me far harder than the bruising timbers, 
 and amidst sounds of grinding and crashing, and a heavy 
 rushing and breaking of water — sounds I understood too well 
 — I made my way on deck. It was not an easy thing to do, 
 for the ship heeled over frightfully, and was beating in a 
 furious manner. 
 
 I could not see the men as I went forward, but I could 
 hear that they were hauling in sail, in disorder. I had my 
 trumpet in my hand, and, after directing and encouraging 
 them in this till it was done, I hailed first John Steadiman, 
 and then my second mate, Mr. William Rames. Both an- 
 swered clearly and steadily. Now, I had practiced them 
 and all my crew, as I had ever made it a custom to practice 
 all who sail with me, to take certain stations and wait my 
 orders, in case of any unexpected crisis. When my voice 
 was heard hailing, and their voices were heard answering, I 
 was aware, through all the noises of the ship and sea, and all 
 the crying of the passengers below, that there was a pause. 
 "Are you ready, Rames?" — "Ay, ay sir ! " — "Then light 
 up for God's sake ! " In a moment he and another were 
 burning blue-lights, and the ship and all on board seemed to 
 be inclosed in a mist of light, under a great black dome. 
 
 The light shone up so high that I could see the huge ice- 
 berg upon which we had struck, cloven at the top and down 
 the middle, exactly like Penrith Church in my dream. At 
 the same moment I could see the watch last relieved, crowd- 
 ing up and down on deck ; I could see Mrs. Atherfield and 
 Miss Coleshaw thrown about on the top of the companion as 
 they struggled to bring the child up from below ; I could see 
 that the masts were going with the shock and the beating of 
 the ship ; I could see the frightful breach stove in on the 
 
The wreck of the golden mary. 349 
 
 Starboard side, half the length of the vessel, and the sheath- 
 ing and timbers spirting up; I could see that the cutter was dis- 
 abled, in a wreck of broken fragments ; and I could see every 
 eye turned upon me. It is my belief that if there had been 
 ten thousand eyes. there, I should have seen them all, with 
 their different looks. And all this in a moment. But you 
 must consider what a moment. 
 
 I saw the men, as they looked at me, fall toward their ap- 
 pointed stations, like good men and true. If she had not 
 righted, they could have done very little there or anywhere 
 but die— not that it is little for a man to die at his post — I 
 mean they could have done nothing to save the passengers 
 and themselves. Happily, however, the violence of the shock 
 with which we had so determinedly borne down direct on 
 . that fatal iceberg, as if it had been our destination instead 
 of our destruction, had so smashed and pounded the ship 
 that she got off in the same instant and righted. I did not 
 want the carpenter to tell me she was filling and going down ; 
 I could see and hear that. I gave Rames the word to lower 
 the long-boat and the surf-boat, and I myself told off the 
 men for each duty. Not one hung back, or came before 
 the other. I now whispered to John Steadiman, " John, I 
 stand at the gangway here to see every soul on board safe 
 over the side. You shall have the next post of honor, and 
 shall be the last but one to leave the ship. Bring up the 
 passengers, and range them behind me ; and put what pro- 
 vision and water you can get at, in the boats. Cast your eye 
 for'ard, John, and you'll see you have not a moment to lose." 
 
 My noble fellows got the boats over the side as orderly as 
 I ever saw boats lowered with any sea running, and when 
 they were launched, two or three of the nearest men in them 
 as they held on, rising and falling with the swell, called out, 
 looking up at me, " Captain Ravender, if any thing goes 
 wrong with us and you are saved, remember we stood by 
 y OU ! » — « We'll all stand by one another ashore, yet, please 
 God, my lads ! " says I. " Hold on bravely, and be tender 
 with the women." 
 
 The women were an example to us. They trembled very 
 much, but they were quiet and perfectly collected. " Kiss 
 me, Captain Ravender," says Mrs. Atherfield, " and ^ God in 
 heaven bless you, you good man ! " " My dear," says I, 
 those words are better for me than a life-boat." I held her 
 child in my arms till she was in the boat, and then kissed 
 the child and handed her safe down. I now said to the 
 
350 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 people in her, "You have got your freight, my lads, all but 
 me, and I am not coming yet a while. Pull away from the 
 ship, and keep off ! " 
 
 That was the long-boat. Old Mr. Rarx was one of her 
 complement, and he was the only passenger who had greatly 
 misbehaved since the ship struck. Others had been a little 
 wild, which was not to be wondered at, and not very blam- 
 able ; but he had made a lamentation and uproar which it 
 was dangerous for the people to hear, as there is always con- 
 tagion in weakness and selfishness. His incessant cry had 
 been that he must not be separated from the child, that he 
 couldn't see the child, and that he and the child must go to- 
 gether. He had even tried to wrest the child out of my arms, 
 that he might keep her in his. " Mr. Rarx," said I to him when 
 it came to that, " I have a loaded pistol in my pocket ; and if 
 you don't stand out of the gangway, and keep perfectly quiet, 
 I shall shoot you through the heart, if you have got one." 
 Says he, " You won't do murder, Captain Ravender ! " " No, 
 sir," say^ I, " I won't murder forty-four people to humor you, 
 but I'll shoot you to save them." After that he was quiet, 
 and stood shivering a little way off, until I named him to go 
 over the side. 
 
 The long-boat being cast off, the surf-boat was soon 
 filled. There only remained aboard the Golden Alary, John 
 Mullion, the man who had kept on burning the blue-lights 
 (and who had lighted every new one at every old one before 
 it went out, as quietly as if he had been at an illumination); 
 John Steadiman ; and myself. I hurried those two into the 
 surf-boat, called to them to keep off, and waited with a 
 grateful and relieved heart for the long-boat to come and 
 take me in, if she could. I looked at my watch, and it 
 showed me, by the blue-light, ten minutes past two. They 
 lost no time. As soon as she was near enough, I swung 
 myself into her, and called to the men, " With a will, lads ! 
 She's reeling ! " We were not an inch too far out of the 
 inner vortex of her going down, when, by the blue-light 
 which John Mullion still burned in the bow of the surf -boat, 
 we saw her lurch, and plunge to the bottom headforemost. 
 The child cried weeping wildly, " Oh the dear Golden Mary / 
 Oh look at her ! Save her ! Save the poor Golden Mary / " 
 And then the light burned out, and the black dome seemed to 
 come down upon us. 
 
 I suppose if we had all stood a-top of a mountain, and 
 seen the whole remainder of the world sink away from under 
 
The wreck of the golden mary. 35 i 
 
 Us, we could hardly have felt more shocked and solitary 
 than we did when we knew we were alone on the wide 
 ocean, and that the beautiful ship in which most of us had 
 been securely asleep within half an hour was gone forever. 
 There was an awful silence in our boat, and such a kind of 
 palsy on the rowers and the man at the rudder, that I felt 
 they were scarcely keeping her before the sea. I spoke out 
 then, and said, " Let every one here thank the Lord for our 
 preservation !" All the voices answered (even the child's), 
 " We thank the Lord ! " I then said the Lord's Prayer, and 
 all hands said it after me with a solemn murmuring. Then 
 I gave the word '* Cheerily, oh men, cheerily ! " and I felt 
 that they were handling the boat again as a boat ought to 
 be handled. 
 
 The surf-boat now burned another blue-light to show us 
 where they were, and we made for her, and laid ourselves as 
 nearly alongside of her as we dared. I had always kept my 
 boats with a coil or two of good stout stuff in each of them, 
 so both boats had a rope at hand. We made a shift, with 
 much labor and trouble, to get near enough to one another 
 to divide the blue-lights (they were no use after that night, 
 for the sea-water soon got at them), and to get a tow-rope 
 out between us. All night long we kept together, sometimes 
 obliged to cast off the rope, and sometimes getting it out 
 again, and all of us wearying for the morning — which ap- 
 peared so long in coming that old Mr. Rarx screamed out, 
 in spite of his fears of me, " The world is drawing to an end, 
 and the sun will never rise any more." 
 
 When the day broke, I found that we were all huddled 
 together in a miserable manner. We were deep in the 
 water ; being as I found on mustering, thirty-one in num 
 ber, or at least six too many. In the surf-boat they were 
 fourteen in number, being at least four too many. The first 
 thing I did, was to get myself passed to the rudder — which 
 I took from that time — and to get Mrs. Atherfield, her child, 
 and Miss Coleshaw, passed on to sit next me. As to old 
 Mr. Rarx, 1, put him in the bow, as far from us as I could. 
 And I put some of the best men near us, in order that if 
 I should drop, there might be a skillful hand ready to take 
 the helm. 
 
 The sea moderating as the sun came up, though the sky 
 was cloudy and wild, we spoke the other boat, to know what 
 stores they had, and to overhaul what we had. I had a com- 
 pass iii my pocket, a small telescope, a double-barreled 
 
352 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 pistol, a knife, and a fire-box and matches. Most of my 
 men had knives, and some had a little tobacco ; some a 
 pipe as well. We had a mug among us, and an iron spoon. 
 As to provisions, there were in my boat two bags of biscuit, 
 one piece of raw beef, one piece of raw pork, a bag of coffee, 
 roasted but not ground (thrown in, I imagine, by mistake, 
 for something else), two small casks of water, and abou*- 
 half-a-gallon of rum in a keg. The surf-boat, having rather 
 more rum than we, and fewer to drink it, gave us, as I esti- 
 mated, another quart into our keg. In return, we gave them 
 three double handfuls of coffee, tied up in a piece of a hand- 
 kerchief ; they reported that they had aboard besides, a bag 
 of biscuit, a piece of beef, a small cask of water, a small box 
 of lemons, and a Dutch cheese. It took a long time to make 
 these exchanges, and they were not made without risk to both 
 parties ; the sea running quite high enough to make our ap- 
 proaching near to one another very hazardous. In the bundle 
 with the coffee, I conveyed to John Steadiman (who had a 
 ship's compass with him), a paper written in pencil, and torn 
 from my pocket-book, containing the course I meant to steer, 
 in the hope of making land, or being picked up by some vessel 
 — I say in the hope, though I had little hope of either deliv- 
 erance. I then sang out to him, so as all might hear, that if 
 we two boats could live or die together, we would ; but 
 that if we should be parted by the weather, and join com- 
 pany no more, they should have our prayers and blessings, 
 and we asked for theirs. We then gave them three cheers, 
 which they returned, and I saw the men's heads droop in 
 both boats as they fell to their oars again. 
 
 These arrangements had occupied the general attention 
 advantageously for all, though (as I expressed in the last 
 sentence) they ended in a sorrowful feeling. I now said a 
 few words to my fellow-voyagers on the subject of the small 
 stock of food on which our lives depended if they were pre- 
 served from the great deep, and on the rigid necessity of 
 our eking it out in the most frugal manner. One and all re- 
 plied that whatever allowance I thought best to lay down 
 should be strictly kept to. We made a pair of scales out of 
 a thin scrap of iron-piating and some twine, and I got to- 
 gether for weights such of the heaviest buttons among us as 
 I calculated made up some fraction over two ounces. This 
 was the allowance of solid food served out once a day to 
 each, from that time to the end ; with the addition of a cof- 
 fee-berry, or sometimes half a one, when the weather was 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 353 
 
 very fair, for breakfast. We had nothing else whatever, but 
 half a pint of water each per day, and sometimes when we 
 were coldest and weakest, a teaspoonful of rum each, served 
 out as a dram. I know how learnedly it can be shown that 
 rum is poison, but I also know that in this case, as in all sim- 
 ilar cases I have ever read of — which are numerous — no 
 words can express the comfort and support derived from it. 
 Nor have I the least doubt that it saved the lives of far 
 more than half our number. Having mentioned half a pint 
 of water as our daily allowance, I ought to observe that 
 sometimes we had less, and sometimes we had more ; for, 
 much rain fell, and we caught it in a canvas stretched for 
 the purpose. 
 
 Thus, at that tempestuous time of the year, and in that 
 tempestuous part of the world, we shipwrecked people rose 
 and fell with the waves. It is not my intention to relate (if 
 I can avoid it) such circumstances appertaining to our dole- 
 ful condition as have been better told in many other narra- 
 tives of the kind than I can be expected to tell them. I will 
 only note, in so many passing words, that day after day and 
 night after night, we received the sea upon our backs to pre- 
 vent it from swamping the boat ; that one party was always 
 kept baling, and that every hat and cap among us soon got 
 worn out, though patched up fifty times, as the only vessels 
 we had for that service ; that another party lay down in the 
 bottom of the boat, while a third rowed ; and that we were 
 soon all in boils and blisters and rags. 
 
 The other boat was a source of such anxious interest to all 
 of us that I used to wonder whether, if we were saved, the time 
 could ever come when the survivors in this boat of ours 
 could be at all indifferent to the fortunes of the survivors in 
 that. We got out a tow-rope whenever the weather permit- 
 ted, but that did not often happen, and how we two parties 
 kept within the same horizon, as we did, He who mercifully 
 permitted it to be so for our consolation, only knows. I 
 never shall forget the looks with which, when the morning 
 light came, we used to gaze about us over the stormy 
 waters, for the other boat. We once parted company for 
 seventy-two hours, and we believed them to have gone down 
 as they did us. The joy on both sides when we came within 
 view of one another again, had something in a manner 
 divine in it ; each was so forgetful of individual suffering in 
 tears of delight and sympathy for the people in the other 
 boat. 
 
^54 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 I have been waiting to get round to the individual or per- 
 sonal part of my subject, as I call it, and the foregoing inci- 
 dent puts me in the right way. The patience and good dis- 
 position aboard of us, was wonderful. I was not surprised 
 by it in the women ; for all men born of women know what 
 great qualities they will show when men will fail ; but I 
 own I was a little surprised by it in some of the men. Among 
 one-and-thirty people assembled at the best of times, there 
 will usually, I should say, be two or three uncertain tempers. 
 I knew that I had more than one rough temper with me 
 among my own people, for I had chosen those for the 
 long-boat that I might have them under my eye. But 
 they softened under their misery, and were as consider- 
 ate of the ladies, and as compassionate of the child, as 
 the best among us, or among men — they could not 
 have been more so. I heard scarcely any complaining. 
 The party lying down would moan a good deal in their 
 sleep, and I would often notice a man — not always the 
 same man, it is to be understood, but nearly all of them at 
 one time or other — sitting moaning at his oar, or in his 
 place, as he looked mistily over the sea. When it happened 
 to be long before I could catch his eye, he would go on 
 moaning all the time in the dismalest manner ; but when 
 our looks met, he would brighten and leave off. I almost al- 
 ways got the impression that he did not know what sound he 
 had been making, but that he thought he had been humming 
 a tune. 
 
 Our sufferings from cold and w T et were far greater than 
 our sufferings from hunger. We managed to keep the child 
 warm ; but I doubt if any one else among us ever was warm 
 for five minutes together ; and the shivering, and the chat- 
 tering of teeth, were sad to hear. The child cried a little 
 at first for her lost playfellow, the Golden Mary; but 
 hardly ever whimpered afterward ; and when the state of 
 the weather made it possible, she used now and then to be 
 held up in the arms of some of us, to look over the sea for 
 John Steadiman's boat. I see the golden hair and the 
 innocent face now, between me and the driving clouds, like 
 an angel going to fly away. 
 
 It had happened on the second day, toward night, that 
 Mrs. Atherfield, in getting little Lucy to sleep, sang her a 
 song. She had a soft, melodious voice, and, when she had 
 finished it, our people up and begged for another. She 
 sang them another, and after it had fallen dark ended with 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 355 
 
 the evening hymn. From that time, whenever any thing 
 could be heard above the sea and wind, and while she had 
 any voice left, nothing would serve the people but that she 
 should sing at sunset. She always did, and always ended 
 with the evening hymn. We mostly took up the last line, 
 and shed tears when it was done, but not miserably. We 
 had a prayer night and morning, also, when the weather 
 allowed of it. 
 
 Twelve nights and eleven days we had been driving in 
 the boat, when old Mr. Rarx began to be delirious, and to 
 cry out to me to throw the gold overboard or it would sink 
 us, and we should all be lost. For days past the child had 
 been declining, and that was the great cause of his wildness. 
 He had been over and over again shrieking out to me to 
 give her all the remaining meat, to give her all the remain- 
 ing rum, to save her at any cost, or we should all be ruined. 
 At this time, she lay in her mother's arms at my feet. One 
 of her little hands was almost always creeping about her 
 mother's neck or chin. I had watched the wasting of the 
 little hand, and I knew it was nearly over. 
 
 The old man's cries were so discordant with the mother's 
 love and submission, that I called out to him in an angry 
 voice, unless he held his peace on the instant, I would order 
 him to be knocked on the head and thrown overboard. He 
 was mute then, until the child died, very peacefully, an 
 hour afterward ; which was known to all in the boat by the 
 mother's breaking out into lamentations for the first time 
 since the wreck — for she had great fortitude and constancy, 
 though she was a little gentle woman. Old Mr. Rarx then 
 became quite ungovernable, tearing what rags he had on 
 him, raging in imprecations, and calling to me that if I had 
 thrown the gold overboard (always the gold with him !) I 
 might have saved the child. "And now," says he, in a 
 terrible voice, " we shall founder, and all go to the devil, 
 for our sins will sink us, when we have no innocent child to 
 bear us up ! " We so discovered with amazement that this 
 old wretch had only cared for the life of the pretty little 
 creature dear to all of us, because of the influence he super- 
 stitiously hoped she might have in preserving him ! Alto- 
 gether it was too much for the smith or armorer, who was 
 sitting next the old man, to bear. He took him by the 
 throat and rolled him under the thwarts, where he lay still 
 enough for hours afterward. 
 
 AH that thirteenth night, Miss Coleshaw, lying across my 
 
356 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 knees as I kept the helm, comforted and supported the poor 
 mother. Her child, covered with a pea-jacket of mine, lay 
 in her lap. It troubled me all night to think that there was 
 no prayer-book among us, and that I could remember but 
 very few of the exact words of the burial service. When I 
 stood up at broad day, all knew what was going to be done, 
 and I noticed that my poor fellows made the motion of 
 uncovering their heads though their heads had been stark 
 bare to the sky and sea for many a weary hour. There was 
 a long heavy swell on, but otherwise it was a fair morning, 
 and there were broad fields of sunlight on the waves in the 
 east. I said no more than this : " I am the Resurrection 
 and the Life, saith the Lord. He raised the daughter of 
 Jairus the ruler, and said she was not dead but slept. He 
 raised the widow's son. He arose Himself, and was seen of 
 many. He loved little children, saying, Suffer them to come 
 unto Me and rebuke them not, for of such is the kingdom 
 of heaven. In His name, my friends, and committed to His 
 merciful goodness ! " With those words I laid my rough 
 face softly on the placid little forehead, and buried the 
 Golden Lucy in the grave of the Golde?i Mary. 
 
 Having had it on my mind to relate the end of this dear 
 little child, I have omitted something from its exact place, 
 which I will supply here. It will come quite as well here 
 as anywhere else. 
 
 Foreseeing that if the boat lived through the stormy weather, 
 the time must come, and soon come, when we should have ab- 
 solutely no morsel to eat, I had one momentous point often in 
 my thoughts. Although I had, years before that, fully satisfied 
 myself that the instances in which human beings in the last 
 distress have fed upon each other are exceedingly few, and 
 have very seldom indeed (if ever) occurred when the people 
 in distress, however dreadful their extremity, have been accus- 
 tomed to moderate forbearance and restraint ; I say, though 
 I had long before quite satisfied my mind on this topic, I 
 felt doubtful whether there might not have been in former 
 cases some harm and danger from keeping it out of sight and 
 pretending not to think of it. I felt doubtful whether some 
 minds, growing weak with fasting and exposure, and having 
 such a terrific idea to dwell upon in secret, might not mag- 
 nify it until it got to have an awful attraction about it. This 
 was not a new thought of mine, for it had grown out of my 
 reading. However, it came over me stronger than it had 
 ever done before — as it had reason for doing — in the boat, 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 357 
 
 and on the fourth day I decided that I would bring out into 
 the light that unformed fear which must have been more or 
 less darkly in every brain among us. Therefore, as a means 
 of beguiling the time and inspiring hope, I gave them the 
 best summary in my power of Bligh's voyage of more than 
 three thousand miles in an open boat after the mutiny of 
 the Bounty, and of the wonderful preservation of that boat's 
 crew. They listened throughout with great interest, and I 
 concluded by telling them, in my opinion, the happiest cir- 
 cumstance in the whole narrative was that Bligh, who was 
 no delicate man, either, had solemnly placed it on record 
 therein that he was sure and certain that under no conceiv- 
 able circumstances whatever would that emaciated party, who 
 had gone through all the pains of famine, have preyed on 
 one another. I can not describe the visible relief which this 
 spread through the boat, and how the tears stood in everj) 
 eye. From that time I was as well convinced as Bligh him 
 self that there was no danger, and that this phantom, at any 
 rate, did not haunt us. 
 
 Now, it was a part of Bligh's experience that when the 
 people in his boat were most cast down, nothing did them 
 so much good as hearing a story told by one of their num- 
 ber. When I mentioned that, I saw that it struck the gen- 
 eral attention as much as it did my own, for I had not 
 thought of it until I came to it in my summary. This was 
 on the day after Mrs. Atherfield first sang to us. I proposed 
 that whenever the weather would permit, we should have a 
 story two hours after dinner (I always issued the allowance I 
 have mentioned at one o'clock and called it by that name) 
 as well as our song at sunset. The proposal was received 
 with a cheerful satisfaction that warmed my heart within me ; 
 and I do not say too much when I say that those two periods 
 in the four and twenty hours were expected with positive 
 pleasure, and were really enjoyed by all hands. Specters as 
 we soon were, in our bodily wasting, our imaginations did 
 not perish like the gross flesh upon our bones. Music and 
 adventure, two of the great gifts of providence to mankind, 
 could charm us long after that was lost. 
 
 The wind was almost always against us after the second 
 day ; and for many days together we could not nearly hold 
 our own. We had all varieties of bad weather. We had 
 rain, hail, snow, wind, mist, thunder and lightning. Still 
 the boats lived through the heavy seas, and still we perishing 
 people rose and fell with the great waves. 
 
358 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 Sixteen nights and fifteen days, twenty nights and nine- 
 teen days, twenty-four nights and twenty- three days. So the 
 time wore on. Disheartening as I knew that our progress, 
 or want of progress, must be, I never deceived them as to my 
 calculations of it. In the first place, I felt that we were all 
 too near eternity for deceit ; in the second place, I knew 
 that if I failed, or died, the man who followed me must 
 have a knowledge of the true state of things to begin upon. 
 When I told them at noon what I reckoned we had 
 made or lost, they generally received what I said in a tran- 
 quil and resigned manner, and always gratefully toward me. 
 It was not unusual at any time of the day for some one to 
 burst out weeping loudly without any new cause ; and, 
 when the burst was over, to calm down a little better than 
 before. I had seen exactly the same thing in a house of 
 mourning. 
 
 During the whole of this time, old Mr. Rarx had had his 
 fits of calling out to me to throw the gold (always the 
 gold) overboard, and of heaping violent reproaches upon 
 me for not having saved the child ; but now, the food 
 being all gone, and I having nothing left to serve out but a 
 bit of coffee-berry now and then, he began to be too weak 
 to do this, and consequently fell silent. Mrs. Atherfield 
 and Miss Coleshaw generally lay eacli with an arm across 
 one of my knees, and her head upon it. They never com- 
 plained at all. Up to the time of her child's death, Mrs. 
 Atherfield had bound up her own beautiful hair every 
 day ; and I took particular notice that this was always 
 before she sung at night, when every one looked at her. 
 But she never did it after the loss of her darling ; and it 
 would have been now all tangled with dirt and wet, but that 
 Miss Coleshaw was careful of it long after she was herself, 
 and would sometimes smooth it down with her weak, thin 
 hands. 
 
 We were past mustering a story now ; but one day, at 
 about this period, I reverted to the superstition of old Mr. 
 Rarx, concerning the Golden Lucy and told them that noth- 
 ing vanished from the eye of God, though much might pass 
 away from the eyes of men. " We were all of us," says I, 
 " children once ; and our baby feet have strolled in green 
 woods as she ; and our baby hands have gathered flowers 
 in gardens, where the birds were singing. The children that 
 we were, are not lost to the great knowledge of our Creator. 
 Those innocent creatures will appear with us before Him, 
 
The wreck of the golden mary. 359 
 
 and plead for us. What we were in the best time of our 
 generous youth will arise and go with us too. The purest 
 part of our lives will not desert us at the pass to which all of 
 us here present are gliding. What we were then, will be 
 as much in existence before Him, as what we are now." 
 They were no less comforted by this consideration, than I was 
 myself ; and Miss Coleshaw, drawing my ear nearer to her 
 lips, said, " Captain Ravender, I was on my way to marry a 
 disgraced and broken man, whom I dearly loved when he 
 was honorable and good. Your words seem to have come 
 out of my own poor heart." She pressed my hand upon it, 
 smiling. 
 
 Twenty-seven nights and twenty-six days. We were in no 
 want of rain-water, but we had nothing else ; And yet, 
 even now, I never turned my eyes upon a waking face but 
 it tried to brighten before mine. Oh what a thing it is, in 
 a time of danger and in the presence of death, the shining 
 of a face upon a face ! I have heard it broached that orders 
 should be given in great new ships by electric telegraph. I 
 admire machinery as much as any man, and am as thankful to 
 it as any man can be for what it does for us. But it will 
 never be a substitute for the face of a man, with his soul in 
 it, encouraging another man to be brave and true. Never 
 try it for that. It will break down like a straw. 
 
 I now began to remark certain changes in myself which I 
 did not like. They caused me much disquiet. I often saw 
 the Golden Lucy in the air above the boat. I often saw her 
 I have spoken of before, sitting beside me. I saw the Golden 
 Mary go down, as she really had gone down, twenty times in 
 a day. And yet the sea was mostly, to my thinking, not sea 
 neither, but moving country and extraordinary mountainous 
 regions, the like of which have never been beheld. _ I felt it 
 time to leave my last words regarding John Steadiman, in 
 case any lips should last out to repeat them to any living ears. 
 I said that John had told me (as he had on deck) that he had 
 sung out ' Breakers ahead ! ' the instant they were audible, 
 and had tried to wear ship, but she struck before it could 
 be done. (His cry, I dare say, had made my dream.) I 
 said that the circumstances were altogether without warn- 
 ing, and out of any course that could have been guarded 
 against ; that the same loss would have happened if I had 
 been in charge ; and that John was not too blame, but from* 
 first to last had done his duty nobly, like the man he was. I 
 tried to write it down in my pocket-book, but could maktf 
 
360 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 no words, though I knew what the words were that I wanted 
 to make. When it had come to that, her hands — though 
 she was dead so long — laid me down gently in the bottom 
 of the boat, and she and the Golden Lucy swung me to 
 sleep. 
 
 ALL THAT FOLLOWS, WAS WRITTEN BY JOHN STEADIMAN, 
 CHIEF MATE : 
 
 On the twenty-sixth day after the foundering of the Golden 
 Mary at sea, I, John Steadiman, was sitting in my place in 
 the stern-sheets of the surf-boat, with just sense enough left 
 in me to steer — that is to say, with my eyes strained, wide 
 awake, over the bows of the boat, and my brains fast asleep 
 and dreaming — when I was roused upon a sudden by our 
 second mate, Mr. William Rames. 
 
 " Let me take a spell in your place,'' says he. " And look 
 you out for the long-boat astern. The last time she rode on 
 the crest of a wave, I thought I made out a signal flying 
 aboard her." 
 
 We shifted our places, clumsily and slowly enough, for we 
 were both of us weak and dazed with wet, cold, and hunger. 
 I waited some time, watching the heavy rollers astern, before 
 the long-boat rose a-top of one of them at the same time with 
 us. At last, she was heaved up for a moment well in view, 
 and there, sure enough, was the signal flying aboard of her 
 — a strip of rag of some sort, rigged to an oar, and hoisted 
 in her bows. 
 
 "What does it mean?" says Rames to me in a quaver- 
 ing, trembling sort of a voice. " Do they signal a sail in 
 sight ? " 
 
 " Hush, for God's sake ! " says I, clapping my hand over 
 his mouth. " Don't let the people hear you. They'll all go 
 mad together if we mislead them about that signal. Wait a 
 bit till I have another look at it." 
 
 I held on by him, for he had set me all of a tremble with 
 his notion of a sail in sight, and watched for the long-boat 
 again. 
 
 Up she rose on the top of another roller. I made out the 
 signal clearly, that second time, and saw that it was rigged 
 .half-mast high. 
 
 "Rames," says I, "it's a signal of distress. Pass the 
 word forward to keep her before the sea, and no more. We 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 361 
 
 must get the long-boat within hailing distance of us as soon 
 as possible." 
 
 I dropped down into my old place at the tiller without 
 another word — for the thought went through me like a knife 
 that something had happened to Captain Ravender. I 
 should consider myself unworthy to write another line of 
 this statement, if I had not made up my mind to speak the 
 truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth — and I 
 must, therefore, confess plainly that now, for the first time, 
 my heart sank within me. This weakness on my part was 
 produced in some degree, as I take it, by the exhausting 
 effects of previous anxiety and grief. 
 
 Our provisions — if I may give that name to what we had 
 left — were reduced to the rind of one lemon and about a 
 couple of handfuls of coffee-berries. Besides these great 
 distresses, caused by the death, the danger, and the suffer- 
 ing among my crew and passengers, I had a little distress 
 of my own to shake me still more, in the death of the child 
 whom I had got to be very fond of on the voyage out — so 
 fond that I was secretly a little jealous of her being taken in 
 the long-boat instead of mine when the ship foundered. 
 It used to be a great comfort to me, and I think to those 
 with me also, after we had seen the last of the Golden Mary, 
 to see the Golden Lucy, held up by the men in the long- 
 boat, when the weather allowed it, as the best and brightest 
 sight they had to show. She looked, at the distance we saw 
 her from, almost like a little white bird in the air. To miss 
 her for the first time, when the weather lulled a little again, 
 and we all looked out for our white bird and looked in vain, 
 was a sore disappointment. To see the men's heads bowed 
 down and the captain's hand pointing into the sea when we 
 hailed the long-boat, a few days after, gave me as heavy a 
 shock and as sharp a pang of heartache to bear as ever I 
 remember suffering in all my life. I only mention these 
 things to show that if I did give way a little at first, under 
 the dread that our captain was lost to us, it was not with- 
 out having been a good deal shaken beforehand by more 
 trials of one sort or another than often fall to one man's 
 share. 
 
 I had got over the choking in my throat with the help of 
 a drop of water, and had steadied my mind again so as to 
 be prepared against the worst, when I heard the hail (Lord 
 help the poor fellows, how weak it sounded ! ) — 
 
 " Surf-boat, ahoy ! " 
 
362 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 I looked up, and there were our companions in misfortune 
 tossing abreast of us ; not so near that we could make out 
 the features of any of them, but near enough, with some 
 exertion for people in our condition, to make their voices 
 heard in the intervals when the wind was weakest. 
 
 I answered the hail, and waited a bit, and heard nothing, 
 and then sung out the captain's name. The voice that 
 replied did not sound like his ; the words that reached us 
 were : 
 
 " Chief-mate wanted on board ! " 
 
 Every man of my crew knew what that meant as well as I 
 did. As second officer in command, there could be but 
 one reason for wanting me on board the long-boat. A 
 groan went all round us, and my men looked darkly in each 
 other's faces, and whispered under their breaths : 
 
 "The captain is dead ! " 
 
 I commanded them to be silent, and not to make too sure 
 of bad news, at such a pass as things had now come to with 
 us. Then, hailing the long-boat, I signified that I was 
 ready to go on board when the weather would let me — 
 stopped a bit to draw a good long breath — and then called 
 out as loud as I could the dreadful question : 
 
 " Is the captain dead ?" 
 
 'The black figures of three or four men in the after-part 
 of the long-boat all stooped down together as my voice 
 reached them. They were lost to view for about a minute ; 
 then appeared again — one man among them was held up on 
 his feet by the rest, and he hailed back the blessed words 
 (a very faint hope went a very long way with people in our 
 desperate situation) : " Not yet ! " 
 
 The relief felt by me, and by all with me, when we knew 
 that our captain, though unfitted for duty, was not lost to us, 
 it is not in words — at least, not in such words as a man like 
 me can command — to express. I did my best to cheer the 
 men by telling them what a good sign it was that we were not 
 as badly off yet as we had feared ; and then communicated 
 what instructions I had to give, to William Rames, who was 
 to be left in command in my place Avhen I took charge of the 
 long-boat. After that, there was nothing to be done, but to 
 wait for the chance of the wind dropping at sunset, and the sea 
 going down afterward, so as to enable our weak crews to lay 
 the two boats alongside of each other, without undue risk — 
 or, to put it plainer, without saddling ourselves with the 
 necessity for any extraordinary exertion of strength or skill. 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 363 
 
 Both the one and the other had now been starved out of us 
 for days and days together. 
 
 At sunset the wind suddenly dropped, but the sea, which 
 had been running high for so long a time past, took hours 
 after before it showed any signs of getting to rest. The 
 moon was shining, the sky was wonderfully clear, and it 
 could not have been, according to my calculations, far off 
 midnight, when the long, slow, regular swell of the calming 
 ocean fairly set in, and I took the responsibility of lessening 
 the distance between the long-boat and ourselves. 
 
 It was, I dare say, a delusion of mine ; but I thought I 
 had never seen the moon shine so white and ghastly any- 
 where, either at sea or on land, as she shone that night while 
 we were approaching our companions in misery. When there 
 was not much more than a boat's length between us, and the 
 white light streamed cold and clear over all our faces, both 
 crews rested on their oars with one great shudder, and stared 
 over the gunwale of either boat, panic-stricken at the first 
 sight of each other. 
 
 "Any lives lost among you?" I asked, in the midst of 
 that frightful silence. 
 
 The men in the long-boat huddled together like sheep at 
 the sound of my voice. 
 
 11 None yet, but the child, thanks be to God ! " answered 
 one among them. 
 
 And at the sound of his voice, all my men shrank together 
 like the men in the long-boat. I was afraid to let the horror 
 produced by our first meeting at close quarters after the 
 dreadful changes that wet, cold, and famine had produced, 
 last one moment longer than could be helped ; so, without 
 giving time for any more questions and answers, I com- 
 manded the men to lay the two boats close alongside of 
 each other. When I rose up and committed the tiller to 
 the hands of Rames, all my poor fellows raised their white 
 faces imploringly to mine. " " Don't leave us, sir," they said, 
 " don't leave us." " I leave you," says I, "under the com- 
 mand and the guidance of Mr. William Rames, as good a 
 sailor as I am, and as trusty and kind a man as ever stepped. 
 Do your duty by him, as you have done it by me ; and 
 remember to the last, that while there is life there is hope. 
 God bless and help you all ! " With those words I collected 
 what strength I had left, caught at two arms that were held 
 out to me, and so got from the stern-sheets of one boat into 
 the stern-sheets of the other. 
 
364 THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 
 
 " Mind where you step, sir," whispered one of the men 
 who had helped me into the long-boat. I looked down as 
 he spoke. Three figures were huddled up below me, with 
 the moonshine falling on them in ragged streaks through the 
 gaps between the men standing or sitting above them. The 
 first face I made out was the face of Miss Coleshaw : her 
 eyes were wide open and fixed on me. She seemed still to 
 keep her senses, and, by the alternate parting and closing of 
 her lips, to be trying to speak, but I could not hear that she 
 uttered a single word. On her shoulder rested the head of 
 Mrs. Atherfield. The mother of our poor little Golden 
 Lucy must, I think, have been dreaming of the child she 
 had lost ; for there was a faint smile just ruffling the white 
 stillness of her face, when I first saw it turned upward, with 
 peaceful, closed eyes toward the heavens. From her, I 
 looked down a little, and there, with his head on her lap, 
 and with one of her hands resting tenderly on his cheek — 
 there lay the captain, to whose help and guidance, up to 
 this miserable time, we had never looked in vain — there, 
 worn out at last in our service, and for our sakes, lay the 
 best and bravest man of all our company. I stole my hand 
 in gently through his clothes and laid it on his heart, and 
 felt a little feeble warmth over it, though my cold, dulled 
 touch could not detect even the faintest beating. The two 
 men in the stern- sheets with me, noticing what I was doing 
 — knowing I loved him like a brother — and seeing, I suppose, 
 more distress in my face than I myself was conscious of its 
 showing, lost command over themselves altogether, and 
 burst into a piteous moaning, sobbing lamentation over him. 
 One of the two drew aside a jacket from his feet, and showed 
 me that they were bare, except where a wet, ragged strip of 
 stocking still clung to one of them. When the ship struck 
 the iceberg, he had run on deck, leaving his shoes in his 
 cabin. All through the voyage in the boat his feet had been 
 unprotected ; and not a soul had discovered it until he 
 dropped ! As long as he could keep his eyes open, the 
 very look of them had cheered the men, and comforted 
 and upheld the women. Not one living creature in the 
 boat, with any sense about him, but had felt the good in- 
 fluence of that brave man in one way or another. Not 
 one but had heard him, over and over again, give the credit 
 to others which was due only to himself ; praising this 
 man for patience, and thanking that man for help, when 
 the patience and the help had really and truly, as to the 
 
THE WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY. 365 
 
 best part of both, come only from him. All this, and much 
 more, I heard pouring confusedly from the men's lips while 
 they crouched down, sobbing and crying over their com- 
 mander, and wrapping the jacket as warmly and tenderly 
 as they could over his cold feet. It went to my heart to 
 check them ; but I knew that if this lamenting spirit spread 
 any further all chance of keeping alight any last sparks of 
 hope and resolution among the boat's company would bf 
 lost forever. Accordingly I sent them to their places, spokt 
 a few encouraging words to the men forward, promising to 
 serve out, when the morning came, as much as I dared of 
 any eatable thing left in the lockers ; called to Rames, in 
 my old boat, to keep as near us as he safely could ; drew 
 the garments and coverings of the two poor suffering women 
 more closely about them ; and, with a secret prayer to be 
 directed for the best in bearing the awful responsibility now 
 laid on my shoulders, took my captain's vacant place at the 
 helm of the long-boat. 
 
 This, as well as I can tell it, is the full and true account 
 of how' I came to be placed in charge of the lost passengers 
 and crew of the Golden Mary, on the morning of the twenty- 
 seventh day after the ship struck the iceberg, and foundered 
 at sea. 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN ENGLISH 
 PRISONERS. 
 
 [1857.] 
 IN TWO CHAPTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE ISLAND OF SILVER-STORE. 
 
 It was in the year of our Lord one thousand seven 
 hundred and forty-four, that I, Gill Davis to command, his 
 mark, having then the honor to be a private in the Royal 
 Marines, stood a-leaning over the bulwarks of the armed 
 sloop Christopher Columbus, in the South American waters 
 off the Musquito shore. 
 
 My lady remarks to me, before I go any further, that 
 there is no such Christian-name as Gill, and that her 
 confident opinion is, that the name given to me in the 
 baptism wherein I was made, etc., was Gilbert. She is 
 certain to be right, but I never heard of it. I was a found- 
 ling child, picked up somewhere or another, and I always 
 understood my Christian-name to be Gill, it is true that I 
 was called Gills when employed at Snorridge Bottom betwixt 
 Chatham and Maidstone to frighten birds ; but that had 
 nothing to do with the baptism wherein I was made, etc., 
 and wherein a number of things were promised for me by 
 somebody, who let me alone ever afterward as to perform- 
 ing any of them, and who, I consider, must have been the 
 beadle. Such name of Gills was entirely owing to my 
 cheeks, or gills, which at that time of my life were of a raspy 
 description. 
 
 My lady stops me again, before I go any further, by laugh- 
 ing exactly in her old way and waving the feather of her 
 pen at me. That action on her part calls to my mind as I 
 look at her hand with the rings on it — Well ! I won't ! To 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 367 
 
 be sure it will come in, in its own place. But it's always 
 strange to me, noticing the quiet hand, and noticing it (as 
 I have done, you know, so many times) a-fondling children 
 and grandchildren asleep, to think that when blood and 
 honor were up — there ! I won't ! not at present ! — Scratch it 
 out. 
 
 She won't scratch it out, and quite honorable ; because 
 we have made an understanding that every thing is to be 
 taken down, and that nothing that is once taken down shall 
 be scratched out. I have the great misfortune of not being 
 able to read and write, and I am speaking my true and faith- 
 ful account of these adventures, and my lady is writing it, 
 word for word. 
 
 I say, there I was, a-leaning over the bulwarks of the sloop 
 Christopher Columbus, in the South American waters off the 
 Musquito shore ; a subject of his gracious majesty King 
 George of England, and a private in the Royal Marines. 
 
 In those climates you don't want to do much. I was 
 doing nothing. I was thinking of the shepherd (my father, 
 I wonder ?) on the hill-sides by Snorridge Bottom, with a 
 long staff, and with a rough white coat in all weathers all 
 the year round, who used to let me lie in a corner of his hut 
 by night, and who used to let me go about with him and his 
 sheep by day when I could get nothing else to do, and who 
 used to give me so little of his victuals and so much of his 
 staff, that I ran away from him — which was what he wanted 
 all along, I expect — to be knocked about the world in pref- 
 erence to Snorridge Bottom. I had been knocked about 
 the world for nine-and-twenty years in all, when I stood 
 looking along those bright blue South American waters. 
 Looking after the shepherd, I may say. Watching him in a 
 half-waking dream, with my eyes half shut, as he and his 
 flock of sheep, and his two dogs, seemed to move away from 
 the ship's side, far away over the blue water, and to go right 
 down into the sky. 
 
 " It's rising out of the water, steady," a voice said close to 
 me. I had been thinking on so, that it like woke me with a 
 start, though it was no stranger voice than the voice of Harry 
 Charker, my own comrade. 
 
 " What's rising out of the waters, steady," I asked my 
 comrade. 
 
 " What ? " says he. " The island." 
 
 "Oh ! The island !" says I, turning my eyes toward it. 
 " True. I forgot the island." 
 
$68 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 '"'Fdrgot the port you're going to ? That's odd, ain't it ? " 
 
 * ir is odd," says I. 
 
 "And odd," he said, slowly considering with himself, 
 "ain't even ; is it, Gill?" 
 
 He had always a remark just like that to make, and sel- 
 dom another. As soon as he had brought a thing round to 
 what it was not, he was satisfied. He was one of the best 
 of men, and, in a certain sort of a way, one with the least to 
 say for himself. I qualify it, because, besides being able to 
 read and write like a quartermaster, he had always one 
 most excellent idea in his mind. That was duty. Upon 
 my soul, I don't believe, though I admire learning beyond 
 every thing, that he could have got a better idea out of all 
 the books in the world, if he had learned them every word, 
 and been the cleverest of scholars. 
 
 My comrade and I had been quartered in Jamaica, and 
 from there we had been drafted off to the British settlement 
 of Belize, lying away west and north of the Musquito coast. 
 At Belize there had been great alarm of one cruel gang of 
 pirates (there were always more pirates than enough in those 
 Caribbean Seas), and as they got the better of our English 
 cruisers by running into out-of-the-way creeks and shallows, 
 and taking the land when they were hotly pressed, the gov- 
 ernor of Belize had received orders from home to keep a 
 sharp lookout for them along shore. Now there was an 
 armed sloop came once a year from Port Royal, Jamaica, to 
 the island, laden with all manner of necessaries to eat and 
 to drink, and to wear, and to use in various ways ; and it 
 was aboard of that sloop which had touched at Belize that I 
 was a-standing, leaning over the bulwarks. 
 
 The island was occupied by a very small English colony. 
 It had been given the name of Silver-Store. The reason of 
 its being so called was, that the English colony owned and 
 worked a silver mine over on the mainland, in Honduras, 
 and used this island as a safe and convenient place to store 
 their silver in, until it was annually fetched away by the 
 sloop. It was brought down from the mine to the coast on 
 the backs of mules, attended by friendly Indians and guarded 
 by white men ; from thence it was conveyed over to Silver- 
 Store, when the weather was fair, in the canoes of that 
 country ; from Silver-Store it was carried to Jamaica by the 
 armed sloop once a year, as I have already mentioned ; from 
 Jamaica it went, of course, all over the world. 
 
 How I came to be aboard the armed sloop, is easily told. 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 369 
 
 Four-and-twenty marines under command of a lieutenant — 
 that officer's name was Linderwood — had been told off at 
 Belize, to proceed to Silver-Store, in aid of boats and sea- 
 men stationed there for the chase of the pirates. The island 
 was considered a good post of observation against the pi- 
 rates, both by land and sea ; neither the pirate ship nor yet 
 her boats had been seen by any of us, but they had been 
 so much heard of, that the re-enforcement was sent. Of 
 that party, I was one. It included a corporal and a ser- 
 geant. Charker was corporal, and the sergeant's name was 
 Drooce. He was the most tyrannical non-commissioned 
 officer in his majesty's service. 
 
 The night came on, soon after I had had the foregoing 
 words with Charker. All the wonderful bright colors went 
 out of the sea and sky in a few minutes, and all the stars 
 in the heavens seemed to shine out together, and to look 
 down at themselves in the sea, over one another's shoulders, 
 millions deep. Next morning, we cast anchor off the island. 
 There was a snug harbor within a little reef ; there was a 
 sandy beach ; there were cocoanut trees with high, straight 
 stems, quite bare, and foliage at the top like plumes of 
 magnificent green feathers ; there were all the objects that 
 are usually seen in those parts, and I am not going to 
 describe them, having something else to tell about. 
 
 Great rejoicings, to be sure, were made on our arrival. 
 All the flags in the place were hoisted, all the guns in the 
 place were fired, and all the people in the place came down 
 to look at us. One of those Sambo fellows — they call those 
 natives Sambos, when they are half negro and half Indian 
 — had come off outside the reef, to pilot us in, and remained 
 on board after we had let go our anchor. He was called 
 Christian George King, and was fonder of all hands than 
 any body else was. Now, I confess, for myself, that on that 
 first day, if I had been captain of the Christopher Columbus 
 instead of private in the Royal Marines, I should have kicked 
 Christian George King — who was no more a Christian than 
 he was a King or a George — over the side, without exactly 
 knowing why, except that it was the right thing to do. 
 
 But I must likewise confess that I was not in a parti- 
 cularly pleasant humor, when I stood under arms that 
 morning, aboard the Christopher Columbus in the harbor 
 of the Island of Silver-Store. I had had a hard life, and the 
 life of the English on the island seemed to be too easy and 
 too gay, to please me. " Here you are, I thought to myself, 
 
37o PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 " good scholars and good livers ; able to read what you like, 
 able to write what you like, able to eat and drink what you 
 like, and spend what you like, and do what you like ; and 
 much y&u care for a poor, ignorant private in the Royal 
 Marines ! Yet it's hard, too, I think, that you should have 
 all the half-pence and I all the kicks ; you all the smooth 
 and I all the rough ; you all the oil, and I all the vinegar." 
 It was as envious a thing to think as might be, let alone its 
 being nonsensical ; but I thought it. I took it so much 
 amiss, that, when a very beautiful young English lady came 
 aboard, I grunted to myself, " Ah ! you have got a lover, 
 I'll be bound ! " As if there was any new offense to me in 
 that, if she had ! 
 
 She was sister to the captain of our sloop, who had been 
 in a poor way for some time, and who was so ill then that 
 he was obliged to be carried ashore. She was the child of 
 a military officer, and had come out there with her sister, 
 who was married to one of the owners of the silver-mine, 
 and who had three children with her. It was easy to see 
 that she was the light and spirit of the island. After I had 
 got a good look at her, I grunted to myself again, in an 
 even worse state of mind than before, " I'll be damned if I 
 don't hate him, whoever he is ! " 
 
 My officer, Lieutenant Linderwood, was as ill as the cap- 
 tain of the sloop, and was carried ashore, too. They were 
 both young men of about my age, who had been delicate 
 in the West India climate. I even took that in bad part. 
 I thought I was much fitter for the work than they were, 
 and that if all of us had our deserts, I should be both of 
 them rolled into one. (It may be imagined what sort of an 
 officer of marines I should have made, without the power 
 of reading a written order. And as to any knowledge how 
 to command the sloop — Lord ! I should have sunk her in 
 a quarter of an hour !) 
 
 However, such were my reflections ; and when, we men 
 were ashore and dismissed, I strolled about the place along 
 with Charker, making my observations in a similar spirit. 
 
 It was a pretty place ; in all its arrangements partly South 
 "American and partly English, and very agreeable to look at on 
 that account, being like a bit of home that had got clipped off 
 and had floated away to that spot, accommodating itself to cir- 
 cumstances as it drifted along. The huts of the Sambos, to 
 the number of five-and-twenty, perhaps, were down by the 
 beach to the left of the anchorage. On the right was a sort of 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 371 
 
 barrack, with a South American flag and the Union Jack, fly- 
 ing from the same staff, where the little English colony could 
 all come together, if they saw occasion. It was a walled square 
 of building, with a sort of pleasure-ground inside, and inside 
 that again a sunken block like a powder magazine, with a 
 little square trench round it, and steps down to the door. 
 Charker and I were looking in at the gate, which was not 
 guarded ; and I had said to Charker, in reference to the bit 
 like a powder magazine, " That's where they keep the silver 
 you see ; " and Charker had said to me, after thinking it 
 over, " And silver ain't gold. Is it, Gill ? " when the beau- 
 tiful young English lady I had been so bilious about, looked out 
 of a door, or a window — at all events looked out, from un- 
 der a bright awning. She no sooner saw us two in uniform, 
 than she came out so quickly that she was still putting on 
 her broad Mexican hat of plaited straw when we saluted. 
 
 " Would you like to come in," she said, " and see the 
 place ? It is rather a curious place." 
 
 We thanked the young lady, and said we didn't wish to be 
 troublesome ; but she said it could be no trouble to an 
 English soldier's daughter, to show English soldiers how 
 their countrymen and countrywomen fared, so far away 
 from England ; and consequently we saluted again, and 
 went in. Then as we stood in the shade, she showed us 
 (being as affable as beautiful), how the different families 
 lived in their separate houses, and how there was a general 
 house for stores, and a general reading-room, and a general 
 room for music and dancing, and a room for church ; and 
 how there were other houses on the rising ground called the 
 Signal Hill, where they lived in the hottest weather. 
 
 " Your officer has been carried up there," she said, "and 
 my brother, too, for the better air. At present, our few resi- 
 dents are dispersed over both spots ; deducting, that is to 
 say, such of our number as are always going to, or always 
 staying at, the mine." 
 
 (" He is among one of those parties," I thought, " and I 
 wish somebody would knock his head off." 
 
 11 Some of our married ladies live here," she said, " during 
 at least half the year, as lonely as widows, with their children." 
 
 " Many children here, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Seventeen. There are thirteen married ladies, and 
 there are eight like me." 
 
 There were not eight like her — there was not one like her 
 — in the world. She meant single. 
 
372 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 "Which, with about thirty Englishmen of various de- 
 grees," said the young lady, " from the little colony now on 
 the island. I don't count the sailors, for they don't belong 
 to us. Nor the soldiers," she gave us a gracious smile when 
 she spoke of the soldiers, " for the same reason." 
 
 " Nor the Sambos, ma'am," said I. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Under your favor, and with your leave, ma'am," said I, 
 " are they trustworthy ? " 
 
 " Perfectly ! We are all very kind to them, and they are 
 very grateful to us." 
 
 " Indeed, ma'am ? Now — Christian George King ! " 
 
 " Very much attached to us all. Would die for us." 
 
 She was, as in my uneducated way I have observed very 
 beautiful women almost always to be, so composed, that her 
 composure gave great weight to what she said, and I be- 
 lieved it. 
 
 Then she pointed out to us the building like a powder 
 magazine, and explained to us in what manner the silver was 
 brought from the mine, and was brought over from the 
 mainland, and was stored there. The Christopher Columbus 
 would have a rich lading, she said, for there had been a 
 great yield that year, a much richer yield than usual, and 
 there was a chest of jewels beside the silver. 
 
 When we had looked about us, and were getting sheepish, 
 through fearing we were troublesome, she turned us over to a 
 young woman, English born but West India bred, who 
 served her as her maid. This young woman was the widow 
 of a non-commissioned officer in a regiment of the line. She 
 had got married and widowed at St. Vincent, with only a few 
 months between the two events. She was a little saucy wo- 
 man, with a bright pair of eyes, rather a neat little foot and 
 figure, and rather a little turned-up nose. The sort of young 
 woman, I considered at the time, who appeared to invite 
 you to give her a kiss, and who would have slapped your 
 face if you accepted the invitation. 
 
 I couldn't make out her name at first ; for, when she gave 
 it in answer to my inquiry, it sounded likeBeltot, which didn't 
 sound right. But when we became better acquainted — which 
 was while Charker and I were drinking sugar-cane sangaree, 
 which she made in a most excellent manner — I found that her 
 Christian name was Isabella, which they shortened into Bell, 
 and that the name of the deceased non-commissioned officer 
 was Tott. Being the kind of neat little woman it was natural 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 373 
 
 to make a toy of — I never saw a woman so like a toy in my 
 life — s he had got the plaything name of Belltott. In short, 
 she had no other name on the island. Even Mr. Commis- 
 sioner Pordage (and he was a grave one !) formally addressed 
 her as Mrs. Belltott. But I shall come to Mr. Commissioner 
 Pordage presently. 
 
 The name of the captain of the sloop was Captain Maryon, 
 and therefore it was no news to hear from Mrs. Belltott that 
 his sister, the beautiful unmarried young English lady, was 
 Miss Maryon. The novelty was, that her Christian name was 
 Marion too. Marion Ma'ryon. Many a time I have run off 
 those two names in my thoughts, like a bit of verse. Oh 
 many, and many, and many a time ! 
 
 We saw out all the drink that was produced, like good 
 men and true, and then took our leaves, and went down to 
 the beach. The weather was beautiful ; the wind steady, 
 low, and gentle ; the island, a picture ; the sea, a picture ; 
 the sky, a picture. In that country there are two rainy sea- 
 sons in the year. One sets in at about our English midsum- 
 mer ; the other, about a fortnight after our English Michael- 
 mas. It was the beginning of August at that time ; the first 
 of these rainy seasons was well over ; and every thing was in 
 its most beautiful growth, and had its loveliest look 
 upon it. 
 
 " They enjoy themselves here," I says to Charker, turning 
 surly. " This is better than private-soldiering." 
 
 We had come down to the beach, to be friendly with the 
 boat's-crew who were camped and hutted there ; and we were 
 approaching toward their quarters over the sand, when 
 Christian George King comes up from the landing-place at a 
 wolf's trot, crying, " Yup, So- Jeer ! "—which was that Sambo 
 pilot's barbarous way of saying, Halloo, Soldier ! I have 
 stated myself to be a man of no learning, and, if I entertain 
 certain prejudices, I hope allowance may be made. I will 
 now confess to one. It may be a right one or it may be a 
 wrong one ; but I never did like natives, except in the form 
 of oysters. 
 
 So, when Christian George King, who was individually un- 
 pleasant to me besides, comes a-trotting along the sand, 
 clucking " Yup, So-Jeer ! " I had a thundering good mind 
 to let fly at him with my right. I certainly should have 
 done, but that it would have exposed me to reprimand. 
 
 '- Yup, So-Jeer ! ' says he. " Bad job." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " says I, 
 
374 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 " Yup, So-Jeer ! " says he, " ship leakee." 
 
 " Ship leaky ? " says I. 
 
 " Iss," says he, with a nod that looked as if it were jerked 
 out of him by a most violent hiccup — which is the way with 
 those savages. 
 
 I cast my eyes at Charker, and we both heard the pumps 
 going aboard the sloop, and saw the signal run up, " Come 
 on board ; hands wanted from the shore." In no time some 
 of the sloop's liberty-men were already running down to the 
 water's edge, and the party of seamen, under orders against 
 the pirates, were putting off to the Columbus in two boats. 
 
 " Oh Christian George King, sar, berry sorry ! " says that 
 Sambo vagabond, then. " Christian George King cry, En- 
 glish fashion ! " His English fashion of crying was to screw 
 his black knuckles into his eyes, howl like a dog, and roll 
 himself on his back on the sand. It was trying not to kick 
 him, but I gave Charker the word, '* Double-quick, Harry ! " 
 and we got down to the water's edge, and got on board the 
 sloop. 
 
 By some means or other, she had sprung such a leak, that 
 no pumping would keep her free ; and what between the two 
 fears "that she would go down in the harbor, and that, even 
 if she did not, all the supplies she had brought for the little 
 colony would be destroyed by the sea-water as it rose in her, 
 there was great confusion. In the midst of it, Captain Ma- 
 ryon was heard hailing from the beach. He had been car- 
 ried down in his hammock, and looked very bad ; but he 
 insisted on being stood there on his feet ; and I saw him, 
 myself, come off in the boat, sitting upright in the stern- 
 sheets, as if nothing was wrong with him. 
 
 A quick sort of council was held, and Captain Maryon 
 soon resolved that we must all fall to work to get the cargo 
 out, and when that was done, the guns and heavy matters 
 must be got out, and that the sloop must be hauled ashore 
 and careened, and the leak stopped. We were all mustered 
 (the pirate-chase party volunteering), and told off into par- 
 ties, with so many hours of spell and so many hours of re- 
 lief, and we all went at it with a will. Christian George 
 King was entered one of the party in which I worked, at his 
 own request, and he went at it with as good a will as any of 
 the rest. He went at it with so much heartiness, to say the 
 truth, that he rose in my good opinion almost as fast as the 
 water rose in the ship. Which was fast enough, and faster. 
 
 Mr. Commissioner Pordage kept in a red-and-black ja- 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 375 
 
 panned box, like a family lump-sugar box, some document 
 of other, which some Sambo chief or other had got drunk 
 and spilled some ink over (as well as I could understand the 
 matter), and by that means had given up lawful possession 
 of the island. Through having hold of this box, Mr. Pord- 
 age got his title of commissioner. He was styled consul too, 
 and spoke of himself as ''government." 
 
 He was a stiff-jointed, high-nosed old gentleman, without 
 an ounce of fat on him, of a very angry temper, and a very 
 yellow complexion. Mrs. Commissioner Pordage, making 
 allowance for difference of sex, was much of the same. Mr. 
 Kitten, a small, youngish, bald, botanical and mineralogical 
 gentleman, also connected with the mine — but every body 
 there was that, more or less — was sometimes called by Com- 
 missioner Pordage, his vice-commissioner, and sometimes 
 his deputy-consul. Or sometimes he spoke of Mr. Kitten, 
 merely as being " under government." 
 
 The beach was beginning to be a lively scene with the 
 preparations for careening the sloop, and with cargo, and 
 spars, and rigging, and water-casks, dotted about it, and with 
 temporary quarters for the men rising up there out of such 
 sails and odds and ends as could be best set on one side to 
 make them, when Mr. Commissioner Pordage comes down 
 in a high fluster, and asks for Captain Maryon. The cap- 
 tain, ill as he was, was slung in his hammock betwixt two 
 trees, that he might direct ; and he raised his head, and 
 answered for himself. 
 
 " Captain Maryon," cries Mr. Commissioner Pordage, 
 " this is not official. This is not regular." 
 
 "Sir," says the captain, "it hath been arranged with the 
 clerk and supercargo, that you should be communicated with, 
 and requested to render any little assistance that may lie in 
 your power. I am quite certain that hath been duly done." 
 
 " Captain Maryon," replies Mr. Commissioner Pordage, 
 " there hath been no written correspondence. No docu • 
 ments have passed, no memoranda have been made, no min- 
 utes have been made, no entries and counter-entries appear 
 in the official muniments. This is indecent. I call upon 
 you, sir, to desist, until all is regular, or government will 
 take this up." 
 
 " Sir," says Captain Maryon, chafing a little, as he looked 
 out of his hammock ; "between the chances of government 
 taking this up, and my ship taking herself down, I much pre- 
 fer to trust myself to the former/' 
 
376 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 " You do, sir?" cries Mr. Commissioner Pordage. 
 
 " I do, sir," says Captain Maryon, lying down again. 
 
 " Then, Mr. Kitten," says the commissioner, " send up 
 instantly for my diplomatic coat." 
 
 He was dressed in a linen suit at that moment ; but Mr. 
 Kitten started off himself and brought down the diplomatic 
 coat, which was a blue cloth one, gold-laced, and with a 
 crown on the button. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Kitten," says Pordage, " I instruct you as 
 vice-commissioner and deputy-consul of this place, to de- 
 mand of Captain Maryon, of the sloop Christopher Colum- 
 bus, whether he drives me to the act of putting this coat 
 on ? " 
 
 " Mr. Pordage," says Captain Maryon, looking out of his 
 hammock again, " as I can hear what you say, I can answer 
 it without troubling the gentleman. I should be sorry that 
 you should be at the pains of putting on too hot a coat on 
 my account ; but, otherwise, you may put it on hind-side be- 
 fore, or inside out, or with your legs in the sleeves, or your 
 head in the skirts, for any objection I have to offer to your 
 thoroughly pleasing self." 
 
 " Very good, Captain Maryon," says Pordage in a tremen- 
 dous passion. " Very good, sir. Be the consequences on 
 your own head ! Mr. Kitten, it has come to this, help me 
 on with it." 
 
 When he had given that order, he walked off with the 
 coat, and all our names were taken, and I was afterward 
 told that Mr. Kitten wrote from his dictation more than a 
 bushel of large paper on the subject, which cost more be- 
 fore it was done with than ever could be calculated, and 
 which only got done with after all, by being lost. 
 
 Our work went on merrily, nevertheless, and the Christo- 
 pher Columbus, hauled up, lay helpless on her side like a 
 great fish out of water. While she was in that state, there 
 was a feast, or a ball, or an entertainment, or more properly 
 all three together, given us in honor of the ship, and the 
 ship's company, and the other visitors. At that assembly, I 
 believe, I saw all the inhabitants then upon the island, without 
 any exception. I took no particular notice of more than a 
 few, but I found it very agreeable in that little corner of the 
 world to see the children who were of all ages, and mostly 
 very pretty — as they mostly are. There was one handsome 
 elderly lady, with very dark eyes and gray hair, that I in- 
 quired about, I was told that her name was Mrs. Venning : 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 377 
 
 and her married daughter, a very slight thing, was pointed 
 out to me by the name of Fanny Fisher. Quite a child she 
 looked, with a little copy of herself holding to her dress ; 
 and her husband just come back from the mine, exceeding 
 proud of her. They were a good-looking set of people on 
 the whole, but I didn't like them. I was out of sorts ; in 
 conversation with Charker, I found fault with all of them. 
 I said of Mrs. Venning, she was proud ; of Mrs. Fisher, 
 she was a delicate little baby-fool. What did I think of 
 this one ? Why, he was a fine gentleman. What did I say to 
 that one ? Why, she was a fine lady. What could you expect 
 them to be (I asked Charker) nursed in that climate with the 
 tropical night shining for them, musical instruments playing 
 to them, great trees bending over them, soft lamps lighting 
 them, fire-flies sparkling in among them, bright flowers and 
 birds brought into existence to please their eyes, delicious 
 drinks to be had for the pouring out, delicious fruits tobe 
 got for the picking, and every one dancing and murmuring 
 happily in the scented air, with the sea breaking low on the 
 reef for a pleasant chorus. 
 
 " Fine gentlemen and fine ladies, Harry ? " I says to 
 Charker. " Yes, I think so ! Dolls ! Dolls ! Not the sort 
 of stuff for wear, that comes of poor private soldiering in 
 the Royal Marines ! " 
 
 However, I could not gainsay that they were very hos- 
 pitable people, and that they treated us uncommonly well. 
 Every man of us was at the entertainment, and Mrs. Belltott 
 had more partners than she could dance with ; though she 
 danced all night, too. As to Jack (whether of the Christo- 
 pher Columbus, or of the pirate pursuit party, it made no 
 difference), he danced with his brother Jack, danced with 
 himself, danced with the moon, the stars, the trees, the pros- 
 pect, any thing. I didn't greatly take to the chief officer of 
 that'party, with his bright eyes, brown face, and easy figure. 
 I didn't much like his way when he first happened to come 
 where we were, with Miss Maryon on his arm. " Oh, Cap- 
 tain Carton," she says, "here are two friends of mine ! " 
 He says, " Indeed ? These two marines ? "—meaning 
 Charker and self. " Yes," says she, " I showed these two 
 friends of mine when they first came, all the wonders of 
 Silver-Store." He gave us a laughing look, and says he, 
 "You are in luck, men. I would be disrated and go before 
 the mast to-morrow, to be shown the way upward again by 
 such a guide. You are in luck, men." When he had sa- 
 
J 7 8 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 luted, and he and the young lady had waltzed away, I said, 
 " You are a pretty fellow, too, to talk of luck. You may go 
 to the devil ! " 
 
 Mr. Commissioner Pordage and Mrs. Commissioner 
 showed among the company on that occasion like the King 
 and Queen of a much Greater Britain than Great Britain. 
 Only two other circumstances in that jovial night made much 
 separate impression on me. One was this. A man in our 
 draft of marines, named Tom Packer, a wild, unsteady young 
 fellow, but the son of a respectable shipwright in Portsmouth 
 Yard, and a good scholar who had been well brought up, 
 comes to me after a spell of dancing, and takes me aside by 
 the elbow, and says, swearing angrily : 
 
 " Gill Davis, I hope I may not be the death of Sergeant 
 Drooce one day ! " 
 
 Now, I knew Drooce had always borne particularly hard 
 on this man, and I knew this man to be of a very hot tem- 
 per ; so I said : 
 
 " Tut, nonsense ! don't talk so to me ! If there's a man in 
 the corps who scorns the name of an assassin, that man and 
 Tom Packer are one." 
 
 Tom wipes his head, being in a mortal sweat, and says 
 he: 
 
 " I hope so, but I can't answer for myself when he lords 
 it over me, as he has just now done, before a woman. I tell 
 you what, Gill ! Mark my words ! It will go hard with 
 Sergeant Drooce, if ever we are in an engagement together, 
 and he has to look to me to save him. Let him say a prayer 
 then, if he knows one, for it's all over with him, and he is on 
 his death-bed. Mark my words ! " 
 
 I did mark his words, and very soon afterward, too, as 
 will shortly be taken down. 
 
 The other circumstance that I noticed at that ball, was, 
 the gayety and attachment of Christian George King. The 
 innocent spirits that Sambo pilot was in, and the impossi- 
 bility he found himself under of showing all the little colony, 
 but especially the ladies and children, how fond he was of 
 them, how devoted to them, and how faithful to them for 
 life and death, for present, future, and everlasting, made a 
 great impression on me. If ever a man, Sambo or no Sambo, 
 was trustful and trusted, to what may be called quite an 
 infantine and sweetly beautiful extent, surely, I thought that 
 morning when I did at last lie down to rest, it was that 
 Sambo pilot, Christian George King. 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 379 
 
 This may account for my dreaming of him. He stuck in 
 my sleep, cornerwise, and I couldn't get him out. He was 
 always flitting about me, dancing round me, and peeping in 
 over my hammock, though I woke and dozed off again fifty 
 times. At last, when I opened my eyes, there he really was, 
 looking in at the open side of the little dark hut ; which 
 was made of leaves and had Charker's hammock slung in it 
 as well as mine. 
 
 " So-Jeer ! " says he, in a sort of a low croak. " Yup ! " 
 
 " Hallo ! " says I, starting up. " What ? You are there, 
 are you ? " 
 
 " Iss," says he. " Christian George King got news." 
 
 " What news has he got ? " 
 
 " Pirates out ! " 
 
 I was on my feet in a second. So was Charker. We were 
 both aware that Captain Carton, in command of the boats, 
 constantly watched the mainland for a secret signal, though, 
 of course, it was not known to such as us what the signal 
 was. 
 
 Christian George King had vanished before we touched 
 the ground. But the word was already passing from hut 
 to hut to turn out quietly, and we knew that the nimble bar- 
 barian had got hold of the truth, or something near it. 
 
 In a space among the trees behind the encampment of us 
 visitors, naval and military, was a snugly-screened spot, 
 where we kept the stores that were in use, and did our 
 cookery. The word was passed to assemble here. It was 
 very quickly given, and was given (so far as we were con- 
 cerned) by Sergeant Drooce, who was as good in a soldier 
 point of view, as he was bad in a tyrannical one. We were 
 ordered to drop into this space, quietly, behind the trees, 
 one by one. As we assembled here, the seamen assembled 
 too. Within ten minutes, as I should estimate, we were all 
 here, except the usual guard upon the beach. The beach 
 (we could see it through the wood) looked as it always had 
 done in the hottest time of the day. The guard were in the 
 shadow of the sloop's hull, and nothing was moving but the 
 sea, and that moved very faintly. Work had always been 
 knocked off at that hour, until the sun grew less fierce, and 
 the sea-breeze rose ; so that its being holiday with us, made 
 no difference, just then, in the look of the place. But I 
 may mention that it was a holiday, and the first we had had 
 since our hard work began. Last night's ball had been 
 given, on the leak's being repaired, and the careening done. 
 
380 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 The worst of the work was over, and to-morrow we were to 
 begin to get the sloop afloat again. 
 
 We marines were now drawn up here, under arms. The 
 chase-party were drawn up separate. The men of the Colum- 
 bus were drawn up separate. The officers stepped out into 
 the midst of the three parties, and spoke so all might hear. 
 Captain Carton was the officer in command, and he had a 
 spy-glass in his hand. His coxswain stood by him with 
 another spy-glass, and with a slate on which he seemed to 
 have been taking down signals. 
 
 " Now men ! " says Captain Carton ; " I have to let you 
 know, for your satisfaction : Firstly, that there are ten pirate- 
 boats, strongly-manned and armed, lying hidden up a creek 
 yonder on the coast, under the overhanging branches of the 
 dense trees. Secondly, that they will certainly come out 
 this night when the moon rises, on a pillaging and murder- 
 ing expedition, of which some part of the main land is the 
 object. Thirdly — don't cheer, men ! — that we will give 
 chase, and if we can get at them, rid the world of them, 
 please God ! " 
 
 Nobody spoke, that I heard, and nobody moved, that I 
 saw. Yet there was a kind of ring, as if every man answered 
 and approved with the best blood that was inside of him. 
 
 " Sir," says Captain Maryon, " I beg to volunteer, on this 
 service, with my boats. My people volunteer, to the ship's 
 boys." 
 
 " In his majesty's name and service," the other answers, 
 touching his hat, " I accept your aid with pleasure. Lieu- 
 tenant Linderwood, how will you divide your men ? " 
 
 I was ashamed — I give it out to be written down as large 
 and plain as possible— I was heart and soul ashamed of my 
 thoughts of those two sick officers, Captain Maryon and 
 Lieutenant Linderwood, when I saw them, then and there. 
 The spirit of these two gentlemen beat down their illness 
 (and very ill I knew them to be) like Saint George beating 
 down the dragon. Pain and weakness, want of ease and 
 want of rest, had no more place in their minds than fear 
 itself. Meaning now to express for my lady to write down, 
 exactly what I felt then and there, I felt this : You two 
 brave fellows that I have been so grudgeful of, I know that 
 if you were dying you would put it off to get up and do your 
 best, and then you would be so modest that in lying down 
 again to die, you would hardly say, " I did it ! " 
 
 It did me good. It really did me good. 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 381 
 
 But to go back to where I broke off. Says Captain Car- 
 ton to Lieutenant Lmderwood, " Sir, how will you divide 
 your men ? There is no room for all ; and a few men 
 should, in any case, be left here." 
 
 There was some debate about it. At last, it was resolved 
 to leave eight marines and four seamen on the island, be- 
 sides the sloop's two boys. And because it was considered 
 that the friendly Sambos would only want to be commanded 
 in case of any danger (though none at all was apprehended 
 there), the officers were in favor of leaving the two non-com- 
 missioned officers, Drooce and Charker. It was a heavy 
 disappointment to them, just as my being one of the left 
 was a heavy disappointment to me— then, but not soon after- 
 ward. We men drew lots for it, and I drew " Ireland." So 
 did Tom Packer. So, of course, did four more of our rank 
 and file. 
 
 When this was settled, verbal instructions were given to 
 all hands to keep the intended expedition secret, in order that 
 the women and children might not be alarmed, or the expe- 
 dition put in a difficulty by more volunteers. The assembly 
 was to be on the same spot, at sunset. Every man was to 
 keep up an appearance, meanwhile, of occupying himself in 
 his usual way. That is to say, every man excepting four 
 old trusty seamen, who were appointed, with an officer, to 
 see to the arms and ammunition, and to muffle the rollocks of 
 the boats, and to make every thing as trim and swift and 
 silent as it could be made. 
 
 The Sambo pilot had been present all the while, m case 
 of his being wanted, and had said to the officer in command, 
 five hundred times over if he had said it once, that Christian 
 George King would stay with the so-jeers, and take care of 
 the booffer ladies and the booffer childs— booffer being that 
 native's 'expression for beautiful. He was now asked a few 
 questions concerning the putting off of the boats, and in par- 
 ticular whether there was any way of embarking at the back 
 of the island : which Captain Carton would have half liked 
 to do, and then have dropped round in its shadow and 
 slanted across to the main. But, " No," says Christian 
 George King. " No, no, no ! Told you so, ten time. _ No, 
 no, no ! All reef, all rock, all swim, all drown ! " Striking 
 out as he said it, like a swimmer gone mad, and turning over 
 on his back on dry land, and spluttering himself to death, 
 in a manner that made him quite an exhibition. 
 
 The sun went down, after appearing to be a long time 
 
3Z2 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 about it, and the assembly was called. Every man answered 
 to his name, of course, and was at his post. It was not yet 
 black dark, and the roll was only just gone through, when 
 up comes Mr. Commissioner Pordage with his diplomatic 
 coat on. 
 
 " Captain Carton," says he, " sir, what is this ?" 
 
 " This, Mr. Commissioner " (he was very short with him), 
 "is an expedition against the pirates. It is a secret expedi- 
 tion, so please to keep it a secret." 
 
 " Sir," says Commissioner Pordage, " I trust there is going 
 to be no unnecessary cruelty committed ? " 
 
 " Sir," returns the officer, "I trust not." 
 
 " That is not enough, sir," cries Commissioner Pordage, 
 getting wroth. " Captain Carton, I give you notice. Gov- 
 ernment requires you to treat the enemy with great delicacy, 
 consideration, clemency, and forbearance." 
 
 " Sir," says Captain Carton, " I am an English officer, 
 commanding English men, and I hope I am not likely to 
 disappoint the government's just expectations. But I pre- 
 sume you know that these villains under their black flag 
 have despoiled our countrymen of their property, burned 
 their homes, barbarously murdered them and their children, 
 and worse than murdered their wives and daughters ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I do, Captain Carton," answers Pordage, wav- 
 ing his hand with dignity ; " perhaps I do not. It is not 
 customary, sir, for government to commit itself." 
 
 "It matters very little, Mr. Pordage, whether or no. Be- 
 lieving that I hold my commission by the allowance of God, 
 and not that I have received it direct from the devil, I shall 
 certainly use it, with all avoidance of unnecessary suffering 
 and with all merciful swiftness of execution, to exterminate 
 these people from the face of the earth. Let me recommend 
 you to go home, sir, and to keep out of the night-air." 
 
 Never another syllable did that officer say to the commis- 
 sioner, but turned away to his men. The commissioner 
 buttoned his diplomatic coat to the chin, said, " Mr. Kitten, 
 attend me ! " gasped, half choked himself, and took himself 
 off. 
 
 It now fell very dark, indeed. I have seldom, if ever, 
 seen it darker, nor yet so dark. The moon was not due un- 
 til one in the morning, and it was but a little after nine when 
 our men lay down where they were mustered. It was pre- 
 tended that they were to take a nap, but every body knew 
 that po nap was to be got under the circumstances. Though 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 3^3 
 
 All was very quiet, there was a restlessness among the peo- 
 ple ; much what I have seen among the people on a race- 
 course, when the bell has rung for the saddling for a great 
 race with large stakes on it. 
 
 At ten they put off ; only one boat putting off at a time ; 
 another following in five minutes ; both then lying on their 
 oars until another followed. Ahead of all, paddling his own 
 outlandish little canoe without a sound, went the Sambo 
 pilot, to take them safely outside the reef. No light was 
 shown but once, and that was in the commanding officer's 
 own hand. I lighted the dark lantern for him, and he took 
 it from me when he embarked. They had blue-lights and 
 such like with them, but kept themselves as dark as murder. 
 
 The expedition got away with wonderful quietness, and 
 Christian George King soon came back, dancing with joy. 
 
 " Yup, so-jeer," says he to himself in a very objectionable 
 kind of convulsions, " Christian George King, sar, berry glad 
 pirates all be blown a-pieces. Yup ! Yup ! " 
 
 My reply to that cannibal was, " However glad you may 
 be, hold your noise, and don't dance jigs and slap your 
 knees about it, for I can't bear to see you do it." 
 
 I was on duty then ; we twelve who were left, being di- 
 vided into four watches of three each, three hours' spell. I 
 was relieved at twelve. A little before that time, I had 
 challenged, and Miss Maryon and Mrs. Belltott had come 
 in. 
 
 " Good Davis," says Miss Maryon, " what is the matter ? 
 Where is my brother ? " 
 
 I told her what was the matter, and where her brother 
 was. 
 
 " Oh, heaven help him ! " says she, clasping her hands and 
 looking up — she was close in front of me, and she looked 
 most lovely to be sure ; *' he is not sufficiently recovered, 
 not strong enough for such strife ! " 
 
 " If you had seen him, miss," I told her, " as I saw him 
 when he volunteered, you would have known that his spirit 
 is strong enough for any strife. It will bear his body, 
 miss, to wherever duty calls him. It will always bear him 
 to an honorable life, or a brave death." 
 
 " Heaven bless you ! " says she, touching my arm. " I 
 know it. Heaven bless you ! " 
 
 Mrs. Belltott surprised me by trembling and saying noth- 
 ing. They were still standing looking toward the sea and 
 listening after the relief had come round. It continuing 
 
iS 4 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 very dark, I asked to be allowed to take them back. MisS 
 Maryon thanked me, and put her arm in mine, and I did 
 take them back. I have now got to make a confession that 
 will appear singular. After I had left them, I laid myself 
 down on my face on the bench, and cried for the first time 
 since I had frightened birds as a boy at Snorridge Bottom, 
 to think what a poor, ignorant, low-placed, private soldier I 
 was. 
 
 It was only for a half minute or so. A man can't at all 
 times be quite master of himself, and it was only for half a 
 minute or so. Then I up and went to my hut, and turned 
 into my hammock, and fell asleep with wet eye-lashes, and a 
 sore, sore heart. Just as I had often done when I was a 
 child, and had been worse used than usual. 
 
 I slept (as a child under those circumstances might) very 
 sound, and yet very sore at heart all through my sleep. I 
 was awoke by the words, " He is a determined man." I 
 had sprung out of my hammock, and had seized my fire- 
 lock, and was standing on the ground, saying the word my- 
 self, "He is a determined man." But the curiosity of my 
 state was, that I seemed to be repeating them after some- 
 body, and to have been wonderfully startled by hearing 
 them. 
 
 As soon as I came to myself, I went out of the hut, and 
 away to where the guard was. Charker challenged : 
 
 " Who goes there ? " 
 
 "A friend." 
 
 " Not Gill ? " says he, as he shouldered his piece. 
 
 "Gill," says I. 
 
 " Why, what the deuce do you do out of your hammock ? " 
 says he. 
 
 " Too hot for sleep," says I ; "is all right ? " 
 
 " Right ! " says Charker, " yes, yes ; all's right enough 
 here ; what should be wrong here ? It's the boats that we 
 want to know of. Except for fire-flies twinkling about, and 
 the lonesome splashes of great creatures as they drop into 
 the water, there's nothing going on here to ease a man's mind 
 from the boats." 
 
 The moon was above the sea, and had risen, I should say, 
 some half an hour. As Charker spoke, with his face toward 
 the sea, I, looking landward, suddenly laid my right hand on 
 his breast, and said, " Don't move. Don't turn. Don't 
 raise your voice ! You never saw a Maltese face here ? " 
 
 " No. What do you mean ? " he asks staring at me. 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 385 
 
 " Nor yet an English face, with one eye and a patch 
 across the nose*? " 
 
 " No. What ails you ? What do you mean ? " 
 
 I had seen both, looking at us round the stem of a cocoa-nut. 
 tree, where the moon struck them. I had seen that Sambo 
 pilot, with one hand laid on the stem of the tree, drawing 
 them back into the heavy shadow. I had seen their naked 
 cutlasses twinkle and shine, like bits of moonshine in the 
 water that had got blown ashore among the trees by the 
 light wind. I had seen it all, in a moment. And I saw in 
 a moment (as any man would), that the signaled move of 
 the pirates on the mainland was a plot and a feint ; that the 
 leak had been made to disable the sloop ; that the boats had 
 been tempted away, to leave the island unprotected ; that 
 the pirates had landed by some secret way at the back ; 
 and that Christian George King was a double-dyed traitor, 
 and a most infernal villain. 
 
 I considered, still all in one and the same moment, that 
 Charker was a brave man, but not quick with his head ; and 
 that Sergeant Drooce, with a much better head, was close 
 by. All I said to Charker was, " I am afraid we are be- 
 trayed. Turn your back full to the moonlight on the sea, 
 and cover the stem of the cocoa-nut tree which will then be 
 right before you, at the height of a man's heart. Are you 
 right?" 
 
 " I am right," says Charker, turning instantly, and falling 
 into the position with a nerve of iron ; " and right ain't left. 
 Is it, Gill ? " 
 
 A few seconds brought me to Sergeant Drooce'shut. He 
 was fast asleep, and being a heavy sleeper, I had to lay my 
 hand upon him to rouse him. The instant I touched him he 
 came rolling out of his hammock, and upon me like a tiger. 
 And a tiger he was, except that he knew what he was up to, 
 in his utmost heat, as well as any man. 
 
 I had to struggle with him pretty hard to bring him to his 
 senses, panting all the while (for he gave me a breather), 
 " Sergeant, I am Gill Davis ! Treachery ! Pirates on the 
 island ! " 
 
 The last words brought him round, and he took his hands 
 off. " I have seen two of them within this minute," said I. 
 And so I told him what I had told Harry Charker. 
 
 His soldierly, though tyrannical, head was clear in an in- 
 stant. He didn't waste one word, even of surprise. " Order 
 the guard," says he, " to draw off quietly into the fort." 
 
3 86 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 (They called the inclosure I have before mentioned, the fort, 
 though it was not much of that.) " Then get you to the fort 
 as quick as you can, rouse up every soul there, and fasten 
 the gate. I will bring in all those who are up at the Signal 
 Hill. If we are surrounded before we can join you, you must 
 make a sally and cut us out if you can. The word among 
 our men is, ' Women and children ! ' " 
 
 He burst away, like fire going before the wind over dry 
 reeds. He roused up the seven men who were off duty, and 
 had them bursting away with him, before they knew they 
 were not asleep. I reported orders to Charker, and ran to 
 the fort, as I have never run at any other time in all my life ; 
 no, not even in a dream. 
 
 The gate was not fast, and had no good fastening ; only a 
 double wooden bar, a poor chain, and a bad lock. Those I 
 secured as well as they could be secured in a few seconds by 
 one pair of hands, and so ran to that part of the building 
 where Miss Maryon lived. I called to her loudly by her 
 name until she answered. I then called loudly all the names 
 I knew — Mrs. Macey (Miss Maryon's married sister), Mr. 
 Macey, Mrs. Venning, Mr. and Mrs. Fisher, even Mr. and 
 Mrs. Pordage.. Then I called out, " All you gentlemen here, 
 get up and defend the place ! We are caught in a trap. 
 Pirates have landed. We are attacked ! " 
 
 At the terrible word " pirates ! " — for those villains had 
 done such deeds in those seas as never can be told in writing, 
 and can scarcely be so much as thought of — cries and 
 screams rose up from every part of the place. Quickly lights 
 moved about from window to window, and the cries moved 
 about with them, and men, women, and children came flying 
 down into the square. I remarked to myself, even then, 
 what a number of things I seemed to see at once. I noticed 
 Mrs. Macey coming toward me, carrying all her three 
 children together. I noticed Mr. Pordage, in the greatest 
 terror, in vain trying to get on his diplomatic coat ; and Mr. 
 Kitten respectfully tying his pocket handkerchief over Mrs. 
 Pordage's nightcap. I noticed Mrs. Belltott run out scream- 
 ing, and shrink upon the ground near me, and cover her face 
 in her hands, and lie, all of a bundle, shivering. But what 
 I noticed with the greatest pleasure was, the determined eyes 
 with which those men of the mine that I had thought fine 
 gentlemen, came round me with what arms they had ; to the 
 full as cool and resolute as I could be, for my life — ay, and 
 fpr my soul, too, into the bargain ! 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 387 
 
 The chief person being Mr. Macey, I told him how the 
 three men of the guard would be at the gate directly, if they 
 were not already there, and how Sergeant Drooce and the 
 other seven were gone to bring in the outlying part of the 
 people of Silver-Store. I next urged him, for the love of all 
 who were dear to him, to trust no Sambo, and, above all, if 
 he could get any good chance at Christian George King, not 
 to lose it, but to put him out of the world. 
 
 " I will follow your advice to the letter, Davis," says he ; 
 "what next?" 
 
 My answer was, " I think, sir, I would recommend you 
 next to order down such heavy furniture and lumber as can 
 be moved, and make a barricade within the gate." 
 
 " That's good again," says he ; " will you see it done ? " 
 
 " I'll willingly help to do it," says I, " unless or until my 
 superior, Sergeant Drooce, gives me other orders." 
 
 He shook me by the hand, and having told off some of 
 his companions to help me, bestirred himself to look to the 
 arms and ammunition. A proper quick, brave, steady, ready 
 gentleman ! 
 
 One of their three little children was deaf and dumb. 
 Miss Maryon had been from the first with all the children, 
 soothing them, and dressing them (poor little things, they 
 had been brought out of their beds), and making them 
 believe that it was a game of play, so that some of them 
 were now even laughing. I had been working hard with 
 the others at the barricade, and had got up a pretty 
 good breastwork within the gate. Drooce and the seven 
 had come back, bringing in the people from the Signal 
 Hill, and had worked along with us ; but I had not so much 
 as spoken a word to Drooce, nor had Drooce so much as 
 spoken a word to me, for we were both too busy. The breast- 
 work was now finished, and I found Miss Maryon at my side 
 with a child in her arms. Her dark hair was fastened round 
 her head with a band. She had a quantity of it, and it looked 
 even richer and more precious, put up hastily out of her way, 
 than I had seen it look when it was carefully arranged. She 
 was very pale, but extraordinarily quiet and still. 
 
 " Dear good Davis," said she, " I have been waiting to 
 speak one word to you." 
 
 I turned to her directly. If I had received a musket-ball 
 in the heart, and she had stood there, I almost believe I 
 should have turned to her before I dropped. 
 
 " This pretty little creature," said she, kissing the child in 
 
3 83 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS 
 
 her arms, who was playing with her hair and trying to pull it 
 down, " can not hear what we say — can hear nothing. I 
 trust you so much, and have such great confidence in you, 
 that I want you to make me a promise." 
 
 " What is it, miss ? " 
 
 " That if we are defeated, and you are absolutely sure of 
 my being taken, you will kill me." 
 
 " I shall not be alive to do it, miss. I shall have died in 
 your defense before it comes to that. They must step across 
 my body and lay hands on you." 
 
 " But if you are alive, you brave soldier." How she looked 
 at me ! " And if you can not save me from the pirates liv- 
 ing, you will save me dead. Tell me so." 
 
 Well ! I told her I would do that at the last, if all else 
 failed. She took my hand — my rough, coarse hand — and 
 put it to her lips. She put it to the child's lips, and the 
 child kissed it. I believe I had the strength of half a dozen 
 men in me, from that moment until the fight was over. 
 
 All this time, Mr. Commissioner Pordage had been wanting 
 to make a proclamation to the pirates to lay down their arms 
 and go away ; and every body had been hustling him about 
 and tumbling over him, while he was calling for pen and ink 
 to write it with. Mrs. Pordage, too, had some curious ideas 
 about the British respectability of her nightcap (which had 
 so many frills to it, growing in layers one inside another, as 
 if it was a white vegetable of the artichoke sort), and she 
 wouldn't take the nightcap off, and would be angry when it 
 got crushed by the other ladies who were handing things 
 about, and, in short, she gave as much trouble as her hus- 
 band did. But as we were now forming for the defense of 
 the place, they were both poked out of the way with no cere- 
 mony. The children and ladies were got into the little 
 trench which surrounded the silver-house (we were afraid of 
 leaving them in any of the light buildings, lest they should 
 be set on fire), and we made the best disposition we could. 
 There was a pretty good store, in point of amount, of toler- 
 able swords and cutlasses. Those were issued. There were 
 also, perhaps a score or so of spare muskets. Those were 
 brought out. To my astonishment, little Mrs. Fisher that I 
 had taken for a doll and a baby, was not only very active in 
 that service, but volunteered to load the spare arms. 
 
 " lor I understand it well," says she, cheerfully, without a 
 shake in her voice. 
 
 " I am a soldier's daughter and a sailor's sister, and I un« 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. . 389 
 
 rferstand it too," says Miss Maryon, just in the same 
 way. 
 
 Steady and busy behind where I stood, those two beauti- 
 ful and delicate young women fell to handling the guns, ham- 
 mering the flints, looking to the locks, and quietly directing 
 others to pass up powder and bullets from hand to hand, as 
 unflinching as the best of tried soldiers. 
 
 Sergent Drooce had brought in word that the pirates were 
 very strong in number — over a hundred, was his estimate — 
 and that they were not, even then, all landed ; for he had 
 seen them in a very good position on the further side of the 
 Signal Hill, evidently waiting for the rest of their men to 
 come up. In the present pause, the first we had had since 
 the alarm, he was telling this over again to Mr. Macey, when 
 Mr. Macey suddenly cried out : u The signal ! Nobody has 
 thought of the signal ! " 
 
 We knew of no signal, so we could not have thought of it. 
 
 " What signal may you mean, sir ? " says Sergeant Drooce, 
 looking sharp at him. 
 
 " There is a pile of wood upon the Signal Hill. If it could 
 be lighted — which never has been done yet — it would be a 
 signal of distress to the mainland." 
 
 Charker cries, directly : " Sergeant Drooce, dispatch me 
 on that duty. Gi\re me the two men who were on guard with 
 me to-night, and I'll light the fire, if it can be done." 
 
 " And if it can't, corporal — " Mr. Macey strikes in. 
 
 " Look at these ladies and children, sir ! " says Charker. 
 " I'd sooner light myself, than not try any chance to save 
 them." 
 
 We give him a hurrah ! — it burst from us, come of it what 
 might — and he got his two men, and was let out at the gate, 
 and crept away. I had no sooner come back to my place from 
 being one of the party to handle the gate, than Miss Maryon 
 said in a low voice behind me : 
 
 " Davis, will you look at this powder. This is not right ? " 
 
 I turned my head. Christain George King again, and 
 treachery again ! Sea water had been conveyed into the 
 magazine, and every grain of powder was spoiled ! 
 
 " Stay a moment," said Sergeant Drooce, when I had told 
 \iim, without causing a movement in a muscle of his face : 
 ' look to your pouch, my lad. You Tom Packer, look to 
 your pouch, confound you ! Look to your pouches, all you 
 marines." 
 
 The same artful savage had got at them, somehow or 
 
390 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 another, and the cartridges were all unserviceable. " Hum ! " 
 says the sergeant, " Look to your loading, men. You are 
 right so far ? " 
 
 Yes ; we were right so far. 
 
 " Well, my lads, and gentleman all," says the sergeant, 
 " this will be a hand-to-hand affair, and so much the better." 
 
 He treated himself to a pinch of snuff, and stood up, 
 square-shouldered and broad-chested, in the light of the 
 moon — which was now very bright — as cool as if he \va - 
 waiting for a play to begin. He stood quiet, and we all stood 
 quiet, for the matter of something like half an hour. I took 
 notice from such whispered talk as there was, how little we 
 that the silver did not belong to, thought about it, and how 
 much the people that it did belong to, thought about it. At 
 the end of the half hour it was reported from the gate that 
 Charker and the two were falling back on us, pursued by 
 about a dozen. 
 
 " Sally ! Gate-party, under Gill Davis," says the sergeant, 
 " and bring 'em in ! Like men now ! " 
 
 We were not long about it, and we brought them in. 
 " Don't take me," says Charker, holding me round the neck, 
 and stumbling down at my foot when the gate was fast, 
 " don't take me near the ladies or the children, Gill. They 
 had better not see death, till it can't be helped. They'll see 
 it soon enough." 
 
 " Harry! " I answered, holding up his head. " Comrade ! " 
 
 He was cut to pieces. The signal had been secured by 
 the first pirate party that landed ; his hair was all singed 
 off, and his face was blackened with running pitch from a 
 torch. 
 
 He made no complaint of pain, or of anything. " Good- 
 by, old chap," was all he said, with a smile. " I've got my 
 death. And death ain't life. Is it, Gill ? " 
 
 Having helped to lay his poor body on one side, I went 
 back to my post. Sergeant Drooce looked at me, with his 
 eye-brows a little lifted. I nodded. " Close up here, men 
 and gentlemen all ! " said the sergeant. " A place too many, 
 in the line." 
 
 The pirates were so close upon us at this time, that the 
 foremost of them were already before the gate. More and 
 more came up with a great noise, and shouting loudly. 
 When we believed from the sound that they were all there, 
 we gave three English cheers. The poor little children 
 joined, and were so fully convinced of our being at play, 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 391 
 
 that they enjoyed the noise, and were heard clapping their 
 hands in the silence that followed. 
 
 Our disposition was this, beginning with the rear. Mrs. 
 Venning, holding her daughter's child in her arms, sat on the 
 steps of the little square trench surrounding the silver-house 
 encouraging and directing those women and children as she 
 might have done in the happiest and easiest time of her life. 
 Then, there was an armed line, under Mr. Macey, across the 
 width of the inclosure, facing that way and having their 
 backs toward the gate, in order that they might watch the 
 walls and prevent our being taken by surprise. Then there 
 was a space of eight or ten feet deep, in which the spare 
 arms were, and in which Miss Maryon and Mrs. Fisher, their 
 hands and dresses blackened with the spoiled gunpowder, 
 worked on their knees, tying such things as knives, old bayo- 
 nets, and spear-heads, to the muzzles of the useless mus- 
 kets. Then, there was a second armed line, under Sergeant 
 Drooce, also across the width of the inclosure, but facing to 
 the gate. Then came the breastwork we had made, with a 
 zig-zag way though it for me and my little party to hold 
 good in retreating, as long as we could, when we were 
 driven from the gate. We all knew that it was impossible 
 to hold the place long, and that our only hope was in the 
 timely discovery of the plot by the boats, and in their com- 
 ing back. 
 
 I and my men were now thrown forward to the gate. From 
 a spy-hole, I could see the whole crowd of pirates. There 
 were Malays among them, Dutch, Maltese, Greeks, Sambos, 
 Negroes and convict Englishmen from the West India Islands ; 
 among the last, him with the one eye and the patch across the 
 nose. There were some Portuguese, too, and a few Spaniards. 
 The captain was a Portuguese ; a little man with very large 
 ear-rings under a very broad hat, and a great bright shawl 
 twisted about his shoulders. They were all strongly armed, 
 but like a boarding party, with pikes, swords, cutlasses, and 
 axes. I noticed a good many pistols, but not a gun of any 
 kind among them. This gave me to understand that they 
 had considered that a continued roll of musketry might per- 
 haps have been heard on the mainland ; also, that for the 
 reason that fire would be seen from the mainland they would 
 not set the fort in flames and roast us alive ; which was one 
 of their favorite ways of carrying on. I looked about for 
 Christian George King, and if I had seen him I am much 
 mistaken if he would not have received my one round of 
 
392 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 ball cartridge in his head. But no Christian George King 
 was visible. 
 
 A sort of a wild Portuguese demon, who seemed either 
 fierce-mad or fierce-drunk — but they all seemed one or the 
 other — came forward with the black flag, and gave it a wave 
 or two. After that, the Portuguese captain called out in 
 shrill English, " I say ! you English fools ! Open the gate ! 
 surrender ! " 
 
 As we kept close and quiet, he said something to his men 
 which I didn't understand, and when he had said it, the one- 
 eyed English rascal with the patch (who had stepped out 
 when he began), said it again in English. It was only this. 
 " Boys of the black flag, this is to be quickly done. Take 
 all the prisoners you can. If they don't yield, kill the chil- 
 dren to make them. Forward ! " Then they all came on 
 at the gate, and, in another half minute were smashing and 
 splitting it in. 
 
 We struck at them through the gaps and shivers, and we 
 dropped many of them, too ; but their very weight would 
 have carried such a gate, if they had been unarmed. I soon 
 found Sergeant Drooce at my side, forming us six remaining 
 marines in line — Tom Packer next to me — and ordering us 
 to fall back three paces, and, as they broke in, to give them 
 our one little volley at short distance. " Then," says he, 
 " receive them behind your breastwork on the bayonet, and 
 at least let every man of you pin one of the cursed cockcha- 
 fers through the body ! " 
 
 We checked them by our fire, slight as it was, and we 
 checked them at the breastwork. However, they broke over 
 it like swarms of devils — they were, really and truly, more 
 devils than men — and then it was hand to hand, indeed. 
 
 We clubbed our muskets and laid about us ; even then, 
 those two ladies — always behind me — were steady and ready 
 with the arms. I had a lot of Maltese and Malays upon me, 
 and, but for a broad-sword that Miss Maryon's own hand put 
 in mine, should have got my end in them. But was that 
 all ? No. I saw a heap of banded dark hair and a white 
 dress come thrice between me and them, under my own 
 raised right arm, which each time might have destroyed the 
 wearer of the white dress ; and each time one of the^lot went 
 down, struck dead. 
 
 Drooce was armed with a broad-sword too, and did such 
 things with it, that there was a cry, in half-a-dozen languages, 
 of " Kill that sergeant! " as I know, by the cry being raised 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 393 
 
 in English, and taken up in other tongues. I had received a 
 severe cut across the left arm a few moments before, and 
 should have known nothing of it, except supposing that 
 somebody had struck me a smart blow, if I had not felt weak 
 and seen myself covered with spouting blood, and, at the 
 same instant of time, seen Miss Maryon tearing her dress 
 and binding it with Mrs. Fisher's help round the wound. 
 
 They called to Tom Packer, who was scouring by, to stop 
 and guard me for one minute, while I was bound, or I should 
 bleed to death in trying to defend myself. Tom stopped 
 directly, with a good saber in his hand. 
 
 In that same moment — all things seem to happen in that 
 same moment, at such a time — half-a-dozen had rushed 
 howling at Sergeant Drooce. The sergeant, stepping back 
 against the wall, stopped one howl forever with such a 
 terrible blow, and waited for the rest to come on, with such 
 a wonderfully unmoved face, that they stopped and looked at 
 him. 
 
 " See him now ! " cried Tom Packer. " Now, when I could 
 cut him out ! Gill r Did I tell you to mark my word ? " 
 
 I implored Tom Packer in the Lord's name, as well as I 
 could in my faintness, to go to the sergeant's aid. 
 
 " I hate and detest him," says Tom, moodily wavering. 
 " Still he is a brave man." Then he calls out, " Sergeant 
 Drooce, Sergeant Drooce ! Tell me you have driven me too 
 hard, and are sorry for it." 
 
 "No. I won't." 
 
 ,l Sergeant Drooce ! " cries Tom, in a kind of agony. " I 
 have passed my word that I would never save you from death, 
 if I could, but would leave you to die. Tell me you have 
 driven me too hard and are sorry for it, and that shall go for 
 nothing." 
 
 One of the group laid the sergeant's bald bare head open. 
 The sergeant laid him dead. 
 
 " I tell you," says the sergeant, breathing a little short, 
 and waiting for the next attack, " No. I won't. If you are 
 not man enough to strike for a fellow-soldier because he 
 wants help, and because of nothing else, I'll go into the 
 other world and look for a better man." 
 
 Tom swept upon them, and cut him out. Tom and he 
 fought their way through another knot of them, and sent 
 them flying, and came over to where I was beginning again 
 to feel, with inexpressible joy, that I had got a sword in my 
 band. 
 
394 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 They had hardly come to us, when I heard, above all the 
 other noises, a tremendous cry of women's voices. I also 
 saw Miss Maryon, with quite a new face, suddenly clap her 
 two hands over Mrs. Fisher's eyes. I looked toward the sil- 
 ver-house, and saw Mrs. Venning — standing upright on the 
 top of the steps of the trench, with her gray hair and her 
 dark eyes — hide her daughter's child behind her, among the 
 folds of her dress, strike a pirate with the other hand, and 
 fall, shot by his pistol. 
 
 The cry arose again, and there was a terrible and confus- 
 ing rush of the women into the midst of the struggle. In 
 another moment, something came tumbling down upon me 
 that I thought was the wall. It was a heap of Sambos who 
 had come over the wall ; and of four men who clung to my 
 legs like serpents, one who clung to my right leg was Chris- 
 tain George King. 
 
 " Yup, so-jeer," says he, " Christian George King, sar, 
 berry glad so-jeer a prisoner. Christian George King been 
 waiting for so-jeer sech long time. Yup, yup ! " 
 
 What could I do, with five-and-twenty of them on me, 
 but be tied hand and foot ? So I was tied hand and foot. 
 It was over now — boats not come back — all lost ! When I 
 was fast bound and was put up against the wall, the one-eyed 
 English convict came up with the Portuguese captain, to 
 have a look at me. 
 
 " See ! " says he, " here's the determined man ! If you 
 had slept sounder, last night, you'd have slept your soundest 
 last night, my determined man." 
 
 The Portuguese captain laughed in a cool way, and with 
 the flat of his cutlass, hit me crosswise, as if I was the bough 
 of a tree that he played with : first on the face, and then 
 across the chest and the wounded arm. I looked him steady 
 in the face without tumbling while he looked at me, I am 
 happy to say ; but, when they went away, I fell, and lay 
 there. 
 
 The sun was up, when I was roused and told to come 
 down to the beach and be embarked. I was full of aches 
 and pains, and could not at first remember ; but I re- 
 membered quite soon enough. The killed were lying about 
 all over the place, and the pirates were burying their dead, 
 and taking away their wounded on hastily-made litters, to 
 the back of the island. As for us prisoners, some of their 
 boats had come round to the usual harbor, to carry us off. 
 We looked a wretched few, I thought, when I got down 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 395 
 
 there ; still it was another sign that we had fought well and 
 made the enemy suffer. 
 
 The Portuguese captain had all the women already em- 
 barked in the boat he himself commanded, which was just 
 putting off when I got down. Miss Maryon sat on one sifje 
 of him, and gave me a moment's look, as full of quiet cour- 
 age, and pity, and confidence, as if it had been an hour Ion?. 
 On the other side of him was poor little Mrs. Fisher, weep- 
 ing for her child and her mother. I was shoved into the 
 same boat with Drooce and Packer, and the remainder of 
 our party of marines : of whom we had lost two pri- 
 vates, besides Charker, my poor, brave comrade. We 
 all made a melancholy passage, under the hot sun, 
 over to the mainland. There we landed in a soli- 
 tary place, and were mustered on the sea sand. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Macey and their children were among us, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Pordage, Mr. Kitten, Mr. Fisher, and Mrs. Belltott. We 
 mustered only fourteen men, fifteen women, and seven chil- 
 dren. Those were all that remained of the English who had 
 laid down to sleep that night, unsuspecting and happy, on the 
 Island of Silver-Store. 
 
 [The second chapter, which was not written by Mr. Dick- 
 ens, describes the prisoners (twenty-two women and chil- 
 dren) taken into the interior by the pirate captain, who 
 makes them the material guarantee for the precious metal and 
 jewels left on the island ; declaring that, if the latter be 
 wrested by English ships from the pirates in charge, he will 
 murder the captives. From their " Prison in the Woods," 
 however (this being the title of the second chapter), they 
 escape by means of rafts down the river ; and the sequel is 
 told in a third and concluding chapter by Mr. Dickens.] 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE RAFTS ON THE RIVER. 
 
 We contrived to keep afloat all that night, and, the stream 
 running strong with us, to glide a long way down the river. 
 But we found the night to be a dangerous time for such navi- 
 gation, on account of the eddies and rapids, and it was there- 
 fore settled next day that in future we would bring to at sun- 
 set, and encamp on the shore. As we knew of no boats that 
 
396 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 the pirates possessed, up at the prison in the woods, we set- 
 tled always to encamp on the opposite side of the stream, sg 
 as to have the breadth of the river between our sleep and 
 them. Our opinion was that if they were acquainted with 
 any nearer way by land to the mouth of this river, they would 
 come up it in force and retake us or kill us, according as 
 they could ; but that was not the case, and if the river ran 
 by none of their secret stations, we might escape. 
 
 When I say we settled this or that, I do not mean that we 
 planned any thing with any confidence as to what might hap- 
 pen an hour hence. So much had happened in one night, 
 and such great changes had been violently and suddenly 
 made in the fortunes of many among us, that we had gotten 
 better used to uncertainty, in a little while, than I dare say 
 most people do in the course of their lives. 
 
 The difficulties we soon got into, through the off-settings 
 and point-currents of the stream, make the likelihood of our 
 being drowned, alone — to say nothing of our being retaken 
 — as broad and plain as the sun at noonday to all of us. 
 But we all worked hard at managing the rafts, under the di- 
 rection of the seamen (of our own skill, I think we never 
 could have prevented them from oversetting), and we also 
 worked hard at making good the defects in their first hasty 
 construction — which the water soon found out. While we 
 humbly resigned ourselves to going down, if it was the will 
 of Our Father that was in heaven, we humbly made up our 
 minds that we would all do the best that was in us. 
 
 And so we held on, gliding with the stream. It drove us 
 to this bank, and it drove us to that bank, and it turned us, 
 and whirled us ; but yet it carried us on. Sometimes much 
 too slowly ; sometimes much too fast, but yet it carried us on. 
 
 My little deaf and dumb boy slumbered a good deal now, 
 and that was the case with all the children. They caused 
 very little trouble to any one. They seemed, in my eyes, to 
 get more like one another, not only in quiet manner, but in 
 the face, too. The motion of the raft was usually so much 
 the same, the scene was usually so much the same, the sound 
 of the soft wash and ripple of the water was usually so much 
 the same, that they were made drowsy, as they might have 
 been by the constant playing of one tune. Even on the 
 grown people, who worked hard and felt anxiety, the same 
 thing produced something of the same effect. Every day 
 was so like the other that I soon lost count of the days my- 
 self, and had to ask Miss Maryon, for instance, whether this 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 397 
 
 was the third or fourth ? Miss Maryon had a pocket-book 
 and pencil, and she kept the log ; that is to say she entered 
 up a clear little journal of the time, and of the distance our 
 seamen thought we had made, each night. 
 
 So, as I say, we kept afloat and glided on. All day long, 
 and every day, the water, and the woods, and sky ; all day 
 long, and every day, the constant watching of both sides of 
 the river, and far ahead at every bold turn and sweep it 
 made, for any signs of pirate-boats or pirate-dwellings. So, 
 as I say, we kept afloat and glided on. The days melting 
 themselves together, to that degree, that I could hardly be- 
 lieve my ears when I asked " How many now, miss ? " and 
 she answered, " Seven." 
 
 To be sure, poor Mr. Pordage had, by about now, got his 
 diplomatic coat into such a state as never was seen. What 
 with the mud of the river, what with the water of the river, 
 what with the sun, and the dews, and the tearing boughs, 
 and the thickets, it hung about him in discolored shreds like a 
 mop. The sun had touched him a bit. He had taken to always 
 polishing one particular button which just held on to his left 
 wrist, and to always calling for stationery. I suppose that 
 man called for pens, ink, and paper, tape and sealing-wax, 
 upward of one thousand times in four-and-twenty hours. 
 He had an idea that we should never get out of that river 
 unless we were written out of it in a formal memorandum ; 
 and the more we labored at navigating the rafts, the more 
 he ordered us not to touch them at our peril, and the more 
 he sat and roared for stationery. 
 
 Mrs. Pordage, similarly, persisted in wearing her nightcap. 
 I doubt if any one but ourselves, who had seen the progress of 
 that article of dress, could by this time have told what it 
 was meant for. It had got so limp and ragged that she 
 couldn't see out of her eyes for it. It was so dirty, that 
 whether it was vegetable matter out of a swamp, or weeds 
 out of the river, or an old porter's-knot from England, I 
 don't think any new spectator could have said. Yet this 
 unfortunate old woman had a notion that it was not only 
 vastly genteel, but that it was the correct thing as to propri- 
 ety. And she really did carry herself over the other ladies 
 who had no nightcaps, and who were forced to tie up their 
 hair how they could, in a superior manner that was perfectly 
 amazing. 
 
 I don't know what she looked like, sitting in that blessed 
 nightcap, on a log of wood outside the hut or cabin upon our 
 
398 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 raft. She would have rather resembled a fortune-teller in 
 one of the picture-books that used to be in the shop win- 
 dows in my boyhood, except for her stateliness. But, Lord 
 bless my heart, the dignity with which she sat and moped, 
 with her head in that bundle of tatters, was like nothing- 
 else in the world ! She was not on speaking terms with 
 more than three of the ladies. Some of them had, what she 
 called, ' taken precedence ' of her — in getting into, or out 
 of, that miserable little shelter !— and others had not called 
 to pay their respects, or something of that kind. So, there 
 she sat, in her own state and ceremony, while her husband 
 sat on the same log of wood, ordering us one and all to 
 let the raft go to the bottom, and to bring him stationery. 
 
 What with this noise on the part of Mr. Commissioner 
 Pordage, and what with the cries of Sergeant Drooce on the 
 raft astern (which were sometimes more than Tom Packer 
 could silence), we often made our slow way down the river, 
 any thing but quietly. Yet that it was of great importance 
 that no ears should be able to hear us from the woods on 
 the banks, could not be doubted. We were looked for, to a 
 certainty, and we might be re-taken at any moment. It was 
 an anxious time ; it was, indeed, indeed, an anxious time. 
 
 On the seventh night of our voyage on the rafts, we made 
 fast, as usual, on the opposite side of the river to that from 
 which we had started, in as dark a place as we could pick 
 out. Our little encampment was soon made, and supper 
 was eaten, and the children fell asleep. The watch was 
 set, and every thing made orderly for the night. Such a 
 starlight night, with such blue in the sky, and such black 
 in the place of heavy shade on the banks of the great stream ! 
 
 Those two ladies, Miss Maryon and Mrs. Fisher, had 
 always kept near me since the night of the attack. Mr. 
 Fisher, who was untiring in the work of our raft, had said 
 to me : 
 
 " My dear little childless wife has grown so attached to 
 you, Davis, and you are such a gentle fellow, as well as such 
 a determined one ; " our party had adopted that last expres- 
 sion from the one-eyed English pirate, and I repeat what 
 Mr. Fisher said, only because he said it ; " that it takes a 
 load off my mind to leave her in your charge." 
 
 I said to him : " Your lady is in far better charge than 
 mine, sir, having Miss Maryon to take care of her ; but 
 you may rely upon it, that I will guard them both — faith- 
 ful and true." 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 399 
 
 Says he : " I do rely upon it, Davis, and I heartily wish 
 all the silver on our old island was yours." 
 
 That seventh starlight night, as I have said, we made 
 our camp, and got our supper, and set our watch, and the 
 children fell asleep. It was solemn and beautiful in those 
 wild and solitary parts, to see them, every night before they 
 lay down, kneeling under the bright sky, saying their little 
 prayers at women's laps. At that time we men all un- 
 covered, and mostly kept at a distance. When the innocent 
 creatures rose up, we murmured " Amen ! " all together. 
 For, though we had not heard what they said, we knew it 
 must be good for us. 
 
 At that time, too, as was only natural, those poor mothers 
 in our company, whose children had been killed, shed many 
 tears. I thought the sight seemed to console them while it 
 made them cry ; but whether I was right or wrong in that, 
 they wept very much. On this seventh night, Mrs. Fisher 
 had cried for her lost darling until she cried herself asleep. 
 She was lying on a little couch of leaves and such-like 
 (I made the best little couch I could for them every night), 
 and Miss Maryon had covered her, and sat by her holding 
 her hand. The stars looked down upon them. As for me, 
 I guarded them. 
 
 " Davis ! " says Miss Maryon. (I am not going to say 
 what a voice she had. I couldn't if I tried.) 
 
 " I am here, miss." 
 
 " The river sounds as if it were swollen to-night." 
 
 " We all think, miss, that we are coming near the sea." 
 
 " Do you believe, now, we shall escape ? " 
 
 "I do now, miss, really believe it." I had always said I 
 did ; but, I had in my own mind been doubtful. 
 
 " How glad you will be, my good Davis, to see England 
 again ! " 
 
 I have another confession to make that will appear singu- 
 lar. When she said these words, something rose in my 
 throat ; and the stars I looked away at, seemed to^reak into 
 sparkles that fell down my face and burned it. 
 
 " England is not much to me, miss, except as a name." 
 
 "Oh, so true an Englishman should not say that ! — Are 
 you not well to-night, Davis ? " Very kindly, and with a 
 quick change. 
 
 "Quite well, miss." 
 
 " Are you sure ? Your voice sounds altered in my hear 
 ing." 
 
4 oo PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 "No, miss, I am a stronger man than ever. But En- 
 gland is nothing to me." 
 
 Miss Maryon sat silent for so long a while, that I be- 
 lieved she had done speaking to me for one time. How- 
 ever, she had not ; for by and by she said in a distinct, 
 clear tone : 
 
 " No, good friend : you must not say that England is noth- 
 ing to you. It is to be much to you yet — every thing to 
 you. You have to take back to England the good name you 
 have earned here, and the gratitude and attachment and re- 
 spect you have won here ; and you have to make some 
 good English girl very happy and proud, by marrying her ; 
 and I shall one day see her, I hope, and make her happier 
 and prouder still, by telling her what noble services her hus- 
 band's were in South America, and what a noble friend he 
 was to me there." 
 
 Though she spoke these kind words in a cheering manner, 
 she .spoke them compassionately. I said nothing. It will 
 appear to be another strange confession, that I paced to and 
 fro, within call, all that night, a most unhappy man, reproach- 
 ing myself all the night long. " You are as ignorant as any 
 man alive ; you are as obscure as any man alive ; you are as 
 poor as any man alive ; you are no better than the mud 
 under your foot." That was the way in which I went on 
 against myself until the morning. 
 
 With the day, came the day's labor. What I should 
 have done without the labor, I don't know. We were 
 afloat again at the usual hour, and were again making 
 our way down the river. It was broader and clearer of 
 obstructions than it had been, and it seemed to flow faster. 
 This was one of Drooce's quiet days ; Mr. Pordage, besides 
 being sulky, had almost lost his voice ; and we made good 
 way, and with little noise. 
 
 There was always a seaman forward on the raft, keeping a 
 bright look-out. Suddenly, in the full heat of the day, when 
 the children were slumbering, and the very trees and reeds 
 appeared to be slumbering, this man — it was Short — holds 
 up his hand, and cries with great caution : "Avast ! Voices 
 ahead ! " 
 
 We held on against the stream as soon as we could 
 bring her up, and the other raft followed suit. At first, 
 Mr. Macey, Mr. Fisher, and myself, could hear nothing ; 
 though both the seamen aboard of us agreed that they 
 could hear voices and oars. After a little pause, however, 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 4 oi 
 
 tve united in thinking that we could hear the sound of 
 voices, and the dip of oars. But you can hear a long ways 
 in those countries, and there was a bend of the river before 
 us, and nothing was to be seen except such waters and such 
 banks as we were now in the eighth day (and might, for the 
 matter of our feelings, have been in the eightieth) scanning 
 with anxious eyes. 
 
 It was soon decided to put a man ashore, who should 
 creep through the wood, see what was coming, and warn 
 the rafts. The rafts in the meantime to keep the middle 
 of the stream. The man to be put ashore, and not to 
 swim ashore, as the first thing could be more quickly done 
 than the second. The raft conveying him, to get back into 
 mid-stream, and to hold on along with the other, as well as 
 it could, until signaled by the man. In case of danger, the 
 man to shift for himself until it should be safe to take him 
 aboard again. I volunteered to be the man. 
 
 We knew that the voices and oars must come up slowly 
 against the stream ; and our seamen knew, by the set of 
 the stream, under which bank they would come. I was put 
 ashore accordingly. The raft got off well, and I broke into 
 the wood. 
 
 Steaming hot it was, and a tearing place to get through. 
 So much the better for me, since it was something to contend 
 against and do. I cut off the bend of the river, at a great 
 saving of space, came to the water's edge again, and hid my- 
 self, and waited. I could now hear the dip of the oars very 
 distinctly ; the voices had ceased. 
 
 The sound came on in a regular tone, and as I lay hidden, 
 I fancied the tune so played to be, " Chris'en — George — 
 King ! Chris'en — George — King ! Chris'en — George — 
 King ! " over and over again, always the same, with the 
 pauses always at the same places. I had likewise time to 
 make up my mind that if these were the pirates, I could and 
 would (barring my being shot) swim off to my raft, in spite 
 of my wound, the moment I had given the alarm, and hold 
 my old post by Miss Maryon. 
 
 " Chris'en — George — King*! Chris'en — George — King ! 
 Chris'en — George — King ! " coming up, now, very near. 
 
 I took a look at the branches about me, to see where a 
 shower of bullets would be most likely to do me least hurt ; 
 and I took a look back at the track I had made in forcing 
 my way in ; and now I was wholly prepared and fully ready 
 for them. 
 
4 o2 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 " Chris'en — George — King ! Chris'en — George — King ! 
 Chris'en — George — King ! " Here they were ! 
 
 Who were they ? The barbarous pirates, scum of all na- 
 tions, headed by such men as the hideous little Portuguese 
 monkey and the one-eyed English convict with the gash across 
 his face, that ought to have gashed his wicked head off ? The 
 worst men in the world picked out from the worst, to do the 
 cruelest and most atrocious deeds that ever stained it ? The 
 howling, murdering, black-flag waving, mad and drunken 
 crowd of devils that had overcome us by numbers and by 
 treachery ? No. These were English men in English boats — 
 good blue-jackets and red-coats — marines that I knew myself, 
 and sailors that knew our seamen ! At the helm of the first 
 boat, Captain Carton, eager and steady. At the helm of the 
 second boat, Captain Maryon, brave and bold. At the helm of 
 the third boat, an old seaman with determination carved into 
 his watchful face, like the figure-head of a ship. Every man 
 doubly and trebly armed from head to foot. Every man 
 lying to at his work, with a will that had all his heart and 
 soul in it. Every man looking out for any trace of friend or 
 enemy, and burning to be the first to do good, or avenge 
 evil. Every man with his face on fire when he saw me, his 
 countryman who had been taken prisoner, and hailed me 
 with a cheer, as Captain Carton's boat ran in and took me on 
 board. 
 
 I reported, " All escaped, sir ! All well, all here ! " 
 
 God bless me — and God bless them — what a cheer ! It 
 turned me weak, as I was passed on from hand to hand to 
 the stern of the boat; every hand patting me or grasping 
 me in some way or other, in the moment of my going by. 
 
 " Hold up, my brave fellow," says Captain Carton, clap- 
 ping me on the shoulder like a friend, and giving me a flask. 
 
 Put your lips to that, and they'll be red again. Now, boys, 
 give way ! " 
 
 The banks flew by us as if the mightiest stream that ever 
 ran was with us ; and so it was, I am sure, meaning the 
 stream to those men's ardor and spirit. The banks flew by 
 us, and we came in sight of the rafts — the banks flew by us, 
 and we came alongside of the rafts — the banks stopped ; and 
 there was a tumult of laughing and crying, and kissing and 
 shaking of hands, and catching up of children and setting 
 of them down again, and a wild hurry of thankfulness and 
 joy that melted every one and softened all hearts. 
 
 I had taken notice, in Captain Carton's boat, that there 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 4 oj 
 
 was a curious and quite new sort of fitting onboard. It was 
 a kind of a little bower made of flowers, and it was set up 
 behind the captain, and betwixt him and the rudder. Not 
 only was this arbor, so to call it, neatly made of flowers, but 
 it was ornamented in a singular way. Some of the men had 
 taken the ribbons and buckles off their hats, and hung them 
 among the flowers ; others had made festoons and streamers 
 of their handkerchiefs, and hung them there ; others had in- 
 termixed such trifles as bits of glass and shining fragments 
 of lockets and tobacco-boxes with the flowers ; so that alto- 
 gether it was a very bright and lively object in the sunshine. 
 But why there, or what for, I did not understand. 
 
 Now, as soon as the first bewilderment was over, Captain 
 Carton gave the order to land for the present. But this boat 
 of his, with two hands left in her, immediately set off again 
 when the men were out of her, and kept off, some yards 
 from the shore. As she floated there, with the two hands 
 gently backing water to keep her from going down the stream, 
 this pretty little arbor attracted many eyes. None of the 
 boat's crew, however, had any thing to say about it, except 
 that it was the captain's fancy. 
 
 The captain — with the women and children clustering 
 round him, and the men of all ranks grouped outside them, 
 and all listening — stood telling how the expedition, deceived 
 by its bad intelligence, had chased the light pirate boats all 
 that fatal night, and had still followed in their wake next 
 day, and had never suspected until many hours too late that 
 the great pirate body had drawn off in the darkness when 
 the chase began, and shot over to the island. He stood 
 telling how the expedition, supposing the whole array of 
 armed boats to be ahead of it, got tempted into shallows and 
 went aground ; but not without having its revenge upon the 
 two decoy-boats, both of which it had come up with, over- 
 hand, and sent to the bottom with all on board. He stood 
 telling how the expedition, fearing then that the case stood 
 as it did, got afloat again, by great exertion, after the loss of 
 four more tides, and returned to the island, where they 
 found the sloop scuttled and the treasure gone. He stood 
 telling how my officer, Lieutenant Linderwood, was left upon 
 the island, with as strong a force as could be got together 
 hurriedly from the mainland, and how the three boats we 
 saw before us were manned and armed and had come away, 
 exploring the coast and inlets, in search of any tidings of us. 
 He stood telling all this, with his face to the river ; and, as 
 
4o 4 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONE&S. 
 
 he stood telling it, the little arbor of flowers floated in the 
 sunshine before all the faces there. 
 
 Leaning on Captain Carton's shoulder, between him and 
 Miss Maryon, was Mrs. Fisher, her head drooping on her arm. 
 She asked him, without raising it, when he had told so 
 much, whether he had found her mother ? 
 
 " Be comforted ! She lies," said the captain gently, " un- 
 der the cocoa-nut trees on the beach." 
 
 " And my child, Captain Carton, did you find my child, 
 too ? Does my darling rest with my mother ? " 
 
 "No. Your pretty child sleeps," said the captain, "un- 
 der a shade of flowers." 
 
 His voice shook; but there was something in it that struck 
 all the hearers. At that moment there sprung from the arbor 
 in his boat a little creature, clapping her hands and stretch- 
 ing out her arms crying, " Dear papa ! dear mamma ! I am 
 not killed. I am saved. I am coming to kiss you. Take 
 me to them, good, good, kind sailors ! " 
 
 Nobody who saw that scene has ever forgotten it, I am 
 sure, or ever will forget it. The child had kept quite still, 
 where her brave grandmamma had put her (first whispering 
 in her ear, " Whatever happens to me, do not stir, my 
 dear ! "), and had remained quiet until the fort was de- 
 serted ; she had then crept out of the trench, and gone into 
 her mother's house ; and there, alone on the solitary island, 
 in her mother's room, and asleep on her mother's bed, the 
 captain had found her. Nothing could induce her to be 
 parted from him after he took her up in his arms, and he 
 had brought her away with him, and the men had made the 
 bower for her. To see those men now, was a sight. The 
 joy of the women was beautiful; the joy of those women 
 who had lost their own children, was quite sacred and di- 
 vine ; but the ecstasies of Captain Carton's boat's crew, 
 when their pet was restored to her parents, were wonderful 
 for the tenderness they showed in the midst of roughness. 
 As the captain stood with the child in his arms, and the 
 child's own little arms now clinging round his neck, now 
 round her father's, now round her mother's, now round some 
 one who pressed up to kiss her, the boat's crew shook hands 
 with one another, waved their hats over their heads, laughed, 
 sang, cried, danced — and all among themselves, without 
 wanting to interfere with any body — in a manner never to be 
 represented. At last, I saw the coxswain and another, two 
 very hard-faced men, with grizzled heads, who had been the 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 405 
 
 heartiest of the hearty all along, close with one another, get 
 each of them the other's head under his arm, and pummel 
 away at it with his fist as hard as he could in his excess of 
 joy. 
 
 When we had well rested and refreshed ourselves — and 
 very glad we were to have some of the heartening things to 
 eat and drink that had come up in the boats — we recom- 
 menced our voyage down the river : rafts, and boats, and 
 all. I said to myself, it was a very different kind of voyage 
 now, from what it had been ; and I fell into my proper place 
 and station among my fellow-soldiers. 
 
 But when we halted for the night, I found that Miss Ma- 
 ryon had spoken to Captain Carton concerning me. For, 
 the captain came straight up to me, and says he, " My brave 
 fellow, you have been Miss Maryon's body-guard all along, 
 and you shall remain so. Nobody shall supersede you in the 
 distinction and pleasure of protecting that young lady." I 
 thanked his honor in the fittest words I could find, and that 
 night I was placed on my old post of watching the place 
 where she slept. More than once in the night, I saw Captain 
 Carton come out into the air, and stroll about there, to see 
 that all was well. I have now this other singular confession 
 to make, that I saw him with a heavy heart. Yes ; I saw 
 him with a heavy, heavy heart. 
 
 In the day-time, I had the like post in Captain Carton's 
 boat. I had a special station of my own, behind Miss 
 Maryon, and no hands but hers ever touched my wound. 
 (It has been healed these many long years ; but no other 
 hands have ever touched it). Mr. Pordage was kept toler- 
 ably quiet now, with pen and ink, and began to pick up his 
 senses a little. Seated in the second boat, he made docu- 
 ments with Mr. Kitten, pretty well all day ; and he generally 
 handed in a protest about something whenever he stopped. 
 The captain, however, made so very light of these papers, 
 that it grew into a saying among the men, when one of them 
 wanted a match for his pipe, " Hand us over a protest, 
 Jack ! " As to Mrs. Pordage, she still wore the nightcap, 
 and she now had cut all the ladies on account of her not 
 having been formally and separately rescued by Captain 
 Carton before any body else. The end of Mr. Pordage, to 
 bring to an end all I knew about him, was, that he got grea\. 
 compliments at home for his conduct on these trying occa- 
 sions, and that he died of yellow jaundice, a governor and a 
 K. C. B. 
 
4 o6 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 Sergeant Drooce had fallen from a high fever into a low 
 one. Tom Packer — the only man who could have pulled 
 the sergeant through it — kept hospital aboard the old raft, 
 and Mrs. Belltott, as brisk as ever again (but the spirit of 
 that little woman, when things tried it, was not equal to ap- 
 pearances), was head-nurse under his directions. Before we 
 got down to the Musquito coast, the joke had been made by- 
 one of our men, that we should see her gazetted Mrs. Tom 
 Packer, vice Belltott exchanged. 
 
 When we reached the coast, we got native boats as substi- 
 tutes for the rafts ; and we rowed along under the land ; and 
 in that beautiful climate, and upon that beautiful water, the 
 blooming days were like enchantment. Ah ! They were 
 running away, faster than any sea or river, and there was no 
 tide to bring them back. We were coming very near the 
 settlement where the people of Silver-Store were to be left, 
 and from which we marines were under orders to return to 
 Belize. 
 
 Captain Carton had, in the boat by him, a curious long 
 barreled Spanish gun, and he had said to Miss Maryon one 
 day that it was the best of guns, and had turned his head 
 to me and said : 
 
 " Gill Davis, load her fresh with a couple of slugs, against 
 a chance of showing how good she is." 
 
 So I had discharged the gun over the sea, and had loaded 
 her, according to orders, and there it had lain at the cap- 
 tain's feet, convenient to the captain's hand. 
 
 The last day but one of our journey was an uncommonly 
 hot day. We started very early ; but there was no cool air 
 on the sea as the day got on, and by noon the heat was 
 really hard to bear, considering that there were women and 
 children to bear it. Now we happened to open, just at that 
 time, a very pleasant little cove or bay, where there was a 
 deep shade from a great growth of trees. Now the captain, 
 therefore, made the signal to the other boats to follow him in 
 and lie by a while. 
 
 The men who were off duty went ashore and lay down, 
 but were ordered, for caution's sake, not to stray, and to 
 keep within view. The others rested on their oars and 
 dozed. Awnings had been made of one thing and another, 
 in all the boats, and the passengers found it cooler to be 
 under them in the shade, when there was room enough, than 
 to be in the thick woods. So the passengers were all afloat, 
 and mostly sleeping. I kept my post behind Miss Maryon, 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 407 
 
 and she was on Captain Carton's right in the boat, and Mrs. 
 Fisher sat on her right again. The captain had Mrs. Fisher's 
 daughter on his knee. He and the two ladies were talking 
 about the pirates, and were talking softly ; partly because 
 people do talk softly under such indolent circumstances, and 
 partly because the little girl had gone off asleep. 
 
 I think I have before given it out for my lady to write 
 down, that Captain Carton had a fine bright eye of his own. 
 All at once he darted me a side look, as much as to say, 
 " Steady — don't take on — I see something ! " — and gave the 
 child into her mother's arms. That eye of his was so easy 
 to understand, that I obeyed it by not so much as looking 
 either to the right or to the left out of a corner of my own, 
 or changing my attitude the least trifle. The captain went 
 on talking in the same mild and easy way ; but began — with 
 his arms resting across his knees, and his head a little hang- 
 ing forward, as if the heat were rather too much for him — 
 began to play with the Spanish gun. 
 
 " They had laid their plans, you see," says the captain, 
 taking up the Spanish gun across his knees, and looking, 
 lazily, at the inlaying on the stock, " with a great deal of 
 art ; and the corrupt or blundering local authorities were so 
 easily deceived ; " he ran his left hand idly along the barrel, 
 but I saw, with my breath held, that he covered the action 
 of cocking the gun with his right — "so easily deceived that 
 they summoned us out to come into the trap. But my in- 
 tention as to future operations " In a flash the Spanish 
 
 gun was at his bright eye, and he fired. 
 
 All started up ; innumerable echoes repeated the sound 
 of the discharge ; a cloud of bright-colored birds flew out of 
 the woods screaming ; a handful of leaves were scattered in 
 the place where the shot had struck ; a crackling of branches 
 was heard, and some lithe but heavy creature sprang into 
 the air, and fell forward, head down, over the muddy bank. 
 
 " What is it ?" cries Captain Maryon from his boat. All 
 silent then, but the echoes rolling away. 
 
 " It is a traitor and a spy," said Captain Carton, handing 
 me the gun to load again. " And I think the other name of 
 the animal is Christian George King ! " 
 
 Shot through the heart. Some of the people ran round to 
 the spot, and drew him out, with the slime and wet trickling 
 down his face ; but his face itself would never stir any more 
 to the end of time. 
 
 " Leave him hanging to that tree," cried Captain Carton ; 
 
4 o8 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 his boat's crew giving way, and he leaping ashore. " But 
 first into this wood, every man in his place. And boats ! 
 Out of gunshot ! " 
 
 It was a quick change, well meant and well made, though 
 it ended in disappointment. No pirates were there ; no one 
 but the spy was found. It was supposed that the pirates, 
 unable to retake us, and expecting a great attack upon 
 them to be the consequence of our escape, had made from 
 the ruins in the forest, taken to their ship along with the 
 treasure, and left the spy to pick up what intelligence he 
 could. In the evening we went away, and he was left hang- 
 ing to the tree, all alone, with the red sun making a kind of 
 a dead sunset on his black face. 
 
 Next day we gained the settlement on the Musquito coast 
 for which we were bound. Having staid there to refresh 
 seven days, and having been much commended, and highly 
 spoken of, and finely entertained, we marines stood under 
 orders to march from the town-gate (it was neither much of 
 a town nor much of a gate), at five in the morning. 
 
 My officer had joined us before then. When we turned 
 out at the gate, all the people were there ; in the front of 
 them all those who had been our fellow-prisoners, and all 
 the seamen. 
 
 " Davis," says Lieutenant Linderwood. " Stand out, my 
 friend ! " 
 
 I stood out from the ranks, and Miss Maryon and Captain 
 Carton came up to me. 
 
 " Dear Davis," says Miss Maryon, while the tears fell fast 
 down her face, "your grateful friends, in most unwillingly 
 taking leave of you, ask the favor that, while you bear away 
 with you their affectionate remembrance, which nothing can 
 ever impair, you will also take this purse of money — far more 
 valuable to you, we all know, for the deep attachment and 
 thankfulness with which it is offered, than for its own con- 
 tents, though we hope those may prove useful to you, too, in 
 after life." 
 
 I got out, in answer, that I thankfully accepted the attach- 
 ment and affection, but not the money. Captain Carton 
 looked at me very attentively, and stepped back, and moved 
 away. I made him my bow as he stepped back, t<? thank 
 him for being so delicate. 
 
 "No, miss," said I, "I think it would break my heart to 
 accept of money. But, if you could condescend to give to 
 
PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 4O9 
 
 a man so ignorant and common as myself, any little thing 
 you have worn — such as a bit of ribbon — " 
 
 She took a ring from her finger, and put it in my hand. 
 And she rested her hand in mine, while she said these words : 
 
 " The brave gentlemen of old — but not one of them was 
 braver, or had a nobler nature than you — took such gifts 
 from ladies, and did all their good actions for the givers' 
 sakes. If you will do yours for mine, I shall think with 
 pride that I continue to have some share in the life of a 
 gallant and generous man." 
 
 For the second time in my life, she kissed my hand. I 
 made so bold, for the first time, as to kiss hers ; and I tied 
 the ring to my breast, and I fell back to my place. 
 
 Then, the horse-litter went out at the gate with Sergeant 
 Drooce in it ; and the horse-litter went out at the gate with 
 Mrs. Relltott in it ; and Lieutenant Linderwood gave the 
 word of command, " Quick march ! " and, cheered and cried 
 for, we went out of the gate too, marching along the level 
 plain toward the serene blue sky, as if we were marching 
 straight to heaven. 
 
 When I have added here that the pirate scheme was blown 
 to shivers, by the pirate-ship which had the treasure on board 
 being so vigorously attacked by one of his majesty's cruisers, 
 among the West India Keys, and being so swiftly boarded 
 and carried, that nobody suspected any thing about the scheme 
 until three-fourths of the pirates were killed, and the other 
 fourth were in irons, and the treasure was recovered ; I come 
 to the last singular confession I have got to make. 
 
 It is this. 1 well knew what an immense and hopeless 
 distance there was between me and Miss Maryon ; I well 
 knew that I was no fitter company for her than I was for 
 the angels ; I well knew that she was as high above my 
 reach as the sky over my head ; and yet I loved her. What 
 put it in my low heart to be so daring, or whether such a 
 thing ever happened before or since, as that a man so unin- 
 structed and obscure as myself got his unhappy thoughts 
 lifted up to such a height, while knowing very well how 
 presumptuous and impossible to be realized they were, I am 
 unable to say ; still, the suffering to me was just as great as 
 if I had been a gentleman. I suffered agony — agony. I 
 suffered hard, and I suffered long. I thought of her last 
 words to me, however, and I never disgraced them. If it 
 had not been for those dear words I think I should have 
 lost myself in despair and recklessness. 
 
416 PERILS OF CERTAIN PRISONERS. 
 
 The ring will be found lying on my heart, of course, and 
 will be laid with me wherever I am laid. I am getting on 
 in years now, though I am able and hearty. I was recom- 
 mended for promotion, and every thing was done to reward 
 me that could be done ; but my total want of all learning 
 stood in my way, and 1 found myself so completely out of 
 the road to it, that I could not conquer any learning, though 
 I tried. I was long in the service, and I respected it, and 
 was respected in it, and the service is dear to me at this 
 present hour. 
 
 At this present hour, when I give this out to my lady to 
 be written down, all my old pain has softened away, and I 
 am as happy as a man can be, at this present fine old country- 
 house of Admiral Sir George Carton, Baronet. It was my 
 Lady Carton who herself sought me out, over a great many 
 miles of the wide world, and found me in hospital wounded, 
 and brought me here. It is my Lady Carton who writes 
 down my words. My lady was Miss Maryon. And now, 
 that I conclude what I had to tell, I see my lady's honored 
 gray hair droop over her face, as she leans a little lower at 
 her desk ; and I fervently thank her for being so tender as I 
 see she is, toward the past pain and trouble of her po©r> 
 old, faithful, humble soldier. 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE, 
 
 [1859.] 
 
 IN TWO CHAPTERS.* 
 
 THE MORTALS IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 Under none of the accredited ghostly circumstances, and 
 environed by none of the conventional ghostly surroundings, 
 did I first make acquaintance with the house which is the 
 subject of this Christmas piece. I saw it in the day-light, 
 with the sun upon it. There was no wind, no rain, no light- 
 ning, no thunder, no awful or unwonted circumstance of 
 any kind, to heighten its effect. More than that : I had 
 come to it direct from a railway station ; it was not more 
 than a mile distant from the railway station ; and, as I stood 
 outside the house, looking back upon the way 1 had come, 
 I could see the goods train running smoothly along the 
 embankment in the valley. I will not say that every thing 
 was utterly common-place, because I doubt if any thing 
 can be that, except to utterly common-place people — and 
 there my vanity steps in ; but I will take it on myself to say 
 that any body might see the house as I saw it, any fine au- 
 tumn morning. 
 
 The manner of lighting on it was this : 
 
 I was traveling toward London out of the north, intend- 
 ing to stop by the way to look at the house. My health re- 
 quired a temporary residence in the country ; and a friend 
 of mine who knew that, and who had happened to drive 
 past the house, had written to me to suggest it as a likely 
 place. I had got into the train at midnight, and had fallen 
 
 * The original has eight chapters, which will be found in All the Year Round, vol. 
 ii., old series ; but those not printed here, excepting a page at the close, were not written 
 by Mr. Dickens. 
 
4 i2 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 asleep, and had woke up and had sat looking out of window 
 at the brilliant northern lights in the sky, and had fallen 
 asleep again, and had woke up again to find the night 
 gone, with the usual discontented conviction on me that I 
 hadn't been asleep at all.; — upon which question, in the 
 first imbecility of that condition, I am ashamed to believe 
 that I would have done wager by battle with the man who 
 sat opposite me. That opposite man had had, through the 
 night — as that opposite man always has — several legs too 
 many, and all of them too long. In addition to this unreason- 
 able conduct (which was only to be expected of him) he had 
 had a pencil and a pocket-book, and had been perpetually 
 listening and taking notes. It had appeared to me that these 
 aggravating notes related to the jolts and bumps of the car- 
 riage, and I should have resigned myself to his taking thern, 
 under a general supposition that he was in the civil-engineer- 
 ing way of life, if he had not sat staring straight over my 
 head whenever he listened. He was a goggle-eyed gentle- 
 man of a perplexed aspect, and his demeanor became un- 
 bearable. 
 
 It was a cold, dead morning (the sun not being up yet), 
 and when I had out-watched the paling light of the fires of 
 the iron country, and the curtain of heavy smoke that hung 
 at once between me and the stars and between me and the 
 day, I turned to my fellow-traveler and said : 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, but do you observe any thing par- 
 ticular in me ? " For, really, he appeared to be taking down 
 either my traveling cap or my hair, with a minuteness that 
 was a liberty. 
 
 The goggle-eyed gentleman withdrew his eyes from be- 
 hind me, as if the back of the carriage were a hundred miles 
 off, and said, with a lofty look of compassion for my insig- 
 nificance : 
 
 " In you, sir ?— B." 
 
 " B, sir ? " said I, growing warm. 
 
 " I have nothing to do with you, sir." returned the gentle- 
 man ; "pray, let me listen — 0.' r 
 
 He enunciated this vowel after a pause, and noted it 
 down. 
 
 At first I was alarmed, for an express lunatic and no com- 
 munication with the guard, is a serious position. The thought 
 came to my relief that the gentleman might be what is pop- 
 ularly called a Rapper ; one of a sect for (some of) whom I 
 have the highest respect, but whom I don't believe in. I 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 413 
 
 was going to ask him the question, when he took the bread 
 out of my mouth. 
 
 " You will excuse me," said the gentleman, contemptuously, 
 "if* I am too much in advance of common humanity to 
 trouble myself at all about it. I have passed the night — as 
 indeed I pass the whole of my time now — in spiritual inter- 
 course." 
 
 " Oh ! " said I, something snappishly. 
 
 " The conferences of the night began," continued the gen- 
 tleman, turning several leaves of his note-book, " with this 
 message : ' Evil communications corrupt good manners.' " 
 
 "Sound," said 1 ; "but, absolutely new?" 
 
 " New from spirits," returned the gentleman. 
 
 I could only repeat my rather snappish " Oh ! " and ask 
 if I might be favored with the last communication ? 
 
 " ' A bird in the hand,' " said the gentleman, reading his 
 last entry with great solemnity, " ' is worth two in the 
 bosh."' 
 
 " Truly I am of the same opinion," said I ; "but shouldn't 
 it be bush ? " 
 
 " It came to me bosh," returned the gentleman. 
 
 The gentleman then informed me that the spirit of Socra- 
 tes had delivered this special revelation in the course of the 
 night. " My friend, I hope you are pretty well. There are 
 two in this railway carriage. How do you do ? There are 
 seventeen thousand four hundred and seventy-nine spirits 
 here, but you can not see them. Pythagoras is here. He 
 is not at liberty to mention it, but hopes you like traveling." 
 Galileo likewise had dropped in, with this scientific intelli- 
 gence. " I am glad to see you amico. Come St 1 ? Water 
 will freeze when it is cold enough. Addio ! " In the course 
 of the night, also, the following phenomena had occurred. 
 Bishop Butler had insisted on spelling his name, " Bubler," 
 for which offense against orthography and good manners he 
 had been dismissed as out of temper. John Milton (sus- 
 pected of willful mystification) had repudiated the author- 
 ship of Paradise Lost, and had introduced, as joint authors 
 of that poem, two unknown gentlemen, respectively named 
 Grungers and Scadgingtone. And Prince Arthur, nephew of 
 King John of England, had described himself as tolerably 
 comfortable in the seventh circle, where he was learning to 
 paint on velvet, under the direction of Mrs. Trimmer and 
 Mary Queen of Scots. 
 
 If this should meet the eye of the gentleman who favored 
 
4 i4 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 me with these disclosures, I trust he will excuse my confess^ 
 ing that the sight of the rising sun, and the contemplation 
 of the magnificent order of the vast universe, made me im- 
 patient of them. In a word, I was so impatient of them, 
 that I was mightily glad to get out at the next station, and 
 to exchange these clouds and vapors for the free air of 
 heaven. 
 
 By that time it was a beautiful morning. As I walked 
 away among such leaves as had already fallen from the 
 golden, brown, and russet trees ; and as I looked around rue 
 on the wonders of creation, and thought of the steady, un- 
 changing, and harmonious laws by which they are sustained; 
 the gentleman's spiritual intercourse seemed to me as poor a 
 piece of journey-work as ever this world saw. In which 
 heathen state of mind, I came within view of the house, and 
 stopped to examine it attentively. 
 
 It was a solitary house standing in a sadly neglected gar- 
 den, a pretty even square of some two acres. It was a house 
 of about the time of George the Second ; as stiff, as cold, as 
 formal, and in as bad taste, as could possibly be desired by 
 the most loyal admirer of the whole quartet of Georges. It 
 was uninhabited, but had, within a year or two, been cheaply 
 repaired to render it habitable ; I say cheaply, because the 
 work had been done in a surface manner, and was already 
 decaying as to the paint and plaster, though the colors were 
 fresh. A lopsided board drooped over the garden wall, an- 
 nouncing that it was " To let on very reasonable terms, well 
 furnished." It was much too closely and heavily shadowed 
 by trees, and in particular, there were six tall poplars before 
 the front windows, which were excessively melancholy, and 
 the site of which had been extremely ill chosen. 
 
 It was easy to see that it was an avoided house — a house 
 that was shunned by the village, to which my eye was guided 
 by a church spire some half a mile off — a house that nobody 
 would take. And the natural inference was, that it had the 
 reputation of being a haunted house. 
 
 No period within the four-and-twenty hours of day and 
 night is so solemn to me, as the early morning. In the sum- 
 mer-time, I often rise very early, and repair to my room to do 
 a day's work before breakfast, and I am always on those 
 occasions deeply impressed by the stillness and solitude 
 around me. Besides that there is something awful in the 
 being surrounded by familiar faces asleep — in the knowl- 
 edge that those who are dearest to us and to whom we *«* 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 415 
 
 dearest, are profoundly unconscious of us in an impassive 
 state, anticipative of that mysterious condition to which 
 we are all tending — the stopped life, the broken threads 
 of yesterday, the deserted seat, the closed book, the un- 
 finished but abandoned occupation, all are images of 
 death. The tranquillity of the hour is the tranquillity of 
 death. The color and the chill have the same association. 
 Even a certain air that familiar household objects take 
 upon them when they first emerge from the shadows of the 
 night into the morning, of being newer, and as they used to 
 be long ago, has its counterpart in the subsidence of the 
 worn face of maturity or age, in death, into the old youth- 
 ful look. Moreover, I once saw the apparition of my father, 
 at this hour. He was alive and well, and nothing ever came 
 of it, but I saw him in the daylight, sitting with his back 
 toward me, on a seat that stood beside my bed. His head 
 resting on his hand, and whether he was slumbering or griev- 
 ing, I could not discern. Amazed to see him there, I sat 
 up, moved my position, leaned out of bed, and watched him. 
 As he did not move, I spoke to him more than once. As he 
 did not move then, I became alarmed and laid my head upon 
 his shoulder, as I thought — and there was no such thing. 
 
 For all these reasons, and for others less easily and briefly 
 stateable, I find the early morning to be my most ghostly 
 time. Any house would be more or less haunted, to me, in 
 the early morning ; and a haunted house could scarcely 
 address me to greater advantage than then. 
 
 I walked on into the village, with the desertion of this 
 house upon my mind, and I found the landlord of the lit- 
 tle inn sanding his door-step. I bespoke breakfast, and 
 broached the subject of the house. 
 
 " Is it haunted ? " I asked. 
 
 The landlord looked at me, shook his head, and answered, 
 "I say nothing." 
 
 "Then it is haunted?" 
 
 " Well ! " cried the landlord, in an outburst of frankness 
 that had the appearance of desperation — " I wouldn't sleep 
 in it." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " If I wanted to have all the bells in a house ring, with 
 nobody to ring 'em ; and all the doors in a house bang, with 
 nobody to bang 'em ; and all sorts of feet treading about, 
 with no feet there ; why then," said the landlord, " I'd sleep 
 in that house." 
 
4 i6 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 " Is any thing seen there ?" 
 
 The landlord looked at me again, and then, with his 
 former appearance of desperation, called down his stable- 
 yard for " Ikey ! " 
 
 The call produced a high-shouldered young fellow, with 
 a round red face, a short crop of sandy hair, a very broad, 
 humorous mouth, a turned-up nose, and a great sleeved 
 waistcoat of purple bars, with mother-of-pearl buttons, that 
 seemed to be growing upon him, and to be in a fair way — 
 if it were not pruned — of covering his head and overrunning 
 hib boots. 
 
 " This gentleman wants to know," said the landlord, " if 
 any thing's seen at the Poplars." 
 
 " 'Ooded woman with a howl," said Ikey, in a state of 
 great freshness. 
 
 " Do you mean a cry ? " 
 
 " I mean a bird, sir." 
 
 " A hooded woman with an owl. Dear me ! Did you 
 ever see her ? " 
 
 " I see the howl." 
 
 " Never the woman ? " 
 
 " Not so plain as the howl, but they always keeps 
 together." 
 
 " Has any body ever seen the woman as plainly as the 
 owl." 
 
 " Lord bless you, sir ! Lots." 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 " Lord bless you, sir ! Lots." 
 
 " The general dealer opposite, for instance, who is open- 
 ing his shop ? " 
 
 "Perkins? Bless you, Perkins wouldn't go a-nigh the 
 place. No ! " observed the young man, with considerable 
 feeling ; " he an't over wise, an't Perkins, but he an't such 
 a fool as that." 
 
 (Here, the landlord murmured his confidence in Perkins's 
 knowing better.) 
 
 " Who is — or who was — the hooded woman with the owl ? 
 Do you know ? " 
 
 " Well ! " said Ikey, holding up his cap with one hand 
 while he scratched his head with the other, " they say, in 
 general, that she was murdered, and the howl he 'ooted the 
 while." 
 
 This very concise summary of the facts was all I could 
 learn ; except that a young man, as hearty and likely a young 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 417 
 
 man as ever I see, had been took with fits and held down 
 in 'em, after seeing the hooded woman. Also, that a per- 
 sonage, dimly described as " a bold chap, a sort of one- 
 eyed tramp, answering to the name of Joby, unless you 
 challenged him as Greenwood, and then he said, ' Why not ? 
 and even if so, mind your own business,' " had encountered 
 the hooded woman a matter of five or six times. But I was 
 not materially assisted by these witnesses, inasmuch as the 
 first was in California, and the last was, as Ikey said (and 
 he was confirmed by the landlord), Anywheres. 
 
 Now, although I regard with a hushed and solemn fear the 
 mysteries between which and this state of existence is inter- 
 posed the barrier of the great trial and change that fall on 
 all the things that live, and although I have not the audacity 
 to pretend that I know any thing of them, I can no more 
 reconcile the mere banging of doors, ringing of bells, creak- 
 ing of boards, and such-like insignificances, with the 
 majestic beauty and pervading analogy of all the divine 
 rules that I am permitted to understand, than I had been 
 able, a little while before, to yoke the spiritual intercourse of 
 my fellow-traveler to the chariot of the rising sun. More- 
 over, 1 had lived in two haunted houses — both abroad. In 
 one of these, an old Italian palace, which bore the reputation 
 of being very badly haunted indeed, and which had recently 
 been twice abandoned on that account, I lived eight months 
 most tranquilly and pleasantly, notwithstanding that the 
 house had a score of mysterious bed-rooms, which were 
 never used, and possessed, in one large room in which I sat 
 reading, times out of number at all hours, and next to which 
 I slept, a haunted chamber of the first pretensions. I gently 
 hinted these considerations to the landlord. And as to this 
 particular house having a bad name, I reasoned with him, 
 Why, how many things had bad names undeservedly, and 
 how easy it was to give bad names, and did he not think 
 that if he and I were persistently to whisper in the village 
 that any weird-looking old drunken tinker of the neighbor- 
 hood had sold himself to the devil, he would come in time 
 to be suspected of that commercial venture ! All this wise 
 talk was perfectly ineffective with the landlord, I am bound 
 to confess, and was as dead a failure as ever I made in my 
 life. 
 
 To cut this part of the story short, I was piqued about the 
 haunted house, and was already half resolved to take it. So 
 after breakfast, I got the keys from Perkins's brother-m-la\v 
 
4i8 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 (a whip and harness maker, who keeps the post-office, and 
 is under submission to a most rigorous wife of the Doubly 
 Seceding Little Emmanuel persuasion), and went up to the 
 house, attended by my landlord and by Ikey. 
 
 Within, I found it, as I had expected, transcendently 
 dismal. The slowly changing shadows waved on it from the 
 heavy trees, were doleful in the last degree ; the house was 
 ill-placed, ill-built, ill-planned, and ill-fitted. It was damp, 
 it was not free from dry rot, there was a flavor of rats in it, 
 and it was the gloomy victim of that indescribable decay 
 which settles on all the work of man's hands whenever it is 
 not turned toman's account. The kitchens and offices were 
 too large, and remote from each other. Above stairs and 
 below, waste tracts of passage intervened between patches 
 of fertility represented by rooms ; and there was a moldy 
 old well with a green growth upon it, hiding like a murder- 
 ous trap near the bottom of the back-stairs, under the double 
 row of bells. One of these bells was labeled, on a black 
 ground in faded white letters, Master B. This, they told 
 me, was the bell that rang the most. 
 
 " Who was Master B. ? " I asked. " Is it known what he 
 did while the owl hooted ? " 
 
 " Rang the bell," said Ikey. 
 
 I was rather struck by the prompt dexterity with which 
 this young man pitched his fur cap at the bell, and rang it 
 himself. It was a loud, unpleasant bell, and made a very 
 disagreeable sound. The other bells were inscribed accord- 
 ing to the names of the rooms to which their wires were 
 conducted : as " Picture Room," " Double Room," " Clock 
 Room," and the like. Following Master B.'s bell to its 
 source, I found that young gentleman to have had but indif- 
 ferent third-class accommodation in a triangular cabin under 
 the cock-loft, with a corner fireplace which Master B. must 
 have been exceedingly small if he were ever able to warm 
 himself at, and a corner chimney-piece like a pyramidal 
 staircase to the ceiling for Tom Thumb. The papering of 
 one side of the room had dropped down bodily, with frag- 
 ments of plaster adhering to it, and almost blocked up the 
 door. It appeared that Master B., in his spiritual condition, 
 always made a point of pulling the paper down. Neither the 
 landlord nor Ikey could suggest why he made such a fool of 
 himself. 
 
 Except that the house had an immensely large rambling loft 
 at top, I made no other discoveries. It was moderately well 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 419 
 
 furnished, but sparely. Some of the furniture — say, a third 
 — was as old as the -house ; the rest was of various periods 
 within the last half century. I was referred to a corn-chand- 
 ler in the market-place of the county town to treat for the 
 house. I went that day, and I took it for six months. 
 
 It was just the middle of October when I moved in with 
 my maiden sister (I venture to call her eight-and-thirty, she 
 is so very handsome, sensible, and engaging). We took with 
 us, a deaf stable-man, my bloodhound Turk, two women 
 servants, and a young person called an Odd Girl. I have 
 reason to record of the attendant last enumerated, who was 
 one of the Saint Lawrence's Union Female Orphans, that 
 she was a fatal mistake and a disastrous engagement. 
 
 The year was dying early, the leaves were falling fast, it was 
 a raw, cold day when we took possession, and the gloom of the 
 house was most depressing. The cook (an amiable woman, 
 but of a weak turn of intellect) burst into tears on beholding 
 the kitchen, and requested that her silver watch might be 
 delivered over to her sister (2 Tuppintock's Gardens, Liggs's 
 Walk, Clapham Rise), in the event of any thing happening 
 to her from the damp. Streaker, the housemaid, feigned 
 cheerfulness, but was the greater martyr. The Odd Girl, 
 who had never been in the country, alone was pleased, and 
 made arrangements for sowing an acorn in the garden out- 
 side the scullery window, and rearing an oak. 
 
 We went, before dark, through all the natural — as op- 
 posed to supernatural — miseries incidental to our state. 
 Dispiriting reports ascending (like the smoke) from the 
 baserrent in volumes, and descending from the upper rooms. 
 There was no rolling-pin, there was no salamander (which 
 failed to surprise me, for I don't know what it is), there 
 was nothing in the house ; what there was, was broken ; 
 the last people must have lived like pigs ; what could the 
 meaning of the landlord be ? Through these distresses, 
 the Odd Girl was cheerful and exemplary. But within 
 four hours after dark, we had got into a supernatural 
 groove, and the Odd Girl had " seen eyes," and was in 
 hysterics. 
 
 My sister and I had agreed to keep the haunting strictly 
 to ourselves, and my impression was, and still is, that I had 
 not left Ikey, when he helped to unload the cart, alone with 
 the women, or any one of them, for one minute. Nevertheless, 
 hs I say, the Odd Girl had " seen eyes " (no other explana- 
 v>n could ever be drawn from her), before nine, and by ten 
 
420 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 o'clock had had as much vinegar applied to her as would 
 pickle a handsome salmon. 
 
 I leave a discerning public to judge of my feelings, when 
 under these untoward circumstances, at about half-past ten 
 o'clock Master B.'s bell began to ring in a most infuriated 
 manner, and Turk howled until the house resounded with his 
 lamentations ! 
 
 I hope I may never again be in a state of mind so un- 
 christian as the mental frame in which I lived for some 
 weeks respecting the memory of Master B. Whether his 
 bell was rung by rats, or mice, or bats, or wind, or what 
 other accidental vibration, or sornetimes by one cause, some- 
 times another, and sometimes by collusion, I don't know ; 
 but certain it is, that it did ring two nights out of three, until 
 I conceived the happy idea of twisting Master B.'s neck 
 — in other words, breaking his bell short off — and silencing 
 that young gentleman, as to my experience and belief, for- 
 ever. 
 
 But, by that time, the Odd Girl had developed such im- 
 proving powers of catalepsy, that she had become a shining 
 example of that very inconvenient disorder. She would stif- 
 fen, like a Guy Fawkes, endowed with unreason, on the most 
 irrelevant occasions. I would address the servants in a lucid 
 manner, pointing out to them that I had painted Master B.'s 
 room and balked the paper, and taken Master B.'s bell away 
 and balked the ringing, and if they could suppose that that 
 confounded boy had lived and died, to clothe himself with 
 •ao better behavior than would most unquestionably have 
 brought him and the sharpest particles of a birch-broom 
 mto close acquaintance in the present imperfect state of exist- 
 ence, could they also suppose a mere poor human being, 
 such as I was, capable by those contemptible means of 
 counteracting and limiting the powers of the disembodied 
 spirits of the dead, or of any spirits? — I say I would become 
 emphatic and cogent, not to say rather complacent, in such 
 an address, when it would all go for nothing by reason of 
 the Odd Girl's suddenly stiffening from the toes upward, and 
 glaring among us like a parochial petrification. 
 
 Streaker, the housemaid, too, had an attribute of a most 
 discomfiting nature. I am unable to say whether she was 
 of an unusually lymphatic temperament, or what else was 
 the matter with her, but this young woman became a mere 
 distillery for the production of the largest and most trans- 
 parent tears I ever met with. Combined with these char- 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 4« 
 
 acteristics, was a peculiar tenacity of hold in those speci . 
 mens, so that they didn't fall, but hung upon her face and 
 nose. In this condition, and mildly and deplorably shaking 
 her head, the silence would throw me more heavily than the 
 Admirable Crichton could have done in a verbal disputation 
 for a purse of money. Cook, likewise, always covered me 
 with confusion as with a garment, by neatly winding up the 
 session with the protest that the 'ouse was wearing her out, 
 and by meekly repeating her last wishes regarding her silver 
 watch. 
 
 As to our nightly life, the contagion of suspicion and 
 fear was among us, and there is no such _ con- 
 tagion under the sky. Hooded woman ? According to 
 the accounts, we were in a perfect convent of hooded 
 women. Noises ? With that contagion down stairs, I my- 
 self have sat in the dismal parlor, listening, until I have 
 heard so many and such strange noises, that they would 
 have chilled my blood if I had not warmed it by dashing 
 out to make discoveries. Try this in bed, in the dead of the 
 night ; try this at your own comfortable fireside, in the light 
 of the night. You can fill any house with noises, if you 
 will, until you have a noise for every nerve in your nervous 
 system. 
 
 I repeat : the contagion of suspicion and fear was among 
 us, and there is no such contagion under the^ sky. The 
 women (their noses in a chronic state of excoriation from 
 smelling-salts), were always primed and loaded for a swoon, 
 and ready to go off with hair-triggers. The two elder de- 
 tached the Odd Girl on all expeditions that were considered 
 doubly hazardous, and she always established the reputa- 
 tion of such adventures by coming back cataleptic. If cook 
 or Streaker went overhead after dark, we knew we should 
 presently hear a bump on the ceiling ; and this took place 
 so constantly, that it was as if a fighting man were engaged 
 to go about the house, administering a touch of his art 
 which I believe is called the auctioneer, to every domestic 
 he met with. 
 
 It was in vain to do any thing. It was in vain to be 
 frightened, for the moment, in one's own person, by a real 
 owl, and then to show the owl. It was in vain to discover, 
 by striking an accidental discord on the piano, that Turk 
 always howled at particular notes and combinations. It 
 was in vain to be a Rhadamanthus with the bells, and if an 
 unfortunate bell rang without leave, to have it down ir^xor- 
 
422 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 ably and silence it. It was in vain to fire up chimneys, let 
 torches down the well, charge furiously into suspected 
 rooms and recesses. We changed servants, and it was no 
 better. The new set ran away, and a third set came, and it 
 was no better. At last, our comfortable housekeeping got 
 to be so disorganized and wretched, that I one night 
 dejectedly said to my sister : " Patty, I begin to despair of 
 our getting people to go on with us here, and I think we 
 must give this up." 
 
 My sister, who is a woman of immense spirit, replied, 
 " No, John, don't give it up. Don't be beaten, John. There 
 is another way." 
 
 " And what is that ? " said I. 
 
 " John," returned my sister, "if we are not to be driven 
 out of this house, and that for no reason whatever, that is 
 apparent to you or me, we must help ourselves and take the 
 house wholly and solely into our own hands." 
 
 " But the servants," said I. 
 
 " Have no servants," said my sister, boldly. 
 
 Like most people in my grade of life, I had never thought 
 of the possibility of going on without those faithful obstruc- 
 tions. The notion was so new to me when suggested, that I 
 looked very doubtful. 
 
 " We know they come here to be frightened and infect 
 one another," said my sister. 
 
 _ " With the exception of Bottles," I observed, in a medita- 
 tive tone. 
 
 (The deaf stable-man. I kept him in my service, and still 
 keep him, as a phenomenon of moroseness not to be matched 
 in England.) 
 
 " To be sure, John," assented my sister ; " except Bottles. 
 And what does that go to prove ? Bottles talks to nobody, 
 and hears nobody unless he is absolutely roared at, and what 
 alarm has Bottles ever given, or taken ! None." 
 
 This was perfectly true ; the individual in question hav- 
 ing retired, every night at ten o'clock, to his bed over the 
 coach-house, with no other company than a pitchfork and a 
 pail of water. That the pail of water would have been over 
 me, and the pitchfork through me, if I had put myself with- 
 out announcement in Bottles's way after that minute, I had 
 deposited in my own mind as a fact worth remembering. 
 Neither had Bottles ever taken the least notice of any of 
 our many uproars. An imperturbable and speechless man. 
 he had sat at his supper, with Streaker present in a swoor^ 
 
THfi HAUNTED HOUSE. 423 
 
 and the Odd Girl marble, and had only put another potato 
 in his cheek, or profited by the general misery to help him- 
 self to beefsteak pie. 
 
 " And so," continued my sister, " I exempt Bottles. And 
 considering, John, that the house is too large, and perhaps 
 too lonely, to be kept well in hand by Bottles, you, and me, 
 I propose that we cast about among our friends for a cer- 
 tain selected number of the most reliable and willing — form 
 a society here for three months — wait upon ourselves and 
 one another — live cheerfully and socially — and see what 
 happens." 
 
 I was so charmed with my sister, that I embraced her on 
 the spot, and went into her plan with the greatest ardor. 
 
 We were then in the third week of November ; but we 
 took our measures so vigorously, and were so well seconded 
 by the friends in whom we confided, that there was still a 
 week of the month unexpired, when our party all came 
 down together merrily, and mustered in the haunted house. 
 
 I will mention, in this place, two small changes that I made 
 while my sister and I were yet alone. It occurring to me as 
 not improbable that Turk howled in the house at night, partly 
 because he wanted to get out of it, I stationed him in his kennel 
 outside, but unchained ; and I seriously warned the village 
 that any man who came in his way must not expect to leave 
 him without a rip in his own throat. I then casually asked 
 Ikey if he were a judge of a gun ? On his saying, "Yes, 
 sir, I knows a good gun when I sees her," I begged the 
 favor of his stepping up to the house and looking at mine. 
 
 " She's a true one, sir," said lkey, after inspecting a 
 double-barreled rifle that I bought in New York a few years 
 ago. " No mistake about her, sir." 
 
 " Ikey," said I, "don't mention it; I have seen some- 
 thing in this house." 
 
 " No, sir ? " he whispered, greedily opening his eyes. 
 " 'Ooded lady, sir ? " 
 
 " Don't be frightened," said I. " It was a figure rather 
 like you." 
 
 " Lord, sir ! " 
 
 " Ikey ! " said I, shaking hands with him warmly, I may 
 say affectionately, " if there is any truth in these ghost 
 stories, the greatest service I can do you is to fire at that 
 figure. And I promise you, by heaven and earth, I will do 
 it with this gun if I see it again ! " 
 
 The young man thanked me, and took his leave with some 
 
4 2 4 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 little precipitation, after declining a glass of liquor. I ir% 
 parted my secret to him because I had never quite for- 
 gotten his throwing his cap at the bell ; because I had, on 
 another occasion, noticed something very like a fur cap, 
 lying not far from the bell, one night when it had burst out 
 ringing ; and because I had remarked that we were at our 
 ghostliest whenever he came up in the evening to comfort 
 the servants. Let me do Ikey no injustice. He was afraid 
 of the house, and believed in its being haunted ; and yet he 
 would play false on the haunting side, so surely as he got 
 an opportunity. The Odd Girl's case was exactly similar. 
 She went about the house in a state of real terror, and yet 
 lied monstrously and willfully, and invented many of the 
 alarms she spread, and made many of the sounds we heard. 
 I had my eye on the two, and I know it. It is not neces- 
 sary for me, here, to account for this preposterous state of 
 mind ; I content myself with remarking that it is familiarly 
 known to every intelligent man who has had fair medical, 
 legal, or other watchful experience, that it is as well estab- 
 lished and as common a state of mind as any with which 
 observers are acquainted, and that it is one of the first ele- 
 ments, above all others, rationally to be suspected in, and 
 strictly looked for, and separated from, any question of this 
 kind. 
 
 To return to our party. The first thing we did when we 
 were all assembled, was, to draw lots for bedrooms. That 
 done, and every bedroom, and indeed, the whole house, 
 having been minutely examined by the whole body, we al- 
 lotted the various household duties, as if we had been on a 
 gipsy party, or a yachting party, or a hunting party, or were 
 shipwrecked. I then recounted the floating rumors con- 
 cerning the hooded lady, the owl, and Master B., with 
 others still more filmy, which had floated about during our 
 occupation, relative to some ridiculous old ghost of the 
 female gender who went up and down, carrying the ghost 
 of a round table ; and also to an impalpable jackass, whom 
 nobody was ever able to catch. Some of these ideas I 
 really believed our people had communicated to one another 
 in some diseased way, without conveying them in words. 
 We then gravely called one another to witness that we were 
 not there to be deceived, or to deceive — which we consid- 
 ered pretty much the same thing — and that, with a serious 
 sense of responsibility, we would be strictly true to one 
 another, and would strictly follow out the truth. The un- 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 425 
 
 derstanding was established, that any one who heard 
 unusual noises in the night, and who wished to trace them, 
 should knock at my door ; lastly, that on the twelfth night, 
 the last night of holy Christmas, all our individual experi- 
 ences since that then present hour of our coming together 
 in the haunted house, should be brought to light for the 
 good of all ; and that we would hold our peace on the sub- 
 ject till then, unless on some remarkable provocation to 
 break silence. 
 
 We were in number and in character, as follows : 
 First — to get my sister and myself out of the way— there 
 were we two. In the drawing of lots, my sister drew her 
 own room, and I drew Master B.'s. Next there was our 
 first cousin John Herschel, so called after the great astron- 
 omer, than whom I suppose a better man at a telescope 
 does not breathe. With him was his wife, a charming creat- 
 ure to whom he had been married in the previous spring. 
 I thought it (under the circumstances) rather imprudent to 
 bring her, because there is no knowing what even a false 
 alarm may do at such a time ; but I suppose he knew his 
 own business best, and I must say that if she had been my 
 wife, I could never have left her endearing and bright 
 face'behind. They drew the clock room. Alfred Starling, 
 an uncommonly agreeable young fellow, of eight and twenty, 
 for whom I have the greatest liking, was in the double 
 room ; mine, usually, and designated by that name from 
 having a dressing-room within it, with two large and cum- 
 bersome windows, which no wedges /was ever able to make, 
 would keep from shaking, in any weather, wind or no wind. 
 Alfred is a young fellow who pretends to be" fast " (another 
 ■ word for loose, as I understand the term), but who is much 
 too good and sensible for that nonsense, and who would 
 have distinguished himself before now, if his father had not 
 unfortunately left him a small independence of two hundred 
 a year, on the strength of which his only occupation in life 
 has been to spend six. I am in hopes, however, that his 
 banker may break, or that he may enter into some specula- 
 tion guaranteed to pay twenty per cent. ; for I am convinced 
 that if he could only be ruined, his fortune is made. Belinda 
 Bates, bosom friend of my sister, and a most intellectual, 
 amiable, and delightful girl, got the picture room. She 
 has a fine genius for poetry, combined with real business 
 earnestness, and " goes in "—to use an expression of 
 Alfred's— for Woman's Mission, Woman's Rights, Woman s 
 
426 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 Wrongs, and every thing that is woman's with a capital W, 
 or is not and ought to be, or is and ought not to be. 
 " Most praiseworthy, my dear, and heaven prosper you ! " 
 I whispered to her on the first night of my taking leave of 
 her at the picture-room door, " but don't overdo it. And 
 in respect of the great necessity there is, my darling, for 
 more employments being within reach of woman than our 
 civilization has as yet assigned to her, don't fly at the 
 unfortunate men, even those men who are at first sight in 
 your way, as if they were the natural oppressors of your sex ; 
 for, trust me, Belinda, they do sometimes spend their wages 
 among wives- and daughters, sisters, mothers, aunts, and 
 grandmothers ; and the play is, really, not all Wolf and 
 Red Riding-Hood, but has other parts in it." However, I 
 digress. 
 
 Belinda, as I have mentioned, occupied the picture room. 
 We had but three other chambers : the corner room, the 
 cupboard room, and the garden room. My old friend 
 Jack Governor, " Slung his hammock," as he called it, in 
 the corner room. I have always regarded Jack as the 
 finest-looking sailor that ever sailed. He is gray now, but 
 as handsome as he was a quarter of a century ago — nay, 
 handsomer. A portly, cheery, well-built figure of a broad- 
 shouldered man, with a frank smile, a brilliant dark eye, 
 and a rich dark eyebrow. I remember those under darker 
 hair, and they look all the better for their silver setting. 
 He has been wherever his Union namesake flies, has Jack, 
 and I have met old shipmates of his, away in the Med- 
 iterranean and on the other side of the Atlantic, who have 
 beamed and brightened at the casual mention of his name, 
 and have cried, " You know Jack Governor ? Then you 
 know a prince of men ! " That he is ! And so unmis- 
 takably a naval officer, that if you were to meet him coming 
 out of an Esquimaux snow-hut in seal skin, you would be 
 vaguely persuaded he was in full naval uniform. 
 
 Jack once had that bright, clear eye of his on my sister ; 
 but it fell out that he married another lady and took her to 
 South America, where she died. This was a dozen years 
 ago or more. He brought down with him to our haunted 
 house a little cask of salt beef ; for he is always convinced 
 that all salt beef not of his own pickling, is mere carrion, and 
 invariably, when he goes to London, packs a piece in his 
 portmanteau. He had also volunteered to bring with him 
 one " Nat Beaver," an old comrade of his, captain of amer- 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 427 
 
 chantman. Mr. Beaver, with a thick-set, wooden face and 
 figure, and apparently as hard as a block all over, proved 
 to be an intelligent man, with a world of watery experiences 
 in him, and great practical knowledge. At times there was 
 a curious nervousness about him, apparently the lingering 
 result of some old illness ; but it seldom lasted many 
 minutes. He got the cupboard room, and lay there next 
 to Mr. Undery, my friend and solicitor, who came down, 
 in an amateur capacity, " to go through with it," as he said, 
 and who plays whist better than the whole Law List, from 
 the red cover at the beginning to the red cover at the 
 end. 
 
 I never was happier in my life, and I believe it was the 
 universal feeling among us. Jack Governor, always a man 
 of wonderful resources, was chief cook, and made some of 
 the best dishes I ever ate, including unapproachable curries. 
 My sister was pastry-cook and confectioner. Starling and I 
 were cook's mate, turn and turn about, and on special 
 occasions the chief cook " pressed " Mr. Beaver. We had 
 a great deal of out-door sport and exercise, but nothing was 
 neglected within, and there was no ill- humor or misunder- 
 standing among us, and our evenings were so delightful that 
 we had at least one good reason for being reluctant to go to 
 bed. 
 
 We had a few night alarms in the beginning. On the first 
 night, I was knocked up by Jack with a most wonderful 
 ship's lantern in his hand, like the gill of some monster of 
 the deep, who informed me that he was " going aloft to the 
 main-truck," to have the weathercock down. It was a 
 stormy night, and I remonstrated ; but Jack called my atten- 
 tion to its making a sound like a cry of despair, and said some- 
 body would be " hailing a ghost " presently, if it wasn't done. 
 So, up to the top of the house, where I could hardly stand for 
 the wind, we went, accompanied by Mr. Beaver ; and there 
 Jack, lantern and all, with Mr. Beaver after him, swarmed up 
 to the top of a cupola some two dozen feet above the chimneys, 
 and stood upon nothing particular, coolly knocking the 
 weathercock off, until they both got into such good spirits with 
 r^e wind and the height, that I thought they would never come 
 down. Another night, they turned out again, and had a 
 chimney-cowl off. Another night, they cut a sobbing and 
 gulping water-pipe away. Another night, they found out 
 something else. On several occasions, they both, in the 
 coolest manner, simultaneously dropped out of their respec? 
 
428 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 tive bedroom windows, hand over hand by their counter- 
 panes, to " overhaul " something mysterious in the garden. 
 The engagement among us was faithfully kept, and nobody 
 revealed any thing. All we know was, if any one's room were 
 haunted, no one looked the worse for it. 
 
 THE GHOST IN MASTER B.'S ROOM. 
 
 When I established myself in the triangular garret which 
 had gained so distinguished a reputation, my thoughts 
 naturally turned to Master B. My speculations about him 
 were uneasy and manifold. Whether his Christian name was 
 Benjamin, Bissextile (from his having been born in leap 
 year), Bartholomew, or Bill. Whether the initial letter be- 
 longed to his family name, and that was Baxter, Black, 
 Brown, Barker, Buggins, Baker, or Bird. Whether he was 
 a foundling, and had been baptized B. Whether he was a 
 lion-hearted boy, and B. was short for Briton, or for Bull. 
 Whether he could possibly have been kith and kin to an 
 illustrious lady who brightened my own childhood, and had 
 come of the blood of the brilliant Mother Bunch. 
 
 With these profitless meditations I tormented myself much. 
 I also carried the mysterious letter into the appearance and 
 pursuits of the deceased ; wondering whether he dressed in 
 Blue, wore Boots (he couldn't have been Bald), was a boy of 
 Brains, liked Books, was good at Bowling, had any skill as a 
 Boxer, even in his Buoyant Boyhood Bathed from a Bathing- 
 machine at Bognor, Bangor, Bournemouth, Brighton, or 
 Broadstairs, like a Bounding Billiard Ball. 
 
 So, from the first I was haunted by the letter B. 
 
 It was not long before I remarked that I never by any 
 hazard had a dream of Master B., or any thing belonging to 
 him. But the instant I awoke from sleep, at whatever hour 
 of the night, my thoughts took him up, and roamed away, 
 trying to attach his initial letter to something that would fit 
 it and keep it quiet. 
 
 For six nights I had been worried thus in Master B.'s 
 room, when I began to perceive that things were going 
 wrong. 
 
 The first appeal ance that presented itself was early in the 
 morning, when it was but just daylight and no more. I was 
 standing shaving at my glass, when I suddenly discovered, 
 to my consternation and amazement, that I was shaving— 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 429 
 
 not myself — I am fifty — but a boy. Apparently Mas- 
 ter B. ? 
 
 I trembled and looked over my shoulder ; nothing there. 
 I looked again in the glass, and distinctly saw the features 
 and expression of a boy, who was shaving not to get rid of 
 a beard, but to get one. Extremely troubled in my mind, I 
 took a few turns in the room, and went back to the looking- 
 glass, resolved to steady my hand and complete the opera- 
 tion in which I had been disturbed. Opening my eyes, 
 which I had shut while recovering my firmness, I now met 
 in the glass, looking straight at me, the eyes of a young man 
 of four or five and-twenty. Terrified by this new ghost, I 
 closed my eyes, and make a strong effort to recover myself. 
 Opening them again, I saw, shaving his cheek in the glass, 
 my father, who has long been dead. Nay, I even saw my 
 grandfather too, whom I never did see in my life. 
 
 Although naturally much affected by these remarkable 
 visitations, I determined to keep my secret until the time 
 agreed upon for the present general disclosure. Agitated 
 by a multitude of curious thoughts I retired to my room, 
 that night, prepared to encounter some new experience of a 
 spectral character. Nor was my preparation needless, for, 
 waking from an uneasy sleep at exactly two o'clock in the 
 morning, what were my feelings to find that I was sharing 
 my bed with the skeleton of Master B. 
 
 I sprang up, and the skeleton sprang up also. I then 
 heard a plaintive voice saying, " Where am I ? What is be- 
 come of me?" and, looking hard in that direction, perceived 
 the ghost of Master B. 
 
 The young specter was dressed in an obsolete fashion ; or 
 rather, was not so much dressed as put into a case of inferior 
 pepper-and-salt cloth, made horrible by means of shining 
 buttons. I observed that these buttons went, in a double 
 row over each shoulder of the young ghost, and appeared to 
 descend his back. He wore a frill round his neck. His 
 right hand (which I distinctly noticed to be inky) was laid 
 upon his stomach ; connecting this action with some feeble 
 pimples on his countenance, and his general air of nausea, I 
 concluded this ghost to be the ghost of a boy who had 
 habitually taken a great deal too much medicine. 
 
 " Where am I ? " said the little specter, in a pathetic voice. 
 " And why was I born in the calomel days, and why did I 
 have all that calomel given me ? " 
 
 I replied, with sincere earnestness, that upon my soul I 
 couldn't tell him. 
 
430 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 "Where is my little sister," said the ghost, "and where my 
 angelic little wife, and where is the boy I went to school 
 with ? " 
 
 I entreated the phantom to be comforted, and above all 
 things to take heart respecting the loss of the boy he went 
 to school with. I represented to him that probably that boy 
 never did, within human experience, come out well, when 
 discovered. I urged that I myself had, in later life, turned 
 up several boys whom I went to school with, and none of 
 them had at all answered. I expressed my humble belief 
 that the boy never did answer. I represented that he was a 
 mystic character, a delusion, and a snare. I recounted how, 
 the last time I found him, I found him at a dinner party be- 
 hind a wall of white cravat, with an inconclusive opinion on 
 every possible subject, and a power of silent boredom abso- 
 lutely Titanic. I related how, on the strength of our hav- 
 ing been together at " Old Doylance's," he had asked him- 
 self to breakfast with me (a social offense of the largest 
 magnitude) ; how, fanning my weak embers of belief in 
 Doylance's boys, I had let him in ; and how he had proved 
 to be a fearful wanderer about the earth, pursuing the race 
 of Adam with inexplicable notions concerning the currency, 
 and with a proposition that the Bank of England should, on 
 pain of being abolished, instantly strike off and circulate, 
 God knows how many thousand millions of ten-and-six- 
 penny notes. 
 
 The ghost heard me in silence, and with a fixed stare. 
 <l Barber ! " it aposthropized me when I finished. 
 
 " Barber?" 1 repeated — for I am not of that profession. 
 
 " Condemned," said the ghost, " to shave a constant change 
 of customers — now me — now a young man — now thyself as 
 thou art — now thy father — now thy grandfather ; condemned, 
 too, to lie down with a skeleton every night, and to rise with 
 it every morning — " 
 
 (I shuddered on hearing this dismal announcement.) 
 
 " Barber ! Pursue me ! " 
 
 I had felt, even before the words were uttered, that I was 
 under a spell to pursue the phantom. I immediately did so, 
 and was in Master B.'s room no longer. 
 
 Most people know what long and fatiguing night-journeys 
 had been forced upon the witches who used to confess, and 
 who, no doubt, told the exact truth — particularly as they 
 were always assisted with leading questions, and the torture 
 was always ready. I asseverate that, during my occupation 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 43^ 
 
 of Master B.'s room, I was taken by the ghost that haunted 
 it, on expeditions^ fully as long and wild as any of those. 
 Assuredly, I was presented to no old man with a goat's 
 horns and tail (something between Pan and an old-clothes- 
 man), holding conventional receptions, as stupid as those of 
 real life and less decent ; but I came upon other things 
 which appeared to me to have more meaning. 
 
 Confident that I speak the truth and shall be believed, I 
 declare without hesitation, that I followed the ghost, in the 
 first instance on a broom stick, and afterward on a rocking- 
 horse. The very smell of the animal's paint — especially 
 when I brought it out, by making him warm — I am ready to 
 swear to. I followed the ghost, afterward, in a hackney 
 coach — an institution with the peculiar smell of which the 
 present generation is unacquainted, but to which I am again 
 ready to swear as a combination of stable, dog with the 
 mange, and very old bellows. (In this, I appeal to previous 
 generations to confirm or refute me.) I pursued the phan- 
 tom on a headless donkey— at least, upon a donkey who was 
 so interested in the state of his stomach that his head was 
 always down there, investigating it ; on ponies, expressly 
 born to kick up behind ; on roundabouts and swings, from 
 fairs ; in the first cab — another forgotten institution, where 
 the fare regularly got into bed, and was tucked up with the 
 driver. Not to trouble you with a detailed account of all 
 my travels in pursuit of the ghost of Master B., which were 
 longer and more wonderful than those of Sinbad the Sailor, 
 I will confine myself to one experience, from which you may 
 judge of many. 
 
 I was marvelously changed. I was myself, yet not my- 
 self. I was conscious of something within me, which has 
 been the same all through my life, and which I have always 
 recognized under all its phases and varieties as never alter- 
 ing, and yet I was not the I who had gone to bed in Master 
 B.'s room. I had the smoothest of faces and the shortest of 
 legs, and I had taken another creature like myself, also with 
 the smoothest of faces and the shortest of legs, behind a 
 door, and was confiding to him a proposition of the most as- 
 tounding nature. 
 
 This proposition was, that we should have a seraglio. 
 
 The other creature assented warmly. He had no notion of 
 respectability : neither had I. It was the custom of the East, it 
 was the way of the good Caliph Haroun Alraschid (let me have 
 the corrupted name again for once, it u so scented with sweet 
 
432 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 memories !), the usage was highly laudable, and most worthy 
 of imitation. " Oh yes ! let us," said the other creature, 
 with a jump, " have a seraglio." 
 
 It was not because we entertained the faintest doubts of 
 the meritorious character of the Oriental establishment we 
 proposed to import, that we perceived it must be kept a 
 secret from Miss Griffin. It was because we knew Miss 
 Griffin to be bereft of human sympathies, and incapable of 
 appreciating the greatness of the great Haroun. Mystery 
 impenetrably shrouded from Miss Griffin then, let us intrust 
 it to Miss Bule. 
 
 We were ten in Miss Griffin's establishment by Hamp- 
 stead Ponds ; eight ladies and two gentlemen. Miss Bule, 
 whom I judge to have attained the ripe age of eight or nine, 
 took the lead in society. I opened the subject to her in the 
 course of the day, and proposed that she should become the 
 favorite. 
 
 Miss Bule, after struggling with the diffidence so natural 
 to, and charming in, her adorable sex, expressed herself as 
 flattered by the idea, but wished to know how it was pro- 
 posed to provide for Miss Pipson ? Miss Bule — who was 
 understood to have vowed toward that young lady a friend- 
 ship, halves, and no secrets, until death, on the Church Ser- 
 vice and Lessons complete in two volumes with case and 
 lock — Miss Bule said she could not, as the friend of Pipson, 
 disguise from herself, or me, that' Pipson was not one of the 
 common. 
 
 Now Miss Pipson, having curly light hair, and blue eyes 
 (which was my idea of any thing mortal and feminine that 
 was called fair), I promptly replied that I regarded Miss 
 Pipson in the light of a fair Circassian. 
 
 "And what then ?" Miss Bule pensively asked. 
 
 I replied that she must be inveigled by a merchant, brought 
 to me veiled, and purchased as a slave. 
 
 [The other creature had already fallen into the second 
 male place in the state, and was set apart for grand vizier. 
 He afterward resisted this disposal of events, but had his 
 hair pulled until he yielded.] 
 
 " Shall I not be jealous ? " Miss Bule inquired, casting 
 down her eyes. 
 
 " Zobeide, no," I replied, " you will ever be the favorite 
 sultana ; the first place in my heart, and on my throne, will 
 be ever yours." 
 
 Miss Bule, upon that assurance, consented to propound 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 433 
 
 the idea to her seven beautiful companions. It occurring 
 to me in the course of the same day, that we knew we could 
 trust a grinning and good-natured soul called Tabby, who 
 was the serving-drudge of the house, and had no more 
 figure than one of the beds, and upon whose face there was 
 always more or less black-lead, I slipped into Miss Bule's 
 hand after supper a note to that effect : dwelling on the 
 black-lead as being in a manner deposited by the finger of 
 Providence, pointing Tabby out for Mesrour, the celebrated 
 chief of the blacks of the harem. 
 
 There were difficulties in the formation of the desired in- 
 stitution, as there are in all combinations. The other creat- 
 ure showed himself of a low character, and, when defeated 
 in aspiring to the throne, pretended to have conscientious 
 scruples about prostating himself before the caliph ; wouldn't 
 call him Commander of the Faithful ; spoke of him slight- 
 ingly and inconsistently as a mere " chap ; " said he, the 
 other creature, " wouldn't play " — Play ! — and was otherwise 
 coarse and offensive. This meanness of disposition was, 
 however, put down by the general indignation of an united 
 seraglio, and I became blessed in the smiles of eight of the 
 fairest daughters of men. 
 
 The smiles could only be bestowed when Miss Griffin 
 was looking another way, and only then in a very wary man- 
 ner, for there was a legend among the followers of the 
 prophet that she saw with a little round ornament in the 
 middle of the pattern on the back of her shawl. But every 
 day after dinner, for an hour, we were all together, and then 
 the favorite and the rest of the royal harem competed who 
 should most beguile the leisure of the serene Haroun, re- 
 posing from the cares of state — which were generally, as in 
 most affairs of state, of an arithmetical character, the Com- 
 mander of the Faithful being a fearful boggier at a sum. 
 
 On these occasions, the devoted Mesrour, chief of the 
 blacks of the harem, was always in attendance (Miss Griffin 
 usually ringing for that officer, at the same time, with great 
 vehemence), but never acquitted himself in a manner worthy 
 of his historical reputation. In the first place, his bringing 
 a broom into the divan of the caliph, even when Haroun 
 wore on his shoulders the red robe of anger (Miss Pipson's 
 pelisse), though it might be got over for the moment, was 
 never to be quite satisfactorily accounted for. In the second 
 place, his breaking out into grinning exclamations of " Lork, 
 you pretties ! " was neither Eastern nor respectful. In the 
 
434 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 third place, when specially instructed to say " Bismillah ! " he 
 always said " Hallelujah ! " This officer, unlike his class, was 
 too good-humored altogether, kept his mouth open far too wide 
 expressed approbation to an incongruous extent, and even 
 once — it was on the occasion of the purchase of the Fair 
 Circassian for five hundred thousand purses of gold, and 
 cheap, too — embraced the slave, the favorite, and the 
 caliph, all round. (Parenthetically let me say God bless 
 Mesrour, and may there have been sons and daughters on 
 that tender bosom, softening many a hard day since !) 
 
 Miss Griffin was a model of propriety, and I am at a loss 
 to imagine what the feelings of the virtuous woman would 
 have been, if she had known, when she paraded us down the 
 Hampstead road two and two, that she was walking w T ith a 
 stately step at the head of Polygamy and Mohammedanism. 
 I believe that a mysterious and terrible joy with which the 
 contemplation of Miss Griffin, in this unconscious state, in- 
 spired us, and a grim sense prevalent among us that there 
 was a dreadful power in our knowledge of what Miss Griffin 
 (who knew all things that could be learned out of book) 
 didn't know, were the mainspring of the preservation of our 
 secret. It was wonderfully kept, but was once upon the 
 verge of self-betrayal. The danger and escape occurred 
 upon a Sunday. We were all ten ranged in a conspicuous 
 part of the gallery at church, with Miss Griffin at our head 
 — as we were every Sunday — advertising the establishment 
 in an unsecular sort of way — when the description of Solo- 
 mon in his domestic glory happened to be read. The 
 moment that monarch was thus referred to, conscience 
 whispered me, " Thou, too, Haroun ! " The officiating 
 minister had a cast in his eye, and it assisted conscience by 
 giving him the appearance of reading personally at me. A 
 crimson blush, attended by a fearful perspiration, suffused 
 my features. The grand vizier became more dead than 
 alive, and the whole seraglio reddened as if the sunset of 
 Bagdad shone direct upon their lovely faces. At this por- 
 tentous time the awful Griffin rose, and balefully surveyed 
 the children of Islam. My own impression was, that 
 church and state had entered into a conspiracy with Miss 
 Griffin to expose us, and that we should all be put into white 
 sheets, and exhibited in the center aisle. But, so westerly 
 — if I may be allowed the expression as opposite to eastern 
 associations — was Miss Griffin's sense of rectitude, that 
 she merely suspected apples, and we were saved. 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 435 
 
 I have called the seraglio united. Upon the question 
 solely, whether the Commander of the Faithful durst ex- 
 ercise a right of kissing in that sanctuary of the palace, 
 were its peerless inmates divided. Zobeide asserted a coun- 
 ter right in t the favorite to scratch, and the Fair Circassian 
 put her face for refuge, into a green baize bag, originally de- 
 signed for books. On the other hand, a young antelope of 
 transcendent beauty from the fruitful plains of Camden 
 Town (whence she had been brought, by traders, in the half- 
 yearly caravan that crossed the intermediate desert after the 
 holidays), held more liberal opinions, but stipulated for lim- 
 iting the benefit of them to that dog, and son of a dog, the 
 grand vizier — who had no rights, and was not in question. 
 At length, the difficulty was compromised by the installation 
 of a very youthful slave as deputy. She, raised upon a 
 stool, officially received upon her cheeks the salute intended 
 by the gracious Haroun for other sultanas, and was pri- 
 vately rewarded from the coffers of the ladies of the 
 harem. 
 
 And now it was, at the full height of enjoyment of my 
 bliss, that I became heavily troubled. I began to think of 
 my mother, and what she would say to my taking home at 
 midsummer eight of the most beautiful daughters of men, 
 but all unexpected. I thought of the number of beds we 
 made up at our house, of my father's income, and of 
 the baker, and my despondency redoubled. Seraglio and 
 malicious vizier, divining the cause of their lord's unhap- 
 piness, did their utmost to augment it. They professed un- 
 bounded fidelity, and declared that they would live and die 
 with him. Reduced to the utmost wretchedness by these 
 protestations of attachment, I lay awake, for hours at a time, 
 ruminating on my frightful lot. In my despair, I think I 
 might have taken an early opportunity of falling on my 
 knees before Miss Griffin, avowing my resemblance to Solo- 
 mon, and praying to be dealt with according to the out- 
 raged laws of my country, if an unthought-of means of 
 escape had not opened before me. 
 
 One day we were out walking, two and two — on which oc- 
 casion the vizier had his usual instructions to take note 
 of the boy at the turnpike, and if he profanely gazed (which 
 he alway did) at the beauties of the harem, to have him bow- 
 strung in the course of the night — and it happened that our 
 hearts were veiled in gloom. An unaccountable action on 
 the part of the antelope had plunged the state into disgrace, 
 
436 THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 That charmer, on the representation that the previous day 
 was her birthday, and that vast treasures had been sent in 
 a hamper for its celebration (both baseless assertions), had 
 secretly but most pressingly invited thirty-five neighbor- 
 ing princes and princesses to a ball and supper, with a 
 special stipulation that they were " not to be fetched 
 till twelve." This wandering of the antelope's fancy, 
 led to the surprising arrival at Miss Grimns's door, 
 in divers equipages and under various escorts of a 
 great company in full dress, who were deposited on the top 
 step in a flush of high expectancy, and who were dismissed 
 in tears. At the beginning of the double knocks attendant 
 on these ceremonies, the antelope had retired to a back attic 
 and bolted herself in ; and at every new arrival, Miss Grif- 
 fin had gone so much rnore and more distracted, that at 
 last she had been seen to tear her front. Ultimate capitu- 
 lation on the part of the offender, had been followed by soli- 
 tude in the linen-closet, bread and water, and a lecture to all, 
 of vindictive length, in which Miss Griffin had used expres- 
 sions : Firstly, " I believe you all of you knew of it ; " 
 Secondly, " Every one of you is as wicked as another ; " 
 " Thirdly, " A pack of little wretches." 
 
 Under these circumstances, we were walking drearily 
 along ; and I especially, with my Mussulman responsibilities 
 heavy on me, was in a very low state of mind ; when a 
 strange man accosted Miss Griffin, and, after walking on at 
 her side for a little while and talking with her, looked at me. 
 Supposing him to be a minion of tbe law, and that my 
 hour was come, I instantly ran away, with a general purpose 
 of making for Egypt. 
 
 The whole seraglio cried out, when they saw me making 
 off as fast as my legs would carry me (I had an impression 
 that the first turning on the left, and round by the public- 
 house, would be the shortest way to the Pyramids), Miss 
 Griffin screamed after me, the faithless vizier ran after me, 
 and the boy at the turnpike dodged me into a corner, like a 
 sheep, and cut me off. Nobody scolded me when I was 
 taken and brought back ; Miss Griffin only said, with a stun- 
 ning gentleness. This ways very curious ! Why had I run 
 away when the gentleman looked at me ? 
 
 If I had had my breath to answer with, I dare say I should 
 have made no answer ; having no breath, I certainly made 
 none. Miss Griffin and the strange man took me between 
 them, and walked me back to the palace in a sort of state ; 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 437 
 
 but not at all (as I couldn't help feeling, with astonishment), 
 in culprit state. 
 
 When we got there, we went into a room by ourselves, and 
 Miss Griffin called into her assistance, Mesrour, chief of the 
 dusky guards of the harem. Mesrour, on being whispered 
 to, began to shed tears. 
 
 " Bless you, my precious ! " said that officer, turning to 
 me ; " your pa's took bitter bad ! " 
 
 I asked, with a fluttered heart, " Is he very ill ? " 
 
 " Lord temper the wind to you, my lamb ! " said the good 
 Mesrour, kneeling down, that I might have a comforting 
 shoulder for my head to rest on, " your pa's dead ! " 
 
 Haroun Alraschid took to flight at the words ; the serag- 
 lio vanished ; from that moment, I never again saw one of 
 the eight of the fairest of the daughters of men. 
 
 I was taken home, and there was debt at home as well as 
 death, and we had a sale there. My own little bed was so 
 superciliously looked upon by a power unknown to me, 
 hazily called " The Trade," that a brass coal-scuttle, or 
 roasting-jack, and a bird-cage, were obliged to be put into it 
 to make a lot of it, and then it went for a song. So I heard 
 mentioned, and I wondered what song, and thought what a 
 song it must have been to sing ! 
 
 Then I was sent to a great, cold, bare school of big boys ; 
 where every thing to eat and wear was thick and clumpy, 
 without being enough ; where every body, large and small, 
 was cruel ; where the boys knew all about the sale, before I 
 got there, and asked me what I had fetched, and who had 
 bought me, and hooted at me, " Going, going, gone ! " i 
 never whispered in that wretched place that I had been 
 Haroun, or had had a seraglio ; for I knew that if I men- 
 tioned my reverses, I should be so worried, that I should 
 have to drown myself in the muddy pond near the play- 
 ground, which looked like the beer. 
 
 Ah me, ah me ! No other ghost has haunted the boy's 
 room, my friends, since I have occupied it, than the ghost of 
 my own childhood, the ghost of my own innocence, the 
 ghost of my own airy belief. Many a time have I pursued 
 the phantom — never with this man's stride of mind to come 
 up with it, never with these man's hands of mine to touch it, 
 never more to this man's heart of mine to hold it in its 
 purity. And here you see me working out, as cheerfully and 
 thankfully as I may, my doom of shaving in the glass a con- 
 stant change of customers, and of lying down and rising up 
 with the skeleton allotted to me for my mortal companion. 
 
GOING INTO SOCIETY. 
 
 At one period of its reverses, the House to Let fell into the 
 occupation of a showman. He was found registered as its 
 occupier, on the parish books of the time when he rented the 
 house, and there was therefore no need of any clew to his 
 name. But he himself was less easy to be found ; for he had 
 led a wandering life, and settled people had lost sight of 
 him, and people who plumed themselves on being respect- 
 able were shy of admitting that they had ever known any 
 thing of him. At last, among the marsh lands near the 
 river's level, that lie about Deptford and the neighboring 
 market-gardens, a grizzled personage in velveteen, with a 
 face so cut up by varieties of weather that he looked as if 
 he had been tattooed, was found smoking a pipe at the door 
 of a wooden house on wheels. The wooden house was laid 
 up in ordinary for the winter near the mouth of a muddy 
 creek ; and every thing near it, the foggy river, the misty 
 marshes, and the steaming market-gardens, smoked in com- 
 pany with the grizzled man. In the midst of this smoking 
 party, the funnel-chimney of the wooden house on wheels 
 was not remiss, but took its pipe with the rest in a compan- 
 ionable manner. 
 
 On being asked if it were he who had once rented the 
 house to let, Grizzled Velveteen looked surprised, and said 
 yes. Then his name was Magsman ? That was it, Toby 
 Magsman — which lawfully christened Robert ; but called in 
 the line from a infant, Toby. There was nothing agin Toby 
 Magsman, he believed ? If there was suspicion of such, 
 mention it ! 
 
 There was no suspicion of such, he might rest assured. 
 But some inquiries were making about that house, and would 
 he object to say why he left it ? 
 
 Not at all ; why should he ? He left it along of a dwarf. 
 
 Along of a dwarf ? 
 
GOING INTO SOCIETY. 439 
 
 Mr. Magsman repeated, deliberately and emphatically. 
 Along of a dwarf. 
 
 Might it be compatible with Mr. Magsman's inclination 
 and convenience to enter, as a favor, into a few particulars ? 
 
 Mr. Magsman entered into the following particulars. 
 
 It was a long time ago, to begin with ; — afore lotteries and 
 a deal more was done away with. Mr. Magsman was look- 
 ing about for a good pitch, and he see that house, and he 
 says to himself, " I'll have you if you're to be had. If 
 money'll get you, I'll have you. 
 
 The neighbors cut up rough, and made complaints ; but 
 Mr. Magsman don't know what they would have had. It was 
 a lovely thing. First of all, there was the canvas representin' 
 the picter of the giant, in Spanish trunks and a ruff, who was 
 himself half the height of the house, and was run up with a 
 line and pulley to a pole on the roof, so that his 'ed was 
 coeval with the parapet. Then there was the canvas repre- 
 sentin' the picter of the Albina lady, showin' her white 'air 
 to the army and navy in correct uniform. Then there was 
 the canvas representin' the picter of the wild Indian a-scalp- 
 in' a member of some foreign nation. Then there was the 
 canvas representin' the picter of the child of a British 
 planter, seized by two boa constrictors — not that we never 
 had no child, nor no constrictors neither. Similarly there 
 was the canvas representin' the picter of the wild ass of the 
 prairies — not that we never had no wild asses, nor wouldn't 
 have had 'em at a gift. Last there was the canvas represent- 
 in' the picter of the dwarf, and like him too (considerin'), 
 with George the Fourth in such a state of astonishment an' 
 him as his majesty couldn't with his utmost politeness and 
 stoutness express. The front of the house was so covered 
 with canvas, that there wasn't a spark of daylight ever vis- 
 ible on that side. " Magsman's Amusements," fifteen foot 
 long by two foot high, ran over the front door and parlor 
 winders. The passage was a arbor of green baize and gar- 
 den-stuff. A barrel-organ performed there unceasing. And 
 as to respectability — if threepence ain't respectable, what 
 is? 
 
 But the dwarf is the principal article at present, and he was 
 worth the money. He was wrote up as Major Tpschoffki, of 
 the Imperial Bulgraderian Brigade. Nobody couldn't 
 pronounce the name, and it never was intended any body 
 should. The public always turned it, as a regular rule, into 
 Chopski. In the line he was called Chops ; partly on that 
 
44 o GOING INTO SOCIETY. 
 
 account, and partly becanse his real name, if he ever had a 
 real name (which was very dubious), was Stakes. 
 
 He was an uncommon small man, he really was. Certainly 
 not so small as he was made out to be, but where is your 
 dwarf as is ? He was a most uncommon small man with a 
 most uncommon large 'ed ; and what he had inside that 'ed, 
 nobody never knowed but himself ; even supposin' himself 
 to have ever took stock of it, which it would have been a 
 stiff job for even him to do. 
 
 The kindest little man as never growed ! Spirited, but 
 not proud. When he traveled with the spotted baby, 
 though he knowed himself to be a nat'ral dwarf, and knowed 
 the baby's spots to be put upon him artificial, he nursed the 
 baby like a mother. You never heerd him give a ill-name 
 to a giant. He did allow himself to break out into strong 
 language respecting the fat lady from Norfolk ; but thatwas 
 an affair of the 'art ; and when a man's 'art has been trifled 
 with by a lady, and the preference give to a Indian, he ain't 
 master of his actions. 
 
 He was always in love, of course ; every human nat'ral 
 phenomenon is. And he was always in love with a large 
 woman ; / never knowed the dwarf as could be got to love a 
 small one. Which helps to keep 'em the curiosities they 
 are. 
 
 One sing'lar idea he had in that 'ed of his, which must 
 have meant something, or it wouldn't have been there. It 
 was always his opinion that he was entitled to property. He 
 never would put his name to any thing. He had been taught 
 to write, by the young man without arms, who got his living 
 with his toes (quite a writing-master he was^and taught 
 scores in the line), but Chops would have starved to death 
 afore he'd have gained a bit of bread by putting his hand to 
 a paper. This is the more curious to bear in mind, because 
 HE had no property, nor hope of property, except his house 
 and a sarser. When'l say his house, I mean the box, painted 
 and got up outside like a reg'lar six-roomer, that he used to 
 creep into, with a diamond ring (or quite as good to look at) 
 on his forefinger, and ring a little bell out of what the public 
 believed to be the drawing-room winder. And when I say 
 sarser, I mean a chaney sarser in which he made a collec- 
 tion for himself at the end of every entertainment. His cue 
 for that, he took from me : " Ladies and gentlemen, the lit- 
 tle man will now walk three times round the cairawan, and 
 retire behind the curtain," When he saidanv thing import- 
 
GOING INTO SOCIETY. 44 i 
 
 ant, in private life, he mostly wound it up with this form of 
 words, and they was generally the last thing he said to me 
 at night afore he went to bed. 
 
 He had what I consider a fine mind — a poetic mind. His 
 ideas respectin' his property never come upon him so strong 
 as when he sat upon a barrel-organ and had the handle 
 turned. Arter the wibration had run through him a little 
 time, he would screech out : "Toby, I feel my property 
 coming — grind away ! I'm counting my guineas by thou- 
 sands, Toby — grind away ! Toby, I shall be a man of 
 fortun ! I feel the mint a jingling in me, Toby, and I'm 
 swelling out into the Bank of England ! " Such is the influence 
 of music on a poetic mind. Not that he was partial to any 
 other music but a barrel-organ ; on the contrary, hated it. 
 
 He had a kind of a everlasting grudge agin the public ; 
 which is a thing you may notice in many phenomenons that 
 get their living out of it. What riled him most in the nater 
 of his occupation was that it kep' him out of society. He was 
 continiwally sayin' : " Toby, my ambition is to go into so- 
 ciety. The curse of my position toward the public is that it 
 keeps me hout of society. This don't signify to a low beast 
 of a Indian ; he ain't formed for society. This don't signify 
 to a spotted baby ; he ain't formed for society — I am." 
 
 Nobody never could make out what Chops done with his 
 money. He had a good salary, down on the drum every 
 Saturday as the day come round, besides having the run of his 
 teeth — and he was a woodpecker to eat — but all dwarfs 
 are. The sarser was a little income, bringing him in so 
 many half-pence that he'd carry 'em, for a week together, 
 tied up in a pocket handkerchief. And yet he never had 
 money. And it couldn't be the fat lady from Norfolk, as 
 was once supposed ; because it stands to reason that when 
 you have a animosity toward a Indian which makes you 
 grind your teeth at him to his face, and which can hardly 
 hold you from goosing him audible when he's going through 
 his war-dance — it stands to reason you wouldn't under 
 them circumstances deprive yourself to support that Indian 
 in the lap of luxury. 
 
 Most unexpected, the mystery come out one day at Egham 
 Races. The public was shy of bein' pulled in, and Chops was 
 ringin' his little bell out of his drawing-room winder, and was 
 snarlin' to me over his shoulder as he kneeled down with his 
 legs out at the back doer — for he couldn't be shoved into his 
 house without kneeling down, and the premises wouldn't ac- 
 
442 Going into sociEf y. 
 
 commodate his legs — was snarlin, " Here's a precious public 
 for you ; why the devil don't they tumble up ? " when a man 
 in the crowd holds up a carrier-pigeon, and cries out : " If 
 there's any person here as has got a ticket, the lottery's just 
 drawed, and the number as has come up for the great prize 
 is three, seven, forty-two ! Three, seven, forty-two ! " 1 was 
 givin' the man to the furies myself, for calling off the pub- 
 lic's attention — for the public will turn away, at any time, to 
 look at any thing in preference to the thing showed 'em : 
 and if you doubt it, get 'em together for any indiwidual pur- 
 pose on the face of the earth, and send only two people in 
 late, and see if the whole company ain't far more interested 
 in takin' particular notice of them two than of you — I say, I 
 wasn't best pleased with the man for callin' out, and wasn't 
 blessin' him in my own mind, when I see Chops's little bell 
 fly out of winder at a old lady, and he gets up and kicks his 
 box over, exposin' the whole secret, and he catches hold of 
 the calves of my legs and he says to me, " Carry me into the 
 wan, Toby, and throw a pail of water over me or I'm a dead 
 man, for I've come into my property ! " 
 
 Twelve thousand odd hundred pound, was Chops's win- 
 nins. He had bought a half-ticket for the twenty -five thou- 
 sand prize, and it had come up. The first use he made of 
 his property w r as to offer to fight the wild Indian for five 
 hundred pound a side, him with a poisoned darnin '-needle 
 and the Indian with a club ; but the Indian bein' in want of 
 backers to that amount, it went no further. 
 
 Arter he had been mad for a w r eek — in a state of mind, in 
 short, in which, if I had let him sit on the organ for only 
 two minutes, I believe he would have burst — but we kep' the 
 organ from him — Mr. Chops come round, and behaved lib- 
 eral and beautiful to all. He then sent for a young man he 
 knowed, as had a wery genteel appearance and was a Bon- 
 net at a gaming-booth (most respectable brought up, father 
 having been imminent in the livery-stable line but unfort'nate 
 in a commercial crisis through paintin' a old gray, ginger- 
 bay, and sellin' him with a pedigree), and Mr. Chops said to 
 this Bonnet, who said his name was Normandy, which it 
 wasn't :: — 
 
 " Normandy, I'm a going into society. Will you go with 
 me ? " 
 
 Says Normandy : "Do I understand you, Mr. Chops, to 
 hintimate that the 'ole of the expenses of that move will be 
 borne by yourself ? " 
 
GOING INTO SOCIETY 443 
 
 "Correct," says Mr. Chops. "And you shall nave a 
 princely allowance too." 
 
 The Bonnet lifted Mr. Chops upon a chair to shake hands 
 with him, and replied in poetry, with his eyes seemingly fulL 
 of tears : — 
 
 " My boat is on the shore, 
 And my bark is on the sea, 
 And 1 do not ask for more, 
 But I'll go ; — along with thee." 
 
 They went into society, in a chay and four grays with silk 
 jackets. They took lodgings in Pall Mall, London, and they 
 blazed away. 
 
 In consequence of a note that was brought to Bartlemy 
 Fair in the autumn of next year by a servant, most wonder- 
 ful got up in milk-white cords and tops, I cleaned myself 
 and went to Pall Mall, one evenin' appinted. The gentle- 
 men was at their wine arter dinner, and Mr. Chops's eyes 
 was more fixed in that 'ed of his than I thought good for 
 him. There was three of 'em (in company, I mean), and I 
 knowed the third well. When last met, he had on a white 
 Roman shirt, and a bishop's-miter covered with leopard- 
 skin, and played the clarionet all wrong, in a band at a wild 
 beast show. 
 
 This gent took on not to know me, and Mr. Chops said : 
 "Gentlemen, this is an old friend of former days;" and 
 Normandy looked at me through a eye-glass, and said, 
 " Magsman, glad to see you ! " — which I'll take my oath he 
 wasn't. Mr. Chops, to git him convenient to the table, had 
 his chair on a throne (much of the form of George the 
 Fourth's in the canvas), but he hardly appeared to me to be 
 king there in any other pint of view, for his two gentlemen 
 ordered about like emperors. They was all dressed like 
 May-day — gorgeous ! — and as to wine, they swam in all 
 sorts. 
 
 I made the round of the bottles, first separate (to say I had 
 done it), and then mixed 'em all together (to say I had done 
 it), and then tried two of 'em as half-and-half, and then 
 t'other two. Altogether, I passed a pleasin' evenin', but with 
 a tendency to feel muddled, until I considered it good man- 
 ners to get up and say : " Mr. Chops, the best of friends 
 must part, I thank you for the wariety of foreign drains you 
 have stood so 'ansome, I looks toward you in red wine, and 
 I takes my leave." Mr. Chops replied : " If you'll just 
 hitch me out of this over your right arm, Magsman, and 
 carry me down stairs, I'll see you out." I said I couldn't 
 
444 GOING INTO SOCIETY. 
 
 think of such a thing, but he would have it, so I lifted him 
 off his throne. He smelt strong of maideary, and I couldn't 
 help thinking as I carried him down that it was like carrying 
 a large bottle full of wine, with a rayther ugly stopper, a 
 good deal out of proportion. 
 
 When I sat him on the door mat in the hall, he kep' me 
 close to him by holding on to my coat-collar, and he whis- 
 pers— 
 
 " I ain't 'appy, Magsman." 
 
 " What's on your mind, Mr. Chops ? " 
 
 " They don't use me well. They ain't grateful to me. 
 They puts me on the mantle-piece when I won't have in more 
 champagne-wine, and they locks me in the sideboard when 
 I won't give up my property." 
 
 " Get rid of 'em, Mr. Chops." 
 
 " I can't. We're in society together, and what would 
 society say ? " 
 
 " Come out of society," says I. 
 
 " I can't. You don't know what you're talking about 
 When you have once gone into society, you mustn't come out 
 of it." 
 
 "Then if you'll excuse the freedom, Mr. Chops," were 
 my remark, shaking my head grave, " I think it's a pity you 
 ever went in." 
 
 Mr. Chops shook that deep 'ed of his to a surprisin' ex' 
 tent, and slapped it half a dozen times with his hand, and 
 with more wice than I thought were in him. Then he says: 
 u You're a good feller, but you don't understand. Good- 
 night, go along, Magsman, the little man will now walk three 
 times round the cairawan, and retire behind the curtain." 
 The last I see of him on that occasion was his tryin', on the 
 extremest werge of insensibility, to climb up the stairs, one 
 by one, with his hands and knees. They'd have been much 
 too steep for him, if he had been sober ; but he wouldn't be 
 helped. 
 
 It warn't long after that, that I read in the newspaper of 
 Mr. Chops's being presented at court. It was printed : " It 
 will be recollected " — and I've noticed in my life, that it is 
 sure to be printed that it will be recollected whenever it 
 won't — " that Mr. Chops is the individual of small stature 
 whose brilliant success in the last state lottery attracted so 
 much attention." Well, I says to myself, such is life ! He 
 has been and done it in earnest at last ! He has astonished 
 George the Fourth ! 
 
GOING INTO SOCIETY. 445 
 
 (On account of which, I had that canvas new-painted, him 
 with a bag of money in his hand, a presentin' it to George 
 the Fourth, and a lady in ostrich feathers falling in love 
 with him in a bag-wig, sword, and buckles correct.) 
 
 I took the house as is the subject of present inquiries — 
 though not the honor of bein' acquainted — and I run Mags- 
 man's Amusements in it thirteen months — sometimes one 
 thing, sometimes another, sometimes nothin' particular, but 
 always all the canvases outside. One night, when we had 
 played the last company out, which was a shy company through 
 its raining heavens hard, I was takin' a pipe in the one pair 
 back along with the young man with the toes, which I had 
 taken on for a month (though he never drawed — except on 
 paper), and I heard a kickin' at the street door. " Halloa ! " 
 I says to the young man, "what's up !" he rubs his eye- 
 brows with his toes, and he says, " I can't imagine, ifar. 
 Magsman," — which he never could imagine nothin', and 
 was monotonous company. 
 
 The noise not leavin' off, I laid down my pipe, and I took 
 up a candle, and I went down and opened the door. I 
 looked out into the street ; but nothin' could I see, and 
 nothin' was I aware of, until I turned round quick, because 
 some creetur run between my legs into the passage. There 
 was Mr Chops ! 
 
 " Magsman," he says, " take me on the hold terms, and 
 you've got me ; if it's done, say done ! " 
 
 I was all of a maze, but I said, " Done, sir." 
 
 " Done to your done, and double done ! " says he. " Have 
 you got a bit of supper in the house ? " 
 
 Bearin' in mind them sparklin' warieties of foreign drains 
 as we'd guzzled away at in Pall Mall, I was ashamed to 
 offer him cold sassages and gin-and-water ; but he took 'em 
 both and took 'em free ; havin' a chair for his table, and 
 sittin' down at it on a stool, like hold times. I all of a maze 
 all the while. 
 
 It was arter he had made a clean sweep of the sassages 
 (beef, and to the best of my calculations two pound and a 
 quarter), that the wisdom as was in that little man began to 
 come out of him like perspiration. 
 
 " Magsman," he says, " look upon me ! You see afore 
 you one as has both gone in society and come out." 
 
 " Oh, you are out of it, Mr. Chops ? How did you get 
 out, sir? " 
 
 l< Sold out ! " says he. You never saw the like of the 
 
446 GOING INTO SOCIETY. 
 
 wisdom as his 'ed expressed, when he made use of them two 
 words. 
 
 " My friend Magsman, I'll impart a discovery to you I've 
 made. It's wallable ; it's cost twelve thousand five hundred 
 pound ; it may do you good in life. — The secret of this 
 matter is, that it ain't so much that a person goes into so- 
 ciety, as that society goes into a person." 
 
 Not exactly keeping up with his meanin' I shook my head, 
 put on a deep look, and said, " You're right there, Mr.. 
 Chops." 
 
 " Magsman." he says, twitchin' me by the leg, " society 
 has gone into me, to the tune of every penny of my prop- 
 erty." 
 
 I felt that I went pale, and, though nat'rally a bold 
 speaker, I couldn't hardly say, " Where's Normandy ? " 
 
 " Bolted. With the plate," says Mr. Chops. 
 
 " And t'other one ? " — meaning him as formerly wore the 
 bishop's miter. 
 
 " Bolted. With the jewels," says Mr. Chops. 
 
 I sat down and looked at him, and he stood up and looked 
 at me. 
 
 " Magsman," he says, and he seemed to myself to get 
 wiser as he got hoarser. " Society, taken in the lump, is all 
 dwarfs. At the court of Saint James's they was all a-doin' 
 my hold bisness — all a-goin' three times round the cairawan, 
 in the hold court-suits and properties. Elsewheres, they 
 was most of 'em ringing their little bells out of make-believ- 
 ers. Everywheres the sarser was a-goin' round. Magsman, 
 the sarser is the uniwersal institution ! " 
 
 I perceived, you understand, that he was soured by his 
 misfortunes, and I felt for Mr. Chops. 
 
 " As to fat ladies," says he, giving his 'ed a tremendious 
 one agin the wall, " there's lots of them in society, and worse 
 than the original. Hers was a outrage upon taste — simply a 
 outrage upon taste — awakenin' contempt — carryin' its own 
 punishment in the form of a Indian ! " Here he giv' him- 
 self another tremendious one. " But theirs, Magsman, theirs 
 is mercenary outrages. Lay in Cashmeer shawls, buy brace- 
 lets, strew 'em and a lot of 'andsome fans and things about 
 your rooms, let it be known that you give away like water to 
 all as come to admire, and the fat ladies that don't exhibit 
 for so much down upon the drum will come from all the 
 pints of the compass to flock about you, whatever you are. 
 They'll drill holes in your 'art, Magsman, like a cullender. 
 
GOING INTO SOCIETY. 447 
 
 And when you've no more left to give, they'll laugh at you 
 to your face, and leave you to have your bones picked dry 
 by wulturs, like the dead wild ass of the prairies that you 
 deserve to be ! " Here he giv' himself the most tremendious 
 one of all, and dropped. 
 
 I thought he was gone. His 'ed was so heavy, and he 
 knocked it so hard, and he fell so stony, and the sassagerial 
 disturbance in him must have been so immense, that I 
 thought he was gone. But he soon come round with care, 
 and he sat up on the floor, and he said to me, with wis- 
 dom comin' out of his eyes, if ever it come : — 
 
 " Magsman ! The most material difference between the 
 two states of existence through which your unhappy friend 
 has passed," — he reached out his poor little hand, and his 
 tears dropped down on the mustachio which it was credit to 
 him to have done his best to grow, but it is not in mortals to 
 command success — " the difference is this. When I was out 
 of society, I was paid light for being seen. When I went 
 into society, I paid heavy for being seen. I prefer the 
 former, even if I wasn't forced upon it. Give me out through 
 the trumpet, in the hold way to-morrow." 
 
 Arter that, he slid into the line again as easy as if he 
 had been iled all over. But the organ was kep' from him, 
 and no allusions was ever made, when a company was in, to 
 his property. He got wiser every day ; his views of society 
 and the public was luminous, bewilderin', awful : and his 'ed 
 got bigger and bigger as his wisdom expanded it. 
 
 He took well, and pulled 'em in most excellent for nine 
 weeks. At the expiration of that period, when his 'ed was a 
 sight, he expressed one evenin', the last company havin' 
 been turned out, and the door shut, a wish to have a little 
 music. 
 
 " Mr. Chops," I said (I never dropped the " Mr." with 
 him ; the world might do it, but not me) — " Mr. Chops, are 
 you sure as you are in a state of mind and body to sit upon 
 the organ ? " 
 
 His answer was this : " Toby, when next met with on the 
 tramp, I forgive her and the Indian. And I am." 
 
 It was with fear and trembling that I began to turn the 
 handle ; but he sat like a lamb. It will be my belief to my 
 dying day, that I see his 'ed expand as he sat ; you may 
 therefore judge how great his thoughts was. He sat out all 
 the changes, and then he come off. 
 
 " Toby," he says with a quiet smile, " the little man will 
 
448 GOING INTO SOCIETY. 
 
 now walk three times round the cairawan, and retire behind 
 the curtain.'' 
 
 When we called him in the morning, we found him gone 
 "into a much better society than mine or Pall Mall's. I giv' 
 Mr. Chops as comfortable a funeral as lay in my power, fol- 
 lowed myself as chief, and had the George the Fourth can- 
 vas carried first, in the form of a banner. But the house 
 was. so dismal arterward that I giv' it up, and took to the 
 wan again. 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 
 
 [1861.] 
 
 IN THREE CHAPTERS* 
 
 I. 
 
 PICKING UP SOOT AND CINDERS. 
 
 " And why Tom Tiddler's Ground ? " asked the traveler. 
 " Because he scatters half-pence to tramps and such-like," 
 returned the landlord, " and of course they pick 'em up. 
 And this being done on his own land (which it is his own 
 land, you observe, and were his family's before him), why 
 it is but regarding the half-pence as gold and silver, and turn- 
 ing the ownership of the property a bit round your finger, 
 and there you have the name of the children's game com- 
 plete. And it's appropriate too," said the landlord, with 
 his favorite action of stooping a little, to look across the 
 table out of window at vacancy, under the window-blind 
 which was half drawn down. " Leastwise it has been so 
 considered by many gentlemen which have partook of chops 
 and tea in the present humble parlor." 
 
 The traveler was partaking of chops and tea in the pres- 
 ent humble parlor, and the landlord's shot was fired ob- 
 liquely at him. 
 
 "And you call him a hermit ? " said the traveler. 
 
 " They call him such," returned the landlord, evading 
 personal responsibility ; M he is in general so considered." 
 
 " What is a hermit ? " asked the traveler. 
 
 " What is it ? " repeated the landlord, drawing his hand 
 across his chin. 
 
 " Yes, what is it ? " 
 
 * The original has seven chapters ; but those not printed here were not written &y 
 Mr. Dickens. 
 
45© TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 
 
 The landlord stooped again, to get a more comprehensive 
 view of vacancy under the window-blind, and— with an 
 asphyxiated appearance on him as one unaccustomed to defi- 
 nition — made no answer. 
 
 " I'll tell you what I suppose it to be," said the traveler. 
 " An abominably dirty thing." 
 
 " Mr. Mopes is dirty, it can not be denied," said the land- 
 lord. 
 
 " Intolerably conceited." 
 
 " Mr. Mopes is vain of the life he leads, some do say," 
 replied the landlord, as another concession. 
 
 " A slothful, unsavory, nasty reversal of the laws of hu- 
 man nature," said the traveler ; " and for the sake of God's 
 working world and its wholesomeness, both moral and 
 physical, I would put the thing on the tread-mill (if I had 
 my way) wherever I found it ; whether on a pillar, or in a 
 hole ; whether on Tom Tiddler's ground, or the Pope of 
 Rome's ground, or a Hindoo fakier's ground, or any other 
 ground." 
 
 " I don't know about putting Mr. Mopes on the tread- 
 mill," said the landlord, shaking his head very seriously. 
 " There ain't a doubt but what he has got landed property." 
 
 " How far may it be to this said Tom Tiddler's Ground ? " 
 asked the traveler. 
 
 " Put it at five mile," returned the landlord. 
 
 " Well ! When I have done my breakfast," said the 
 traveler, " I'll go there. I came over here this morning to 
 find it out and see it." 
 
 " Many does," observed the landlord. 
 
 The conversation passed, in the midsummer weather of 
 no remote year of grace, down among the pleasant dales and 
 trout-streams of a green English county. No matter what 
 county. Enough that you may hunt there, shoot there, fish 
 there, traverse long grass-grown Roman roads there, open 
 ancient barrows there, see many a square mile of richly 
 cultivated land there, and hold Arcadian talk with a bold 
 peasantry, their country's pride, who will tell you (if you 
 want to know) how pastoral housekeeping is done on nine 
 shillings a week. 
 
 Mr. Traveler sat at his breakfast in the little sanded par- 
 lor of the Peal of Bells village ale-house, with the dew and 
 dust of an early walk upon his shoes — an early walk by road 
 and meadow and coppice, that had sprinkled him bountifully 
 with little blades of grass, and scraps of new hay, and with 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 451 
 
 leaves both young and old, and with other such fragrant to- 
 kens of the freshness and wealth of summer. The window 
 through which the landlord had concentrated his gaze upon 
 vacancy was shaded, because the morning sun was hot and 
 bright on the village street. The village street was like most 
 other village streets : wide for its height, silent for its size, 
 and drowsy in the dullest degree.. The quietest little dwell- 
 ings with the largest of window-shutters (to shut up nothing 
 as carefully as if it were the mint, or the Bank of England), 
 had called in the doctor's house so suddenly, that his brass 
 door-plate and three stories stood among them as conspicuous 
 and different as the doctor himself in his broadcloth, among 
 the smock-frocks of his patients. The village residences 
 seemed to have gone to law with a similar absence of con- 
 sideration, for a score of weak little lath-and-plaster cabins 
 clung in confusion about the attorney's red-brick house, 
 which, with glaring doorsteps and a most terrific scraper, 
 seemed to serve all manner of ejectments upon them. They 
 were as various as laborers— high-shouldered, wry-necked, 
 one-eyed, goggle-eyed, squinting, bow-legged, knock-kneed, 
 rheumatic, crazy. Some of the small tradesmen's houses, 
 such as the crockery-shop and the harness-maker's, had a 
 Cyclops window in the middle of the gable, within an inch or 
 two of its apex, suggesting that some forlorn rural 'prentice 
 must wriggle himself into that apartment horizontally, when 
 he retired to rest, after the manner of the worm. So beauti- 
 ful in its abundance was the surrounding country, and so lean 
 and scant the village, that one might have thought the village 
 had sown and planted every thing it once possessed, to con- 
 vert the same into crops. This would account for the bare- 
 ness of the little shops, the bareness of the few boards and 
 trestles designed for market purposes in a corner of the 
 street, the bareness of the obsolete inn and inn yard, with 
 the ominous inscription, " Excise Office," not yet faded out 
 from the gate-way as indicating the very last thing that pov- 
 erty could get rid of. This would also account for the de- 
 termined abandonment of the village by one stray dog, fast 
 lessening in the perspective where the white posts and the 
 pond were, and would explain his conduct on the hypothesis 
 that he was going (through the act of suicide) to convert 
 himself into manure, and become a part proprietor in tur- 
 nips or mangold-wurzel. 
 
 Mr Traveler having finished his breakfast and paid his 
 moderate score, walked out to the threshold of the Peal of 
 
452 TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 
 
 Bells, and thence directed by the pointing finger of his host, 
 betook himself toward the ruined hermitage of Mr. Mopes, 
 the hermit. 
 
 For Mr. Mopes, by suffering every thing about him to go 
 to ruin, and by dressing himself in a blanket and skewer, 
 and by steeping himself in soot and grease, and other nasti- 
 ness, had acquired great renown in all that country side — 
 far greater renown than he could ever have won for himself, 
 if his career had been that of any ordinary Christian, or 
 decent Hottentot. He had even blanketed and skewered 
 and sooted and greased himself into the London papers. 
 And it was curious to find, as Mr. Traveler found by stop- 
 ping for a new direction at this farm-house or at that cottage 
 as he went along, with how much accuracy the morbid 
 Mopes had counted on the weakness of his neighbors to em- 
 bellish him. A mist of home-brewed marvel and romance 
 surrounded Mopes, in which (as in all fogs) the real propor- 
 tions of the real object were extravagantly heightened. He 
 had murdered his beautiful beloved in a fit of jealousy, and 
 was doing penance ; he had made a vow under the influence 
 of grief ; he had made a vow under the influence of a fatal 
 accident ; he had made a vow under the influence of re- 
 ligion ; he had made a vow under the influence of drink ; 
 he had made a vow under the influence of disappointment ; 
 he had never made any vow, but " had got led into it " by 
 the possession of a mighty and most awful secret ; he was 
 enormously rich, he was stupendously charitable, he was 
 profoundly learned, he saw specters, he knew and could do 
 all kinds of wonders. Some said he went out every night, 
 and was met by terrified wayfarers stalking along dark roads, 
 others said he never went out ; some knew his penance to be 
 nearly expired, others had positive information that his se- 
 clusion was not a penance at all, and would expire but with 
 himself. Even as to the easy facts of how old he was, or 
 how long he had held verminous occupation of his blanket 
 and skewer, no consistent information was to be got, from 
 those who must know if they would. He was represented 
 as being all the ages between five-and-twenty and sixty, and 
 as having been a hermit seven years, twelve, twenty, thirty — 
 though twenty, on the whole, appeared the favorite term. 
 
 " Well, well ! " said Mr. Traveler. " At any rate, let us 
 see what a real live hermit looks like." 
 
 So Mr. Traveler went on, and on, and on, until he came 
 to Tom Tiddler's Ground. 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 453 
 
 It was a nook in a rustic bv-road, which the genius of 
 Mopes had laid waste as completely as if he had been born 
 an emperor and a conqueror. Its center object was a dwell- 
 ing-house, sufficiently substantial, all the window-glass of 
 which had been long ago abolished by the surprising genius 
 of Mopes and all the windows of which were barred across 
 with rough split logs of trees nailed over them on the out- 
 side A rick-yard, hip-high in vegetable rankness and ruin, 
 contained out-buildings, from which the thatch had lightly 
 fluttered away, on all the winds of all the seasons of the year 
 and from which the planks and beams had heavily dropped 
 and rotted The frosts and damps of winter, and the heat 
 of summer, had warped what wreck remained, so that not a 
 post or board retained the position it was meant to hold, but 
 every thing was twisted from its purpose, like its owner, and 
 degraded and debased. In this homestead of the sluggard 
 behind the ruined hedge, and sinking away among the ruined 
 grass and the nettles, were the last perishing fragments of 
 certain ricks, which had gradually mildewed and collapsed, 
 until they looked like mounds of rotten honeycomb or dirty 
 sponge Tom Tiddler's Ground could even show its ruined 
 water •' for there was a slimy pond into which a tree or two 
 had fallen— one soppy trunk and branches lay across it then 
 —which in its accumulation of stagnant weed, and in its 
 black decomposition, and in all its foulness and filth, was 
 almost comforting, regarded as the only water that could 
 have reflected the shameful place without seeming polluted 
 by that low office. T ,*j W(1 
 
 Mr Traveler looked all around him on Tom Tiddler s 
 Ground, and his glance at last encountered a dusty tinker 
 lying among the weeds and rank grass, in the shade of the 
 dwelling-house. A rough walking-staff lay on the ground by 
 his side? and his head rested on a small wallet. He met Mr. 
 Traveler's eye without lifting up his head, merely depressing 
 his chin a little (for he was lying on his back) to get a better 
 view of him. 
 
 " Good-day I " said Mr. Traveler. t 
 
 " Same to you, if you like it," returned the tinker. 
 
 " Don't you like it? It's a very fine day." 
 
 " I ain't partickler in weather," returned the tinker, with 
 
 a Mr /Traveler had walked up to where ab lay, and was 
 looking down at him. " This is a curious place, said Mr. 
 Traveler. 
 
454 
 
 TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 
 
 " Ay, I suppose so ! " returned the tinker. " Tom Tid- 
 dler's Ground, they call this." 
 
 " Are you well acquainted with it? " 
 
 " Never saw it afore to-day," said the tinker, with an- 
 other yawn, " and don't care if I never see it again. There 
 was a man here just now, told me what it was called. If you 
 want to see Tom himself, you must go in at the gate." He 
 faintly indicated with his chin a little mean ruin of a wooden 
 gate at the side of the house. 
 
 " Have you seen Tom ? " 
 
 " No, and I ain't partickler to see him. I can see a dirty 
 man anywhere." 
 
 " He does not live in the house, then ? " said Mr. Traveler, 
 casting his eyes upon the house anew. 
 
 " The man said," returned the tinker, rather irritably, — 
 " him as was here just now — ' this what you're a-lying on, 
 mate, is Tom Tiddler's Ground. And if you want to see 
 Tom,' he says, ' you must go in at that gate.' The man come 
 out at that gate himself, and he ought to know." 
 
 "Certainly," said Mr. Traveler. 
 
 " Though, perhaps," exclaimed the tinker, so struck by 
 the brightness of his own idea, that it had the electric effect 
 upon him of causing him to lift up his head an inch or so, 
 " perhaps he was a liar ! He told some rum 'uns — him as was 
 here just now, did about this place of Tom's. He says — him 
 as was here just now — 'When Tom shut up the house, mate, 
 to go to rack, the beds was left, all made, like as if somebody 
 was a-going to sleep in every bed. And if you was to walk 
 through the bedrooms now, you'd see the ragged moldy bed- 
 clothes a-heaving and a-heaving like seas. And a-heaving 
 and a-heaving with what ? ' he says. ' Why, with the rats 
 under 'em.' " 
 
 " I wish I had seen that man," Mr. Traveler remarked. 
 
 " You'd have been welcome to see him instead of me 
 seeing him," growled the tinker ; " for he was a long-winded 
 o^ e." 
 
 Not without a sense of injury in the remembrance, the 
 tinker gloomily closed his eyes. Mr. Traveler, deeming 
 the tinker a short-winded one, from whom no further 
 breath of information was to be derived, betook himself to 
 the gate. 
 
 Swung upon its rusty hinges, it admitted him into a yard 
 in which there was nothing to be seen but an out-house 
 attached to the ruined building, with a barred window in 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 455 
 
 it. As there were traces of many recent footsteps under 
 this window, and as it was a low window, and unglazed, 
 Mr. Traveler made bold to peep within the bars. And 
 there to be sure he had a real live hermit before him, and 
 could judge how the real dead hermits used to look. 
 
 He was lying on a bank of soot and cinders, on the floor, 
 in front of a rusty fireplace. There was nothing else in the 
 dark little kitchen, or scullery, or whatever his den had 
 been originally used as, but a table with a litter of old bot- 
 tles on it. A rat made a clatter among these bottles, jumped 
 down, and ran over the real live hermit on his way to his 
 hole, or the man in his hole would not have been so easily 
 discernible. Tickled in the face by the rat's tail, the owner 
 of Tom Tiddler's Ground opened his eyes, saw Mr. Traveler, 
 started up, and sprang to the window. 
 
 " Humph ! " thought Mr. Traveler, retiring a pace or two 
 from the bars. " A compound of Newgate, Bedlam, a debt- 
 ors' prison in the worst time, a chimney-sweep, a mudlark, 
 and the Noble Savage ! A nice old family, the hermit 
 family. Hah ! " 
 
 Mr. Traveler thought this, as he silently confronted the 
 sooty object in the blanket and skewer (in sober truth he 
 wore nothing else), with the matted hair and the staring 
 eyes. Further, Mr. Traveler thought, as the eyes surveyed 
 him with a very obvious curiosity in ascertaining the effect 
 they produced " Vanity, vanity, vanity ! Verily, all is 
 vanity ! " 
 
 a What is your name, sir, and where do you come from ? " 
 asked Mr. Mopes the hermit — with an air of authority, but 
 in the ordinary human speech of one who has been to school. 
 
 Mr. Traveler answered the inquiries. 
 
 " Did you come here, sir, to see me ? " 
 
 " I did. I heard of you, and I came to see you. — I know 
 you like to be seen." Mr. Traveler coolly threw the last 
 words in, as a matter of course, to forestall an affectation of 
 resentment or objection that he saw rising beneath the grease 
 and grime of the face. They had their effect. 
 
 " So," said the hermit, after a momentary silence, un- 
 clasping the bars by which he had previously held, and seat- 
 ing himself behind them on the ledge of the window, with 
 his bare legs and feet crouched up, " you know I like to be 
 seen ? " 
 
 Mr. Traveler looked about him for something to sit on, 
 and, observing a billet of wood in a corner, brought it near 
 
4$6 TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 
 
 the window. Deliberately seating himself upon it, he an* 
 swered, " Just so." 
 
 Each looked at the other, and each appeared to take some 
 pains to get the measure of the other. 
 
 "Then you have come to ask me why I lead this life," 
 said the hermit, frowning in a stormy manner. " I never 
 tell that to any human being. I will not be asked that." 
 
 "Certainly you will not be asked that by me," said Mr. 
 Traveler, "for I have not the slightest desire to know." 
 
 " You are an uncouth man," said Mr. Mopes the hermit. 
 
 "You are another," said Mr. Traveler. 
 
 The hermit, who was plainly in the habit of overawing 
 his visitors with the novelty of his filth and his blanket and 
 skewer, glared at his present visitor in some discomfiture 
 and surprise, as if he had taken aim at him with a sure gun, 
 and his piece had missed fire. 
 
 " Why do you come here at all ?" he asked, after a pause. 
 
 " Upon my life," said Mr. Traveler, " I was made to ask 
 myself that very question only a few minutes ago — by a 
 tinker too." 
 
 As he glanced toward the gate in saying it, the hermit 
 glanced in that direction likewise. 
 
 " Yes. He is lying on his back in the sunlight outside," 
 said Mr. Traveler, as if he had been asked concerning the 
 man, " he won't come in ; for he says — and really very 
 reasonably — ' What should I come in for ! I can see a dirty 
 man anywhere ! ' " 
 
 " You are an insolent person. Go away from my premises 
 Go ! " said the hermit, in an imperious and angry tone. 
 
 " Come, come ! " returned Mr.Traveler, quite undisturbed. 
 " This is a little too much. You are not going to call your- 
 self clean ? Look at your legs. And as to these being your 
 premises, they are in far too disgraceful a condition to claim 
 any privilege of ownership, or any thing else." 
 
 The hermit bounced down from his window-ledge, and 
 cast himself on his bed of soot and cinders. 
 
 " I am not going," said Mr. Traveler, glancing in after 
 him. " You won't get rid of me in that way. You had bet- 
 ter come and talk." 
 
 " I won't talk," said the hermit, flouncing round to get his 
 back to the window. 
 
 "Then I will," said Mr. Traveler. "Why should you 
 take it ill that I have no curiosity to know why you live 
 this highly absurd and highly indecent life ? When I con- 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 457 
 
 template a man in a state of disease, surely there is no 
 moral obligation on me to be anxious to know how he 
 
 '° After a short silence, the hermit bounced up again, and 
 came back to the barred window. ' m 
 
 " What ? You are not gone ? " he said, affecting to have 
 supposed that he was. . 
 
 "Nor going," Mr. Traveler replied : " I design to pass 
 this summer day here." . 
 
 " How dare you come, sir, upon my premises— the her- 
 mit was returning, when his visitor interrupted him. 
 
 " Really, you know, you must not talk about your premises, 
 I can not allow such a place as this to be dignified with the 
 name of premises." m . , 
 
 "How dare you," said the hermit, snaking his bars 
 " come in at my gate, to taunt me with being m a diseased 
 
 state ? " 
 
 " Whv Lord bless my soul," returned the other, very com- 
 nosedly "you have not the face to say that you are m a 
 wholesome state ? Do allow me again to call your attention 
 to your legs. Scrape yourself anywhere-with any thmg- 
 and then tell me that you are in a wholesome state. ^ lne 
 fact is Mr. Mopes, that you are not only a nuisance— 
 " A nuisance ? " repeated the hermit, fiercely. 
 « What is a place in this obscene state of dilapidation but 
 * nuisance ? What is a man in your obscene state of dilapi- 
 dation but a nuisance ? Then, as you very well know, you 
 can not do without an audience, and your audience is a 
 nuisance. You attract all the disreputable vagabonds and 
 prowlers within ten miles round, by exhibiting yourself to 
 them in that objectionable blanket and by throwing copper 
 money among them, and giving them drink out of those 
 very dirty jar! and bottles that I see in there (their stomachs 
 need be strong!); and in short," said Mr. Traveler sum- 
 ming up in a quietly and comfortably settled manner, you 
 ale a nuisance, and this kennel is a nuisance and the audi- 
 ence that you can not possibly dispense with is a nuisance 
 and the nuisance is not merely a local nuisance because it 
 is a general nuisance to know that there can be such a nuisance 
 left in civilization so very long after its time. 
 
 ? Will you go away ? I have a gun in here, said the 
 hermit. 
 " Pooh ! " 
 "I have!** 
 
458 TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 
 
 * Now, I put it to you. Did I say you had not ? And as 
 to going away, didn't I say I am not going away ? You have 
 made me forget where I was. I now remember that I was 
 remarking on your conduct being a nuisance. Moreover, 
 it is in the last and lowest degree inconsequent foolishness 
 and weakness." 
 
 " Weakness ? " echoed the hermit. 
 
 " Weakness," said Mr. Traveler, with his former comfort- 
 ably settled final air. 
 
 " I weak, you fool ? " cried the hermit — " I, who have 
 held to my purpose, and my diet, and my only bed there, all 
 these years ?" 
 
 " The more the years, the weaker you," returned Mr. 
 Traveler. " Though the years are not so many as folks 
 say, and as you willingly take credit for. The crust upon 
 your face is thick and dark, Mr. Mopes, but I can see 
 enough of you through it, to see that you are still a young 
 man." 
 
 " Inconsequent foolishness is lunacy, I suppose ? said the 
 Hermit. 
 
 " I suppose it is very like it," answered Mr. Traveler. 
 
 " Do I converse like a lunatic ? " 
 
 " One of us two must have a strong presumption against 
 him of being one, whether or no. Either the clean and 
 decorously clad man, or the dirty and indecorously clad 
 man. I don't say which." 
 
 " Why, you self-sufficient bear," said the hermit, " not a 
 day passes but I am justified in my purpose by the conversa- 
 tions I hold here ; not a day passes but I am shown, by 
 every thing I hear and see here, how right and strong I am 
 in holding my purpose." 
 
 Mr. Traveler, lounging easily on his billet of wood, took 
 out a pocket pipe and began to fill it. " Now, that a man," 
 he said, appealing to the summer sky as he did so, " that a 
 man — even behind bars, in a blanket and skewer — should tell 
 me that he can see, from day to day, any orders or conditions 
 of men, women, or children, who can by any possibility teach 
 him that it is any thing but the miserablest driveling for a 
 human creature to quarrel with his social nature — not to go 
 so far as to say, to renounce his common human decency, 
 for that is an extreme case ; or who can teach him that he 
 can in any wise separate himself from his kind and the 
 habits of his kind, without becoming a deteriorated spectacle 
 calculated to give the devil (and perhaps the monkeys) 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 459 
 
 pleasure, — is something wonderful ! I repeat," said Mr. 
 Traveler, beginning to smoke, " the unreasoning hardihood 
 of it is something wonderful — even in a man with the dirt 
 upon him an inch or two thick — behind bars — in a blanket 
 and skewer ! " 
 
 The hermit looked at him irresolutely, and retired to his 
 soot and cinders and lay down, and got up again and came 
 to thenars, and again looked at him irresolutely, and finally 
 said with sharpness : "I don't like tobacco." 
 
 " I don't like dirt," rejoined Mr. Traveler ; " tobacco is 
 an excellent disinfectant. We shall both be the better for 
 my pipe. It is my intention to sit here through this sum- 
 mer day, until that blessed summer sun sinks low in the 
 west, and to show you what a poor creature you are, through 
 the lips of every chance wayfarer who may come in at your 
 gate." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " inquired the hermit, with a furi- 
 ous air. 
 
 " I mean that yonder is your gate, and there are you, and 
 here am I. I mean that I know it to be a moral impossi- 
 bility that any person can stray in at that gate from any 
 point of the compass, with any sort of experience, gained at 
 first hand, or derived from another, that can confute me and 
 justify you." 
 
 "You are an arrogant and boastful hero," said the hermit. 
 "You think yourself profoundly wise." 
 
 " Bah ! " returned Mr. Traveler, quietly smoking. " There 
 is little wisdom in knowing that every man must be up and 
 doing, and that all mankind are made dependent on one 
 another." 
 
 " You have companions outside," said the hermit. " I am 
 not to be imposed upon by your assumed confidence in the 
 people who may enter." 
 
 "A depraved distrust," returned the visitor, compassion- 
 ately raising his eyebrows, " of course belongs to your state. 
 I can't help that." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me you have no confederates ? " 
 
 " I mean to tell you nothing but what I have told you. 
 What I have told you is, that it is a moral impossibility that 
 any son or daughter of Adam can stand on this ground that 
 I put my foot on, or any ground that mortal treads, and 
 gainsay the healthy tenure on which we hold our existence." 
 
 "Which is," sneered the hermit, "according to you — " 
 
 "Which is," returned the other, "according to eternal 
 
460 TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 
 
 providence, that we must arise and wash our faces and do 
 our gregarious work, and act and react on one another, 
 leaving only the idiot and the palsied to sit blinking in the 
 corner. Come ! " apostrophizing the gate, " Open Sesame ! 
 Show his eyes and grieve his heart ! I don't care who comes, 
 for I know what must come of it ! " 
 
 With that he faced round a little on his billet of wood 
 toward the gate ; and Mr. Mopes, the hermit, after two or 
 three ridiculous bounces of indecision at his bed and back 
 again, submitted to what he could not help himself against, 
 and coiled himself on his window-ledge, holding to his bars 
 and looking out rather anxiously. 
 
 VI. 
 
 PICKING UP MISS KIMMEENS. 
 
 The day was by this time waning, when the gate again 
 opened, and, with the brilliant golden light that streamed 
 from the declining sun and touched the very bars of the 
 sooty creature's den, there passed in a little child ; a little 
 girl with beautiful bright hair. She wore a plain straw hat, 
 had a door-key in her hand, and tripped toward Mr. Trav- 
 eler as if she were pleased to see him, and were going to 
 repose some childish confidence in him, when she caught 
 sight of the figure behind the bars, and started back in 
 terror. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, darling ! " said Mr. Traveler, taking 
 her by the hand. 
 
 " Oh, but I don't like it ! " urged the shrinking child ; " it's 
 dreadful." 
 
 " Well ! I don't like it either," said Mr. Traveler. 
 
 "Who has put it there?" asked the little girl. " Does it 
 bite?" 
 
 " No — only barks. But can't you make up your mind to 
 see it, my dear ? " For she was covering her eyes. 
 
 " Oh no, no, no ! " returned the child. " I can not bear 
 to look at it ! " 
 
 Mr. Traveler turned his head toward his friend in there, 
 as much as to ask him how he liked that instance of his 
 success, and then took the child out at the still open gate, 
 and stood talking to her for some half an hour in the mel- 
 low sunlight. At length he returned, encouraging her as 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 461 
 
 she held his arm with both her hands ; and laying his pro- 
 tecting hand upon her head and smoothing her pretty hair, 
 he addressed his friend behind the bars as follows : 
 
 Miss Pupford's establishment for six young ladies of tender 
 years, is an establishment of a compact nature, an establish- 
 ment in miniature, quite a pocket establishment. Miss Pup- 
 ford, Miss Pupford's assistant with the Parisian accent, Miss 
 Pupford's cook, and Miss Pupford's housemaid, complete 
 what Miss Pupford calls the educated and domestic staff of 
 her Liliputian Jollege. 
 
 Miss Pupford is one of the most amiable of her sex ; it 
 necessar y follows that she possesses a sweet temper, and 
 would own to the possession of a great deal of sentiment 
 if : 7 considered it quite reconcilable with her duty to 
 par its. Deeming it not in the bond, Miss Pupford keeps 
 it - far out of sight as she can — which (God bless her !) is 
 not very far. 
 
 Miss Pupford's assistant with the Parisian accent, may 
 be regarded as in some sort an inspired lady, for she never 
 converse ' with a Parisian, and was never out of England — 
 except once in the pleasure-boat Lively, in the foreign waters 
 that ebb and flow two miles off Margate at high water. 
 Even under those geographically favorable circumstances 
 for the acquisition of the French language in its utmost 
 politeness and purity, Miss Pupford's assistant did not fully 
 profit by the opportunity ; for, the pleasure-boat Lively, 
 so strongly asserted its title to its name on that occasion, 
 that she was reduced to the condition of lying in the bottom 
 of the boat pickling in brine — as if she were being salted 
 down for the use of the navy — undergoing at the same 
 time great mental alarm, corporeal distress, and clear-starch- 
 ing derangement. 
 
 When Miss Pupford and her assistant first foregathered, 
 is not known to men, or pupils. But it was long ago. A 
 belief would have established itself among pupils that the 
 two once went to school together, were it not for the diffi- 
 culty and audacity of imagining Miss Pupford born without 
 mittens, and without a front, and without a bit of gold wire 
 among her front teeth, and without little dabs of powder on 
 her neat little face and nose. Indeed, whenever Miss Pup- 
 ford gives a little lecture on the mythology of the misguided 
 heathens (always carefully excluding Cupid from recogni- 
 tion), and tells how Minerva sprang, perfectly equipped, 
 
462 TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 
 
 from the brain of Jupiter, she is half supposed to hint, " So 
 I myself came into the world, completely up in Pinnock, 
 Mangnall, Tables, and the use of the Globes." 
 
 Howbeit, Miss Pupford and Miss Pupford's assistant are . 
 old, old friends. And it is thought by pupils that, after 
 pupils are gone to bed, they even call one another by their 
 Christian names in the quiet little parlor. For, once upon 
 a time on a thunderous afternoon, when Miss Pupford fainted 
 away without notice, Miss Pupford's assistant (never heard, 
 before or since, to address her otherwise than as Miss Pup- 
 ford) ran to her, crying out, " My dearest Euphemia ! " 
 And Euphemia is Miss Pupford's Christian name on the 
 sampler (date picked out) hanging up in the college hall, 
 where the two peacocks, terrified to death by some German 
 te^t that is waddling down hill after them out of a cottage, 
 are scuttling away to hide their profiles in two immense bean- 
 stalks growing out of flower-pots. 
 
 Also there is a notion latent among pupils, that Miss Pup- 
 ford was once in love, and that the beloved object still moves 
 upon this ball. Also, that he is a public character, and a 
 personage of vast consequence. Also, that Miss Pupford's 
 assistant knows all about it. For sometimes of an afternoon 
 when Miss Pupford has been reading the paper through her 
 little gold eye-glass (it is necessary to read it on the spot, as 
 the boy calls for it, with ill-conditioned punctuality, in an 
 hour), she has become agitated, and has said to her assistant, 
 " G ! " Then Miss Pupford's assistant has gone to Miss Pup- 
 ford, and Miss Pupford has pointed out, with her eye-glass, G 
 in the paper, and then Miss Pupford's assistant has read about 
 G, and has shown sympathy. So stimulated has the pupil- 
 mind been in its time to curiosity on the subject of G, that 
 once, under temporary circumstances favorable to the bold 
 sally, one fearless pupil did actually obtain possession 
 of the paper and range all over it in search of G, who had 
 been discovered therein by Miss Pupford not ten minutes 
 before. But no G could be identified, except one capital 
 offender who had been executed in a state of great hardi- 
 hood, and it was not to be supposed that Miss Pupford could 
 ever have loved him. Besides, he couldn't be always being 
 executed. Besides, he got into the paper again, alive, within 
 a month. 
 
 On the whole, it is suspected by the pupil-mind that G is 
 a short chubby old gentleman, with little black sealing-wax 
 boots up to his knees, whom a sharply observant pupil, Mfss 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 463 
 
 Linx, when she once went to Tunbridge Wells with Miss 
 Pupford for the holidays, reported on her return (privately 
 and confidentially) to have seen come capering up to Miss 
 Pupford on the promenade, and to have detected, in the act 
 of squeezing Miss Pupford's hand, and to have heard pro- 
 nounce the words, " Cruel Euphemia, ever thine ! " or some- 
 thing like that. Miss Linx hazarded a guess that he might 
 be House of Commons, or Money Market, or Court Circular, 
 or Fashionable Movements ; which would account for his 
 getting into the paper so often. But it was fatally objected 
 by the pupil-mind, that none of those notabilities could pos- 
 sibly be spelled with a G. 
 
 There are other occasions closely watched and perfectly 
 comprehended by the pupil-mind, when Miss Pupford im- 
 parts with mystery to her assistant that there is special ex- 
 citement in the morning paper. These occasions are, when 
 Miss Pupford finds an old pupil coming out under the head 
 of births, or marriages. Affectionate tears are invariably 
 seen in Miss Pupford's meek little eyes when this is the case ; 
 and the pupil-mind,perceiving that its order has distinguished 
 itself — though the fact is never mentioned by Miss Pupford 
 —becomes elevated, and feels that it likewise is reserved for 
 greatness. 
 
 Miss Pupford's assistant with the Parisian accent has a 
 little more bone than Miss Pupford, but is of the same trim, 
 orderly, diminutive cast, and, from long contemplation, ad- 
 miration, and imitation of Miss Pupford, has grown like her. 
 Being entirely devoted to Miss Pupford, and having a pretty 
 talent for pencil-drawing, she once made a portrait of that 
 lady ; which was so instantly identified and hailed by the 
 pupils, that it was done on stone at five shillings. Surely 
 the softest and milkiest stone that ever was quarried, re- 
 ceived that likeness of Miss Pupford ! The lines of her 
 placid little nose are so undecided in it that strangers to the 
 work of art are observed to be exceedingly perplexed as to 
 where the nose goes to, and involuntarily feel their own 
 noses in a disconcerted manner. Miss Pupford being rep- 
 resented in a state of dejection at an open window, rum- 
 inating over a bowl of gold fish, the pupil-mind has settled 
 that the bowl was presented by G, and that he wreathed the 
 bowl with flowers of soul, and that Miss Pupford is depicted 
 as waiting for him on a memorable occasion when he was 
 behind his time. 
 
 The approach of the last midsummer holidays had a par- 
 
464 TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND 
 
 ticular interest for the pupil-mind, by reason of its knowing 
 that Miss Pupford was bidden, on the second day of those 
 holidays, to the nuptials of a former pupil. As it was impos- 
 sible to conceal the fact — so extensive were the dress-mak- 
 ing preparations — Miss Pupford openly announced it. But 
 she held it due to parents to make the announcement with 
 an air of gentle melancholy, as if marriage were (as indeed 
 it exceptionally has been) rather a calamity. With an air 
 of softened recognition and pity, therefore, Miss •Pupford 
 went on with her preparations ; and meanwhile no pupil ever 
 went up stairs, or came down, without peeping in at the door 
 of Miss Pupford's bedroom (when Miss Pupford wasn't 
 there), and bringing back some surprising intelligence con- 
 cerning the bonnet. 
 
 The extensive preparations being completed on the day 
 before the holidays, an unanimous entreaty was preferred to 
 Miss Pupford by the pupil-mind — finding expression through 
 Miss Pupford's assistant — that she would deign to appear 
 in all her splendor. Miss Pupford consenting, presented a 
 lovely spectacle. And although the oldest pupil was barely 
 thirteen, every one of the six became in two minutes perfect 
 in the shape, cut, color, price, and quality of every article 
 Miss Pupford wore. 
 
 Thus delightfully ushered in, the holidays began. Five 
 of the six pupils kissed little Kitty KimmcciiG twenty times 
 over (round total, one hundred times, for she was very pop- 
 ular), and so went home. Miss Kitty Kimmeens remained 
 behind, for her relations and friendc were all in India, far 
 away. A self-helpful, steady little child is Miss Kitty Kim- 
 meens ; a dimpled child too, and a loving. 
 
 So the great marriage day came, and Miss Pupford, quite 
 as much fluttered as any bride could be (G ! thought Miss 
 Kitty Kimmeens), went away, splendid to behold, in the car- 
 riage that was sent for her. But not Miss Pupford only 
 went away ; for Miss Pupford's assistant went away with 
 her, on a dutiful visit to an aged uncle — though surely the 
 venerable gentleman couldn't live in the gallery of the 
 church where the marriage was to be, thought Miss Kitty 
 Kimmeens — and yet Miss Pupford's assistant had let out 
 that she was going there. Where the cook was going, didn't 
 appear, but she generally conveyed to Miss Kimmeens that 
 she was bound, rather against her will, on a pilgrimage to 
 perform some pious office that rendered new ribbons neces- 
 sary to her best bonnet, and also sandals to her shoes. 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 465 
 
 11 So you see," said the housemaid, when they were all 
 gone, "there's nobody left in the house, but you and me, 
 Miss Kimmeens." 
 
 " Nobody else," said Miss Kitty Kimmeens, shaking her 
 curls a little sadly. " Nobody ! " 
 
 " And you wouldn't like your Bella to go too ; would 
 you, Miss Kimmeens ?" said the housemaid. (She being 
 Bella.) 
 
 " N — no," answered little Miss Kimmeens. 
 
 " Your poor Bella is forced to stay with you, whether she 
 likes it or not ; ain't she, Miss Kimmeens ? " 
 
 " Doiit you like it ? " inquired Kitty. 
 
 " Why, you're such a darling, miss, that it would be un- 
 kind of your Bella to make objections. Yet my brother-in- 
 law has been took unexpected bad by this morning's post. 
 And your poor Bella is much attached to him, letting alone 
 her favorite sister, Miss Kimmeens." 
 
 " Is he very ill ? " asked little Kitty. 
 
 " Your poor Bella has her fears so, Miss Kimmeens," re- 
 turned the housemaid, with her apron at her eyes. " It was 
 but his inside, it is true, but it might mount, and the doctor 
 said that if it mounted he wouldn't answer." Here the 
 housemaid was so overcome that Kitty administered the only 
 comfort she had ready : which was a kiss. 
 
 " If it hadn't been for disappointing cook, dear Miss 
 Kimmeens," said the housemaid, " your Bella would have 
 asked her to stay with you. For cook is sweet company, 
 Miss Kimmeens ; much more so than your own poor Bella." 
 
 " But you are very nice, Bella." 
 
 " Your Bella could wish to be so, Miss Kimmeens," re- 
 turned the housemaid, " but she knows full well that it do 
 not lay in her power this day." 
 
 With which despondent conviction, the housemaid drew 
 a heavy sigh, and shook her head, and dropped it on one 
 side. 
 
 " If it had been anyways right to disappoint cook," she 
 pursued, in a contemplative and abstracted manner, " it 
 might have been so easily done ! I could have got to my 
 brother-in-law's and had the best part of the day there, and 
 got back, long before our ladies come home at night, and 
 neither the one nor the other of them need never have 
 known it. Not that Miss Pupford would at all object, but. 
 that it might put her out, being tender-hearted. Hows'ever,, 
 your own poor Bella, Miss Kimmeens," said the housemaid,. 
 
466 TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 
 
 rousing herself, " is forced to stay with you, and you're a 
 precious love, if not a liberty." 
 
 " Bella," said little Kitty, after a short silence. 
 
 11 Call me your own poor Bella, your Bella, dear," the 
 housemaid besought her. 
 
 " My Bella, then ! " 
 
 " Bless your considerate heart ! " said the housemaid. 
 
 "If you would not mind leaving me, I should not mind 
 being left. I am not afraid to stay in the house alone. And 
 you need not be uneasy on my account, for I would be very 
 careful to do no harm." 
 
 "Oh ! As to harm, you more than sweetest, if not a lib- 
 erty," exclaimed the housemaid, in a rapture, " your Bella 
 could tr«st you anywhere, being so steady, and so answera- 
 ble. The oldest head in this house (me and cook says), but 
 for its bright hair, is Miss Kimmeens. But no, I will not 
 leave you ; for you would think your Bella unkind." 
 
 " But if you are my Bella, you must go," returned the child. 
 
 u Must I ?" said the housemajd, rising, on the whole, with 
 alacrity. " What must be, must be, Miss Kimmeens. Your 
 own poor Bella acts according, though unwilling. But go or 
 stay, your own poor Bella loves you, Miss Kimmeens." 
 
 It was certainly go, and not stay, for within five minutes 
 Miss Kimmeens's own poor Bella — so much improved in 
 point of spirits as to have grown almost sanguine on the 
 subject of her brother-in-law — went her way, in apparel that 
 seemed to have been expressly prepared for some festive oc- 
 casion. Such are the changes of this fleeting world, and so 
 short-sighted are we poor mortals ! 
 
 When the house door closed with a bang and a shake, it 
 seemed to Miss Kimmeens to be a very heavy house door, 
 shutting her up in a wilderness of a house. But Miss Kim- 
 meens being, as before stated, of a self-reliant and methodi- 
 cal character, presently began to parcel out the long summer- 
 day before her. 
 
 And first she thought she would go all over the house, to 
 make quite sure that nobody with a great-coat on and a 
 carving-knife in it, had got under one of the beds or into 
 •ne of the cupboards. Not that she had ever before been 
 troubled by the image of any body armed with a great-coat 
 and a carving-knife, but that it seemed to have been shaken 
 into existence by the shake and the bang of the great street 
 door, reverberating through the solitary house. So little 
 Miss Kimmeens looked under the five empty beds of the five 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 467 
 
 departed pupils, and looked under her own bed, and looV^d 
 under Miss Pupford's bed, and looked under Miss Pupford's 
 assistant's bed. And when she had done this, and was mak- 
 ing the tour of the cupboards, the disagreeable thought came 
 into her young head, What a very alarming thing it would 
 be to find somebody with a mask on, like Guy Fawkes, 
 hiding bolt upright in a corner, and pretending not to be 
 alive ! However, Miss Kimmeens having finished her in- 
 spection without making any such uncomfortable discovery, 
 sat down in her tidy little manner to needle- work, and began 
 stitching away at a great rate. 
 
 The silence all about her soon grew very oppressive, and 
 the more so because of the odd inconsistency that the more 
 silent it was the more noises there were. The noise of her 
 own needle and thread as she stitched, was infinitely louder 
 in her ears than the stitching of all the six pupils, and of 
 Miss Pupford, and of Miss Pupford's assistant, all stitching 
 away at once on a highly emulative afternoon. Then, the 
 school-room clock conducted itself in a way in which it had 
 never conducted itself before — fell lame, somehow, and yet 
 persisted in running on as hard and as loud as it could : 
 the consequence of which behavior was, that it staggered 
 among the minutes in a state of the greatest confusion, and 
 knocked them about in all directions without appearing to get 
 on with its regular work. Perhaps this alarmed the stairs : but 
 be that as it might, they began to creak in a most unusual 
 manner, and then the furniture began to crack, and then poor 
 little Miss Kimmeens, not liking the furtive aspect of things 
 in general, began to sing as she stitched. But it was not her 
 own voice that she heard — it was somebody else making be- 
 lieve to be Kitty, and singing excessively flat, without any 
 heart — so, as that would never mend matters, she left off 
 again. 
 
 By and by, the stitching became so palpable a failure that 
 Miss Kitty Kimmeens folded her work neatly, and put 4 it 
 away in its box, and gave it up. Then the question arose 
 about reading. But no ; the book that was so delightful 
 when there was somebody she loved for her eyes to fall on 
 when they rose from the page, had not more heart in it than 
 her own singing now. The book went to its shelf as the 
 needle-work had gone to its box, and since something must 
 be done — thought the child, I'll go put my room to rights. 
 
 She shared her room with her dearest little friend among 
 the other five pupils, and why then should she now conceive 
 
468 TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 
 
 a lurking dread of the little friend's bedstead ? But she did. 
 There was a stealthy air about its innocent white curtains, 
 and there were even dark hints of a dead girl lying under the 
 coverlet. The great want of human company, the great need 
 of a human face, began now to express itself in the facility 
 with which the furniture put on strange exaggerated resem- 
 blances to human looks. A chair with a menacing frown 
 was horribly out of temper in a corner : a most vicious chest 
 of drawers snarled at her from beneath the windows. It was 
 no relief to escape from those monsters to the looking-glass, 
 for the reflection said, M What ? Is that you all alone there ? 
 How you stare ? " And the background was all a great void 
 stare as well. 
 
 The day dragged on, dragging Kitty with it very slowly 
 by the hair of her head, until it was time to eat. There 
 were good provisions in the pantry, but their right flavor and 
 relish had evaporated with the five pupils, and Miss Pup- 
 ford, and Miss Pupford's assistant, and the cook and house- 
 maid. Where was the use of laying the cloth symmetrically 
 for one small guest, who had gone on ever since the morn- 
 ing growing smaller and smaller, while the empty house had 
 gone on swelling larger and larger ? The very grace came 
 out wrong, for who were " we " who were going to receive 
 and be thankful ? So Miss Kimmeens was not thankful, 
 and found herself taking her dinner in very slovenly style — 
 gobbling it up, in short, rather after the manner of the lower 
 animals, not to particularize the pigs. 
 
 But this was by no means the worst of the change wrought 
 out in the naturally loving and cheery little creature as the 
 solitary day wore on. She began to brood and be suspicious. 
 She discovered that she was full of wrongs and injuries. 
 All the people she knew got tainted by her lonely thoughts 
 and turned bad. 
 
 It was all very well for papa, a widower in India, to send 
 her home to be educated, and to pay a handsome round 
 sum every year for her to Miss Pupford, and to write charm- 
 ing letters to his darling little daughter ; but what did he 
 care for her being left by herself, when he was (as no doubt 
 he always was) enjoying himself in company from morning 
 till night ? Perhaps he only sent her here, after all, to get 
 her out of the way. It looked like it — looked like it to-day, 
 fchat is, for she had never dreamed of such a thing before. 
 
 And this old pupil who was being married. It was insup- 
 portably conceited and selfish in the old pupil to be married. 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 469 
 
 She was very vain, and very glad to show off ; and it was 
 highly probable that she wasn't pretty ; and even if she 
 were pretty (which Miss Kimmeens now totally denied), she 
 had no business to be married ; and even if marriage were 
 conceded, she had no business to ask Miss Pupford to her 
 wedding. As to Miss Pupford, she was too old to go to 
 any wedding. She ought to know that. She had much 
 better attend to her business. She had thought she looked 
 nice in the morning, but she didn't look nice. She was a 
 stupid old thing. G was another stupid old thing. Miss 
 Pupford's assistant was another. They were all stupid old 
 things together. 
 
 More than that : it began to be obvious that this was a 
 plot. They had said to one another, " Never mind Kitty ; 
 you get off ; and I'll get off ; and we'll leave Kitty to look 
 after herself. Who cares for her ? " To be sure they were 
 right in that question ; for who did care for her, a poor little 
 lonely thing against whom they all planned and plotted ? 
 Nobody, nobody ? Here Kitty sobbed. 
 
 At all other times she was the pet of the whole house, 
 and loved her five companions in return with a child's ten- 
 derest and most ingenuous attachment ; but now, the five 
 companions put on ugly colors, and appeared for the first 
 time under a sullen cloud. There they were, at all their 
 homes that day, being made much of, being taken out, being 
 spoiled and made disagreeable, and caring nothing for her. It 
 was like their artful selfishness always to tell her when they 
 came back under pretense of confidence and friendship, all 
 those details about where they had been, and what they had 
 done and seen, and how often they had said, " Oh ! . If we 
 had only darling little Kitty here ! " Here indeed ! I dare 
 say ! When they came back after the holidays, they were 
 used to being received by Kitty, and to saying that coming 
 to Kitty was like coming to another home. Very well then 
 why did they go away ? If they meant it, why did they go 
 away ? Let them answer that. But they didn't mean it, 
 and couldn't answer that, and they didn't tell the truth, and 
 people who didn't tell the truth were hateful. When they 
 came back next time, they should be received in a new 
 manner ; they should be avoided and shunned. 
 
 And there, the while she sat all alone revolving how ill 
 she was used, and how much better she was than the people 
 who were not alone, the wedding breakfast was going on : 
 no question of it ! With a nasty bride-cake, and with those 
 
47© TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 
 
 ridiculous orange-flowers, and with that conceited bride, 
 and that hideous bridegroom, and those heartless brides- 
 maids, and Miss Pupford stuck up at the table ! They 
 thought they were enjoying themselves but it would come 
 home to them one day to have thought so. They would all 
 be dead in a few years, let them enjoy themselves ever so 
 much. It was a religious comfort to know that. 
 
 It was such a comfort to know it, that little Miss Kitty 
 Kimmeens suddenly sprang from the chair in which she 
 had been musing in a corner, and cried out, " Oh those 
 envious thoughts are not mine, Oh this wicked creature isn't 
 me ! Help me, somebody ! I go wrong alone by my weak 
 self. Help me, any body ' " 
 
 " — Miss Kimmeens is net a professed philosopher, sir," 
 said Mr. Traveler, presenting her at the barred window, and 
 smoothing her shining hair, " but I apprehend there was 
 some tincture of philosophy m her words, and in the prompt 
 action with which she followed them. That action was, to 
 emerge from her unnatural solitude, and look abroad for 
 wholesome sympathy, to bestow and to receive. Her foot- 
 steps strayed to this gate, bringing her here by chance, as an 
 opposite contrast to you. The child came out, sir. If you 
 have the wisdom to learn from a child (but I doubt it, for 
 that requires more wisdom than one in your condition would 
 seem to possess), you can not do better than imitate the 
 child, and come out too — from that very demoralizing hutch 
 of yours." 
 
 VII. 
 
 PICKING UP THE TINKER. 
 
 It was now sunset. The hermit had betaken himself to 
 his bed of cinders half an hour ago, and lying on it in his 
 blanket and skewer with his back to the window, took not 
 the smallest heed of the appeal addressed to him. 
 
 All that had been said for the last two hours, had been 
 said to a tinkling accompaniment performed by the tinker 
 who had got to work on some villager's pot or kettle, and 
 was working briskly outside. This music still continuing, 
 seemed to put it into Mr. Traveler's mind to have another 
 word or two with the tinker. So, holding Miss Kimmeens 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 471 
 
 (with whom he was now on the most friendly terms) by the 
 hand, he went out at the gate to where the tinker was seated 
 at his work on the patch of grass on the opposite side of 
 the road, with his wallet of tools open before him, and his 
 little fire smoking. 
 
 " I am glad to see you employed," said Mr. Traveler. 
 " I am glad to be employed," returned the tinker, looking 
 up as he put the finishing touches to his job. " But why 
 are you glad ? " 
 
 " I thought you were a lazy fellow when I saw you this 
 morning." 
 
 " I was only disgusted," said the tinker. 
 
 " Do you mean with the fine weather ? " 
 
 " With the fine weather?" repeated the tinker, staring. 
 
 " You told me you were not particular as to weather, and 
 I thought — " 
 
 " Ha, ha ! How should such as me get on, if we was 
 partickler as to weather ? We must take it as it comes, and 
 make the best of it. There's something good in all weathers. 
 If it don't happen to be good for my work to-day, it's good 
 for some other man's to-day, and will come round to me 
 to-morrow. We must all live." 
 
 " Pray shake hands," said Mr. Traveler. 
 
 " Take care, sir," was the tinker's caution, as he reached 
 up his hand in surprise ; "the black comes off." 
 
 " I am glad of it," said Mr. Traveler. " I have been for 
 several hours among other black that does not come off." 
 
 " You are speaking of Tom in there ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, now," said the tinker, blowing the dust off his 
 job, which was finished. " Ain't it enough to disgust a 
 pig, if he could give his mind to it ? " 
 
 " If he could give his mind to it," returned the other, 
 smiling, " the probability is that he wouldn't be a pig." 
 
 " There you clench the nail," returned the tinker. 
 " Then what's to be said for Tom ? " 
 
 " Truly very little." 
 
 " Truly nothing you mean, sir," said the tinker, as he put 
 away his tools. 
 
 " A better answer, and (I freely acknowledge) mymean- 
 ing. I infer that he was the cause of your disgust ? " 
 
 "Why, look'ee here, sir," said the tinker, rising to his 
 feet, and wiping his face on the corner of his black apron 
 energetically ; " I leave you to judge !— I ask you !— Last 
 
472 TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 
 
 night I has a job that needs to be done in the night, and 1 
 works all night. Well, there's nothing in that. But this 
 morning I comes along this road here, looking for a sunny 
 and soft spot to sleep in, and I sees this desolation and 
 ruination. I've lived myself in desolation and ruination ; 
 I knows many a fellow-creetur that's forced to live life-long 
 in desolation and ruination ; and I sits me down and takes 
 pity on it, as I casts my eyes about. Then comes up the 
 long-winded one as I told you of from that gate, and spins 
 himself out like a silkworm concerning the donkey (if my 
 donkey at home will excuse me) as has made it all — made 
 it of his own choice ! And tells me, if you please, of his 
 likewise choosing to go ragged and naked and grimy — 
 maskerading, mountebanking, in what is the real hard lot of 
 thousands and thousands ! Why, then I say it's a unbearable 
 and nonsensical piece of inconsistency, and I'm disgusted. 
 I'm ashamed and disgusted ! " 
 
 " I wish you would come and look at him," said Mr. 
 Traveler, tapping the tinker on the shoulder. 
 
 " Not I, sir," he rejoined, "/ain't a-going to natter him 
 up, by looking at him ! " 
 
 " But he is asleep." 
 
 " Are you sure he is asleep ? " asked the tinker, with an 
 unwilling air, as he shouldered his wallet. 
 
 " Sure." 
 
 " Then I'll look at him for a quarter of a minute," said 
 the tinker, "since you so much wish it ; but not a moment 
 longer." 
 
 Then all three went back across the road ; and, through 
 the barred window, by the dying glow of the sunset coming 
 in at the gate — which the child held open for its admission 
 — he could be pretty clearly discerned lying on his bed. 
 
 "You see him ?" said Mr. Traveler. 
 
 "Yes," returned the tinker, "and he's worse than I 
 thought him." 
 
 Mr. Traveler then whispered in a few words what he had 
 done since morning ; and asked the tinker what he thought 
 of that ? 
 
 " I think," returned the tinker, as he turned from the 
 window, " that you've wasted a day on him." 
 
 " I think so, too ; though not, I hope, upon myself. Do 
 you happen to be going anywhere near the Peal of Bells ? " 
 
 "That's my direct way, sir," said the tinker. 
 
 " I invite you to supper there. And as I learn from this 
 
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. 473 
 
 young lady that she goes some three-quarters of a mile in 
 the same direction, we will drop her on the road, and we 
 will spare time to keep her company at her garden gate until 
 her own Bella come home." 
 
 So Mr. Traveler, and the child, and the tinker, went 
 along very amicably in the sweet-scented evening ; and the 
 moral with which the Tinker dismissed the subject was, that 
 he said in his trade that metal that rotted for want of use, 
 had better be left to rot, and couldn't rot too soon, consid- 
 ering how much true metal rotted from over-use and hard 
 service. 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
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 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
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 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
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 REC'D I D 
 
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 JAN 2 5 '65 -12 M 
 
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 (E4555sl0)476B 
 
 General Library 
 University of California 
 Berkeley 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY