Ex Libris 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 TALES IN PROSE
 
 ABOUT A MAX AND A BEAR. SEE PAGE r>i>.
 
 TALES IN PROSE 
 
 YOUNG PEOPLE 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY HOWITT 
 
 Jpcfrr (Biiion 
 
 WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS 
 
 LONDON AND EDINBURGH 
 
 1871
 
 Printed by W. and JL Chambers.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 f 
 
 VERT little need be said by way of Preface to this volume 
 of " Tales' in Prose," except what is in grateful courtesy 
 due to my friendly critics, who have so cordially and 
 handsomely received its predecessor, " The Tales in 
 Verse," and through whom it has at once obtained so 
 extensive a circulation. 
 
 These very pleasing "Tales in Prose" having come into 
 our possession, we have, so far as regards the appearance 
 of the volume, endeavoured to do justice to the amiable 
 and accomplished authoress. 
 
 W. AND E. CHAMBERS. 
 
 1C1
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 A NIGHT-SCENE IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE, 1 
 
 A GIRL'S STORY, 17 
 
 ANECDOTES- 
 HOW A MAN COULD CATCH "WILL-O'- 
 THE-WISP," 43 
 
 OF A RAVEN THAT WENT TO A FAIR, 46 
 
 HOW A BULLFINCH DIED OF JOY, . 50 
 
 ABOUT A MAN AND A BEAR, . 52 
 
 OF A DOG THAT COULD AND COULD NOT 
 
 RECKON TIME, .... 55 
 
 OF A RAVEN THAT HAD A DINNER-PARTY, 59 
 HOW A BOY TOOK A FLIGHT, . .61 
 
 HOW A JEST WAS NO JOKE, . . 64
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PARS 
 
 MATTHEW NOGGINS' LETTER TO HIS COUSIN, 71 
 THE THREE WISHES, 81 
 
 THE GRANDMOTHER, .... 97 
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS, . . . .103 
 
 FIRESIDE PHILOSOPHY, . . . 117 
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE, . . 123 
 
 BARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF, . U7 
 
 A BRIEF MEMOIR OF CONSTANTLNE AND 
 
 GIOVANNI, 157 
 
 MARTHA AND MARY, .... 185 
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIR, . . . .207 
 
 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN, ... 223 
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE, . . .235
 
 A NIGHT SCENE 
 IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE.
 
 
 IT was the middle of 
 winter, on the night 
 of the twenty-third of | 
 January, when the 
 weather was miser- 
 ably cold ; it neither 
 decidedly froze, nor yet did 
 it thaw ; but between the 
 two it was cold and damp, 
 and penetrated to the very bone, even of those 
 who sat in carpeted rooms before large fires, and 
 were warmly clad. It was on this evening
 
 4 A NIGHT-SCENE 
 
 that the seven little children of David 
 Baird, the weaver, stood huddled together in 
 their small room, beside a small fire, which was 
 burning comfortlessly. The baby lay in a 
 wooden cradle at one corner of the hearth. 
 The fire, to be sure, gave some warmth, because 
 it had boiled an iron pot full of potatoes, but it 
 gave very little cheeriness to the room. The 
 mother had portioned out the evening meal 
 a few potatoes to each and she now sat down 
 by the round table, lighted the farthing candle, 
 and was preparing to do some little piece of 
 housewifery. 
 
 "May I stir the fire?" asked David, the 
 eldest boy. 
 
 " No, no," replied the mother ; " it burns 
 away too fast if it is stirred." 
 
 " I wish we had a good fire ! " sighed Judith, 
 the second girl 
 
 " Bless me ! " said the mother, " it is a good 
 fire ! Why, there 's Dame Grundy and her 
 grandchild gone to bed because they have no 
 fire at all ! " 
 
 " I should like some more salt to my pota- 
 toes," said little Bessy ; " may I have some 
 more, mother?"
 
 IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE. 5 
 
 " There is none, child," she replied ; " I put 
 the last in the pot/' 
 
 " dear ! " cried out little Joey, " my feet 
 are so bad ! They get no better, mother, though 
 I did beat them with holly/' 
 
 " Poor thing ! " sighed the mother ; " I wish 
 you had better shoes/' 
 
 " There 's a pair/' said Joey briskly, " at 
 Timmy Nixon's, for fourteen-pence." 
 
 " Fourteen-pence ! " repeated the mother ; " it 
 would take a long time to get fourteen-pence." 
 
 "Mat. Willis begged a pair of nice warm 
 boots," replied Joey, experimentally. 
 
 " We will not beg/' said the mother, " if we 
 can help it but let me see the shoes;" and 
 Joey put up one of his miserably frost-bitten 
 feet on his mother's knee. " Bless thee ! my 
 poor lad," said the mother, "thou shalt not 
 go to work again till it is warmer." 
 
 " Mother," interrupted little Susan, " may I 
 have some more ?" 
 
 " There is no more," said she ; " but I have a 
 whole loaf yet." 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear, how nice ! " cried the chil- 
 dren, clapping their hands ; " and give Joey the 
 bottom crust," said one, "because of his poor feet."
 
 A NIGHT-SCENE 
 
 " And give me a big bit," cried Susan, holding 
 out a fat little hand. 
 
 The mother divided the loaf setting aside a 
 piece for her husband and presently the 
 husband came. 
 
 " It rains, and is very cold/ 7 said he, 
 shivering. 
 
 " Please God/' rejoined the mother, " it will 
 be warmer after the rain/' 
 
 David Baird was a tall thin man, with an 
 uneasy look not that he had any fresh cause 
 of uneasiness his wages had not been lowered ; 
 his hours of work had not been increased, nor 
 had he quarrelled with his master ; but the life 
 of a poor man is an uneasy life a life of care, 
 weariness, and never-ending anxieties. "What 
 wonder then, if his face have a joyless look ? 
 
 The children made room for their father by 
 the fire ; Susan and Neddy placed themselves 
 between his knees, and his wife handed him the 
 portion of supper which had been set aside for 
 him. 
 
 Mary, the eldest girl, was sitting on a box, 
 feeding a squirrel with the bread which her 
 mother had given her she was veiy happy, and 
 kissed the squirrel many times; Judith was
 
 IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE. 7 
 
 sitting beside her, and David held the cup out 
 of which the squirrel drank. 
 
 " Nobody has inquired after that squirrel/' 
 said the father, looking at them. 
 
 " No/' replied Mary, " and I hope nobody 
 will." 
 
 " They will not now/' said the younger David, 
 " for it is three months since we found it." 
 
 " "We might sell it for half-a-crown," said the 
 father. Mary looked frightened, and held the 
 squirrel to her bosom. 
 
 "Joey's feet are very bad/' remarked the 
 mother. 
 
 " And that doctor's bill has never been paid," 
 said the father, " seventeen shillings and six- 
 pence." 
 
 " "Tis more money than we get in a week," 
 sighed the mother. 
 
 " I go round by the back-lane, to avoid pass- 
 ing the door," said the father, " and he has 
 asked me for it three times." 
 
 " We will get it paid in the summer/' rejoined 
 the mother, hopefully ; " but now coals are 
 raised, and bread, they say, will rise before the 
 week is out." 
 
 " Lord help us !" exclaimed the father.
 
 8 A NIGHT-SCENE 
 
 "Mary, fetch the other candle," cried the 
 mother, as the farthing candle burned low in 
 the stick, and then went out. 
 
 ' ' There is not one ! " replied Mary ; " we 
 burned out the other last night/' 
 
 " Have you a farthing, David ? '' asked the 
 wife. 
 
 " Not one/' replied he, rather hastily. 
 
 "Nor have we one in the house/ 'said the 
 wife ; " I paid all we had for the bread." 
 
 " Stir up the fire then/' said David. 
 
 "Nay/' rejoined the wife, " coals are raised/' 
 
 " Lord help us ! " again sighed David, and 
 two of the children began coughing. " Those 
 children's coughs are no better ! " remarked the 
 father somewhat impatiently. And then the 
 baby awoke, and so did Bessy, who had fallen 
 asleep on the floor unobserved, crying : " I 
 am so cold, mother ; I am so cold ! " 
 
 " Go to bed with her, Mary," said the mother, 
 " for you were up betimes this morning, washing 
 put your clothes on the bed, and keep her 
 warm." 
 
 Mary went into the little dark chamber to 
 bed with her sister, and her mother tried to 
 hush the crying infant.
 
 IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE. 
 
 David was distracted. He was cold, hungry, 
 weary, and in gloom. Eight children whom he 
 loved were about him, but he thought of them 
 only as born to poverty, uneasiness, and care, 
 like himself: he felt unhappy, and grew almost 
 angry as the baby continued to cry. 
 
 Cheer up, David, honest man ! there is that 
 coming even now coming within three streets' 
 length of thee which shall raise thee above 
 want for ever ! Cheer up ! This is the last 
 hour any of you shall want for fire the last 
 hour you shall want for candle-light. Thou 
 shalt keep thy squirrel, Mary! Bessy, thou 
 shalt have blankets to warm thee ! The doctor's 
 bill shall be paid nor, David Baird, shalt thou 
 ever again skulk by back ways to thy work to 
 avoid an importunate creditor ! Joey, thou 
 shalt turn the wheel no longer thy feet shall 
 get well in woollen stockings, and warm shoes 
 at five shillings a pair ! You shall no more 
 want salt to your potatoes, nor shall Susan again 
 go short of her supper ! But of all this, as yet, 
 you know nothing, good people : and there you 
 sit, hopeless and comfortless, and know nothing 
 about the relief and such splendid relief too 
 that even now is approaching your door. Wail,
 
 10 A NIGHT-SCENE 
 
 little baby, an' thou wilt nurse thy poor 
 tingling feet, Joey, by the fire; and muse in 
 sadness on thy poverty, David Baird, yet a few 
 moments longer ; it can do you no harm, for the 
 good news is even now turning the corner of 
 your street. 
 
 Knock, knock, knock ! David started from 
 his reverie. 
 
 " Some one is at the door," -said the wife ; and 
 up jumped little David. " If it is neighbour 
 Wood come to borrow some meal, you can get 
 her a cupful," added the mother, as the knock 
 was repeated more hastily. 
 
 Up rose David Baird, and, thinking of the 
 apothecary's bill, opened the door reluctantly. 
 
 " Are you David Baird ? " asked the letter- 
 carrier, who had knocked. 
 
 " I am/' said David. 
 
 " This, then, is for you ; and there are twenty- 
 two pence to pay on it," said the man, holding 
 forth a large letter. 
 
 " Is it a summons ?" cried the wife in dismay : 
 " for what is David Baird summoned ?" and she 
 rushed to the door with the baby in her arms. 
 
 " It is no summons," replied the man, " but a 
 money-letter, I take it."'
 
 IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE. 11 
 
 " It is not for me," said David, half glad to 
 escape his liability to pay the two- and- twenty 
 pence. 
 
 " But are you not David Baird the weaver ?" 
 
 " I am/' said David. 
 
 " Then/' continued the letter-carrier, " pay me 
 the twenty-two pence, and if it is not right 
 they will return you the money at the post- 
 office." 
 
 " Twenty -two pence ! " repeated David, 
 ashamed to confess his poverty. 
 
 " One shilling and tenpence," said the wife ; 
 " we have not so much money by us, good man/' 
 
 " Light a candle/' said the letter-carrier, 
 bustling into the house, ' ' and hunt up what you 
 have." 
 
 David was pushed to an exfremity. " We 
 have none," said he ; " we have not money to 
 buy a candle ! " 
 
 " Lord bless me !" said the letter-carrier, and 
 he gave David the younger fourpence to fetch 
 half a pound of candles. David and his wife 
 knew not what to think ; and the letter-man 
 shook the wet from his hat. In a few moments 
 the candles came, and the letter was put into 
 David's hands.
 
 12 A NIGHT-SCENE 
 
 " Open it, can't you?" said the letter-man. 
 
 " Is it for me ?" inquired David again. 
 
 " It is," replied the other, impatiently 
 " what a fuss is here ahout opening a letter ! " 
 
 " What is this ? " exclaimed David, taking out 
 a bill for one hundred pounds. 
 
 "Oh!" sighed the wife, "if, after all, it 
 should not he for us ! but read the letter, 
 David ! " and David read it. 
 
 " SIR You, David Baird, weaver, of , 
 
 and son of the late David Baird, of Marden-on- 
 Wear, lineal descendant of Sir David Baird, of 
 Monkshaughton Castle, county of York, and 
 sole heir of Sir Peter Baird, of Monkshaughton 
 aforesaid, lately deceased, are requested to meet 
 Mr Dennis, soficitor, at York, as soon after the 
 receipt of this as possible. It will be necessary 
 for you to bring your family with you ; and to 
 cover travelling and other expenses, you will 
 receive enclose*! a bill for one hundred pounds, 
 payable at sight. 
 
 " I have the honour to be, 
 
 " SIR, 
 " Your humble Servant, 
 
 " J. SMITH, for MR DENNIS."
 
 IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE. 13 
 
 " Sure enough/' said David, " David Baird, of 
 Marden-on-Wear, was my father." 
 
 " Oh, oh, oh ! " chuckled out little David, as 
 he hopped about behind the group, " a hundred 
 pounds and a castle ! " 
 
 " Heaven be praised ! " ejaculated the wife, 
 while she hugged the baby in her arms. 
 
 " And," continued David, " the great Sir 
 David Baird was our ancestor; but we never 
 looked for anything from that quarter." 
 
 " Then the letter is for you ? " asked the 
 man. 
 
 " It is. Please Heaven to make us thankful 
 for it," said David, seriously ; " but," hesitated 
 he, " you want the money ? " 
 
 " No," said the letter-carrier, going out, " I '11 
 call for that to-morrow." 
 
 " Bolt the door, wife," said David, as she shut 
 the door after the man ; " this money requires 
 safe keeping." 
 
 " Mend the fire ! " said the mother ; and her 
 son David put on a shovelful of coal, and raked 
 out the ashes. 
 
 " Kiss me, my children ! " exclaimed the 
 father, with emotion ; " kiss me, and bless 
 God, for we shall never want bread again '. "
 
 14 A NIGHT-SCENE 
 
 " Is the house on fire ? " screamed Mary, 
 at the top of the stairs, " for there is such a 
 blaze ! " 
 
 " We are burning a mould candle," said 
 Judith, " and have such a big fire ! " 
 
 " Come here, Mary," said the father, and 
 Mary slid down stairs, wrapped in an old cloak. 
 
 " Father 's a rich man ! we 're all rich and 
 shall live in a grand castle ! " laughed out 
 young David. 
 
 " We shall have coats, and blankets, and 
 stockings, and shoes ! " cried Joey, all alert, 
 yet still remembering his poor frost-bitten feet, 
 
 " We shall have roast-beef and plum-pud- 
 ding ! " said Susan. 
 
 " We shall have rice-pudding every day ! " 
 cried Neddy. 
 
 " And let me have a horse, father/' said young 
 David. 
 
 David Baird was again distracted ; but how 
 different were his feelings ! He could have done 
 a thousand extravagant things he could have 
 laughed, cried, sung, leaped about, nay, rolled 
 on the floor for joy ; but he did none of these 
 lie sate calm, and looked almost grave. At 
 length he said : " Wife, send the children to
 
 IN A POOR MAN'S HOUSE. 15 
 
 bed, and let us talk over this good-fortune 
 together." 
 
 " You shall have all your Sunday clothes on 
 to-morrow," said the happy mother, as she sent 
 them up stairs. To bed they went, and after 
 a while laughed and talked themselves to sleep. 
 The father and mother smiled and wept by 
 turns, but did not sleep that night. 
 
 Such sudden turns of fortune are not usual, 
 and when they do occur, they ard likely to do 
 more harm than good. Let us hope that steady 
 principle and a recollection of his poverty pre- 
 served David Baird from misusing the wealth 
 he had so unexpectedly acquired.
 
 A GIRL'S STORY.
 
 A GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 MY mother died when I was! 
 young so as to have no recol- r \ 
 lection of her. My father was 
 captain of an Indiaman, and 
 was commonly out of England 
 
 for upwards of two years together. He was not 
 
 I
 
 20 A GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 in the least wanting in affection towards me, 
 though he saw me so rarely, that I used to lose all 
 remembrance of his person in the intervals of 
 our meeting, and had, as it were, to commence 
 a new acquaintance with him every time he 
 returned, which was not a difficult thing to 
 do, for he was naturally fond of children, and 
 was fond of me to an extreme. . As it happened 
 that there were no nearly-connected branches 
 of our family to whose care I could be intrusted, 
 my father placed me with an old woman who 
 had attended my mother most faithfully during 
 the long illness which ended in her death, and 
 to whose charge she had especially committed 
 me ; and, indeed, a kinder, better nurse never 
 lived than poor Mrs Bridget. 
 
 My father saw me gradually improving under 
 her care, from the little sickly baby my mother 
 left, to the strong, rosy child which he after- 
 wards found me. As we lived in a secluded 
 village, remote from any considerable town, 
 but where my mother's property lay, I had not 
 the advantage of attending any good school. 
 Still, as the hamlet consisted of small farmers 
 and their labourers, I was looked upon as no 
 way inferior in learning or accomplishments to
 
 A GIRL'S STORY. 21 
 
 any of them, though I was so utterly ignorant, 
 that now I am frightened to think of it ; for, 
 of what was beyond the affairs and objects of 
 our narrow, everyday life, I knew nothing 
 nay, even of these I knew, as it were, only the 
 externals. I never reflected ; I was only a mere 
 animal, using its five senses, but no more ; for 
 of an intellectual or spiritual existence I knew 
 as little as the fowls of the air. "We were all as 
 people having eyes, but seeing not ; ears, but 
 hearing not ; and hearts, yet without compre- 
 hension. I was, in most respects, like Peter 
 Bell and the primrose, which 
 
 A yellow primrose was to him, 
 And it was nothing more. 
 
 To me, however, a flower had charms beyond 
 the mere outside, and stirred sentiments within 
 me which came and went, yet were not regarded. 
 Generally speaking, all that surrounded me 
 were but things with names. I learned their 
 names, and then my knowledge ceased; but 
 afterwards, when my mind was awakened, I was 
 amazed at the ramifications, as it were, of know- 
 ledge which spread from the commonest things 
 that surrounded me ; and then it was that I
 
 22 A GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 found, to my infinite amazement, that glass, for 
 instance, was not the mere letters which spelled 
 the word glass, nor salt mere salt, but involved, 
 in a thousand ways, subjects of the most delight- 
 ful interest. I was never tired of finding 
 knowledge in common things when I once knew 
 how. But how much more did all this apply 
 to my spiritual nature as connected with reli- 
 gious knowledge ! I had been told that there 
 was a God that I must repeat a form of words, 
 called prayers, morning and night, or that He 
 would be angry ; that I must speak the truth, 
 or He would be angry also : in short, that I must 
 perform all my moral and religious duties to 
 avert His anger. I therefore had towards the 
 Divine Being no sentiment but that of undefined 
 fear. Here ended all my religious knowledge 
 all was vague, dark, and unpleasing. Of love, 
 gratitude, and the filial reverence which the 
 human family owe to their heavenly Parent, I 
 knew nothing. This, my utter ignorance, my 
 father saw and deplored, nay, even tried to 
 remedy ; but his visits w r ere either too short, or 
 my nature too volatile, for any permanent 
 impression to be made by his instructions ; and 
 spite of his earnest entreaties to Mrs Bridget,
 
 A GIRL'S STORY. 23 
 
 that I might be properly taught in these 
 matters, I made no progress whatever. And 
 how, indeed, could I? for poor Mrs Bridget, 
 with the best will in the world, was quite inade- 
 quate to the task. She was very ignorant, and, 
 having weak sight, could scarcely spell out a 
 chapter in the Bible which, by some unaccount- 
 able chance, seemed always to open at a chapter 
 of genealogy. Poor, dear soul ! what sorrowful 
 confusion she used to make when she tried to 
 enlighten me in things she so dimly compre- 
 hended herself ! Again, she was very rheumatic, 
 and as the church had the reputation of being 
 damp, and service was performed in it only 
 every other Sunday, owing to the clergyman 
 living at a distance, I had not the opportunity 
 of attending divine worship, and thereby gaining 
 some knowledge of holy things. Mrs Bridget, 
 moreover, was a rigid churchwoman, and could 
 not by any means have been prevailed upon to 
 enter any of the dissenters' chapels ; so that, 
 from various causes, we seemed excluded from 
 public worship altogether. She, however, kind 
 soul ! taught me all she knew, and that well. 
 I could knit and sew, and was qualified in every 
 respect for a notable housewife. I watched our
 
 24 A GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 little meals cooking, when she was otherwise 
 occupied : I neatly mended my own clothes, 
 folded them up, and put them by with scrupu- 
 lous care. I even tried to wash, mounted in 
 my little pair of pattens to the wash-tub, and 
 was praised for my skill. I could iron without 
 either burning the clothes or my fingers ; and 
 was believed by my simple-minded guardian to 
 be as well-trained a little maiden as any in the 
 three next counties. % 
 
 No child ever loved the .most tender mother 
 better than I. did my humble friend, and our 
 separation was a bitter pang, for I could not 
 foresee the happy consequences it would produce 
 to us both. But I am anticipating events. 
 
 At eight years old I was a tall, robust, ruddy 
 girl, with an immense quantity of curling chest- 
 nut hair dangling into my eyes and hanging 
 about my shoulders. I knew every field in the 
 parish, and every creature, tame and wild, that 
 might be found in them. In the summer I 
 went into the hay-fields to work or play, as I 
 liked best, and to ride in the empty wagons, or 
 tear my frock or my hands in gathering sprays 
 of wild roses, or long trailing stems of the 
 beautiful blue vetch. I was up with the earliest
 
 A GIRL'S STOKY. 25 
 
 dawn to pick mushrooms in the old pasture- 
 fields ; I went a-gleaning ; I gathered black- 
 berries, and spent whole days in picking bil- 
 berries on a wide heath some miles off, with the 
 poor children of the village, who gained their 
 living at that season by doing so ; and being 
 instructed by Mrs Bridget to give my gatherings 
 to my humble associates, I was, wherever I 
 went, an honoured and welcome companion. 
 There was not a man, woman, or child in the 
 village that I did not familiarly know. Many 
 a baby I had half nursed, and for many a 
 little creature's untimely death I had sincerely 
 mourned. These are small things to write 
 about, and I tell them, not to make my young 
 readers think too well of me, but as traits of my 
 early character, training, and life ; and if I add 
 that I was generally beloved, let me not be 
 thought vain, but do, my dear young readers, 
 take into consideration, that among the poor 
 people with whom I associated there was so 
 much kindness, so much patient endurance of 
 poverty and pain, and such unostentatious sym- 
 pathising of poor neighbour with neighbour, 
 that no one could have been, as I was, among 
 them daily, nay, almost hourly, without having
 
 26 A GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 the heart improved, and the affections and 
 charities of our nature called into activity, and 
 thereby winning their confidence and love. Mrs 
 Bridget was a most kindhearted, benevolent 
 creature ; and was enabled, by the allowance 
 which was made for my maintenance, and our 
 frugal way of living, to be a general benefactor. 
 I was her almoner, and, through my intimate 
 knowledge of every household, I became 
 acquainted with all their wants and sorrows, 
 which we had often the means, and always the 
 will, to relieve. Oh ! when I look back to those 
 times, and see their happiness, their simplicity, 
 and their humble usefulness, how do I mourn 
 over the one fault which darkened it all our 
 ignorance of the true nature of spiritual things 
 even while our practice was, as to many out- 
 ward matters, so truly Christian ! 
 
 Although I was a considerable heiress in this 
 country district, I knew little, and thought still 
 less, about it. There was no parade about any 
 thing. The honest farmer, who acted as my 
 father's bailiff, quietly collected his yearly rents, 
 transmitted them to his agent in town, paid our 
 small, though amply-sufficient stipend, and 
 there was an end of the matter. Our cottage
 
 A GIRL'S STORY. 27 
 
 stood on the farm of this good man. It was a 
 sweet little spot, embosomed in trees, with a 
 large garden, and a small orchard of old mossy 
 trees, which, nevertheless, produced apples so 
 red and so golden, that, in after-years, whenever 
 I read of Hesperian apples, I saw, in fancy, 
 those of our own orchard. Among the branches 
 of the trees, and in their gnarled trunks, the 
 robin, the chaffinch, the missel-thrush, the 
 throstle, and the black -bird found warm and safe 
 retreat ; for in my predatory excursions I never 
 harried the nest of any bird which, as it were, 
 had put itself under our protection. At the 
 bottom of the orchard ran a small winding 
 brook, with broken banks, mossy and covered 
 with every graceful and luxuriant plant that 
 loves the water-side. The stream was shaded 
 by alders, with here and there an immense half- 
 decaying willow, which formed in itself a pic- 
 turesque union of old age and vigorous youth. 
 On the orchard slope grew snowdrops and wild 
 daffodils, flowers which I can never see without 
 the freshness and happiness of my early years 
 returning with the memory of that green quiet 
 orchard. Under the hedges, among the brown 
 half-dissected leaves of the holly, sprung up the
 
 28 A GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 first violets of the year violets, thickly set as 
 the stars in the sky, white and blue, an almost 
 inexhaustible succession, though my little basket 
 was filled every morning. 
 
 Our garden was as old-fashioned as could well 
 be conceived ; we had no flowers but of the most 
 primitive kind, but those in such luxuriant 
 abundance as quite to make up for their inferior 
 quality. Never did I see such clumps of crocuses 
 as ours, nor such roots of polyanthuses ; never 
 such yellow and lilac primroses, nor elsewhere 
 such roots of that old-fashioned ox slip, called by 
 Mrs Bridget " dick-in-green-doublets." Poor 
 Mrs Bridget loved her garden next to myself, 
 and was very particular in the management of 
 her auriculas, pinks, and carnations. Her hor- 
 ticulture was reckoned the finest in the country ; 
 and many an old neighbour came in on a 
 Sunday evening, dressed in his best, to walk in 
 our garden, and quietly compliment Mrs Bridget 
 on the extraordinary excellence of her favourite 
 flowers, or to beg a cutting or a root of one 
 or the other, which the kind creature never 
 refused. 
 
 It was a happy life I led. I had tame rabbits, 
 pet robins, and a sparrow so remarkably tame
 
 A GIRL'S STORY. 29 
 
 as to sit perched on my finger, eat from my lip, 
 come at my call, and nestle in my bosom to rest 
 for hours together. I had a cat, and many 
 families of kittens, and a terrier dog, called 
 Badger, wonderfully ugly, as every body pro- 
 tested, but come, nevertheless, of so good a race, 
 as to be in general request for every rat-catching 
 and otter-hunting within many miles. I had 
 strolled the country over in every direction, and 
 was, in my vagrant and out-of-doors life, as bold 
 and as independent, and as full of adventurous 
 pleasure, as the most arrant gipsy that pitched 
 her tent in our lanes. This life of freedom gave 
 me the full use of all my limbs, and an energy 
 and independence of character, which I found 
 afterwards to be extremely useful, and which, 
 in some degree, counterbalanced the defects of 
 my early education. 
 
 Such was I, when my father announced his 
 intention of visiting us, and for a longer period 
 than usual. The tidings were those of great 
 joy, for dear Mrs Bridget had always encouraged 
 in my young heart the most ardent affection for 
 my father ; and, perfectly believing that she 
 had entirely fulfilled her duty towards me, she 
 anticipated his coming with impatience almost
 
 SO A GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 equal to my own. "We talked of it morning, 
 noon, and night ; and such had always been 
 the perfect integrity of her conduct, that now 
 nothing was done differently in the prospect of 
 my father's coming, nor was I instructed to do 
 thus and thus, nor to say this or the other 
 before him ; for Mrs Bridget believed every 
 thing had been done that he could desire, and 
 exactly according to his wishes. 
 
 The first few days of my father's visit were 
 days of unmingled pleasure : he found me grown 
 beyond his hopes, and full of affection and 
 buoyant spirits ; and " all went merrily as a 
 marriage bell " till Sunday, when, as there was 
 that day no service at church, my father took 
 me by the hand, and, seating me beside him on 
 a little bench in the orchard, began to question 
 me on religious subjects. He had been himself 
 most religiously educated in his youth, and, I 
 have heard it said, had performed family-worship 
 for many years, with great solemnity and pro- 
 priety, after his father's death, which occurred 
 when he was but nine years old. He had 
 always thought it of the highest importance 
 that children should receive very early religious 
 knowledge : it may therefore be imagined what
 
 A GIRL'S STORY. 31 
 
 would be his horror to find me, though a 
 Christian's child, as ignorant as a little Pagan. 
 My answers to his questions, and my remarks, 
 were, I believe, painfully irrational or foolish ; 
 and I am ashamed to think how my ignorance, 
 which in the openness of my nature I fully 
 revealed, must have shocked and wounded his 
 deeply religious mind. Never shall I forget 
 the agony of my spirit, when I saw him burst 
 into tears, and bewail over me as a lost, 
 neglected creature. The sudden sense of a 
 great calamity fell upon me, and I felt as if 
 I had in some way betrayed a fatal secret, 
 which would bring misery on dear Mrs Bridget, 
 for I heard my father couple her name with 
 epithets which, though I could not fully under- 
 stand them, I knew to be terms of reproach and 
 displeasure. After some time, he took me again 
 by the hand, and returned with me to the 
 house, where he poured out his great anger 
 against the amazed Mrs Bridget. She had 
 warm feelings, loved me better than her life, 
 and, believing me a faultless creature, was no 
 less hurt than angry at my father's reproaches. 
 The end of this strange and distressing scene 
 was my father's .determination to remove me
 
 A GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 from her guardianship ; and, spite of my prayers 
 to remain, and Mrs Bridget's tears, expostula- 
 tions, and upbraidings, she was ordered to pack 
 up my little wardrobe and prepare me for a 
 journey on the morrow. What an unhappy 
 evening that was ! I sat like one stupified 
 with some strange sorrow, and many, many 
 times half believed it a painful dream, from 
 which I tried in vain to wake. Nothing in the 
 world, I am sure, could have prevailed on poor 
 Mrs Bridget to make the needful preparations, 
 but the knowledge that I must be the sufferer 
 if she neglected to provide comfortably for the 
 journey, which, she was told, would be a long 
 one. 
 
 I will not attempt to tell my young readers 
 what a melancholy going-to-bed mine was that 
 night how the dear, kind creature wept over 
 me, and kissed me, and folded me in her arms 
 looking in my face with the most passionate 
 love, and then hiding hers in her apron to con- 
 ceal her grief. I laid myself down upon the 
 bed where we had so often slept together, and 
 burying my face in the pillow, cried myself into 
 an uneasy slumber. In the very early morning 
 I awoke. All was still in the house, except the
 
 A GIRL'S STORY. 33 
 
 crickets, which I heard chirping on the kitchen 
 hearth but no Mrs Bridget was in bed ! I 
 started up half terrified, and drawing the curtain 
 aside, saw, by the light of the moon, the kind 
 creature sitting in the room, her face covered 
 with both her hands, and presently after heard 
 the sobs which she could no longer restrain. 
 She had been busy all the night making prepar- 
 ation for my journey; and now, while some 
 little confectionery was baking in the oven, she 
 had stolen up to be near me while I was yet 
 under the same roof. 
 
 The remainder of the night I did not sleep, 
 but at my earnest request, I was carried down 
 to the warm kitchen hearth, where, after being 
 dressed with the most solemn care, and wrapped 
 in her best scarlet cloak, we sat down to pass 
 the time together, with protestations of affection, 
 and with many tears, till the early hour which 
 was fixed for my departure. 
 
 In the morning my father seemed softened 
 towards my poor friend. He permitted our 
 tediously-long parting without impatience, and 
 even wept himself, to witness the vehement 
 sorrow of the poor old woman, to whom, in 
 truth, both he and I owed so much, 
 c
 
 34 A GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 Our journey was a very long one ; and, finally, 
 I was placed under the care of a widow lady of the 
 name of Herman, an early friend of my father, 
 and who, having lost several young children 
 of her own, was willing to receive me in the 
 place of a little daughter. I am ashamed to 
 confess that I was so wretched at parting from 
 dear Mrs Bridget, that I closed my heart against 
 any one who might be chosen to supply her 
 place, and wickedly determined not to love her, 
 nor even to make myself amiable to her. But 
 the soul of a child so used to affection as I had 
 been could not long remain insensible to daily 
 and hourly kindness ; I felt it instinctively in 
 the tone of Mrs Herman's voice, in the expres- 
 sion of her countenance, and could as little 
 resist its influence as the opening of the flowers 
 could resist the sunshine. In a few days, there- 
 fore, we were better friends than it had been my 
 intention that we ever should become. She 
 knew all the peculiar circumstances of my young 
 life from my father, and having won rny con- 
 fidence, soon penetrated my heart also, and in 
 so doing, learned much that made her admire 
 my poor, humble friend. She encouraged me to 
 talk about her, and on this subject I never was
 
 A GIRL'S STORY. 35 
 
 weary. What was my surprise, when one day, 
 after such a conversation, she remarked to my 
 father, on his entering the room, that she hoped 
 he would allow Mrs Bridget to take up her resi- 
 dence with us, and still be my attendant, though 
 under her own inspection. My father seemed 
 amazed, and even for a moment objected ; but 
 she pleaded so kindly for the poor old woman, 
 urging our many obligations to her, and hoping 
 that we might be the means of instructing her 
 on subjects of which she seemed so ignorant, 
 that in the end my father consented. I was 
 overpowered by this goodness, and clasping my 
 arms round Mrs Herman's neck, shed tears of 
 joy and gratitude. The next day my father 
 again set off to our village to bring back with 
 him my kind and early friend. 
 
 Mrs Bridget was still more endeared to me by 
 this short separation, and never was child so 
 happy in the prospect of any pleasure as I was 
 in this reunion. I fancied to myself how she 
 would look, and what would be the dress in 
 which she would arrive the handsome chintz 
 gown and fine linen apron, the scarlet cloak, 
 and the black mode bonnet, trimmed with old- 
 fashioned black lace. I described her over and
 
 36 A GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 over again to my new friend, and even told 
 what she would assuredly say at our first meet- 
 ing. But I was wrong. My father found her 
 ill in bed ill, as the doctor averred, from 
 excessive grief; and although she rose up, as 
 soon as she heard the glad tidings, declaring 
 that she was able to undertake the journey that 
 very day, it was too much for her, and I had to 
 receive her a feeble invalid. 
 
 All the household was affected by her arrival, 
 and the most unwearied kindness and attention 
 were bestowed upon her. These things all 
 touched the good heart of Mrs Bridget ; and she 
 who, like me, had entered the house with preju- 
 dice against its inmates, could not be proof 
 against their kindness. 
 
 My father did not remain with us long enough 
 to witness her recovery and establishment in 
 the family. To her was intrusted the care of 
 my person and clothes, to which she had so 
 long zealously attended. She had a little room 
 of her own, and the allowance which was made 
 to her formerly being still continued, made her 
 a rich woman. 
 
 Now began, indeed, the golden days of my 
 life. The Bible which had been hitherto a
 
 A GIRL'S STORY. 37 
 
 sealed book to us Loth, lay open before us, and 
 the joy of my life was to sit at dear Mrs Bridget's 
 knee, and read to her the simple, beautiful, and 
 affecting narratives it contains. In her mind 
 there was nothing to counteract the influence 
 of good ; she received it with the sincerity and 
 simplicity of a little child, and with the know- 
 ledge she thus gained, sentiments awoke in her 
 soul of which she had but little idea before. Poor, 
 dear Mrs Bridget, what an insatiable delight 
 had she in those pleasant ancient stories nor 
 was the pleasure I took in them less than hers ! 
 With what amazement and love did we read the 
 history of Joseph his being torn from his 
 doting father came home to her heart ! The 
 exploits of David the lives and deeds of Elisha 
 and Elijah the true-heartedness and affection 
 of Ruth the integrity and wonderful deliver- 
 ance of the three faithful children from the 
 burning fiery furnace, and of Daniel from the 
 lions' den ; but, above all, the history of the 
 Shunamite woman and her little son and of 
 David and the lost child of his affections, were 
 full of the most engrossing interest to her ; and 
 in all she found something to which her own 
 heart and its experience responded. But if I
 
 38 A GIRL'S STORY. 
 
 first pointed out these extraordinarily interest- 
 ing histories to the dear old creature, it was 
 she who first awoke my mind to the beauty, the 
 purity, the benevolence, and the heroism of the 
 character of our Saviour. 
 
 It was a pleasant life that we now led ! Mrs 
 Herman always encouraged me to converse on 
 these subjects, and to me they were the most 
 delightful and the most interesting that we 
 ever spoke upon ; for she made religion so lovely, 
 by the cheerfulness of her conversation, that I 
 could not believe any one could ever shrink 
 from it as a gloomy subject. 
 
 Thus passed over several years. In the mean- 
 time I was learning a variety of things which it 
 was necessary for me to know geography, and 
 the natural history and manners of the inhabit- 
 ants of the eastern countries, among the rest. 
 These I found wonderfully to elucidate my 
 knowledge of the Scripture histories, and I 
 aspired to teach Mrs Bridget the same ; but 
 here, poor dear soul, she was as dull as a block, 
 and seemed to comprehend nothing about them. 
 Her heart was not interested by them, and all 
 Mrs Bridget's knowledge must pass through 
 her affections. I therefore left her to the Bible
 
 A GIRL'S STORY. 39 
 
 alone, while I read and studied various other 
 books and histories, and gained as much infor- 
 mation as satisfied my friends, if not myself. 
 
 I need not pursue the subject further. My 
 kind young readers, who have gone thus far 
 with me, will be sure that the latter days of 
 poor Mrs Bridget were made as happy as pos- 
 sible they were so indeed ! She lived to a 
 good old age, and then, full of love and peace, 
 passed to that brighter world for which the 
 knowledge of her latter years had so worthily 
 prepared her.
 
 ANECDOTES.
 
 HOW A MAN COULD CATCH "WILL- 
 O'-THE-WISP." 
 
 THERE was a man, once upon a time, and within 
 the memory of several old people now living, 
 who was bent upon catching Will-o'-the-Wisp, 
 or, as it is sometimes called, Peg-with-her- 
 lantern. Nobody but himself believed he could 
 do this ; but he was himself quite sure he could 
 accomplish it, and whenever he had an extra 
 glass of ale, he was always ready to set out on 
 the expedition. It happened therefore, one 
 night, as he came from Denby, a village in 
 Derbyshire (the village where Flamstead, the 
 astronomer, was born), not remarkably sober, 
 and yet steady enough to keep his ground, he 
 resolved to make the attempt. What he meant
 
 44 HOW A MAN COULD CATCH 
 
 to do with Peg when he caught her I do not 
 know ; perhaps he did not exactly know himself; 
 nor am I sure that he had any idea what sort of 
 a thing she would prove ; but mystery, some 
 people think, makes things more interesting, 
 and so, I suppose, it was in his case. On he 
 went, therefore, towards some old fishponds, 
 where there was a long and wide morass ; and 
 immediately, as if fortune would favour him, he 
 descried the object of his desire, glimmering out 
 before him. Off he went, floundering and 
 plunging like a wild horse, through bog and 
 over bush ; but, when he had reached the spot, 
 she had vanished, and again gleamed out before 
 him like a little spark, at the distance of a 
 hundred yards. But, as he expected to have 
 some trouble in taking her, he was not to be 
 easily daunted, and vowing to make sure of her 
 at last, off he went again. Peg, however, as 
 wild and nimble as her brother Jack-o'-lantern, 
 had set off again as far away to the right hand. 
 To the right, therefore, he went ; but when he 
 got there, through bush, through brake, off she 
 had skipped away to the left, and he, nothing 
 dismayed, went off, like a bold hunter, in that 
 direction. Peg now seemed in a much quieter
 
 " WILL-O'-THE WISP" 45 
 
 and steadier humour, and the nearer he came 
 the brighter she gleamed and glimmered now, 
 for a moment, dimming herself, then again 
 shining out clearer than ever. Our pursuer, 
 certain of the prize, threw off his coat, which 
 had somewhat impeded his motions, and chuck- 
 ling to himself over the prize he was about to 
 win, sprang forward with outstretched arms to 
 seize her, uttering an exultant shout of " Now I 
 have you ! " and plunged his arms up to his 
 shoulders in a peat-fire !
 
 OF A KAYEN TH'AT WENT 
 TO A FAIR. 
 
 THERE was, some fifty years ago, a cunning and 
 mischievous raven, named Ralph, kept at a, 
 lonesome farmhouse in Derbyshire. He was a 
 great favourite with all the family, though he 
 often created much annoyance and trouble by 
 his thievish tricks. Whatever came in his way, 
 which was not too heavy for him to lift, he 
 carried off; yet, though every one knew who 
 was the thief, he seldom came in for punish- 
 ment, the servants and different members of the 
 family being blamed instead, for leaving things 
 in his way. Notwithstanding the care, however, 
 which everybody took to put things in their 
 places, Ralph found many a little article of
 
 OF A RAVEN THAT WENT TO A FAIR. 47 
 
 which he made prize, and many a one which 
 was never missed at the time. 
 
 After Ralph had practised his thievery, and 
 indulged his hahit of secretiveness for some 
 years, all his hoard came one day suddenly to 
 light. He had buried it in, as he had thought, 
 a cunning hole that he had made in the thatched 
 roof of a barn. His treasures grew and grew, 
 and the hole had been deepened and deepened, 
 till it was as deep as the thatch itself, and then 
 all his accumulation fell through upon the barn 
 floor. And what a wonderful accumulation 
 there was ! thimbles, small pieces of money, 
 balls of cotton, knitting-needles, curtain-rings, 
 one or two gold rings, a brooch, sleeve-buttons, 
 two salt-spoons, a mustard-pot lid, a seal and 
 the gold-setting of a seal, combs, little old 
 housewives, pincushions, buckles, hair-pins, and 
 all the multitude of small things that abound 
 in the houses of tolerably well-conditioned 
 people. There was a world of amusement in 
 the owning of Ralph's treasury, and many an 
 old-forgotten thing was brought to light, and 
 many another was found of which nobody could 
 give any account. 
 
 The winter after this event, poor Ralph came
 
 48 OF A RAVEN THAT WENT TO A FAIR. 
 
 to an untimely end. The travelling tailor who 
 used to come now and then to the house, to 
 make and mend the clothes of the family, had 
 made him, of scarlet cloth, a comb and wattles, 
 like those of a chanticleer, which he allowed to 
 be put on, and seemed to wear with as much 
 pride as a young soldier wears his new uniform. 
 Not long after being thus accoutred, there 
 chanced to be a fair in the neighbourhood, 
 and, as several members of the family went to 
 it, Ralph saw no reason why he might not go 
 also. Off, therefore, he flew after them, and 
 arriving in the height of the fair, perched upon 
 the roof of a house which stood in the centre 
 of the bustle. The poor fellow had all his 
 bravery on, and was immediately descried, 
 everybody taking him for some wonderful bird, 
 and everybody being desirous of securing him. 
 
 Unfortunately, a man with a gun was at 
 hand, and, to make sure of so strange a crea- 
 ture while he was within reach, fired at him, 
 and poor Ralph and his bravery fell together. 
 Hardly had he reached the ground, when his 
 old friends of the farm came up with a crowd 
 that had been drawn to the spot by the firing 
 of the gun, and in the strange nondescript
 
 OF A RAVEN THAT WENT TO A FAIR. 49 
 
 creature they instantly recognised their old 
 favourite. Great was the lamentation that was 
 made over him, and loud and vehement their 
 indignation at the impatient rabble who had so 
 summarily ended his days. His sagacity was 
 an endless theme of discourse ; story after story 
 was told of him, and so great was the sympathy 
 of all the fair-going people, that for some time 
 they forgot the amusements that surrounded 
 them, to condole over the unfortunate raven 
 that came to the fair in all his finery to meet 
 so tragic an end.
 
 HOW A BULLFINCH DIED OF JOY. 
 
 THERE was once a bullfinch kept by a lady, 
 which was so extremely fond of her as to exceed 
 any instance of attachment I ever heard of 
 before. Her presence created a sort of sun- 
 shine to him, and he sang and rejoiced with 
 his whole heart when she was by ; while he 
 drooped in her absence, and would sit silent 
 in his cage for whole days together. 
 
 The lady fell sick, and was confined to her 
 bed for a week with so severe an illness, as to 
 be entirely disabled from thinking of the bird. 
 At length, when she was sufficiently recovered 
 to see him, she ordered his cage to be brought 
 and set upon the bed beside her. The poor 
 bird knew her voice in an instant, though it 
 was weak and low from her extreme fever.
 
 HOW A BULLFINCH DIED OF JOY. 51 
 
 The cage-door was opened ; he uttered a shrill 
 cry between a song and a scream fluttered 
 from her hand to her cheek, and then fell down, 
 dead !
 
 ABOUT A MAN AND A BEAR. 
 
 WHEN I was wandering in the backwoods of 
 North America (said a traveller), I came one 
 day upon an old man, the most picturesque 
 object I ever saw ; his dress was of coarse home 
 manufacture, and was rudely shaped to his 
 large-boned person, probably by the hand of 
 some female tailor. His clothes were torn by 
 wandering among forests, and literally hung 
 about him in shreds and tatters ; and, amid 
 the various parts of his wearing-apparel, several 
 little articles of Indian manufacture were to be 
 seen. Over his deer-skin leggings he wore the 
 curiously-wrought moccasins, or Indian shoes : 
 in the place of a hat, he had a scarlet wampum- 
 belt bound round his head, and he smoked from 
 an Indian pipe. Notwithstanding this curious
 
 ABOUT A MAN AND A BEAR. 53 
 
 costume, his countenance shewed at a glance 
 that he belonged to civilised society ; and his 
 friendly salutation, spoken in good English, 
 sounded delightful to me, after having ceased 
 to hear my native tongue for many weeks. 
 
 The old man sat upon a fallen tree, and 
 seemed to have just taken his repast ; for his 
 dried venison and Indian bread, and yet open 
 wallet, lay before him. I needed no second 
 invitation to partake his seat ; and drawing 
 forth my own store of provision, followed his 
 example. 
 
 My old man of the woods was a surveyor, 
 employed by the American government to 
 measure and set out tracts of land in the back- 
 settlements. It was a wild and lonely life that 
 he led, and one which afforded him continual 
 opportunity of gaining knowledge of Indian 
 life and character, and of observing the habits 
 of the beasts and birds of the wilderness. 
 
 The bears, he told me, were the most trouble- 
 some neighbours he had in his out-of-doors life ; 
 and he said that he was obliged to hang the 
 wallet containing his provisions in a tree while 
 he slept, otherwise these audacious creatures 
 would steal it, even from under his head. He
 
 54 ABOUT A MAN AND A BEAR. 
 
 was sleeping, he said, one night, with his wallet 
 for his pillow, when he was awoke by something 
 violently tugging at it. He started up, and 
 saw in the early dawn a shaggy black bear: 
 he rose, and opening his bag, threw him a large 
 piece of his dried venison, saying : " There, 
 take that, and welcome ! " The bear snapped 
 it up, and then stood waiting for more : he 
 threw him another piece, saying : " Take that, 
 then, and prithee, begone ! " Again the bear 
 stood in expectation. A third time he threw 
 him a slice, exclaiming : " Why, thou 'st no 
 conscience ; take that, and be satisfied ! " But 
 the bear, still insatiable, gulped down the third 
 piece with a great swallow, and again stood 
 waiting for more. At this the man's patience 
 came to an end, and heaving up his great staff, 
 he gave him a lusty blow on his head, bellowing 
 at the highest pitch of his voice : " Take that, 
 then, and be off with thee ! " Upon this the 
 bear, uttering a loud cry, trotted away into the 
 woods, and the old man saw no more of him ; 
 but, after this adventure, he took care to hang 
 his provisions far enough out of the reach of 
 the bears.
 
 OF A DOG THAT COULD AND COULD 
 NOT RECKON TIME. 
 
 MANY persons think that dogs, however saga- 
 cious, have no notion of the recurrence of 
 periods of time, unless they are guided by 
 external signs ; as, for instance, the return of 
 the Sunday by the cessation of the week's 
 labour. But there was a dog which was guided 
 by something beyond this in his calculation of 
 times, and of him I am about to give an anec- 
 dote. He was a white terrier of a good race, 
 and his name was Pry, and, though active and 
 clever in the pursuit of vermin, not remarkably 
 gifted with any great intellectual powers. He 
 belonged to a family of the Society of Friends, 
 who lived in a country place, and who were in
 
 56 OF A DOG THAT COULD AND 
 
 the habit of attending their meeting their 
 week-day meeting, as they called it on the 
 Thursday, some two miles off, in a lonely and 
 rather wild place. Pry took it into his head 
 that he, too, would attend the meeting : it was 
 famous sport for him to run up and about 
 the wild hollows and deep lanes and water- 
 courses that lay between his home and the 
 meeting-house ; and such an amusement, once 
 a week, would not have been denied to him, had 
 he been contented to stay quietly in the stable 
 with the horses, or lie outside the door till his 
 master was ready to return home. But Pry 
 had a will of his own, and he chose to lie at 
 his master's feet in summer, and before the 
 warm stove in winter, while the Friends con- 
 tinued their sitting together ; and though it 
 must be acknowledged that his behaviour was 
 unexceptionable, still it was looked upon as 
 somewhat indecorous to introduce a dog into 
 so grave a company. The family, therefore, 
 well knowing the pertinacity of Pry's temper, 
 gave orders that he should be tied up on 
 meeting mornings, and thus kept at home 
 perforce. For a week or two this was done, 
 to poor Pry's great discomfort; but at length
 
 COULD NOT BECKON TIME. 57 
 
 he outwitted them. On these mornings he was 
 never to be found, so that he secured his own 
 liberty, and then joined his master about half- 
 way on the road, or rather kept him in view, 
 and demurely followed him to the place of 
 worship. After a little time longer, when he 
 supposed the discipline to have somewhat 
 relaxed though he would never venture his 
 liberty within the house on these especial 
 mornings, not even to come for his breakfast 
 he took his station at the top of the village 
 street, within sight of the door and windows 
 of his master's house, and there patiently waited 
 till he saw signs of setting out, and then trotted 
 on in great security and good-humour. When 
 Pry's master saw, by all these stratagems, and 
 all this doggish wisdom, that he was bent upon 
 his purpose, he made no further opposition, and 
 Pry became a regular and authorised attender 
 of Friends' meetings. But now comes the sin- 
 gularity of the story. About once in every two 
 months the meeting was held at a distant place, 
 which the family but rarely attended. The dog 
 knew when the regular day of the week recurred, 
 and invariably set out, trotting by himself to 
 the very meeting-house door, which, when he
 
 58 OF A DOG, ETC. 
 
 found shut, he examined with a curious kind of 
 canine wonderment ; and then, after having 
 walked over the grave-yard, and round and into 
 the stable, without finding any token of arrival, 
 sedately turned back again, and though appar- 
 ently perplexed and disappointed, soon set his 
 nose to the ground, and traced out all the won- 
 ders of the homeward way. 
 
 Now, that a dog should know when it was 
 the meeting-day by some external signs, as the 
 bringing up of a horse, the putting on of his 
 master's gaiters, or perhaps by the conversation 
 of the family, does not seem so extraordinary, 
 considering the wonderful instances of canine 
 acuteness which we have on record; but that 
 he should actually know, without ever mis- 
 taking it, when the day came though there 
 was no outward sign of preparation nor even 
 conversation about it certainly was singular. 
 The dog, though he had intellect enough to 
 know the recurring day in seven, had yet not 
 sufficient intellect to discover the regular 
 exception, which happened about every eighth 
 week.
 
 OF A RAVEN THAT HAD A 
 DINNER-PARTY. 
 
 THERE was a raven kept, a few years ago, at 
 Newhaven, at an inn on the road between Bux- 
 ton and Ashbourn. This bird had been taught 
 to call the poultry, and, like the parrot of Para- 
 guay, could do it very well too. One day the 
 table being set out for the coach-passengers' 
 dinner the cloth was laid, with the knives and 
 forks, spoons, mats, and bread, and in that state 
 it was left for some time, the room-door being 
 shut, though the window was open. The raven 
 had watched the operation very quietly, and, 
 as we may suppose, felt a strong ambition to 
 do the like. 
 
 When the coach was just arriving, the dinner
 
 60 OF A RAVEN, ETC. 
 
 was carried in ; but, behold ! the whole para- 
 phernalia of the dinner-table had vanished 
 silver spoons, knives, forks all gone ! But 
 what was the surprise and amusement to see, 
 through the open window, upon a heap of rub- 
 bish in the yard, the whole array very carefully 
 set out, and the raven performing the honours 
 of the table to a numerous company of poultry 
 which he had summoned about him, and was 
 very consequentially regaling with bread !
 
 HOW A BOY TOOK A FLIGHT. 
 
 THERE is a story, and which I believe is a 
 fact, of two boys going to take a jackdaw's nest 
 from a hole under the belfry-window in the 
 tower of All-Saints' Church, Derby. As it was 
 impossible to reach the nest while standing 
 within the building, and equally impossible to 
 ascend to that height from without, they deter- 
 mined to put a plank through the window, and, 
 while the heavier boy secured its balance by 
 sitting on the end within, the lighter boy was 
 to fix himself on the opposite end, and from 
 that perilous situation to reach the object of 
 their desire. So far the scheme answered 
 according to their wishes. The little fellow 
 took the nest, and finding in it five fledged
 
 62 HOW A BOY TOOK A FLIGHT. 
 
 young birds, announced the news to his 
 companion. 
 
 " Five, are there ? " replied he ; " then I '11 
 have three ! " 
 
 " Three ! " exclaimed the other indignantly. 
 " No ; I ran all the danger, and I will have 
 the three/' 
 
 " You shall not," still maintained the boy in 
 the inside " you shall not. Promise me three, 
 or r 11 drop you ! " 
 
 "Drop me, and welcome/' replied our little 
 hero ; " but I will promise you no more than 
 two/' 
 
 The boy inside slipped off the plank, the end 
 tilted up, and down went the lesser boy upwards 
 of a hundred feet to the ground. At the mo- 
 ment of his fall he was holding his prize by the 
 legs, two in one hand and three in the other, 
 and the birds finding themselves descending, 
 instinctively fluttered out their pinions. But 
 it was not these alone which saved the boy. He 
 had on a stout new carter's frock, secured round 
 the neck, and this, filling with air from beneath, 
 buoyed him up like a balloon, and he descended 
 smoothly to the ground, alighting, like a cat, 
 on his legs ; and then, looking up, he exclaimed
 
 HOW A BOY TOOK A FLIGHT. 63 
 
 to his companion : " Now, you shall have none ! " 
 and ran. away, sound in limb, to the astonish- 
 ment of the inhabitants, who, with inconceivable 
 horror, had witnessed his descent. 

 
 HOW A JEST WAS NO JOKE. 
 
 WHEN I was a little child of five or six years 
 old, I and my sister, rather older than myself, 
 were taken by our father to spend a summer's 
 day in Needwood Forest. We were little wild 
 things, as brown and as hardy as gipsies, and 
 many a long happy day we had spent under the 
 forest trees, dining in woodmen's cottages, or, if 
 none were at hand, by the side of a little run- 
 ning stream in some old woodland hollow. 
 
 Towards noon, on one of these happy days, 
 as we were wearied with a long morning's 
 ramble, we were left to recover from our fatigue 
 under the spreading shade of an immense tree, 
 like fairies in a fairy tale ; looking as diminu- 
 tive as they in proportion to this giant of the 
 forest, and being almost lost among its curled
 
 HOW A JEST WAS NO JOKE. 65 
 
 and twisted roots, which were heaved up, old 
 and mossed and rugged, and wreathed together 
 like a nest of angry snakes, which had been 
 turned to stone ages and ages before. Around 
 us lay a small opening of forest glade, covered 
 with short green grass, upon which the sunshine 
 fell with such soft light, as to give it the colour 
 of clear emerald ; this was enclosed by thickets 
 of black holly, which, in contrast with the light 
 foreground, looked still more intensely dark ; 
 under and among these grew the greenwood- 
 laurel with its clusters of poisonous-looking 
 berries, and whole beds of the fair, white stel- 
 laria, shining like stars (whence its name) 
 among its grass-like leaves of tender green. 
 In other spots grew clusters of the dark, mys- 
 terious-looking enchanter's nightshade, and the 
 singular and rare four-leaved Herb-Paris, or 
 True-love, bearing its berry-like flower at the 
 central angles of its four leaves. 
 
 There was an undefined feeling, half of plea- 
 sure and half of pain, in being left alone in so 
 wild a spot. We heard the crow of the distant 
 pheasant, the coo-coo of the wood -pigeon, and 
 the laugh-like cry of the woodpecker ; and 
 these, though familiar to us, seemed strangely
 
 66 
 
 HOW A JEST WAS NO JOKE. 
 
 to add to the solitariness of the scene. And 
 yet it was very delightful. We talked cheer- 
 fully of everything around us ; watched the 
 
 hare run past, or from thicket to thicket ; and 
 the starling creep up the old trees, and the little
 
 HOW A JEST WAS NO JOKE. 67 
 
 birds fly in and out from their woody screens 
 with more than common interest. But at length, 
 after long watching and long observation, we 
 remarked to each other a strange, unceasing, 
 low sound, which we could not comprehend ; it 
 seemed to keep up a perpetual chirr-chirr-r-r-ing 
 somewhere near us, but exactly where we could 
 not tell. At times it appeared just beside us, 
 and then half the glade's distance off; now it 
 was high, now low, now on this side, now on 
 that the strangest, most perplexing, and 
 incomprehensible sound we had ever heard. 
 
 In the midst of our wonderment and lack of 
 counsel, up came a stout forest-boy, of twelve 
 years or thereabouts. He was a brown and 
 wild-looking creature, like a very satyr of the 
 woods ; he was dressed in a suit of leather, had 
 a belt round his waist, in which he carried his 
 wood-knife, and on his back was a bundle of 
 fagots. As he came up, he seemed amazed to 
 find two children, like the Babes in the Wood, 
 seated hand in hand at the foot of an old tree, 
 and made a pause to look at us. "We were not 
 alarmed at his strange appearance, for such 
 figures, in such grotesque garbs, were familiar 
 to us in our forest wanderings ; so, hailing him
 
 68 HOW A JEST WAS NO JOKE. 
 
 as a friend and counsellor, we demanded what 
 was that strange, low voice which we heard 
 somewhere thereabout. 
 
 The boy looked at us for half a moment with 
 a sort of grin, and then, with a sudden look of 
 fear, half bending his body, and speaking in a 
 low but distinctly-articulated whisper : " It 'a 
 my Lord Vernon's blood-hounds/' said he ; 
 "they are out hunting, and yon sounds are 
 the chains which they drag after them ! " and 
 so saying, he dashed off like a wild stag. 
 
 What a horror now fell upon us ! The glade 
 was like an enchanted forest: all at once the 
 trees seemed to swell out to the most gigantic 
 and appalling size ; every twisted root seemed 
 a writhing snake, and every old wreathed 
 branch a down-bending adder ready to devour 
 us. The holly thickets seemed full of an 
 increasing blackness, which, like a dreadful 
 dream, appeared growing upon our imagination 
 till it was too horrible to be borne. We felt as 
 if hemmed in by a mighty wilderness of gloom 
 that cut us off from our kindred ; and still the 
 chirr-r-chirr-r of the terrible hounds, and their 
 draggling chains, sounded through the dreadful 
 silence, and seeming to our affrighted senses to
 
 HOW A JEST WAS NO JOKE. 69 
 
 come nearer and nearer, well-nigh drove us 
 distracted. What, indeed, would have become 
 of us, I know not, had we been left to ourselves 
 and our terrors ; but our cry of " Father ! 
 father I" speedily brought him to us, and the 
 enchantment fled with his presence. The laugh 
 with which he heard our story dispelled the 
 whole terror of it. " It is the grasshopper and 
 nothing more/' said he, "which has caused all 
 this foolish alarm ; " and then, listening for a 
 moment, he traced it by its sound among the 
 short, dry sunny grass, and then held it in his 
 hand before us. " And yet he was a wicked 
 boy/' continued our father, " who told a false- 
 hood to frighten you thus. But come, now you 
 shall go to your dinner ;" and so saying, and 
 taking one by each hand, he led us from the 
 enchanted glade to a woodman's cottage in the 
 next dell
 
 MATTHEW NOGGINS' 
 LETTER TO HIS COUSIN.
 
 MY DEAR COUSIN PETER 
 IN excellent metre, I 'm going to explain 
 what has puzzled my brain, as you may 
 remember, from the tenth of December, 
 the day you came down from great 
 London town, in the coach with a friend, 
 the Christmas to spend in the country 
 with us. You remember the fuss we 
 were in that same night, and the terrible 
 fright we had as we lay wide awake until ( 
 day, wond'ring what was the matter, because of 
 the clatter there was in the house ; neither cat.
 
 74 MATTHEW NOGGINS' 
 
 rat, nor mouse, nor dozens of any, nor ever so 
 many, we were sure could have made that wild 
 cannonade. 
 
 And you haven't forgot, I'm sure you have 
 not how Sam, like a ghost, stood at the bed- 
 post, as white as a sheet, trembling down to his 
 feet, and praying that we would go with him, and 
 see what that terrible rout could be all about. 
 Then you know how we went, with courageous 
 intent, all three on tip-toe, above and below ; 
 how we peeped into presses and tumbled o'er 
 dresses how we looked under beds and poked 
 in our heads, to many a room full of silence and 
 gloom ; how we stole to the kitchen to see if 
 the witch in a kettle or pan had cunningly ran. 
 Then you know how my mother cried out : 
 " What a pother is this that you make ! One 
 would think an earthquake shook the house o'er 
 our heads ; go all to your beds ! 'Tis nothing 
 at all but the wind in the wall, or a strange cat 
 got in that has made such a din !" 
 
 Then to bed we did creep, but it was not to 
 sleep, for I certainly think that not one got a 
 wink ; but asleep or awake, we were all in a 
 quake, and rejoiced when the day sent the 
 darkness away. And at breakfast you know,
 
 LETTER TO HIS COUSIN. 75 
 
 how old Mrs Snow and Mrs Germain told the 
 tale of Cock-lane, and many another such tale 
 to my mother, and all looked so queer, betwixt 
 wonder and fear, that we very well knew that 
 all of them too had had a good fright, upon the 
 last night, as well as ourselves, whom they 
 called " silly elves/' But you know, after this, 
 there was nothing amiss, and the nights were as 
 still as the top of a hill, where there cannot be 
 heard e'en the chirp of a bird : and so ever 
 after 'twas subject of laughter. 
 
 But Peter, my friend, just read to the end, 
 and then you shall know what chanced two 
 nights ago. 
 
 When all were asleep, just as day 'gan to 
 peep, about three of the clock, ere the crow of 
 the cock, we were waked, one and all, by a 
 rattle and squall, and a rumbling and jumbling, 
 as if things were tumbling right over our heads; 
 or as if on the leads loads of stones had been 
 hurled ; or the end of the world was certainly 
 coming, with thumping and drumming, and 
 running about, the most horrible rout with 
 the squall of a cat and the cry of a bird, such a 
 racket as ne'er out of Bedlam was heard ! 
 
 Well, you may be sure, this could not endure
 
 76 MATTHEW NOGGINS' 
 
 without in a flurry and very great hurry all 
 running to see what the matter could be. And 
 Martha and Jane, and stout Adam Blane, and 
 old Thomas and I, we determined to try if we 
 could not find out what the noise was about ; so 
 up stairs and down we went over the house, and 
 left not a corner to harbour a mouse. The old 
 clock was ticking, the crickets were clicking ; 
 the little canary hung up in the dairy, and the 
 guinea-pig lay fast asleep in the hay, and there 
 was not a trace of a thing out of place. But 
 just at the moment, when we had got no scent, 
 again it was heard, so loud, on my word, that 
 we started each man, and the women looked 
 wan, with a terrified stare, as they whispered 
 "'Tis there!" Then old Thomas Baffin did 
 straight fall a-laughing, and bade us all follow ; 
 and off with a " Hollo ! " ran up the back stairs, 
 shouting : " I '11 give you bones to rattle like 
 stones ! You dog and you cat, what would you 
 be at ! " Says Martha to Jane : " Why, he 's 
 mad, and that 's plain ! let 's go up to Missis, 
 and say how strange this is I" But I answered: 
 " Oh no, you shall not do so, you would frighten 
 my poor mother out of her wits ; why, you look 
 as if both were just falling in fits what a couple
 
 LETTER TO HIS COUSIN. 77 
 
 of cowards you are to be sure ! Nay, stay by 
 the fire if you dare go no higher, and Adam and 
 I will go up and spy what this horrible riot and 
 racket can be." 
 
 Now mark, you are told that I looked very 
 bold ; but Peter, my dear, let me say in your 
 ear that I certainly felt as if going to melt ; for 
 I heard such a battering, such thundering and 
 clattering, and Thomas a-calling, as if for help 
 bawling, that I felt half inclined to alter my 
 mind, and not back the fellow, howe'er he might 
 bellow. 
 
 But on with my letter my pride got the 
 better so bidding my cowardice go to the wall, 
 I up stairs ascended to see the thing ended, and 
 know what old Thomas had found after all. 
 Well, when I got there, at the top of the stair, I 
 turned round to see where Adam might be ; but, 
 thank ye, no Adam had ventured with me ! 
 However, I heard where old Thomas Baffin was 
 chuckling and laughing, and " Come up/' says 
 he, " and then you shall see what this riot and 
 rout has been all about I" So through his own 
 chamber, I onward did clamber, and out on the 
 leads saw a cluster of heads, and 'mong them 
 old Thomas's face with a grin of the merriest
 
 78 MATTHEW NOGGINS' 
 
 meaning that ever was seen. " Oil master," 
 says he, " come up here to me, and I '11 shew 
 you a sight worth another such fright ! " Well, 
 I went up, and what do you think I should find? 
 Old Growler and Vixen the cat, and the raven 
 that 's blind ; and betwixt them a great big 
 shin-bone of a horse, which they jumbled about 
 without any remorse and gnawed at and clawed 
 at, and fought for like mad ; and a terrible 
 battle, no doubt, they had had ! 
 
 But ere I have done I must tell you the fun 
 we had in expelling the ghost from the dwelling. 
 Down stairs in a flurry, we drove hurry-scurry, 
 with a "Whist!" and a "Hey!" old Vixen 
 away ; then Growler went next, half ashamed and 
 perplexed, with his great dangling tail like a 
 torn wind-mill sail, and after him blundering the 
 big bone went thundering knock knock down 
 the stairs at a terrible rate, and gave our friend 
 Adam a bump on the pate ; but ere he had time 
 for a grunt or a groan, flap, flap went the blind 
 raven over the bone, right into the kitchen both 
 croaking and screeching ! 
 
 Next after the three came down Thomas and 
 me ; very great with our glory, as you may con- 
 ceive. So here ends my story, and I take my
 
 LETTER TO HIS COUSIN. 79 
 
 leave ; and the sooner, the better, you send me 
 a letter. 
 
 So Peter, goodbye, 
 You know well that I 
 
 Am your friend, as of old, 
 MATTHEW NOGGINS of Wold. 
 
 June, 1864.
 
 THE THREE WISHES.
 
 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 "WELL," said George, "if I might choose, I'd 
 rather be Julius Caesar than any man that ever 
 lived ! lie was a fine fellow, he conquered all 
 the then-known world from the pyramids of 
 Egypt to the island of Thule from the most 
 remote provinces of Asia Minor to the western 
 shores of the Peninsula. In ten years only, he 
 took eight hundred cities ; subdued three 
 hundred nations ; and left above a million of 
 enemies dead upon his fields of battle ! Now he 
 was a hero ! And what a glorious thing it must 
 have been, after subduing Britons, Gauls, 
 Germans, and Russians, to return with his 
 triumphant legions, laden with spoil, and 
 leading kings captive, a conqueror through the 
 streets of Rome! I never think of Julius
 
 84 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 Caesar without longing to be a soldier. * He 
 came he saw he conquered ! ' How famous 
 that was. I wish I had lived in his days ; or, 
 better still, I wish there was another world to 
 conquer, and I were the Julius Caesar to do it, I 
 should then indeed be happy. To be master of 
 the world must be very pleasant." 
 
 " Upon my word ! " said Charles, " mighty 
 grand ! but if I might choose, I would rather 
 be Cicero. I 'd rather be an orator ten thousand 
 times than a warrior, though he were Julius 
 Caesar himself. Only think, George, when you 
 came to die, how should you like to have the 
 blood of a million of men on your conscience ? 
 Depend upon it, it 's not such a fine thing to be 
 a conqueror, after all. But an orator ! his is a 
 glorious character indeed. He gains victories 
 over millions, without shedding one drop of 
 blood ! Now let us match ourselves one against 
 the other ; you a warrior, I an orator each, let 
 us suppose, the most accomplished in the world. 
 What can you do without your legions and your 
 arms ? With ten thousand men at your back, 
 armed at all points, where, pray, is the wonder 
 that you take possession of a city or a country, 
 weakly defended, perhaps, both by men and
 
 THE THREE WISHES. 85 
 
 means ? But place me among savages (provided 
 only I can speak their tongue); give me no 
 arms no money ; nay, even strip me of my 
 clothes, and leave me a defenceless, solitary 
 being among thousands, and what will follow ? 
 I will draw tears from the stoniest-hearted 
 among them ; they shall give me bread to eat, 
 clothing to wear ; they shall build a house to 
 cover me ; and, if my ambition extend so far, 
 they shall choose me for their king ; and this 
 only by the words of my mouth ! Now who, 
 I ask you, is most powerful, you or I ? 
 
 " You think it was a glorious thing for Julius 
 Caesar to pass with his captives through the 
 streets of Rome. I think it was glorious, too, 
 for Cicero, when, after having exposed and 
 defeated the horrible conspiracy of Catiline, and 
 driven him from Rome, he was borne by the 
 most honourable men of the city to his house, 
 along streets crowded with thousands of inhabit- 
 ants, all hailing him ' Father and Saviour of his 
 country V I wish I could be a Cicero, and you 
 might be a Julius Caesar and an Alexander the 
 Great for me. 
 
 " But come, William/' said he, addressing his 
 other brother, " who would you choose to be ?
 
 86 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 And wliat arguments can you bring forward in 
 favour of your choice ? " 
 
 " I," replied William, " would choose to be 
 John Smeaton." 
 
 "John Smeaton?" questioned Charles ; "and, 
 pray, who in the world was John Smeaton ?" 
 
 "Bless me!" said George, "not know John 
 Smeaton ! He was a cobbler, to be sure, and 
 wrote a penny pamphlet to prove how superior 
 wooden shoes are to Grecian sandals ! " 
 
 "Not he, indeed!" interrupted "William 
 indignantly; "he built the Eddystone Light- 
 house ! " 
 
 " Oh ! yes yes ! to be sure he did. I wonder 
 I should forget it," replied George. " He was a 
 stone-mason, and had the honour of building a 
 wall ! Upon my word, sir, yours is a noble 
 ambition ! Why Smeaton only did what any 
 man might do." 
 
 " Not so, either, my good Julius Caesar ! 
 There are not ten men in England that could 
 have built that light-house as well as Smeaton 
 did. It will stand while the world stands ! It 
 is a noble proof of the power and ingenuity of 
 man. It defies the almost omnipotent ocean 
 itself, and the other elements can never affect it.
 
 THE THREE WISHES. 87 
 
 " And now, George, consider Smeaton's case 
 without your soldiery prejudices. Independ- 
 ently of liis work being a master-piece of human 
 skill, its importance will not be lessened by 
 time. Your conquests, most potent Caesar ! are 
 wrested from you in your lifetime, and your 
 successor will hardly thank you for exhausting 
 your country's treasure, and reducing its popu- 
 lation for distant empire, which, as soon as you 
 have left it, rises in insurrection, and almost 
 needs re-conquering. Every year, on the con- 
 trary, makes that work of Smeaton's addition- 
 ally valuable; .and, as the commerce of the 
 country increases, the importance of that wall, 
 as you are pleased to term it, increases also. 
 There 'B not a ship that comes into that sea but 
 owes its preservation, in a great measure, to 
 that light-house. Thousands of lives are pre- 
 served by it ; and when I think of it on a 
 tempestuous night, as I often do, shining out 
 like a star when every other star is hidden, a 
 blessing springs into my heart on the skill of 
 that man who, when the endeavour seemed 
 hopeless, confidently went to work, and suc- 
 ceeded. 
 
 " But I '11 tell you a story now, about neither
 
 88 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 Julius Csesar, Cicero, nor John Smeaton, and 
 yet which is quite apropos : 
 
 " There was, once upon a time, a little city 
 that stood by the sea. It was very famous ; it 
 had abundance of treasure ; twenty thousand 
 soldiers to defend its walls ; and orators the 
 most eloquent in the world. You may be sure 
 it could not exist without enemies ; its wealth 
 created many, and its pride provoked more. 
 Accordingly, by some Julius Csesar of those 
 days, it was besieged. Twelve thousand men 
 encamped round its walls, which extended on 
 three sides, and a powerful fleet blockaded the 
 fourth, which lay open to the sea. The inhabit- 
 ants of this little city felt themselves, of course, 
 amazingly insulted by such an attack, and 
 determined immediately to drive their audacious 
 enemies like chaff before the wind. They 
 accordingly sallied out, but, unfortunately, were 
 driven back, and were obliged to shelter them- 
 selves behind their walls. Seven times this 
 occurred, and the enemy had now been seven 
 months encamped there : it was a thing not to 
 be borne, and a council was called in the city. 
 
 " 'Fight, fight !' cried the orators ; ' fight for 
 your homes, for the graves of your fathers, for
 
 THE THREE WISHES. 89 
 
 the temples of your gods ! ' But in seven defeats 
 the soldiers had been reduced to ten thousand, 
 and the people were less enthusiastic about 
 fighting than the orators expected. Just then 
 a poor man came forward, and stepping upon 
 the rostrum begged to propose three things ; 
 first, a plan by which the enemy might be 
 annoyed ; second, a means of supplying the city 
 with fresh water, of which it began to be much 
 in need ; third but scarcely had he named a 
 third when the impatient orators bade him hold 
 his peace, and the soldiers thrust him out of the 
 assembly as a cowardly proser, who thought the 
 city could be assisted in any way except by thfe 
 use of arms. The people seeing him so thrust 
 forth, directly concluded that he had proposed 
 some dishonourable measures perhaps had been 
 convicted of a design to betray the city; they 
 therefore joined the outcry of the soldiers, and 
 pursued him, with many insults, to his humble 
 dwelling, which they were ready to burn over 
 his head. 
 
 " Now this poor man, who had never in all 
 his life wielded a sword, and who had no ambi- 
 tion to do so, and who was but an indifferent 
 speaker, was, nevertheless, a wise mathe-
 
 90 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 matician, and had wonderful skill in every 
 mechanical science then known, which he had 
 the ability, as is common with such men, to 
 apply admirably to every emergency. But he 
 might as well have had no science at all for any 
 respect it won him ; and though he was a little 
 chagrined that his well-meant proposition had 
 met no better reception, he shut to his doors, 
 sat down in his house, and turned over his 
 schemes in his head till he was more sure than 
 ever of their success. In the meantime the 
 enemy brought up monstrous battering-rams, 
 crow-feet, balistse, and all kinds of dreadful 
 engines for the demolishing of the walls, setting 
 fire to the houses, and otherwise distressing the 
 inhabitants. A thousand men were despatched 
 to cut down a neighbouring forest, from the 
 trees of which they began to build immense 
 wooden towers, whence they could sling masses 
 of rock into the city. There was a deafening 
 noise all day and all night without the walls of 
 deadly preparation. The distress of the besieged 
 was now intolerable, and a truce was eagerly 
 desired. A deputation, therefore, of the most 
 honourable citizens, headed by the most eloquent 
 orators, and preceded by a herald bearing a
 
 THE THREE WISHES. 91 
 
 white flag, went to % the camp of the enemy. 
 The orators addressed them in the most power- 
 ful, and, as they thought, most soul-touching 
 words ; they craved only a truce for seven days ; 
 but their words fell like snow-flakes upon a 
 rock they moved no heart to pity, and the 
 orators were sent back to their city with many 
 marks of ignominy. f Go back/ said they, f and 
 our answer shall reach the city before you do/ 
 Accordingly every .machine was put in motion. 
 Arrows, hurled by the balistse, fell into the 
 streets like hail ; and ponderous stones, falling 
 upon the buildings, threatened destruction to 
 all. The rest of that day the inhabitants kept 
 within their houses, for there was no security in 
 the streets, nor, it must be confessed, much 
 within doors. The next day, when the enem'y 
 a little relaxed their eiforts, the people ventured 
 out ; but nothing was heard save lamentations 
 and murmurs. 
 
 " ' We have no bread/ said the people ; ' we 
 are dying of thirst ; the little corn that remains, 
 and the few skeleton cattle, are reserved for the 
 soldiers, while we are perishing in the streets ! 
 We will open the gates to the enemy, rather 
 than see our children die thus before our eyes ! '
 
 92 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 " Upon this the orators again came forth. It 
 was now no use mounting the rostrum ; the 
 people were sullen, and would not assemble to 
 hear them ; they therefore came into the streets, 
 and poured forth their patriotic harangues to 
 the murmuring thousands that stood doggedly 
 together. 'Will ye/ they exclaimed, 'give up 
 the city of your fathers' glory to their bitterest 
 enemies? Speak! will ye, can ye do it?' 
 And the people held up their pale and famishing 
 children, saying : ' These are our answer these 
 shall speak for us ! ' 
 
 "Just at this moment, the poor man, filled 
 with compassion for his towns-people, and suf- 
 fering from want equal to their own, stepped 
 forward. ' Fellow-townsmen/ said he, ' listen ! 
 There is no need for us and our children to die 
 of hunger ; there is no need for us to deliver 
 up the city. Only do as I say, and we shall 
 have plenty of provision, and may drive our 
 enemies to the four winds/ 
 
 " ' What would you have us do ? ' asked the 
 people. 
 
 " ' Why/ said he, ' for every engine that the 
 enemy brings, bring out one also defy their 
 battering-rams disable their crow-feet sink
 
 THE THREE WISHES. 93 
 
 a shaft to the river, and have water in plenty ! 
 Give me but seven days, three brave men, and 
 the means I shall ask, and I will pass through 
 the enemy's fleet, visit the cities which are 
 friendly to us, and return with provisions to 
 stand out the siege yet ten months longer/ 
 
 " ' Tiy him ! try him ! ' said they ; * we 
 cannot be worse than we are/ 
 
 " There was an instant reaction in favour of 
 the poor man ; all fell to work at his bidding ; 
 every smith's shop rung with the sound of 
 hammers ; carpenters worked all day and all 
 night, constructing machines which were enig- 
 mas to them. There was such a hum of busi- 
 ness for two whole days, that the enemy could 
 not imagine what was going forward. In a 
 short time all was ready. A huge machine, 
 the height of the walls, was raised, furnished 
 with a tremendous pair of iron shears, and no 
 sooner had the enormous crow-foot of the enemy 
 reared itself to pull down a part of the wall, 
 than the shears, catching hold of it, snapped it 
 in two ! A roar of applause echoed through 
 the city, and this first successful effort assured 
 them all. The poor man at once obtained the 
 confidence of the city; all the enemy's deadly
 
 94 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 machines he counteracted ; he set fire to their 
 immense wooden tower by balls of inflammable 
 matter, which he flung in at night ; and these 
 exploding suddenly, with horrible crackings 
 and hissings, terrified the enemy almost out 
 of their senses, and bursting up into volcano- 
 like fires, threatened to consume not only the 
 tower, but the very camp itself. While this 
 was doing, the poor man and his three colleagues 
 passed through the fleet in the twilight, in a 
 small vessel constructed for the purpose, which, 
 floating on the surface of the water, looked only 
 like a buoy loosened from its hold. No sooner 
 were they outside the fleet, than they cut away 
 one of the enemy's large boats that lay moored 
 on the shore, and hoisting full sail, by help of a 
 favourable wind and good rowing, they arrived 
 by the end of the next day at a friendly city. 
 There they soon obtained supplies corn, salted 
 meat, fresh-killed cattle, and everything of 
 which they stood in need. A large vessel was 
 immediately stored and properly manned ; her 
 hull was blackened, so were her masts and sails, 
 and by good rowing she reached the outside of 
 the harbour by the next evening. There they 
 waited till it was quite dark, and then, with
 
 THE THREE WISHES. 95 
 
 every oar muffled, silently as tlie fall of night, 
 yet swiftly as a bird, they passed through the 
 midst of the fleet without being detected ; and 
 by the next daybreak the vessel lay moored 
 upon the quay of the city. 
 
 " That, indeed, was a morning of triumph ! 
 Men, women, and children thronged down in 
 thousands. Food was abundant ; they all ate 
 and were satisfied. But the extent of the poor 
 man's service was not known when they merely 
 satisfied their hunger ; he had induced the 
 friendly city to send yet further supplies, with 
 a fleet, which should not only attack the 
 enemy's ships, but land a body of soldiers, whose 
 object would be to fall suddenly upon the camp 
 in the rear, while the soldiers in the city made 
 a sally on the front. Accordingly, the next 
 day, the sea outside the harbour was covered 
 with ships. The enemy was in great conster- 
 nation. All fell out as the poor man had fore- 
 seen. After very little fighting, the enemy had 
 permission to retire, leaving as hostages three 
 of their principal men, till an amount of trea- 
 sure was sent in which quite made up the 
 losses of the siege. 
 
 " As you may suppose, after this, nobody
 
 96 THE THREE WISHES. 
 
 thought they could sufficiently honour the 
 poor man ; his deeds were written in the annals 
 of the city, and ever after he was universally 
 called * the Saviour of his country/ 
 
 " And so you see the poor man, by his science 
 and skill, could do more for his city than either 
 soldiers or orators/' 
 
 " Upon my word," said both the brothers in 
 the same breath, " there 's something in it/'
 
 THE GRANDMOTHER.
 
 THE GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 CHILD. And when the house was burned 
 down, grandmother, what did you do then ? 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. Took shelter in the barn, and 
 and were right thankful that our lives were 
 spared, and that a roof was left to shelter us. 
 
 CHILD, But all the furniture was burned, and 
 the beds ; and grandfather's leg was broken. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. But there was plenty of good 
 clean straw in the barn, and one neighbour lent 
 us a mattress, and another a blanket ; and one 
 brought us a chair, and another a table ; many 
 a one spared us a pan or a kettle, a candlestick 
 or an earthen pot, till we could get together 
 two or three things of our own : it was, besides, 
 a special fine season, and even in those misfor- 
 tunes we had much to be thankful for. 
 
 CHILD. But grandfather could not work ; 
 and there were five children; and there was
 
 100 THE GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 the doctor to pay, and the house to build up 
 again ? 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. Sure enough ! yet, after the 
 first shock of the misfortune, we did better than 
 one might have thought. Thank God ! at that 
 time I was not an ailing woman ; I was able to 
 work, and everybody was ready to give me a 
 job. Your grandfather, through the blessing 
 of Heaven, soon began to mend, and, saving 
 that he never had the right use of his leg again, 
 was not much worse for his accident. I was 
 soon able to leave him to the care of the three 
 biggest children, and to go" out to washing and 
 doing daily work as usual ; and many was the 
 time I brought home more than a day's wages, 
 for everybody was kind to us the farmers' 
 wives often sent us a little bag of meal, or a 
 bit of bacon, or a pitcher of milk ; and the 
 butcher sent us a Sunday's dinner for seven 
 weeks all the time your grandfather was, as 
 one may say, helpless. 
 
 CHILD. And then the children had the 
 small-pox ? 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. But, by the time they were 
 all down, your grandfather was well enough, 
 though he could not work, to take care of them,
 
 THE GRANDMOTHER. 101 
 
 as they lay on the straw he had just risen from. 
 He was a kind, handy man, and the children all 
 did well, which was a great mercy, seeing what 
 a frightful malady it was, and how many died 
 among the neighbours' children that same 
 season ; then, before winter set in, what with 
 twenty pounds the squire lent us, and by making 
 over a bit of common allotment that had come 
 to us, and with the help of our neighbours, we 
 got the house raised and the roof on before 
 the hard weather set in. 
 
 CHILD. .But it was then, grandmother, that 
 you got the rheumatism so bad, and that makes 
 you always so lame ? 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. Ay, to be sure ; we got into the 
 house before the walls were well dry, and I fell ill 
 of a rheumatic fever that kept me down fourteen 
 weeks ; but by that time the children were all well 
 again, and your grandfather could begin to work. 
 
 CHILD. But he could not dig as he used to do ? 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. Why, no ; he took to 
 weaving ; and though at first, to be sure, 
 seeing it was a new trade in his fingers, he could 
 not get much, yet there '& nothing a man cannot 
 do if he 's bent on doing it, nor a woman either ; 
 so, before the spring was over, he got full jour-
 
 102 THE GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 neyman's wages ; and then, soon after, in a year 
 or two or so, as it happened, poor old John 
 Mudge dying, why, he fell into his business as 
 pat as could be ; and weaving was a good trade 
 then. There was not a farmer's wife in all the 
 country but had a wheel going, maybe two or 
 three, and there was a power of yarn spun, both 
 of linen and woollen, which it was soon thought 
 nobody could weave into cloth like your grand- 
 father. I '11 warrant ye there 's bed and table- 
 linen of his weaving in eveiy decent family 
 twenty miles round, though it 's twenty years 
 since he died, poor man ! ay, and his weaving 
 will be remembered through this generation. 
 
 CHILD. And that was the- way grandfather 
 came to be a weaver ? 
 
 GRANDMOTHER. That it was; and it was a 
 good day's work for him when he first took the 
 shuttle between his fingers. We got our debts 
 paid off before three years were over, and then 
 we were able to lay something by for our chil- 
 dren, or maybe, help a poor neighbour. But 
 now finish the chapter ; you left off where the 
 prophet sat by the brook Cherith, and the 
 ravens fed him. 
 
 CHILD. I will, grandmother.
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS.
 
 EDWARD and WILLIAM 
 were friends from boy- 
 hood ; their ages were 
 %? nearly the same, and 
 .?_ their stations in life 
 f similar. Edward was an 
 { orphan, brought up by 
 his grandfather, the pro- 
 prietor of a small farm. ' 
 The father of William was a small farmer 
 
 f 
 
 I 
 
 if 
 
 also,
 
 106 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 a respectable, worthy man, whose only ambition 
 and such an ambition was laudable was to 
 leave to his son the heritage of a good name. 
 
 Both boys were destined by their natural 
 guardians to fill that station in society to which 
 they were born ; but it happened, as sometimes 
 it will happen in such cases, that the boys, 
 though trained up in hard-working and pains- 
 taking families where the labour of the hand 
 was more thought of than the labour of the 
 head were, nevertheless, very bookishly in- 
 clined ; and as they were both of them only 
 children, their fancies were generally indulged, 
 and no one took offence that their pence and 
 sixpences were hoarded up for the purchase of 
 books, instead of being spent in gingerbread 
 and marbles. And partly to gratify their own 
 tastes for learning, and partly to fall in with 
 the wishes of the village schoolmaster, who 
 took no little pride and pleasure in his docile 
 and book-loving pupils, they attended the 
 grammar-school long after their village con- 
 temporaries were following the plough. At 
 fifteen they appeared less likely than ever 
 voluntarily to lay down Homer and Virgil, 
 and our English divines and poets, for any
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS. 107 
 
 pleasure it was probable they would ever find 
 in growing turnips or selling fat cattle. 
 
 Perhaps this taste for letters might be also 
 stimulated by the grammar-school having in its 
 gift, every five years, a scholarship in one of the 
 universities, and which was awarded to the 
 youthful writer of the best Greek and Latin 
 theme. The term was about expiring, and one 
 of the two friends was sure of the nomination, 
 there being no other candidate. 
 
 It was now Christmas, and the decision took 
 place in March. The themes were in progress, 
 and every thought of both youths seemed to 
 turn itself into good Greek and Latin. Just 
 at this time the father of William suddenly 
 died ; and what made the trial doubly afflicting 
 was, that his circumstances had become embar- 
 rassed, and the farm must, of necessity, be sold 
 to pay his debts. This was a great sorrow ; 
 but, young as William was, his mind was 
 strengthened by knowledge. He turned his 
 philosophy to the best account; he faced his 
 adverse circumstances with manly courage, and 
 with a clear head and an upright heart, assisted 
 in straightening his father's deranged affairs, and 
 in providing that every one's just claim should
 
 108 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 be satisfied. Yet it was with a heavy heart 
 that he left the comfortable home of former 
 independence, and retired with his drooping 
 mother to a small dwelling with the remnant 
 of their fortune, which was barely sufficient to 
 support her above want. 
 
 When "William saw his mother's melancholy 
 prospects, he, for a moment, almost lamented 
 that he could not turn his hand to labour ; and 
 at times the gloomy thought crossed his mind, 
 that, perhaps, had he been a humble plough- 
 man, he might have saved his father from ruin. 
 But youth is strong, and so is intellect ; and 
 the force of a well-stored and active mind buoyed 
 him up, and he felt that within him which 
 would not let him despair, nor even murmur; 
 and he knew, besides, that were the scholarship 
 but once won, the way would then be opened 
 to honourable advancement and competency. 
 Vehemently, then, did he bestir himself, and 
 what before was interesting he now pursued 
 with ardour ; and what before he had done well, 
 he now did better ; for the intellect, like a rich 
 mine, abundantly repays its workers. 
 
 Sometimes the idea, almost in the form of a 
 wish, crossed his mind, that Edward, knowing
 
 THE TWO FEIENDS. 109 
 
 his altered circumstances, might relinquish the 
 field, and thus secure to him what had become 
 so doubly desirable. 
 
 It was now the end of January, and, during 
 a hard frost, the two friends met every evening 
 to recreate themselves in skating, an exercise 
 in which both excelled ; but William seemed at 
 this time the sport of misfortune, for. as he was 
 performing, almost for the twentieth time, a 
 chef-d'oeuvre in the exercise, his foot caught a 
 pebble in the ice he was flung forward to an 
 immense distance with terrible velocity, and in 
 his fall broke his leg. Edward, unconscious of 
 the extent of the injury, with the assistance of 
 a cottager, conveyed him home insensible. The 
 poor widow's cup of sorrow seemed now full to 
 the brim ; and William vainly endeavoured, 
 amid the agony of suffering, to console her. 
 Edward was like a ministering angel ; he 
 spoke words of comfortable assurance, and 
 supported his friend in his arms while he 
 underwent the painful operation of the bone 
 being reset. 
 
 In a short time the doctor pronounced 
 William out of danger, but he was unable to use 
 the least exertion ; even exercise of mind was
 
 110 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 forbidden, and days and weeks were now hurry- 
 ing February into March. 
 
 "Alas!" said he, one day, to his friend, 
 " there is no hope of the scholarship for me ; 
 but why should I regret it, when it only secures 
 it to you ? And yet, for -my poor mother's sake, 
 I cannot resign it even to you without sorrow ; 
 and, dear Edward," he added, his whole counte- 
 nance kindling up at the idea, " I would have 
 striven against you like a Dacian gladiator, had 
 it not pleased Heaven to afflict me thus !" 
 
 Edward was a youth of few words, and, after 
 a pause, he replied, " If your theme is finished 
 I will copy it for you ; mine I finished last 
 night." 
 
 " No," said "William, " it is mostly in its first 
 rough state, and wants a few pages in conclu- 
 sion ; yet you can see it rea'd it at your leisure ; 
 and, since it is impossible for it to appear, if 
 any ideas or phrases appear to you good, you 
 are welcome to them. But I beg your pardon," 
 added he, correcting himself, "yours, I doubt 
 not, is already the best" 
 
 Edward did as his friend desired ; he took 
 from William's desk the various sheets of the 
 unfinished theme. He carried them home with
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS. 1 1 1 
 
 him, and, without any intention of appropriat- 
 ing a single word to his own benefit, sat down 
 to its perusal. He read, and as he read grew 
 more and more amazed : were these thoughts 
 was this language indeed the composition of a 
 youth like himself ? 
 
 He was in the generous ardour of unsophisti- 
 cated youth, and his heart, too, was devoted to a 
 noble friendship, and the pure and lofty senti- 
 ments of his friend's composition aided the 
 natural kindness of his heart. It was midnight 
 when he had finished the half-concluded sentence 
 which ended the manuscript, and before morn- 
 ing he had drawn- up a statement of his friend's 
 circumstances, accompanied by the rough copy 
 of his theme, which he addressed to the heads 
 of the college ; he also made up his own papers 
 not now from any desire or expectation of 
 obtaining the scholarship, but to prove, as he 
 said in the letter with which he accompanied 
 them, how much worthier his friend was than 
 himself. 
 
 All this he did without being aware that he 
 was performing an act of singular virtue ; but 
 believing merely that it was the discharge of 
 his duty. Oh, how beautiful, how heroic is the
 
 112 
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 high-minded integrity of a young and innocent 
 spirit .' 
 
 Edward did not even consult his friend the 
 
 schoolmaster about what lie had done, but tool|
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS. 113 
 
 the packet the next morning to the nearest 
 coach town, and called on his friend William on 
 his return, intending to keep from him also the 
 knowledge of what he had done. 
 
 As soon as he entered the door, he saw by 
 the countenance of the widow that her son was 
 worse. He had been so much excited by the 
 conversation of the evening before, that fever 
 had come on ; and before the day was over he 
 was in a state of delirium. Edward wept as he 
 stood by his bed and heard his unconscious 
 friend incoherently raving in fragments of his 
 theme ; while the widow, heart-struck by this 
 sudden change for the worse, bowed herself 
 like the Hebrew mother, and refused to be 
 comforted. 
 
 Many days passed over before William was 
 again calm, and then a melancholy languor 
 followed, which, excepting that it was unaccom- 
 panied by alarming symptoms, was almost as 
 distressing to witness. But the doctor gave 
 hopes of speedy renovation as the spring 
 advanced, and, by the help of his good constitu- 
 tion, entire though perhaps slow recovery. 
 
 As soon as Edward ceased to be immediately 
 anxious about his friend, he began to be impa- 
 II
 
 ]14 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 tient for an answer to his letter ; and, in process 
 of time, that answer arrived. What the nature 
 of that answer was any one who had seen his 
 countenance might have known ; and, like a 
 boy as he was, he leaped up in the exultation of 
 his heart, threw the letter to his old grand- 
 father, who sat by in his quiet decrepitude, 
 thinking that "for sure, the lad was gone 
 mad ! " and then, hardly waiting to hear the 
 overflowings of the old man's joy and astonish- 
 ment, folded up the letter, and bounded off like 
 a roebuck to his friend's cottage. 
 
 The widow, like the grandfather, thought at 
 first that Edward had lost his wits ; he seized 
 her with an eagerness that almost overwhelmed 
 her, and compelled her to leave her household 
 work and sit down. He related what he had 
 done ; and then, from the open letter which he 
 held in his hand, read to her a singularly warm 
 commendation of "William's theme, from the 
 four learned heads of the college who accepted 
 it, imperfect as it was nominated him to the 
 scholarship and concluded with a hope, which, 
 to the mother's heart, sounded like a prophecy, 
 that the young man might become a future 
 ornament to the university.
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS. 115 
 
 It is impossible to say which was greater 
 the mother's joy in the praise and success of her 
 son, or her gratitude to his generous friend, who 
 appeared to have sacrificed his prospects to 
 those of his rival. But, while she was pouring 
 out her full-hearted torrent of gratitude, Edward 
 put the letter into 'her hand, and desired her to 
 read the rest, while he told the good news to 
 William. The letter concluded with great 
 praise from the reverend doctors of what they 
 styled Edward's "generous self-sacrifice/' add- 
 ing, that in admiration thereof, as well as in 
 consideration of the merit of his own theme, 
 they nominated him to a similar scholarship, 
 which was also in their gift. 
 
 Little more need be added : the two friends 
 took possession of their rooms at the commence- 
 - ment of the next term ; and, following up the 
 course of learning and virtue which they had 
 begun in youth, were ornaments to human 
 nature, as well as to the university.
 
 FIRESIDE PHILOSOPHY.
 
 FIRESIDE PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 " You are but a little fellow, Frank," said tlie 
 philosophical Philip to his younger brother, 
 " and yet you live in a better and a far more 
 commodious house than a king had formerly. 
 There are ships crossing the sea in every direc- 
 tion, to bring what is useful to you from every 
 part of the earth. The elephant-hunter of 
 Ceylon has dug his traps, and with difficulty 
 and danger taken his prey, that you may have 
 a cup and ball, and play with ivory dominoes. 
 By the shores of the frozen rivers, in the unin- 
 habited regions of the north, hunters have taken 
 the industrious beaver, or the little arctic fox, 
 that you may have a cap or hat made of their 
 fur. The seal-fisher, in the same dreary seas,
 
 120 FIRESIDE PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 wrapped up in skins, has gone on his hazardous 
 voyage, that you may wear shoes made of fine 
 and elastic leather. 
 
 "In China, they are gathering the tea-leaf 
 for you. In America, they are planting cotton 
 for you. In the West India Islands, the poor 
 negro is toiling in the sun, to provide you with 
 sugar, and rice, and coffee. In Italy, they are 
 feeding the silkworms for you. In Saxony, 
 they are shearing their sheep to make you a 
 nice warm jacket. In Spain, they have grown 
 and dried various kinds of fruits, that you may 
 enjoy a plum-pudding or a mince-pie ; and 
 merchants, coming in ships from the same 
 country, have brought oranges and nuts for 
 your eating. And, at this very time, travellers 
 and voyagers are exploring new and wonderful 
 regions, that you may know all respecting them, 
 and benefit by their productions, without you, 
 yourself, stirring one mile from home. 
 
 " In England, steam-engines are spinning and 
 weaving, and grinding and thumping, and tear- 
 ing and driving for you ; some stationary, like 
 old-world giants and others whirling along 
 railroads by twenties and thirties together like 
 ponderous dragons, each carriage like a vertebra
 
 FIRESIDE PHILOSOPHY. 121 
 
 of its enormous spine ; others are pumping in 
 mines, drawing up with their monstrous arms 
 all metals and minerals that can be useful to 
 you ; coal to warm you and iron and tin, and 
 lead and salt. Fleets are stationed round our 
 happy country to protect and defend it, and 
 that you may sleep and wake without fear of 
 invasion. 
 
 "And, little boy as you are, no one could 
 injure you, nor steal you from your parents, 
 without lawyers, judges, nay, even the queen 
 herself, were it necessary, interfering in your 
 behalf. Besides all this, at this very moment 
 men of learning and talent are employed in 
 writing you delightful and instructive books ; 
 and printers, engravers, and bookbinders are 
 all working for you, and scheming how they 
 can best please and surprise you. It is a 
 famous thing to live in England grand old 
 England in these days ! " 
 
 "Well, Master Philip/' said his sister, who 
 had been listening to his harangue, "may I 
 inquire where you gained all this learning ? " 
 
 " Not out of my own head, I assure you, 
 Katy; but I heard papa read some remarks, 
 a great deal like what I have said, from the
 
 122 
 
 FIRESIDE PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 introduction to Dr Arnott's clever book; 
 and, because. I was much pleased with 
 them, I wanted to make Frank feel the same 
 pleasure/
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE.
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 MATTEO LANDO, the son of Michel Lando. 
 LORENZO SCALA, the son of the Marquis Scala. 
 MICHEL LANDO, the wool-comber ; the head of the con- 
 spirators. 
 
 The MARQUIS SCALA, a proud Florentine nolle. 
 PAOLO, a Genoese carpenter, uncle to Matteo. 
 FATHER BATISTA, tutor of Lorenzo. 
 
 Boys, Conspirators, Soldiers, <&c. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. Morning. An open space before the Scala 
 Palace. MATTEO and three boys throwing with white 
 
 FIRST BOY. I won't make another throw ! 
 MATTEO. Come, don't be angry ; you shall 
 have two throws for my one.
 
 126 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 FIRST BOY. [Throiving again.] There again ! 
 It 's all clieatery. You got seventeen and I 
 only three. I say you 're a cheat ! 
 
 SECOND BOY. It 's my turn now, and I 've lost. 
 
 THIRD BOY. And so did I. I say he is a 
 cheat and a Ghibeline ! 
 
 MATTEO. I 'm neither ! I played fair. If you 
 throw badly, I can't help it ! 
 
 THIRD BOY. You 're a Ghibeline 
 
 SECOND BOY. So he is ! Down with him ! 
 
 [TJiey fall upon him. 
 
 STRANGE BOY. Heyday, what 's up now ? 
 
 ALL. Only beating a Ghibeline. 
 
 STRANGE BOY. That 's right, down with him. 
 
 LORENZO SCALA. {Opening a gate in the wall] 
 How now, fellows ! Four against one ! Shame 
 on ye for a cowardly crew. 
 
 THE FOUR. Down with the Scala, he is a 
 Ghibeline too ! 
 
 LORENZO. [Throiving off his cloak] Touch me 
 if you dare ! [To MATTEO.] Stand by me, boy, 
 and I '11 stand by you. [They fight, and the 
 four boys are driven off] And now, boy, 
 who are you, and what? Guelph or Ghibe- 
 line ? If Ghibeline, stand to it. 
 
 [He puts himself in an attitude of defence.
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 127 
 
 MATTEO. Nay, noble sir, we '11 never fight, 
 I 'm a Guelph, and the son of a Guelph ; my 
 father is Michel Lando, the wool-comber, as 
 brave and as honest a man as any in Florence 
 And now, gracious sir, accept my humble 
 thanks ; you are a noble young gentleman ! 
 
 FATHER BATISTA. My lord ! my lord ! what 
 
 in the name of the seven angels are you doing ? 
 
 [He pulls him in and shuts the gate violently. 
 
 MATTEO. He has left his cloak. Shall I knock, 
 and give it to the porter? No, if that grim 
 monk sees me, he will suspect me of treason, 
 and will say I have polluted the cloak by touch- 
 ing it. I will find some means of delivering it 
 to that noble young lord myself, for I have not 
 half thanked him. He is a fine youth what 
 an eye ! what a manly carriage ! what a brave 
 generous spirit ! I will give him the clqak 
 myself, and carry with it some little token of 
 my gratitude. Let me see what can I give 
 him ? Oh, I know I don't believe he ever saw 
 such a thing. But stay before I go I must 
 roll up this fine purple cloak, and keep it out 
 of sight, or I shall have a mob at my heels and 
 be beaten for a Ghibeline. 
 
 [He rolls up the cloak, and runs off.
 
 128 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 SCENE II. A Carpenter's shop. PAOLO at work. 
 
 PAOLO. [ Wiping his forehead with his apron.] 
 What a stupid city is this Florence ! A man 
 may well be thirsty not a drop of water but 
 what is in that little river Arno ! Why, the 
 air's as hot as fire no sea-breeze like that at 
 Genoa ! But here comes my nephew. Well, 
 Matteo, what do you want ? 
 
 MATTEO. [With a little ship in his hand.] I 
 want you to help me with this ship will you, 
 uncle ? I began it six months ago when I was 
 with you at Genoa. 
 
 PAOLO. Finish it, and welcome, yourself; but 
 you will get no help from me to-day, I promise 
 you. 
 
 MATTEO. Why not, dear uncle, are you busy ? 
 
 PAOLO. Why, no, not busy exactly, but I'm 
 killed with heat ; I don't like Florence. 
 
 MATTEO. Well but, uncle, don't let that vex 
 you. Look at this little ship, good uncle, it 
 only wants masts ; just look at it to please me. 
 
 PAOLO. Why now, what a gimcracky concern 
 this is ! Your rudder won't work ; and what a 
 prow ! Did you ever see a prow like this ? It 
 should be small, you know, to cut the water
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 129 
 
 like an arrow! Ay, they've merry times at 
 Genoa, I warrant, this fine summer weather! 
 I shall never like Florence, that's certain 
 more fool I for leaving Genoa ! Now take your 
 ship, and off with you ! 
 
 MATTEO. Well but, uncle, will you lend me 
 your tools then, and 1 11 finish it. I did it all 
 myself. 
 
 PAOLO. And pretty work you Ve made of it ! 
 But if I must do it, why I must and I may as 
 well do it at first as at last. But why do you 
 want it just now ? 
 
 MATTEO. To tell you the truth, uncle, I'm 
 going to give it away. 
 
 PAOLO. Give it away! and that's the value 
 you set on my work, is it ? And pray, to whom 
 are you going to give it ? 
 
 MATTEO. Why it 's to nobody in particular 
 to nobody that you know, dear uncle, only to 
 the Marquis Scala's son. 
 
 PAOLO. Only to the Marquis Scala's son ! No 
 no, sir : if you keep company with nobles, it 's 
 below you to ask favours of a poor carpenter. 
 Take your ship, I 'm not going to spend my 
 time in making presents for people who will 
 trample on me in return ! 
 I
 
 ISO THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 MATTEO. Nay, uncle, nay, you're altogether 
 mistaken Lorenzo Scala will trample on no 
 man ! You see this black eye, you see this 
 gash on my arm too, they were given me by my 
 equals, because they said I was a Ghibeline, 
 and young Scala stepped in, threw off his cloak, 
 rescued me, fought himself against four, and 
 drove them off. They would have killed me, 
 uncle, if he hadn't come ! 
 
 PAOLO. Indeed ! That 's more than I should 
 have looked for, and I '11 take it as a sign that 
 the generation is mending. And so you want 
 to repay him well, that 's only right doing 
 as you would be done by, as Father Nicolo says. 
 Now for the ship, and let's see what we can 
 make of it. Oh, oh, I see it '11 do ; a little 
 trimming here, and trimming there, and I '11 
 make it as pretty a thing as ever left Genoa. 
 
 MATTEO. Thank you, dear uncle, thank you a 
 thousand times but let me say one thing, I 
 don't think I can repay him by giving him this 
 ship. I only want to shew that a poor boy can 
 be grateful. 
 
 PAOLO. Well, well, that 's the same thing, 
 isn't it ? But come, my tools are at home so 
 don't stand prating there. [They go out.
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 SCENE, III. Afternoon. TJie garden of the Scala Palace. 
 MATTEO and LORENZO before the basin of a fountain, 
 the cloak lying beside them. 
 
 LORENZO. [Holding the ship in his hand.] And 
 so you have brought me this beautiful ship ! 
 and you say you mean to give it to me, you are 
 very good indeed ! But how did you get in ? 
 Was the door in the .wall open ? 
 
 MATTEO. No, but I am known to the porter ; 
 he often comes to my father's. 
 
 LORENZO. And you say this is like a real 
 ship ; you know I have never been to Genoa 
 nor Naples. And these are the masts, and these 
 the sails ? 
 
 MATTEO. Yes, noble sir, and I call it the 
 Scala, in honour of you. Ah, if you had but 
 seen, as I have, at Genoa, a whole fleet of 
 their grand merchant-ships going out, and seen 
 thousands of people out on the quay, and heard 
 them shout till the very sky rang again, you 
 would never forget it as long as you lived ! 
 
 LORENZO. Have you another ship like this ? 
 
 MATTEO. No. Why? 
 
 LORENZO. Because you must be sorry to part
 
 132 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 with it ; I 'm sure I should. I wish I could give 
 you something. I '11 give you this sword. 
 
 'MATTEO. No, no, thank you ! You did enough 
 for me this morning. No, I'll not take your 
 sword ; you know I could not wear it plebeians 
 cannot wear swords. But I hope you 11 live to 
 be a man, and then you 'II treat the poor kindly ; 
 and when you see the poor oppressed, help them 
 as you helped me this morning ! 
 
 LORENZO. By the faith of a nobleman, I will ! 
 But why do you smile ? 
 
 MATTEO. Because I know there are many who 
 would say that was a bad pledge. 
 
 LORENZO. Do people doubt that ? Nay, boy, I 
 tell you solemnly, that if I make a promise, I 'II 
 die sooner than break it ! But will this ship sail ? 
 
 MATTEO. To be sure it will ! Try it in this 
 basin ; you will find it as good a sailer as ever 
 left Genoa. Ill push it where the water is 
 roughest. 
 
 LORENZO. No, let me ! Huzza, little ship ! 
 Huzza ! Success to the Bcala ! Is that the way 
 they shouted ? 
 
 MATTEO. Yes, but a thousand times louder; 
 and waved their caps, and shouted thus. 
 
 [He shouts LORENZO joins him.
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE!, 133 
 
 THE MARQUIS SCALA. [Suddenly coming for- 
 ward.'] And pray what riot is this? Lorenzo, 
 what low companion have you chosen? Have 
 you so far forgotten the dignity of our house 
 as to bring a fellow like this into our palace 
 garden ? 
 
 LORENZO. Father, he's a noble-hearted boy, 
 the son of an honest man, and a true Guelph, 
 father ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. [To MatteoJ] How dared you, 
 audacious villain, enter this place ? The very 
 air is contaminated with your breath ! Out 
 with you ! 
 
 LORENZO. Be gentle with him, father, he is a 
 generous youth ; he gave me this ship, father. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. And have you, mean-spirited 
 boy, taken a present at the hand of a plebeian ? 
 Out of my sight, ignoble as you are ! 
 
 \_H~e offers to strike him. 
 
 MATTEO. My lord, you shall not strike him ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. Base son of the earth, dare you 
 defy me ? [He thrusts him out of the gate, and 
 throws the ship after him.~\ And now, craven- 
 spirited boy, begone, lest I forget that you are 
 my son ! 
 [LORENZO goes hastily, his father slowly follows.
 
 13-4 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCEXE I. A wool-comber's shop. MICHEL LANDO, a 
 stout-built, well-looking man, at worR ; MATTEO at work 
 also; three of Hie CONSPIRATORS come in. 
 
 IST CONSPIRATOR. Good-morrow, friend; at 
 work, as usual. 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. To be sure ; sitting still wins 
 no man's bread. But I think I know your 
 errand. 
 
 2o CONSPIRATOR. If you do not, you soon 
 will. We are come to tell you, Lando, that 
 we don't choose to stir unless you 11 take the 
 management of aifairs, as usual. 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. I say now, what I said then. 
 Be determined as you will, but be moderate. 
 Let not plunder and revenge be the only end 
 for which we strive. Our rights, as citizens and 
 as men, are what we contend for ; let our friends 
 remember this, and I shall not again desert you. 
 
 2o CONSPIRATOR. But, Lando, we have agreed 
 to obey you. 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. Let the nobles enjoy their 
 palaces and their treasures let the present 
 privileged classes partake in the government
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 135 
 
 of tlic city, and only sucli be incapable of 
 holding offices in it who have been, or shall be, 
 guilty of a crime. Let us contend like men for 
 our rights, but Jet us be temperate. If you will 
 swear to these restrictions, I will go with you ; 
 and, hand and heart, there shall be no truer 
 man than Michel Lando ! 
 
 SD CONSPIRATOR. We have agreed to obey 
 you in all things. But you must go with us, 
 Michel we can do nothing without you. 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. Let me finish this wool, and 
 then I will attend to you. In the meantime, 
 what has been done since I left ? 
 
 IST CONSPIRATOR. Ay, Michel, you bore with 
 them like a saint. You heard what I said ; 
 says I, of all the men 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. Yes, good friend, I heard it ; 
 but never mind it now. The soldiers had joined 
 us to a man ; so had the households of the 
 nobles : the question was, whether the shoe- 
 makers and leather-.dressers would join us, or 
 make a party of their own. 
 
 2o CONSPIRATOR. They have sworn to join 
 us, if you take the lead, as usual, and then all 
 wdll be ready. We've chains prepared for the 
 end of every street ; arms for every man ;
 
 136 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 torches ready for lighting ; many hundred tons 
 of stones to defend ourselves with, in case the 
 nobles are rash enough to face us. The palaces 
 of the Malatesti, the Ubaldi, and the Scala, are 
 to be set fire to all is ready you know you 
 consented to that. 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. Yes, because some sacrifice of 
 this kind is necessary to terrify the proud nobles 
 into reason, and because from the tyranny of 
 these houses the people have suffered most. 
 You understand me no man but myself must 
 give orders to-night and my orders shall be 
 implicitly obeyed. 
 
 ALL. They shall, Michel. "We understand 
 you. But come, your work is finished, and our 
 friends will be impatient. 
 
 MICHEL LANDO. I am ready. 
 
 [They all go out. 
 
 MATTEO. They never thought about me well, 
 I am possessed of their secret, but I will not 
 betray it. I will, however, save the life of 
 Lorenzo. This will be a terrible night ! and 
 poor Lorenzo is doomed to perish for the tyranny 
 of his proud father : but he shall not I will 
 save him ! They said the households of the 
 nobles had joined them ha ! this accounts
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 137 
 
 for the porter's intimacy with my father. Yes, 
 yes, I see it all now but I will save Lorenzo ! 
 
 [He goes out. 
 
 SCENE II. Twilight. MATTED, with great precaution and 
 anxiety, looking out from a pavilion in the garden of 
 the Scala Palace. 
 
 MATTEO. I wish he would come ! I feel as if 
 I w r ere just by the jaws of a lion ! But hush 
 here he is. [Enter LORENZO. 
 
 LORENZO. Why are you here and why have 
 you sent for me ? Oh, do not stay ; if my 
 father find you, he will kill you. And Father 
 Batista is as bad ! But what is it you want 
 with me ? 
 
 MATTEO. There is no time for explanation, 
 you must come with me : if you would be living 
 by this time to-morrow, you must come with 
 me. Put on this cloak of mine, that you may 
 not be known ; nay, are you afraid of touching 
 it it will not pollute you ! 
 
 LORENZO. No, I am not afraid of touching it ; 
 but why must I go with you and whither ? 
 
 MATTEO. The whole city is in insurrection 
 against the nobles your palace will be burned
 
 loS THE TWO COYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 tliis night, and you nrust perish unless you fly 
 with me. I can save your life ! 
 
 LORENZO. What, and let my father perish ? 
 No, I cannot -I cannot leave my father; if 
 you can save him too, your offer will he noble : 
 hut -I cannot leave my father ! " 
 
 MATTED. But if I save him, he must see me 
 and you said he would kill me if he saw me. 
 Besides and yet, noble Lorenzo, for ypur sake, 
 I will save him. 
 
 LORENZO. Now, that 's a fine fellow , u 
 
 MATTEO. Run. hastily and prepare your father. 
 Tell him I, the poor hoy whom he thrust forth 
 this morning, must see. him. 
 
 LORENZO. I will. If he he calm, I will bring 
 you before him ; if not, I will even take my 
 chance with him he is my father ! And now, 
 the good saints be with you, boy, if we never 
 meet again. [Lorenzo goes out. 
 
 SCENE III. The Saloon of the Palace. The MARQUIS seated 
 in a large clwir. LORENZO leads in MATTEO. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. [After eyeing MATTEO very 
 sternly]. And you bring report of an insur- 
 rection in the city? Our lives, it seems, are
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 15,9 
 
 tTircatencd -our palaces to be burned we are 
 to die like- slaves, and all this without being 
 able to make one effort to save ourselves ! Do 
 not think 'to impose upon us by your idle 
 threats and false alarms you shall not go 
 unpunished ! % 
 
 .MATTEO. Do. not talk of idle threats,' my lord 
 for these ^ threats of yours are such ; pardon 
 me that I speak. plain your life, and the life of 
 many another noble of Florence, is even now in 
 danger ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. Young man, you seem to have 
 forgotten that nobles' can command both servants 
 and soldiers ! 
 
 MATTEO. My lord, it is impossible now ; both 
 your soldiers and servants have joined the con- 
 spiracy against you. There is no one in this 
 palace but looks forward impatiently to the 
 burning and plundering of it to-night there 
 is no one who would not willingly take my life, 
 because I have sought to save yours ! You are 
 encompassed on all sides fagots, my lord, lie 
 under your feet, ready to be kindled the 
 tapestry conceals combustibles. 
 [He lifts the tapestry, and shews fagots and 
 straw.]
 
 140 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. Gracious heavens, we are 
 betrayed ! 
 
 MATTEO. Trust in me, my lord, and you shall 
 be safe ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. What can have induced you to 
 volunteer so much in our service ? 
 
 MATTEO. Gratitude, my lord, to this young 
 nobleman, your son. He rescued me from 
 danger: I owe him more than my service can 
 pay: he was the first nobleman that I have 
 seen do a noble action. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. Young man, your services shall 
 be rewarded. 
 
 LORENZO. Dear father, let us fly ! Let us 
 confide in this generous youth why do you 
 hesitate ? 
 
 MATTEO. In two hours the attempt will be 
 vain ! I will go and provide means for securing 
 your flight. Pack up as speedily and secretly as 
 possible your most portable treasure ; but what- 
 ever is done, let it be done unknown to your 
 servants. If they suspect your flight, all is lost. 
 I will return in half an hour ; but let me find 
 you in the pavilion. [He goes.
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 141 
 
 SCENE IV. Two hours before midniyht. TJie Pavilion. 
 Enter MATTED, with a large bundle, a basket, and a 
 dark lantern; the MARQUIS and LORENZO, with two 
 caskets, enter directly afterwards. 
 
 MATTEO. [Opening the bundle.] These clothes 
 you must put on. Pardon them, my lord, they 
 are very humble, but in them your life will be 
 secure. This cloak you must throw over all, 
 and this hood, too, if you please. You must 
 personate my aunt, who lives out of Florence, 
 and regularly brings to the city eggs and poul- 
 try ; she has come in this day : and you, being 
 taken for Michel Lando's sister, will be safe. 
 She has a son, too, about the age of yours : the 
 night is dark, my lord, and we shall not be 
 detected. Your treasure I will put in this 
 basket, and carry for you. 
 
 THE MARQUIS. And must I, indeed, submit 
 to this mummery ? 
 
 MATTEO. Call it not mummery, my lord 
 your life, and the life of your son, depend upon 
 it. Trust to me, noble sir, and you shall be 
 safe. 
 
 [They put on the disguises. MATTEO darkens
 
 142 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 the lantern, takes up the basket, and goes out 
 they follow] 
 
 MATTED. This way, my lord ; we must escape 
 by the garden wall, or your servants will discover 
 us. [They all go out. 
 
 SCENE V. Street. Crowds of men collected together. A 
 chain drawn across the street, guarded by soldiers. Enter 
 MATTED, the MARQUIS, and LORENZO. 
 
 SOLDIER. "Who comes here ? Ay, a woman 
 at this time of night ! Good lady, haven't 
 you heard that no woman is to stir out on the 
 penalty of Lando's displeasure ? 
 
 MAN. [Rushing forward]. 'Tis a man in 
 disguise ! 
 
 SECOND MAN. Stop him ! Pull off madam's 
 hood ! 
 
 MATTEO. Townsmen ! Do you know me ? 
 
 MAN. Ay, sure. Michel Lando's son. 
 
 MATTED. Well, then, let us pass ! 
 
 THIRD MAN. It is Lando's sister I saw her 
 come in this morning. 
 
 MATTED. Let us pass good people. 
 
 [TuE SOLDIERS undo the chain. 
 
 MAN. The order about the women was Lando's
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 113 
 
 own. One would think he should not have "been 
 the first to break it ! 
 
 [The midnight bell tolls. A sound like thunder 
 bursts forth, and the darkness becomes suddenly 
 illuminated. The crowd thickens.] 
 
 MAN. Hurrah ! hurrah ! Now dawns a new 
 day for Florence ! Down with the Malatesti ! 
 clown with the Scala ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. It, indeed, was too true ! 
 Unfortunate Florence ! 
 
 MAN. What voice was that ! Who bewails 
 Florence ? 
 
 MATTEO. Silence, my lord, or we are undone ! 
 
 ANOTHER MAN. That's the woman ! Stop her 
 she bewails Florence ! 
 
 ANOTHER MAN. 'Tis a noble in disguise stop 
 him ! Bring hither a torch ! 
 
 [The people gather about the MARQUIS, and lay 
 hands upon him.] 
 
 MATTEO. Pray you, good people, peace ! I am 
 Michel Lando's son ; let us pass, I beseech you ! 
 Can you not trust the son of Michel Lando ? 
 
 MAN. Michel Lando's son shall go free ! for 
 shame, towns-people ! 
 
 ANOTHER MAN. Who's for the plunder of the 
 Scala palace !
 
 144 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 MATTEO. Let us on let us on ! 
 
 MAN, The Ubaldi palace is in flames come ! 
 come ! 
 
 [MATTEO, the MARQUIS, and LORENZO go for- 
 ward] 
 
 SCENE YI. A bowshot without tlu gate, of Florence. MATTEO. 
 gives the baslwt to the MARQUIS, and taking from under 
 his coat the dark lantern, puts it into LORENZO'S hand. 
 
 MATTEO. Now, my lord, you are safe. There's 
 many a noble life will be lost this night in 
 Florence but you are safe ! 
 
 THE MARQUIS. Unfortunate Florence ! 
 
 MATTEO. [To LORENZO, aside] God bless you ! 
 remember the promise you made me this morn- 
 ing always to take the part of the poor when 
 you see them wronged. 
 
 LORENZO. I will ! And by the faith of a true 
 nobleman, most worthy Matteo, we will reward 
 thee for this ! will we not, father ? 
 
 THE MARQUIS. My son, we will ! Give me thy 
 hand, young man ; thou hast taught me one 
 thing, for which I thank thee thou hast taught 
 me that there is virtue among the poor ! Good- 
 night !
 
 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 145 
 
 MATTEO. My lord, good-night ! Noble Lorenzo, 
 good-night ! [They separate. 
 
 SUBJECT OF THE PRECEDING DRAMA. 
 
 IN the fourteenth century, Florence was 
 governed in a singular manner: not by a king, 
 nor* a senate, but by twelve men, chosen from 
 the trades and professions of the city the 
 lawyers, the apothecaries, the druggists, the 
 linen-drapers, &c., excluding the lower class of 
 tradesmen, as shoemakers, wool-combers, car- 
 penters and such-like, from any participation in 
 the government. This, of course, led to con- 
 tinual contention between the people and the 
 privileged parts of the community, while, at the 
 same time, both these lived in perpetual hostility 
 with the nobles, who, notwithstanding their 
 exclusion from any share in the government, 
 contrived to tyrannise over all. Besides these 
 causes of discontent, the whole of Italy was, at 
 that time, divided into two great political 
 parties called the Guelphs and Grhibelines
 
 146 THE TWO BOYS OF FLORENCE. 
 
 something like our Whigs and Tories. All 
 these causes concurring occasioned more ani- 
 mosity, family feuds, and bloodshed than can 
 be conceived, except by those who know any- 
 thing of the histories of those times. 
 
 The character of Michael Lando, the wool- 
 comber, is known to the readers of Florentine 
 history. Though a conspirator, he was a vir- 
 tuous man, and distinguished himself in the 
 insurrection which makes part of the subject 
 of the preceding little drama, by his wisdom 
 and moderation.
 
 BARZILLAI BUNKER AND 
 THE THIEF.
 
 BARZIILAI BUNKER AND 
 THE THIEF. 
 
 THERE was one Barzillai Bunker, a member of 
 the Society of Friends, residing near New 
 Concord, in the back-settlements of New Jersey. 
 He was of wonderfully staid demeanour, and of 
 such inflexible features, that you might have 
 doubted if he could smile ; assuredly a laugh 
 was beyond the power of his muscles : yet Bar- 
 zillai had a spice of humour in his composition, 
 and, in a quiet way, enjoyed a joke as much as 
 any man. 
 
 Barzillai was a farmer, and had a small loca- 
 tion a short distance from the settlement of 
 New Concord. It was in January, or, as Friends 
 call it, the first month in the year 1795 ; and
 
 150 BARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF. 
 
 near Barzillai's abode lived one Jonas Family- 
 man, a lazy good-for-nothing fellow, who had 
 taken a small tract of land, which he managed 
 much as the sluggard managed his garden in 
 the days of good king Solomon. The cattle of 
 Jonas, as may be imagined, were not overwell 
 supplied with winter fodder ; and, as he was too 
 improvident to have wherewithal to barter, and 
 money was out of the question, after the wolves 
 had devoured his three sheep, there seemed no 
 other way to him of keeping life in the bodies 
 of his three cows, than by making free with the 
 rich haystacks of his flourishing neighbour Bar- 
 zillai Bunker. Barzillai, who would have missed 
 a straw had it been taken, soon saw that other 
 than his own people cut the rick, night after 
 night. But Barzillai, if he were quicker sighted 
 than most men, was also less communicative, 
 and not one word did he say of his suspicions. 
 
 All this time, however, he was thinking to 
 himself what he should do, and accordingly, 
 having made up his mind, on sixth-day, or as it 
 is commonly called, Friday, night, he took a 
 dark lantern in his hand and seated himself 
 under one of his ricks. Here he had not been 
 long stationed before he perceived his neighbour
 
 BARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF. 151 
 
 Jonas quietly steal up, seat himself in a partly- 
 cut rick, and ply the cutting-knife with tenfold 
 the agility he commonly used, on either ordi- 
 nary or extraordinary occasions. Barzillai was 
 glad to see that his neighbour had the proper 
 use of his arms, and could make them move 
 when it suited his purpose. 
 
 In a short time Jonas had released a hand- 
 some truss from the stack, and heaving it upon 
 his shoulders, quietly, and securely, as he 
 thought, marched off with his plunder, little 
 thinking, poor man, that Barzillai was tracking 
 his heels all the time. A merry thought mean- 
 while was in Barzillai's head, and he advanced 
 upon him until they came to a lonesome piece 
 of unreclaimed swamp which Jonas had to 
 pass. Barzillai was concealed from sight by the 
 burden which poor Jonas carried, and just as 
 they were at the entrance of the frozen swamp, 
 he took the candle from the lantern and set fire 
 to the hay on either side, and then, extinguish- 
 ing his light, slipped aside to see what would 
 come of it. On Jonas went a few paces, uncon- 
 scious of the growing conflagration at his back, 
 till it suddenly burst forth into a wild blaze 
 and seemed to envelop him in fire. Down, in a
 
 152 BARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF. 
 
 moment, went the blazing mass, and the poor 
 thief stood revealed by the clear flame through 
 
 the darkness. In an agony of sudden horror 
 his hands were extended wildly forward ; his 
 hair lifted his fragment of a hat from his head, 
 and then, after a cry, between a scream and a
 
 BARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF. 153 
 
 groan, he darted forward like a maniac, not 
 daring to look behind him till he was totally 
 lost in the blackness of the night. 
 
 After witnessing this spectacle, Barzillai went 
 quietly home to his bed. The place was so 
 lonesome, and inhabitants so few, that there was 
 no probability of the circumstance having been 
 witnessed, and he said not a word to any of his 
 household of what he had done or of what he 
 had discovered. 
 
 The next morning, poor Jonas, pale, and with 
 his lean melancholy figure looking yet more 
 woe-begone, came to the house of Barzillai. 
 
 " Oh ! " he exclaimed, when he found himself 
 alone with his neighbour in his comfortable 
 parlour, " I have been a wicked wretch, I have 
 been a thief good Mr Bunker, forgive me ! " 
 and saying that, he fell upon his knees before 
 him. 
 
 " What is it thou hast done, friend ? what is 
 it thou wouldst have of me?" asked Barzillai 
 with great serenity. 
 
 " Oh, worthy, good Mr Bunker," cried Jonas, 
 " the vengeance of the Almighty has pursued 
 me. I have robbed your stacks time after 
 time, but last night fire from heaven consumed
 
 154 BARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF. 
 
 my plunder, and it is of the Lord's mercy that 
 I am spared ! " 
 
 " Rise, my friend/' said Barzillai, " thine is a 
 strange confession." 
 
 " It is to you/' cried Jonas, still on his knees, 
 " that I must make confession, and from you I 
 must obtain pardon, before I can implore for- 
 giveness of Heaven ! I have been a sinner all 
 my days, Mr Bunker, but this Providence of 
 Mercy has redeemed me, and from last night I 
 shall be an altered man !" 
 
 All sense of joke was gone from the mind of 
 honest Barzillai, and he, too, like the poor peni- 
 tent, was humbled by the sense of the Almighty's 
 influence, which had thus made him an instru- 
 ment to reclaim his poor erring brother. Bar- 
 zillai leaned against the rude mantel-piece of his 
 parlour, and wept ; and then taking poor Jonas 
 by the hand, seated him beside him, freely 
 forgave him for what he had done, and began 
 such a conversation with him as strengthened 
 all his good resolutions. 
 
 Jonas and Barzillai wept together ; it was 
 like the repentant prodigal coming back to his 
 father's house: and Barzillai lived to witness 
 the rich and abundant fruits of the poor man's
 
 BARZILLAI BUNKER AND THE THIEF. 155 
 
 penitence, in the happy change which took 
 place, not only in his outward circumstances, 
 but in his whole conduct. Of course he kept 
 secret his own share in the event of the night ; 
 he had neither wife nor child to communicate 
 it to, and he learned to love the repentant Jonas 
 too well to hint a word to his discredit. The 
 whole circumstance never would have transpired 
 had he not accidentally related it to an old 
 Friend in England, during one of his religious 
 visits to that country. 
 
 Barzillai has long been dead, but the descend- 
 ants of Jonas Familyman are a numerous and 
 flourishing colony, in and about New Concord.
 
 A BRIEF MEMOIR OF 
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI.
 
 A BEIEF MEMOIR OF 
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 BY THEIR SISTER. 
 
 - near Bath, 1829. 
 
 WE were three orphans, Constantine, Giovanni, 
 and myself. There was two years" difference in 
 all our ages ; and Giovanni, the youngest, was 
 only a year old when my mother died my 
 father had then been dead about six months. 
 He was a painter, a man of fine imagination ; 
 and the few pictures he left at his death are 
 now fully estimated by the public. Hundreds 
 of pounds are paid eagerly for one of his female 
 heads ; and one of his landscapes sells for more 
 than he ever obtained during his lifetime for all 
 the paintings he sold.
 
 160 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 My mother was a young Florentine lady, 
 whom my father had married while pursuing 
 his studies in Italy. I rememher her ; a vision 
 of grace tender and kind : but my recollection 
 of the expression of her countenance and the 
 beauty of her features has been assisted by her 
 portrait painted by my father ; which, with his 
 own, was the only one reserved, when, after his 
 death, the rest of the pictures were sold. They 
 were unframed, and hung in our little room, and 
 with them constantly before my eyes, I seem 
 never to have forgotten my parents. My 
 mother's countenance is one of the tenderest 
 and most feminine beauty long, rich, dark 
 hair, a high forehead, pure as the finest marble, 
 features well defined, but extremely delicate, 
 and perhaps most striking from an expression of 
 deep melancholy and thought. It was in itself 
 a study, and might have passed as such, had it 
 not been known as a portrait. No wonder was 
 it that my father loved her ! Hers was the face 
 from which he drew his female countenances, 
 and they had all the spirituality and tenderness 
 so conspicuous in hers. Besides her beauty she 
 possessed a rare and glorious gift the gift of 
 music in the highest perfection ; and full of the
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 161 
 
 intense poetry of her own land, she had, like a 
 few of her countrymen, the power of improvisa- 
 tion. 1 remember her singing in a low tone, 
 strains so sweet, that, young as I was, I felt as 
 it were chained to the spot. Constantino remem- 
 bered her well : he said she most frequently 
 sang when my father painted ; he said too, 
 that she very rarely sang except in her native 
 tongue ; .which, indeed, my father and she so 
 commonly used, that Constantino and myself 
 spoke it more fluently than English. With such 
 .a woman, possessing at the same time the 
 kindest affections and most amiable dispositions, 
 could my father be other than happy ? They 
 lived in a country beautiful as their own imagin- 
 ations, and each indulging their favourite tastes, 
 and surrounded by us, whom they most tenderly 
 loved, their lives passed on, if not splendidly, at 
 least happily. From a few circumstances, how- 
 ever, which Constantino could remember, I fear 
 they knew what it was to be poor. But the 
 sorrows of poverty we never experienced: we 
 lived amidst affection, in the free exercise of our 
 limbs in the open air. Green hills, sweet clear 
 waters, beautiful flowers and butterflies these 
 fill the recollection of those early years.
 
 162 COXSTAXTIXE AXD GIOVAXXI. 
 
 But my father died. I know nothing of the 
 particulars of his illness ; I only remember my 
 mother's utter distress her weeping for days 
 the funeral, a sad but incomprehensible scene 
 and a silence and gloom in our house from 
 which we fled to our favourite resorts in the 
 fields. 
 
 "What my mother's family was I did not at 
 that time know ; we were too young to be made 
 confidants in these things ; but I have often 
 wondered she did not return to Italy. My father 
 had no near connections ; none to whom she 
 could fly, either for comfort or assistance. She 
 was a widow in a strange land ! 
 
 Soon after my father's death, her health 
 began to droop ; a deep melancholy settled on 
 her spirits, but the sweetness of her character 
 won the love and kind attentions of all around 
 her poor and uneducated though they were. 
 Fortunately, too, at this time she became known 
 to the pastor of the mountain district in which 
 we resided ; a humble, kind, and most excel- 
 lent man. Through his agency she was enabled 
 to sell a few pictures which remained at very 
 considerable prices ; for their value, on account 
 of the death of the artist, was greatly increased.
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 1G3 
 
 By tins means she became possessed of a little 
 independence, which, while it raised her above 
 want, tended but in a small degree to remove 
 her anxieties on our account. To the good man 
 she unburdened her heart. He voluntarily took 
 upon himself the character of a parent towards 
 us which character he faithfully sustained to 
 the last day of his life. 
 
 Six months after my father's death, as I said 
 before, we lost our beloved mother. Alas ! then 
 we first knew sorrow. In six months the under- 
 standing of a child makes great advance ; and 
 death, which in the first instance may be little 
 felt, is an event too awful not to become deeply 
 impressive by its repetition. Thus insensible 
 perhaps, as we might be, to the loss of my 
 father, we deeply mourned now Constantino 
 and myself at least, we knew that we were 
 orphans that most melancholy of all condi- 
 tions. God, however, had provided a protector 
 in the excellent man who had been as a father 
 also to our poor mother, and by whom she had 
 indeed been regarded as a daughter. 
 
 After my mother's death, our kind friend 
 arranged our little affairs. Our small property 
 was invested advantageously, and produced a
 
 164 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 sum, though abundant for our maintenance, 
 totally inadequate to procure us an education 
 better than could be obtained in our humble 
 district ; but this was a loss of less importance, 
 since we were every day with our pastor. Kind, 
 worthy old man, how more than parental was 
 his care over us ! He was a widower, and his 
 had been a childless house till he adopted us ; 
 then he bestowed upon us all the love of his 
 affectionate heart. He taught us all that we 
 knew ; he studied our tastes, and cultivated our 
 understandings, and gave us a self-dependence 
 of character, which, circumstanced as we were, 
 was of great service to us in after life. And all 
 this was done by a man nearly seventy years of 
 age, for the children of strangers ! He read 
 with us, walked with us, partook of our sports ; 
 and we in return venerated, nay, almost adored 
 him. So passed nine years of our life. 
 
 Constantino was the noblest-looking boy I 
 ever saw, and his spirit accorded with his 
 person generous, kind-hearted, and daring, no 
 adventure was too perilous for him ; he was the 
 companion of the shepherds in their mountain 
 rounds ; he had climbed every cliff, swam across 
 every lake, and knew every glen and lonely
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 165 
 
 dwelling in our wild and sequestered country. 
 He was a favourite with all ; for he was manly, 
 clever, and full of humour and wit. Giovanni 
 was formed in a different mould: he strongly 
 resembled my mother; had the same features, 
 the same sweet, sad expression of countenance. 
 He was delicate, too, in constitution, and was 
 incapable of partaking the boisterous sports and 
 daring adventures of his brother. So framed 
 and so constituted, he was much less generally 
 a favourite than Constantine. The truth was, 
 there were none, save our pastor, who could 
 understand and appreciate him ; he was too full 
 of natural refinement for common minds, and 
 he shrunk from their coarse manners nay, 
 from their rude kindness with a morbid deli- 
 cacy which was often mistaken for pride, and 
 sometimes worse, for ingratitude. With his 
 personal resemblance to my mother, he also 
 inherited her talent for music. His ear was 
 quick and correct, he seemed to understand it 
 scientifically before he could speak a word ; and 
 his dear mother, to the very last, sang to him 
 the sweet and plaintive airs of which he was so 
 fond. Dear child ! his whole soul was love and 
 music. Had we lived much in society he would
 
 166 COXSTAXTIXE AND GIOVAXXI. 
 
 have been, shewn off as a prodigy; as it was, lie 
 drew little attention, for our good friend had no 
 taste for music, and consequently but little 
 respect for the art or its professors, and though 
 he indulged Giovanni's talent to the utmost in 
 his power, it was only his childish propensity 
 which he hoped he would outgrow as he 
 approached manhood. 
 
 I possessed my father's talent. I cannot recol- 
 lect the time when I did not attempt to draw 
 every object that pleased me. I made copies of 
 animals, heads, and occasionally designs from 
 my own imagination; nor did I ever hear of 
 any scene, occurrence, or person, which did not 
 immediately present itself to my mind as a 
 picture ; these I often struck off at the moment, 
 and the praise they frequently obtained from 
 our partial friend was all the encouragement 
 and reward that I coveted. My early drawings 
 covered, and I doubt not still cover, the walls of 
 the rooms, not only of the parsonage, but of 
 many neighbouring cottages, whose inmates 
 looked upon me as a prodigy of the pictorial 
 art. But enough of myself, I will return to my 
 brothers. 
 
 Constantine was now fourteen, and our worthy
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 167 
 
 friend proposed that lie should be brought up to 
 the ministry; entertaining, I believe, the fond 
 hope of his succeeding him in the care of his 
 simple flock. But my brother's earnest wish 
 was to be a soldier. The quiet life of a country 
 pastor had no charms for an active, and not 
 unambitious mind like his ; it therefore was 
 with great self-sacrifice that he gave up all his 
 pleasant visions of a most enterprising and con- 
 spicuous life. But his studies were scarcely 
 begun when our protector was suddenly snatched 
 from us by death. 
 
 He had gone on a visit to a sick man in a 
 neighbouring valley, when, on his return, feeling 
 himself faint, he sat down upon a piece of rock 
 by the wayside. Constantino, who was with 
 him, supported him in his arms ; but the hand 
 of death was upon him, of which the good man 
 was conscious. 
 
 " I am dying/' said he to Constantine ; " yet 
 be not alarmed: death has no terrors for me 
 no pang saving the separation from you, the 
 children of my old age ; but God will be a 
 father to you, and will raise you up friends 
 when I am gone ! " 
 
 Constantine, composed and courageous as he
 
 168 CONSTANTIXE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 naturally was, was yet inexpressibly shocked 
 and distressed at the sudden event, and wept 
 bitterly. 
 
 " God bless you, my dear son ! " faintly ex- 
 claimed the excellent old man, feeling Constan- 
 tino's tears falling upon his hand " give my 
 love to them at home ! " 
 
 These were his last words, and the spirit, all 
 purity and love, ascended to its great reward ! 
 
 Some shepherds happening to pass by shortly 
 afterwards, assisted poor Constantine to convey 
 the body home. Now, indeed, were our sorrows 
 renewed ; now again were we orphans ! and 
 not we alone, but the whole district were 
 mourners. A being more beloved never went 
 down to the grave, nor had one of purer life 
 ever existed. His life had been a series of well- 
 doing ; he was a sincere, humble Christian, and 
 one of the kindest, most cheerful of human 
 beings: this, indeed, was a part of his Chris- 
 tianity. 
 
 A gloomy time succeeded a long, dreary 
 winter ; and when spring came, our minds had 
 not recovered their usual tone. The successor 
 of this excellent man was one of a totally differ- 
 ent character. He resided at a great distance,
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 169 
 
 and held this with several other livings. He was 
 a stranger to all his flock, and had no sympathies 
 in common with them. He visited the church 
 twice in the year ; at other times, service was 
 performed by the minister of a neighbouring 
 parish, who, having the duties of his own 
 church to attend to also, was only seen once 
 on the Sunday, and, of course, he had no time 
 to bestow upon the people individually. This 
 was a melancholy time, and our forlorn situation 
 excited the kindest sympathy of our poor neigh- 
 bours, some of whom offered to initiate Constan- 
 tine in their humble callings, like one of their 
 own children, free of cost. But a high-spirited 
 boy like Constantine could not submit himself 
 to a common handicraft trade ; for, poor as we 
 were, we had always an idea that we were of 
 superior birth to those among whom our lot 
 had fallen, and had an undefined belief that 
 we should, in the end, take that place in society 
 which, had our gifted parents lived, their talents 
 would have obtained for us. After Constantino's 
 refusal of the well-intentioned kindness of our 
 neighbours, we were much less objects of com- 
 passion than formerly; we were called proud, 
 and the opinion which was entertained of us,
 
 170 COXSTANTIXE AND GIOVAXNI. 
 
 but more especially of Constantine, led to an 
 event which made a most painful change in our 
 circumstances, and which I will relate. 
 
 Constantine was one day assisting a shepherd 
 in removing his flocks from the hills during a 
 storm, and, in the course of the day, was desired 
 to remain for a short time at a house of refresh- 
 ment by the wayside. A party of country 
 people, returning from market, were seated 
 within the wooden screen round the fire, and 
 Constantine, unseen by them, found, to his 
 surprise, himself the subject of their discourse. 
 He had no idea till then that he had given such 
 serious affront to his former -friends. He was 
 charged with pride, ingratitude, and idleness 
 with being a burden to the honest people with 
 whom we dwelt. And even the memory of our 
 revered friend was censured for bringing him 
 up with notions so unbefitting his station. Poor 
 Constantine, how little either he or our lost 
 friend deserved these censures ! 
 
 All this he heard, and his heart rose to his 
 lips, and his cheek flushed with indignation, but 
 he restrained both his anger and his emotion ; 
 and when he returned home in the evening, it 
 was with more than his usual vivacity. He
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 171 
 
 related to us all that he had heard; "And 
 now," said he, " I have fixed my plans, and 
 am sure they will succeed/' 
 
 " What plans, dear Constantine ? " asked I, 
 impatiently, for I dreaded his leaving us. 
 
 " Since you do not like me to be a soldier/' 
 replied he for I had always opposed his sol- 
 dierly propensities " I will be a sailor ; and 
 here I will not be opposed. I feel the utmost 
 confidence in myself ; I could fancy myself 
 many years older since I have come to this 
 determination. I shall set off for Liverpool 
 to-morrow ; and in a few weeks I shall be in 
 the way to make a fortune a fortune for you 
 also ! " 
 
 Constantine finished his speech without inter- 
 ruption : had a sudden dumbness fallen upon 
 me, I could not have felt less capable of 
 replying. 
 
 " I, too, dear brother/' said Giovanni, " will 
 go ; I am not the sickly boy they take me for ; 
 you shall not run all risks for us ; I can do 
 more than you suppose/' argued Giovanni, laying 
 his beautiful small hand upon his brother's arm. 
 . " No, no ! " said Constantine, with decision ; 
 " no, Giovanni, you must stay with Magdeline !
 
 172 COXSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 When I am gone, there will be but two to be 
 supported, and there will be plenty. Every 
 sixpence of my share in our little property, 
 from this moment I give up to Magdeline and 
 you ! " 
 
 I threw myself on his neck I wept as I had 
 never wept before I besought him to stay with 
 us to let us labour all together to let us sub- 
 mit to anything, rather than be separated : but 
 he was unmoved his conduct appeared unac- 
 countable to me ; he not only appeared firm, 
 but, I thought, stern in rejecting our prayers ; 
 and commanded us, as a father might have 
 commanded his children, to drop the subject, 
 and let us finish the evening in joy. " Come, 
 Giovanni/' said he, " let us hear some music ! " 
 
 Giovanni took up the instrument, but he 
 played feebly, and when he raised his voice 
 to sing, sobs choked his utterance, " I am 
 wretched ! " said the dear boy, " and I cannot 
 give expression to my feelings. Dear, dear 
 Constantine," continued he, " if you go, I shall 
 never see your face again ! " and he wept as 
 if his heart would break. Constantine, too, 
 covered his face with his hand, and we were 
 silent for many minutes.
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 173 
 
 At length, " Come, come," said he, endea- 
 vouring to look calm " come, Giovanni, have 
 done ; this is all folly ! And Magdeline," con- 
 tinued he in a gayer tone, " since we cannot 
 have music, let us see your folio. Have you 
 anything new to shew me ? Will you give me 
 this ? " said he, selecting one from the many 
 sketches : it was a head of Giovanni. 
 
 " Yes," said I, " and this, and this, if you 
 will only promise not to go to sea ! " Alas, I 
 little thought why he was asking for one ; it 
 was in the fixed resolution of leaving us, and 
 for a parting token. 
 
 The next morning, to our utter conster- 
 nation, he was gone. He had packed up his 
 few clothes unknown to any one, and leaving 
 a few kind words of farewell on a scrap of 
 paper, which Giovanni found on his pillow, 
 was many miles distant ere we discovered his 
 flight. 
 
 In three weeks time he wrote to inform us of 
 what he called his good-fortune. He had made 
 an engagement with the master of a merchant- 
 vessel, and was on the point of sailing for the 
 East Indies. The letter was in a strain of 
 gaiety, little in accordance with our feelings,
 
 174- CONSTAXTINE AND GIOVAXXI. 
 
 but full of ardent affection, and breathing his 
 own cheerful and sanguine spirit, which always 
 looked forward to the future with confidence. 
 Since then we have heard no tidings of him, 
 saving that the ship in which he sailed arrived 
 safely at her destination. Dear Constantine ! 
 would that it had pleased Heaven to reward his 
 virtuous intentions with the success which, 
 according to our human reasoning, they so well 
 merited ! Time went on ; and though we became 
 in some degree reconciled to his absence, we 
 never ceased mourning for him whom we could 
 consider but as one dead. Still, occasionally we 
 had hope, and we talked over his happy return ; 
 the more happy for our uncertainty and fear. 
 But, alas ! now my hope is over. I have seen 
 Giovanni laid in his grave, and I feel that I am 
 alone in the world .' 
 
 But let me proceed with my narrative. 
 
 Shortly after Constantine's departure, Gio- 
 vanni became ill ; and though after the lapse of 
 several months he appeared perfectly recovered, 
 I could not avoid remarking, that the resem- 
 blance to my mother was stronger than ever 
 and the resemblance not to her in her strength 
 and health, but in her declining state. This
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 175 
 
 mournful resemblance filled my spirit with 
 inexpressible sadness. 
 
 With his weakness, the sweetness of his affec- 
 tionate nature yet more revealed itself; he 
 leaned on me as on the sole hope of his life ; I 
 was mother, brother, and sister all in one, and 
 my tender affection for him increased more and 
 more. He was dearer because so dependent 
 upon me ; and, weak and feeble as he was, I 
 would not have exchanged him for any living 
 brother in the universe. 
 
 I omitted to mention before, that the cottager 
 with whom we resided was the organist of the 
 little church of our hamlet. The organ was a 
 fine instrument for so remote and rarely fre- 
 quented a place. It had been the gift of a gen- 
 tleman of great taste and musical talent, who 
 was born and resided many years there ; but 
 who had now removed to a distant part of the 
 kingdom. The organist had been trained under 
 his direction, and would often speak of those 
 times as of a golden age, when people came far 
 and near to hear him perform, " But now," he 
 would say, with a sigh, "the church is deserted, 
 nobody cares for music now a days ! " With the 
 old organist Giovanni was a favourite, and he
 
 176 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 used, in his most flattering moments, to pre- 
 dict that he should be his successor. The organ 
 was, as may be supposed, Giovanni's delight, and 
 my heart has ached many a time to think that 
 the cause of his delicate health might be attri- 
 buted to colds he took in practising in the 
 church, even in the severest weather, and from 
 which he could not be deterred, except by 
 extreme indisposition. 
 
 When Giovanni was about fourteen, Mr B , 
 
 the patron of the parish, after an absence of 
 twenty years, suddenly made his appearance at 
 his native village late one Saturday evening. 
 Whether it was that the good old organist 
 feared to perform again before the critical ear 
 of his patron, or that a sudden indisposition did 
 indeed seize him, I cannot say; but on the fol- 
 lowing morning he declared himself unable to 
 leave his bed, and lamented that the organ 
 must go unplayed, which he knew would be a 
 great disappointment to Mr B . 
 
 But the organ did not go unplayed upon. " I 
 have practised upon it too often/' said Giovanni 
 to me secretly, " not to succeed now." No one 
 but myself knew his design, and at his request 
 I seated myself with him at the instrument,
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 177 
 
 concealing ourselves with the curtains. I saw 
 
 Mr B enter the church, and place himself 
 
 immediately opposite to the organ, and fixing 
 his eyes upon it, apparently wait with impa- 
 tience for the performance. Giovanni played 
 with beautiful precision and feeling, and I knew 
 by the gentleman's countenance that he was 
 both surprised and pleased. The sermon was 
 done, a concluding psalm was played, and then 
 I saw by Giovanni's eye his state of mind ho 
 had forgotten time and place, and he poured 
 forth a voluntary, composed at the moment to 
 his own inspired feelings, with which he mingled 
 the clear yet low tones of his sweet voice. The 
 whole congregation was electrified. Simple and 
 uneducated as they were, the expression of that 
 wonderful music touched every soul; and a 
 silence, like that of the grave, succeeded its 
 conclusion and then a universal -whisper, and 
 then a loudly murmured applause; but when 
 they looked for the strange musician, he was not 
 to be found. Short as the effort had been, I 
 saw it had exhausted him, and therefore led 
 him immediately home. 
 
 All who knew Giovanni readily conjectured 
 
 that it was he. Of course Mr B 'a curiosity 
 
 L
 
 178 CONST ANTIXE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 was intense ; and scarcely stopping to make any 
 recognitions among his old acquaintance, lie 
 hurried to the organist. The tidings of the 
 strange performance had already reached him ; 
 and, as during the service he had found him- 
 self much better and had left his bed, he went 
 forth to meet his old patron. " You are come/' 
 said he, meeting him at the door, " to inquire 
 who played the organ this morning you do not 
 think it was I you are right but it was a 
 youth of whom I, in some sort, may be said to 
 have had the teaching : he has a fine ear, sir, 
 and understands the organ as well, pretty near, 
 as myself?" 
 
 " And where is he, and who is he ? " asked 
 Mr B . 
 
 "Poor lad," replied the organist, "he is an 
 orphan, and as delicate as a crushed flower ; he 
 
 is the son of , a great painter they tell me, 
 
 who died under this very roof some fourteen 
 years ago. But come in, sir, and you shall see 
 him ! " 
 
 It was a fortunate day for us ; and from that 
 time forward we never wanted either home or 
 friends. Mr B was one who could under- 
 stand Giovanni's excitable nature, and sympa-
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 179 
 
 tliise in his feelings the first person beside his 
 lamented brother, the pastor, and myself, from 
 whom he did not shrink as from a nature totally 
 different to his own. 
 
 I will not detail the particulars of the month 
 that followed : in that time* our circumstances 
 had undergone an entire change. We had left, 
 with many regretful feelings, it must be con- 
 fessed, the cottage among the hills, and its kind 
 and worthy inmates, from whom, in our afflic- 
 tions, we had ever received the kindest sympathy. 
 We were become the adopted children of a new 
 friend ; we had found a mother in his wife ; and 
 were established, amid abundance and ease, in a 
 quiet mansion near Bath. A new life had 
 opened to us ; but it was too late for Giovanni 
 to enjoy any change, however favourable. The 
 most skilful physicians were consulted on his 
 case, but the more skilful they were, the less 
 hope they gave. Excitement, they all agreed, 
 would kill him ; but it was impossible to keep a 
 nature like his free from it. The stimulus was 
 within ; and things which would not have moved 
 an ordinary mind a fine sunset, the rich odour 
 of a flower, the pictures that surrounded him, 
 all produced that very state of mind which was
 
 180 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 death. A dreadful, incessant palpitation of the 
 heart burning cheeks a more beautifully bril- 
 liant eye, these were the outward and visible 
 signs of his malady ; and it was impossible not 
 to see, from week to week, what havoc it was 
 making in his bodily powers. There was an 
 extraordinaiy interest excited about him 
 constant and anxious inquiries after him from 
 hundreds of persons ; for his singular story, 
 which had been made known, and his striking 
 exterior, had attracted much attention ; but, 
 alas ! his days were numbered. Music was now 
 forbidden, and a state of profound rest enjoined 
 as a last hope. 
 
 All this time, while his strength was rapidly 
 declining, he could scarcely be made sensible of 
 his danger ; his spirits were generally high, and 
 he took great delight and interest in all that 
 surrounded him ; and had music been permitted 
 him, fatal as it must have been, he would have 
 been perfectly happy. Occasionally, however, a 
 presentiment of death came over him, and his 
 affectionate heart indulged a natural grief in 
 the prospect of leaving us. Still, the hope of 
 meeting again, and conversing with our beloved 
 Constantine, made the prospect of death less
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 181 
 
 appalling. But why should I prolong so sad a 
 story ? He died ! On the last day of his beau- 
 tiful and innocent life, when all hope for him 
 was over, he begged for an instrument ; it was 
 permitted to him, for, said the physician, it 
 may allay his irritation and it cannot produce 
 a worse state than that from which he is now 
 suffering alas ! he did not know how frail was 
 his thread of life how fatal that indulgence 
 would be ! 
 
 There were only Mr and Mrs B and 
 
 myself with him ; he was reclining on a couch. 
 When he heard that the use of his instrument 
 would be permitted him, on condition of his 
 composing himself for the rest of the day, his 
 countenance assumed an expression of almost 
 angelic delight, and with tears in his eyes he 
 thanked us and promised implicit obedience. 
 He took the instrument, struck a few feeble 
 tones paused a moment, and then, slightly 
 raising himself, poured forth the whole of his 
 pent-up feelings in a tide of the most soul-touch- 
 ing music. At length he stopped 
 
 " I can play no more/' exclaimed he, and 
 laying his head upon my shoulder, seemed 
 gradually to sink into a deep sleep. I believed
 
 182 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 he had thus composed himself, when I observed 
 a glance of sorrowful meaning pass between Mr 
 
 and Mrs B . I understood it too well ! my 
 
 beloved brother was no more ! 
 
 I cannot proceed the remembrance of that 
 time overcomes me ; three years have passed 
 since then ; but we never speak of Giovanni 
 without tears. 
 
 1830. My dear brother Constantino still 
 lives ! A letter from him has arrived. "What 
 a joyful letter ! and yet sorrowful in one respect, 
 since it is addressed both to Giovanni and 
 myself. Colonel Allan, too, of the regi- 
 ment, mentioned in the letter as returning to 
 England, we have seen. He knows Constantine 
 well what a delight to converse with one that 
 knows him and has seen him but lately ! what 
 a delight, too, to hear the honourable manner 
 in which he speaks of him ! Oh, how my heart 
 overflows with gratitude to that good Provi- 
 dence that has sustained him, and preserved 
 him to me ! 
 
 The following is the brief outline of his 
 history since he left England, as given by 
 Colonel Allan. 
 
 He sailed to Calcutta, and thence to New
 
 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 183 
 
 South Wales, and on his return the vessel was 
 driven out of her course arid wrecked on one of 
 the Molucca islands, and all the crew perished 
 excepting five, one of whom was Constantine. 
 They were detained three years in hard cap- 
 tivity, from which, after a series of adventures 
 almost as romantic as those of Robinson Crusoe, 
 they were delivered through the aid of Major 
 Downing of Madras, who had heard, accidentally, 
 of a small number of English sailors being 
 captive in the Moluccas. By this means Major 
 Downing became acquainted with Constantine, 
 and presented him with a cadetship in his own 
 forces. Thus he honourably commenced his 
 military career. He has since served in two 
 campaigns up the country, and, according to the 
 mode of promotion in the Indian service, held, 
 at the time of his writing, a captain's commission. 
 All this, it appears, we ought to have known ; for 
 Constantine, his friend says, to his own know- 
 ledge, wrote to us but his letter we never 
 received. Speaking of himself, my brother 
 writes thus in the letter now before me : 
 
 " I am not the little Constantine you knew 
 me. I am twenty-one years old ; my brown hair 
 is become black as jet, and I am the colour of
 
 184 CONSTANTINE AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 old mahogany ; but I am well and happy ; the 
 climate agrees with me ; I have not been ill for 
 a single day. I have a house of my own ; three- 
 and-twenty servants, and a stud of elephants ; 
 we live on rice and curry, are as temperate as 
 Brahmins, and yet lead lives like princes. I 
 only want you, my little Magdeline, and Giovanni 
 [would that he had been spared to know these 
 joyful tidings], with his sweet music, and saint- 
 like countenance, to make me perfectly happy. 
 I want you to come here and I send by my 
 friend, Colonel Allan, about five hundred pounds 
 this will enable you to do so Allan will tell 
 you all that is needful to be done, and has the 
 goodness to undertake the management of 
 everything." 
 
 My kind friends, Mr and Mrs B , will not 
 
 consent to my departure ; but instead of myself 
 Constantino will receive tidings both of joy and 
 sorrow ; and the time may come, if so Heaven 
 wills it, when we may meet again in England, 
 and talk over the varied events of our singular 
 histories.
 
 MARTHA AND MART.
 
 MARTHA AND MARY. 
 
 IT was when 
 the persecution 
 of the people 
 called Quakers 
 had, for a short 
 season, somewhat 
 abated its rigour, 
 and they ventured 
 to attend their re- 
 ligious assemblies 
 without fear of in- 
 jury to their families in the mean- : 
 time, that Walter Pixley and his 
 wife, a staid and respectable couple 
 belonging to that despised community,
 
 188 MARTHA AND MARY. 
 
 eleven miles to their county town of Stafford, 
 to be present at a meeting, at which that 
 apostle-like young man, Edward Burrough, was 
 to preach, leaving their little daughter Martha, 
 under the care of an aged woman, who was, at 
 that time, their sole female domestic. 
 
 Martha was a grave child, though but seven 
 years of age : her young mind had taken its 
 tone from both of her parents. She had been 
 born in a season of persecution, had been 
 cradled, as it were, in anxiety and sorrow, and 
 as she grew old enough to comprehend the 
 circumstances that surrounded her, she saw her 
 parents constantly filled with apprehension for 
 the safety of their lives and property. She had 
 heard them talk over their grievances, spoiling 
 of goods, the maimings, the whippings, and the 
 horrible sufferings of their persecuted brethren 
 persecuted even to the death ; had heard of 
 little children enduring, with the stedfastness of 
 early martyrs, imprisonments and pains which 
 would overcome even the strong man; till, 
 unlike the ordinary child of her years, her 
 countenance habitually wore a look of gravity, 
 and her heart bled at the least thought of suffer- 
 ing or sorrow.
 
 MARTHA AND MARY. 189 
 
 Martha's home was in a country place, sur- 
 rounded by fields a pleasant, quiet valley, the 
 patrimonial heritage of her father. It was har- 
 vest-time, and in the course of the morning the 
 old servant went out with the reapers' dinners, 
 leaving little Martha to amuse herself in her 
 usual quiet way. She had not been long alone, 
 before a beggar-woman presented herself with a 
 young child in her arms. Martha knew that it 
 was her mother's custom to relieve distress in 
 whatever shape it presented itself, and the story 
 the woman told, whether false or true, touched 
 her to the soul ; she gave her, therefore, the 
 dinner which had been set aside for herself, and 
 compassionated her in words of the truest sym- 
 pathy ; and when the child in the woman's arms 
 wept, like Pharaoh's daughter, her heart yearned 
 towards it. Strange it may be to all, but so it 
 was (for our story is true), when the beggar- 
 woman saw the affection with which little 
 Martha regarded the child, she proposed to sell 
 it to her, and Martha, innocent of all guile, 
 readily accepted the proposal. All her little 
 hoard of money was produced the bargain 
 was struck and the two parted perfectly 
 satisfied with the transaction. The child was
 
 190 MARTHA AND MART. 
 
 beautiful as the Hebrew boy himself, and Martha 
 sat down with, it upon her knee, and lavished 
 upon it all the endearing tenderness which her 
 most affectionate nature suggested. 
 
 In a short time the child fell asleep, and as 
 she sat gazing upon it, a half-defined fear stole 
 into her mind, that perhaps she had done wrong 
 in taking upon her this charge unknown to her 
 parents that perhaps they would be displeased. 
 She rose up in haste, and looked from door and 
 window for the beggar-woman ; but neither 
 across the fields, nor down the valley, nor upon 
 the distant highways was she to be seen ; and 
 then, with that sentiment which, from the time 
 of the first error in Paradise, has become a part 
 of our human nature, she was afraid, and 
 thought to hide the child. She made it a 
 comfortable warm bed with a blanket in a 
 large press, and kissing its sleeping eyes, and 
 wishing that she had no fear, she left it to its 
 repose, and began with great anxiety to look 
 out for the return of her parents. To the old 
 domestic she said not one word of what she 
 had done. 
 
 After two hours all which time the child 
 slept soundly Walter Pixley and his wife
 
 MARTHA AND MARY. 191 
 
 returned. The good mother, who was accus- 
 tomed to help in all the domestic business, 
 employed herself in preparing the early after- 
 noon meal, and Martha sat down with her 
 parents to partake of it. While Walter Pixley 
 and his wife were in the midst of their review 
 of the events of the morning of Edward Bur- 
 rough's extraordinary sermon, and of the con- 
 course to whom it was addressed, they were 
 startled by what seemed to them the cry of a 
 child. Martha's heart heat quick, and her 
 sweet face grew suddenly pale ; but her parents 
 were not observing her. The good man stopped 
 in the middle of a sentence, and both he and his 
 wife turned their heads towards the part of the 
 house whence the sound proceeded, listened for 
 a second or two, and then, all being again still, 
 without remarking upon what they supposed 
 was fancy, they went on again with their con- 
 versation. Again a cry louder and more deter- 
 mined was heard ; and again they paused. 
 " Surely," said the wife, " that is the voice of 
 a young child." 
 
 The critical moment was now come conceal- 
 ment was no longer possible ; and Martha's 
 affection mastering her fear, as the infant
 
 192 MARTHA AND MARY. 
 
 continued to cry, she darted from the table and 
 exclaimed : " Yes, yes, it is my child ! " and 
 the next moment was heard audibly soothing 
 her little charge, in the chamber above, with 
 all the tenderness of the fondest mother. 
 
 Mrs Pixley was soon at her daughter's side, 
 full of the most inconceivable astonishment, and 
 demanded from her whence the child had come, 
 or how it had been consigned to her charge. 
 Martha related the story with perfect honesty. 
 The old domestic was then summoned, but she 
 knew nothing of the affair. They were not 
 long deliberations that followed. The family 
 could not conscientiously burden themselves 
 with another dependent, and one especially who 
 had no natural claim upon them, in these peril- 
 ous and anxious times when they could not even 
 insure security for themselves ; and besides this, 
 how did they know but this very circumstance 
 might be made, in some way or other, a cause 
 of offence or of persecution, for the world looked 
 with jealous and suspicious eyes upon the poor 
 Quakers. Father Pixley, therefore, soon deter- 
 mined what he had to do in the affair, to make 
 the circumstances known at the next village ; 
 to inquire after the woman, who, no doubt, had
 
 MARTHA AND MART. 193 
 
 been seen either before or after parting witb tbe 
 child ; and also to state the whole affair to the 
 nearest justice of the peace. 
 
 Within an hour, therefore, after the discovery 
 of the child, the good man might be seen making 
 known his strange news at the different places 
 of resort in the village, and inquiring from all 
 if such a person as the little girl had described 
 the woman to be, had been seen by any ; but to 
 his chagrin and amazement, no one could give 
 him information such a person had evidently 
 not been there. He next hastened to the jus- 
 tice's. It was now evening, and Walter Pixley 
 was informed that his worship very rarely trans- 
 acted any business after dinner, and that espe- 
 cially " he would not with a Quaker." Walter, 
 however, was not easily to be put by ; he felt 
 his business was important, and, by help of a 
 gratuity to the servant, he gained admittance. 
 
 The justice was engaged over his wine, and 
 he received Walter Pixley very gruffly, and in 
 the end threatened him with a committal to jail 
 for his pains. The poor Quaker had been in jail 
 the whole of the preceding winter, and he re- 
 membered too wofully the horror of that dun- 
 geon to bring upon himself willingly a second 
 M
 
 IS 4 MARTHA AND MART. 
 
 incarceration. It was of no use seeking for 
 help at the hands of the justice, therefore he 
 urged his business no further, and returned 
 quietly to his own house. 
 
 Against the will, therefore, of the elder Pix- 
 leys, the child was established with them ; and 
 it was not long before the father and mother as 
 cordially adopted it as their little daughter had 
 done from the first beholding it. " For who 
 knows," argued the good Walter Pixley, " but 
 the child may be designed for some great work, 
 and therefore removed thus singularly from the 
 ways of evil, for our teaching and bringing up ? 
 Let us not gainsay or counteract the ways of 
 Providence/' This reasoning abundantly satis- 
 fied the pious minds of the good Friends, and 
 the little stranger was regularly installed a 
 member of the family by the kindred name of 
 Mary. 
 
 At the time little Mary was first received 
 under this hospitable roof, she might be about 
 six months old, a child of uncommon beauty ; 
 nor, as the months advanced into years, was the 
 promise of her infancy disappointed. She was, 
 in disposition and tone of mind, the very reverse 
 of her grave and gentle elder sister, as Martha
 
 MARTHA AND MARY. 195 
 
 was now considered; she was bold and full of 
 mirth ; full of such unbroken buoyancy of heart 
 as made the sober mother Pixley half suspect 
 that she must have come of some race of wild 
 people. Certain it was, the subdued and grave 
 spirit of the Pixleys never influenced her, and 
 as Martha grew up into womanhood, and the 
 quietness and sobriety of her younger years 
 matured into fixed principle, she embraced with 
 a firm mind the peculiar tenets in which she 
 had been brought up, and would have stood to 
 the death for the maintenance of them. Mary 
 also advanced past the years of girlhood, but 
 still remained the gay, glad, bold-spirited being 
 that she had ever been. She revered all the mem- 
 bers of the persecuted body to whom her friends 
 belonged, and would have suffered fearlessly for 
 their sakes ; still, their principles and practices 
 she never would adopt. Her beautiful person 
 was adorned, as far as she had opportunity, in 
 the prevailing fashion of the time ; and she 
 often grieved the sober minds of every member 
 of the family by carolling forth " profane songs/' 
 as Mrs Pixley called them; while how she 
 became acquainted with them remained for ever 
 a mystery. Often did the conscientious mind
 
 196 MAKTHA AND MART. 
 
 of Father Pixley question with himself, whether 
 it was quite right to maintain so light a maiden 
 under his roof; hut then the affectionate heing, 
 who had no friends save them in the world, had 
 so entwined herself round the hearts of all the 
 household, that the good man hanished the idea 
 as inhuman, and never ventured to give it utter- 
 ance. Martha and her mother, meantime, 
 strove to win over this bright young creature 
 to their own views, and for a few moments she 
 would settle her beautiful face to a solemn 
 expression, try to subdue what her friends called 
 " her airy imagination/' and attend the preaching 
 of some eminent Friend. But it would not do 
 the true character burst forth through all 
 Mary was again all wit and laughter, and 
 though her friends reproved, they loved her, 
 and forgave all. 
 
 On the accession of James II., which is the 
 period at which our little narrative is now 
 arrived, persecution raged again with greater 
 violence than ever ; and the Pixleys, along 
 with seventeen other Friends, both men and 
 women, were dragged from their meeting-house 
 by a brutal soldiery, under the command of 
 the justice we have before mentioned, to the
 
 MARTHA AND MART. 197 
 
 dungeon-like county jail, in the depth of winter. 
 The hardships they endured were so dreadful, 
 that it is painful to relate them. They were 
 kept many days without food, and allowed 
 neither fire nor candle ; their prison was damp 
 and cold, and they were furnished with straw- 
 only for their beds ; they were also forbidden 
 to see their friends, who might have procured 
 them some of the necessaries of life ; nor were 
 they allowed to represent, by letter, their case 
 to any influential man of the county, who might 
 have interested himself in their behalf. And to 
 all this was added the brutality of a cruel jailer, 
 who heaped upon them all the ignominy he 
 could devise. In these dreadful circumstances 
 lay the gentle Martha Pixley and her parents. 
 Mary, not having accompanied them to their 
 place of worship, did not share their fate. 
 
 Poor Mother Pixley's health had long been 
 declining, and this confinement reduced her so 
 low that in a few days her life was despaired 
 of; still, no medical aid could be procured, and 
 the cloaks and coats of many of her suffering 
 companions were given up to furnish covering 
 for her miserable bed. 
 
 When the news came to Mary of the
 
 198 MARTHA AND MARY. 
 
 committal of her friends to jail, the distress of her 
 mind expressed itself in a burst of uncontroll- 
 able indignation ; and then, asking counsel of 
 no one, she threw on her hat and cloak, and 
 taking with her an old man who lived in the 
 family as a labourer, she hurried to the jus- 
 tice's; and, as she did not appear with any 
 mark of the despised Quaker, either in dress or 
 manner, she soon obtained admittance. The 
 magistrate was somewhat startled by the sudden 
 apparition of so fair and young a maiden, and 
 demanded her pleasure with unwonted courtesy, 
 seating her in the chair beside him, and remov- 
 ing from his head the laced hat which he was 
 wearing at her entrance. Mary made her 
 demand for the liberation of her friends, the 
 Quakers. The justice stared, as if doubting his 
 senses, and rallied her on the strangeness of her 
 request, charging upon the Quakers all those 
 absurd and monstrous things which were alleged 
 against them in those days. Mary, nothing 
 abashed, denied every charge as false, and 
 demanded, if not the liberation of her friends, 
 at least the amelioration of their sufferings. 
 As Mary pleaded, the justice grew angry, and 
 at length the full violence of his temper broke
 
 MARTHA AND MART. 199 
 
 forth, and the high-spirited girl, even more 
 indignant than terrified, rushed from his 
 presence. 
 
 What was next to "be done? She ordered 
 her old attendant to saddle the horses, and 
 mounting one, and bidding him follow on the 
 other, she set off to the county town. There 
 she found great numbers of Friends surrounding 
 the prison with baskets of provisions, bedding, 
 warm clothing, and fuel, begging for admittance 
 to their perishing brethren. Little children, 
 too, there were, weeping for their imprisoned 
 parents, and offering their little all to the jailer, 
 so that they might be permitted to share their 
 captivity. Mary made her way through this 
 melancholy crowd, peremptorily demanded access 
 to the jailer, and was admitted, her garb, unlike 
 that of the persecuted Quakers, obtaining for 
 her this favour, as at the house of the justice. 
 But here again her errand debarred her further 
 success ; the jailer would neither allow her to 
 see her friends, nor would he convey a message 
 to them. Mary could have wept in anger and 
 vexation, and from intense sympathy with the 
 grief she had witnessed outside the walls, but 
 she did not; she retorted upon the jailer the
 
 200 MARTHA AND MARY. 
 
 severity of his manner, and, bidding him look 
 to the consequences, folded her cloak round her, 
 and walked forth again into the circle of Friends 
 who surrounded the gate. The jailer laughed 
 as he drew the heavy bolts after her, and bade 
 her do her worst. 
 
 Among the Friends collected in the street 
 before the prison, Mary heard that "William 
 Penn, who had just returned from his new set- 
 tlement in America, was now in London. As 
 soon as she heard this, she determined upon her 
 plan of conduct. She knew his influence with 
 the king, who, when Duke of York, had induced 
 his brother, Charles II., to bestow on him that 
 tract of land called Pennsylvania. To him, 
 therefore, she determined to go, and pray him 
 to represent to the king the deplorable sufferings 
 of Friends in those parts. 
 
 When her old attendant heard of her medi- 
 tated journey, he looked upon her as almost 
 insane. To him the project was appalling. It 
 would require many days to reach London, 
 and who must take charge of the farm in his 
 absence, seeing his worthy master was in prison ? 
 And then, too, though he had been willing to 
 attend her as far as the next town, would it be
 
 MARTHA AND MAEY. 201 
 
 right for a young maiden and an old man to 
 endanger their lives by so long and so strange 
 a journey ? 
 
 Mary was uninfluenced by his reasoning, nor 
 was she to be daunted by his fears. " If," she 
 said, " he would not accompany her, she would 
 go alone/' She bade him, therefore, to have 
 her horse saddled by break of day, and retired 
 to her own apartment, to prepare for the 
 journey. 
 
 " Of a surety," said the old man to himself, 
 " she is a wilful young thing." 
 
 In the morning, however, she found not only 
 her horse prepared, but the old man and his 
 also, for wilful as she was, the old man loved 
 her; and though he could not conjecture the 
 object of so strange a journey, " he would," he 
 said, " go with her to the end of the world." 
 
 Mary had ventured to make use of the stores 
 in Walter Pixley's coffers, for she considered 
 the lives of her friends were at stake. She was, 
 therefore, sufficiently supplied with money for 
 their journey. 
 
 For this time the wild gaiety of Mary's spirits 
 was gone, but instead, was a strong energy and 
 determination of character, which supported
 
 202 MARTHA AND MART. 
 
 her above fatigue, or the apprehension of 
 danger ; and day after day, from town to town, 
 in the depth of winter, did she and her attendant 
 journey onward. They had no intercourse with 
 travellers on the road, nor did they make known 
 to any one the object of their journey. 
 
 When she arrived in London she went straight 
 to the house where William Penn had his tem- 
 porary residence, and without introduction, 
 apology, or circumlocution, laid before that 
 great and good man the sad condition of her 
 suffering friends. She then made him acquainted 
 with her own private history, her obligations to 
 the family of the worthy Walter Pixley, and 
 the anxiety she now felt for the life of her who 
 had been as a mother unto her. 
 
 William Penn heard her with evident emotion, 
 and promised to do all that lay in his power 
 for her benefactors; though he assured her she 
 had overrated his influence with the king. He 
 then desired Mary to take up her abode under 
 his roof; and bidding an attendant call in his 
 mistress, he gave her into the hands of his fair 
 and gentle wife, briefly relating to her on what 
 errand the maiden had come. 
 
 When Mary found her mission thus far so
 
 MARTHA AND MART. 203 
 
 happily accomplished, and the door shut upon 
 herself and her kind hostess, the overstrained 
 energy of her spirit for a moment relaxed, and 
 she wept like a feeble child. The fair wife of 
 "William Penn understood her feelings, soothed 
 her with sympathy, and encouraged her to 
 open her heart freely. Never had Mary seen 
 goodness so graceful and attractive as in the 
 high-minded and gentle being before her. Her 
 very soul blessed her as she spoke ; she could 
 not doubt but that all would be well ; and with 
 her heart comforted, assured, and filled with 
 gratitude, it seemed as if a new life had been 
 given to her. 
 
 The next day William Penn obtained an 
 audience of the king, and so wrought upon him 
 by the story of the heroic young creature under 
 his roof, and the sufferings of her friends, that 
 he desired she might be brought before him, 
 and receive from his own hands the order for 
 their enlargement. 
 
 Mary was accordingly arrayed in the best 
 garments her scanty wardrobe permitted, by 
 the elegant and gentle hands of Grulielma Penn, 
 who surveyed her beautiful face and figure with 
 admiration, and then kissed her and blessed
 
 204 MAETHA AND MART. 
 
 her, as an affectionate mother might bless a 
 beloved daughter. 
 
 Leaning upon the arm of her protector, she 
 was conducted through a great chamber of lords 
 and ladies, assembled for the occasion, into the 
 presence of his majesty. Mary's heart beat 
 violently as her companion, drawing her arm 
 from his, presented her to his sovereign, who 
 graciously bade her speak her wishes without 
 fear. Re -assured by the kindness of the king's 
 manner, almost forgetting the presence in which 
 she stood for what seemed to her the greater 
 importance of her errand, she made her petition 
 gracefully and well. She related all she had 
 told William Penn of the great kindness of the 
 Pixleys to her, and her otherwise desolate con- 
 dition ; she told of their domestic virtues, of 
 their piety, and their firm loyalty ; and lastly, 
 of their wretched condition in the jail, with that 
 of many others, and of the cruelty of the justice 
 and the jailer ; and then, almost unconsciously 
 falling on her knees, she prayed so eloquently 
 that they might be released, that the king 
 turned aside to wipe away a tear before he put 
 forth his hand to raise her. 
 
 The petition was granted. The king himself
 
 MARTHA AND MARY. 205 
 
 put into her hands the order for their release, 
 and then praying God might bless her, and 
 taking leave of William Penn very kindly, 
 passed out of the presence-chamber. Many of 
 the lords accompanied the king, but the rest, 
 closing around the almost terrified maiden, over- 
 whelmed her with compliments. William Penn, 
 who saw her confusion, apologised for her with 
 all the grace of a courtier, and extricating her 
 from the admiring company, conveyed her, like 
 a being walking in a dream, to his own house. 
 
 Not a moment was lost in sending down by 
 express the order for the Friends' enlargement, 
 and together with that, a dismissal from his 
 office for the jailer. Rest was now absolutely- 
 necessary for Mary after these extraordinary 
 exertions ; William Penn detained her, there- 
 fore, a few days under his roof, and then con- 
 veyed her himself in his own comfortable 
 carriage to the house of her friends. It is 
 impossible to describe the joy which her return 
 afforded, and which was not a little increased 
 by the presence of her illustrious companion. 
 
 The troubles and persecutions of the Pixleys 
 here came to an end, for they went over to 
 Pennsylvania with its distinguished founder, on
 
 206 MARTHA AND MAKY. 
 
 his return, and became noted among the most 
 worthy and influential of the settlers there. 
 Mary, however, returned to England, being 
 affluently married ; and I, myself, several years 
 ago, was possessed of a piece of needle-work said 
 to have been of her doing.
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIR.
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIH 
 
 ELIZABETH BROWN, or, as she was always called 
 at home, Bessy, was ten years old when we shall 
 first introduce her to our readers. She could at 
 this time knit, sew, and read; she could also 
 write a little, and cast accounts rather less in 
 fact, she could just add an easy addition sum, 
 and tell how many farthings make a penny, how 
 many pence a shilling, and how many shillings a 
 guinea, a pound, or a sovereign. She knew, 
 moreover, the church catechism, the ten com- 
 mandments, the Lord's prayer, a few hymns, 
 and a few songs, the names and order of the 
 twelve months, the number of days in a year, 
 and that she was born in the year 1815 ; and 
 consequently, in the year 1825, the time at 
 which we are arrived, she was ten years old.
 
 210 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 
 
 "With this small stock of learning, she was 
 nevertheless a happy child, and was tractable 
 and useful in her father's house. She could 
 wash the floor, prepare the small meals of the 
 family, put the dinner things aside, rub the 
 tables and chairs, and then carry out the baby 
 into the sunshiny fields, without endangering 
 it either in life or limb. She was a great help 
 to her mother, who, when fretted by having to 
 provide for a large family out of the scanty 
 earnings of her husband, a labouring-man, 
 used sometimes to scold her for playing at hop- 
 scotch and burn-ball with the neighbouring 
 children, when she wanted her to mend stock- 
 ings and nurse the baby ; yet, at the same time, 
 she internally admitted her good little daugh- 
 ter's usefulness, and often said to herself, that 
 she should be at her wits' end without the help 
 of little Bessy. 
 
 Bessy was a strong girl of her age, rather 
 robust than tall, and was brown with being 
 exposed to all weathers ; her hair was parted in 
 front and put behind her ears, and turned up 
 behind into a little knot with a sixpenny comb 
 which she had bought at the last fair. She wore 
 dark cotton frocks, made up to the neck, but
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 211 
 
 with short sleeves, because her mother said it 
 saved stuff, and was more convenient for 
 washing and cleaning ; excepting, however, her 
 Sunday frock of smart pink and green print, 
 which had long ones, and in which Bessy felt 
 herself in full dress. She wore a stuff petticoat, 
 black worsted stockings, and thick shoes ; 
 indeed, she was the pattern of a tidy, little old 
 woman. When she went to the town, she had 
 on a black bonnet, made out of an old mode 
 cloak of her grandmother's, and a cotton shawl 
 in which she folded her gloveless arms. She 
 could make a very good bargain for potatoes, 
 but with the purchase of the little piece of meat 
 intended for the Sunday dinner, she was not 
 intrusted, being, as her mother said, too young 
 and too inexperienced to be employed in a 
 matter of such importance. She, however, 
 bought the flour, and made the bread, which 
 was an accomplishment she took as much pride 
 in as many a fashionable young lady does in the 
 execution of a difficult piece of music, or the 
 painting of a smart pair of hand-screens ; and 
 this bread she carried to the bakehouse and 
 fetched back again ; and soon grew a connois- 
 seur in loaves, and could tell at a glance which
 
 212 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 
 
 would be light and which heavy, and which, like 
 her own, would be very excellent bread indeed. 
 
 People who were out early in the morning, 
 used to see Bessy Brown, with her frock pinned 
 up, in a pair of pattens, with a little canvas 
 apron, mopping the red bricks of the floor, and 
 the pavement before their cottage door. About 
 half-past twelve she was again outside the door, 
 but at the end of the house by a bench under 
 the great pear-tree, with a round iron pot filled 
 with hot water, and a wooden lid, with a nail 
 driven into it for a handle, standing beside her, 
 washing up the dinner things. In an afternoon, 
 which was Bessy's holiday-time, she might be 
 seen wandering out with the baby in her arms, 
 in its cotton bonnet and blue handkerchief, into 
 the pleasant fields, gathering buttercups and 
 daisies for her little charge, or blackberries for 
 herself; or else sitting on the grass, or at the 
 house door, singing and talking, and putting 
 herself into all sorts of odd, entertaining atti- 
 tudes, to amuse the infant ; and then again in 
 an evening, when it was wearied out, she rocked 
 it to sleep, and gave it to the mother for the 
 night ; or else, as it grew older, took it to her 
 own little bed, and even in her deep and healthy
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 213 
 
 slumbers watched over it with a love as true 
 and tender as that of a mother. 
 
 One day of Bessy's life was a sample of her 
 days for four years ; for, as one baby grew into 
 a chubby child that ran about independently 
 and amused itself, another little brother or 
 sister succeeded to its place, and kept her 
 always nursing. But when she was fourteen 
 years old, her mother began to think it was 
 time that Bessy was earning her own living; 
 and, as her next daughter was growing up, and 
 was able to take Bessy's place in the house, she 
 began to inquire if any family in the neighbour- 
 hood wanted a tidy girl to help in the kitchen, 
 or take care of a child. 
 
 There seemed something very pleasant and 
 independent to the little girl's mind at first, in 
 the idea of going to service ; she thought of the 
 wages she should get, of the things she should 
 buy ; talked of it all day, and dreamed of it all 
 night. At length a place was found she was 
 to be little nurse-maid at the Green Dragon, in 
 her native village. 
 
 Her mother thought that they should see 
 Bessy very often, and how they should pass the 
 door every Sunday, as they went to church ; and
 
 214 A COTTAGE MEMOIR, 
 
 besides, Mrs Martin was reckoned a very good 
 sort of woman, and would, she did not doubt, 
 prove a kind mistress ; and the baby, though a 
 great heavy boy, to be sure, had a little yellow 
 coach to ride in, and Bessy could draw him up 
 the road to their cottage, as well as any other 
 way, and might perhaps meet her father or one 
 of her brothers, and they should thus have a 
 chance of news of her during the week. And, 
 though the landlord of the Green Dragon was a 
 stern man, a very dragon himself in temper, it 
 was well known that Mrs Martin had the man- 
 agement of the whole establishment, including 
 men and maids ; and, therefore, poor Mrs Brown 
 persuaded herself that it was very well for a 
 first place, as times went. 
 
 It was accordingly agreed upon by all parties. 
 Although Bessy's aspirings were a little humbled 
 in living only at the Green Dragon, instead of 
 the^ parsonage, or at the 'squire's, as she had 
 hoped, she tried to fancy it would be very grand 
 to see the mail-coach stop every morning, 
 with all its fine passengers and its four fine 
 horses. On the Monday morning, therefore, it 
 was fixed that she was to go. 
 
 Her poor mother had laid out all the money
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 215 
 
 she could save, ever since it was concluded that 
 Bessy was to go to service, in completing her 
 little wardrobe for the last time ; in future she 
 must supply it herself from her own earnings. 
 Her few clothes were put in good repair, and 
 her heart was made to overflow with gratitude 
 by one present from her poor mother, who felt 
 more regret in parting with her good little 
 daughter than she chose to express and that 
 present was her own white dimity petticoat ! 
 That beautiful garment, as Bessy thought, which 
 her mother wore and washed once in a summer, 
 to keep it a good colour, and in which she was 
 married ! The first white petticoat Bessy ever 
 had possessed, and which was tucked up, and 
 altered for her own wear : poor Bessy was grate- 
 ful, even to tears. All her clothes were neatly 
 put up in a small oaken chest, which, together 
 with a prayer-book, was her father's present ; 
 and on Sunday evening they sat down to take 
 their last meal all together at least for 'some 
 time. 
 
 This first going out to service is a great event 
 in the life of the poor ; the rich have nothing 
 like it. It is a practical going forth of a young 
 creature to seek her fortune, and often a very
 
 216 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 
 
 hard fortune it turns out ; and Bessy, though a 
 stout-hearted girl, felt some natural misgivings 
 of spirit, as to-morrow, with its untried life, 
 stood before her, at the distance of but a few 
 hours. Much was the good counsel given to 
 her by her simple-hearted parents this evening ; 
 and many the warnings drawn from the expe- 
 rience of her mother, who herself had lived four- 
 teen years in various services. The supper- 
 things stood long unmoved from the little table 
 before Bessy could find courage to put them 
 away, as she said to herself, " for the last time." 
 
 Her sleep this night was less profound than 
 usual ; and, for the first time in her life since 
 the baby died, she awoke with a depression of 
 spirits. Long and tearful was the leave-taking 
 between her and her mother and the little ones 
 before she had the courage to follow her father, 
 who, laden with her worldly possessions, was 
 waiting to accompany her to the Green Dragon 
 to conduct her, as it were, across the thresh- 
 old on her entrance into life. 
 
 Bessy's first place was a very hard one. The 
 child was cross, heavy, and spoiled ; she had to 
 nurse him, to obey the petulant, fat landlord, 
 and to wait on the impatient Mrs Martin and
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIR 21? 
 
 Tier twenty guests at the same moment. The 
 child would not be drawn up the road in his 
 yellow coach, nor would Mrs Martin allow her 
 to speak to her parents at the door, as they 
 passed on their way to church. Poor girl ! she 
 began to think service was very hard, and to 
 remember, with almost painful pleasure, the 
 happy days of wandering in the fields with her 
 good little baby-brother, when she used to peep 
 into birds' nests and gather black-berries. Many 
 a time did she cry herself to sleep ; but then she 
 remembered that her mother's first service had 
 been hard also ; that she lived with a mistress 
 who had even beaten her; and therefore she 
 supposed that it was all in the order of things 
 for " first places " to be bad ones, and she 
 endured her troubles without complaint. 
 
 Bessy, however, stayed only twelve months at 
 the Green Dragon. She had been seen by the 
 draper of the next town, as, in making his 
 rounds among his country customers, he had 
 stopped at the Green Dragon, and had recom- 
 mended her to his wife as the neatest, quickest- 
 handed little maiden he had ever seen. There- 
 fore, when she was out of place, she was hired 
 by the lady in question as an attendant upon
 
 218 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 
 
 her smart little daughter, just turned three 
 years of age. 
 
 But, in the twelve months of Bessy's hard 
 servitude, she had gone through a useful dis- 
 cipline ; she had strengthened her mind by 
 patience and forbearance, and her unpartici- 
 pated sorrows, if for a time they had made her a 
 sadder, had in the end assuredly made her a 
 wiser girl. She had also grown much taller 
 and fairer, and had altogether a more trim, 
 cultivated look. Her small wages had been 
 laid out in the supplying her wardrobe with 
 better apparel ; her hair had lost its sun-burned 
 look, had now grown long, and was put up with 
 some degree of taste, and she wore long-sleeved 
 gowns in an afternoon, and white cotton stockings 
 on a Sunday. Bessy was certainly bidding fair 
 , to be a very comely young maiden. 
 
 She lived at the draper's for four years ; and 
 then she was nineteen years old, and wore caps 
 and frills, and had a silk shawl, a variety of 
 printed gowns, and blue ribbons in her bonnet ; 
 besides this, she had four pounds in money saved 
 out of her earnings, a smart red-leather house- 
 wife, a paper work-box, and a silver thimble. 
 Poor Bessy ! she began to feel how pleasant it
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 219 
 
 was to have some little property of her own. 
 After she had lived four years at the draper's. 
 Miss Mary Ann was sent to a boarding-school, 
 and her services were no longer wanted either 
 to accompany the little girl in her walks, or 
 to get-up her white muslin dresses when they 
 were washed; Bessy was therefore again out 
 of place. 
 
 This latter, unlike Bessy's first situation, had 
 been one of comparative ease ; for her mistress, 
 who loved and lived in all bodily comforts her- 
 self, took care that her servants, were it only 
 for the credit of the house, should not have 
 great cause of complaint ; nevertheless, she was 
 a cross-tempered, exact woman, and her ser- 
 vants obeyed her as much in fear as love. 
 Still, Bessy always thought herself extremely 
 well-off ; she had been indulged with a journey 
 to the sea-side when her mistress and Miss 
 Mary Ann went there for the benefit of sea- 
 bathing, and had always the reputation of being 
 a favourite in the family. Occasional troubles, 
 it is true, Bessy had, but these left no unpleasant 
 memories behind, and she parted from her mis- 
 tress with tears in her eyes and a true sorrow 
 at her heart; in return, she received, as a
 
 220 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 
 
 parting present, a gown of one of the best 
 prints in her master's shop. 
 
 When, on leaving this place, Bessy paid a 
 visit to her parents, and in her very best appa- 
 rel, a tall, comely young woman, made her first 
 appearance at church, all her old companions 
 looked upon her as a person whose acquaintance 
 would be very creditable to them. Her mother, 
 too, with a very pardonable pride, when the 
 service was over, stopped on purpose that the 
 clergyman and his wife might see her. 
 
 A proud and happy woman was she, when 
 they acknowledged her deep curtsey, and that 
 of the daughter, with a very gracious smile, of 
 which she gave half the credit to Bessy's 
 respectable appearance. The squire's lady, too, 
 waited to see them pass, and then turned and 
 spoke to her handsome daughter, something 
 which Mrs Brown was sure, in her own mind, 
 was to Bessy's advantage and the poor woman 
 walked home, the happiest mother in the whole 
 congregation. " I always thought she would 
 be a credit to us," she said to herself; fi such a 
 tidy, notable girl ! I hope Mary, and Jane, and 
 little Sarah, will turn out as well ! " 
 
 The next day, to the great joy of Bessy's
 
 A COTTAGE MEMOIR. 221 
 
 mother, the clergyman's pony-chaise stopped at 
 their cottage-door, and in a few minutes his 
 lady entered to make inquiries respecting her. 
 If she could have a good character from her last 
 place, she said she could offer her a situation in 
 her own family. Bessy's good conscience 
 assured her, in a moment, all would be right ; 
 and blushing, and full of ill-concealed joy, she 
 thanked the kind lady for the offer a thousand 
 times. A favourable character was soon received 
 from her late mistress, and in two weeks' time 
 the dream of Bessy's childhood was realised, 
 and she and her personal property, now 
 occupying two tolerably large paper trunks, 
 besides the little oaken chest before mentioned, 
 were removed to the beautiful parsonage. Here 
 she lived five years, a happy and respectable 
 servant, fulfilling every duty, and with a 
 conscience void of offence ; and at the end of 
 that time only left it to be married to her 
 fellow-servant, the gardener, as steady and 
 industrious a young man as even Mrs Brown 
 herself could desire for her dutiful daughter.
 
 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN.
 
 IT came to pass, in the 
 
 days of old, that the men of Holland 
 
 found themselves straitened in their 
 
 habitations ; for who knows not that 
 
 they were, from the first, a sober, 
 
 hardy, and industrious race, tilling 
 
 the ground, buying and selling, eating 
 
 and drinking in humility, and therefore they
 
 226 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 
 
 lived to a good old age, and " sent forth their 
 little ones like a flock, and their children 
 danced;" so that their land being small, they 
 filled it brimful of inhabitants, till they were 
 ready to overflow all its borders. And they 
 looked this way, and that way, and they said : 
 " What shall we do, for the people are many, 
 and the land is small, and we are much 
 straightened for room?" So they called 
 together the chief men of their nation, and they 
 held a great council to consider what they must 
 do. And behold, there arose amongst them a 
 man unlike the men of the land, for they were 
 short, and broad, and well-formed in body, of a 
 solemn and quiet countenance, and clad in 
 peaceable garments ; but he was tall and bony, 
 and of a grim and hairy aspect. He had a 
 great hard hand and a fierce eye ; his clothes 
 had a wild look ; he had a sword by his side, a 
 spear in his grasp, and his name was Van 
 Manslaughter. 
 
 With a glad but a savage gaze, he looked round 
 upon the assembly, and said : " Fellow-citizens ! 
 I marvel at your perplexity. You sit quietly at 
 home, and know nothing of the world ; but I 
 and my followers have pursued the deer and the
 
 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 227 
 
 boar far away into the forests of Germany. We 
 have fought with the wolf and the bear, and, if 
 need were, with the men of the woods ; and 
 enjoy our hunting, and eat of our prey with joy 
 and jollity. Why sit ye here in a crowd, like 
 sheep penned in a fold? We have seen the 
 land that is next to ours, and we have been 
 through it, to the length of it and to the 
 breadth of it, and it is a good land. There are 
 corn and wine: there are cities, towns, and 
 villages ready built to our hands, Let us arise 
 and come suddenly upon them, and we shall not 
 only get all these possessions, but we shall get 
 great glory." And when he had so said, he 
 looked round him with much exultation, and a 
 crowd of dark hairy faces behind him cried out : 
 " Ay, it is true ! Let us arise and get great 
 glory!" 
 
 But at that word there stood up Mynheer 
 Kindermann, an old man a very old man. He 
 was of low stature, of a stout broad frame, and 
 his hair, which was very white, hung down 
 upon his shoulders ; and his beard also, as white 
 as driven snow, fell reverently upon his breast. 
 That old man had a large and tranquil coun- 
 tenance ; his features were bold, and of a very
 
 228 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 
 
 healthful complexion ; his face, though of a 
 goodly breadth, was of a striking length, for his 
 forehead was bold and high, and his eyes had a 
 pleasant fireside expression, as though he had 
 been used only to behold his children and his 
 children's children at their play, or to fix them 
 on the loving forms of his wife or his friend. 
 As he arose there was a great silence, and he 
 stood and sighed; and those who were near 
 him heard him mutter in a low tone the word 
 " Glory/' but those afar off" only saw his lips 
 move. Then he said aloud : " My brethren ! I 
 am glad that you are called upon to get great 
 glory, but what is that glory to which Mynheer 
 Van Manslaughter calls you ? In my youth, as 
 some of you well know, I travelled far and wide 
 with my merchandise ; I have sojourned in all 
 the countries that adjoin ours, and they are 
 truly good countries, and full of people ; but 
 what of that ? It is not people that we lack, it 
 is land ; and I should like to know how we are 
 to take this land, that is full of people, and yet 
 do those people no wrong ! If we go to take 
 that land, we shall find the people ready to 
 defend their homes and their children ; and if 
 we fight in a bad cause, we shall probably get
 
 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 229 
 
 beaten, like thieves and robbers, for our pains 
 and is that glory ? But if we are able to take 
 that land, we must first kill or drive out those 
 that cultivate it, and make it fit to live in and 
 is that glory ? And if we take those cities, and 
 towns, and villages, we must kill those who 
 built them, or have lived pleasantly in them, 
 with God's blessing. Oh ! what honest, inoffen- 
 sive men, what good, kind-hearted mothers, 
 what sweet and tender brothers and sisters, 
 what dear little babes we must murder and 
 destroy, or drive away from their warm homes 
 which God has given them, and which are 
 almost as dear to them as their lives, into the 
 dismal forests, to perish with cold and hunger, 
 or to be devoured by wild beasts, and, in their 
 anguish, to curse us before the Great Father 
 who made us all ! My brethren, I cannot think 
 that is glory, but great disgrace and infamy, 
 and a misery that, I trust, shall never come 
 upon us. 
 
 " I have long looked about me, and I see 
 that Heaven has given all those countries round 
 us to whom He would, and they are full of 
 people ; they are full of rich fields and vine- 
 yards; they are full of towns for men and
 
 2SO THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 
 
 temples for God ; they are full of warm, brig-lit, 
 happy homes, where there are proud fathers, 
 and glad mothers, and innocent children, as 
 amongst ourselves; and cursed he he who would 
 disturb or injure them ! 
 
 " But, my brethren, how shall we get glory, 
 and, what is of more immediate necessity, how 
 shall we get land to live in ? I have been think- 
 ing of this, and it has come into my mind that 
 it has been too long the custom for men to call 
 themselves warriors when they desire to be 
 murderers, and to invade the property and the 
 lives of their neighbours ; and I have thought, 
 as all the land is taken up, and as we cannot 
 without great sin invade the land, that we had 
 better invade the sea, where we can take, and 
 wrong no man ! And who does not know, that 
 has looked towards the sea, that there is much 
 ground which seems properly to belong neither 
 to the sea nor the land ? Sometimes it is 
 covered with the waters, and sometimes it is 
 partly bare a dreary, slimy, and, profitless 
 region, inhabited only by voracious crabs that 
 make war upon one another the stronger upon 
 the weaker and sea-fowl which come in like 
 conquerors and subdue them, and devour them,
 
 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 231 
 
 and get what Van Manslaughter calls 'great 
 glory ! ' My brethren, let us invade the sea 
 let us get piles, and beams, and stones, and dig 
 up the earth, and make a large mound which 
 will shut out the sea, and we shall have land 
 enough and to spare." 
 
 As he finished his speech there arose a deep 
 murmur that grew and grew till it spread among 
 the people collected in thousands without, and 
 at length became like the sound of the ocean 
 itself; and then the people cried out, "Yes, we 
 will invade the sea ! " and so it was decreed. 
 Then began they with axes to fell wood ; with 
 levers and mattocks to wrench up stones ; and 
 with wagons, horses, and oxen, to lead them to 
 the sea. Now, it being the time of low-w^ater, 
 and the tide being gone down very far, they 
 began to dig up the earth and to make a mighty 
 bank. So when the sea came up again, it saw 
 the bank and the people upon it in great 
 numbers, but it took no notice thereof. And it 
 went down and came up again, and they had 
 pushed out the bank still further, and raised it 
 higher, and secured it with beams, and piles, 
 and huge stones, and it began to wonder. And 
 it went down and came up again, and they had
 
 232 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 
 
 pushed the bank still further, so that in great 
 amaze it said within itself: "What are these 
 insignificant creatures doing? Some great 
 scheme is in their heads, hut I wot not what ; 
 and one of these days I will come up and over- 
 turn their hank, and sweep both it and them 
 away together." But, at length, as it came up 
 once on a time, it beheld that the bank was 
 finished. It stretched across from land to land, 
 and the sea was entirely shut out. Then was 
 it filled with wonder that such little creatures 
 had done so amazing a deed, and with great 
 indignation that they had presumed to interrupt 
 the progress of itself the mighty sea, which 
 stretched round the whole world, and was the 
 greatest moving thing in it. Retreating in fury, 
 it collected all its strength, and came with all 
 its billows, and struck the bank in the midst as 
 with thunder. In a moment there appeared on 
 the top of the mound, on the whole length of it, 
 a swarm of little stout men, thick as a swarm 
 of bees. Marvellous was it to see how that 
 throng of little creatures was all astir, running 
 here and running there ; stopping up crevices, 
 and repairing damages done by that vast and 
 tremendous enemy, that, roaring and foaming,
 
 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 233 
 
 repeated its blows like the strokes of a million 
 of battering-rams, till the faces of the men were 
 full of fear, and they said, (t Surely the mound 
 will fall ! " Then came the sea, swelling and 
 raging more dreadfully than ever, and, urged 
 by the assistance of a mighty wind, it thun- 
 dered against the bank and burst it ! The 
 waters flowed triumphantly over all their old 
 places, and many men perished. 
 
 Then went Van Manslaughter amongst the 
 people with great joy, and many loud words, 
 saying : " See what has come of despising my 
 counsel ! See what glory your old counsellor 
 has brought you to ! Come now, follow me, 
 and I will lead you to possessions where you 
 need not fear the sea. Let us leave it to people 
 this bog with fish. I am for no new-fangled 
 schemes, but for the good old plan of fair and 
 honourable war, which has been the highway 
 to wealth and glory from the beginning of the 
 world." 
 
 Then began the people to be very sad, and to 
 listen to his words ; but Mynheer Kindermann 
 called them again to him and bid them be of 
 good heart, and to repair the bank, to make it 
 stronger, and to build towers upon it, and to
 
 234 THE HONEST DUTCHMAN. 
 
 appoint men to dwell in them that they might 
 continually watch over and strengthen it. So 
 the people took courage and did so, for they 
 said, " Let us take no man's goods, and let us 
 do no murder/' Therefore they renewed the 
 mound, and the sea came up in tenfold wrath 
 and smote it worse than before ; but it was all 
 in vain. It failed not, save a little here and 
 there, and the people seeing it set up a great 
 shout, and cried : " The mound will stand ! " 
 
 Then did they begin to dig and drain, to 
 plant trees, to build towns, and to lay out 
 gardens, and it became a beautiful country. 
 Then the inhabitants rejoiced, saying : " Others 
 have invaded lands and killed people, but we 
 have hurt no man. We have only invaded the 
 sea, and Heaven has made us out of it a good 
 heritage ! " 
 
 These are the people whose wealth and 
 industry are known through the whole world. 
 They have sent out colonies to the ends of the 
 earth, and have got themselves the name of 
 the Honest Dutchmen. Would that they had 
 always been as wise and merciful as they were 
 on that day ! W. H.
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE.
 
 PART L 
 
 HOW EVIL WAS DONE THAT GOOD MIGHT 
 COME OF IT. 
 
 AT a great public school, conducted by the 
 learned Dr Reader, and many ushers and
 
 238 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 masters of many varieties and brandies of 
 knowledge, there were three notable boys. The 
 tallest boy in the school, the least boy in the 
 school, and the fattest boy in the school; 
 Charles, Harry, and George, who, from their 
 remarkable names of Salmon, Lion, and Sparrow, 
 were jestingly called, Fish, Flesh, and Fowl. 
 They had nomen, prenomen, and cognomen. 
 Charles was also called King, because he was 
 above his fellows ; Harry, Lord, because he 
 possessed the fat of the land ; and George, 
 Commons, because of his spare person and some- 
 what meagre aspect. Others, again, distin- 
 guished them as Thread-paper, Apple-dumpling, 
 and Lean Kine. They, however there being a 
 sworn league of amity amongst them had 
 given themselves the title of " The Triangle ; " 
 we, therefore, will adopt their own appellation, 
 and thus style them. So much for their names. 
 Now, the Triangle, besides their remarkable 
 exteriors, possessed rare accomplishments ; they 
 were the best sliders, kite -flyers, top-spinners, 
 and cricketers in the school. They had, more- 
 over, each his own peculiar gift, which was exer- 
 cised for general edification. Charles Salmon, 
 the tall boy, had a wonderful talent for singing;
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 239 
 
 his voice was clear, melodious, and full of power 
 and expression, and his performances in this 
 way, often electrified the whole playground, 
 when the learned head of Dr Reader himself, 
 in his white wig, has been seen popping out of 
 the study-window with an air of abstraction, or 
 else nodding time to the tune ; while it was 
 very shrewdly conjectured, especially by those 
 who had seen them, that many an usher like- 
 wise sought out such commodious nooks and 
 corners as would give him the enjoyment of 
 the melody without making him visible to the 
 urchin crew over whom he exercised authority. 
 
 Henry Lion, the lean boy, was a prodigious 
 mimic, and acted with inimitable humour every 
 whimsical character, from Punch to Sir John 
 Falstaif, to whom, however, he was in bulk a 
 singular contrast. Nevertheless, he contrived 
 by some cunning of his own, to swell himself 
 forth, and appear no Jack Straw in the per- 
 formance. 
 
 The talent of George Sparrow was that of 
 tale-telling. A very Scheherazade was he in 
 this accomplishment. Grave or gay, horrible, 
 fantastical, or pathetic, George Sparrow had a 
 tale for all times and humours. Happy was the
 
 240 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 boy who was his bedfellow, to whom he would 
 tell tales till the morning bell rang : and yet it 
 must be confessed to his shame, that into one 
 little fellow, who had for three months this 
 honour, he instilled so much terror by his tales 
 of ghosts, hobgoblins, and bloody murders, that 
 he fell into what is called a low way, and only 
 recovered by the intervention of his mother, 
 who took him home and nursed him for a whole 
 winter. 
 
 Other circumstances made the Triangle not 
 less remarkable than respectable ; they had 
 never known the infliction of chastisement from 
 either cane or ferula. Each had been at school 
 three years, and though they came from differ- 
 ent counties, had all entered the same day. 
 They had all gone honourably and speedily 
 forward with their school-learning, each first in 
 some particular branch of knowledge ; so that 
 with mathematical, classical, and English tutors, 
 as with the head-master himself, they stood 
 high in estimation. It was a singular Triangle, 
 all the three sides so various, yet, as a whole, 
 according so perfectly; and it may be ques- 
 tioned, whether ever a friendship was formed 
 between two persons, but assuredly, seldom
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 241 
 
 among three, in which there was a greater unity 
 of purpose and affection. They were the David 
 and Jonathan the Orestes and Pylades of the 
 school ; and from the solemn Dr Reader himself 
 down to the little Hans Fuggenfelt, the Dutch 
 boy, who was the most ineffable blockhead in 
 the school, everybody gave them fair words and 
 favour. 
 
 So stood the Triangle after the midsummer 
 holidays, when a great boy, half-knave and 
 half-dunce one Nathaniel, or, as he was com- 
 monly called, Nat Simpkins became a scholar, 
 and according to his abilities, which were pro- 
 digious in this line, proceeded to set the school 
 by the ears. The Triangle, being most conspi- 
 cuous for general favour, was the first object of 
 his jealousy. He drew a party of weak-minded 
 boys to his side, and began by artfully insinu- 
 ating suspicions of underhand proceedings on 
 the part of the Triangle, plainly expressing his 
 belief that they were only spared punishment 
 corporeal punishment, especially from the par- 
 tiality of Dr Reader ; while he, the exemplary 
 Nathaniel Simpkins, who was, according to his 
 own shewing, superior to them in every respect, 
 and who had been at the school but two months, 
 p
 
 242 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 had been flogged a dozen times, had learned two 
 dozen tasks, and had been otherwise publicly 
 disgraced seventeen times. The thing, he said, 
 was as plain as daylight, and half the school 
 began to give him credit for great sagacity in 
 the discovery. The next thing he did was to 
 caricature the Doctor, by painting him in his 
 bag-wig and gown, wearing triangular spec- 
 tacles, and flogging the whole school with 
 birch-rod and ferula. This took prodigiously ; 
 any novelty soon wins partisans, and such a 
 thing as a division, or two sides, in this little 
 community, was so new, that before many days 
 were over half the school joined his party, and 
 were violent accordingly. Simpkins and his 
 party resolved never to be reconciled to the 
 Triangulars, till their leaders had undergone 
 some disgraceful punishment ; they therefore 
 artfully went to work, reproached them with 
 being favourites, and cast endless reflections 
 on the Doctor for blind partiality. The Triangle 
 violently resented these reflections on the 
 Doctor, vindicated him from the charge of 
 partiality, and maintained that if they or any of 
 them were worthy of punishment, punishment 
 they would receive.
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 243 
 
 " Prove it ! prove it ! Shew us that the 
 Doctor is impartial, and we will be friends ! " 
 was the reply. 
 
 The Triangle were but boys ; they meant well, 
 but they argued ill. 
 
 " We will prove it ! " cried the first. 
 
 "We will be the champions of Dr Reader's 
 fair fame ! " responded the second. 
 
 " We will make ourselves worthy of punish- 
 ment, to shew you that the good Doctor is 
 incapable of injustice ! " echoed the third. 
 
 It was at the extremity of the playground, 
 under the dim shade of the old yew-trees, that 
 this singular knight-errantry was sworn, with 
 twenty boys on either side as witnesses. At 
 the conclusion of the ceremony, Arthur 
 Meynell, a firm adherent of the Triangulars, so 
 renowned for the general correctness of his 
 conduct and opinions, that he was commonly 
 surnamed " The Conscience/' boldly stepped 
 into the midst, warned the Triangle of their 
 folly and danger, and concluded by saying, that 
 " The Triangle ought to have more sense than 
 to displease the Doctor and disgrace themselves, 
 for a set of idle fellows like those ! " 
 
 " Coward ! fool ! meddler ! pitiful and
 
 244 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 sneaking ! " these were the best words that 
 " The Conscience " got from Simpkins and his 
 party; and the Triangulars were all too busy 
 to listen to him. 
 
 The next day the Triangle held a cabinet 
 council, which lasted three hours and three 
 quarters. The result of their deliberations 
 was a plan, according to the best authority, 
 suggested by Sparrow, somewhat improved 
 upon by Salmon, and finally put into accom- 
 plishable form by Harry Lion. 
 
 What that plan was, and how it was executed, 
 we will proceed to relate. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF TWO DAYS. 
 
 IT was a fine September morning, warm and 
 glowing, the harvest was mostly got in, the 
 orchards and gardens were full of beautiful 
 fruit, as the Triangle, having escaped at three 
 o'clock in the morning from an upper window,
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 245 
 
 walked briskly along a wooded lane three miles 
 from the school village. 
 
 They had undertaken a three days' ramble 
 round the country, intending nowhere to exceed 
 nine miles distant from the centre, the school ; 
 being whimsically determined to direct all their 
 movements in these three days, by their own 
 number. Each boy had three shillings in his 
 pocket ; they were to live as merrily as might 
 be, to turn to account each his own peculiar 
 gift in gaining their daily bread and their 
 night's lodging, and what they could not obtain 
 for love, they were to buy for money. At all 
 events, they determined, as far as in them 
 lay, that these three days should be merry ones, 
 come what would afterwards ; and all along they 
 made their minds easy by persuading themselves 
 that they were champions in the best cause in 
 the world. 
 
 At six o'clock they came to a milkmaid who 
 was singing ; from her they obtained a draught 
 of milk, and then proceeded onward, passing 
 through a little town where they bought bread 
 and cheese, upon which they dined. Leaving 
 the town, then, they saw to the right of the 
 road a pleasant hollow overshadowed by trees ;
 
 246 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 they entered it, and there lying down, Charles 
 sang Barbara Allen's Cruelty, after which they 
 all three went very comfortably to sleep. "When 
 they awoke, they found the sun beginning to 
 sink, and, looking round, they saw a farmhouse 
 below them, half-buried in rich orchard trees, 
 loaded with bright golden apples. No school- 
 boy can resist an apple, and therefore, if they 
 had not wanted something more substantial, 
 as they did, they would instinctively have gone 
 down. 
 
 At the door they met a stout, rosy-faced, 
 loud-spoken dame, stripped to her stays and 
 green-quilted petticoat, who accosted them 
 cheerfully. They told her they wanted their 
 supper and a night's lodging ; she laughed 
 merrily, and called them "impudent beggars" 
 and " lazy varlets," and yet said they were 
 welcome to all her house contained. She then 
 brought them into the large kitchen, set them 
 down to a black oak table, and gave them whey 
 and new bread, fresh-laid eggs and broiled 
 bacon. It was an excellent feast, they never 
 had been so hungry in all their lives before, 
 and never had enjoyed anything half as much. 
 When they had finished this luxurious meal,
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 247 
 
 as the good dame had said nothing about the 
 night's lodging, they rose up to depart, but 
 she stopped them, saying : "Oh no ! after 
 such a meal's meat as that, she must have 
 some work out of them, and therefore they 
 must stop and help her son in apple-gathering ; " 
 adding, that " it was lucky they had come, for 
 if they were only half as ready with their hands 
 as they had been with their mouths, they would 
 be a famous help for poor Ned ! " 
 
 The Triangle were very well pleased, and 
 before long poor Ned made his appearance; a 
 great gawky lad of seventeen, walking like a 
 cart-horse, and looking as shamefaced as an 
 owl in the sunshine when he saw the three 
 " young gentlemen " whom his mother proposed 
 to him as his associates in the apple-gathering. 
 The apple-gathering, however, soon made them 
 very good friends, and then they were merry 
 altogether ; merry in the orchard ; merry, too, in 
 the house, into which they carried baskets full 
 and bags full, bags full and baskets full of the 
 most delicious apples, until the good dame 
 herself was tired of reckoning them ; she all 
 the while laughing and talking, praising the Tri- 
 angle, praising the apples, and praising her Ned.
 
 248 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 After this labour, or rather pastime, and a 
 second hearty supper of roasted apples and new 
 milk, they all sat down by the great kitchen 
 fire, which was made of logs laid on the hearth ; 
 and a jovial party they were ! There was the 
 dame ; poor Ned ; his father, a quiet old man, 
 who said nothing at all, and yet seemed to 
 enjoy everything; two round-faced laughing 
 country girls, and two sleepy, slow-footed lads, 
 ten times duller and heavier than poor Ned 
 himself, and the merry Triangle in the midst, 
 singing songs, telling tales, and acting all 
 humorous and whimsical characters whatever. 
 There they sat at nine o'clock at night ; and 
 there they sat at two o'clock in the morning, 
 and then the good woman, who liad laughed 
 and cried alternately for so many hours, hurried 
 her three strange guests upstairs into her best 
 chamber, in which were also deposited cheese, 
 spun-flax, fleeces, and woollen wares ; and wish- 
 ing them a good night's rest, the kind-hearted 
 dame left them to sleep between the blankets, 
 three in a bed. 
 
 The Triangle slept as sound as a top. The 
 cock had long done crowing, poor Ned and his 
 father were out in the fields, and the dame and
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 249 
 
 her maids busy at their household work, when 
 the Triangle made its way once more into the 
 spacious kitchen. And then what a breakfast 
 they had ! The supper overnight was nothing 
 to it ! There were milk and coffee, and oat- 
 cakes and barley-cakes, eggs and honey, wheaten 
 bread and spice bread, and various sorts of 
 country dainties, with and without names. Thus 
 having banqueted, they again set forth ; their 
 merry and kind-hearted hostess leaving her 
 cheese-pans to see them across the farmyard 
 and orchard, and over two fields, a croft, and 
 meadow, before she could make up her mind to 
 part with them. 
 
 " Fortune has hitherto favoured us ! " said the 
 Triangle ; " what will be our fate to-day ?" 
 
 But that day brought a thunder-storm, which 
 lasted, from the first heavy drops that came 
 before to the skirts of the storm that came 
 after, from eleven o'clock till three ; and the 
 poor Triangle, sadly against its will, took shelter 
 under an oak-tree. Do what he would to pre- 
 vent it, all sorts of dismal tales of men struck 
 blind by lightning, and women and children 
 struck dead with thunderbolts, came into the 
 head of George, and for his life he could not
 
 250 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 help telling them ; so there they stood, expect- 
 ing every flash of lightning to leave them blind 
 or dead ! But the storm passed over without 
 injuring them, and, excepting being wet to the 
 skin, they were no worse for it. 
 
 On, therefore, they proceeded out of the old 
 pasture fields where they had sheltered, into a 
 long, wooded, and pleasant lane, and here they 
 had not gone far before they were overtaken by 
 their quondam school-fellow, Dick Deriton, now 
 called Mr Richard Deriton or the young 'Squire. 
 He was mounted on a fine racer, and was riding 
 gaily along, giving the reins to his horse, and 
 letting it go at its own pace ; he checked it, 
 however, when, to his astonishment, he saw his 
 old companions. 
 
 " Heyday, Triangle ! what brings you here ?" 
 
 It was soon told. Deriton enjoyed the joke 
 amazingly, leaped from his horse, and throwing 
 the reins on its neck, joined them, and the saga- 
 cious animal walked leisurely after its master. 
 
 " You shall sleep at our house to-night/' said 
 Deriton ; " my father is gone to the races, and 
 doesn't return till to-morrow ; so 1 11 invite my 
 friends, the Wigton's, and we '11 have for once a 
 merry night of it ! "
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 2ol 
 
 " Excellent ! " said the Triangle. 
 
 "You shall sing songs, and tell tales, and 
 perform comedy/' continued Deriton, " and you 
 shall be encored till the house rings ! " 
 
 And they were encored till the house rang ! 
 There they were in the great dining-room, 
 where they had an excellent dinner, the chan- 
 deliers lit, the large table drawn to one end for 
 a stage, and steward, butler, groom, stable-boy, 
 gardener, housekeeper, and half-a-dozen women 
 servants, all for audience ; and poor little Harry 
 swelled out for Sir John Falstaff, hectoring and 
 killing a hundred men at a blow, when oh, 
 unlucky mischance ! in came no other than 
 the old 'Squire himself, all fire and fury, swear- 
 ing and blustering like ten troopers ! Here 
 began a second act in the comedy ; out hurried 
 one at one door, and another at another; one 
 got behind a screen, and another under a table ; 
 arid the old asthmatical butler, as ill-luck would 
 have it, behind the chimney-board, where, on 
 account of his terrible cough, which the dust 
 he disturbed set a-going, it was vain to think of 
 concealment. 
 
 The storm of thunder and lightning was 
 nothing to the 'Squire's storm of passion ; the
 
 252 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 Wigtons were sent home instanter, with orders 
 to wait for his invitation before they came 
 again : every servant had orders to leave, from 
 the old steward, who had served the family for 
 fifty years, to the kitchen-girl, who came but 
 the day before. Young Deriton was threatened 
 with being disinherited a threat which had 
 been too often repeated to be much dreaded 
 and the Triangle locked up in a chamber, with 
 a promise of being sent back in the morning to 
 Doctor Reader, with such a character as the 
 'Squire thought they deserved. All this being 
 done he sat himself down to his bottle, which 
 he did not leave till twelve o'clock. 
 
 The Triangle deliberately consulted on the 
 state of affairs, and thought it best to be 
 stirring early, at least if they could but get 
 their chamber-door unlocked, for the key was 
 at the other side. But they were helped out of 
 this dilemma by young Deriton, who made his 
 appearance in their chamber by daybreak, and 
 bade them begone, giving each of them a small 
 loaf, and praying them to walk softly. The 
 Triangle thought itself very happy when it was 
 safely out at the back-door, and walked hastily 
 forth through the dewy shrubbery, and among
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 253 
 
 the sweet-smelling and aromatic trees and 
 flowers of the garden, and then took leave of 
 the young 'Squire at the park-gate, who, in spite 
 of his assumed carelessness, they could not help 
 suspecting, wished that his father had found 
 them less jocose than they were at his entrance. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 OF THE THIRD DAY, AND THE END OF THE 
 ADVENTURE. 
 
 A LITTLE sobered, perhaps, with the catastrophe 
 of the last evening, the Triangle walked on over 
 hills and by wood-sides, and across a wide open 
 common, crimsoned with the beautiful heath- 
 flowers, and along the hollows of which ran a 
 bright living rivulet, murmuring like a sweet 
 voice, and glittering in the sunshine. The 
 Triangle went across the heath, and by the 
 water-side, before meeting with any adventure, 
 or seeing anything more extraordinary than the 
 brisk little furze wren, and the green and 
 golden beetles of the common, and the quick-
 
 254 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 darting trouts, that were seen for a moment 
 and then gone, in the clear water of the 
 beautiful little brook. At the other end of the 
 common stood a small hamlet, which they 
 entered, and where they purchased a good 
 supply of provisions, for after all this rambling 
 in the fresh morning air, they were hungry 
 enough. Leaving the village, they struck into 
 some quiet retired fields, in every one of which 
 stood a new haystack, and seating themselves 
 under one of them, which stood in the prettiest 
 sylvan nook imaginable, they began to discuss 
 the contents of their wallet. 
 
 Now it happened, that about two fields' 
 distance from the place where they sat, and 
 directly opposite to it, were three little hills ; 
 and, as their eyes were ever on the watch for 
 occasion of merriment, or for subjects of curious 
 speculation, they beheld three men standing, 
 one upon each of these eminences, evidently 
 looking around them in quest of something. 
 North, south, east, and west, they turned, with 
 spy-glasses in their hands to enable them to 
 perceive any small or distant objects, which 
 they ever and anon applied to their eyes, 
 looking round them with great assiduity. They
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 255 
 
 stood up, clear and distinct in the bright light, 
 the morning sun behind them, and were not for 
 a moment to be mistaken ! Mathematical, 
 classical, and English teachers in the renowned 
 school of Dr Reader. Away went the Triangle 
 behind the rick, intending from this post to 
 watch, and, for the present, to elude their 
 pursuers. 
 
 In a short time the three men of learning, 
 having satisfied themselves, came down from 
 their elevation, and before long entered the 
 very meadow in which the Triangle lay con- 
 cealed ; and presently afterwards thus came the 
 words of Rhomboid, the mathematician, as they 
 passed by : 
 
 " Twenty-seven miles have I walked ; forty-five 
 and a half have I ridden ; at eleven houses, and 
 from a hundred and three persons have I made 
 inquiries ; and yet all my labour has been in 
 vain/ 7 
 
 " So it is," replied Remus, the master of the 
 classics, te fag in-doors, fag out-of-doors ; a 
 schoolmaster's life is like a dog's ! " 
 
 " Grumble as you will," rejoined Lemuel 
 Prosody, "I hope they've enjoyed their ramble 
 as much as I 've enjoyed mine. Sparrow is a
 
 256 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 prodigy of learning, and if my good word will 
 save them from a flogging, they shall have it 
 for his sake/' 
 
 " Now Heaven bless you ! " whispered Sparrow, 
 when the three wise men had passed by, 
 unwitting of their auditors. 
 
 " They may fag on, poor dogs/' said Salmon, 
 " but they '11 not hunt us out for all that ! " 
 
 " There they go/' said Lion, " due north, and 
 we'll go south, and meet to-morrow morning 
 at breakfast." 
 
 It was now past noon, and the Triangle had 
 entered within the bounds of their occasional 
 rambles, and being three miles from the school, 
 were as near as they deemed it safe to venture. 
 They, therefore, turned on to a wild extent of 
 hilly and open land, the remains of an ancient 
 chase. It was full of deep, quiet hollows, the 
 steep banks of which were covered with tall, 
 green bracken, and crimson betony. No 
 pleasanter place could be imagined for a 
 summer-day stroll than this, and to this they 
 came, and lay down all their lengths in one of 
 its most secluded hollows. After they had lain 
 here for about half an hour, and when Sparrow 
 was in the middle of one of his most diverting
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 257 
 
 stories, they beheld what, to their startled 
 imaginations, appeared no other than the 
 veritable Doctor Reader himself, mounted on a 
 strong gray horse, riding up the hollow directly 
 opposite to them. 
 
 It perhaps was cowardly to fly, and yet fly 
 they did, up one hollow, and down another, 
 winding about, so as, if possible, to escape 
 pursuit. The horseman spoke not a word, for, 
 trusting to his strong, well-trained horse, he was 
 sure of the chase. Salmon and Lion cleared the 
 ground like greyhounds, the one helped by 
 length of limb, the other by lightness of body ; 
 soon distancing poor Sparrow, who was memor- 
 ably deficient in these two particulars, and who 
 felt himself already in the clutches of the angry 
 Doctor. 
 
 " Stop, you terrified fool ! " cried the horse- 
 man, suddenly wheeling his horse round so as 
 to intercept Sparrow : " Stop, in the name of 
 common sense, and direct me the way to 
 Wimbleton!" 
 
 These words restored Sparrow at once to his 
 
 senses, and out of breath as he was, he gave the 
 
 required information, Wimbleton being the 
 
 village where they had last stopped. The 
 
 Q
 
 258 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 stranger laughed till he almost bent to his 
 saddle-bow, called him " a cowardly block- 
 head ! " for his pains, and rode briskly back 
 again. 
 
 By this time Salmon and Lion had returned 
 to their companion, intending to give themselves 
 up also to justice, expecting to find him, with 
 his hands tied behind his back, laid across the 
 horse, like a sheep taken for slaughter. 
 
 Despite now all their endeavours to resist the 
 enemy, a feeling of despondency crept over their 
 spirits. They sat down again, intending to wait 
 till the moon rose before they proceeded home ; 
 but no song was sung, no tale told, and, which 
 was strange even to themselves, they sat in 
 silence for a quarter of an hour. 
 
 At eleven o'clock that night, either by pop- 
 ping in at the keyhole, or scaling the walls, or 
 walking in at the hall-door in invisible jackets, 
 the Triangle, unknown to the whole household 
 (at least, so it seemed), entered their chamber, 
 and lay down in their respective beds, in which 
 they soundly slept till the morning-bell rang. 
 
 " Now, Simpkins," said they, as they entered 
 the room where the boys were drawn up, rank 
 and file, for prayers, waiting the entrance of the
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 259 
 
 masters " now, Simpkins, for a proof of the 
 Doctor's impartiality ! " 
 
 In came the solemn doctor; in came every 
 tutor and usher. Not a word was said ; prayers 
 were regularly gone through a silence like 
 death followed. 
 
 Presently an under-master went out, and 
 returned with three chains, each having at its 
 extremities manacles, as if to enclose the wrist 
 and ankle. Some turned pale, but the Triangle 
 stood firm, and looked neither ashamed nor 
 terrified. 
 
 " Young gentlemen/' said the doctor, ad- 
 dressing the three offenders in a deep, stern 
 voice " young gentlemen, you have been three 
 years under my care, during which time you 
 have not needed punishment, hardly reproof; 
 the consequence of this has been, that I boasted 
 of you publicly and privately ; I have honoured 
 your industry and sobriety ; I have held you up 
 as examples to your companions ; I have con- 
 fided in you : but I have been deceived ! Gentle- 
 men, I say it with pain I have been deceived ! 
 I can boast of you, I can honour you, I can 
 confide in you no longer ! Is it possible, that 
 from the favour you have received from me
 
 260 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 and which you only received because you ap- 
 peared to deserve it that you supposed I 
 should pass over your delinquencies, or permit 
 you to infringe the laws of order without 
 punishment ! Corporeal punishment by stripes, 
 however, you shall not receive at my hands, 
 so far I will still respect your former unblamable 
 conduct ; but since you have forfeited my con- 
 fidence, I must secure your persons, and make 
 you an example to the school 
 
 " You, perhaps, imagine me ignorant of your 
 idle wanderings for these three days ; you are 
 mistaken. I know where you have been ; what 
 company you have kept ; and how you have 
 demeaned yourselves. 
 
 " Again, I repeat it, my confidence has been 
 abused, and with deep sorrow I leave you for 
 the present to your own reflections ! Mr 
 Beetham, do your duty." 
 
 The fetters were put on, and the Triangle, 
 bound hand and foot, went out, somewhat grave, 
 yet, nevertheless, unsubdued in aspect. As 
 soon as they entered the playground, a stun- 
 ning shout greeted them from their own party. 
 Doctor Reader was sitting in his little back- 
 parlour, when these sounds of triumph reached
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 261 
 
 him, and very much disconcerted was he to 
 hear them. There was something very unac- 
 countable to him in the whole proceeding. He 
 was mortified and amazed at what seemed to 
 him the obstinate temper of the three offenders, 
 whom, to say the truth, he loved as well, per- 
 haps, as he would have loved children of his 
 own, had he possessed any ; and more than 
 this, for the first time in his life, he began to 
 question the power of his own eloquence, or to 
 suspect that his mode of punishment was inju- 
 dicious, since it produced so strange a result. 
 Grieved, therefore, and a little out of humour, 
 he walked into his study, intending to make 
 silent but exact observation on all that went 
 forward in the playground. Great, therefore, 
 was his amazement, when he beheld the three 
 culprits seated on a platform, and borne upon 
 the shoulders of many boys, while others ran 
 before, waving caps and handkerchiefs, and 
 shouting " Victory ! Victory ! Justice, the 
 good Doctor Reader, and the Triangle for 
 ever ! " 
 
 The Doctor was more amazed and bewildered 
 than before. He hastened, therefore, to the 
 scene of action, determined to have it explained,
 
 262 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 
 
 and followed the triumphal procession to the 
 yew-tree walk, and there found the victors 
 seated upon a rude sort of throne. 
 
 The unexpected appearance of the Doctor 
 rather disconcerted the Triangle, who, feeling 
 ^that this defiance, as it were, of punishment, 
 might very justly still further displease him, 
 wished internally that the whole affair was 
 explained ; but as no one of the three did 
 explain it, Arthur Meynell, otherwise called 
 " The Conscience/' who saw it in the same 
 light as themselves, stepped forward, and in 
 an astonishingly short time laid open the whole 
 plot, declaring that the triumph he now wit- 
 nessed was only the Triangulars rejoicing that 
 the justice and impartiality of the good Doctor 
 was unquestionably established. This being 
 said, he was so led away by his enthusiasm, 
 that even in presence of that grave personage 
 himself, he shouted " Justice, the good Doctor 
 Reader, and the Triangle for ever ! " in which 
 shout every boy joined, till the poor Doctor 
 was half-deafened by the uproar 
 
 At length, when silence was obtained, with 
 some severity of countenance, which amazed 
 his vehement young partisans, he ordered them
 
 THE TALE OF A TRIANGLE. 2C3 
 
 quietly to assemble in the school-room. They 
 did so ; and then he again harangued them 
 and not only the Triangle and its party, but 
 Nat Simpkins and his. 
 
 The Triangle felt, for the first time, and were 
 not slow to acknowledge it, how improperly 
 and unwisely they had acted ; and never, while 
 they remained at school nay, nor afterwards 
 through the whole course of their lives, did they 
 again " do evil that good might come of it." 
 
 Edinburgh : 
 Printed by W. and K. Chambers.
 
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