. .. ' - .. -' i

I_

ENGELSCH LEESBOEK.

'Tru ■ Zf/-

EMLSCH LEESBOEK

met

Alpliabetische Woordenlijst, Opmerkingen en een Beschouwing over Taalonderwijs,

door

Dr. A. J. M ERTEN S,

Leeraar aan het Gymnasium en de II. B. school te Nijmegen.

BiblÏGÏ . 3ek

_,_tt(. MINDERBROEDERS

WEERT.

NIJMEGEN. — W. FELLING A. 1890.

VOORBERICHT.

Gebrek aan Engelsche leesboeken bestaat er voorzeker niet, en de uitgave van dit nieuwe leesboek wordt dan ook alleen gerechtvaardigd door het bekende en erkende variis modis benefit.

Ieder samensteller tracht op zijn wijze den leerling zoo spoedig mogelijk met de Engelsche taal en Engelsche toestanden vertrouwd te maken. Natuurlijk slaagt de een daarin beter dan de ander.

Hoewel de Schrijver, blijkens de hierachter volgende beschouwing over het onderwijs in vreemde talen, niet onvoorwaardelijk is ingenomen met de regeling van dezen hoogst gewichtigen tak van ons middelbaar en gymnasiaal onderwijs, heeft hij zich niettemin ten doel gesteld , dit leesboek geschikt te maken voor de eerste jaren van den cursus in het Engelsch, zooals die thans aan de meeste inrichtingen geregeld is.

In overeenstemming met de algemeen voorgestane meening, dat het verkrijgen van een goede uitspraak en tegelijk van eenige woordenkennis het doel van het eerste onderwijs in vreemde talen behoort te zijn en aan de eigenlijke lectuur moet voorafgaan, wordt bij het gebruik van dit boek verondersteld, dat de onderwijzer de uitspraak met zijn leerlingen grondig behandeld heeft.

De leesstof zelve bestaat bijna uitsluitend uit verhalen, omdat deze voor de leerlingen de meeste aantrekkelijkheid hebben. Of nu met sprookjes of andere stukken begonnen wordt, blijft aan de keuze van den onderwijzer overgelaten; want, alhoewel de stukken den leerling zooveel mogelijk progressief in het Engelsche taaleigen inwijden, zoo belet dit niet, dat men het eene voor het andere behandelt, daar alle van den beginne af idionatisch Engelsch zijn.

Een woordenboek is bij 't gebruik van dit werk geen vereischte, wijl achteraan een alphabetische woordenlijst is geplaatst, waarin de leerling de gepaste vertaling en ook eenige afwijkingen van de regel-

voorbericht.

matige uitspraak kan vinden. Het bezwaar, dat het vertalen op deze wijze den leerling te gemakkelijk wordt gemaakt, vervalt, doordat eerst de grondbeteekenis van een woord en daarna de andere beteekenissen zijn opgegeven, zoodat de leerling voor een juiste vertaling toch zijn oordeel gebruiken moet.

Elke les dient zuiver gelezen en geheel begrepen te worden; al spoedig late men ook een gesprek over den inhoud volgen in het Engelsch, hoe gebrekkig vooreerst dan ook. Vervolgens komt, na de behandeling van de hoofdzaken der grammatica, het wijzen op de eigenaardigheden van het Engelsch idioom aan de beurt. Ten einde dit te vergemakkelijken, zijn van blz. 68 af de prozastukken van aanteekeningen voorzien, welke verwijzen naar de paragrafen in het 3^e deeltje mijner Engelsche Spraakkunst, 3^e druk. Voor degenen, die bij het taalonderwijs het gebruik van een bepaalde grammatica niet wenschelijk achten, zouden deze aanteekeningen, eenigszins uitgebreid , wellicht voldoende zijn, om den leerling al lezende met het taaleigen vertrouwd te maken. Natuurlijk wordt in die aanteekeningen meer dan eens naar dezelfde taalregels verwezen, dewijl niet alle stukken door dezelfde leerlingen kunnen gelezen worden.

Onder de dichtstukken zijn sommige met een sterretje geteekend; 't zijn die, welke bij ondervinding gebleken zijn, bijzonder in den smaak der leerlingen te vallen en door hen gemakkelijk te kunnen worden van buiten geleerd. Het groote nut van dit laatste behoeft geen betoog; mannen van naam in de taal- en schoolwereld zijn het daaromtrent volkomen eens. Intusschen komt ook hier de regel in toepassing: „weinig, maar dat weinige goed.quot; Daar dichtstukken met de leerlingen grondig dienen besproken te worden, alvorens hun ter bestudeering te worden gegeven, is op deze in de Woordenlijst geen acht geslagen; de beteekenis der woorden immers kan bij de bespreking door den onderwijzer zeiven worden opgegeven.

De stukken zijn alle saamgelezen uit de meest gebruikte Engelsche leesboeken, terwijl bij die keuze de grootste schroomvalligheid is in acht genomen, ten einde niemand eenigen aanstoot te geven in zake geloof en zeden.

Voor welwillende op- en aanmerkingen houdt zich ten slotte afin-bevolen

De Samensteller.

HET ONDERWIJS IN VREEMDE TALEN.

Vertrouwdheid met de moedertaal eischt de opvoeding van een ieder; kennis van vreemde talen is het eenige middel, om ons in staat te stellen tot onbekrompen en veelzijdig denken en handelen, gelijk dit van den meer ontwikkelde in onze dagen verlangd wordt.

Van het grootste belang bij het onderwijs in vreemde talen is de vraag: Wanneer moet met dit onderwijs bij kinderen worden aangevangen ? Voorzeker niet, alvorens de eigen moedertaal tot zekere hoogte gekend, en de betrekking der woorden en zinnen tot elkander begrepen wordt, hetgeen bij de meesten omstreeks het elfde jaar het geval kan zijn. Met welke van de vreemde talen moet men beginnen ? Alle begin is moeilijk, zeker niet het minst bij het leeren van een vreemde taal; derhalve is het hoogst raadzaam , van het gemakkelijke tot het moeilijke, van het gelijksoortige tot het ongelijksoortige over te gaan. Na zal bezwaarlijk ontkend kunnen worden, dat van alle vreemde talen geene zooveel overeenkomst heeft met onze eigene taal als de Engelsche. Weliswaar komt deze tot hiertoe altijd het laatst aan de beurt. Het schijnt echter, dat men het hooge belang van het Engelscli hoe langer hoe meer begint in te zien. De Engelsche taal paart eenvoudigheid van Nederdnitsche vormen met een grooten rijkdom aan woorden, dien zij verkregen heeft door het samensmelten van den woordenschat van twee der meest ontwikkelde volken. Daarbij komt een buitengewoon rijke, prachtige en wetenschappelijke letterkunde, een hoogst belangrijke geschiedenis en verreweg de grootste verspreiding in alle werelddeelen. Door niemand is de waarde van

VIII

het Engelsch voor het practische leven en voor de taalstudie meer op prijs gesteld, dan door J. Grimm. (¹)

Vele paedagogen zijn van oordeel, dat de taalstudie met Latijn of Fransch behoort te beginnen, omdat deze door het geheel vreemde der vormen en verschijnselen ,de aandacht meer scherpen en een ware gymnastiek voor den geest mogen heeten.

Ik ben van een tegenovergesteld gevoelen en houd het er voor, dat de lust tot leeren meer opgewekt wordt, en dientengevolge ook betere resultaten kunnen worden verkregen, door een uiterst geleidelijken overgang van het gemakkelijke tot het moeilijke, van het gelijksoortige tot het ongelijksoortige, dan door het volgen van den tegenover-gestelden weg. Daarenboven biedt ook het Engelsch moeilijkheden te over aan; ik herinner slechts aan de uitspraak en de spelling. Ook als voorbereiding voor het Latijn staat m. i. het Engelsch verre boven het Fransch. De spelling der Latijnsche woorden is zuiverder bewaard gebleven, zoodat de leerling ze veel gemakkelijker herkent. Verder bestaat er geen enkele grammaticale constructie in het Latijn, die niet gedurig ook in het Engelsch voorkomt. Er zal wel vooreerst nog geen verandering in de verdeeling van de leerstof komen, omdat slechts langzaam een oude zienswijze voor een nieuwe plaats maakt i

¹

„Keine unter allen neueren Sprachen hat gerade durch das Aufgeben „und Zerrütten alter Lautgesetze, durch den Wegfall beinahe samtlicher .,Flexionen, eine grössere Kraft und Starke empfangen als die englische,

„und von ihrer____Fülle freierMitteltöneist eine wesentliche Gewalt des Aus-

.,drucks abhangig geworden, wie sie vielleicht noch nie einermenschlichen „Zunge zu Gebot stand. Ihre ganze überaus geistige, wunderbar geglücktc „Anlage und Durchbildung war hervorgegangen aus einer überraschenden „Vermischung der beiden edelsten Sprachen des spateren Europas, der „romanischen und germanischen, und bekannt ist, wie im Englischen sich „beide zu einander verhalten, indem diese bei weitem die sinnliche Grund-„lage hergab, jene die geistigen Begriffe zuführte. Ja die englische Sprache, „von der nicht umsonst auch der grösste und überlegenste Dichter der „neuen Zeit im Gegensatz zur klassischen alten Poesie, ich kann natürlicli „nur Shakespeare meinen, gezeugt und getragen worden ist,. sie darf „mit vollem Recht eine W eltsprache heissen und scheint gleich dem „englischen Volk ausersehen, künftig noch in höherem Maasse an allen „Enden der Erde zu walten. Denn an Reich tum, Vernunftund „gedrangter Fuge lasst sich keine aller noch lebenden „Sprachen ihr an die Seite setzen, auch unsere deutsche nicht, „die zerrissen ist, wie wir selbst zerrissen sind, und erst manche Gebre-„chen von sich abschütteln müsste, ehe sie kühn mit in die Laufbahn „trate.quot; (Jacob Grimm: „Über den Ursprung der Sprachequot;. Berlin, -1852.)

IX

toch zijn de aangestipte voordeelen te groot, dan dat ze niet van lieverlede algemeen erkend zouden worden.

Op wélke wijze een vreemde taal dient onderwezen te worden, is tegenwoordig een vraag, die de gemoederen der oude en die der nieuwe richting vaak in hevige botsing heeft gebracht. Ieder leeraar, die niet blind ingenomen is met de methode, volgens welke hij zelf eenmaal onderwezen is, heeft gewis met de grootste belangstelling de discussies omtrent deze quaestie gevolgd, en ik meen niet te veel te zeggen door te beweren, dat de nieuwe methode het pleit volkomen gewonnen heeft. Het kost natuurlijk heel wat zelfverloochening, een geheel nieuwen weg in te slaan, dien men in het eerst nog slechts met onzekere schreden zal bewandelen ; doch een onbevooroordeelde geest moet zich weldra van het meer practische en doeltreffende der nieuwe methode overtuigen en zich bij de rijen harer warme voorstanders inlijven.

Op gezag van anderen heb ik in het voorbericht van het eerste deeltje mijner Spraakkunst op de noodzakelijkheid gewezen om bovenal en in de eerste plaats voor eene zuivere uitspraak te zorgen en deze tc oefenen met woorden, die de meeste overeenkomst met woordvormen in de moedertaal vertoonen. Bij die oefeningen biedt zich van zelf de gelegenheid aan om te wijzen op de vorming der woorden, op het afwijkende in de spelling enz., waardoor de leerling honderden woorden leert kennen door analogie; b.v. zekere Nederlandsche woorden beginnen met een v, de overeenkomstige Engelsche met f: voet foot, voeden feed, voorste first, vijl file; de Nederl. k beantwoordt aan de Engelsche ch : kin chin, kil chili, rijk rich, beuk heech; Fransche woorden gaan uit op if, Engelsche op ive: impératif imperative , abusif abusive • vele werkwoorden worden gevormd van het Supinum in het Latijn: to act, to neglect, enz. enz. Zelfs de zoo eenvoudige etymologie der Engelsche taal is daarbij vrij gemakkelijk te leeren, zoodat na eenige maanden de leerling veilig met het lezen van Engelsche stukken kan beginnen en slechts weinig hulp zal noodig hebben, om de eerste hoofdstukken uit de Tales of a Grandfather hy Sir Walter Scott te begrijpen.

Alles moet luid en duidelijk gelezen worden ; de onderwijzer mag zich niet voldaan toonen, zoolang niet elk woord zuiver wordt uitgesproken, en behoort daarbij nauwkeurig op de positie der spraakorganen te letten; daarvan toch hangt voor het grootste gedeelte een goede uitspraak af.

Iedere bijzonderheid, het taaleigen betreffende, dient den leerling volkomen duidelijk te worden gemaakt; want vooral op zijn leeftijd leert men alleen datgene goed, wat men helder inziet. Ilct meeste

X

genoegen heeft de leerling, wanneer men de vragen zóó weet in te kleeden, dat hij zelf het opmerkenswaardige kan vinden. Yeel schriftelijk huiswerk dient m. i. te worden vermeden, maar wel acht ik het aanbevelenswaardig, woord voor woord te verklaren en in de les datgene te laten opteekenen, wat de leerling zou kunnen vergeten, en of interlineair woordelijk te vertalen of wel een woordenlijst te laten ^

aanleggen, b.v. in dezen vorm :

Dan kan de leerling ook reeksen van analogieën opteekenen, hetgeen zijn aandacht zal scherpen en hem belangstelling zal inboezemen :

Engelsch th : the, southern, northern, mother, brother.

Nederlandsch d ; de, zuidelijk, noordelijk, moeder, broeder.

Engelsch sc : Scotland, scrape, scour, scrub.

Nederlandsch sch: Schotland, schrapen, schuren, schrobben. ^

Alle onzekere vergelijkingen en samenstellingen van woorden, die voor den beginner te moeilijk zijn, blijven geheel buiten beschouwing;

evenzeer blijft achterwege de verklaring van Engelsche instellingen,

toestanden en betrekkingen ; vóór alles moet de leerling met de gewone taal gemeenzaam worden gemaakt, en daarbij valt voor hem reeds genoeg op te merken en te onthouden.

Nadat een gedeelte aldus behandeld is, wordt het nog eens met de behoorlijke accentuatie gelezen, en daarna worden eenvoudige vragen in 't Engelsch over het behandelde op het bord geschreven, welke de , ₄V

XT

leerlingen bij beurten moeten beantwoorden en verder met de door den onderwijzer verbeterde antwoorden opteekenen. Het huiswerk bepaalt zich tot het nazien en bestndeeren van heigeen op school besproken is, zoodat de leerling de hem gestelde vragen over den inhoud behoorlijk kan beantwoorden, zoo mondeling als op het zwarte bord. Het gebruik van dit laatste kan niet genoeg worden aanbevolen.

Nadat de eerste twee hoofdslukken uit de Tales op de bedoelde wijze zijn behandeld, kan men overgaan tot het gebiuik van een leesboek. De onderwijzer moge nu met sprookjes of andere verhalen beginnen , steeds zal hij kiezen, hetgeen , volgens zijn meening, zijn leerlingen de meeste belangstelling kan inboezemen. De vroegere behandeling van de leesstof wordt nu eenigszins uitgebreid en het aantal analogieën vermeerderd; — hoe meer deze worden herhaald, des te gemakkelijker worden de verschillende vormen door den leerling geuit; ik bedoel vormen als b. v. J, me, we, us, my, our, ours, ourselves; am, art, is, are, was, ivere, been; day, days, daily, to-day. Ook is het bij 't onderwijs in het Engelsch zeer raadzaam, al spoedig de aandacht des leerlings te vestigen op synoniemen, en gelijk hij in den beginne woordfamilies heeft samengesteld, zoo gaat men weldra over tot het opzoeken en rangschikken van begripsfamilies, natuurlijk altijd binnen de bevatting van den leerling.

Thans wordt het tijd om het bij verschillende gelegenheden opge-teekende meer in zijn geheel te beschouwen, het te ordenen en daaraan een beknopt overzicht van de vormleer der taal te verbinden. Daarbij kan men zich van een leiddraad bedienen, die echter naast de eenvoudige regels vele zinnen ter beoefening van de dagelijksche taal behoort aan te bieden; want de natuurlijke opvolging der woorden vindt men in den volzin. Alleen door de beschouwing van geheele zinnen wordt het gevoel voor een taal gewekt, en alleen door zich aan zinnen als voorbeelden te oefenen, komt men tot een zelfstandig gebruik der taal. Het wekken van het taalgevoel is van even groot belang als het geven van inzicht in 't samenstel eener taal, en behoort daarmede hand aan hand te gaan. Deze oefeningen moeten echter nooit meer dan de helft van den tijd in beslag nemen; het leeuwendeel behoort aan de lectuur, waarvan de stof zich over de verschillende instellingen en gebeurtenissen van het dagelijksch leven, over zee en land, over huis en hof, over kleeding en voeding, over stad en dorp moet uitstrekken. Hierbij dient men nooit het specifiek nationale der Engelschen uit het oog te verliezen.

Ter afwisseling worden ook Engelsche gedichten gelezen, waarvan de beste bij kleine gedeelten te huis worden van buiten geleerd, na-

XII

dat zij op school zorgvuldig zijn verklaard en herhaaldelijk gelezen.

Allengskens komt het oogenblik, dat de leerling de leesstof thuis zelfstandig voorbereidt; de tijd, die daardoor op de school bespaard wordt, kan gevoeglijk aan het idiomatische der taal besteed worden. Een grammatica, met een schat van voorbeelden, kan daarbij uitstekende diensten bewijzen. In plaats van te verlangen, dat de leerlingen de regels in het Engelsch kunnen opdreunen, brenge men hen er toe, vlot en zonder haperen de voorbeelden in het Engelsch op tc zeggen, wanneer zij den zin in het Nederlandsch hooren; ook bij de beoefening eener taal kan de machtige invloed van sprekende, welgekozen voorbeelden niet licht worden overschat.

Spreekoefeningen met den onderwijzer over de meest verschillende onderwerpen zullen den leerling van lieverlede de noodige vrijmoedigheid geven om zich in de vreemde taal uil te drukken, mits deze spreekoefeningen niet in vragen en antwoorden gesteld zijn.

Dat op de beschreven wijze de leerling geleidelijk wordt voorbereid tot het zelfstandig stellen, — voornamelijk indien men hem aanvankelijk in vragen het schema voor de te behandelen stof dicteert, — zal m. i. niet aan tegenspraak onderhevig zijn.

Wat het onderwijs in letterkunde in de hoogste klassen betreft, mijns erachtens behoort daarbij slechts een zeer bescheiden deel aan de geschiedenis te worden gewijd; een grondige bespreking en beschouwing van enkele der voornaamste producten komt mij van oneindig meer nut en hooger belang voor.

Vertalingen uit de moedertaal in de vreemde taal zijn tot een minimum te herleiden; zij moeten slechts dienen om den onderwijzer te overtuigen, dat de leerling een behandeld gedeelte der spraakkunst goed begrepen heeft. Een mondelinge vertaling in de klasse komt mij daarbij het meest geschikt voor, omdat vergissingen dadelijk kunnen hersteld en vele zaken nader kunnen besproken worden. Ter bevestiging van de spelling zouden tevens de verbeterde zinnen op het bord kunnen worden geschreven.

Vertalingen uit de vreemde in de moedertaal behooren in den beginne zooveel mogelijk te worden vermeden, ten einde den leerling al spoedig te gewennen, in de vreemde taal te denken; alleen de moeilijke plaatsen, waarvan men vreest, dat ze door hem niet goed begrepen worden, kan men voor de klasse vertalen. Is de leerling echter reeds eenigszins in het spreken en schrijven gevorderd, en begint het aan te komen op het zuiver begrijpen van het vreemde idioom, dan zijn vertalingen van bijzonder schoone stukken, waaraan de En-gelsche letterkunde zoo rijk is, van het hoogste belang.

XIII

Natuurlijk komen de voordeelen van deze vertalingen voor het grootste gedeelte op rekening van de moedertaal. De .vergelijking van de syntaxis der vreemde met die der moedertaal komt daarbij van zelf aan de orde, en wanneer ook bij het lezen behoorlijk de aandacht wordt gevestigd op de syntaxis, dan zou gevoeglijk een systematische behandeling van deze kunnen vervallen, althans aanmerkelijk kannen worden ingekrompen.

Meer gemakkelijke stukken, die thuis zijn bestudeerd, moeten ook in de hoogere klassen niet in de moedertaal worden overgebracht; hun inhoud en de zienswijze van den schrijver zijn hierbij de hoofdzaken, die tot een wisseling van gedachten tusschen onderwijzer en leerlingen aanleiding kunnen geven. Herhaling en aanvulling der taalwetten volgens een duidelijk systematische grammatica mag bij het lezen nooit verwaarloosd worden.

Nadat de leerling zich een zekere bedrevenheid in hel Engelsch verworven heeft, zou men tot het l'ransch kunnen overgaan, waarbij men bij voorkeur van de in het Engelsch geleerde llomaansche woorden uitgaat; na het Fransch behoort m. i. het Latijn aan de beurt te komen.

Men ziet, dat ik niet afkeerig ben van een geheelen omkeer in de tegenwoordig nog algemeen gevolgde wijze en volgorde van taalstudie. Het zou mij trouwens gemakkelijk vallen, een aantal namen van in de schoolwereld wel bekende mannen in Duitschland, Engeland en Frankrijk aan te halen, die dezelfde meening reeds lang vóór mij hebben uitgesproken en met geestdrift verdedigd. Weliswaar zouden de leerlingen bij bedoelden omkeer eerst een paar jaren later met hun Latijnsche en Grieksehe studiën kunnen aanvangen ; maar zouden hun vorderingen ook niet sneller en degelijker zijn , vooral indien ook bij 't onderwijs in de klassieke talen de oude, ik zou haast zeggen verouderde, methode werd verlaten, waarbij het geheugen wordt overladen met Grieksehe accenten en ellenlange lijsten van vormen, die bij de schrijvers maar zelden voorkomen ?

Het blijft aan de schoolautoriteiten overgelaten, hierin de noodige verandering en verbetering te brengen, welke echter niet kan uitblijven , waaneer de hierboven uiteengezette overtuiging meer algemeen wordt gesteund en ook openlijk uitgesproken. Het mijne, hoe weinig dan ook, daartoe bij te dragen, was het doel van bovenstaande beschouwingen.

Dr. A. J. Mektens.

Nijmegen, Augustus 1890.

INHOUD.

Prose. bk.

Knowledge Useful on an Emergency ...... 1

Nature will prevail ......... 2

Wit and Humour of a South Sea Islander ..... 2

The Value of Trutli ......... 3

Dishonesty causes Unhappiness ....... 3

Well Directed Courage ........ 5

Writing regarded as a Miracle ....... 6

The Value of a Comma ........ 8

A ïrugal yet Costly Meal .... . ... 9

Oliver Cromwell's Skull ........ 10

Henry VIII and the Bishop.......11

Generosity and Economy . . . . . . . .11 The Boaster Outdone. . . . . . . . .12

A Brave Man..........13

Dr. South and Charles II . . . . . . . .13 Hypothesis and Tact ......... 14

Charles the First and the Bobbers . . . . . .15 The Adventure of an American Hunter . . . . .16 Terrific Scene at the Great Natural Bridge, Virginia . . .18 Beauty and the Beast. ........ 22

Jack, the Giant-Killer ........ 25

Jack and the Bean-Stalk........39

Billy Norton, the Locksmith.......48

An Awkward Mistake.........54

When our Need is the Sorest, God is Nearest . . . .56

The Mischievous Monkey........63

A Hero...........⁶⁸

quot;TV

I

INHOUD. XV

BU.

The Story of a Match-Boy.......68

The Loss of the Birkenhead .......70

Capture of a Cayman........71

Faithful through ïire . . . . . . . .75 Tom's First Adventure . . . . . . . .78 The Children of Blentarn Ghill. ...... 83

The Portentous Tower of Toledo......88

The Blue and White Flower-Pot......95

Katie's First Letter . . . . . . . . .99

Katie's Second Letter........100

London...........101

The Disabled Soldier. . . . . . . . .104

Dorothy and her Dog-........108

Football ...........124

Cricket . . . . .......124

Cricket ...........126

England ........... 127

The Productions of England . . . . . . .129

J The Manufactures of England .......131

The Commerce of England.......133

Boys and Girls at Sea . .......135

The one Black Spot.........173

The Vision of Mirza........186

The Way to Wealth ......... 191

Riddles...........199

Prorerbs ........... 201

Answers to Kiddles.........204

Poetry.

The Monkey ..........205

The Voices of Spring........205

Ellen More..........206

The Little Mariner .........207

Casablanca .......... 209

The Homes of England........210

The Sunbeam..........210

The Psalm of Life . . . . . , . . .211

The Village Blacksmith........212

A The Biiiny Day..........213

Excelsior ........... 213

INHOUD.

Biz.

The Old Clock on the Stairs.......314

'Tis the Last Rose of Sammer . . . . . . .215

The Minstrel Boy .........215

Evening Bells .......... 216

Pursuit of Happiness . . . . . . . ,216 Miriam's Song .......... 217

The Tear of Repentance . . ......217

We are Seven . . ........220

The Pet Lamb. ......... 221

Lucy Gray .......... 223

The Happy Warrior . . . . . . . . 224

Our Native Land . ........227

The Last Minstrel . . . . . . . . .227 The Field of Waterloo . . . . . . . .230 A Shipwreck .......... 232

Rule Britannia . . . . ......232

Ye Mariners of England . . ......233

Lady Glare ..........234

St. Agnes' Eve. . ........237

Home they brought her Warrior Dead ..... 237 Somebody's Darling . . . . . . . . .238 The Schoolmaster ......... 239

Mary Queen of Scots . . ......240

The Patriot's Pass-Word ........ 243

Elegy Written in a Gountry Ghurchyard ..... 244

Prince Arthur and Hubert ....... 249

Alphabetische Woordenlijst ....... 254

Woorden, die uitgelaten of misplaatst zijn. .... 302

Knowledge Useful on an Emergency.

In the month of November, 1821, a dreadful storm visited Beachy Head, on the coast of Sussex, during ivhieh a French vessel was driven on shore and wrecked. All on board were swept away into the sea; and only four escaped the general destruction, by climbing to the top of a heap of rocks, which had fallen, at different times, from the overhanging cliffs. Their perilous situation can scarcely be conceived: the tide was encroaching upon them, step by step, and it was certain destruction to attempt to gain the land. The night was extremely dark, and the thunder and lightning rendered it still more awful. The poor men, finding that they would either be swallowed up by the rising tide, or dashed to pieces against the rocks, determined to deliver themselves up to the mercy of the waves, with the forlorn hope of being cast on some place of safety. At this time one of the men saw, during some flashes of lightning, a plant growing amongst the stones on which they stood, which he knew was samphire, and which, he also happened to know, never grew where it could be entirely covered with water. He immediately acquainted his fellow-sufferers with this fact, and persuaded them to remain where they were till morning; being convinced that the height of the tide would not be quite equal to that of the place on which they stood. The event proved the correctness of his information, and the value of his knowledge; for when daylight broke, the poor fellows were seen by the people on the cliffs, who rescued them from their dangerous situation.

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Nature will prevail,

A party of gentlemen from Bombay, one day visiting the stupendous cavera-temple of Elephanta, discovered a tiger's whelp in one of the obscure recesses of the edifice. Desirous of kidnapping the cub without encountering the fury of its dam, they took it up hastily and cautiously, and retreated. Being left entirely at liberty, and extremely well fed, the tiger grew rapidly, appeared tame and fondling as a dog, and was in every respect domesticated. At length, when it had attained a vast size, and, notwithstanding its apparent gentleness, it began to inspire terror by its tremendous powers of doing mischief, a piece of raw meat, dripping with blood, fell in its way. It is to be observed, that up to that moment it had studiously been kept from raw animal food. The instant, however, it had dipped its tongue in blood, something like madness seemed to have seized the animal; — a destructive principle, hitherto dormant, was awakened; — it darted fiercely, and with glaring eyes, upon its prey, tore it with fury to pieces, and, growling and roaring in the most fearful manner, rushed off towards the jungles.

Wit and llumonr of a South Sea Islander.

A few years ago, says the Rev. J. Williams, a venerable and esteemed brother Missionary came to England, and being rather bald, some kind friends provided him with a wig. Upon his return to the islands, the chiefs and others went on board to welcome him; and, after the usual salutations, one of them said to the Missionary, quot;You were bald when you left, and now you have a beautiful head of hair; what amazing people the English are! how did they make your hair grow again?quot; quot;You simple people,quot; replied the Missionary, quot;how does everything grow? Is it not by sowing seed?quot; They immediately shouted, quot;Oh, these English people! they sow seed upon a bald man's head to make the hair grow!quot; One shrewd fellow inquired whether he had brought any of the

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seed with him ? The good Missionary carried on the joke for a short time and then raised the wig. The discovery of his quot;original head,quot; of course, drew forth a roar of laughter, which was greatly increased when one of the natives shouted to some of his countrymen who were near, quot;Here, see our Missionary; ho has come from England with his head thatched; he has come from England with his head thatched!quot;

The Value of Truth.

When George Washington, the first President of the United States, was about six years of age, some one made him a present of a hatchet. Being, like most children, very fond of his weapon, he went about chopping everything that came in his way, and, going into the garden, he tried its edge on an English cherry-tree, stripping it of its bark, and leaving but little hope of its living. The next morning, when his father saw the tree, (which was a great favourite), in this state, he asked who had done the mischief; but no one could tell him who it was.

At length George came, with the hatchet in his band, into the place where his father was, who instantly suspected him to be the culprit. quot;George,quot; said he, quot;do you know who killed that beautiful little cherry-tree?quot; The child paused for a moment, and then nobly replied: quot;I cannot tell a lie, father; you know I cannot tell a lie. It was I who cut it with my hatchet.quot; quot;Kun to my arms, my boy,quot; exclaimed his father: quot;run to my arms! I no longer regret the destruction of my tree, since you have had the honesty and manliness thus to tell the truth about it.quot;

IMshonestj causes Unliappiiicss.

There was a little boy about six years old, who was in general a very good child, and behaved well; but even good children sometimes do wrong, which was the case with this little boy.

One afternoon, when he had been at play, he looked very dull and sorrowful. He was asked if he was ill, and, though he said he was not, yet he talked so little, and so often sighed, that his Mother knew there was something the raatter with him. In the evening he took leave of his dear Mamma, and went to bed; but was observed to be very restless, and frequently to sob. At length he asked one of his brothers to request his Mother to come to him, as he could not go to sleep till he had told her something that had made him very unhappy. The good Mother went to him directly, and when she came to his bedside, he put his little arms round her neck, and, bursting into tears, said to her, quot;Dear Mother, forgive me! I have been very naughty to-day. I have told a falsehood, and have hid it from you. I was playing at marbles with my cousins, and won the game through a mistake which they did not find out, and I was so much pleased at winning, that I did not tell them of their mistake. I have been very unhappy since. I am afraid to go to sleep till I have confessed my fault to you, and asked you what I must do that my heavenly Father, who sees and knows everything, may forgive me.quot; quot;My dear child,quot; said his Mother, quot;the Lord is ever ready to forgive those who are truly sorry for their faults, and who resolve to do what is right. He hears our prayers, and He will teach us what we should do. Pray to Him to forgive your faults, and try never to commit the like again, lest your second oflfence should be greater than the first.

The little boy, after thanking his kind Mother, thought a great deal upon the advice which she had given him, and prayed earnestly to Almighty God, that He would forgive him, and grant him His grace to do better for the future. He then fell into a sweet sleep, and rose in the morning cheerful and happy. When next he saw his cousins, he told them of their mistake, and how much he had suffered from having taken advantage of it, and, as the only amends then in his power, returned them the marbles which he had so unfairly won.

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Well Directed Courage,

During a severe gale, January 26, 1796, the Dutton, a large East-Indiaman, was wrecked at Plymouth, having at the time five or six hundred people on board. Sir Edward Pellew (afterwards Lord Exmouth) was driving with his lady to a dinner party, when he saw crowds running, and learned that there was a wreck. He instantly left the carriage and joined the crowd.

quot;When he arrived at the beach, he plainly saw that nearly all on board would be lost, unless there were some one to direct them; for the principal officers — to their lasting disgrace be it said — had abandoned their charge and been pulled on shore just as he arrived. In vain he urged them to return to their duty, and offered rewards to pilots and others to board the wreck. When all refused, he exclaimed, quot;Then I will go myself.quot; He fastened himself to the ropo by which the officers had landed, and which was the only means of communication, and was hauled on board through the surf. As soon as he was on deck, he declared who he was, and took the command. He assured the people that every one would be saved, if they quietly obeyed his orders; that he would himself be the last to quit the wreck; but that he would run any one through that disobeyed him. His well known name, and his calmness and energy inspired confidence in the people, who welcomed him with three hearty cheers. He quickly devised and applied the means whereby all might be safely landed.

The children, women, and sick were first landed. One of them was only three weeks old, and nothing in the whole affair interested Sir Edward so much as the struggle of the mother's feelings before she would intrust her infant to his care, or gave him more pleasure than the success of his attempt to save it. Next the soldiers, and then the sailors, were got on shore, and lastly Sir Edward and the boatswain, who nobly declined to go before him. By the blessing of Providence, every one was saved, and presently the wreck went to pieces.

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AViitin»' Regarded as a Miracle.

The Rev. J. Williarns, who has conferred so much benefit on the natives of the islands of the South Pacific Ocean, in his account of his proceedings in these islands, details a great variety of interesting circumstances which occurred as the natives advanced in civilization.

Having, with the assistance of the natives of the island of Rarotonga, erected a place for divine worship, he says, quot;In the erection of this chapel a circumstance occurred which will give a striking idea of the feelings of an untaught people, when observing, for the first time, the effects of written communication.

quot;As I had come to the work one morning without my square, I took up a chip, and with a piece of charcoal wrote upon it a request, that Mrs. Williams would send me that article. I called a chief who was superintending his portion of the work, and said to him, 'Friend, take this, and go to our house and give it to Mrs. Williams.' He was a singular looking man, remarkably quick in his movements, and had been a great warrior; but in one of the numerous battles he had fought, had lost an eye, and, giving me an inexpressible look with the other, he said, 'Take that! she will call me a fool, and scold me, if I carry a chip to her. 'No,' I replied, 'she will not; take it, and go immediately; I am in haste.' Perceiving me to be in earnest, he took it, and asked, 'What must I say?' I replied, 'You have nothing to say; the chip will say all I wish.' With a look of astonishment and contempt, he held up the piece of wood, and said, 'How can this speak ? Has this a month?' I desired him to take it immediately, and not spend so much time in talking about it.

quot;On arriving at the house, he gave the chip to Mrs. Williams, who read it, threw it away, and went to the tool-chest, whither the chief, resolved to see the result of this mysterious proceeding, followed her closely. On receiving the square from her, he said, 'Stay, daughter, how do you know that this is what Mr. Williams wants?' 'Why,' she replied, 'did you not bring me a chip just now?' 'Yes,' said the astonished warrior.

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'but I did not hear it say anything.' 'If you did not, I did,' was the reply; 'for it made known to me what he wanted; and all you have to do, is to return with it as quickly as possible.'

quot;With this, the chief leaped out of the house, and, catching up the mysterious piece of wood, he ran through the settlement, with the chip in one hand and the square in the other, holding them up as high as his hands could reach, and shouting as he went, 'See the wisdom of these English people, they can make chips talk — they can make chips talk!'

quot;On giving me the square, he wished to know how it was possible thus to converse with persons at a distance. I gave him all the explanation in my power; but it was a circumstance involved in so much mystery, that he actually tied a string to the chip, hung it round his neck, and wore it for some time. During several days, wo frequently saw him surrounded by a crowd, who were listening with intense interest while he narrated the wonders which this chip had performed.quot;

ltalei»'li ami (Ineen Elizabeth.

Sir Walter Raleigh, as is generally believed, first brought tobacco to England, though some authorities maintain that it was Sir John Hawkins or Sir Francis Drake. Raleigh stood high in the favour of Queen Elizabeth, who often condescended to chat with him in a free and unceremonious way. One day that Raleigh, in the presence of the queen, was descanting to one of the maids of honour on the virtues of tobacco, Elizabeth took part in the conversation, and when Sir Walter declared that ho could smoke an ounce of tobacco and then tell how much the smoke weighed, the queen laughed heartily, and declared she would wager twenty gold pieces, that it was what neither he nor any other man could do. Sir Walter accepted the wager, took an ounce of tobacco, smoked it, and then, after carefully ascertaining the weight of the ashes that remained in the bowl of his pipe, and subtracting it from a full ounce.

he had no difficulty in stating how much of the tobacco had disappeared in the form of smoke. Elizabeth, it is well known, was rather stingy, but thinking it best to treat the matter as a good joke, she remarked with a gracious smile that many a man had turned his, gold into smoke, but that Sir quot;Walter Kaleigh was the first to turn his smoke into gold.

The Value of a Coiuiua.

The eminent Irish lawyer, Curran, was once retained for the defence of a man called Mahon, who was accused of having been an accomplice in a daring burglary. The chief evidence produced against Mahon was, that a few days before the burglary he had been seen in company with a man of notoriously bad character called Crawford, who had in the mean time absconded, and that Mahon, on being arrested, had confessed to the police-officer that he had been previously concerned in two robberies, though on this occasion he was innocent. Such an imprudent acknowledgment, however, was well calculated to prejudice both judge and jury against the prisoner, and although tho attorney-general did not wish to take any unfair advantage, he felt it his duty to read the confession of the accused, which had been briefly noted by the detective as follows:

quot;Mahon said he never robbed but twice Said it was Crawford.quot;

Curran was struck by a sudden and happy idea. He requested the attorney-general to hand him the paper, and perceiving at a glance that the alleged confession was totally devoid of punctuation he turned triumphantly to the jury. quot;Why,-gentlemen,quot; he said, quot;instead of criminating my client, this document completely establishes his innocence. Allow me to insert the comma which a careless or ignorant scribe has omitted. The true reading of the sentence is:

quot;Mahon said he never robbed.

But twice said it was Crawford.quot;

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The attorney-general smiled and said nothing, the jury-looked puzzled, but after a brief consultation brought in a verdict of quot;not guiltyquot; without leaving the jury-box. Curran had thus the satisfaction of saving the life of a man who, there is reason to believe, was at least innocent of the crime for which he had been arrested.

A Fiugal yet Costly Meal.

During the great tulip mania which, beginning in Holland, gradually invaded all Europe, a London merchant was one day examining a splendid bulb he had just received from a correspondent in Rotterdam, when a porter entered the office and delivered him a small parcel. After opening and subjecting the contents to a cursory examination, the merchant dismissed the porter with a slight gratuity, but scarcely was the man gone when the merchant discovered, to his great alarm, that the bulb had vanished. Thinking that he might possibly have mislaid it, he ransacked every desk and drawer in his office, but when his search proved utterly fruitless, he could no longer resist the conviction that the bulb had been stolen by the porter. Snatching up his hat, he rushed into the street, and hastened towards a corner where he knew the man was in the habit of lounging when he had nothing to do, and there he was, sure enough, with a fragment of bread in one hand and an open clasp-knife in the other. The charge of stealing the tulip bulb the porter met with an indignant denial, saying that to the best of his knowledge he had never seen one in his life. quot;The only thing I ever took from you,quot; he continued, quot;was an onion I saw to-day lying on your desk, and there's the last bit of it on the point of my knife.quot; The porter had eaten for lunch a bulb worth £ 300, and thus unconsciously performed a feat that might have excited the envy of Cleopatra herself.

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Oliver Cromwell's Skull.

An elderly lady from the country was once taken by her husband, while on a flying visit to the metropolis, to see the British Museum. After sauntering through several rooms, they reached an apartment containing some ethnological curiosities, and observing a man standing at the door who seemed to be connected with the institution, the lady inquired if there was not a skull of Oliver Cromwell to be seen in the Museum. quot;No, Ma'am,quot; replied the functionary, curtly but politely. quot;Dear me!quot; she cried, turning away disappointed, quot;why, they have one at Oxford.quot;

The Dog' ami the Water-lily.

One day when the heat of noon was mitigated by a screen of clouds, and a pleasant breeze swept along the Ouse, I interrupted my studies, and sallied forth for a stroll on the banks of the quiet river. I was accompanied by a pretty little spaniel of high pedigree, the gift of two amiable and accomplished young ladies. The animal frisked merrily around me, and occasionally disappeared among the flags and reeds in the stream suddenly to reappear scouring the adjacent meadows, in the pursuit of a swallow, with a swiftness which almost equalled that of the bird. It was the season when the Ouse displays its first full-blown water-lilies, and, noticing one of rare beauty, I attempted to bring it within my reach by means of my cane, but though I had nearly grasped it more than once, my efforts proved fruitless. My spaniel, whose name was Beau, sat all this time attentively watching me, but seemingly puzzled to know, and trying hard to comprehend, what I exactly wanted to be at. Eousing him from his reverie with a clear and loud whistle, I continued my walk along the windings of the river. Having ended my ramble, I took the same path to return, and Beau trotted on briskly before me. We soon again came within sight of the floating wreath, and it was at once evident that the animal had liually divined

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my wishes. Plunging into the water, he cropped the lilywith his sharp teeth, then rapidly regained the shore, and hastened to lay at my feet the treasure I had coveted.

Henry VIII. iind the Itishop.

Henry VIII. of England, not long after his accession, thinking he had reason to complain of the policy of Francis I. of France, resolved on sending a fearless ambassador to remonstrate with him, and even, in case he refused to comply with Henry's demands, to threaten him with war. It was some time before the English king could find for this delicate and even perilous mission a person quite to his mind, but at last he fixed on a bishop who, he believed, possessed all the requisite qualities. Having sent for the future ambassador, Henry proceeded to instruct him how he was to behave at the French court, and what he had to say to Francis, but before the king had half done, the prelate boldly interrupted him, declaring that if he ventured to talk in that style to such a hot-tempered sovereign as Francis, he should infallibly get his head cut off for his pains. quot;Don't be uneasy,'' said Henry; quot;for should the French king commit such an atrocity, I would take the head off every Frenchman in my dominions.quot; quot;I am far from doubting your Majesty's word,quot; replied the other, quot;but among all those heads I dou't believe there's one that would tit my shoulders as well as my own.quot;

Generosity .and Eroiioiiiy,

A poor English lieutenant, who possessed nothing in the world but a good wife and a couple of chubby children, once found himself in pressing need of one hundred pounds. He applied at first to some money-lenders, but as he could offer them no security for the repayment of the debt but his bare word, they refused to lend him anything except on ruinous

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terms. The poor officer was almost at his wit's end when it suddenly occurred to him that a merchant, a former schoolfellow of his—though they had not met for many years—lived at no great distance from his quarters. Ho had more than once heard that his old playmate was believed to be rich, but as the merchant lived in a very simple and unostentatious style, he had acquired the less enviable reputation of being stingy. The necessities of the lieutenant were, however, so great that after wavering for some time he decided on applying to him, even at the risk of meeting with a mortifying refusal. On being ushered by a clerk into the merchant's private office, he saw that he was instantaneously recognised by his old schoolfellow, who hastily pushed back his high stool, rose from his desk, and shook hands with him in the most cordial manner. After some mutual inquiries had been made and answered, the lieutenant found courage to broach the business on which he had come, adding that if the merchant was satisfied with a written acknowledgment of the debt, he believed ho should be able to pay it off, with reasonable interest, in the course of a year. The other replied by promptly opening his safe, taking out four twenty-five pound notes, and putting them in the hand of the lieutenant. quot;A thousand thanks!quot; cried the latter, drawing the merchant's stool to the desk, and taking up a pen; quot;and now I'll write you my promise to pay.quot; quot;Hold, Richard,quot; said the other, quot;the money's yours, but don't waste my paper!quot;

The Kouster Outdone.

Two commercial travellers, one of them an Englishman and the other an American, were enjoying their after-dinner cigar in the coffee-room of a London hotel. The Englishman, desirous of giving his companion a high idea of the enormous business done by the great London firm, told him that the single item of ink for correspondence cost the house himself represented no less than £ 200 a year. quot;I haven't the least doubt of it,quot; said the American, taking his cigar out of his mouth,

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quot;for that's the exact amount our house in New-York saves every year by leaving out the dots of the i's and the strokes of the Vs.quot;

A Itrave Mini.

In 1808, when Sir John Moore commanded the small British contingent in Portugal, he resolved to advance boldly into Spain, relying upon the assurances of support he had received from the leaders of the Spanish patriotic party, promises which, as he discovered when too late, the Spaniards were unable to fulfil. Finding his progress barred by a small fortress, and feeling how important it was to lose' no time, lie saw himself necessitated to carry it by assault. quot;When all was ready for the attack, the British general sent for an Irish officer called Carew, and addressed him in the following words: quot;Carew, I know you to be a brave man, and it is for that reason I have chosen you for this service. You will have to make a vigorous demonstration against the left of the fort, while we deliver the main attack on the right. I do not wish to conceal from you that when you have advanced a certain distance the enemy will spring a mine under your feet, and every man of you must perish.quot; Carew merely bowed, and returned to his post, where having called for a bottle of wine, he poured out a glass, and raising it gave as a toast: quot;To the memory of all the brave men who have fallen in battle;quot; after which he drew his sword and threw away the scabbard. Fortunately at this moment the fortress surrendered, and the brave Carew and his small band were saved.

Dr. South and Charles II.

Dr. Robert South, one of the ablest and wittiest of English divines, had often the honour of preaching before Charles II., but it not unfrequently happened that the king, to the great vexation of the preacher, slept through the greater part of his sermon. Dr. South had long wished to give Charles a gentle

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hint about the unseemliness of such behaviour in church, but could never find a favourable opportunity. One day, at length, when the king had como to church accompanied by a number of his courtiers, Charles and Lord Lauderdale, who sat beside him, both fell fast asleep, and set up such a sonorous snoring as to attract the attention of all the congregation. Dr. South stopped short in his discourse, and addressing Lauderdale cried out, so loud as to awaken both sleepers: quot;My Lord Lauderdale! my Lord Lauderdale! will your Lordship please not to snore so loud, or you will waken his Majesty.quot; It is said that Charles never again fell asleep in church — while Dr. South was preaching.

Hypothesis and Fact.

A great many people, both among the learned and the unlearned, are never at a loss for a theory to account for anything that is gravely set before them as a fact. It is said that on one occasion James VI. of Scotland (afterwards James I. of England) assembled a number of learned men in his capital, and requested them to solve a problem which he acknowledged had greatly perplexed himself. quot;If,quot; continued the king, quot;I take a pair of well-poised scales, and place in each scale a basin of water of exactly the same weight, and then put into one of the basins a good-sized fish, how does it happen that the basin with the fish in it weighs no more than the other?quot; This question gave rise to a very animated discussion, and a vast number of different explanations were offered. One of the company, however, had remained silent, and James, turning to him, desired to know if he believed there was any other way of accounting for this singular circumstance. quot;No, your Majesty,quot; he replied; quot;for I question the fact.quot; James burst into a loud laugh, and informed him, to the signal discomfiture of the rest, that he had hit the nail on the head.

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Charles the First ami the Robbers.

One fine spring day, Charles the First, then simply king of Spain, was hunting in a forest of Old Castile. A violent storm, which broke oat suddenly, separated the king from his companions, and obliged him to look about for a place of refuge. This refuge offered in the shape of a cavern, formed by the natural projections of the rocks. Glad to have found this shelter, Charles descended from his horse, and prepared to enter. But judge of his surprise, when by the glare of a flash of lightning, he discovered near him four rascally-looking fellows, who appeared to be sleeping soundly.

He advanced two or three steps towards one of them, when all of a sudden the sleeper jumped upon his feet, and, advancing towards the king, said; quot;You cannot believe, Signor Cabalero, what a strange dream I have had. I was fancying that you made me a present of your good cloak of velvet;quot; and in saying this, the knave unhooked the cloak, and put it upon his own dirty shoulders. quot;Signer Bscudero,quot; said the second, quot;I have had a funny dream too. I thought, that I had exchanged my old hat for your rich cap and feathers.quot; quot;And Isaid the third, quot;I dreamt that I found a beautiful charger without taking the trouble of seeking for it.quot; quot;But ray friends,quot; said the fourth, quot;what are you going to leave me with your dreams?quot; quot;Eh, by St. John, look up that gold chain and silver whistle,quot; rejoined the first, pointing to those ornaments that hung round the king's neck; quot;You won't have dreamt badly.quot; quot;Well saidquot;, said the other, and he stretched forth his hand to seize his prey.

quot;Gently, my friends,quot; said Charles, quot;before delivering these articles it is but right that I should show you the use of them;quot; and so saying, he put the whistle to his mouth and blew a long sharp sound. At this signal all the king's suite advanced towards the cavern, and in a few minutes Charles was surrounded by a hundred valiant gentlemen. When the king saw all his force united, he turned towards the robbers, who stood stupefied. quot;My hearties,quot; said he to them, quot;I have had a dream too — it was that you all were hanged.quot;

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A few minutes afterwards the bodies of the four robbers were dangling in the air.

The Adventure of an American Hunter.

Boone, an American hunter of extraordinary size and strength, once, when hardly pressed by a body of Flathead Indians, fell into a crevice, and broke the butt of his rifle. He was safe, however, from immediate danger, at least he thought so, and resolved to remain where he was, till his pursuers should abandon their search. On examining the place which had afforded him so opportune a refuge, he perceived it was a spacious natural cave, having no other entrance than the hole or aperture through which he had fallen. He thanked Providence for this fortunate discovery, as for the future he should have a safe place to conceal his skins and provisions while trapping; but as he was prosecuting his search, he perceived with dismay that the cave was already inhabited. In a corner he perceived two jaguars, which followed his movements with glaring eyes.

A single glance satisfied him they were cubs; but a maddening thought shot across his brain: the mother was out, probably not far; she might return in a moment, and he had no arms except his knife, and the barrel of his broken rifle. While musing on his perilous situation, he heard a roar, which summoned all his energy. He rolled a loose mass of rock to the entrance, made it as firm as he could by backing it with other stones, tied his knife to the end of his rifle-barrel, and calmy waited for the issue. A minute passed when a tremendous jaguar dashed against the rock, and Boone needed all his giant's strength to prevent it from giving way. Perceiving that main force could not clear the passage, the animal began scratching and digging at the entrance, and her hideous roars were soon responded to by the cubs, which threw themselves upon Boone. He kicked them away, but not without receiving several ugly scratches, and thrusting the blade of his knife through the large stone and the solid rock, he broke it in

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tiie shoulder of the female jaguar, -which, with a yell, started away.

This respite was fortunate, as by this time Boone's strength was exhausted. He profited by the suspension of hostility _l so as to increase the impediments in case of a new attack, and reflecting that the mowings of the cubs attracted and enraged the mother, he knocked their brains out with the barrel of his rifle. During two hours he was left to repose himself after his exertions, and he was beginning to think the animal had been scared away, when another terrible bound against the massive stone forced it a few inches into the cave. For an hour he struggled, till the jaguar, herself tired, and not hearing the mews of her cubs, retired with a piteous howl.

Night came, and Boone began to despond. Leaving the cave was out of the question, for the brute was undoubtedly watching for him, and yet remaining was almost as dangerous, as long watching and continual exertion weighed down his eyelids and rendered sleep imperative. He decided to remain where he was, and after another hour of labour in fortifying the entrance he lay down to sleep, with the barrel of his rifle close to him, in case of attack. He had slept about three or four hours, when he was awakened by a noise close to his head. The moon was shining, and shot her beams through the crevices at the mouth of the cave. A foreboding of danger would not allow Boone to sleep any more; he was watching with intense anxiety, when he observed several of the smaller stones he had placed round the piece of rock, rolling towards him, and that the rays of light streaming into the cave, were occasionally darkened by some interposed body. It was the jaguar, which had been undermining the rock; one after the other, the stones gave way. Boone rose, grasped his rifle-barrel, and determined to wait the attack of the animal.

In a second or two, the heavy stone rolled a few feet into the cave, the jaguar advanced her head, then her shoulders, and at last a noiseless bound brought her within four feet of Boone, who at that critical moment collecting all his strength for a decisive blow, dashed her skull to atoms. Boone, quite

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exhausted, drank some of her blood to allay his thirst, pillowed his head upon her body, and fell into a deep sleep. The next morning, Boone after having made a good meal of one of the cubs, started to rejoin his companions, and communicated to them his adventure and discovery.

Terrific Scene at the Great ÏVatiiral Itritl»'e, Virginia.

There are three or four lads standing in the channel below, looking up with awe to that vast arch of unhewn rocks, which the Almighty bridged over those everlasting butments quot;when the morning stars sang together.quot; The little piece of sky spanning those measureless piers is full of stars, although it is mid-day.

It is almost five hundred feet from where they stand, up those perpendicular bulwarks of limestone, to the key rock of that vast arch, which appears to them only of the size of a man's hand. The silence of death is rendered more impressive by the little stream that falls from the rook down the channel. The sun is darkened, and the boys have unconsciously uncovered their heads, as if standing in the presence-chamber of the Majesty of the whole earth.

At last, this feeling begins to wear away; they begin to look around them; they find that others have been there before them. They see the names of hundreds cut in the limestone butments. A new feeling comes over their young hearts, and their knives are in their hands in an instant. quot;What man has done, man can do,quot; is their watchword, while they draw themselves up, and carve their names a foot above those of a hundred full-grown men, who have been there before them.

They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exertion, except one, whose example illustrates perfectly the forgotten truth, that there is no royal road to intellectual eminence. This ambitious youth sees a name just above his reach, a name that will be green in the memory of the world, when

19

those of Alexander, Ccosar, and Bonaparte shall rot in oblivion. It was the name of Washington. Before lie marched with Braddock to that fatal field, he had been there, and left his name a foot above all his predecessors.

It was a glorious thought of the boy, to write his name side by side with that of the groat father of his country. He grasps his knife with a firmer hand, and, clinging to a little jutting crag, he cuts a niche into the limestone, about a foot above where he stands; he then reaches up and cuts another for his hands. 'Tis a dangerous adventure; but as he puts his feet and hands into those niches, and draws himself up carefully to his full length, he finds himself a foot above every name chronicled in that mighty wall.

While his companions are regarding him with concern and admiration, he cuts his name iu rude capitals, large and deep, into that flinty album. His knife is still iu his hand, and strength in his sinews, and a new-created aspiration in his heart. Again he cuts another niche, and again he caves his name in larger capitals. This is not enough. Heedless of the entreaties of his companions, he cuts and climbs again. The gradations of his ascending scale grow wider apart. He measures his length at every gain he cuts. The voices of his friends wax weaker and weaker, till their words are finally lost on his ear.

He now, for the first time, casts a look beneath him. Had that glance lasted a moment, that moment would have been his last. He clings with a convulsive shudder to his little niche in the rock. An awful abyss awaits his almost certain fall. He is faint with severe exertion, and trembling from the sudden view of the dreadful destruction to which he is exposed. His knife is worn half-way to the haft. He can hear the voices, but not the words, of his terror-stricken companions below.

What a moment! What a meagre chance to escape destruction! There is no retracing his steps. It is impossible to put his hands into the same niche with his feet and retain his slender hold a moment. His companions instantly perceive this new and fearful dilemma, and await his fall with emotions

20

that quot;freeze their young blood.quot; He is too high, too faint, to ask for his father and mother, his brothers and sisters, to come and witness or avert his destruction. But one of his companions anticipates his desire. Swift as the wind, he bounds down the channel, and the situation of the fated boy is told upon his father's hearth-stone.

Minutes of almost eternal length roll on, and there are hundreds standing in that rocky channel, and hundreds on the bridge above, all holding their breath, and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. The poor boy hears the hum of new and numerous voices both above and below. He can just distinguish the tones of his father, who is shouting with all the energy of despair: quot;William! William! don't look down! Your mother, and Henry, and Harriet, are all here, praying for you! Keep your eye toward the top!quot; The hoy didn't look down.

His eye is fixed like a flint toward heaven, and his young heart on Him who reigns there.

He grasps again his knife. He cuts another niche, and another foot is added to the hundreds that remove him from the reach of human help from below. How carefully he uses his wasting blade! How anxiously he selects the softest places in that vast pier! How he avoids every flinty grain! How he economizes his physical powers, resting a moment at each gain he cuts! How every motion is watched from below! There stand his father, mother, brother, and sister, on the very spot where, if he falls, he will not fall alone.

The sun is now half-way down the west. The lad has made fifty additional niches in that mighty wall, and now finds himself directly under the middle of that vast arch of rocks j earth, and trees. He must cut his way in a new direction, to get from under this overhanging mountain. The inspiration of hope is dying in his bosom; its vital heat is fed by the increasing shouts of hundreds, perched upon cliffs and trees, and others who stand with ropes in their hands, or with ladders below. Fifty gains more must by cut before the longest rope can reach him.

His wasting blade strikes again into the limestone. The

21

boy is emerging painfully, foot by foot, from under that lofty arch. Spliced ropes are ready, in the hands of those who are leaning over the outer edge of the bridge. Two minutes more, and all will be over. The blade is worn to the last half inch. The boy's head reels; his eyes are starting from their sockets. His last hope is dying in his heart; his life must hang upou the next gain ho cuts. That niche is his last. At the last faint gash he makes, his knife, his faithful knife, falls from his little nerveless hand, and, ringing along the precipice, falls at his mother's feet.

An involuntary groan of despair runs like a death-knell through the channel below, and all is as still as the grave. At the height of nearly three hundred feet, the devoted boy lifts his hopeless heart, and closes his eyes to commend his soul to God. 'Tis but a moment — there! one foot swings off! he is reeliug — trembling — toppling — over into eternity!

Hark! a shout falls on his ear from above. The man who is lying with half his length over the bridge has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. Quick as thought the noosed rope is within reach of the sinking youth. No one breathes. With a faint, convulsive effort, the swooning boy drops his arms into the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with the words, God, and Mother! whispered on his lips, just loud enough to be heard in heaven — the tightening rope lifts him out of this last shallow niche.

Not a lip moves, while he is dangling over that fearful abyss; but when a sturdy Virginian reaches down and draws up the lad, and holds him up in his arms before the tearful, breathless multitude, such shouting — such leaping and weeping for joy — never greeted the ear of a human being so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity.

22

Beauty and the Beast,

There was once a merchant who was setting out on a long journey. Before he went, he called his three daughters, and said to them, quot; When I return, I will bring you each a present, choose before I go what you would like best.quot; quot;Dear father,quot; said the eldest, quot;pray bring me a pearl necklace; I love nothing so well as pearls.quot; quot;Very well,quot; said the father, and then he asked his second daughter what she would like. quot;The finest shawl you can buy,quot; she said, quot;woven of all the fairest colours.quot; quot;And you, my little Beauty,quot; said the father to his youngest child, quot;what sail I bring you?quot; Now Beauty loved nothing so well as her father, and she only cared to see him home again. quot;I wish for nothing,quot; she said, quot;except a red rose, for there is not one in my garden.quot; Her sisters laughed at her; but her father kissed her fondly before he went.

The merchant went far away, and was absent many months. But when he started on his way back he brought with him the pearl necklace and the fine shwal; but he had not yet found a rose for his dear little Beauty. He was just one day's journey from his own house, when he came to a high gate, and looking through it, saw a very fine garden full of flowers, and with many red roses growing in it. The gate stood open, and the merchant said, quot;I will go in and ask for a red rose for Beauty.quot; So he went in, and walked about; but he could see no one. There was a fine palace, and all the doors were open, and he could see rich hangings and pictures; but no one came to speak to him. The garden was full of trees and fountains and flowers, but no one was there. quot;I will gather one flower,quot; said the merchant, quot;and then I will go on,quot; and with that he plucked a fine red rose. Just as he did so, a fierce voice said, quot;How dare you take my roses ?quot;

He turned round, and there stood a large brown beast all covered with long shaggy hair. quot;I beg your pardon,quot; said the merchant, quot;I could see no one, or I would have asked leave to gather a flower; I only wanted it for my youngest daughter, Beauty.quot; quot;He who touches my roses, must die!quot; growled the beast. quot;Pray, forgive me,quot; said the

23

merchant; quot;I will never do it again; it would break Beauty's heart, if I did not go home.quot; quot;You may go, if you will make me a promise,quot; said the beast. quot;Oh yes, I promise,quot; said the poor merchant, whose knees were shaking under him with fear. quot;You must bring your daughter Beauty to me in a month, or you must come back yourself,quot; said the beast. The poor merchant said he would, and then he went on his way home, very sad at heart, to think of his promise.

When he got home, his daughters ran to meet him. quot;Have you brought our presents?quot; said the two eldest. But Beauty only put her arms round his neck, and kissed him over and over again. quot;quot;Why do you look so sad, dear father?quot; she asked. The merchant told the story of the rose, and said, quot;I am sad because I must go back at the end of the' month, and never see my children again.quot; But Beauty said, quot;No, indeed, dear father, your life is of more value than mine; I will go to the beast, and you shall stay here.quot; The merchant said no at first, but after a while his other daughters so wept and wailed about losing him, and having no one to take care of them, and earn them money, that he gave Beauty leave to go.

So on the day fixed poor Beauty kissed them all, and said good-bye, trying to smile, but feeling very sad in her heart. When she came to the gate, it stood wide open, and inside were the fairest flowers. They bowed their heads as she came in, as if to say welcome. She went into the palace by the open door, and the servants bowed down to her, and led her to a grand feast of all kinds of rich fruit, and on her plate lay a red, rod rose. She sat down and ate the fruit, while music sounded through the hall—the sweetest music she had ever heard. When she had eaten enough, she was led into a fair chamber, and dressed in the finest robes, and then taken to a hall grander than the first, where she was seated on a throne. quot;Dear me!quot; said Beauty, quot;all this is very nice; but I wonder when the beast will come and kill me.quot;

Tiio beast did come, as she sat on the throne, but he spoke gentle words to her, and lay on the carpet at her feet, and looked at her with his dark eyes, as if he loved her very

24

much. quot;When the clock struck nine, he went away, and she saw him no more till the next night came.

Her days were spent in a very pleasant way. She had all the fine palace to herself, with pictures and music, and more lovely things than I could tell you. The gardens and parks were so large, that she found new walks in them every day, and she had tame birds and dogs, and fish—indeed all she could wish for.

And yet, after a while. Beauty grew sad. quot;Do you wish for anything. Beauty?quot; said the kind beast. The tears came into Beauty's eyes, and she said, quot;I wish to see my dear father and sisters.quot; The beast looked sad too when he heard this; but he said, quot;Tou may go, if you will promise to come back in a month.quot; quot;Oh yes, indeed,quot; said Beauty; quot;I should be sorry not to see you again, my dear kind beast; you who are so good to me, and make me so happy.quot;

So Beauty went home, and her sisters, when they heard of her good-fortune, and saw the fine presents she had brought them, were full of envy, and tried to persuade her to stay beyond the time the beast had granted her. Indeed, they made so much of her, and the merchant looked so sad, when she talked of going, that Beauty could not find it in her heart to go. And yet she was not happy.

A whole week beyond the time had gone by, when one night she dreamed she saw the poor beast dying. This made her so sorry, that she rose early the next morning, and went back after saying good-bye to her father and sisters. When she reached the palace, she looked everywhere for the beast, and at last she found him lying very ill on a couch, and looking as if he were going to die. She ran up to him, and put her arms round his neck. quot;Oh my dear darling beast,quot; she said, quot;please do get well. I am come back, and I will never leave you again.quot; quot;Do you love me, Beauty?quot; said the beast. quot;Yes, indeed,quot; said Beauty. quot;And will you be my wife?quot; quot;Yes,quot; said Beauty, quot;I will.quot;

Now, as Beauty spoke, there came a noise like thunder, the palace walls shook, the beast fell back as if he were going to die indeed. Then all was still, and music was heard so soft and sweet that Beauty hid her face in her hands, and

25

the tears ran down her cheeks. But when she looked up, the beast was gone, and in his place stood a handsome young prince. Beauty could not speak a word, she was so taken by surprise. quot;Don't you know me, my dear Beauty?quot; said the prince. quot;I am your own dear kind boast; pray do not lose your love for me, now I am less ugly than before. A wicked fairy changed me into that form, and said I was to remain in it till a woman loved me well enough to be my wife, in spite of my being an ugly beast. Tou have broken the charm, my Beauty, and now I am a prince once more.quot;

You may be sure Beauty did not object to the change, and soon after she and the prince were married. Her father came to the wedding; but his two daughters were quite ill with envy of Beauty's good-fortune, and could not be present. After a while the two elder sisters found husbands also, and then the old father came and lived with the prince and Beauty, and nursed their children on his knee, and told them pretty stories; and they were all very happy, and good, and loving, as long as they lived.

Jack the Ginnt-Rillcr.

In the reign of the famous King Arthur, there lived, near the Land's End of England, in the county of Cornwall, a worthy fkrmer, who had an only son named Jack. Jack was a boy of a bold temper; he took pleasure in hearing or reading stories of wizards, conjurors, giants, and fairies; and used to listen eagerly, while his father talked of the great deeds of the brave knights of King Arthur's Round Table. When Jack was sent to take care of the sheep and oxen in the fields, he used to amuse himself with planning battles, sieges, and the means to conquer or surprise a foe. Ho was above the common sports of children, but hardly any one could equal him at wrestling; or, if he met with a match for himself in strength, his skill and address always made him the victor. In those days there lived on St. Michael's Mount,

2G

off Cornwall, .which rises out of the sea at some distance from the mainland, a huge giant. He was eighteen feet high, and three yards round; and his fierce and savage looks were the terror of all his neighbours. He dwelt in a gloomy cavern on the very top of the mountain, and used to wade over to the mainland in search of his prey. AVhen he came near, the people left their houses, and, after he had glutted his appetite npon their cattle, he would throw half-a-dozen oxen upon his back, and tie three times as many sheep and hogs round his waist, and so march back to his own abode. The giant had done this for many years, and the coast of Cornwall was greatly hurt by his thefts, when Jack boldly resolved to destroy him. He therefore took a horn, a shovel, a pickaxe, and a dark lantern, and, early in a long winter's evening, he swam to the Mount. There he fell to work at once, and before morning he had dug a pit twenty-two feet deep, and almost as many broad. He covered it over with sticks and straw, and strowed some of the earth over them, to make it look just like solid ground. He then put his horn to his mouth, and blew such a loud and long tantivy, that the giant awoke, and came towards Jack, roaring like thunder, quot;You saucy villain, you shall pay dearly for breaking my rest; I will broil you for my breakfast.quot; He had scarcely spoken these words, when he came advancing one step further; but then lie tumbled headlong into the pit, and his fall shook the very mountain.

quot;0 ho, Mr. Giant!quot; said Jack, looking into the pit, quot;have you found your way so soon to the bottom? How is your appetite now? Will nothing serve you for breakfast this cold morning but broiling poor Jack?quot;

The giant now tried to rise, but Jack struck him a blow on the crown of the head with his pickaxe, which killed him at once. Jack then made haste back, to rejoice his friends with the news of the giant's death. When the justices of Cornwall heard of this valiant action, they sent for Jack, and declared that he should always be called Jack the Giant-Killer, and they also gave him a sword and belt, upon which was written, in letters of gold,—

27

quot;This is the valiant Cornishman quot;Who slew the giant Cormoran.quot;

The news of Jack's exploits soon spread over the western parts of England, and another giant, called Old Blunderbore, vowed to have revenge on Jack, if it should ever be his fortune to get him into his power. The giant kept an enchanted castle in the midst of a lonely wood. About four months after the death of Cormoran, as Jack was taking a journey into Wales, he passed through this wood, and, as he was very weary, he sat down to rest by the side of a pleasant fountain, and there he fell into a deep sleep. The giant came to the fountain for water just at this time, and found Jack there, and as the linos on Jack's belt showed who he was, the giant lifted him up and laid him gently upon his shoulder, to carry him to his castle; but, as he passed through the thicket, the rustling of the leaves waked Jack, and he was sadly afraid, when he found himself in the clutches of Blunderbore. Yet this was nothing to his fright soon after; for, when they reached the castle, he beheld the floor covered all over with the skulls and bones of men and women. The giant took him into a large room, where lay the hearts and limbs of persons who had been lately killed, and he told Jack, with a horrid grin, that men's hearts eaten with popper and vinegar, were his nicest food, and, also, that he thought he should make a dainty meal on his heart. When he had said this, he locked Jack up in that room, while he went to fetch another giant, who lived in the same wood, to enjoy a dinner of Jack's flesh with him. While he was away. Jack heard dreadful shrieks, groans, and cries from many parts of the castle, and soon after he heard a mournful voice repeat these lines,—

quot;Haste, valiant stranger, haste away,

Lest you become the giant's prey.

On his return he'll bring another.

Still more savage than his brother;

A horrid, cruel monster, who,

Before he kills, will torture you.

28

Oh valiant stranger! haste away,

Or you'll become these giants' prey.quot;

This warning was so shocking to poor Jack, that ho was ready to go mad. He ran to the window, and saw the two giants coming along arm in arm. This window was right over the gates of the castle. quot;Now,quot; thought Jack, quot;either my death or freedom is at hand.quot;

There were two strong cords in the room. Jack made a large noose, with a slip-knot at the ends of both of these, and, as the giants wore coming through the gates, he threw the ropes over their heads. He then made the other ends fast to a beam in the ceiling, and pulled with all his might, till he had almost strangled them. When he saw that they were both quite black in the face, and had not the least strength left, he drew his sword, and slid down the ropes; he then killed the giants, and thus saved himself from a cruel death. Jack next took a great bunch of keys from the pocket of Blunderbore, and went into the castle again. He made a strict scarch through all the rooms, and in them found three ladies tied up by the hair of their heads, and almost starved to death. They told him that their husbands had been killed by the giants, who had then condemned them to be starved to death, because they would not eat the flesh of their own dead husbands.

quot;Ladies,quot; said Jack, quot;I have put an end to the monster and his wicked brother, and I give you this castle and all the riches it contains, to make you some amends for the dreadful pains you have felt.quot; He then very politely gave them the keys of the castle, and went further on his journey to Wales.

As Jack had not taken any of the giant's riches for himself, and had very little money of his own, he thought it best to travel as fast as he could. At length he lost his way, and, when night came on, he was in a lonely valley between two lofty mountains. There he walked about for some hours, without seeing any dwelling-place, so he thought himself very lucky at last in finding a large and handsome house. He went up to it boldly, and knocked loudly at the gate; when,

29

to his great terror and surprise, there came forth a monstrous giant with two heads. He spoke to Jack very civilly, for he was a Welsh giant, and all the mischief he did was by private and secret malice, under the show of frieudship and kindness. Jack told him that he was a traveller who had lost his way, on which the huge monster made him welcome, and led him into a room, where there was a good bed, in which to pass the night. Jack took off his clothes quickly; but thought he was so weary, he could not go to sleep. Soon after this, he hoard the giant walking backward and forward in the next room, and saying to himself,—

quot;Though here you lodge with me this night,

Tou shall not see the morning light;

My club shall dash your brains out quite.quot;

quot;Say you so?quot; thought Jack. quot;Are these your tricks upon travellers? But I hope to prove as cunning as you.quot; Then, getting out of bed, he groped about the room, and at last found a large thick billet of wood; he laid it in his own place in the bed, and hid himself in a dark corner of the room. In the middle of the night the giant came with his great club, and struck many heavy blows on the bed, in the very place where Jack had laid the billet, and then lie went back to his own room, thinking he had broken all his bones. Early in the morning. Jack put a-bold face upon the matter, and walked into the giant's room to thank him for his lodging.

The giant started when he saw him, and he began to stammer out, quot;Oh, dear me! is it you? Pray how did you sleep last night? Did you hear or see anything in the dead of the night?quot;

quot;Nothing worth speaking of,quot; said Jack, carelessly; quot;a rat, I believe, gave me three or four slaps with his tail, and disturbed me a little; but I soon went to sleep again.quot;

The giant wondered more and more at this; j'et he did not answer a word, and went to bring two great bowls of hasty-pudding for their breakfast.

Jack wished to make the giant believe that he could eat as much as himself; so he contrived to button a leathern bag

30

inside his coat, and slipped the hastyvpudding into this bag,, while he seemed to put it into his mouth. When breakfast was over, he said to the giant, quot;Now I will show you a fine trick; I can cure all wounds with a touch; I could cut off my head one minute, and the next put it sound again on my shoulders: you shall see an example.quot; He then took hold of the knife, ripped up the leathern bag, and all the hasty-pudding tumbled out upon the floor.

quot;Ods splutter hur nails,quot; cried the Welsh giant, who was ashamed to be outdone by such a little fellow as Jack; quot;hur can do that hurself.quot; So he snatched up the knife, plunged it into his stomach, and in a moment dropped down dead.

As soon as Jack had thus tricked the Welsh monster, he went further on his journey, and, a few days after, he met with King Arthur's only son, who had got his father's leave to travel into Wales, to deliver a beautiful lady from the power of a wicked magician, by whom she was held in enchantment. When Jack found that the young prince had no servants with him, he begged leave to attend him, and the prince at once agreed to this, and gave Jack many thanks for his kindness.

King Arthur's son was a handsome, polite, and brave knight, and so good-natured, that he gave money to everybody he met. At length he gave his last penny to an old woman, and then turned to Jack, quot;How shall we be able to get food for ourselves the rest of our journey?quot;

quot;Leave that to me, sir,quot; replied Jack; quot;I will provide for my prince.quot;

Night now came on, and the prince began to grow uneasy at thinking where they should lodge.

quot;Sir,quot; said Jack, quot;be of good heart; two miles further there lives a large giant, whom I know well; he has three heads, and will fight five hundred men, and make them fly before him.quot;

quot;Alas!quot; cried the king's son, we had better never have been born than meet with such a monster.quot;

quot;My lord, leave me to manage him, and wait here in quiet till I return.quot;

The prince now stayed behind, while Jack rode on at full

31

speed, and wlien he came to the gates of the castle, lie gave a loud knock. The giant, with a voice like thunder, roared out, quot;Who is there?quot;

Jack made answer, and said, quot;No one but your poor cousin Jack.quot;

quot;Well,quot; said the giant, quot;what news, cousin Jack?quot;

quot;Dear uncle,quot; said Jack, quot;I have heavy news.quot;

quot;Pooh!quot; said the giant, quot;what heavy news can come to me? I am a giant with three heads, and can fight five hundred men, and make them fly before me.quot;

quot;Alas!quot; said Jack, quot;here is the king's son coming with two thousand men to kill you, and to destroy the castle and all that you have.quot;

quot;Oh, cousin Jack,quot; said the giant, quot;this is heavy news indeed! But I have a large cellar underground, where I will hide myself, and you shall lock, bolt, and bar me in, and keep the keys till the king's son is gone.quot;

Now, when Jack had barred the giant fast in the vault, he went back and fetched the prince to the castle; they both made themselves merry with the wine and other dainties that wore in the house. So that night they rested very pleasantly, while the poor giant lay trembling and shaking with fear in the cellar underground. Early in the morning, Jack gave the king's son gold and silver out of the giant's treasure, and accompanied him three miles forward on his journey. The prince then sent Jack to let his uncle out of the hole, who asked him what he should give him as a reward for saving his castle.

quot;Why, good uncle,quot; said Jack. quot;I desire nothing but the old coat and cap, with the old rusty sword and slippers, which are hanging at your bod's head.quot;

quot;Then,quot; said the giant, quot;you shall have them, and pray keep them for my sake; for they are things of great use. The coat will keep you invisible, the cap will give you knowledge, the sword will cut through anything, and the shoes are of vast swiftness; they may be useful to you in all times of danger, so take them with all my heart.quot;

quot;Jack gave many thanks to the giant, and then set off tQ

32

the prince. When he had come up with the king's son, they soon arrived at the dwelling of the beautiful lady, who was under the power of a wicked magician. She received the prince very politely, and made a noble feast for him: when it was ended, she rose, and, wiping her mouth with a fine handkerchief, said, quot;My lord,' you must submit to the custom of my palace ; to-morrow morning I command you to tell me on whom I bestow this handkerchief, or lose your head.quot; She then left the room.

The young prince went to bed very mournful, but Jack put on his cap of knowledge, which told him that the lady was forced, by the power of enchantment, to meet the wicked magician every night in the middle of the forest. Jack now put on his coat of darkness, and his shoes of swiftness, and was there before her. quot;When the lady came, she gave the handkerchief to the magician. Jack, with his sword of sharpness, at one blow cut off his head; the enchantment was then ended in a moment, and the lady was restored to her former virtue and goodness. She was married to the prince on the next day, and soon after went back, with her royal husband and a great company, to the court of King Arthur, where they were received with loud and joyful welcomes, and the valiant hero Jack, for the many great exploits he had done for the good of his country, was made one of the Knights of the Round Table.

As Jack had been so lucky in all his adventures, he resolved not to be idle for the future, but still to do what services he could for the honour of the king and the nation. He therefore humbly begged his majesty to furnish him with a horse and money, that he might travel in search of new and strange exploits. quot;For,quot; said he to the king, quot;there are many giants yet living in the remote parts of quot;Wales, to the great terror and distress of your majesty's subjects; therefore, if it please you, sire, to favour me in my deseign, I will soon rid your kingdom of these giants and monsters in human shape.quot;

Now when the king heard this offer, and began to think •of the cruel deeds of these bloodthirsty giants and savage

33

monsters, he gave Jack everything proper for such a journey. After this, Jack took leave of the king, the prince, and all the knights, and set off; taking with him his cap of knowledge, his sword of sharpness, his shoes of swiftness, and his invisible coat, the better to perform the great exploits that might fall in his way. He went along over hills and mountains, and on the third day he came to a wide forest. He had hardly entered it, when on a sudden he heard dreadful shrieks and cries, and forcing his way through the trees, saw a monstrous giant dragging along, by the hair of their heads, a handsome knight and a beautiful lady. Their tears and cries melted the heart of honest Jack; he alighted from his horse, and, tying him to an oak-tree, put on his invisible coat, under which lie carried his sword of sharpness.

When he came up to the giant, he made several strokes at him, but could not reach his body, on account of the enormous height of the terrible creature; but he wounded his thighs in several places, and at length, putting both hands to his sword, and aiming with all his might, he cut off both the giant's legs just below the garter, and the trunk of his body, tumbling to the ground, made not only the trees shake, but the earth itself tremble with the force of his fall. Then Jack, setting his foot upon his neck, exclaimed, quot;Thou barbarous and savage wretch, behold, I come to execute upon thee the just reward for all thy crimes,quot; and instantly plunged his sword into the giant's body. The huge monster gave a groan, and yielded up his life into the hands of the victorious Jack the Giant-Killer, whilst the noble knight and the virtuous lady were both joyful spectators of his sudden death. They not only returned Jack hearty thanks for their deliverance, but also invited him to their house, to refresh himself after his dreadful encounter, as likewise to receive a reward for his good services.

quot;No,quot; said Jack, quot;I cannot be at ease till I find out the den that was the monster's habitation.quot;

The knight, on hearing this, grew very sorrowful, and replied, quot;Noble stranger, it is too much to run a second hazard; this monster lived in a den under yonder mountain,

3

34

with a brother of his, more fierce and cruel than himself; therefore, if you should go thither, and perish in the attempt, it would be a heart-breaking thing to me and my lady; so let me persuade you to go back with us, and desist from any farther pursuit.quot;

quot;Nay,quot; answered Jack, ■ quot;if there be another, even if there were twenty, I would shed the last drop of blood in my body before one of them should escape. quot;When I have finished this task, I will come and pay my respects to you.quot;

So when they had told him where to find them again, he got on his horse and went after the dead giant's brother.

Jack had not ridden a mile and a half before he came in sight of the mouth of the cavern, and, nigh the entrance of it, he saw the other giant sitting on a huge block of timber, with a knotted iron club lying by his side, waiting for his brother. His eyes looked like flames of fire, his face was grim and ugly, and his cheeks were like two flitches of bacon; the bristles of his beard seemed to be thick rods of iron wire, and his long locks of hair hung down upon his broad shoulders like curling snakes. Jack got down from his horse, and turned him into a thicket; then he put on his coat of darkness, and drew a little nearer to behold this figure, and said softly, quot;Oh, monster! are you there? It will not be long before I shall take you fast by the beard.quot;

The giant all this while could not see him, by reason of his invisible coat; so Jack came quite close to him, and struck a blow at his head with his sword of sharpness; but he missed his aim, and only cut off his nose, which made him roar like loud claps of thunder. He rolled his glaring eyes round on every side, but could not see who had given him the blow; so he took up his iron club, and began to lay about him like one that was mad with pain and fury.

quot;Nay,quot; said Jack, quot;if this be the case, I will kill you at once.quot; So saying, he slipped nimbly behind him, and jumping upon the block of timber, as the giant rose from it, he stabbed him in the back; when, after a few howls, he dropped down dead. Jack cut off his head, and sent it, with the head of his brother, to King Arthur, by a waggon which he had

35

hired for that purpose. When Jack had thus killed these two monsters, he went into their cave in search of their treasure. He passed through many turnings and windings, which led him to a room paved with freestone; at the end of it was a boiling-cauldron, and on the right hand stood a large table, where the giants used to dine. Ho then came to a window that was secured with iron bars, through which he saw a number of wretched captives, who cried out when they saw Jack, quot;Alas! alas! young man, you are come to be one among us in this horrid den.quot;

quot;I hope,quot; said Jack, quot;you will not stay here long; but pray tell me what is the meaning of your being here at all ?quot;

quot;Alas!quot;, said one poor old man, quot;I will tell you, sir. We are persons that have been taken by the giants who hold this cave, and are kept till they choose to have a feast; then one of us is to be killed, and cooked to please their taste. It is not long since they took three for the same purpose.quot;

quot;Well,quot; said Jack, quot;I have given them such a dinner, that it \vill be long enough before they have any more.quot;

The captives were amazed at his words.

quot;You may believe me,quot; said Jack, quot;for I have killed them both with the edge of this sword, and have sent their large heads to the court of King Arthur, as marks of my great success.quot;

To show that what he said was true, he unlocked the gate, and set the captives all free. Then ho led them to the great room, placed them round the table, and placed before them two quarters of beef, with bread and wine; upon which they feasted their fill. When supper was over, they searched the giant's coffers, and Jack divided among them all the treasures. The nest morning they set off to their homes, and Jack to the knight's house, whom he had left with his lady not long before.

He was received with the greatest joy by the thankful knight and his lady, who, in honour of Jack's exploits, gave a grand feast, to which all the nobles and gentry were invited. When the company were assembled, the knight declared to them the great actions of Jack, and gave him, as a mark of respect, a fine ring, on which was engraved the picture of the

30

giant dragging the knight and the lady by the hair, with this motto round it,—

quot;Behold, in dire distress were we.

Under a giant's fierce command;

But gain'd our lives and liberty

From valiantquot; Jack's victorious hand.quot;

Among the guests then present were five aged gentlemen, who were fathers to some of those captives who had been freed by Jack from the dungeon of the giants. As soon as they heard that he was the person who had done such wonders, they pressed round him with tears of joy, to return him thanks for the happiness he had caused them. After this the bowl went round, and every one drank the health and long life of the gallant hero. Mirth increased, and the hall was filled with peals of laughter. But, on a sudden, a herald, pale and breathless, rushed into the midst of the company, and told them that Thundel, a savage giant with two heads, had heard of the death of his two kinsmen, and was come to take his revenge on Jack, and that he was now within a mile of the house, the people flying before him like chaff before the wind. At this news the very boldest of the guests trembled; but Jack drew his sword, and said, quot;Let Mm come, I have a rod for him also. Pray, ladies and gentlemen, do me the favour to walk into the garden, and j^rou shall soon behold the giant's defeat and death.quot;

To this they all agreed, and heartily wished him success in his dangerous attempt.

The knight's house stood in the middle of a moat, thirty feet deep and twenty wide, over which lay a drawbridge. Jack set men to work, to cut the bridge on both sides, almost to the middle, and then dressed himself in his coat of darkness, and went against the giant with his sword of sharpness. As he came close to him, though the giant could not see him for his invisible coat, yet he found some danger was near, which made him cry out,—

quot;Fa, fe, fi, fo, fum,

I smell the blood of an Englishman ;

37

Let him be alive, or let him be dead,

I'ill grind his bones to make me bread.quot;

quot;Say you so, my friend?quot; said Jack; quot;you are a monstrous miller, indeed!quot;

quot;Art thou,quot; cried the giant, quot;the villain that killed my kinsmen? Then I will tear thee with my teeth, and grind thy bones to powder.quot;

quot;You must catch me first,quot; said Jack, and throwing oft' his coat of darkness, and putting on his shoes of swiftness, ho hegan to run, the giant following him like a walking castle, making the earth shake at every step.

Jack led him round and round the walls of the house, that the company might see the monster; then, to finish thequot; work, he ran over the drawbridge, the giant going after him with his club; but when he came to the middle, where the bridge had been cut on both sides, the great weight of his body made it break, and he tumbled into the water, where he rolled about like a large whale. Jack now stood by the side of the moat, and laughed and jeered at him, saying, quot;I think you told me you would grind my bones to powder; when will you begin?quot;

The giant foamed at both his horrid mouths with fury, and plunged from side to side of the moat; but he could not get out to have revenge on his little foe. At last Jack ordered a cart-rope to be brought to him; he then drew it over his two heads, and by the help of a team of horses, dragged him to the edge of the moat, where he cut off his head, and before he either ate or drank, sent them both to the court of King Arthur. He then went back to the table with the company, and the rest of the day was spent in mirth and good cheer.

After staying with the knight for some time. Jack grew weary of such an idle life, and set out again in search of new adventures. He went over hills and dales without meeting any, till ho came to the foot of a very high mountain. Here he knocked at the door of a small and lonely house, and an old man, with a head as white as snow, let him in.

38

quot;Good father,quot; said Jack, quot;can you lodge a traveller who lias lost his way?quot;

quot;Yes,quot; said the hermit, quot;I can, if you will accept such fare as my poor house affords.quot;

Jack entered, and the old man set before him some bread and fruit for his supper. When Jack had eaten as much as he chose, the hermit said, quot;My son, I know you are the famous conqueror of giants; now, at the top of this mountain is an enchanted castle, kept by a giant named Galligantus, who, by the help of a vile magician, gets many knights into his castle, where he changes them into the shape of beasts. Above all, I lament the hard fate of a duke's daughter, whom they seized as she was walking in her father's garden, and brought hither through the air in a chariot drawn by two fiery dragons, and turned her into the shape of a deer. Many knights have tried to destroy the enchantment and deliver her, yet none have been able to do it, by reason of two fiery griffins, who guard the gate of the castle, and destroy all who come nigh; but as you, my son, have an invisible coat, you may pass by them without being seen, and on the gates of the castle you will find engraved by what means the enchantment may be broken.quot;

Jack promised that in the morning, at the risk of his life, he would break the enchantment, and after a sound sleep, he arose early, put on his invisible coat, and got ready for the attempt. When he had climbed to the top of the mountain, he saw the two fiery griffins; but he passed between them without the least fear of danger, for they could not see him because of his invisible coat. On the castle-gate he found a golden trumpet, under which were written these lines, — quot;Whoever can this trumpet blow.

Shall cause the giant's overthrow.quot;

As soon as Jack had read this, he seized the trumpet, and blew a shrill blast, which made the gates fly open , and the very castle itself tremble. The giant and the conjurer now knew that their wicked course was at an end, and they stood biting their thumbs and shaking with fear. Jack, with his sword of sharpness, soon killed the giant, and the magician

39

was then carried away by a whirlwind. All the knights and beautiful ladies, who had been changed into birds and beasts, returned to their proper shapes. The castle vanished away like smoke, and the head of the giant Galligantus was sent to King Arthur. The knights and ladies rested that night at the old man's hermitage, and next day they set out for the court. Jack then went up to the king, and gave his majesty an account of all his fierce battles. Jack's fame had spread through the whole country, and at the king's desire, the duke gave him his daughter in marriage, to the joy of all the kingdom. After this, the king gave him a large estate, on which he and his lady lived the rest of their days in joy and content.

Jack autl the ISoim-Stalk.

In the days of King Alfred, there lived a poor woman, whose cottage was in a remote country village, many miles from London. She had been a widow some years, and had an only child named Jack, whom she indulged so much that he never paid the least attention to anything she said, but was indolent, careless, and extravagant. His follies were not owing to a bad disposition, but to his mother's foolish partiality. By degrees, he spent all that she had—scarcely anything remained but a cow. One day, for the first time in her life, she reproached him, quot;Cruel, cruel boy! you have at last brought me to beggary. I have not money enough to purchase even a bit of bread; nothing now remains to sell but my poor cow! I am sorry to part with her; it grieves me sadly, but we cannot starve.quot; For a few minutes Jack felt remorse, but it was soon over, and he began asking his mother to let him sell the cow at the next village, teasing her so much, that she at last consented. As he was going along lie met a butcher, who inquired why he was driving the cow from home. Jack replied he was going to sell it. The butcher held some curious beans in his hat; they were of various colours, and

40

attracted Jack's attention; this did not pass unnoticed by the man, who, knowing Jack's easy temper, thought now was the time to take an advantage of it, and, determined not to let slip so good an opportunity, asked what was the price of the cow, offering at the same time all the beans in his hat for her. The silly boy could not conceal the pleasure he felt at what he supposed so great an offer: the bargain was struck instantly, and the cow exchanged for a few paltry beans. Jack made the best of his way home, calling aloud to his mother before he reached the door, thinking to surprise her.

quot;When she saw the beans, and heard Jack's account, her patience quite forsook her: she tossed the beans out of the window, where they fell on the garden-bed below. Then she threw her apron over her head, and cried bitterly. Jack attempted to console her, but in vain, and, not having anything to eat, they both went supperless to bed. Jack awoke early in the morning, and seeing something uncommon darkening the window of his'bedchamber, ran downstairs into the garden, where he found some of the beans had taken root, and sprung up surprisingly: the stalks were of an immense thickness, and had twined together until they formed a ladder like a chain, and so high that the top appeared to be lost in the clouds. Jack was an adventurous lad; he determined to climb up to the top, and ran to tell his mother, not doubting but that she would be equally pleased with himself. She declared he should not go; said it would break her heart if he did—entreated and threatened, but all in vain. Jack set out, and after climbing for some hours, reached the top of the bean-stalk, quite exhausted. Looking around, he found himself in a strange country; it appeared to be a barren desert—not a tree, shrub, house, or living creature was to be seen; here and there were scattered fragments of stone, and at unequal distances, small heaps of earth were loosely thrown together.

Jack seated himself pensively upon a block of stone, and thought of his mother; he reflected with sorrow upon his disobedience in climbing the bean-stalk against her will, and concluded that he must die of hunger. However, he walked on, hoping to see a house, where he might beg something to

41

eat and drink. He did not find it; but he saw at a distance a beautiful lady, walking all alone. She was elegantly clad, and carried a white wand, at the top of which sat a peacock of pure gold.

Jack, who was a gallant fellow, went straight up to her; when, with a bewitching smile, she asked him how he came there. He told her all about the bean-stalk. The lady answered him by a question, quot;Do you remember your father, young man?quot;

quot;No, madam; but I am sure there is some mystery about him, for when I name him to my mother, she always begins to weep, and will tell me nothing.quot;

quot;She dare not,quot; replied the lady, quot;but I can and will. For know, young man, that I am a fairy, and was your father's guardian. But fairies are bound by laws as well as mortals, and by an error of mine I lost my power for a term of years, so that I was unable to succour your father when he most needed it, and he died.quot; Here the fairy looked so sorrowful, that Jack's heart warmed to her, and he begged her earnestly to tell him more.

quot;I will; only you must promise to obey me in everything, or you will perish yourself.quot;

Jack was brave, and, besides, his fortunes were so bad that they could not well be worse—so he promised.

The fairy continued, quot;Your father, Jack, was a most excellent, amiable, generous man. He had a good wife, faithful servants, plenty of money; but he had one misfortune—a false friend. This was a giant, whom he had succoured in misfortune, and who returned his kindness by murdering him, and seizing on all his property; also making your mother take a solemn oath, that she would never tell you anything about your father, or he would murder both her and you. Then he turned her off with you in her arms, to wander about the wide world as she might. I could not help her, as my power only returned on the day you went to sell your cow.quot;

quot;It was I,quot; added the fairy, quot;who impelled you to take the beans, who made the bean-stalk grow, and inspired you with to desire to climb up it to this strange country; for it

42

is here the -wicked giant lives who was your father's destroyer. It is you who must avenge him, and rid the world of a monster who never will do anything but evil. I will assist you. You may lawfully take possession of his house and all his riches, for everything he has belonged to your father, and is therefore yours. Now farewell! Do not let your mother know you are acquainted with your father's history : this is my command, and if you disobey me, you will suffer for it. Now go.quot;

Jack asked where he was to go.

quot;Along the direct road, till you see the house where the giant lives. You must then act according to your own just judgment, and I will guide you if any difficulty arises. Farewell!quot;

She bestowed on the youth a benignant smile, and vanished.

Jack pursued his journey. He walked on till after sunset, when, to his great joy, he espied a large mansion. A plain-looking woman was at the door: he accosted her, begging she would give him a morsel of bread and a night's lodging. She expressed the greatest surprise, and said it was quite uncommon to see a human being near their house; for it was well known that her husband was a powerful giant, who would never eat anything but human flesh, if he could possibly get it; that he would walk fifty miles to procure it, usually being out the whole day for that purpose.

This account greatly terrified Jack, but still he hoped to elude the giant, and therefore he again entreated the woman to take him in for one night only, and hide him where she thought proper. She at last suffered herself to be persuaded, for she was of a compassionate and generous disposition, and took him into the house. First, they entered a fine large hall, magnificently furnished; they then passed through several spacious rooms, in the same style of grandeur; but all appeared forsaken and desolate. A long gallery came next; it was very dark—just light enough to show that, instead of a wall on one side, there was a grating of iron, which parted off a dismal dungeon, from whence issued the groans of those victims whom the cruel giant reserved in confinement for his own voracious appetite. Poor Jack was half dead with fear.

43

and would have given the world to have been with his mother again, for he now began to doubt if lie should ever see her more; he even mistrusted the good woman, and thought she had let him into the house for no other purpose than to lock him up among the unfortunate people in the dungeon. However, she bade Jack sit down, and gave him plenty to eat and drink, and he, not seeing anything to make him uncomfortable, soon forgot his fear, and was just beginning to enjoy himself, when ho was startled by a loud knocking at the outer door, which made the whole house shake.

quot;Ah! that's the giant, and if he sees you he will kill you and me too,quot; cried the poor woman, trembling all over. quot;What shall I do?quot;

quot;Hide me in the oven,quot; cried Jack, now as bold as a lion at the thought of being face to face with his father's cruel murderer. So he crept into the oven—for there was no fire near it—and listened to the giant's loud voice and heavy step as ho went up and down the kitchen scolding his wife. At last he seated himself at table, and Jack, peeping through a crevice in the oven, was amazed to see what a quantity of food ho devoured. It seemed as if he never would have done eating and drinking; but he did at last, and, leaning back, called to his wife in a voice like thunder,—

'•Bring me my hen !quot;

She obeyed, and placed upon the table a very beautiful live hen.

quot;Lay!quot; roared the giant, and the hen laid immediately an egg of solid gold.

quot;Lay another!quot; and every time the giant said this the hen laid a larger egg than before.

He amused himself a long time with his hen, and then sent his wife to bed, while he fell asleep by the fireside, and snored like the roaring of cannon.

As soon as he was asleep. Jack crept out of the oven, seized the hen, and ran off with her. He got safely out of the house, and finding his way along the road he came, reached the top of the bean-stalk, which he descended in safety.

His mother was overjoyed to see him. She thought he had come to some ill end.

44

quot;Not a bit of it, mother. Look here!quot; and he showed her the hen. quot;Now lay,quot; and the lien obeyed him as readily as the giant, and laid as many golden eggs as he desired.

These eggs being sold, Jack and his mother got plenty of money, and for some months lived very happily together; till Jack got another great longing to climb the bean-stalk, and carry away some more of the giant's riches. He had told his mother of his adventure, but had been very careful not to say a word about his father. He thought of his journey again and again, but still he could not summon resolution enough to break it to his mother, being well assured that she would endeavour to prevent his going. However, one day he told her boldly, that he must take another journey up the bean-stalk; she begged and prayed him not to think of it, and tried all in her power to dissuade him. She told him that the giant's wife would certainly know him again, and that the giant would desire nothing better than to get him into his power, that he might put hira to a cruel death, in order to be revenged for the loss of his hen. Jack, finding that all his arguments were useless, ceased speaking, though resolved to go at all events. He had a dress prepared which would disguise him, and something to colour his skin; he thought it impossible for any one to recollect him in this dress.

A few mornings after, he rose very early, and,unperceived by any one, climbed the been-stalk a second time. He was greatly fatigued when he reached the top, and very hungry. Having rested some time on one of the stones, he pursued his journey to the giant's mansion, which he reached late in the evening: the woman was at the door as before. Jack addressed her, at the same time telling her a pitiful tale, and requesting that she would give him some victuals and drink, and also a night's lodging.

She told him (what he knew before very well) about her husband's being a powerful and cruel giant, and also that she had one night admitted a poor, hungry, friendless boy; that the little ungrateful fellow had stolen one of the giant's treasures, and ever since that her husband had been worse than before, using her very cruelly, and continually upbraiding

45

her with being the cause of his misfortune. Jack felt sorry for her, but confessed nothing, and did his best to persuade her to admit him, but found it a very hard task. At last she consented, and as she led the way. Jack observed that everything was just as he had found it before: she took him into the kitchen, and after he had done eating and drinking, she hid him in an old lumber-closet. The giant returned at the usual time, and walked in so heavily, that the house was shaken to its foundation. He seated himself by the fire, and soon after exclaimed, quot;Wife, I smell fresh meat!quot;

The wife replied it was the crows, which had brought a piece of raw meat, and left it at the top of the house. While supper was preparing, the giant was very ill-tempered and impatient, frequently lifting up his hand to strike his wife for not being quick enough. He was also continually upbraiding her with the loss of his wonderful hen.

At last, having ended his supper, he cried, quot;Give me something to amuse me—my harp or my money-bags.quot;

quot;Which will you have, my dear?quot; said the wife, humbly.

quot;My money-bags, because they are the heaviest to carry,quot; thundered he.

She brought them, staggering under the weight; two bags —one filled with new guineas, and the other with new shillings; she emptied them out on the table, and the giant began counting them in great glee. quot;Now you may go to bed, you old fool.quot; So the wife crept away.

Jack from his hiding-place watched the counting of the money, which he knew was his poor father's, and wished it was his own; it would give him much less trouble than going about selling the golden eggs. The giant, little thinking he was so narrowly observed, reckoned it all up, and then replaced it in the two bags, which he tied up very carefully and put beside his chair, with his little dog to guard them. At last he fell asleep as before, and snored so loud, that Jack compared his noise to the roaring of the sea in a high wind, when the tide is coming in. At last Jack, concluding all secure, stole out, in order to carry off the two bags of money; but just as lie laid his hand upon one of them, the little dog, which he

4G

had not perceived before, started from under the giant's chair and barked most furiously. Instead of endeavouring to escape, Jack stood still, though expecting his enemy to awake every instant. Contrary, however, to his expectation, the giant continued in a sound sleep, and Jack, seeing a piece of meat, threw it to the dog, who' at once ceased barking and began to devour it. So Jack carried off the bags, one on each shoulder, but they were so heavy, that it took him two whole days to descend the bean-stalk and get back to his mother's door.

quot;When ho came, he found the cottage deserted. He ran from one room to another, without being able to find any one; he then hastened into the village, hoping to see sonic of the neighbours, who could inform him where he could find his mother. An old woman at last directed him to a neighbouring house, where she was ill of a fever. He was greatly shocked at finding her apparently dying, and blamed himself bitterly as the cause of it all. However, at sight of her dear son, the poor woman revived, and slowly recovered health. Jack gave her his two money-bags; they had ') the cottage rebuilt and well furnished, and lived happier than they had ever done before.

Forquot;) three years Jack heard no more of the bean-stalk; but he could not forget it, though he feared making his mother unhappy. It was in vain endeavouring to amuse himself; he became thoughtful, and would³) arise at the first dawn of day, and sit looking at the bean-stalk for hours together. His mother saw that something preyed upon his mind, and endeavoured to discover the causo; but Jack knew too well what the consequence would be should ') she quot;) succeed. He did his utmost, therefore, to conquer the great desire he had for another journey up the bean-stalk. Finding, however, that his inclination grew too powerful for him, he began to make secret preparations for his journey. He got ready a new disguise, better and more complete than the former, and when summer came, on the longest day he woke as soon as it was light, and without telling his mother, ascended the bean-stalk. He found the road, journey, amp;c. much as it was on the two former

') § 145.3. amp; § 159.2. 2) §255.6. S) § 150 Rem. 2. 6. ••) §222.3. ^s) §21.«/.

47

times. He arrived at the giant's mansion in the evening, and found the wife standing, as usual, at the door. Jack had disguised himself so completely, that she did not appear to have the least recollection of him; however, when he pleaded hunger and poverty, in order to gain admittance, ho found it very difficult indeed to persuade her. At last he prevailed, and was concealed in the copper. When the giant returned, he said furiously, quot;I smell fresh meat!quot; But Jack felt quite composed, as ho had said so before, and had been soon satisfied. However, the giant started up suddenly, and, notwithstanding all his wife could say, he searched all round the room. Whilst this was going forward. Jack was exceedingly terrified, wishing himself at home a thousand times; but when the giant approached the copper, and put his hand upon the lid, Jack thought his death was certain. However, nothing happened; for the giant did not take the trouble to lift up the lid, but sat down shortly by the fireside, and began to eat his enormous supper. When he had finished, ho commanded his wife to fetch down his harp. Jack peeped under the copper-lid, and saw a most beautiful harp. The giant placed it on the table, said, quot;Play!quot; and it played of its own accord, without anybody touching it, the most exquisite music imaginable. Jack, who was a very good musician, was delighted, and more anxious to get this than any other of his enemy's treasures. But the giant not being particularly fond of music, the harp had only the effect of lulling him to sleep earlier than usual. As for the wife, she had gone to bed as soon as ever she could.

As soon as he thought all was safe, Jack got out of the copper, and seizing the harp, was eagerly running off with it. But the harp was enchanted by a fairy, and as soon as it found itself in strange hands, it called out loudly, just as if it had been alive, quot;Master! Master!quot;

The giant awoke, started up, and saw Jack scampering away as fast as his legs could carry him.

quot;Oh you villain! it is you who have robbed me of my hen and my money-bags, and now you are stealing my harp also. Wait till I catch you, and I'll eat you up alive!quot;

quot;Very well; try!quot; shouted Jack, who was not a bit afraid;.

48

for be saw the giant was so tipsy he could hardly stand, much less run, and he himself had young legs and a clear conscience, which carry a man a long way. So, after leading the giant a considerable race, he contrived to be first at the top of the bean-stalk, and then scrambled down it as fast as he could, the harp playing all the- while the most melancholy music, till he said, quot;Stop,quot; and it stopped.

Arrived at the bottom, he found his mother sitting at her cottage-door, weeping silently.

quot;Here, mother, don't cry; just give me a hatchet; make haste.quot; For he knew there was not a moment to spare; he saw the giant beginning to descend the bean-stalk.

However, it was too late—the monster's ill deeds had come to an end. Jack with his hatchet cut the bean-stalk close oft at the root; the giant fell headlong into the garden, and was killed on the spot.

Instantly the fairy appeared, and explained everything to Jack's mother, begging her to forgive Jack, who was his father's own son for bravery and generosity, aud who would be sure to make her happy for the rest of her days.

So all ended well, and nothing was ever more heard or seen of the wonderful Bean-stalk.

Billy Norton, the Locksmith.

William, or as his father commonly called him Billy Norton, was the only son of a poor, honest locksmith, who lived not far from Bethnal Green in London, and he worked hard and pinched himself for many years to give Billy a little schooling before taking him into his own small workshop. Billy was a very promising lad, and moreover he was sincerely attached to his father, as indeed he had a good right to be, for Jacob Norton had been to him both father and mother. The birth of his son had cost Jacob the life of his young and tidy wife, and the locksmith, who could not bear the idea of re-marrying, took the infant to his brother, a small farmer down in

49

Berlishire, in whose family Billy remained till he gave the promise of growing up a healthy and well-looking boy. On bringing him back to London, Jacob sent his son to one of the best schools in that by no means opulent neighbourhood, and to such good account did Billy turn his opportunities of acquiring knowledge, that the schoolmaster soon declared him to be the best speller and reader in his academy, and a man with half an eye might have seen that he wrote a brilliant hand. Nay. when Billy had attained the ago of twelve, he one day so astonished his Berkshire uncle, who visited London at long intervals, by his surprising feats in mental arithmetic, that the worthy farmer unhesitatingly recognised in him the natural and predestined successor of the village schoolmaster in Berkshire, whom he looked upon as the greatest scholar the world had hitherto produced.

Billy Norton might have been sixteen, when one morning, as lie was busily engaged in filing the wards of a key in his father's workshop, a man with a large square book under his arm stepped in, and crossing at once to the bench where Jacob was working, handed him a slip of paper, uttering the single word:

quot;Rates!quot;

quot;I wish,quot; said the elder Norton, quot;that you could call again next week.quot;

quot;Impossible!quot; replied the collector. quot;I really cannot come so often for a matter of five shillings.quot;

quot;It's the first time I have been behind,quot; urged the locksmith, quot;and it would not have happened this time either only for the accident to my hand. I could make no use of it for a whole month, though now, thank God, I'm able to work again.quot;

quot;Well, then,quot; said the other, in a pettish tone, picking up the receipt he had thrown down on the bench, quot;well, then, you can pay it in the office, but recollect, within three days at latest.quot;

When the collector had left the locksmith's workshop, Jacob Norton remained a few minutes absorbed, as it seemed, in painful reflection; then, glancing at the little Dutch clock that hung on the wall, he took down his coat from a peg, put on

4

50

his hat, and merely saying: 'I must he off to Camberwell, Billy,quot; hastily disappeared into the street.

quot;Poor father!quot; thought Billy. quot;The debt is not great, but it's the first time in his life he has ever been dunned for money. I wish I could earn five shillings without his knowing anything about it. quot;Wouldn't I go and pay the rates, and hide the receipt in his coat-pocket or his slippers, or wrap it round a file! What a capital joke that would be! How he would wonder, to be sure! But I wouldn't tell him for a long time.quot;

So immersed was Billy in the contemplation of this imaginary scene, that it was only after a strange voice had twice inquired if Jacob Norton was within, that he perceived he was no longer alone.

The new-comer appeared, in every respect, to be a very fine gentleman. His clothes had that lustre which clothes possess only in the first week or two after coming from the hands of the tailor. His black satin cravat seemed still newer) his hat had evidently just come off the pressing-block, his tight-fitting yellow kid-gloves were irreproachable, and his elegant cane was perfection itself.

quot;My father's not at home,quot; said Billy, looking up from his work. quot;Is it anything I can do for you ?quot;

quot;You!quot; replied the gentleman, rather contemptuously. quot;No ! I want a locksmith.quot;

quot;Let me tell you. Sir,quot; said Billy, reddening, quot;though I'm young, I'm as good a workman as any in London. My father says it, and he knows.quot;

quot;You don't mean to say you could make a key from a wax impression?quot;

quot;I mean to say I could,quot; answered Billy.

quot;quot;We shall see,quot; said the gentleman, sarcastically, taking something out of his pocket. quot;I wish to have a second key for my street-door. Here is the impression in wax. What will the key cost?quot;

Billy examined the impression closely. quot;I think about half a crown,quot; he replied.

quot;Well then,quot; said the stranger, quot;if you make it, I'll give you double. But no!quot; he added, as if struck by a sudden

51

idea, quot;what a fool I am! You'll give the impression to your father, and the key will be his workmanship, not yours.quot;

Billy was about to make an indignant reply, but he retained himself, and assured the new customer that he could make the key perfectly well himself. quot;Besides,quot; he added, quot;I'll tell you a secret. I was just now wishing that I could in some way or other earn five shillings, for a particular purpose, without the knowledge of my father. He's gone to CamberweU, and will be there to-morrow, too; for he has to fasten on locks and put up bells in a new house, so that I can make the key to-day without his being the wiser, and you may fetch it to-morrow forenoon.quot;

With this arrangement the stranger seemed satisfied, and after repeatedly cautioning Billy on no account to mention the circumstance to his father, ho wished him quot;good morningquot; in a very gracious and condescending manner.

The key was duly made and punctually delivered, neatly wrapped up in a leaf of an old copy-book of Billy's. The stranger praised the workmanship, paid the five shillings he had promised, and was about to wrap up the key again in the same paper, when his eye was attracted by the writing.

quot;What have we here?quot; he asked. quot;'Evil communications corrupt good manners.' All very true! 'William Norton, London.' Is this your own handwriting? But I see it is. You're a clever lad, William. Good-bye, good-bye! I must be off.quot;

On the next day but one, Jacob Norton was sitting in his workshop sipping the pint of porter he usually allowed himself in the forenoon, and looking over a morning paper which the friendly pot-boy had left him for half an hour. His son was mending an old lock that was to be brought home in the afternoon to a family living in the upper part of the very house in which the collector had a small office on the ground-floor, so that Billy would thus have an opportunity of paying the rates without losing his time or allowing his father to discover his design, till the proper moment had come. All at once he was startled by an abrupt exclamation from Jacob Norton, indicative of mingled surprise and indignation.

quot;It's a lie, a shameful lie!quot; cried Jacob. quot;Listen, Billy.

52

A burglary, they say, has been committed in Cheapside. A jeweller's shop has been plundered — regularly gutted. No, it's too bad.quot;

■quot;But, father, it may be true,quot; objected Billy, who could 'not comprehend Jacob's unwonted vehemence.

quot;I don't say that it isn't replied the father. quot;That would be nothing new in London. But what I won't believe is this — just listen, Billy: 'There are strong grounds for suspecting that the shop was entered by opeuing the streetdoor with a false key, which must have been made by a skilful locksmith. We are informed that the police have found a clew which may lead to the apprehension of the burglars, or at all events to that of the accomplices.' Now, Billy, since the beginning of the world there never yet was a regular locksmith that was either a thief himself or a helper of thieves. So you see it's a lie, and the paople who write such stuff in the newspapers should be hauled over the coals for it.quot;

AVhile Jacob was speaking, the thoughts of his son reverted for a moment, but only for a moment, to the elegant stranger for whom he had made the key, and to the impression in wax which was still lying in the drawer of his bench. Would it not be wise to destroy the impression? No, he thought; the gentleman could not have been a burglar, and besides innocence ought always to be bold.

It was getting towards two o'clock; the father and son had finished their simple dinner, and Billy, taking the lock under his arm, was about to leave the house, when a half shabby, half genteel looking man, closely followed by two police-officers in uniform, entered the workshop. Addressing himself to the locksmith, the spokesman of the party, who was in plain clothes, inquired if his name was not Jacob Norton.

quot;At your service,quot; replied Jacob. quot;What can I do for you?quot;

quot;And this young man, I believe, is your son ?quot;

quot;My only son, Billy Norton.quot;

quot;In that case I wish to put a few questions to him, but it is only fair to warn him that he may object to answer them, if he thinks he cannot do so without criminating himself.quot;

Before either father or son could utter a word in reply,

53

the officer pulled a sheet of paper out of his breast-pocket, and continued:

quot;Is that your handwriting?quot;

quot;Certainly, it's a leaf out of ray last copy-book.quot;

quot;You tore it out to wrap up something in it?quot;

quot;I did, the day before yesterday. It was a key.quot;

quot;And you made the key?quot;

quot;I did, from an impression in wax.quot;

quot;What has become of the impression?quot;

quot;I have it still. It is in the drawer of my bench.quot;

The officer motioned to one of the policemen, who immediately opened the drawer, and produced the wax impression.

quot;You act very sensibly, young man, in giving us no unnecessary trouble,quot; said the officer, quot;and this circumstance will doubtless weigh in your favour with the jury. It only now remains for me to arrest you on the charge of being a principal or accessory in the robbery committed in the night of the 10th to ilth of the present month on the premises of Thomas Lloyd, jeweller, Cheapside.quot;

While this dialogue was going on, Jacob Norton had remained stupefied with amazement and completely tongue-tied, but seeing that the policemen were about to remove his son, he so far recovered himself as to conjure Billy to tell him the truth of the matter, and to confess everything if he had really broken the laws of his country. A very brief explanation from his son sufficed to put him in possession of the main facts, and the poor locksmith, who in a moment perceived the critical position in which Billy's imprudence had placed him, wrung the hand of his unfortunate son by way of adieu, and sank down with his elbows resting on the bench and his face buried in his hands, completely prostrated by this terrible and unexpected blow.

Billy Norton was committed to jail, and it might have gone hard with him, had not his first customer, the elegantly dressed gentleman, been fortunately arrested while endeavouring to dispose of a part of the stolen jewellery. Being brought before a magistrate, he made a full confession, which led to the arrest of his two accomplices, both of them well-known

54

thieves like himself, and what was still better, it resulted ia the complete exculpation and speedy release of Billy.

About fifteen years after the incidents recorded in this brief narrative, Billy Norton was one day busy as usual in the old workshop, which had in the mean time been enlarged so as to leave room for a couple of journeymen and two smart-looking apprentices, and old Jacob, as his acquaintances now called him, was enjoying his forenoon pint of porter and his newspaper — for it was just eleven o'clock — when a rosy-cheeked little boy bounced into the workshop with a pen in the one hand and a sheet of paper in the other, and running up to Billy, requested his quot;dear Papaquot; to set him a copy. Billy Norton gave his first-born a kiss, laid down the lock he was examining, and taking the pen from the child, wrote in his fine old hand:

quot;Children, never conceal anything from your parents.quot;

An Awkward Mistake.

The following story about an Englishman in Eussia is substantially taken from a French writer, who recounts it as a real occurrence, and it is not impossible, however strange it may appear, that it has a foundation in fact.

The surprising and uninterrupted progress of Eussia from the time of quot;Peter the Great till the reign of Catherine II. had induced a largo number of foreigners to settle in that country, particularly in St. Petersburg. Among them was an English banker, called Sunderland, who, being patronized by the Empress, and finding himself comfortable and prosperous in his adopted country, soon abandoned the idea of returning to England, and even took the necessary steps to become a naturalized Eussian subject.

One morning, just after breakfast and before the banker had gone to business, he was surprised to see his house surrounded by a detachment of guards, and his consternation augmented, when he learned that Police-director Eeliew wished

55

to speak to him without a moment's delay. It was quite out of the question to decline such a visit, and the banker accordingly gave orders for the Police-director to he admitted.

That functionary, as he entered the apartment, seemed at once embarrassed and dismayed, and expressed his regret in broken sentences that it should have devolved on him to be the bearer of unpleasant tidings. He was quite ignorant, he added, of the nature of the crime by which the hanker had so suddenly forfeited the favour of the Empress and incurred her implacable animosity, but to judge by the severity of the proposed punishment, it must have been a very serious offence. The banker, who had listened to the Police-director with unfeigned amazement, now hastily asked at what punishment he hinted, but Eeliew preserved a sombre silence. quot;I see it all,quot; cried the banker, quot;it is the ruin of my prospects in life, and my expulsion from Russian territory.quot; The functionary shook his head, and observed that Sunderland was rich enough to live comfortably in England or any other country. quot;Good Heavens!quot; cried the poor banker, quot;am I then to be banished to Siberia? or perhaps imprisoned during the pleasure of the Empress?quot; The other mournfully replied that many an exile lived long enough to return, and that prisoners had always a chance of liberation. The banker, more and more alarmed, asked in a faltering voice, if he had been sentenced to the knout. The reply was that though this punishment is terrible it does not extinguish life. quot;Good God!quot; cried the wretched Sunderland, quot;my life is then in danger!quot; and with constantly increasing vehemence he implored the Police-director to keep him no longer in suspense, but to acquaint him at once with the full extent of the misery that awaited him.

quot;Since you must know it sooner or later,quot; said Eeliew, quot;I may as well tell you everything. My most gracious sovereign has commanded me to bring you her stuffed.quot; quot;Stuffed!quot; echoed the banker, looking steadily at his interlocutor; quot;either the Empress or you must be out of your senses. But you have never received such an extravagant and barbarous order from her Majesty.quot; The functionary not only asseverated that the order had been given, but added that when he had

56

attempted to make remonstrances, the Empress had sternly imposed silence on him, and that all he could do for the unfortunate banker was to grant him a brief respite to settle his affairs.

The Police-director, however, was at bottom neither a cruel nor an ill-natured man. He consented to take a letter to Count Bruce, and warmly entreated him, on behalf of poor Sunderland, to present it to the Empress. The Count was astounded at what he read and heard, but suspecting some misunderstanding he hastened to the palace, and requested an audience of her Majesty on business that admitted of no delay.

On listening to the report of the Count, Catherine was struck with horror, and immediately gave orders that the banker should in no way be molested. Then bursting into a hearty lit of laughter, she cried out that she perceived how the ridiculous, though very serious mistake, had originated. She had some time before got a present of a pretty little dog from a Scotch gentleman called Sutherland, and to this dog she had given the name of Ills former owner. The little creature dying, she had applied to Keliew, who knew all the tradesmen in St. Petersburg, to get it properly stuffed for her. His evident repugnance to obey her orders she had attributed to a silly pride which forbade him to accept a commission unworthy of the high functions he discharged, even to oblige a lady who was at the same time his sovereign.

Of this story we may say with the Italians: Se non è vero, è ben trovato.

When oiu¹ Need is the Sorest, God is Nearest.

On the eastern coast of England, between Yarmouth and the Wash, there lived many years ago a worthy man called John Dobbin, who farmed some fifty acres of good land. John dwelt in the neat farm-house, with its tapestry of roses and woodbine, in which he had first seen the light of day, and tilled the same soil his father had cultivated before him. Out

57

of a family of six, three of whom had died in infancy, John alone outlived the parents. When fully thirty years of age, he married a young woman called Betty Kobinson, a neighbour's daughter, who in duo time presented her husband with two fine sons. To the eldest John gave his father's name, Gilbert; the second he called after himself.

The elder of the two lads was a kindly and affectionate, though somewhat dull and plodding youth; but about his spirited and restless second son the father felt some anxiety. The younger John exhibited, it is true, no vicious propensities, but from his earliest childhood he had felt that intense longing for the sea which seems in many English boys to be an irresistible instinct. When almost in his infancy, he constructed a flotilla of paper boats to cruise on the duck-pond; a year or two later he launched a tiny wooden frigate on the brook that meandered through the meadow, and when hardly twelve, it was his delight to accompany the fishermen, and try to handle an oar or reef a sail on tho waters of the German Ocean. John Dobbin the elder would have been better satisfied, if his younger son had been willing to learn a trade in Yarmouth, but rightly thinking that a good sailor and a bad artisan may be made out of tho same materials, he resolved not to cross him in his wishes; so the boy was apprenticed to the sea, and soon became an expert seaman. Every time he set foot on his native England, on returning from a voyage, he dutifully visited his parents, bringing with him a couple of conch shells or a cocoa-nut, or a wampum belt, or a pair of moccasins; but sometimes a year, or even two years, passed away, and the sailor was separated from the beloved home of his childhood by many a mile of heaving Ocean.

John Dobbin the elder was an Independent in his religious opinions, and though he had never got beyond the most elementary branches of education, he was endowed with a natural good sense which made him despise everything like superstition. He was accustomed to say that a man who feared God should fear nothing else, and that a good Christian ought to feel certain that divine Providence is more than a match for all the powers of darkness.

58

Ono fine evening in September, about sunset, as Betty Dobbin was engaged in milking the cows, and Gilbert had taken the horses to water, John Dobbin was seated before the door enjoying a tranquil pipe of tobacco. His eyes were fixed on a small neglected-looking out-house nearly opposite, which had successively served several purposes in his father's life-time, but for some years past had hardly once been opened. He was just pondering whether the stones in the walls might not be turned to good account in repairing a dilapidated fence, when he perceived, advancing up the lane that led from his house to the neighbouring village, a man who appeared to be leading by the head an ass loaded with something like a couple of panniers. As the stranger came nearer, John could observe that he was old, white-haired, and round-shouldered, and that his scanty and threadbare garments bespoke extreme poverty. Bidding John good evening, the stranger asked, in a rather faint voice, if lie had no broken china to be mended, or locks out of order, chairs that needed repairs, or clocks that wanted cleaning, adding that he executed all such work on very moderate terms. Before John could give a reply, Betty issued from the cow-house, and the old man having repeated his offers of service to her, she recollected that there were various articles in the household on which he might try his skill. It was accordingly agreed that as night was coming on, the stranger, after getting his supper, should be accommodated with a bed of clean straw in the old out-house, where there was room enough for the ass too, and begin his work betimes in the morning.

This arrangement was carried out, and so well pleased was John Dobbin with the handiness displayed by the old man, to whom nothing seemed to come amiss, that he recommended him to several of his neighbours, and these again to their own acquaintances, so that for fully six weeks old Jack Stewart (this was the name he gave himself) had his hands completely full of work. During all this time he regularly passed the night in the old out-house, and when, towards the end of October, the winter set in prematurely with cutting winds and heavy sleet-showers, not only did John cheerfully grant the

59

aged stranger's request to be allowed to remain where he was till the severity of the winter was past, but the soft-hearted Gilbert, with his father's approbation, brought him an old bedstead, a paillasse, and a warm blanket, as well as a small table, and aided him in making the shed as comfortable as it could well be made. A chair the old man did not want, for he had already procured himself a seat by removing to his dwelling, with the aid of his ass, a block of wood that had long lain ownerless before the village blacksmith's door. In the evening there was always a place for old Jack at the good farmer's fire, and a corner at the kitchen table when supper was served. The old man spoke but little, though one day when in an unusually communicative mood, he informed his new friends that he was a foundling, and had been brought up by a childless couple, who at first treated him with kindness, but afterwards grew weary of him; that after learning the trade of his fosterfather, who was a carpenter, he left their house without a farthing in his pocket, and had since that time led a wandering life, turning his hand to anything by which ho could earn an honest penny. One evening when Betty had shown him some slight unexpected kindness, he dropped a vague hint about his ability, poor as he seemed, to recompense those who treated him well, and then, suddenly checking himself, he turned the conversation into another channel.

quot;We have mentioned that the block of wood of which old Jack Stewart had taken possession was ownerless, and there wore reasons for its being so. It had once been the stem of a stately elm that grew near the roadside, and many a time had the village children seated themselves beneath its spreading branches to weave garlands of wild flowers on a sunny summer afternoon. But one dark autumn night a fearful crime was committed close beside it, and early next morning the body of a murdered man was found lying close to the trunk of the tree. The perpetrator was traced, arrested, and discovered to be the brother of his victim. The fratricide suffered the penalty due to his crime, but henceforth the tree was regarded as a thing accursed. When, a few years later, it was uprooted

60

by a violent storm, for some time it lay unheeded till the village blacksmith obtained permission from the owner of the field to saw off a portion of the trunk, which he intended to place before his door as a horse-block. A week afterwards, an elderly farmer, who had set his foot on the block, the better to mount his horse, somehow slipped, fell, and broke his leg; and although he had been refreshing himself, during the horse-shoeing, with a few pints of strong ale in a select circle of friends assembled in the neighbouring public-house, so firm was the general conviction that the block was the sole cause of his disaster, that the farrier removed it ignominiously from his door to the adjacent common, where it lay, abhorred and avoided by all, till it was finally appropriated by the poor old wanderer.

As the winter advanced, the health of Jack Stewart began to decline. He got a troublesome cough, and after a time ceased to appear at John Dobbin's hospitable fireside. The good farmer and his wife repeatedly offered him more comfortable quarters in their own cottage, but the old man obstinately refused to leave the out-house. This, however, did not prevent the worthy couple from supplying the poor friendless man with better food than he could have otherwise procured, and in the long winter evenings Gilbert spent many an hour in trying to raise the spirits of old Jack. Suddenly, however_gt; a decided change for the worse took place. The poor wanderer,, one chill and bleak afternoon, requested Gilbert to summon John and Betty Dobbin. In a feeble and husky voice he told them that in his long life he had from them alone experienced disinterested kindness, that feeling the icy hand of Death already upon him, he bequeathed to them all he possessed in the world, the ass and the old block of wood. quot;John Dobbin,quot; he added, slowly and emphatically, quot;do not despise my legacy; that old blockquot; — a violent fit of coughing prevented him from finishing the sentence, and when it ended the old man's heart, had likewise ceased to beat.

quot;What could he mean,quot; asked Betty, 'by talking so about, the useless old block?quot; quot;He meant,quot; said John, quot;thatbesides, the ass it was the only thing he could call his own, and that

G1

he bad no other token of his gratitude to leave us. Tho block will be useful to us in many ways in the kitchen, and I shall remove it there to-morrow morning.quot;

Old Jack Stewart was interred at the cost of the parish, and John Dobbin placed the block in the farm-house kitchen, though the neighbours shook their heads, and declared, one and all, that under no circumstances they would have admitted it within their doors.

For once the neighbours seemed to be in the right. One morning Dobbin, on entering his stable, found his best horse lying on the litter stone dead, though only the day before he had seemed as healthy and vigorous as usual. Two or three months later, a fine milch-cow suddenly died, then a second, and soon afterwards a third and a fourth. A wot harvest succeeded, and by some strange fatality John Dobbin's crops ripened later than those of most other people, and were almost destroyed by tho pouring rain, while many of his neighbours escaped with comparatively little loss. Constant dropping, says the proverb, wears away a stone, and continued ill luck will ultimately ruin those who are in the best of circumstances. For the first time in his life John learned what a terrible thing is pecuniary embarrassment, and in order to meet pressing engagements he one day saw himself obliged to apply to a money-lender and borrow at heavy interest. But who has not observed that when a man has once fairly entered on a downward career his progress is often perfectly marvellous? After the lapse of two anxious years, John Dobbin had no alternative but to surrender his farm and his remaining stock to satisfy his importunate creditors.

One evening in October Dobbing was sitting with his wife and son, sad but resigned, beside the kitchen fire. They had, indeed, good reason to be sorrowful, for tho farm on which they had spent so many happy years was next day to be sold by auction. It was perhaps their last evening under the old roof, and one of the last they were to spend in their beloved England; for John had resolved, with the poor remnant of his property, to try what could be done to retrieve his fortune in the wilds of Upper Canada.

62

But there was an additional element of bitterness and anxiety in the thoughts of them all. For nearly three years there had been no tidings of the brave sailor boy. Where could he be? was he alive or dead? and what would he feel on returning — if he ever returned — to the deserted spot which had once been his home! In more prosperous days, Betty Dobbin had been as little inclined to superstition as her husband, but the singular coincidence between the date of their taking the old block into their house and the beginning of their own reverses had of late made so deep an impression on her mind, that she could not repress an allusion to it, even at the risk of offending her husband. In all his misfortunes John's religious principles had remained unshaken, but he was tolerant of the weaknesses of others, even when he thought them both absurd and ridiculous. quot;Gilbert,quot; he cried, quot;the old block can be of no use to us any longer. Take your axe, my lad, and let the wood at least serve to cook our supper, perhaps the last supper whe shall take within these walls.quot;

The young man rose to do what his father commanded. Having first removed a pail of water which stood on the block, he drew it forth from the wall to the middle of the kitchen, and took his axe in his hand. The first stroke was followed by a strange metallic ring, and a second succeeded with the same effect. The third blow accidentally lighted on a broad crack which had arisen from exposure to sun and rain, and the block suddenly parted into two pieces. At the same moment a stream of coins poured down on the floor, rolling into every corner of the kitchen, and up to the walls of the house. One of them was intercepted in its course by John Dobbin's foot, and on picking it up, he observed to his intense surprise that it was of pure gold! In the mean time Betty and Gilbert had briskly set themselves to pursue the rest into their respective hiding-places, and when the pieces were at last secured and counted, they were found to amount to more than three hundred, all of gold, and mostly of old, though not of ancient coinage.

On a careful examination of the block, it was discovered that a chamber had been hollowed out in the interior by a

63

dexterous hand, and after the treasure had been deposited ■within it, so carefully and ingeniously closed up again that no external indications remained to betray the secret. This circumstance, taken in connexion with the last unfinished words of old Jack Stewart, seemed clearly to show that it was to the deceased wanderer the distressed family were indebted for this most seasonable relief. quot;Why the old man should have voluntarily suffered privation, when he had such resourses at his disposal, is one of those curious problems which will always puzzle the psychologist. But cases like Jack Stewart's, in which the love of accumulating without any thought of enjoying has become the ruling passion of the soul, are far from being rare.

It was of course settled by all the neighbours that nothing good could come from the old block or be attended with the blessing of Providence, and that the riches which had so unexpectedly fallen into the hands of the Dobbins would bring them nothing but new and aggravated misfortune. Por once, however, they were in the wrong. John paid his debts, retained his little patrimony, and became more prosperous than ever. His second son, too, soon returned to England as mate of a fine merchantman. John Dobbin retained to the last his firm faith in a Providence that watches over good men, to whom, as he lost no opportunity of inculcating on the young, when their need is the sorest, God is nearest.

The Mischievous Monkey.

Mary Howitt has addressed some graceful lines to the monkey, and most people — even those who never heard of Darwin — take pleasure in observing, and feel a deep interest in the quot;little brotherquot; of the human race. If we pay a visit to a zoological garden, we shall find that though the majestio lion, the no less stately Bengal tiger or the quot;half-reasoning elephantquot; has each his special circle of admirers, the largest crowd is sure to be attracted by quot;Nature's punchinelloquot;. In

04

and out of a cage the monkey delights in mischief, and his practical jokes, when at liberty, sometimes put the patience of his friends to a severe trial, as the following little tale will show.

An honest Scotch weaver in the small town of Hamilton, William Magee by name, liad got a present of a monkey from a brother of his, who was a sailor. When his day's work was over, it was the favourite amusement of the weaver to teach Kosey, as he called the monkey, all sorts of tricks. In a short time the docile animal had learned to walk on his hind-legs with the aid of a stick, and as his master had dressed him in a kilt and Highland bonnet, he had no small resemblance, especially in the dusk, to a little old man in the ancient Celtic costume. It happened one evening that Magee, who was economical of his time, having finished a web just as it was growing dark, decided on taking it at once to his employer, Mr. Weft, more particularly as he wished to have some fresh work for the next morning. Being in a cheerful frolicsome humour, he resolved to take Nosey with him, and the two friends accordingly loft the weaver's house together, and bent their steps towards Mr. Weft's shop, near the old town cross, Magee walking on before, and the monkey, with his stick in his hand, following him as if he had been his servant.

On reaching the shop, Magee found it was empty, which did not surprise him in the least, for he immediately and rightly surmised that Mr. Weft had gone out a moment, as was customary before the invention of lucifer-matches, to procure a light from some neighbour. He accordingly took his web into the back-shop, deposited it on the table, and had already seated himself beside it, when he observed that the monkey, for some reason or other, had remained behind in the front-shop. Looking through the glass door that separated the one shop from the other, Magee to his astonishment saw the animal sitting on the high three-legged stool before Mr. Weft's desk, turning over the leaves of the ledger with an air of the greatest gravity and attention. Magee was so amused ■at the sight, that he could not turn his eyes away from the

05

monkey, oven -when he heard the bolt of the half-door in front drawn back, as he believed by Mr. Weft himself, and he -was already anticipating the amazement of the manufacturer at seeing his desk and stool so unceremoniously appropriated, when not hearing the expected exclamation of surprise he looked in the direction of the door, and perceived, not the well-known countenance of the manufacturer, but that of a perfect stranger.

The new-comer was a Highlander, and had the appearance of a cattle-drover in comfortable circumstances. Magee could perceive, though the shop was dark, that he wore a kilt and Highland bonnet, and that his whole costume was the exact counterpart of that of the monkey. The stranger, observing in the dim twilight some one seated at the desk, busily occupied, as it seemed, with the ledger, he politely bade him good evening, and taking out a one-pound note from an enormous pocket-book he handed it over to the monkey, saying that he should feel much obliged, if he would change a note for him.

The creature took the note briskly enough out of the Highlander's hand, and began to examine it closely, first up and down, and then front and back, shaking his head all the time with an air of the most consummate wisdom. This pantomime, however, becoming rather too protracted, the stranger asked him rather pettishly if he thought the note a forgery; but as Nosey's only reply was another significant shake of his head, the hot-blooded Highlander lost all patience, and requested the quot;old gentlemanquot; to give him back the note, that ho might go and get it changed somewhere else. While uttering these words in an excited tone of voice, the Highlander stretched out his hand to take back his property, when the monkey, slily lifting his stick, gave him such a blow on the knuckles as made him spring back a good couple of yards from the counter.

The first idea of the Highlander naturally was that the quot;old gentlemanquot; intended to purloin his note. Furious at this supposition, and smarting with the pain of the blow, he seized a heavy iron weight, which stood on the counter beside the

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scales, and threw it with such violence at Nosey, that had he hit the monkey he would have effectually put an end to his pranks for ever. But the monkey was too nimble for him, and with one bound he seated himself on a shelf behind the desk, where he coolly rolled up the bank-note like a ball, put it in his coat-pocket,' and proceeded to exasperate the Highlander still farther by shaking his stick at him and making the most hideous grimaces. The rage of the latter now knew no bounds, and without a moment's intermission he swore all sorts of English and Gaelic oaths, till the door once more opened, and Mr. Weft at length made his appearance, carrying a piece of burning paper in his hand to light the candles in his shop.

The Highlander saw in a moment that the manufacturer was the proprietor of the establishment, and he accordingly demanded of him, in no very polite terms, the restitution of his abstracted note. Mr. quot;Weft at first stared at him for a few moments in unfeigned astonishment, not feeling quite certain whether the Highlander was mad or drunk, then letting the paper, which had begun to burn his fingers, drop on the floor, he quietly asked of what note the stranger was speaking. quot;What note!quot; cried the Highlander, in the same furious tone, quot;the note the old scoundrel, your grandfather, stole from me.quot; The manufacturer replied with some heat that his grandfather had been dead for sixteen years, and that ho now heard for the first time that any relation of his was a thief. This answer provoked a retort; the dispute grew every moment hotter, and when the manufacturer, losing patience in his turn and feeling convinced that the Highlander was intoxicated, advised him to go home and sleep himself sober, the latter sprang like a tiger on the unfortunate Mr. Weft, seized him by the nose, and swore he would pull it quot;as long as a cow's tailquot;, if the manufacturer did not immediately restore him his stolen property.

The weaver, who had witnessed the whole scene, to his no small amusement, from the back-shop, seeing the joke was going farther then lie intended, now thought it high time to interfere. Believing, however, that it would be better to pretend ignorance, he affected, on emerging from the back-

07

shop, to be greatly surprised at the attitude of the belligerent parties. When he inquired into the cause of the quarrel, each of them gave his own account of it, the manufacturer relating how he had been waylaid and nearly throttled in his own shop, and the Highlander recounting how he had first been robbed by Mr. Weft's grandfather and afterwards grossly insulted by Mr. Weft himself. The weaver replied to both complainants by pointing to Nosey, and dryly observing that ho suspected the monkey was at the bottom of the misunderstanding. The creature was still seated on the shelf, apparently enjoying the scene quite as much as his master had done, and exhibiting his delight by moving his walking-stick backwards and forwards over his left elbow, as if he had been playing on the fiddle. The whole truth immediately flashed upon the manufacturer, who burst into a loud peal of laughter, and a brief explanation was sufficient to convince the Highlander of the ridiculous mistake he had made. For a moment, indeed, the latter appeared anything but amused at the pleasantry of the monkey; but when the creature, taking out of its pocket the bank-note which it had rolled up like a ball, hit the Highlander with it exactly on the point of his long nose, he heartily echoed Mr. Weft's laugh, and fairly screamed with wonder and admiration.

As soon as the Highlander had recovered a little from the merriment which almost threatened to suffocate him, he hastened to ask pardon of Mr. Weft for the very rough usage he had given him, but the worthy manufacturer reminded him that Solomon himself, the wisest of men, was not secure from error. Hereupon the Highlander suddenly recollected that ho stood in need of a genuine Kilmarnock nightcap, and bought one of Mr. Weft. The manufacturer on his side, not willing to be outdone in generosity, proposed that as it was time to close the shop they should all. Nosey not excepted, adjourn to a respectable public-house in the neighbourhood. The Highlander accepted the invitation, and here a friendship was cemented between two worthy men which had begun in the oddest of ways.

G8 A Hero.

In a¹) certain Cornish mine, two men⁵), deep clown in the shaft, were engaged in putting in a shot for blasting. They had completed their purpose, and were about to give thequot;) signal for being hoisted up. One at a time was all the-¹) assistant at the top could manage, and the second was to kindle the fuse, and then mount with all speed.

Now it chanced, while they were still below, that one of them thought the fuse too long. He accordingly tried to cut it shorter. Taking a couple of stones⁵), a flat and a sharp, he succeeded in cutting it the required length; but, dreadful to relate, he kindled it at the same time, while both were still below! Both shouted vehemently to the man at the windlass⁷); both sprang into the bucket. The man could not move it with both in it.

Hero was a moment for poor Miner Jack and Miner Will! Instant horrible death hangs over them. quot;Will generously resigns himself. quot;Go aloft. Jack; sit down; away! in one minute I shall be in heaven⁶)!quot;

Jack bounds aloft, the explosion instantly follows, bruising his face as ho looks over; but he is safe above ground.

And what of poor Will? Descending eagerly, they find him, as if by miracle, buried under rocks which had arched themselves over him. He is little injured. He too is brought up safequot;). Well done, brave Will!

The Story of a Matcli-Boy.

Not long ago, in the city⁹) of Edinburgh, two gentlemenquot;) were standing at the door of a¹⁰) hotel one veiy cold day, when a little boy⁹) with a poor thin blue face, his feet⁵) bare and red with the cold, and with nothing to cover him but a bundle of rags, came and said, quot;Please, sir, buy some matches⁷).quot;

*)§2. ^a) § 10.1. a. ')§8.1. ^s) § 9. ⁶) § 3. h. ') §9.1. quot;)§9.4.

•) g 9. 3. ■quot;) § '2. Rem. I.

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quot;No, we don't want any,quot; the gentleman said. quot;But they are only a penny¹) a^!) box,quot; the poor little fellow pleaded. quot;Yes, but you see we don't want a box³),quot; the gentleman said again. quot;Then I will sell you two boxes for a penny,quot; the boy said at last, and so to get rid of him, the gentleman, who tells the story, says, quot;I bought a box; but then I found I had no change, so I said, 'I will buy a box to-morrow.' 'Oh, do buy them to-night, if yon please,' the boy pleaded again; 'I will run and get you the change, for I am very hungry.' Soquot;') I gave him the shilling, and he started away. I waited for him, but no boy came.

quot;Then I thought I had lost my shilling; still⁵) there was something in the boy'squot;) face that⁷) I trusted, and I did not like to think badly of him. Late in⁸) the evening P) was told a little boy wanted'quot;) to see me. When he was brought in, I found¹¹) he was a smaller brother of the boy that got my shilling, but if possible, thinner and more ragged. He stood for¹²) a moment, diving into¹³) his rags as if seeking for something, and then said, 'Are you the gentleman that bought the matches from¹⁴) Sandie?' 'Yes.' 'Well, then, here's fourpence out of the shilling; Sandie cannot come; he's very ill; a cart ran over him and knocked him down, and he lost his cap and his matches and your sevenpence, and both his^ls) legs are broken, and the doctor says he will die, and that's all.' And then, putting the fourpence on the table, the poor child broke out into great sobs.

quot;So'¹) I fed the little lad, and I went with him to see Sandie. I found that the two little things lived alone, their father and mother being¹⁶) dead. Poor Sandie was lying on a bundle of shavingsquot;). He knew me as soon as I came in, and said, 'I got the change, sir, and was coming back; and then the horse knocked me down, and both my¹') legs were broken.

quot;'And Oh, Keuby ; little Reuby! I am sure I am dying¹quot;), and who will take care of you when I am¹⁸) gone? What will

') § 10. t. !). *) § 4. 2. d. ³) § 9. *) § 279. ⁵) § 278. °) § 25.1. amp;5. ') §95. I.e. quot;) § 257. Rem. te. ') §63amp;§t70. quot;) § 150. 3. Rem. 2. c(. quot;) §283. Rem. quot;) § 255. quot;) § 258. quot;) § 256. quot;) § 73. quot;) § 207. quot;) § 15. 3. b. '•) § 173. Rem. d. •') § 174.

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you do, Keuby?' Then I took his hand, and said I would always take care of Keuby. He understood me, and had just strength') to look up at me as if to thank me; and the light went out of his blue eyes.quot;

The Loss of the Itirkeuhead.

The Birkenhead, a war-steamer used as a transport, was on her way to Algoa Bay with about 630 persons on board, 132 being¹) her own crew, the rest being^:) detachments from the 12th^:'), 74th, and 91st regiments, and the wives') and children⁵) of the soldiers. In the dead of the night between the 25th and 28th of) February, the vessel struck on a reef of sunken rocks on the African coast, and from the rapidity with which «he was moving⁷), and the violence of the waves, became rapidly a hopeless wreck. On the shock, the whole of the men and officers hurriedquot;) on deck, and the commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Seton^D), calling the other officers about him¹⁰), impressed on them the necessity of preserving¹¹) order and silence among¹quot;) the men, and placed them at the disposal of the commander of the vessel¹³).

Sixty were placed at the pumps, others¹⁴) to disengage the boats, and others to throw the poor horses overboard, so as to lighten the ship, while the rest were¹⁵) sent to the poop to ease the forepart of the ship. Every one did as directed, and not a murmur nor cry was heard. They were as steady as if on parade, as ready as though^ls) embarking in a British harbour.

The largest boat was unhappily too much encumbered to be got at¹⁷) quickly enough, but the cutter was filled with the women⁵) and children, and pushed off¹⁸), as did two other small boats. The other two large ones were, one capsized, the other stove in by the fall of the funnel, which took place immediately after the cutter was clear of the ship, only twelve or fifteen

*) § 12. 3. Rem. ') § 207. ') § 52. ') § 9. 4. ') § -10. \. a. ') § 52. 2. ') § -173. Rem. a. quot;) § -129. °) § 3. a. quot;) § 78. quot;) § 200. quot;) § 246. quot;) § 26. quot;) § 1-12. •quot;■) § 20. a. quot;) § 147. Rem. a. ¹⁷) § 171. quot;) § 260.

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mimites after the ship had struck. At the same time the whole vessel broke in two parts, cross-wise, and the stern part began to sink and fill¹) with water. The commander called out, quot;All those¹) that can swim jump overboard and swim for the boats.quot;

But Colonel Seton and the officers with him besought their men to forbear, showing them that if they did so, the boats with the women must be swamped. And they stood still ^). Not more than three made the attempt. Officers and men alike waited to face almost certain death rather than endanger the women and children. Young soldiers, mostly but a short time in the service, were as patiently resolute as their elders ■■). In a few moments the whole^s) of these brave men were washed into the sea, some sinking, some swimming, some clinging to spars. The boats picked up asquot;) many as was possible without overloading them, and then made for the shore, which was only two miles off, hoping⁷) to land these and return for more, but the surf ran so high, that landing was impossible, and after seeking till daylight for a safe landing-place, they were at last picked up by a schooner, which then made for the wreck, where thirty or forty were still hanging to the masts in a dreadful state of exhaustion.

A few, bothquot;) of men and horses, had succeeded in swimming ^ to the shore; but some were devoured by the sharks on the way, and out of the whole number in the ship, only 192 were saved. But those who were lost, both sailors and soldiers, have left behind them¹⁰) a memory of calm, self-denying courage as heroic as ever was shown on battle-field.

Capture of a Cayiuaii.

The Indianquot;) had made his instrument to take^1!) the Cayman. It was very simple; there were four pieces of tough, hard wood, a foot long¹³), and about as thick as your little finger,

'mvs.s. ³) § 8G. ^s)§«.f'. ¹)§49. ⁵) § 20. a. quot;) § 34. ')§'207. quot;)§275. quot;) § 109. ^,0) § 78. quot;) § 49. b. quot;) § 189. quot;) § 40. c.

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and barbed at both¹) ends; they were tied round the end of a rope in such a manner, that if you conceive the rope to be an²) arrow, these four sticks would form the arrow's head, so that one end of the four united sticks answered to the point of the arrow's head, while the other end of the sticks expanded at equal distances round the rope. Now it is evident, that if the Cayman swallowed this, (the other end of the rope, which was thirty yards long³), being fastened to a tree) the more he pulled, the ^) faster the barbs would stick in his stomach⁵). The wooden⁰) hook, if you may so call it, was well baited with flesh, and the entrails⁷) were twisted round the rope for about a foot above it. Nearly a mile from where we had our hammocks, the sandbank was steep and abrupt, and the river very still and deep; there the Indian pricked a stick into the sand. It was two feet long, and on its extremity was fixed the machine: it hung suspended about a foot from the water, and the end of the rope was made fast to a stake driven well into the sand. The Indian then took the empty shell of a land tortoise, and gave it some heavy blows with an axe. I asked him, why he did that. He said, it was to let the Cayman hear that somethingquot;) was going on. In fact the Indian meant it as the Cayman's dinner bell. Having done this, he went back to the hammocks, not intending to visit it again till early in the morning.

During the night the Jaguars roared and grumbled in the forest, as though the world was going wrong with') them, and at intervals we could hear the distant Caymans. The roaring of the Jaguars was awful, but it was music to the dismal noise of these hideous and malicious reptiles. About half past five in the morning the Indian stole off silently to take a look at the bait. On '⁰) arriving at the place he set up a tremendous shout. We all jumped out of our hammocks, and ran to him. We found a Cayman, ten and a half feet long, fast to the end of the rope. Nothing now remained to doquot;), but to get him out of the water without¹⁰) injuring his scales. We mustered strong: there were three Indians from the Creek; there was my own

') § -108. ') § 2. ') § 46. c. ') § 35. ⁵) § 9.1. quot;) § 45. Rem. ') § 15.3. b. quot;) § 105. quot;) § 270. ^,0) § 201. quot;) § 172. Rem. a.

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Indian, Jan Daddi Qnashi; a negro, called James; Mr. Edmonston's man, whom I was instructing to preserve birds, and lastly myself). I informed the Indians that it was my intention to draw him quietly out of the water, and then secure him They looked and stared at each other, and said, I might do it myself, but they would have no hand in it; the Cayman would worry some of us. On saying this, they squatted on their hams with the most perfect indifference. Daddy Quashi was for applying to our guns, as usual, considering them our best and safest friends. I immediately offered to knock him down for his cowardice: he shrunk back, begging that I would be cautious, - and not get³) myself worried and apologized for his own want of resolution. My Indian was now in conversation with the others¹), and they asked me, if I would allow them to shoot half '') a dozen of arrows into him, and thus disable him. This would ruin all. I had come about three hundred miles on purpose to get⁰) a Cayman uninjured, and not to carry back a mutilated specimen. I rejected their proposition with firmness, and darted a disdainful look upon the Indians. Daddy Quashi was again beginning to remonstrate, and I chased him on tho sandbank for a quarter of a mile. He told me afterwards, he thought he should have dropped down dead for ⁷) fright, for') he was firmly persuaded, if I had caught him, I should have bundled him into tho Cayman's jaws. There then we stood in silence, like a calm before a thunderstorm. They wanted to kill him, and I wanted to take him alive⁰).

I now walked up and down, revolving a dozen ¹⁰) projects in my head. The canoe was at a considerable distance, and I ordered the people to bring it round to the place where we were. The mast was eight feet long, and not much thicker than my wrist. I took it out of the canoe, and wrapped the sail round the end of it. Now it appeared clear to me, that if I went down on one knee, and held the mast in tho same position, as the soldier holds his bayonet when rushing to the charge, I could force it down the Cayman's throat, should ¹') the ¹ ^ come open-mouthed at me. When this was told to he

¹

') § 80. b. ') § 19. 1. *) § 159. 5. ') § 112. ^s) § 8, 1. Rem. ⁰) § 159.

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Indians, they brightened up, and said they would help me te pull him out of the river. Brave squads, said I to myself, now that you have got me between yourselves and danger! I then mustered all hands for the last time before the battle. We were four South-American savages, two negroes') from Africa, a Creole from Trinidad, and myself²), a white man from Yorkshire. In fact a strange group in dress and language. Daddy Qnashi hung in the rear; I showed him a large Spanish knife ³), which I always carried in the waistband of my trousers '); it spoke volumes to him, and he shrugged up his shoulders in absolute despair.

The sun was just peeping over the high forests on the eastern hills, as if coming to look on, and bid³) us act with becoming fortitude. I placed all my people at the end of the rope and ordered them to pull, till the Cayman appeared on the surface of the water, and then let him go again into the deep. I now took the mast of the canoe in my hand, and sunk down upon one knee, about two yards from the water's edge ^c), determined to thrust it down the Cayman's throat, in case he gave me au opportunity. The people pulled the Cayman to the surface: he plunged furiously as soon as he arrived in these upper regions, and immediately went below again, on their ⁷) slackening the rope. I saw enough not to fall in love at first sight. I now told them we would run all risks, and have him onland immediately. They pulled again, and out he came. This was an interesting moment. I kept my position firmly with my eye fixed steadfastly on him. By⁸) this time, the Cayman was within a few yards from me, and I saw he was in a state of fear and perturbation. I instantly dropped the mast, sprang up and jumped on his back, turning half round as I vaulted, so that I gained my seat with my face in the right position. I immediately seized his fore-legs, and by main force twisted them on his back, and thus they served me for a bridle.

He now seemed to have recovered from his surprise, and probably fancying himself in hostile company, he began to plunge furiously, and lashed the sand with his long and powerful

') g 9. 2. ²) § 80. b. ^J) § 9. 4. ') § 15. 3. a. ⁵) § 159. 4. amp; J 183. 2. quot;H 5. ') 201 amp; § 19G. 2. °) i 254.

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tail. I ivas out of the reach of it, by being near his head. He contiuued to plunge and to strike, and made my seat very uncomfortable '). It must have been a flue sight for an unoccupied spectator. The people roared out in triumph, and were so vociferous, that it was some time, before they heard me tell²) them to pull me and ray beast of burden farther ^:i) in land. I was apprehensive¹) the rope might break, and then there would have been every chance of going ^) down to the regions under the water with the Cayman. The people now dragged me above forty yards ^(l) on the sand. After repeated attempts to regain his liberty, the Cayman gave in, and became tranquil through exhaustion. I now managed to tie up his jaws, and firmly secured his fore-feet in the position I had held them. We had now another severe struggle for superiority; but he was soon overcome and again remained quiet⁷), He was finally conveyed to the canoe, and then to the place where we had suspended our hammocks. Here I cut his throat, and after breakfast was over, commenced the dissection.

Faithful through Fire.

James Maxwell was pilot on board a steam-ship callcd the Clydesdale, which plied between Glasgow and the west coast of Ireland. One evening, as she was steaming west across the Irish Channel, Maxwell thought he perceived, at short intervals, what seemed like a smell of iiro, and he at once began to examine different parts of the vessel to discover its source. He spoke with the captain of the ship about it, and he agreed with Maxwell as to the suspicious nature of the smell—but neither could form the least conjecture as to ^) its cause. One of the passengers also observed the odour, which ⁰) alternately rose and passed away, and there could now be no doubt as to its reality. About eleven o'clock at night, this gentleman retired to his cabin, in the belief that there ¹quot;) was no immediate

¹

') i 41. c. amp; % 162. 2. Rem. b. ') lgt;₍ 187. ') i 30. Rem. b. ') 5 283. Rem.

7G

danger. Meanwhile the master did not cease for one instant to pry here and there—to search from place to place—and to make every possible inquiry. Maxwell all this time kept his post at the helm. The air became more¹) and more impregnated ■with the odour of burning timber. At length the captain sprang upon deck: quot;Maxwell, the flames have burst out at the paddle-box! What are²) we to do?quot; James calmly inquired, quot;Then shall I put about?quot; But the captain thought it was safest to go on. Maxwell held on to the rudder-wheel; but, with uplifted eyes, he prayed silently and fervently to heaven, 'O God, help me to do my duty! Father in heaven! look to my wife, my ') mother, and my child!quot;

Behind them was the Galloway coast, with its⁴) masses of perpendicular rock; and the captain dared not try to make it. But the pilot saw no hope in the open sea—it seemed to him only a question of a little more or less time; and he thought that, iron-bound and rocky as the coast was, in that direction lay the only chance for safety for the passengers and crew. He therefore put the boat about; and, with quiet face and set teeth, he stood with his eyes fixed upon the point for which ho was trying ⁵) to steer. The exertions of the whole of the crew, aided by the stronger ⁽ⁱ) men among the passengers, could not keep the fire under; and it now raged with ungovernable fury. The engine was going⁵) at full speed; the vessel was one of the swiftest on the Clyde, and she flew through the water with speed incredible to ordinary experience. All the passengers had gathered together into one compact mass at the bow—which was clear of the flames; but the flames and the smoke were blown back to the quarter-galley, where the stern martyr stood steady ⁷) and unflinching at his post. The captain and the crew did all they could to keep the place he stood on ^ deluged with water; but this task became every moment more ⁰) difficult and more hopeless. In spite of all that could be done, the cabin beneath his feet caught fire; volumes of flames swept it from end to end; and the spot on which he stood immovable became heated to a pitch of terrible

*) § 3(5. Rem. ') § 147. 1. ') $ 71. ') § 64. ⁵) § 146. amp; § 173. Rem. a. •) i 36. ') i 41. b. ') i 101. ') i 38.

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intensity. Still ho never flinched; he did not stir an inch. Now and then—at short intervals—gusts of wind would drive away the intervening mass of flame and smoke for a single moment; and the crowd at the bow could see the dark figure of the solitary man against the background of sky. Involuntary murmurs of admiration, gratitude, and hope broke from the crowd; and many a silent prayer went up to Heaven for him and for themselves¹).

The blazing²) vessel, sweeping³) on through the darkness of the night, and rushing from wave to wave, had been observed by the people on shore. The word was passed; and very soon stalwart men and anxious women had assembled on the heights which commanded a narrow opening in the rocks not more than twelve yards wide. They -waved torches and made signals to show the way to the rooky opening. Maxwell saw the signals and understood them. His feet were roasting upon the deck! But he stood steady ⁴) at his post. The fierce fire kept the engine in furious action; and the vessel rushed on through the waves as if⁵) driven by demoniac]power. But the flames had not wrapped the vessel in one fiery shroud; and no mortal^c) could say whether she could by any possibility reach the haven of safety. Nothing turned Maxwell's eye from the narrow gap; he saw that—and only that. The deafening roar of the flames, and the thundering beat of the paddle-wheels were the only sounds heard in the darkness of the night. Will the vessel hold out? Can the pilot stick to his post? Can mortal man endure the agony of the moment •—the torture of the situation ? In one minute more he had run the ship into the open space, and had laid her alongside a ledge of rock. They are safe; and the pilot is safe also. But his constitution, though very powerful, never recovered the effects of that awful night. His feet had been severely burned; and, when crippled with⁷) pain, he crawled ashore, his hair, his cap, and his thick greatcoat crumbled into powder at the lightest touch. His strong athletic form had become old and shrunken; his face was withered and ten years older;

') 3 80 c. ') § 203. ') § 200. ') § 41. b. ⁵) g 147. Rem. o. quot;) § 49. a. ') i 270. b.

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and his hair had changed to gray. But he had done his duty firmly and humbly in the sight of God and man.

Tom's First Adventure.

quot;When I was a boy,quot; said Tom, quot;nothing would please me but going to sea. Father said no, mother said no, sister Sally said no, and even little Jack, though he was no') higher than my knee, said no; but it was no use, for I said yes to them²) all, and I kept on saying it, till at last, after three years, seeing I wasn't likely to keep steady at anything else, they gave consent. But didn't I repent when it came to the very day; when father said, very kind like, 'Come, my lad, it is time te be off!' and mother was sobbing quietly over my bundle, pretending she had some more things to put in, and Sally not pretending at all, but crying with all her might, and little Jack hanging on to my hand, as if no one could ever make ') him leave go. I don't know how I got away, and it brings a lump in my throat even now only to think of it; but I did set off, and I whistled all the way for ten miles to prevent my⁴) doing worse⁵). Sailors must be brave, you know, even before they have been on board.

quot;Well, I don't remember anything particular to tell you for the first⁰) two or three years; it was but adull life, after all, for adventures don't happen every day at sea ⁷) any more than on laud'); but, after three years, war broke out, and then we had many a watchful night, and many ³) a hard-fought day. We had been sent to a French harbour, where we werequot;) to bring off a small party who had landed secretly on a part of the coast to the south of our appointed meeting-place ¹⁰), and were ⁰) to join us a few miles from the village. The harbour was only a small fishing ¹⁰) one, and there was nothing ¹¹) to fear on the land-side; but as some of the enemy's ships might catch sight of us, we kept a strict look-out, and did not make

') i 34 6. amp; § 235. ■) i 62. ') § 159. 1. ') § 190. 2. ^s) I 30. quot;) I 52. i. ') 1 4. b. -) § 8. 2. c. ') § 147. 1. quot;') § 201. c. quot;) J 172. Rem, a.

towards land till dusk. I was one of the party selected to go ashore in the boat, and the watchword to those we came to meet was, 'The little sentinel.' Perhaps it is because of all that happened afterwards, that I remember that night so well; but when I close my eyes, I can just see the moon shining out by fits and starts from behind the clouds, and the waves leaping up in the light. We had gone on quietly¹) for some time, when, suddenly, a dark object loomed in front of us, and we saw in a moment it was the hull of a vessel. Our only chance was, that they had not seen us, and that by laying-to for a few minutes till we found all quiet, we might shift our course a bit, and yet reach land. So we lay-to, every face turned to our huge enemy. She lay quite still²) and dark²), not a light to be³) seen, not a sound to be heard. I could hear my heart beat as I leaned forward on my oar, and turned my head over my shoulder. It did not beat with fear, however, but with excitement. 'Muffle oars!' was whispered down the boat's length. 'Now, boys!' and we glided straight off to the right, catching the full length of the vessel with her ugly rows of cannon ⁴) as we did so. Still, no one hailed us, and no lights were seen, when, suddenly, a voice was heard on one side of us. 'Boat ahoy!—boat ahoy!' came from the other side at the same moment. quot;We were fairly caught—an enemy's boat on each side. The French quot;) had been too cunning for us; their boats had been out on the watch, and we had fallen in with them as neatly as they could wish. 'Gentlemen, you are our prisoners,' said the kind, polite Frenchman. I believe if he had shot us through the head, he would have said, 'I beg your pardon.' How I longed to fight them all, one at a time! but it was useless to resist, they were more than double ⁷) our number; for we had left space for the land-birds in our boat. We were now compelled to divide our party, some being sent into each of the Frenchmen's boats, while the lieutenant, I, and two others remained in our own. The French boats made for the vessel; we were politely told to continue on our way. It was pretty clear what

') i 230. ' ²) § 41. b. ³) ? 147. 2, i 172 amp; § 03. ') § 14. 2. ^s) § 49. Rem. a. ') § 170. 2. ') § 73 amp; § 8. 1.

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they wantod. They meant to take the land-party prisoners also. We made for the point; they knew it as well as ourselves¹). 'quot;We shall meet your friends on shore, gentlemen,' said the French officer, with his strong accent; 'we shall invite them to our boat; but as we do not speak English very well, we shall take our friend here; he has the air of a simple lad; he shall give the word , and invite them on board.'quot;

quot;I was the simple lad -), and a very pleasant thing I found it to land with six Frenchmen at my heels, and invite a party of English to be taken prisoners. As I passed our lieutenant, he gave me a look. I thought it said, 'You'll die first, Tom.' 'Ay, ay, sir,' I said, and sprang on shore. A peculiar whistle was³) to be our first signal, and I resolved to substitute another for it. Think of my vexation, when the Frenchman beside me gave the signal as well as if his mouth had been a British one⁴), and it was immediately answered from a small wood to our right, that ran along the road down to the water's edge. The French marched towards it, with me in the midst of them.

'Halt!' cried a voice from the trees; 'the password.'

'Speak, speak,' whispered one of my captors, and we will reward you well.'

quot;Now it struck me pretty clearly that if they had known the password, they would have risked their accent, and shouted it themselves ³), for the Frenchmen «) spoke English ⁷) uncommonly well, so I made up my mind they didn't know it. Any way, it was my duty to risk it. 'Cunning foxes!' I shouted. I saw in a moment the Frenchmen did not know what the word was, for they waited in the hope of seeing their victims appear. But I caught a low crackling sound in the bushes, and knew that they were warned, and were making off. 'Let ^l)) us go near, sir,' I said to the captain; 'they will not fire on us now.' I knew the party was too small for resistance, and felt sure of their escape—a hope dawned on me, too, that I might get off myself in the wood; but the Frenchman mistrusted me, and though he sent two men into the wood,

') J 80. a. ') ? 18. i. ') '147. 1.. ') § 44. ⁵) § 79. °) § 49. Rem. a. ') i 47. c. quot;) i 158.

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who came back as¹) wise as they went, he took care not to let me stir an inch. When the men returned to us, he muttered something in French, and said in a low tone to me, 'If you have deceived us, I will throw you into the sea like a dog, sir²)—like a dog!' I thought it best to be silent; but every time that any of them looked at me, their eyes glared, as if they could eat me. I tried to look as like a simple innocent lad as I could; but I was wondering all the time how my Frenchman would try and find me out. 'Perhaps he will ask one of the others,' said I to myself³), 'and then overboard I go.' So¹) as soon as I was within hearing of the boat. Is aid, 'Now, sir, let me ask the lieutenant what the word was; then you will know the truth.'

quot;'Well, speak,' he said.

quot; 'Mr. Lieutenant!' I shouted.

quot; 'Ay, ay,' he said.

quot; 'Is not 'Cunning foxes' the password ?'

quot;'Ay, ay,' was the response, and I knew a quiet chuckle followed the words. Poor lad, it was the last joke he ever laughed over¹)! Another muttered French word from my French captain, and he seized mo by the collar, as if he would choke me; but I looked up so simply into his ^c) face, and said,'There, sir,' as if⁷) I were so well satisfied, that lie clearly did not know whether ^s) I was a fool or a knave. We went into the boat; and as⁹) we neared the French ship, were joined by the two other boats, loaded ¹⁰) with French sailors armed to the teeth. We made rapidly for our vessel. The intention of the French was clear: they meant to board the vessel under pretence of being ¹ ■) our own party come ¹⁰) back. To make the plan quite sure, the Frenchman sat down and tried to bribe our lieutenant to betray his ship. I heard him talking of the French emperor—how he rewarded his officers—what fortunes and grand titles he gave them. He said, 'You shall¹²) never servo against the English. You shall¹²) be sent to foreign countries; but you shall¹'-) bo a general within two years, and you shall receive'—

¹

8c § 255. quot;) § 283. ') § 287. a. ^,0) § 200. quot;) § 200. quot;) § 150. 2. b.

82

quot; 'Speak French ¹), sirsaid the young man, and they talked long in low voices ²); and the young lieutenant seemed, by his manner, to give way to his arguments, and to be going ³) over to his side. I was growing hot and angry, when I felt the young man's hand steal⁴) softly into my pocket—mine followed it; and he gave me what^s) I felt to be a ring wrapped in paper. I bent my head down low⁰), to show I knew what he meant, and would obey him; and then the tears came into my ⁷) eyes, for I knew the brave boy had resolved to die rather than ⁸) betray his comrades. We neared the ship; my heart died within me—not for myself, but for the brave fellows who were to fall victims to their stealthy foes. I had opened my mouth to shout and try to warn them, when my young officer rose, leaning hard on my shoulder as he did so ⁹), with a kindly firm pressure. I looked up at him, and his face had the same expression as when I passed him to jump on shore. He took a speaking-trumpet from the Frenchman's hand, and put it to his ') mouth. At the same time the French captain rose, and placed a pistol so near the young man's forehead, that the cold steel touched him; but he never flinched. I made a sudden spring.

quot;' Silence, or I shoot him!' hissed the Frenchman.

I shrank back, and laid my head on my¹⁰) knees.

quot;'Boat ahoy!' shouted the lieutenant, and his voice did not shake. The hail was answered from the ship. The moon hidquot;) behind clouds, the last chance of our captain catching a glimpse of the Frenchmen¹²) was gone. 'AH well, sir?' said the captain, coming to the side of the ship. 'AH wrong, _si_r—the French ¹²)!' shouted the young lieutenant; and as the words passed his lips, the pistol was fired, and he fell overboard. The Frenchman's eyes followed him, and they were full of tears. 'Brave boy!' I heard him say, as I sprang overboard. No one noticed me, all were intent on ¹³) reaching the ship. I saw the lieutenant rise a few yards from me; a few quick strokes, and I had seized him before he sank again. The moon came out, and shone on his face, and for a minute

') § 47. c. quot;) § 12. 3. ') i 173. Rem. d. quot;) § 187. =) § 90. ^!) } 230. 0. ') 72. quot;) ? -183. 3. °) i 00. ¹⁰) § 72. quot;) § 175. 2. quot;) J 49. b. Rem. a.

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I held him; but I saw he was quite dead—so young, so brave, quite dead—with a smile on his firm-set lips—the smile of a true brave heart. I let him go, that I might do as he had bidden me, and the waves closed over him, and I felt¹) as if I had lost a brother. I swam for the ship, swung myself up by a chain to the port-hole, and was soon in the thick of a fight. How I fought that night, as if²) I were possessed! They called me brave afterwards; it was³) not courage, but wild grief and fierce revenge¹) I felt; and when it was over, and the French driven off—for we drove them offquot;), and fought⁰) their ship next day, and got back our men safe and sound— I sat down and cried as ifⁱ) my heart would break. Our fellows could not make it out at first, till I told them the whole thing, and then many raised their hands to their caps, and not a few rubbed their sleeves across their eyes.

quot;The first thing¹) I did when I went ashore, before I went to see father, and mother, and Sally, and little Jack, was to carry the ring to the address on the paper ⁴) it was wrapped in, and I found an old lady with soft gray hair'). She had hoard her son was dead, but she knew no particulars ⁸) about it till I told her; and she cried, and his sisters cried; but yet it seemed to comfort her, for she said again and again, 'And he died with a smile on hisquot;) face—my only son, my brave, true boy''

quot;There, my lads, that is the end of my first adventure.quot;

The Chilrtreu of Cleutarii Ohyll.

Blentarn Ghyll is the name of a little narrow gorge in those Westmoreland mountains called ¹quot;) Langdale Pikes, at whose ¹') feet lie the lovely green vale and lake of Grasmere. The lake is fed by mountain streamlets, called ¹⁰) in the north becks. One of these becks comes down another beautiful valley called Easedale, sheltered ¹⁰) by mountains and green with grass, as

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smooth and soft') as on a lawn, from being cropped short²) by the sheep ^), which can be turned out here earlier in the spring than on the other mountain-sides. At one end Easedale opens ⁴) on the village of Grasraere, at the other is a steep ascent, leading ⁵) to a bare stony ravine, shut =) in on all sides by high mountains, and with no oütlet except the rough descent into Easedale, and likewise a dangerous winding path about six miles over the mountains to Langdale Head. This lonely ravine is called Far Easedale⁰), and at the upper end there formerly stood a cottage named ⁷) Blentarn Ghyll. Ghyll means ³) a cleft worn ⁷) in the rock by water; and just above the cottage there is such a cleft, opening ') from a basin in the rockt hat must once have been a tarn, or mountain lakelet; but the pool is now dry, and for want of the living eye of sparkling water, it is termed Blentarn⁰) or Blind pool.

The cottage was the dwelling of an honest old soldier named George Green, who had taken the little mountain farm, and married an active, bustling woman, who kept her home in great order, and regularly sent her children, tidily dressed, to school at Grasmere whenever the weather did not make the long wild mountain walk impossible ^!)) for them.

It was in the winter of the year 1807 that there was an auction of furniture at a farm-house at Langdale Head. These sales are great occasions among the people of these hills; every one attends them for a considerable distance round, and there is much friendly hospitality, much business¹⁰) of all sorts ^{1 1}) transacted, and many meetings of old friends, who scarcely ever see each other at other times. To this gathering George and Sarah Green set off early in the forenoon of a bright winter day, leaving their cottage and six little ones ¹²) in the charge of the eldest sister, a girl of nine years old, named Agnes, for they had neither indoor nor outdoor servant, and no neighbour nearer than Grasmere.

Little Agnes was, however, a remarkably steady and careful child, and all went well through the day; but towards night the mist settled down heavily upon the hills, and the heavy

') §46. c. ')iU.b. ³) § 14.2. ^ § 175. 2. ^S)§20C. ^s)§169.2. ')§206. »)§153.o. °) § 41. c. amp; § 102. 2. Rem. h. ^,0) § 12. 3. Rem. quot;) § 54. 4. quot;) § 44. Rem. b.

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sighing in tho air told that a storm was working up; the children watched anxiously¹) for their parents²), but the fog-cut off their view, flakes of snow began to fall, and darkness closed in early on them.

Agnes gave the others their supper of milk and oatmeal porridge, and they sat down waiting³) and watching, and fancying they heard sounds in the hills; but the clock struck one hour after another, and no stop was on tho threshold, no hand at the latch, no voice at the door, only the white silent flakes fell thicker and thicker⁴), and began to close up the door, and come in white clinging wreaths through tho crevices of the windows. Agnes tried to cheer⁵) the others up; but there was a dread on them all, and they could not bear to move⁵) away from the peat fire on tho hearth, round which they were nestled. She put the two youngest, who were twins, to bed in their cradle, and sat on with the others, two boys and another girl, named Catherine, till the clock struck twelve, when she heard them one by one say⁶) their prayers, and doing⁷) the same herself, lay down to rest, trusting⁷) to her Heavenly Father's care.

The morning came, and no father and mother; only tho snow falling thicker than ever, and almost blocking them in; but still Agnes did not lose hope; she thought her father and mother might have⁰) taken shelter at night in some sheepfold, or that tho snow might have ⁸) prevented them from setting out at all, and they might come home by Grasmere in tho morning. She cheered herself up, and dressed the others, made⁹) them say their prayers, and gave them their breakfast, recollecting ⁷), as she saw the lessening stores, that her mother must know how little was provided for them, and bo as '⁰) anxious to get home as they were to see her there. She longed to go down to Grasmere to inquire; but the communication was entirely cut off by the snow, for the beck was, in tho winter, too wide for a child to leap ¹'), and too rapid to be waded, and the crazy wooden bridge that crossed ¹²) it had so large a hole in it, that, when concealed with snow, it was

') § 230. ü. ') § 15. 2. ') § 203. 1. I,. ') § 30. Rem. ^s) § 180. quot;) § 187. ') 5 207. quot;) § 131. 3. ') g 130. -1. § 34. quot;) § 180. quot;) § 95. 2. cf.

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not safe to attempt¹) the passage. She said afterwards that she could not help²) being terrified at the loneliness and desolateness, but that she recollected that at least if she could not get out, no bad men could get in to hurt³) them; and she set herself resolutely to comfort and help the lesser creatures who depended on her. She thought over all that⁴) could be done for the present, and first wound up the clock, a friend that⁵) she could not allow to be silent; next she took all the remaining milk and scalded it, to prevent it turning⁵) sour; then she looked into the meal chest, and made some porridge for breakfast; but the store was so low that she was forced to put all except the babies upon short allowance; but to reconcile the others to this, she made cakes of a small hoard of flour, and baked them on the hearth. It was snowing so fast that she feared that the way to the peat stack would be blocked up, and therefore her next⁶) work was, with the help of the two boys, to pull down as much fuel as would last for a week, and carry it in-doors; and she examined the potatoes laid⁷) up in bracken leaves, but fancying ³) that if she brought them in, the warmth of the cottage would spoil them, she only took enough for a single meal. Milking ^ the cow was the next office performed ⁷) by this orderly little maid; but the poor thing was half starved and had little to give ¹⁰). Agnes saw that more hay must be given to her, and callingquot;) the boys, scrambled with them into the loft, and began to pull down the hay; but this was severe work for such young children, and darkness came on in the midst, frightening ⁷) the two little fellows, so that it required all the sister's steady resolution and perseverance to finish ^{1 u}) supplying the poor cow with oven that night's supper and bed. Supper-time came, and after it the motherly child undressed the twins and found voice to sing them to sleep, after which¹¹) she joined the huddle of the other three, nestled on the hearth, and hour after hour they listened for the dear voices, till they fancied they heard sounds on the howling blast, held their breath, and then as it died away, were conscious ¹²) of the silence of the lull. So

*) §140. 3.Rem. 1. quot;) §189. ') §95. I.e. ^s) §205.2. quot;) § 29. ft. ') § 206. °) § 207. ') § 190. 1. 'quot;) § ISO. quot;) § 9i. 1. amp; 2. quot;) § 43. a.

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fierce was the snow-drift that Agnes had to ¹) guard the door and window from admitting⁵) long wreaths of it, and protect the fire from being ^ put out as it came hissing down the chimney. Again her watch lasted till midnight, and no parents, no help came; again she went to hed, and awoke to find the snow falling³) thicker than ever, and hope failing³) within her. Her fond, active mother, her strong, brave father, a noted climber, would surely long ago have found the way home to their children, had ⁴) all been well with them. Agnes described herself as getting through this third lonely day by keeping her little flock together on the hearth, and making them say their prayers aloud by turns.

By the following morning the snow was over, and the wind had changed, soquot;') sweeping away the drifts, that, though the treacherous bridge might^c) not be attempted, a low stone wall had been exposed, which these little mountaineers knew would serve as a guide into Grasmere, by a circuit, which would avoid crossing') the brook. It would be needful to force^c) some gaps, that is, to push down the loose stones of the uncemented stone walls that '^J) divided the fields, and the little boys came with Agnes to help her in this as far as the ridge of the hill; but the way was long and unsafe for small children, and Agnes sent them back, while she made her way alone, a frail little being in the vast slopes of snow, to the house nearest¹⁰) in Grasmere.

She knocked at the door and was made kindly welcome; but no sooner ¹¹) did she ask for her father and mother than smiles turned to looks of pity and dismay. In half an hour the news that George and Sarah Green were missing had spread through the valley, and sixty strong men had met at Kirktown, the hamlet close to the parish church, to seek for them. The last¹²) that was known of them was, that, after the auction, some of their friends had advised them not to try the dangerous path so late; but when they had gone no one knew. Some of the people of Langdale likewise had heard wild shrieks at midnight on the night after the

') § -145. 2. a. quot;) § 201. ') § 205.1, a. ') § 21. ₉. ')§ 237. ^s) | 140. 3. ') § -108. °) § 184. quot;) § 95. 2. d. quot;) § 29. 6. quot;) § 21. c. quot;) § 29. c.

sale, but had fancied them merely the moans') of the wind.

One day after another the search continued, but still in vain. The neighbours patiently gave up their work day after day to turn over the deep snow around the path from Lang-dale, but for three—or some say five—days no trace of them was found. At last dogs .were used, and guided the seekers far away from the path, until a loud shout from the top of a steep precipice told that the lost were found. There lay Sarah Green, wrapped in her husband's great-coat, of course quite dead, and at the foot of the rock his body was found, in a posture that²) seemed to show ³) that he had been killed by the fall without a struggle. The neighbours thought that the mist and snow must⁴) have bewildered them till they had wandered thus ⁵) far in the darkness, and that George had been making a few steps forward to make ^,l) out the road when the fall took place, but that his wife had very possibly been unconscious of⁷) his fall, and stood still³) where he had left her, utterring those sad cries that²) had been so little regarded at Langdale, until she was unable to move and was benumbed by the sleep of cold.—The father and mother were buried on a lovely spring day at St. Oswald's Churchyard at Kirktown.

After the funeral the farm folk of the neighbourhood werequot;) all pressing forward to beg to adopt one or other of the little orphans. The twins were kept together; Catherine, Agnes, and her brothers found separate but comfortable homes among their parents' friends.

The Portentous Tower of Toledo.

The morning sun shone brightly¹⁰) upon the cliff-built towers of Toledo, when King Roderick issued out of the gate of the city, at the head of a numerous train of courtiers and cavaliers, and crossed the bridge that bestrides the deep rocky bed of the Tagus. The shiningquot;) cavalcade wound up'quot;) the road thatquot;)

') § 162. 2. ') § 95. 2. d. ') i 184. -) § -150. 3. '') % 237. ') § 189. ') § 43. o. quot;) § 41. 6. •) § 20. a. quot;) § 230. 0. quot;) § 202. quot;) § 175. 2.

89

leads among the mountains, and soon came in sight of the necromantic tower.

This ¹) wondrous edifice was round, and of great height and grandeur, erected upon a lofty rock, and surrounded by crags and precipices. The foundation was supported by ^ four brazen lions, each³) taller than a cavalier on horseback. The walls were built of small pieces of jasper, and various-coloured marbles, not larger than a man's hand¹); so subtilely joined however, that, but for ³) their different lines, they might bo taken for ono entire stone. They wore arranged with marvellous cunning, so as to represent battles and warlike deeds of times and heroes long since passed away, and the whole surface was so admirably polished that the stones were as lustrous as ^(l) glass, and reflected the rays of the sun with such ⁷) resplendent brightness as to dazzle all beholders.

King Eoderick and his courtiers arrived wondering and amazed, at the foot of the rock. Here there was a narrow arched way cut through the living stone, the only entrance to the tower. It was closed by a massive iron ³) gate, covered with rusty locks of divers workmanship, and in the fashion of different centuries, which ³) had been affixed by the predecessors of Don Eoderick. On either¹⁰) side of the portal stood the two ancient guardians of the tower, ladenquot;) with the keys appertainingquot;) to the locks.

The king alighted, and approaching^1;) the portals, ordered the guardians to unlock the gate. The hoary-headed men drew back with terror. quot;Alas!quot; cried they, quot;what is it your majesty requires of us? Would you havequot;) the mischiefs of this tower unbound, aud let loose to shake the earth to its foundations?quot;

The venerable archbishop Urbino likewise implored him not to disturb a mystery which had been held sacred from generation to generation, within the memory of man, and which even Cffisar himself, when sovereign of Spain, had not ventured to invade. The youthful cavaliers, however, were eager to pursue the adventure, and encouraged him in his rash curiosity.

quot;Come what come may,quot; exclaimed Don Roderick, quot;I am

') § S3. 3. ²) § 168. ') i 107. *gt;§25.5. ⁵H 280. .5. 'H 34. ') § 85.1. ») $ 45. ») § 95. 2. d. quot;) i 111. quot;) § 200. quot;) § 207. quot;) | 145. 3.

00

resolved to penetrate¹) the mystery of this tower.quot; So ²) saying, he again commanded the guardians to unlock ³) the portal. The ancient men obeyed with fear and trembling; but their hands shook with age, and when they applied the keys, the locks were so rusted by time, or of such strange workmanship, that⁴) they resisted their feeble efforts: whereupon the young cavaliers pressed forward and lent their aid. Still⁵) the locks were so numerous and difficult, that⁴), with all their eagerness and strength, a great part of the day was exhausted, before the whole of them could be mastered.

When the last bolt had yielded to the key, the guardians and the reverend archbishop again entreated the king to pause and reflect. quot;Whatever⁰) is within this tower,quot; said they ⁷), quot;is as yet⁸) harmless, and lies bound under a mighty spell: venture not then to open a door which may let forth a flood of evil upon tho land.quot; But the anger of the king was roused, and he ordered that the portal should be instantly thrown open. In vain ¹⁰), however, did one after another exert his strength ^l)), and equally in vain ¹⁰) did the cavaliers unite their forces, and apply their shoulders to the gate; thougli there was neither bar nor bolt remaining, it was perfectly immovable.

The patience of the king was now exhausted, and he advanced to apply his hand; scarcely ^{1 0}), however, did he touch the iron gate, when it swang slowly open ¹¹), uttering, as it were, a dismal groan, as it turned reluctantly upon its hinges. A cold damp wind issued forth, accompanied by a tempestuous sound. The hearts of the ancient guardians quaked within them, and their knees smote together; but several of the youthful cavaliers rushed in, eager to gratify their curiosity, or to signalize themselves in this redoutable enterprise. They had scarcely advanced a few paces, however, when they recoiled, overcome by the baleful air, or by some fearful vision. Upon this, the king ordered that fires should be kindled to dispel the darkness, and to correct the noxious and long imprisoned air. He then led the way into the interior; but, thougli¹⁵) stout of heart, he advanced with awe and hesitation.

~ ') § -189. quot;) I CO. ') § 187. gt;) § 288. d. ')§ 281. ⁰) § 98. ') § 21. f. ') i '229. 2. a. °) § 12. 3. Rem. quot;) § 21. c. quot;) § 41. It. quot;) § 147. 4. Rem. a.

01

After proceeding a short distance, he entered a hall, or antechamber, on the opposite side of which¹) was a door, and before it, on a pedestal, stood a gigantic figure, of the colour of bronze, and of a terrible aspect. It held a huge mace, which it whirled incessantly, giving²) such cruel and resounding blows upon the earth as to prevent all further entrance.

The king paused at sight of this appalling figure; for whether it were a living being, or a statue of magic artifice lie could not tell. On its breast was a scroll, whereon ³) was inscribed, in large letters, quot;I do my duty.quot; quot;After a little while Roderick plucked up heart, and addressed it with great solemnity: quot;Whatever¹) thou be,quot; said he, quot;know that I come not to violate this sanctuary, but to inquire into the mystery ⁵) it contains; I conjure thee, therefore, to let me pass in safety.quot;

Upon this the figure paused with uplifted mace, and the king and his train passed unmolested through the door.

They now entered a vast chamber, of a rare and sumptuous architecture, difficult^e) to be described. The walls were incrusted with the most precious gems, so⁷) joined together as to form one smooth and perfect surface ^IJ). The lofty dome appeared to be self-supported quot;), and was studded with gems, lustrous as the stars of the firmament. There was neither wood, nor any other common or base material to be seen^!)) throughout the edifice. There were no windows or other openings to admit the day, yet^{1 u}) a radiant light was spread throughout the place, which ^{1 1}) seemed to shine from the walls, and to render every object distinctly visible ^{1 2}).

In the centre of this hall stood a table of alabaster of the rarest workmanschip, on which was inscribed in Greek characters, that Hercules Alcides, the Theban Greek, had founded this tower in the year of the world three thousand and six. Upon the table stood a golden casket, richly set round with precious stones, and closed with a lock of mother-of-pearl, and on the lid were inscribed the following words: —

quot;In this coffer is contained the mystery of the tower. The hand of none but¹³) a king can open it; but let him beware!

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for marvellous events will be revealed to him, which are ¹) to take place before his death.quot;

King Roderick boldly seized upon the casket. The venerable archbishop laid his hand upon his arm, and made a last remonstrance. quot;Forbear, my son!quot; said he²); quot;desist while there is yet³) time. Look not into tho mysterious decrees of Providence. God has hidden them in mercy from '') our sight, and it is impious to rend the veil by which they are concealed.quot;

quot;What have I to dread ^) from a knowledge of the future!quot; replied Roderick -), with an air of haughty presumption. quot;If good be quot;) destined me, I shall enjoy it by anticipation : if evil, I shall arm myself to meet it.quot; So⁷) saying, he rashly broke tho lock.

Within the coffer he found nothing but a linen ^s) cloth ⁿ), folded between two tablets of copper. On unfolding ¹quot;) it, he beheld painted on it figures of men on horseback, of fierce demeanour, clad in turbans and robes of various colours, after the fashion of the Arabs, with scimitars hanging from their necks, and crossbows at their saddlebacks, and they carried banners and pennons with divers devices. Above them was inscribed ¹ ') in Greek characters: quot;Rash monarch! behold the men who are¹) to hurl thee from thy throne, and subdue¹) thy kingdom!quot;

At sight of these things the king was troubled in spirit, and dismay fell upon his attendants. quot;While they were still regarding ¹ -) tho paintings, it seemed as if the figures began to move, and a faint sound of warlike tumult arose from the cloth, with the clash of cymbal and bray of trumpet, the neigh of steed and shout of army; but all was heard indistinctly, as if¹³) afar off, or in a reverie or dream. The more they gazed, the plainer became the motion, and the louder the noise, and the linen cloth rolled forth, and amplified, and spread out, as it were, a mighty banner, and filled tho hall, and mingled with the air, until its texture was no longer visible, or appeared as a transparent cloud, and the shadowy figures became all in motion, and the din and uproar became fiercer and fiercer; and whether the whole were an animated

~) % i ll. -1. 21. f- ³) § 229. 2. a. ') § 103. Rem, c. ⁵) § 145. 2. o. quot;) § 222. c. 3. ') i CO. quot;)§45. °)l\0\.h. i»)j(20'l. quot;)|-174. «) § 173. Rera.6. quot;) § 1«. Rem. a.

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picture, or a vision, or an array of embodied spirits'), conjured up by supernatural power, no one present²) could tell. They behold before them ³) a great field of battle, where Christians and Moslems were engaged in deadly conflict. They heard the rush and tramp of steeds, the blast of trump and clarion, the clash of cymbal, and the stormy din of a thousand -^,) drums. There was the clash of swords, and maces, and battle-axes, with the whistling of arrows, and the hurling of darts and lances. The Christians quailed before the foe; the infidels pressed upon them and put them to utter ■quot;) rout; the standard of the cross was cast down, the banner of Spain was trodden under foot, the air resounded with shouts of triumph, with yells of fury, and with the groans of dying^c) men. Amidst the flying squadrons. King Eoderick beheld a crowned warrior, whose back was turned towards him, but whose armour and device were his own, and who was mounted on a white steed that resembled his own war-horse Orelia. In the confusion of the flight the warrior was dismounted, and was ⁷) no longer to be seen, and Orelia galloped wildly through the field of battle without a rider.

Roderick stayed to see no more, but rushed from the fatal hall, followed by his terrified attendants. They fled through the outer chamber, where the gigantic figure with the whirling mace had ^s) disappeared from his pedestal, and on issuing into the open air, they found the two ancient guardians of the tower lying ^G) dead quot;) at the portal, as though ¹⁰) they had been crushed by some mighty blow. All nature, which had been clear and serene, was now in wild uproar. The heavens were darkened by heavy clouds; loud bursts of thunder rent the air, and the earth was deluged with rain and rattling hail.

The King ordered that the iron portal should ' ¹) be closed; but the door was immovable, and the cavaliers were dismayed by the tremendous turmoil and the mingled shouts and groans that¹²) continued to prevail within. The king and his train hastened back to Toledo, pursued and pelted by the tempest. The mountains shook and echoed with the thunder, trees were

') 'i 13. ^!)§46.c. ³) § 78. ^a)i 32. Rem, quot;)§ 130. Rem.!gt;. ')?147.2.

amp; ë 172. ') § 174. •) § 41. b. '») § 288. quot;) § 222. 2. «. gt;quot;-) § 95. 2. d.

94

uprooted and blown down, and the Tagus raged and roared and flowed above its ') banks. It seemed to the affrighted courtiers as if the phantom legions of the tower had issued forth and mingled with the storm; for amidst the claps of thunder and the howling of the wind, they fancied they heard the sound of the drums and trumpets, the shouts of armies, and the rush of steeds. Thus ^ beaten ³) by tempest, and overwhelmed ³) with horror, the king and his courtiers arrived at Toledo, clattering ³) across the bridge of the Tagus, and entering ') the gate in headlong confusion, as though⁴) they had been pursued by an enemy.

In the morning the heavens were again serene, and all ■'') nature was restored to tranquillity. The king, therefore, issued forth with his cavaliers and took the road to the tower, followed by a great multitude; for he was anxious once more to close the iron⁰) door, and shut up those evils that⁷) threatened to overwhelm the land. But lo! on coming ^ in sight of the tower, a new wonder met their eyes. An eagle appeared high ⁰) in the air, seeming *) to descend from heaven ¹⁰). He bore in his beak a burning brand, and lighting³) on the summit of the tower, fanned the fire with his¹¹) wings. In a little while the edifice burst forth into a blaze as though ⁴) it had been built of rosin, and the flames mounted into the air with a brilliancy more dazzling than the sun; nor¹²) did they cease until every stone was consumed and the whole was reduced to a heap of ashes ¹³). Then there came a vast flight af birds, small of size and sable of hue, darkening the sky like a cloud, and they descended and wheeled in circles round the ashes, causing so great a wind with their wings that the whole was borne up into the air and scattered throughout all Spain, and wherever a particle of those ashes fell it was as a stain of blood. It is furthermore recorded by ancient men and writers of former days, that all those on whom this dust fell were afterwards slain in battle, when the country was conquered by the Arabs, and that the destruction of this necromantic tower was a sign and token of the approaching perdition of Spain.

') § 64. ') § 237. ') §207. ')§222. e.2. ⁵)§m2. ')§45. ^,)§95.2.d.. ^a) § 201. •) § 41. b. ¹⁰) § 3. b. quot;) § 19. 1. ¹²) § 21. e. ¹³) § 15. 3. b.

95

The Bine and White Flower-Pot.

My father, Mr. Caxton, was seated on the lawn before the house, his straw-hat over his¹) eyes (it was summer), and his book on his¹) lap. Suddenly a beautiful delft²) blue and white flower-pot, which had been set on. the window-sill of an upper story, fell to the ground with a crash, and the fragments spluttered up round my father's ^ legs. But totally absorbed in his book, my father continued to read. quot;Dear, dear!quot; cried my mother⁴), who ⁵) was at work in the porch; quot;my poor flowerpot, that I prized so much! who⁰) could have done this? Primmins, Primmins!quot; Mrs. Primmins popped her ¹) head out of the fatal window, nodded to the summons, and came down in a trice, pale and breathless. quot;Oh,quot; said my mother''), mournfully , quot;I would rather ⁵) have lost all the plants in the greenhouse in the groat blight last May; I would rather any thing else were broken! The poor geranium⁰) I reared myself, and the dear, dear flower-pot which Mr. Caxton bought for mo on my last birthday! that naughty child must⁷) have done this!quot;

Mrs. Primmins was dreadfully afraid⁸) of my father; why⁹), I know not, except that very talkative social persons are usually afraid³) of very silent shy ones. She cast a hasty glance at her master, who⁵) was beginning to evince signs of attention, and cried promptly, „No, ma'am, it¹⁰) was not the dear boy, it was I!quot;

quot;You; how could you be so careless? and you knew how I prized them both. Oh, Primmins !quot;

Primmins began to sob. quot;Don't tell fibs, nursey,quot; said a small shrill voice¹); and master Sisty (coming out of the house as bold as brass) continued rapidly, quot;don't scold Primmins, mamma; it¹⁰) was I who pushed out the flower-pot.quot;

quot;Hush!quot; said nurse⁴), more frightened¹¹) than ever, and looking ¹ ') aghast³) towards my father, who had very deliberately taken off his hat, and was regarding the scene with serious eyes, wide awake. quot;Hush!—And if he did ¹ *-) break it, ma'am, it was quite an accident; he was standing so, and he never

') S 72. quot;) S 45. ³) § 25. 5. ') S 21. f. ') S 03. 1. § 89. ') § 150. 3. quot;) § 42. ') § 229. 4. ¹⁰) S 58. 3. Rem. quot;) § 208. ^1!l) § 154.

90

meant it.—Did you, Meister Sisty ? Speak!quot; (this in a whisper) quot;or pa will be so angry.quot;

quot;Well,quot; said my mother, quot;I suppose¹) it was an ²) accident; take care in future, my child. You are sorry ³), I see, to have grieved me. There's a kiss; don't¹) fret.quot;

quot;No. mamma, you must- not kiss me; I don't⁴) deserve it. I pushed out the flower-pot on purpose.quot;

quot;Ha, and why?quot; said my father, walking up ⁵). Mrs. Primmins trembled like a leaf.

quot;For fun!quot; said I, hanging⁵) my⁰) head; just to see how you'd look, papa; and that's the truth of it. Now beat me—do⁷) beat me!quot;

My father threw his book fifty yards off, stooped down, and caught me to his breast. quot;Boy,quot; he said, you have done wrong; you shall⁰) repair it by remembering all your life that your father blessed God for giving him ⁹) a son who spoke truth in spite of fear.—Oh, Mrs. Primmins, the next¹⁰) fable of this kind you try to teach¹¹) him, and we part for ever.quot;

Not long after that event, Mr. Squills, who often made me ⁰) little presents, gave me one far exceeding in value those usually bestowed ¹²) on children—it was a beautiful large domino-box in cut ivory, painted and gilt¹²). This domino-box was my delight. I was never weary of playing at dominoes with Mrs. Primmins, and I slept with the box under my pillow.

quot;Ah!quot; said my father, one day when he found me ranging the ivory-pieces in the parlour—quot;ah! you like that better than all your playthings, eh?quot;

quot;0 yes, papa.quot;

quot;You would be very sorry if your mamma were to throw that box out of the window and break it for fun.quot; I looked beseechingly at my father, and made no answer. quot;But, perhaps, you would be very glad,quot; he resumed, quot;if suddenly one of those good fairies you read of would change the domino-box into a beautiful geranium in a lovely blue and white flower-pot, and that you could have the pleasure of putting on your mamma's window-sill.quot;

') § 283. Rem. ') § 2. ») § 182. 3. ') § 153. ⁵) § 207. ') § 72. ') § 154. quot;) § 150. 2. b. °) § 163. iquot;) § 29. !). quot;) § 162. 1. ^1!) § 46. c.

97

quot;Indeed I would¹),quot; said I, half crying.

quot;My dear boy ²), I believe you; but good wishes ³) don't mend bad actions—good actions mend bad actions.quot; So saying, he shut the door and went out; I cannottell you how puzzled 1³) was to make out what my father meant by his aphorism. But I know that I played at dominoes no ⁰) more that day.

The next morning my father found me seated by myself¹) under a tree in the garden; he paused, and looked at me with his grave bright eyes very steadily. quot;My boy ²),quot; said he, quot;I am going to walk to Fairworth; will you come? And, by-the-bye, fetch your domino-box; I should like ^!l) to show it to a person there.quot; I ran in for the box, and, not a little proud of walking⁹) with my father on the high-road, we set out.

quot;Papa,quot; said I by-the way, quot;there are no fairies now.quot;

quot;What then, my child ²)?quot;

quot;Why, how then can my domino-box be changed into a geranium and a blue and white flower-pot?quot;

quot;My dear,quot; said my father, leaning his hand on my shoulder, quot;everybody who is in earnest to be good, carries two fairies about with him¹⁰)—one here,quot; and he touched my forehead; quot;one here,quot; and he touched my heart.

quot;I don't understand, papa.quot;

quot;I can wait till you do ^{1 1}), Sisty.quot;

My father stopped at a nursery gardener's¹²), and after looking over the flowers, paused before a large double geranium. quot;Ah, this is finer than that which your mamma was so fond of. What is the price of this, sir?quot;

quot;Only seven and sixpence,quot; said the gardener. quot;My father buttoned up his pocket.

quot;I can't afford it to-day,quot; said he gently, and we walked out.

On entering the town, we stopped again at a china-ware-house. quot;Have you a flower-pot like that I bought some months ago? Ah, here is one, marked three and sixpence. Yes,that is the price. Well, when your mamma's birthday comes ¹ •■^,) again, we must buy her another. That is some months to wait. And

¹

98

we can wait, my boy. For truth, that blossoms all the¹) year round, is better than a poor geranium; and a word that is never broken is better than a piece of delft.quot;

My head, which had been drooping before, rose²) again; but the rush of joy at my heart almost stifled me. quot;I have called to pay your little bill,quot; said my father, entering the shop of one of those fancy stationers common in country towns, and who sell all kinds ³) of pretty toys and nicknacks. quot;And by-the way,quot; he added, as the smiling shopman looked over his books for the entry, quot;I think my little bo3^r here can show you a much handsomer specimen of French workmanship than that workbox which Mrs. Caxton raffled for last¹) winter. Show your domino-box, my dear.quot; I produced my treasure, and the shopman was liberal in his commendations. quot;It is always well⁵), my boy, to know what a thing is worth, in case one ⁰) wishes to part with it. If my son gets tired of his plaything, what will you give him for it?quot;

quot;Why, sir,quot; said the shopman, quot;I fear we could not afford to give more than eighteen shillings for it, unless the young gentleman took some⁷) of these pretty things in exchange.quot;

quot;Eighteen shillings!quot; said my father; quot;you would ⁰) give that. quot;Well, my boy, whenever you do ⁿ) grow tired of your box, you have my leave to sell it.quot;

My father paid his bill, and went out. I lingered behind ^{1 0}) a few moments, and joined hira at the end of the street.

quot;Papa, papa!quot; I cried, clapping my¹¹) hands, quot;we can buy the geranium; we can buy the llower-pot.quot; And I pulled a handful of silver from my pocket.

quot;Did I not say right ?quot; said my father. quot;You have found the two fairies.quot;—

Ah! how proud, how overjoyed I was when, after placing ^{1 2}). vase and flower on the window-sill, I plucked my mother by the gown, and made her follow me to the spot.

quot;It is his doing¹³) and his money!quot; said my father; quot;good actions have mended the bad.quot;

quot;What!quot; cried my mother, when she had learned all; quot;and

*) §8.1. ') ') 154. 4. ') §29. Rem. c. ^s)§233. ⁰gt; § G3. ') % 104.

quot;) §225.2. b. °) ?15i. quot;) § 239. II. b. Rem, b. quot;) § 72. quot;H 201. ^:1)§I94,

99

your poor domino-box that you were so fond of! quot;We will¹) go to-morrow and buy it back if it cost'-) us double.quot;

quot;Shall we buy it back, Sisty?quot; asked my father.

quot;0 no—no—no—it would spoil all!quot; I cried, burying my face on my father's breast.

quot;My wife,quot; said my father solemnly, quot;this³) is my first lesson to our child—the sanctity and happiness of self-sacrifice. Undo not what it should teach him to his dying hour.quot;

And that is the history of the broken flower-pot.

Kntle's First Letter.

Oxford Street, London,

Thursday, May 1st. ■')

My dear •') George,

We did not get here until quite late on ^p) Monday. We had a long ride on the railway, and I liked it very much.

Oh! London is such ⁷) a great place. Onr house is in Oxford ⁵) Street, which is full of fine shops. There are crowds ofquot;) people walking on both sides of the way, and the road is full of horses and carts and cabst and such like¹⁰) things.

I have been in Hyde Park, and it is very nice. We had a run on the grass, and we fed the ducks on the water with crumbs of bread. Then we sat under the trees and saw the ladies ride by on their horses.

On quot;) Tuesday we went to London Bridge. I never saw so many ships before ^{1 1}). They were quite thick together as far as my eyes could see.

quot;We went in a steamer up the river. We went under many bridges, and the people on them ¹²) looked down at us as we went through the arches. Some of the bridges were for railways, and I saw the trains go puffing right across the Thames, ever so high up.

quot;We are going to see many more sights. I will tell you

') § 150.2. d. ') § 222.2.c. 3. ^s) § 83. 3. 5-2. 2. §23.1. quot;) 5 262. ')|85.1. quot;) § 45. § 2G. 3. ¹⁰) § 85.2. h. Kem. h. ¹¹) § 239. II. b, Ucm. b. ^J1) § 84. 4.

100

all about them¹) soon. I do²) so wish you were here, dear George, you would like it so; but it will be your turn to come next time.

I am, your loving Sister,

Master George Davis. Katie.

Katie's Second Letter.

Oxford Street, London.

Monday, May 10th.

My dear Sister,

I was very glad to have your letter, and hear all the news from home. I soon shall see you all³) again, for we return next week.

One day last week Aunt took me to the Lowther Arcade, in a great street'') they call the Strand. It is full of toys ⁵) and other nice things. You walk down a long passage, and on both sides are toys. They are down to the ground and right up to the top of the stalls where they sell them.

I have been⁰) to the Tower of London. It is such a ⁷) strange old place! The stones of which it is built are quite black with ^s) age. There is a large ditch round it, but it is dry now.

Inside there are men in armour, and guns, and swords, and cannon quot;). Most¹⁰) of them are very old, and some are rusty. What I liked best was the show of crowns and jewels in a glass¹¹) case. Oh, they were so splendid!

When we came away we went to St. Paul's ¹²). It is a great church with a very large round dome, and on the top a gilt cross, which shines like pure gold in the sun. It is the biggest church I was ever in. The people in it seemed nothing, it is so wide and high.

Give my love to all at home, and believe me, ever yours ¹ ■¹),

Miss Ellen Davis. Katie.

■)§84.4. ') § -154. §103.1. ') §101. ⁵)§9.3. ⁰) §212.1. ')§83.1. ') I 270. b. ') § 14. 2. quot;) § i. 1. c. quot;) § 45. quot;) § 23. 2. quot;) § 64.

101

Loudon.

London is the largest¹) city in the world. That is to say, it contains more people than any ^ other city. Just as we estimate the importance of a river—not by its ^ length, nor by its breadth, but by the amount of⁴) water it contributes to the ocean—so we estimate the size of a city by the number of people ⁵) it contains. Paris builds its houses higher into the air than London; but London stretches over a very much larger extent of '¹) ground. London has at present about 6 millions f¹) of inhabitants; Paris has about 3 millions. London is the capital of England; but it is indeed also the capital of the world—that is, of the world of commerce. It has commercial connections with every ⁷) country, and with every important town on the face of the globe. It sends out sailing-ships^ü) and steamers to all the countries of the world; and from its centre, railway lines and telegraph wires radiate in every direction.

London is, in fact, not so much a city, as a large province covered with houses. Its houses and streets overflow into four counties. The largest part of it stands in Middlesex; the next largest in Surrey; a large part stretches into Kent; and another into Essex. It is about sixteen miles long, and more than twelve broad. It contains eight thousand miles of⁴) street; and there quot;) are many streets entirely unknown to grown-up men and women who have lived all their lives ^{1 0}) in this wilderness of houses. A town as large as Edinburgh is built every year and added to the maze and crowded population of London; and Edinburgh is a city of two hundred thousand^c) souls. About thirty miles of new streets are opened every ^{1 1}) year. In fact, London is not one town, but a vast conglomerate of cities, towns, boroughs, and villages—all swallowed up by the yearly overgrowth of this colossal hive of human beings.

London was a flourishing little British town before the Romans came over here in the year 55 e.g.; it continued to grow from that time till the present, with hardly a check to its prosperity. In the fourteenth ¹ century—the time of the

¹

201. Rem. c. ⁰) § 59. § 12. 3. quot;) § 103. 2. Rem. a. quot;) J 52. I. Rem. a.

102

poet Chaucer—it was a prosperous city—quot;small, and white, and cleanquot;—a famous mart of wool and wine; and ships from Italy and Greece and other countries of the Mediterranean lay¹) below bridge. For it had then only one bridge; whereas fourteen railway and passenger bridges now span the current of Old Father Thames -). It' is, in truth, the river Thames that laid³) the foundation of the fortune of London. For the Thames is not merely one river; it is two rivers. The tide flows gently up twice ■¹) in every twenty-four hours ⁵); and thus barges and vessels of burden are carried up to London by the tide, and are borne away from London by the power of its own stream. Thus this river provides a large quantity of carrying power for nothing, and the barges laden⁷) with goods need only guidance.

The streets of London are the most crowded streets in the world. Thousands and hundreds of thousands ⁰) of persons stream along its main arteries from morning till night; in the morning generally from west to east; in the evening with their faces to the west. The roadways are crowded with carriages, cabs, and omnibuses⁰); and in many parts it is difficult, if not dangerous, to cross the streets. Within the town there are thousands of⁰) cabs, omnibuses, and tram-cars, and every other kind of conveyance; but without, through the suburbs, round the whole of the vast province covered with houses and buildings, and also underground, there are countless railways running in every direction. Steamers, too, run up and down the river at all^{1 u}) hours and minutes of the day. Down to the end of the sixteenth century, London was a city surrounded by walls, and connected with the city of ¹') Westminster by a country road; but now it has spread itself into the country in every direction—swallowing up boroughs, townships, villages, hamlets, fields, and market-gardens in its silent but irresistible progress ¹ Towns like Lambeth, Chelsea, Hammersmith, Islington, Highgate, and—in the extreme east and west—Woolwich and Richmond, have all been absorbed.

*) § -139, ') § -19. 2. ') § 133. ') i 54.1 ^s) J103. 2. Rem' a. °) § 12. 3. Rem. ')§46.c. •) S51.4. ⁸H9.1. quot;) §103.2. quot;)§26.3. quot;) 112.3. Rem,

103

This fact is visible in the large numbers of High Streets which London contains.

But, not only is its own population the vastest in the world: a large population is poured into it every morning by railway and by steamer from all parts of England and from every ¹) country on the globe. It is reckoned that a population of more than two hundred thousands ²) (not counting those ') who live in the suburbs and come in for business)'') enter London every ') morning; and that the same number of people leave ⁵) it every ') evening. But a population of two hundred thousands is a population as ^c) large as that of Edinburgh, and much larger than⁶) that of Brussels or of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. It is, then, as if a city much larger ') than Bristol were left empty and deserted ^a) all^l)) night, and were visited and crowded all⁰) day by its thronging population. And the population of London contains contributions from all the races and nationalities of the world. There are Chinese ¹⁰), Hindus, Persians, and Armenians from Asia; there are Peruvians ¹') and Chillians from the west of South America; there are Americans¹¹) from San Francisco and the other cities of the Pacific slope; and there are, from every large town on the continent of Europe, Russians, Poles, Hungarians, Germans, Dutchmen'^?), Swedes, Norwegians, Finns, Frenchmen Spaniards, and Portuguese ¹quot;). There are in London more Scotchmen than in Edinburgh; more Irishmen than in Belfast; more Welshmen¹²) than in Cardiff; more Jews than in Jerusalem; more Greeks than in Athens; and more Germans than in Frankfurt. London draws to itself people of all tongues, races, and nationalities. It has paupers enough to fill all the houses in Brighton.

London is a wilderness of brick—with hundreds of miles of hideous streets, composed of insignificant and unsightly buildings; but it also contains some of the noblest⁷) edifices in the world. On a gently rising ground in the heart of the city rises St. Paul's ^{1 n}), one of the largest churches in the world, and a master-piece of Wren, one of the greatest architects. Westward, on the banks of the Thames, the towers of West-

') §107. ■)§5l.4. ^gSG. ') I 12.3. Rem. ⁵)§20.a. °) ? 34. ') 2'28. Rem. h. quot;) 5 22.3. °) ü 103.2. quot;) § 49.1/. Rem. b. quot;) § 49. 0. quot;) § 49. b. Rem. a. quot;) § 25. 2.

104

minster Abbey stand, guarding the ashes') of England's greatest men—men who have made her -) name famous by sea and land, in art, in science, and in letters.

Every large and crowded city abounds in contrasts of various kinds; but London is emphatically the city of contrasts. Trees and brick; portions of the country clasped within the town, parts of the town running out into the country; wide streets, open parks, and the narrowest and foulest lanes; palaces and hovels; splendour and squalor; rich³) and poor; virtuous and criminal; learned and ignorant; thoughtful consideration and the most wicked recklessness; hideousness and beauty—all these contrasts may be perceived by the openeyed spectator within the compass of a few minutes' walk ⁴).

The Disabled Soldier.

Some days ago, I accidentally met with a poor fellow, whom ⁵) I knew when ^G) a boy, dressed in a sailor's ⁷) jacket, and begging at one of the outlets of the town, with a wooden leg. I knew him ⁸) to be honest and industrious when ^G) in the country, and was curious to learn what had reduced him to his present situation. Wherefore, after giving⁹) him what I thought proper, I desired to know the history of his life and misfortunes, and the manner in which he was reduced to his present distress. The disabled soldier, for such ^{1 0}) he was, though dressed in a sailor's⁷) habit, scratching his head, and leaning on his crutch, put himself into an attitude to comply with my request, and gave me his history, as¹¹) follows.

quot;As for¹²) my misfortunes, master, I can't pretend to have gone through any more than other folks; for except the loss of my limb, and my ¹³) being obliged to beg, I don't know any reason, thank Heaven, that I have to complain: there is Bill Tibbs, of our regiment, he has lost both his legs and an eye to boot; but, thank Heaven, it is not so bad with me yet.

') § 15. 3. 6. ■) H9- 2. ') i 48. ') § 25. 5. ^s) § 93. 1. ') § 147.4. Rem. a. ') § 25.5. quot;) § 187. quot;) § 201. ^,0) § 85.2. b. quot;) § 58. 3. c. quot;) ? 255. Rem. b. quot;) § 199.

105

*■ .• »

quot;I was¹) born in Shropshire; my father was a labourer, and died when I was five years old, so ²) I was put upon the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of a man, the parishioners were not able to tell to what³) parish I belonged, or where I was born, so they sent me to another parish, and that parish sent me to a third. I thought, in my heart, they kept ') sending me about so long, that they would not let me be born in any '') parish at all⁰); but at last, however, they fixed me.

quot;I had some disposition to be ') a scholar, and was resolved at least to know⁸) my letters; but the master of the workhouse put me to business as soon as I was able to handle a mallet, and here I lived an easy kind of life⁰) for five years; I only wrought ten hours in the day, and had my meat and drink provided ¹⁰) for my labour. It is true, I was not suffered to stir out of the house, for fear, as they said, I should run away; but what of that? I had the liberty of the whole house, and the yard before the door, and that was enough for me. I was then bound out to a farmer, where I was up both ^{1 1}) early and late; but I ate and drank well, and liked my business well enough till he died, when I was obliged to provide for myself¹²): so I was resolved to go and seek my fortune.

quot;In this manner I went from town to town, worked when I could get employment, and starved when I could get none; when, happening one day to go ¹³) through a field belonging to a justice of the peace, I spied a hare crossing the path just before me; and I believe the devil put it into my head to fling my stick at it: — well, what will you have on't ? I killed the hare, and was bringing it away in triumph, when the justice himself met me; he called me a poacher and a villain, and, collaring mo, desired I would give an account of myself. I fell upon my knees, begged his worship's pardon, and began to give a full account of all that I knew of my breed, seed, and generation; but though I gave a very good account, the justice would not believe a syllable I had to say; so I was indicted at sessions, found guilty of being

') § 213. ') § 237.') § 90.2. •) § 205. i. b. Rem. b.⁵) § -104.2. a.quot;) § 103. 2. Rem. b. ')§188. quot;) §180. °) §9.4. quot;) §145.3. quot;) §275. quot;) §80.c. quot;) §181. 3. Rem.

lOG

poor, and sent up to London to Newgate, in order to bo transported as a vagabond.

quot;People may say this and that¹) of being in jail; but, for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a ²) place as ever I was in, in all my life. I had my bellyful to eat and drink, and did no work at all. This kind of life was too good to last for ever; so I was taken out of prison, after five mouths, put on board ³) a ship, and sent off, with two hundred more, to the plantations. We had but an indifferent passage; for, being all confined in the hold, more than a hundred of our people died for want of sweet air; and those⁵) that remained were sickly enough, God knows ⁵). quot;When we came ashore, we were sold to the planters, and I was bound for seven years more. As I was no scholar, for I did not know my letters, I was obliged to work among the negroes: I served out my time, as in duty bound to do.

quot;When my time was expired, I worked ⁽ⁱ) my passage home, and glad⁷) I was to see old England again, because I loved my country. I was afraid, however, that I should be indicted for a vagabond once more, so did not much care to go down into the country, but kept about the town, and did little jobs when I could get them.

quot;I was very happy in this manner for some time, till one evening, coming home from work, two men knocked me down ³), and then desired me to stand. They belonged to a press-gang: I was carried before the justice, and as I could give no account of myself, I had⁹) my choice left, whether to go on board a man-of-war, or^{1 0}) list for¹¹) a soldier. I chose the latter' and, in this post of a gentleman, I served two campaigns in Flanders, was at the battles of Val and Fontenoy, and received but one wound through the ¹ °) breast here; but the doctor of our regiment soon made me well again.

quot;When the peace came on, I was discharged, and as I could not work, because my wound was sometimes troublesome, I listed for a landman in the East India Company's service. I here fought ^c) the French in six pitched battles, and I verily

¹

)§84.1. ²H8.'2. a. ') § 26. 3. Rem. 'H 80. ⁵)§58.3.c. quot;)17G.2. ') (t 182. 3.

²

quot;) § 232. 2. b. Rem. ') § 145. 3. quot;gt;) (i 277. quot;) § -1C2. Rem. a. '=) § 84. 2. 1») § 72.

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believe, that if I could read or write, our captain would have made me a ¹) corporal. But it was not my good fortune to have any promotion, for I soon fell sick and so got leave to return home again, with forty pounds ³) in my ⁴) pocket. This was at the beginning of the present war, and I hoped to be set on shore, and to have the pleasure of spending ³) my money; but the government wanted men, and so I was pressed for a sailor before ever I could set foot on shore.

quot;The boatswain found me, as he said, au obstinate fellow ^ti): he swore he knew that I understood my business well, but that I shammed Abraham, merely to be idle; but God knows, I knew nothing of sea-business, and he beat me without considering what he was about⁷). I had still, however, my forty pounds, and that was some comfort to me under every beating⁰); and the money I might have had to this day, but that our ship was taken by the French, and so I lost all.

quot;Our crow was carried into Brest, and many of them died, because they were not used to live in a jail: but for my part it was nothing to me, for I was seasoned. One night as I was sleeping 'J) on the bed of boards, with a warm blanket about me, for I always loved to lie well, I was awakened by the boatswain, who had a dark lantern in his ⁴) hand. Jack, says ho to me, will you knock out the French sentries' brains ^{1 u}) ? I don't care, says I, striving to keep myself awake, if I lend a hand. Then follow me, says he, and I hope we shall do business. So up I got, and tied my blanket, which was all the clothes¹¹) I had, about my body, and went with him to fight¹²) the Frenchmen. I hate the French, because they are all slaves, and wear wooden ¹³) shoes.

quot;Though we had no arms, one Englishman is able to beat five French at any time; so we went down to the door, where both the sentries wore posted, and rushing upon them, seized their arms in a moment, and knocked them down. From thence, niue of us ran together to the quay, and seizing the first boat we met, got out of the harbour, and put to sea. We had not been here three days before we were taken

■)|162.2.amp;H2.(lt;. ²)§41.c. ')§16. ')|72. ^s)§200. WOa.a. ')§2i0.Rem. quot;) § 194. ') §173. Hem. a. '») J 23.1. quot;) §10,1. b. ^1;) §176.2. ¹³) § 45. Rem.

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up by the Dorset privateer, ■who were glad of so many good hands; and we consented to run our chance. However, we had not so much good luck as we expected. In three days we fell in with the Pompadour privateer, of forty guns, while we had hut twenty-three, so to it we went, yard-arm and yard-arm. The fight lasted for') three hours, and I verily believe we should have taken the Frenchman, had ²) wo but had some more men left behind: but, unfortunately, wo lost all our men just as we were going ³) to get the victory.

quot;I was once more in the power of the French, and I believe it would have gone hard with me hadⁱ) I been brought back to Brest: but by good fortune, we were retaken by the Viper. I had almost forgot to tell¹) you,'that in that engagement I was wounded in two places; I lost four fingers of the left hand, and my leg was shot off. If I had had the good fortune to have lost my leg and the use of my hand on board '•) a king's ship, and uot aboard a privateer, I should have been entitled to clothing⁰) and maintenance during the rest of my life; but that was not my chance: one man is born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and another with a wooden⁷) ladle. However,, blessed bo God! I enjoy good health, and will for ever love liberty and old England. Liberty, property, and old England for ever, huzza!quot;

Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me in admiration at his intrepidity and content; nor could I avoid acknowledging quot;), that an habitual acquaintance with misery serves better than philosophy to teach us ⁰) to despise it.

Dorothy and her Do»'.

In the pleasant fields of Battersea, near ¹⁰) the river side, on a spot which is now covered with houses, dwelt, three hundred and ten years ago, the blind widow, Annice Collie, and her orphan¹¹) grandchild, Dorothy. These two were alone ^1J) in the-

') § 255. b. ') §21. lt;7. ') S 147. i. Rem. h. ') §133. ^s) J 26.3. Rem. quot;) §193. ') § 45. Rem. quot;) § 198. ') § 162. 1. ¹⁰) § 43. c. quot;) § 43. ^1J) § 42.

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world, and yet they ') might scarcely be said to feel their loneliness; for they were all the world to each other²).

Annice Collie had seen ') better days; for she was the daughter of a substantial yeoman, and her husband, Keuben Collie, had been ³) a gardener in the service of good Queen Catherine, the first wife of King Henry the Eighth; and Annice had been a happy wife, a joyful mother, and a liberal housekeeper, having wherewithal to bestow on the wayfarer and stranger at their need. It was, however, the will of God that these blessings should be taken ⁴) from her. The Queen fell into adversity, and, being removed ⁵) from her favourite place at Greenwich, to give place to her newly exalted rival, Anne Boleyn, her faithful servants were all discharged; and, among them, Reuben Collie and his son, Arthur, were deprived of their situations in the royal gardens.

This misfortune, though heavy, appeared light, in comparison with the bitter reverses that had befallen their royal mistress ^c); for the means⁷) of obtaining an honest livelihood were still in the power ''') of the industrious little family; and beyond that their ambition extended not ^).

Keuben Collie, who had spent his youth in the Low Countries'⁰), had acquired a very considerable knowledge ⁸) of the art of horticulture, an art at that time so ¹¹) little practiced in England, that the salads and vegetables ¹²) with which the tables of the great were supplied, were all brought, at a great expence, from Holland, and were, of course, never eaten in perfection. Reuben Collie, however, whose observations on the soil and climate had convinced him that these costly exotics might¹³) be raised in England, procured seeds of various kinds, from a friend of his in the service of the Duke of Cleves, and was so fortunate as to rear a few plants of cabbages, savoys, broccoli, lettuces, artichokes, and cucumbers, to the unspeakable surprise of all the gardeners in London and its environs; and honest Reuben narrowly escaped being arraigned as a wizard, in consequence of their envy at the success of his experiment. He had hired, on a long lease, a cottage, with a small field

') gt;6 03. ^!) i «2. ⁿ)§ 214.1. ^ §103. Rem. c. ^s)?a07. ⁰)§23.5. ') §14. quot;)§12.3. Rem. ⁿ) § 1.13. Rem. c. ¹⁰) §15.1. ¹¹)34. Rem. a. ^le) §15.3.6. ^I:{) § 110. 3.

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adjoining, at a reasonable rent, of Master Bartholomew Barker, the rich tanner of Battersea; and this be and his son Arthur had, with great care and toil, converted into a garden and nursery-ground, for rearing ¹) fruit-trees, vegetables, costly flowers, and herbs of grace; and this spot, he flattered himself, would, one day, prove ²) ,a mine of wealth to himself, and his sou after him. That golden ') season never arrived; for Arthur, who had, during a leisure time, obtained work in a nobleman's garden at Chelsea, for the sake of bringing home a few additional groats, to assist in the maintenance of his wife, Margaret, and his little daughter, Dorothy, who lived with the old people, was unfortunately⁴) killed by the fall of an old wall, over which he was training quot;¹) a fig-tree.

The news ^c) of this terrible catastrophe was a deathblow to Reuben Collie. The afflicted mother and wife of Arthur struggled with their own grief to offer consolation to him; but it was in vain, for he never smiled again. He no longer took any interest in the garden, which had been before so great a ⁷) source of pleasure to him: he suffered ^a) the weeds to grow up in his borders, and the brambles to take root in his beds. His flowers bloomed unheeded by him, and his fruit-trees remained unpruued ^tl); even his darling exotics, the very pride of his heart and the delight of his eyes, whose ¹¹⁾) progress ¹') he had, heretofore, watched with an affection that almost savoured of idolatry, were neglected; and, resisting all the efforts which his wife and daughter-in-law ¹ -) could make to rouse him from this sinful state of despair, he fell into a languishing disorder, and died a few months after the calamity that had rendered him childless ¹ *)■

And now the two widows, Annice and Margaret Collie,, had no one to work for them, or render them any comfort in their bereavement, save the little Dorothy; nevertheless,, they did not abandon themselves to the fruitless indulgence of grief, as poor Reuben had done; but, the day after they had, with tearful eyes, assisted at his humble obsequies, they returned to their accustomed occupations, or, rather, they

^,)S201. ³)§22.2. ³)§45.Rem. ')§232.2.b. ⁵)§173.Rem. fc. quot;H'U.i. ')§8.2.a. quot;) H38. quot;} § 41. b. I») § 93.2. quot;) § 12. 3. Rem. ^1!) § 'H. quot;) § 162. 2. Rem. b..

Ill

commenced a course of unwonted labour in the neglected garden, setting¹) little Dorothy to weed the walks and borders, ■while they prepared the beds to receive crops, or transplanted the early seedlings from the frames. And Dorothy, though so young, was dutifully and industriously disposed, and a great comfort to them both: it was her espccial business to gather the strawberries and currants, and to cull the flowers for posies, and carry them out to sell daily; nor²) was she afraid to venture, even to the great City of London, on such errands, though her only companion and guard was a beautiful Spanish dog, called Constant, which had been given to her, when ') quite a little puppy, by her royal mistress gt;), good Queen Catherine, who was wont to bestow much notice on the child; and she, in her turn, fondly cherished the dog for the sake of her former benefactress ⁵). But Constant was, for his own sake, very deserving of her regard, not only for his extraordinary sagacity and beauty, but for the faithful and courageous attachment which he manifested for her person, no one daring ') to attack or molest her while he was at her side. Constant was, moreover, very useful in carrying her basket of posies for her, while she was loaded on either⁰) arm with those which contained the fruit ⁷); and so they performed their daily peregrinations, each cheering¹) the other under their burdens, with kindly words on the one part, and looks and gestures of mutely eloquent affection on the other. Very fond and faithful friends were⁸) this guileless pair; and they were soon so well known, and cxcited so mush interest, in the environs⁵) of London, that they were treated and caressed at almost every gentleman's house ¹quot;) on the road; and the little girl found no difficulty in disposing¹') of her fruit⁷) and flowers, and was as happy as a cheerful performance of her duties could render her. But these pleasant days did not last; the small-pox¹²) broke out in the neighbourhood:—Dorothy's mother was attacked with this fatal malady, and, after a few day's severe illness, died; and the very¹-¹) night after the funeral of her beloved daughter-ia-law took place, Annice Collie was laid

*gt;§'207. ²) § 235. Rem. ³) §147. i.Rera.n. ')523.5. ^S)§1.S.2. Vs'lH. 'gt;SI2.2. •) «20.6. quot;) §15.3.6. ■o) §25.5. 1') §1S)3.J. § 12.3. Rem. ¹³) § 87. Rem.

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upon the bed of sickness with the same cruel disease, and Dorothy was roused from the indulgence of the intense sorrow into which she plunged, by the unexpected death of her last surviving parent¹), to exert all her energies for the succour of her aged and helpless grandmother. quot;I know not²) how it was that I was enabled to' watch, day and night, beside her bed, without sleep and almost without sustenance,quot; would the weeping orphan say, whenever she referred to that sad period; quot;but of this I am assured, that the Lord, who feedeth') the young ravens when they cry unto him, had compassion upon us both, or I never could have been supported, at my tender years, through trials like those. In the multitude of sorrows that I had in my heart, his comforts refreshed my soul; and it was through his mercy that my grandmother recovered; but she never beheld the light of day again, the cruel disease had destroyed her sight.quot; Yes, in addition to all her other afflictions, Annice Collie was now blind, a widow, childless, and destitute; yet was repining¹) far from her; and, raising⁰) her sightless orbs to heaven, when she was informed by the sorrowful Dorothy of the extent of the calamity that had befallen her, in the loss of her daughter-in-law, she meekly said, with pious Eli, quot;It is the Lord, and shall I complain or fret myself, because he hath ⁵), in his wisdom, resumed that which⁷), in his bounty, he gave? Blessed ⁸) be his holy name for all that he hath given, and for all that he hath taken away; though these eyes shall») behold his glorious works no more, yet shall⁰) my lips continuetopraise him ¹⁰) who can bring light out of darkness.quot;

But the illness of herself and her deceased daughter-in-law had consumed the little reserve that¹¹) poor Annice had made for the payment of their rent; and their landlord, a hard and covetous man, who had, ever since the death of Reuben Collie, cast a greedy eye on the garden, which he and his son had made and planted with such labour and cost, called upon the poor widow on the quarter-day, and told her, with many harsh words, that, unless ¹²) she resigned the lease of the

¹

') S18. 3. Rem. h. ') § 153. Rem. c. ') §150. 3. Rem,'2. h. ^ § 128. h. ^s)§ 196.1.

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garden to him, he would distrain her goods for the rent she owed him, and turn her and her grand-daughter into the street.

quot; It is hard to resign ¹) the lease of the garden, which has not yet remunerated us for the sum ²) my poor husband has laid out upon it, just as it is becoming') productive; butl am in your debt. Master Barker, so you must deal with me according to your conscience,quot; said the blind widow; on which ⁴) he took the garden into his own hands, and made a merit of leaving the two forlorn ones in possession of the cottage.

And now Dorothy betook herself') to spinning for the maintenance of herself and her helpless relative; but it was not much that she could earn in that way, after⁵) having been accustomed to active employment in the open air; and then, her grand-mother fell sick¹¹) again of a rheumatic fever, and Dorothy was compelled to sell first one piece of furniture and then another to purchase necessaries ') for her, till at length nothing was left butquot;) the bed on which poor Annice lay; and, when Dorothy looked around the desolated apartment that had formerly been so neat and comfortable, she was almost tempted to rejoice that her grandmother could not behold its present dreary aspect.

Winter again approached with more than ordinary severity; quarter-day came, and found the luckless pair unprovided with money to pay the rent; and their cruel landlord turned the blind widow and her orphan grand-child into the street; and, but for⁰) the benevolence of a poor laundress ¹⁰), who, out of pity, admitted them into her wretched hovel by the wayside, they would have had no shelter from the inclemency of the night that followed. Annice, helpless as ¹¹) an infant, sank down upon the straw, whereon ^{1 2}) her compassionate neighbour had assisted in placing¹³) her, and, having fully expressed her thanks, turned her face to the wall; for she could not bear that her son's orphan should see the tears which she vainly strove to repress; but she could not hide them from the

quot; ') § 184. ^s) HOI. quot;) §173. Rem. d. ') % 178. ⁵) § 201. quot;) §41.b. ') § 50. •)§'280. a. °) § 280. (5. '⁰)§18.2. quot;H 289. a. quot;) § 99. Rem. quot;) § 201. Rem. o.

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anxious scrutiny of the weeping girl. Dorothy did ¹) not speak, but looked very earnestly on the pale cheek and sunken features of her venerable grandmother, while she appeared ²) to hold communion with her own heart on ³) some subject of very painful interest. At length she rose up with the air of one who has effected a mighty conquest, and exclaimed, quot;Yes, dearest grand-mother, it shall¹) be done : the sacrifice shall ⁴) be made!quot;

quot;What shall⁴) be done, my child?quot; inquired Annice in surprise; quot;I have asked nothing of you.quot;

quot;Not indeed with your lips, dear parent of my departed father,quot; said Dorothy; quot;but your pallid cheek and tearful eyes have demanded a sacrifice of me, which, however dearly it cost⁵) me, shall⁴) be made—I will^c) sell Constant.quot;

quot;Sell Constant!quot; echoed her grandmother; quot;can you part with the gift of our royal mistress?quot;

quot;Not willingly, believe me,quot; said Dorothy, throwing her arms about the neck of her mute favourite, and bursting into a flood of tears; quot;but how can I see you want bread? It is not long since that 1⁷) was offered an angel of gold for him by a servant of the Duchess ^ of Suffolk; and this I selfishly refused at that time, saying, I would ⁹) rather starve than part with my dog. Alas, poor fellow! though I have shared my scanty pittance with him, since your illness he has suffered much for want of food; famine has touched us all, and I have reason to reproach myself for having retained ¹⁰) a creature I can no longer maintain.quot;

The next morning she rose at an early hour, and, accompanied by her faithful Constant, took the road to Westminster, to inquire if¹') the Duchess of Suffolk were still disposed to purchase him at the price she had named; but she returned, bathed in tears, and in great distress, having encountered two ruffians, in a lonely part of the road at Knightsbridge, one of whom¹²) claimed Constant as his property, violently seized him, and, in spite of her tears and remonstrances, carried him off¹³), threatening her with very harsh usage, if she attempted to follow.

')§153. ') § 213. 3. ') § 262. d. ') § 217. 3. ⁵) | 222. c. 2. quot;) § 150. 2. d. ') § 170., ») § 18. 2. quot;) § 213. 4. quot;') $ 109. quot;) § 283. quot;) § 93. 3. quot;) § 232. 2. h. Rem.

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Poor Dorothy! this appeared one of the severest trials that ¹) had yet befallen her; at any rate it was one of those drops of bitterness which make ²) a brimful cup of misery overflow; and, regardless of the soothings or expostulations of her grandmother, she wept and sobbed all that night, refusing to be comforted. She rose the following morning with the melancholy conviction that no resource now remained but the wretched one of supplicating the alms of the charitably disposed in the streets and the highways. Nothing but³) the imperative urgency of the case could have ') reconciled the meek and timid Dorothy to a mode of life so every way i'opugnant to her feelings. quot;AVe wept when we saw my dear mother laid⁵) in the cold and silent grave; but now I rejoice that she⁰) was spared the grief of seeing this day,quot; said the sorrowful orphan, when she commenced her unwonted vocation, and experienced the bitter taunts of the pampered menials of the great⁷), the rude repulses of the unfeeling, or the grave rebukes of the stern, but well-meaning moralists, who, though they awarded their charity, accompanied their alms ^ll) with reflections on the disreputable and lazy trade she had adopted. Some there were indeed, who, touched with the sweetness and modesty of her manners and appearance, spoke to the forlorn one ³) kindly, relieved her present wants, and bade ^{1 u}) her call again; but the number of these was comparatively small; and the bread which she earned so hardly for herself and her aged relative ¹'), was, literally speaking ¹²), steeped in her tears. While pursuing her miserable occupation, she sadly missed the company and caresses of the faithful Constant. quot;He would have been kind and affectionate,quot; she said, quot;if all the world had frowned ¹ ^ upon her. Her change of circumstances made no alteration in his regard; and, if she were in sickness or sorrow, and others chid or scorned her, he appeared to redouble his endearments; and, while he was by her side, she did not feel so very lonely—so sweet it is to bo assured of the love of one friend, however humble.quot;

') § 95. i.d. ') I 159.1. ³) § 280. a. ') § 151. 3. ^s) § 205. 2. ») ? 170. ') g 48. quot;) i U. °) § 48, Rem. *⁰) § 159. i. quot;) § 49. a. quot;) § 208. quot;) § 214. 2.

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Sometimes, too, she thought she should') feel less sorrowful, if she were assured that he had fallen into good hands.

Meantime days and weeks passed away, her clothes grew old ²) and her shoes were worn out, and Dorothy, who was accustomed to appear so neat and nice³) in her attire, was reduced to the garb of the most abject misery; but, though barefoot and sorely pinched with cold and famine, she thought less ¹) of her own sufferings than of the privations to which her blind grandmother was exposed.

One evening, when⁵) the snow lay deep ³) upon the ground, and Dorothy had been begging ^c) all day without receiving a single penny in alms, neither had she ') tasted a morsel of food since a very early hour in the morning, her strength failed her; and, overcome by cold, hunger, weariness, and sorrow, she sat down on a heap of frozen snow by the wayside, and wept bitterly. The river Thames⁸) was then frozen over; and she had walked across it on the ice, and was now in the parish of Chelsea. She regretted that she had ventured so far from her home, for she was oppressed with fatigue; and, though she saw the trees and houses on the opposite shores of Battersea so near ⁹), she felt as if she could not reach them that night. A drowsy feeling, the fatal effects of cold and hunger combined, was stealing ^{1 0}) over her; she tried to rouse herself, quot;for,quot; she faintly whispered to herself, quot;my poor grandmother will be¹¹) so uneasy, if I do not return; but then,quot; she thought, quot;how pleasantly I could¹²) go to sleep here, and forget all my troubles! I am not cold now, only so very, very drowsy,quot; and, though aware that, if she did ¹³) yield to these lethargic feelings, her sleep would be the sleep of death, she required some stimulus, more powerful than even that conviction, to dispel the soporific influence of the deadly cold which had seized her tender frame, like a withering blight, and benumbed her faculties. But at the very moment, when the shores of Battersea, with their snow-clad trees and houses, were fading before her closing eyes, and she was sinking passively and almost pleasingly into that slumber from

*) § 41. a. •) 141.!). ') § 30. ⁵) § 230. Rem. quot;) § 173. Rem. c. ') § 21. c. quot;) § 26. 3. ') § 230. 0. ^,0) §173. Rem. a. quot;) §217.1. quot;) 5213.4. quot;) § 154.

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which she would never have awaked, she was roused by a dog bounding suddenly upon her with a joyful cry, and licking her benumbed face and hands with the most passionate demonstrations of affection.

quot;Ah, my dear, dear Constant! is it you¹)?quot; she exclaimed in an impulsive burst of delight at this unexpected rencontre. The icy bonds of the death-sleep that had enchained her were broken; and she returned the eager caresses of the faithful animal with the rapture of one who is suddenly restored to a long-lost friend; and, starting from the ground with renewed strength and spirits ²), she exclaimed, 'I shall be able to reach home now I have found you, my pretty Constant, my own dear dog!quot;

quot;Your dog, hussy?quot; interposed a serving-man, rudely separating the re-united friends, quot;I'd have³) you know that this dog belongs to my Lady More, whose footman I have the honour to be.quot;

quot;Indeed, indeed, it is my dog that was stolen from me¹) on the Knightsbridge-road by a hard-hearted man,quot; sobbed Dorothy; she was going ⁵) to add, quot;just such a one ^c) as yourself,quot; but she stopped short.

quot;And pray, my sweet mistress, may I ask how a beggar-wench, like yourself, came in possession of a dog of such a rare and costly breed?quot; demanded the man with a sneer.

quot;He was given to me, whenquot;) quite a puppy, by my sovereign lady, good Queen Catherine, who was ever gracious unto me,quot; said she.

quot;Ho! ho! ho! was she so⁸)?quot; responded the man, bursting into an insulting laugh; quot;a likely tale, forsooth! you look like quot;) a Queen's minion, my mistress, do you not¹⁰)? Well,well, it is not a small lie that will choke you! Good night, my fair courtier, 'tis too cold to stand parleying with you on the matter.quot; So saying, he laid violent hands on Constant; and, in spite of his resistance and Dorothy's tears and passionate remonstrances, he tucked him under ids arm, and trudged off.

Cold, hunger, weariness, and dejection, were alike forgotten

') § 58.3. a. Rem. ^!) § 13.') § 145. '2.6. *) § 163. Rem. c. ') § 147.4. Rem. I/. °) § 85.2. ')§147.4.Rem.a. quot;)§83.3.Rem.a. ')% l3.c. quot;)§157. Rem.t/.151.3.Rem,

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by the bereaved mistress of Constant at the prospect of a second separation from this faithful friend, whose affecting remembrance of her, after so long an ') absence, had endeared him to her more than ever; and, without a moment's hesitation ²), she followed the servant as quickly as her naked and lacerated feet could carry her over the frozen snow, till he arrived at the gates of Sir Thomas More's mansion, which she essayed to enter with him.

quot;Why, you saucy young jade!quot; exclaimed he, thrusting her back; quot;this is a pass of impudence beyond³) anything I ever heard of! Don't you know that I am my Lady More's own footman, and Sir⁴) Thomas More, my Lady's husband, is the Lord High Chancellor of England?quot;

quot;I pray you then to bring me to the speech of her ladyship ⁵),quot; said Dorothy, quot;for the higher she be ⁶), the more will it behove ⁷) her to do me justice.quot;

On thisquot;) the serving-man, who was aware that his lady was a proud worldly woman, and by no means likely to resign her favourite dog to a beggar-girl, laughed immoderately. Some of his fellow-servants, who were standing by, joined in his mirth, while others were so») cruel as to address many jeering remarks to Dorothy on her dress and appearance, all which ¹Â») she heard patiently, and meekly replied, quot;The fashion of her clothes was not of her choice, but of her necessity, to which she prayed that none of those who reviled her might ever be exposed and, when none ¹') would undertake to bring her to the speech of Lady More, she seated herself on a stone at the gates of the court-yard, to wait for the appearance of some of the family, though she was exposed to the inclemency of the snow-storms, which beat¹²) on the uncovered head of the friendless orphan.

At length she heard the sound of wheels, and the servants came hastily to throw open the gates, crying, quot;Eoom, room, for my Lord Chancellor's coach;quot; and all the daughters of Sir⁴) Thomas More with their husbands and children came forth to welcome him, as ¹³) was their custom; for that great and good man was very tenderly beloved of his family, to

') § 2. ') § 25. 5. ') § 253. c. ') § 23. i. ') § 23. 7. quot;) J 222. c. 2. ') § 182.3. quot;) § 84. 4. °) § 34. Rem. a. quot;) § 94. 3. Rem. quot;) § 10«. quot;) § 143. quot;) § 58. 3. c.

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every member of ■which¹) he was most fondly attached; yet, when he saw the half-naked child sitting so sorrowfully at his gate, he looked reproachfully upon them all, and said, quot;How now, have ye²) all learned the parable of Lazarus and Dives to so little purpose, that ye²) suffer this forlorn one ³) to remain without the gates in such an evening that no Christian would turn a dog from the lire?quot;

quot;Noble Sir,quot; said Dorothy, making a lowly reverence to Sir Thomas, quot;none of this good family wist¹) of my distress, nor ⁵) have I^c) applied to them for an alms ; the cause of my ¹) making bold to come hither ⁸) was upon another matter, on which I beseech your worshipful Lordship to do me justice.quot;

quot;Well, my little maiden⁹), it is cold deciding on causes here,quot; said Sir Thomas; quot;so thou¹⁰) shalt step into my kitchen with the servants; and, after thou art fed and warmed, I will hear thee on thy matter.quot;

Now, though the words quot;fed and warmedquot; sounded pleasantly enough in the ears of the cold, half-famished child, yet her attachment to her dog prevailed over every other consideration, and she said, quot;Alack! noble sir, though I stand greatly in need of your hospitable charity, yet would it be more satisfaction to me, if you would be pleased to hear me forthwith on the matter of my dog, which is detained from me by one of my Lady More's serving-men, under the false pretence that it belongeth ¹') to her Ladyship.quot;

quot;Go to, thou saucy vagrant! hast thou¹⁰) the boldness to claim my favourite dog before my face?quot; exclaimed a very sour-spoken and hard-favoured old gentlewoman¹²), whom Dorothy had not before observed.

quot;Craving your honourable Ladyship's pardon, nay,quot; replied Dorothy, curtseying, quot;I do not claim your ladyship's dog, for that would be a sin; but I demand my own to be restored to me, in which I hope I wrong no one, seeing he is mine own lawful property, which a false caitiff took violently from me three months agone.quot;

quot;That agreeth well with the time when ¹³) your dog Sultan

¹

) § 200. quot;) § 230. ⁰) §18. 1. ¹⁰H57.2. 128.1.6. quot;) § 23.3. quot;) § 230. Rem,

120

was presented to you, Mistress Alice,quot; observed Sir Thomas significantly.

quot;Tilly-vally! tilly-vally!quot; ejaculated Lady More in a pet; quot;that is ever¹) the way in which you cross me. Sir Thomas, making out withal as though I were ²) a receiver of stolen goods.quot;

quot;Nay, patience, my lady³); I went not so far as to decide the cause before I had heard both sides of the question, which it is my purpose to do without farther delay,quot; returned Sir Thomas, smiling; quot;so follow me into court both gt;) plaintiff and defendant, and I will give judgment between the parties before I sup;quot; and, with a merry air, he led the way into the servants' hall, where, placing himself in the housekeeper's chair, and, putting on his cap, he said, quot;Beggar versus my Lady, open the pleadings, and speak boldly ⁵).quot;

But poor Dorothy, instead of speaking, hung down her⁰) head, and burst into tears.

quot;How! speechless!quot; said Sir Thomas; quot;then must the court appoint counsel for the plaintiff. Daughter Margaret, do you') closet the plaintiff, hear her case, and plead for her.

Then Mistress Margaret Koper, Sir Thomas's eldest -) daughter, with a benevolent smile, took the abashed, trembling girl^J) aside; and, having, with soothing words, drawn the particulars of her melancholy story from her, she advanced to the front of Sir Thomas's chair, leading the weeping orphan by the hand, and attempted to humour the scene by opening her client's case in a witty imitation of legal terms, after the manner of a grave law-sergeant; but ¹⁰), as she proceeded to detail the circumstances under which the dog was lost, recognised, and again taken from the friendless orphan, she, by imperceptible degrees, changed her style to the simply pathetic terms, in which the child had related the tale to her—the language—the unadorned language ot truth and feeling, which never fails to come home to every bosom. All present¹¹), save¹²) my Lady More, who preserved a very a/gre and impenetrable demeanour, were dissolved in tears; as tor¹³) the poor plaintiff, she covered her face with a part of her

') § 238. quot;) § 222. c. 2. ') § 23. 7. ') § 273. ') | 230. 6. °) § 72. ') § 226. i. Rem. a. quot;H 29. Rem. a. iiS. L ¹Â°)§278. quot;) ? 46. c. quot;)§ 288.6. quot;) § 255. Rem. 6.

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tattered garments, and sobbed aloud; and the counsel herself ■was compelled to pause for a moment to overcome her own emotion, ere she could conclude her eloquent appeal on her client's behalf.

quot;Thou hast pleaded well, my good Meg,quot; said Sir Thomas, smiling through his tears on his best beloved daughter; quot;but now must we hear the defendant's reply, for the plaintiff ever appeareth in the right till after the defendant hath spoken; so now, my Lady, what hast thou to say in this matter?quot;

quot;My Lady hath ') to repeat what she hath ') too often said before, that Sir Thomas More's jests are ever out of place,quot; replied my Lady in a huff.

quot;Nay, marry, good Mistress Alice, an (if) thou have²) nought better to the purpose to respond, I must bo fain to give judgment for the plaintiff in this case.quot;

quot;Tilly-vally, Sir Thomas! thou art enough to provoke a saint with thy eternal quips and gibes,quot; replied her Ladyship; quot;I tell you the dog is my property. and was presented to ■■*) me by an honourable gentleman, one⁴) Master Rich, whom you. Sir Thomas, know well; and he said⁵) he bought him of a dealer in such gear.quot;

quot;Which⁶) dealer probably stole him from') my client,quot; said Mistress Margaret Roper.

quot;Nay, but, daughter Margaret, how knowest thou that Sultan was ever this wench's property?quot; retorted Lady More sharply.

quot;Well answered, defendant,quot; said Sir Thomas; quot;wequot;) must call a witness whose evidence must decide that matter. Sou Roper, bring the dog Sultan, alias Constant, into court.quot;

The eyes of Dorothy brightened at the sight of her old companion; and Sir Thomas More, taking him quot;) into his hands, said, quot;Here now am I placed in as great a¹⁰) strait as ever was King Salomon, in respect to the memorable case in which he¹¹) was called upon to decide whose was the living child which both mothers claimed, and to whom pertained the dead ¹²), which neither ¹ ^ would acknowledge. This maiden

') i 428. t, b. ') § 222. c. 3. §170. Rem. *) § 113.2. ') ? 283. Rem. quot;) § 94.Rem. ') ^163. Rem. c. ')§56.2. ^!)§t9.1. ¹⁰) {t 8. 2. a. quot;) ê 84.4. Rem. ¹²)§4i.

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saith the dog which I hold is hers¹), and was violently taken from²) her three months agone; ray Lady replies, quot;Nay, but he is mine '), and was presented to me by an ³) honourable man,quot; (one of the King's Counsellors forsooth). Now, in this matter, the dog is wiser than my Lord Chancellor, for he knoweth unto whom he of right⁴) pertaineth; and, therefore, upon his witness must the decision ⁵) of this controversy depend. So now, my Lady, you stand at the upper ⁶) end of the hall, as ⁷) befits your quality, and you, ray little maiden, go to the lower; and each of you call the dog by the name which you have been wont to do; and to whichsoever of you twain ⁰) he goeth, that person ^!)) I adjudge to be his rigthful owner.quot;

quot;Oh, my Lord, I ask no other test!quot; exclaimed Dorothy joyfully.

quot;Sultan! Sultan! come to thy mistress, my pretty Sultan!quot; said my Lady, in her most blandishing tone, accompanying her words with such actions of enticement as she judged most likely to win him over to her; but he paid not the slightest heed to the summons ¹⁰). Dorothy simply pronounced the word quot;Constantquot;; and the dog, bounding from between the hands of Sir Thomas More, who had lightly held him till both claimants had spoken, leaped upon her, and overwhelmed her with his passionate caresses.

quot;It is a clear case,quot; said Sir Thomas; quot;the dog hath acknowledged his mistress ¹¹), and his witness is incontrovertible. Constant, thou art worthy of thy name!quot;

quot;Hark¹²) ye, wench!quot; said my Lady More, whose desire of retaining the object of dispute bad increased with the prospect of losing him, quot;I will give thee a good price for thy dog, if thou art disposed to sell him.quot;

quot;Sell my dear, beautiful, faithful Constant! Oh, never, never!quot; exclaimed Dorothy, throwing her arms about her newly recovered favourite, and kissing him with the fondest affection.

quot;I will¹³) give thee a golden angel, anda new suit of clotches to boot, for him, which, I should think, a beggar-girl were mad to refuse,quot; pursued Lady More.

¹

) § G9. §103.Rem.c. Rem.o. ') 1259.Rem. ⁵)§21.6. quot;)§32,')§289.a.

²

quot;)§ 51.-1. Rem. a. quot;;§187. '»)|9.-1. ¹1)§18.2. '=) § 226.1. Rem. a. ¹³)§150.2.d.

123

quot;Nay, nay, my Lady, never tempt me with your gold,quot; said Dorothy; quot;or my duty to my poor blind grandmother •will compel me to close with your offer, though it should ') break my heart withal.quot;

quot;Nay, child, and thou hast a blind old grandmother, whom thou lovest so well, I will²) add a warm blanket, and a linsey-woolsey gown for her wear, unto the price I have already named,quot; said the persevering Lady More;—quot;speak, shall I have him?quot; pursued she, pressing the bargain home.

Dorothy averted her head, to conceal the large tears that rolled down her pale cheeks, as she sobbed out, quot;Ye—es, my Lady.quot;

quot;Dear child,quot; said Sir Thomas, quot;thou hast made a noble sacrifice to thy duty; 'tis a³) pity that thou hast taken up so bad a trade asbegging⁴), for thou art worthy ^{^,}) of better things.quot;

quot;It is for my poor blind grandmother,quot; said the weeping Dorothy; quot;I have no other means of getting bread for her.quot;

quot;I will find thee a better employment,quot; said Sir Thomas, kindly; quot;thou shalt ^c) be my daughter Roper's waiting maid, if thou canst resolve to quit the wandering life of a beggar, and settle to an⁷) honest service.quot;

quot;How joyfully would I^s) embrace your offer, Noble Sir, if I could do so without being separated from my aged grandmother, who has no one in the world but me,quot; replied Dorothy, looking up between smiles and tears.

quot;Nay, God forbid ⁿ) that I should put asunder those whom nature hath so fondly united in the holy bands of love and duty,quot; said Sir Thomas More, wiping away a tear; my house is large enough to hold ye ¹quot;) both; and while I have a roof to call my own, it shall⁰) contain a corner for the blind and «ged ¹') widow and the destitute orphan; that so, when the fashion of this world passeth ¹²) away, they may ¹³) witness for me before Him, before whom there is no respect of persons, and who judgeth every man according to his works.quot;

') 122'2.f. 2. ') J150.2.C/. ') iG.b. *)§193.t. ⁵)§43.c. ^s)§217.3. ')§2.Ilem.a. ^lt;l)§21.d. °) § 222. L. ¹⁰) § 57.1. quot;) i 7. 3. 12) §128.1.6. quot;) § 222.4. Rem.

124

Football,

It is a pleasant sight to see') some score ²) of boys, with their clean, trim jerseys adorned with smart facings, wending their way to some field or park to enjoy a game at football. When all have assembled, the captain on each ') side arranges his men, appoints the goal-keeper, and then the ball is brought, into the middle of the field, where the kick-off takes place. No sooner has this¹) been done, than both teams set to work with a will. What scrambles ! what mauls! what glorious runs! There's a smart little fellow, who has managed to secure the ball. Tucking it under his arm, away he goes straight for the enemy's goal. Desperate attempts are made to tackle him, but he slips through like an eel^D), and is just on the point of giving a drop kick, when the ball is cleverly knocked out of his hands.

The excitement becomes intense, when the ball has been driven close ^c) in to goal. Sometimes half-a-dozen ⁷) players are scrambling³) on their backs at once; at other times a maul takes place, and the pushing and roaring are ⁹) wonderful to see and hear. Should ^{1 0}) a goal be obtained, caps are tossed in the air; the more spirited boys engage for a few ¹¹) minutes in leapfrog, until the call for a new onset is made, and then the earnest work begins again. When time is up, three cheers are given for the winning side, and those who for an ^{1 i}) hour or more had been engaged in deadly strife part good friends,¹') and cease not for a month to talk of the runs made by the more skilful players.

Cricket,

Cricket stands chief of all our English games, and has now come to be considered, according to a celebrated writer, as more than a game, in fact, an institution, the birthright

^ § 184. ^IC. ³) § 107. ⁴)§21.c. ') ?14.2. ») §230.6. ') § 26.3. Rem. quot;)§173. Rem. a. '^,)§20.lt;;. i»)?222.f.3.amp;§21._?. 'WIO. Rem.a. i!)§2.Rem.a. quot;)§22.2,

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of British boys, old and young, as habeas corpus and trial by jury are the birthright of British men.

Of course, cricket as played by little boys is very different to the game in which adults take part; and therefore the following remarks will be found scarcely in accordance with the rules laid down ') by the Marylebone Club. There ²) are two games—single and double wicket. The former ³) is played in the following manner:—

Three stumps are set in the ground, sufficiently close together to prevent the ball passing between them, and in the grooves on the top of these are placed the one or two bails, as the case may be. Another stump is set up in front of these, as far off as a boy can⁴) bowl, so as to pitch the ball within a yard of the other three, and from this stump the bowler delivers the ball. After choosing ■^,) sides, the representative of that which has won the toss takes his place, bat in hand, at the three stumps, while one of the out-party takes the ball, and endeavours, by bowling ^r') it at the stumps, to knock downquot;) the wicket, which the batsman tries to keep intact by striking⁵) the ball away from it. The rest of the out-party take ⁷) their places ^G) in the field, and try to stop the ball, when it comes to them, in order to prevent the batsman's⁰) getting runs. These he obtains by hitting the ball sufficiently far for him to run ¹⁰) from his wicket to the bowler's stump, before the ball being thrown up knocks down ^c) his wicket. If therefore his stumps are knocked down, before he can ground his bat within a yard of them, he is out. He also loses his innings if, in hitting the ball, one of the field catches it before it touches the ground. If, too, ho gets his leg in front of the three stumps, and the ball, when bowled, hits it, he is out, as ¹ '), if his leg had not been in the way, the ball would have hit the stumps and he would have been bowled. This is called leg before wicket. If there be ¹²) less than five players on a ¹ ^ side, the batsman must hit the ball in front of the wicket in order to obtain a run, and in all cases one of his feet must be behind a line drawn four feet in front of, and

') § 206. *)§ 149.1. ⁵)§201. quot;) § 232.2, h. Rem. ') § 20. a.

') § 12.3. §199. gt;»)§190. quot;) §288.a. ¹=)§222.c.3.

126

parallel to¹), his wicket, called the popping ²) crease. The player may not start for a fresh run after the ball, when thrown up, crosses the ground between the two wickets. The side which obtains the most runs in two innings wins the game.

Double wicket is slightly different. Instead of one wicket, there arc two, each ³) consisting of three stumps. A batsman takes his position at each wicket. The players field on all sides of the wicket, as ⁴) the ball may now be hit either before ⁵) or behind⁵). The bowler at one end bowls five balls at the opposite wicket, and then another bowler delivers the same number at the other end, after seeing that the fielders have changed their positions to places where the other batsman is likely to hit. In this game the batsman ^c) is liable to be stumped. This is done in the following mannerIf in hitting at a ball the batsman gets out of his ground, the limit of which ⁷) is marked a yard in front of the wicket, and the fielder who stands close behind the wicket can hold the ball, and with it knock the stumps, before the batsman is back on the ground, he is out. The other rules are the same as for single wicket.

Cricket.

quot;I am sure you must be very stiff, Frank, after your hard work yesterday,quot; said Mrs. Langham, when the family met^l!) in the breakfast-room on the Saturday morning following ⁹) a grand cricket match; quot;yet I am very pleased ^{1 0}) indeed to see that you have made the effort to be down in good time for breakfast this morning.quot;

quot;Now, Frank, tell us¹¹) all about the match yesterday,quot; said Bella, when they were all seated at table.

quot;There's not much¹²) to tell,quot; said Frank. quot;Our side won, as you know, and they⁸) played very fairly on the other.quot;

quot;Our side smashed the other fellows all to bits,quot; exclaimed Jack, quot;and old Frank scored the greatest number of runs on

') i 103. Rem. b. ') § 201. Rem. c. ') § 107. ') § 288. a. ') § 239. II. b. Rem. b. ^a) HO.l.a. ') § 94. 2. ^u) 20. a. quot;) § 200. quot;gt;)§182.3. quot;) § 103. Rem. a. 1. '=) § 110.

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either¹) side, I heard several say he was the best batsman by far -) on the field.quot;

quot;You shut up, old fellow,quot; replied his brother; quot;that's all stuff; there was plenty of good batting³) on the other side; it was a jolly match altogether.quot;

quot;I do ⁴) wish I could play in a real match,quot; said Ben.

'You play!quot; said Frank, quot;why such a bit of a chap as you would be mistaken for one of the wickets, and get continually bowled down. How would you like ⁵) that ?quot;

quot;Never mind, Ben,quot; said his mother, quot;go on growing, and some day you will be really the 'Big Ben', you are now called in fun, and then you will play with as much spirit as anyquot;) boy.quot;

Ben seemed comforted by this assurance.

quot;You are better off⁷) than I am, Bon,quot; said Bella, pathetically, quot;for as I grow biggerquot;), my chances are less; I suppose I must not play any more, when I am a proper 'grown up' young lady ?quot;

quot;Poor Bella,quot; said her father, smiling, quot;you must make the most of your cricket in our own grounds before you are 'grown up.'quot;

England.

quot;What^!)) country do we live in ? England, the southern part of the Island of Great Britain. Suppose ¹quot;) you were a ¹') bird borne up by two strong wings at such a height that you could look down upon the whole country at a glance, you would ¹²) see Great Britain, lying in the blue waters of the ocean, exactly as you see it represented in the map. You would see Scotland stretching northwards; you would see the Cheviot Hills rising between it and England. You would see the waves of the German Ocean washing the oast coast of England. You would see the English Channel running up

nSl-H. ')§ 234. Rem. b.') § 194.') § 154.') § 160.1.⁰) S104. 2. b.') § 260. Rem. ■) § 28. Rem. a. ') g 91. Rem. a. amp; § 90.1. Rem. a. ^l°) § 222. c. 3.quot;) § 22.3. ^JÏ)S225.

128

between England and France, and washing the south coast of England. You would¹) see St. George's Channel and the Irish Sea separating us from Ireland, and washing the west coast of England.

You would ¹) see too, that on the eastern and southern shores, the coast line is pretty straight or shaped into large smooth curves, while on the west, it is indented with deep bays and the wide mouths of rivers.

What sort of country is England? It is very great and powerful, very rich and prosperous. More than twenty million people inhabit it. London, its capital city, is the largest³) and richest city in⁵) the world. Its population is more than three millions Many other English cities •'■) and towns are very large and prosperous. They are connected with London, and with each other«), by a number of railways. Each railway has many branches in all directions, so that the whole country is covered with a network of iron ⁷) lines.

Is the surface of the country much varied in England? Yes, we have mountains and valleys, hills and table lands, moors and heaths, pastures and arable land. The north and west of England are hilly and in parts almost mountainous; the south and east are mostly level. The whole country is well watered. It has a great number of^c) rivers and streams, and mostquot;) of them have a slow current, so that boats and barges are constantly to be ^{1 0}) seen upon them ¹ '). The soil varies in different parts of the island, but in general it is fertile and well cultivated.

What kind of climate does England possess? A milder one than that of the countries near ¹²) us. English people are apt to complain of it, as being damp and rainy; and foreigners laugh at it, and say that an English summer is made up of three fine days and a thunderstorm. No doubt the Gulf Stream, which brings a supply of hot water from the Torrid Zone to our shores, and makes our climate mild ¹³), causes it to be damp too. But there is some advantage even in this. Our fields and meadows are thus kept green and fresh all

■) § 225. *) § 51. 4. ³) § 28. Rem. b. ') § 237. Rem. a. ') § 9. 3. ') § 107. ') § 45. quot;) § 26. 3.⁹)§ 4.1. c.'») § 147.2. quot;) § 58.3. ft.¹²) § 43. c. amp; g 46. c. quot;) § 41. c. amp; § 162.

129

the summer, while those of Prance and Germany are parched and dried up. And though the Frenchman chose to say that baked ') apples were the only ripe fruit in England, we do ²) generally have sunshine enough to bring our crops to perfection. And no doubt our climate is very healthy. People live ³) longer in England than in most⁴) countries of Europe.

The Production»; of £ii»'lsuid.

The soil of our country is on ⁵) the whole good and well cultivated, so⁰) it produces excellent crops. Above half the¹) surface of England is pasture land, and is covered with herds of cattle and flocks of sheep. More of this pasture land is to be ²) found in the western than in the eastern counties; for the climate towards the west suits it better. There is more rain there and more moisture in the air, and this⁰) keeps a constant supply of grass in the meadows. The dairies in Dorsetshire and Devonshire are very good, and a great deal of¹⁰) butter is sent from them to London.

Wheat is grown all England over ¹¹), but it is most cultivated in the midland, eastern, and southern counties. In the north of England, and wherever the soil is poor and the climate cold, oats ¹ ^) and barley are grown.

The horses and cattle of England are the finest in the world. Foreigners often buy them and take them abroad. Our sheep are also excellent, both for the mutton they supply and the quality of their wool. On the downs and open commons of our land large flocks of sheep are kept.

The hops ¹ -) which give the fine bitter flavour to beer are grown in Kent and Surrey. Apple orchards for cidermaking abound in Herefordshire, Somerset, and Devonshire. It is a pretty sight to see these orchards in spring, when the trees are covered with pink blossoms, and also in autumn, when they are laden with apples red ¹³) and yellow. The orchards

¹

*) § 203. § 154. ') § 20. a. -) § 4. -1. c. ⁵)§ 26-2. Rem. ^s)§279. ') §8.1.

²

quot;) §1«.2. °) I 84.1. ¹⁰) §26.3. quot;) § 239II b. Rem. b. quot;) §15.3 6. quot;) §46.c.

130

of pear-trees near Worcester are also very beautiful. When they are in blossom, the trees seem covered with a sheet of snow. Perry is made from the pears.

The riches') of England are not all on the surface. Oh no! great part of her²) wealth is hidden underground, and can only be got at³) by digging deep ⁴). These hidden treasures are coal and iron, lead, copper, and tin. They are not spread equally through the land. They are for the most part confined to the north and west. Indeed if we draw a line from Whitby in Yorkshire straight down to Lyme Regis in Dorsetshire, we shall find that almost all the minerals, and the mines by which we get at them, are to the west of that line.

First come coals. Coal mines are so valuable that in the north people speak of coals as black diamonds. There are in England fourteen coal fields of various sizes ⁵). In these men dig for coal, and bring it up sometimes from a great depth. The mines near Whitehaven in Cumberland run under the sea. The coalfields of England supply all the fires in the country as well as the blast furnaces, steam-ships, steam-engines, and factories, of which we have so many. We also send a great deal of coal broad.

Wherever there is coal, and in other parts of the country too, there is plenty of iron ore.

There are lead mines in the north of England, also in Devon and Cornwall.

Copper and tin are chiefly found in Cornwall. There are slate quarries in Wales and in Cumberland, and good building ⁶) stone is⁷) to be found in many parts of the country. Where it fails, there is plenty of clay fit⁸) for making⁰) bricks.

Certainly we have no gold mines in England, nor ¹⁰) do we find any silverquot;) worth speaking of¹²); but other metals are so abundant, that on the whole we may reckon our country very rich in ¹³) minerals.

') § 15.3. b. ') § 19. 2. ') § 159. 5. Rem. a. amp; § 171. *)? 230. 6. ⁵) § 12.3. ') § 201. Rem.c. ') § 172. •)§46.c. quot;) § 194-Rem-»• quot;) § 275. quot;) § 5. quot;)|198. quot;)§43.d.

131

The Ilaiiufactiires of England.

Many useful things are, as you have read, to be') found in England. Her ^ productions are excellent. But many of these productions, as well as those ■'') wliich we get from other lands, have to⁴) be worked up, or manufactured, before they will supply our wants. Englishmen are clever and hardworking, so they are very ready in thus working up the products of their land. The manufactures of England are the most important in ⁵) the world. They are mostly carried on near the coal fields in the northern and central counties, where there is plenty of fuel at hand to supply the steam-engines.

Our cotton factories have been set up near ^c) the Lancashire and Cheshire ¹) coal-fields. Many million ²) pounds ⁷) weight of cotton are brought every year from America and other countries, to Manchester and other largo towns in Lancashire. There it is turned into calico, print, muslin, and other materials for clothing.

The woollen manufacture is mostly carried on ³) in Yorkshire and in the west of England. The sheep in our own green fields are shorn every¹⁰) year, and their fleeces find their way to the mills, where they are spun into yarn and then woven into flannel, serge, broad cloth, and other woollen¹¹) goods. But our own flocks do not supply us with all the wool we want. Thousands ⁸) of pounds of it are brought every year from abroad. Some ¹ ^ is sent to quot;Witney to be made into blankets, and some ¹²) to Kidderminster and Halifax and Durham to be made into carpets.

Large quantities of raw silk are brought to us from Italy and other southern lands. It is woven into silk and satin for ladies' dresses at Spitalfields in London, as well as at Derby, Macclesfield, Congleton, and other places. At Coventry it is made into ribbons.

Most of the linen we use comes ready woven from Ireland. quot;We do not grow ¹³) flax in England, but we fetch some from the countries round the Baltic Sea, and weave it into linen in Leeds and other Yorkshire ⁷) towns.

¹

*) § 172.²) § 19.2.') i 80. -) § 145. 2. a.^s) § 257. Rem. a.quot;) § 43. c.') 45.quot;) § 51. 4.

²

) § 232. 2. 6. Rem. *⁰) § 103. 2. Rem. a. quot;) § 45. Rem. quot;) J 104.1. quot;) § 17G. 3.

132

Iron ore is to be found in many parts of the country, east as well as west. In old times it used to be smelted with charcoal, or prepared wood, and then iron works were carried on in the most woody counties of England, such as Kent and Sussex. But now coke and coal are used for the purpose, and huge blast furnaces for the smelting of¹) iron ore are set up on or near the coal-fields.

These blast furnaces are like ^s) large hollow towers with a place for a fire at the bottom. The upper³) part is filled with ore mixed with coke and lime; below an enormous fire is kept up and fed with blasts of hot air. The heat is intense. It melts the iron in the ore, and every morning and evening, when a door is opened, a stream of liquid metal flows out. As ⁴) this cools it hardens and is called pig iron.

Pig iron is melted again and turned into cast iron. Some ^r') is rolled while it is hot and turned into sheet iron. Some ⁵) is heated with charcoal and turned into steel. Iron is made into hardware, and every sort of^G) useful thing ⁷), at Birmingham, Sheffield, and other towns. They ⁸) say that you ⁸) can get at Birmingham any ^ thing made of iron from a steam-engine to a steel pen.

One of the most useful tilings in our houses is crockery or earthenware. How many things are made of it! Jugs and basins, cups and saucers, plates, dishes, and mugs. In old times people⁸) had to use wooden dishes and bowls, or, if they were better off¹⁰) and could afford it, pewter ones'¹). But neither wood nor pewter is so pleasant to eat and drink from as earthenware.

quot;Where is earthenware made? Chiefly at the Potteries on the north Staffordshire coal field. It is made of flint¹²) stones, burnt and ground to powder, and mixed with clay. The coarser kinds of earthenware are made of clay only, without any mixture of flint. A fine sort of earthenware called porcelain, or china, is made at Worcester.

Glass for our windows, as well as for looking-glasses ¹³), tumblers, vases, and many other useful and pretty things, is made in the north of Eugland and also in Bristol.

■) § 194. Rem. a. ■)§43.c. ³) § 36. ^naarmate. ^s) §104.1, •)§54.4. 'H 48. Rein. quot;)§63. °) §104. 2.6. § 260. Rem. quot;) § 44. quot;)§ 45, quot;) § 201. Rem. c.

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Boots and shoes are made in every town and village in England. They are also made wholesale in Northampton and Staffordshire.

Lace, which is used so largely in the dress of ladies, is made in the midland counties¹), and also at Tiverton and other places in Devonshire.

An immense quantity of soap and candles is used in England. The greater ²) part of these are made in London, but not ail; a good deal of soap comes from Plymouth.

Straw-plaiting ³) for hats and bonnets is done in Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire. Many thousand⁴) women⁵) are employed in this work.

Many of our clocks and watches are brought from abroad. The rest⁰) are principally made in London and in Coventry.

The Commerce of Eug-laiid.

Do you know ⁷) what commerce is ? It is the exchange of goods. Hardly any country supplies its inhabitants with every thing ³) they need. England certainly does⁹) not. quot;We want a great deal from other countries. Very well; then we must send our ships for their productions, and we must give in return either our own productions, or goods⁸) we have manufactured. This exchange is called commerce ¹⁰). The commerce of England is greater than that of any ¹¹) other country in the world. Our commercial towns are very prosperous. The largest¹²) of them are London, Liverpool, Bristol, and Hull.

Into ¹³) these ports hundreds of ships are constantly bringing from all parts of the world good things, which our own country does not produce. They bring us tea from China, coffee, sugar, and rice from the West and East Indies. They bring us loads of cotton from America. Some are laden with silk, wine, oranges, and dried fruits from the south of Europe, some with gold from Australia and California, some with

') §9.3. ') §30. ³)§193.J. ') §51.4. ^B) §10.1. a. '^I)§20.a. ') §15-2. ') § lOt, °) § 157. quot;) § 169. 2. quot;) § 104.2. b. quot;) § 28. Rem. b. quot;) § 258.

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silver from Mexico. If these things were ') not brought from abroad, we should have to go without²) them.

But of things which our native country does ³) produce, she does not produce near so much as her⁴) children want. There are fine flocks of sheep ⁵) in England, and their wool is very good. Still^c) we require a' great deal more, and we are glad to get it from Spain, and Germany, the Cape Colony, and Australia. Our rich corn fields do not⁷) supply us with bread enough; we get more wheat from North America and Central Europe. We receive timber from the North of Europe and and America, sheep and cattle from Denmark and Holland. The dairies ^s) in Germany and Holland send us a great deal of butter and cheese, and numbers of eggs are brought over from Prance. All these goods which we receive in England from foreign countries we call imports.

And what do we send to foreign countries in return for all the good things which we receive from them? Our own productions and manufactures.

Almost the only production which we send out of the country in a native state is coal⁰). A great deal of our coal goes to France and other countries of Europe, some even as far as New Zealand. But we do send away ¹⁰) large quantities of the goods we have made out of our own productions, and those of other countries. Thus¹¹) we receive from America raw cotton just as it is taken from the pods of the cotton tree; we make it into calico, print, muslin, and other cotton goods, and these we send to every part of the world. We receive a good deal of flax from Kussia: this ¹²) we weave into linen together with that grown in Ireland; and then we send the linen to different parts of Europe and America. We receive raw hides from India and South America : we send out saddles and boots and shoes to all our colonies. In 1862 we sent four million pair ¹³) of boots and shoes to Australia. Most likely many more are sent there now.

English earthenware goes to America and Australia, English cutlery, hardware, and other goods made of iron to every part of the world.

') $ 225. ') £ 272. Rem. ') § 154. gt;) § 19. 2. ⁵) § li. 2. ') $ 281 amp; i 278. ') i 153. quot;) § 9. 3. ') § 20. b. •') § 232. 2. b. Rem. quot;) § 237. quot;) § 84. 2. quot;) § 16.

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Things which we thus send to foreign countries we call our exports.

Boys and Girls at Sea.

quot;The topsail shivers in the wind, The ship she') drifts to sea.quot;

It was a delightful spring morning when Mr. Chelmer and his family, having arrived from Philadelphia a few days before, embarked in the steam-boat²) Nautilus to join the vessel that was ³) to convey them from New York to London. As their absence was to ^:i) be but short, the pain of parting ') from their friends in Philadelphia very soon subsided. They were disposed to think lightly of the probable inconveniences of the voyage, and to anticipate much enjoyment from their visit to Europe. The children, particularly, were in high spirits⁵), and very impatient to find themselves on board quot;) the ship and the voyage actually commencing ⁷).

Charles Chelmer and his sisters Sophia and Emily were all remarkably handsome, and much resembled each other. They had beautiful features, blooming complexions, and well-proportioned figures. Their dark brown hair^l!) cut closely behind, curled gracefully on their fine foreheads ⁰), and their eyes of the deepest blue were equally expressive of sweetness and intelligence. Charles was sixteen, Sophia fourteen, and little Emily had just entered her eighth ¹⁰) year.

In addition to their own children ¹¹), Mr. and Mrs. Chelmer had the care of Matilda Massingham, a young lady from Virginia, whose ago was about fifteen. Her father had in his youth resided several years in Philadelphia, during which ^{1 2}) time he became acquainted¹³) with Mr. Chelmer, and had since corresponded with him. Her mother's family was connected by marriage with some relations of Mrs. Chelmer. Mr. Massingham was owner of a large tobacco plantation, and a

'HIS).2. ²)J26.3. ^J)§ 147.1. ')§200. ^s)§13. °)§26. 3. Rem. ')§205.1.«. quot;) § U. 2. ⁸) § 12. 3. quot;) § 52.1. quot;) § 10.1. a. quot;) § 94. 3. quot;) § 41. a.

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great number of slaves; but having a numerous family to provide for¹), he was induced to accept the offer of a brother settled²) in England, who proposed to adopt Matilda, as he had no children of his own³), and had requested that she might be sent to London to complete her education under the superintendence of his wife⁴), an English lady.

Matilda Massingham was a tall, thin girl, with very light hair and very light eyes, a fair skin inclining to freckle, and small, insignificant features. She had been taught by an extremely foolish mother to consider herself a beauty quot;), and had been dressed like a woman, and taken to balls and parties from⁰) her earliest childhood. She was attended by a black girl, named Phillis, who had been brought up with her, and treated sometimes as a companion and sometimes as a slave, according to the whims of her young mistress ⁷).

In little more than an⁸) hour, the steam-boat was alongside of the ship, which was waiting⁹) at Staten Island for the passengers, and the Chelmer family soon found themselves ¹⁰) safely deposited on the deck of the fine vessel that was to be their habitation for the next¹¹) four or five weeks.

Matilda, who had visited the ship a few days before, when she ¹²) lay at the wharf, expressed much dissatisfaction on finding the elegant silk damask curtains and rich Brussels carpets all removed, and curtains of chintz and common ingrain carpets substituted in their places. The captain explained to her, that, during the voyage, the furniture was liable to be damaged by the waves occasionally breaking¹³) over the ship, and the salt water running down ¹³) into the cabin, and that it was also exposed to other accidental injuries. For this reason, it is always the custom to remove and put away the most costly articles before the vessel goes to sea.

Matilda, who was a very forward girl, replied rudely, quot;that she thought it was cheating the passengers, to show them the ship elegantly fitted up while she lay in the harbour, and then to make them perform the voyage with inferior carpets and curtains.quot; The captain smiled, and saying that he believed it

*) § 188. Rem. quot;)§ 206. ») § 73. Rem. a. ^gt;)§9.4. 'Hm2. •)§256.6. ')§23.5. ') § 2. ⁸) ? -178. Rem. b. •quot;) § 20. a. quot;) ? 29. Rem. b. quot;) § 19.2. quot;) § 201.

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was generally understood by the passengers that such') was the arrangement in. all the packets that sailed between America and Europe, he left her and went on deck.

Mrs. Chelmer, with the assistance of Sophia, selected as much of their baggage as they would require on the voyage, and arranged it in their state-rooms, for so are called the little sleeping⁵) apartments on ship-board. The remaining³) trunks were deposited in the steerage, a place in the middle of the ship, where the luggage is stowed away, and where the inferior grade of passengers, who cannot afford to pay the cabin price, sleep and eat. Mrs. Chelmer and Emily were to ⁴) share one of the state-rooms that opened into the ladies' cabin, and Sophia and Matilda occupied another ; while Mr. Chelmer and Charles had a room in the dining²) cabin. There were just as ⁼) many passengers as could be accommodated with convenience, and no more.

Matilda, who had called Phillis to attend to her things, was much out of humour on quot;) finding that all her numerous trunks and boxes were not to remain in the cabin. She declared that she should want every article in them ⁷) before the voyage was over, and that she was not goingquot;) to make a fright of herself, because she was at sea, being⁰) determined to dress exactly as she did on shore. quot;I wonder,quot; ¹⁰) said she to Sophia, quot;how you and your mother can think of disfiguring ¹¹) yourselves for four or five weeks with those black China-crape frocks, and the black silk calashes you have provided for the voyage. As to¹²) Emily she is but a child, and it is no matter what she wears. And your father and Charles, how will they look in their grey jackets and their blue cloth caps ?quot;

quot;I suspect,quot; replied Sophia, quot;that before a week has elapsed, you will regret having refused ¹³) my mother's offer of equipping you with dresses similar to hers and mine. She has been at sea before, and knows the convenience of being drest in the simplest manner possible, and of wearing nothing that is easily spoiled, or that requires a long time to arrange.

quot;When their state-rooms were fixed, the ladies went on deck,

*) J 85. 2. b. •) § 201. Rem. c. ■) § 202. ') § 147. 3. ⁵) § 34. ') i 201. ') § 58. 3. b. quot;) § 147.4. Rem. b. ') § 207. quot;) § 182. 3. quot;) § 199. ») § 267. Rem. ^1:l) ? 198.

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where they found Mr. Cheltner talking to another gentleman, and Charles seated with Emily on one of the benches at the head of the cabin stairs, called the companion way, and explaining to his little sister the process of getting the ship under way.

quot;Oh! Sophia,quot; exclaimed Emily, quot;Charles has been telling me that the ship is held¹) fast and prevented from moving ²) by a large iron thing called an anchor, such as we have often seen in pictures, and which has ³) a cable, a very strong thick rope, fastened to it. Some cables are made of a heavy iron chain. quot;When the captain wishes the ship to stop '') in a river or bay, he orders an anchor to be thrown out⁴), and the anchor sticks down in the mud or sand at the bottom of the water. Sometimes it requires two or three anchors to hold a ship fast⁵). When the captain intends⁶) the vessel to sail, or to get under way⁴), as they call it, the sailors wind up the anchor by the windlass. This is what they are doing now.quot;

Charles. Look, look towards the head of the ship, and you will see the anchor hanging ') suspended over the water. See, they are just drawingquot;) it up.

Matilda. What⁹) do you call the head ?

Charles. The head is the front or forepart of the ship. The bows, as the sailors say. The back part of the vessel is the stern. The cabin is at the stern. In the middle is the steerage, where passengers of the lower ¹⁰) class are accommodated. Forward, or near the head of the ship is the forecastle, where the sailors live, and down below all, is the hold, where the cargo is deposited.

Emily. And by whatquot;) names are the three masts of the ship distinguished ?

Charles. The one nearest¹²) the head of the vessel is called the fore-mast. That in the middle is the main-mast, and that nearest¹²) the stern is the mizzen-mast.

Sophia. The mizzen-mast goes up through the dining¹³) cabin.

Emily. Oh! Sophia, just look at the sailors standing on those round smooth pieces of wood that go across the masts.

¹

a. quot;) J 173. Rem. a. °) 90.1.¹⁰)§ 3G. ■') g 91. Rem. a. quot;) g 43. c.¹³) § 201. Rem. c.

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Charles. Those are called the yards. You see') the sails are fastened to them.

Emily. Yes. The sailors are now untying ²) the strings that keep the sails tucked up tight to the yards.

Sophia. That is, that the sails may be loosened and spread out to catch the wind, which will fill them and make ³) the ship go.

Emily. Oh 1 I am so much afraid those poor sailors will fall! See how they walk and stand, and kneel, and lean over the yards as fearlessly ⁴) as if they were down on the floor of the deck. And some, while they are untying *) the sails, have nothing to put their feet on ³) but⁰) a single rope. See, there are three or four almost at the very ') top of the masts. I wonderquot;) their heads are not dizzy. Look ! look ! how they run up and down those dangerous rope-ladders.

Charles. Those rope-ladders are called the shrouds

Matilda. Eor my part¹⁰), I care not¹') what they are called. I see no use in explaining or understanding all those things. I take interest in nothing that concerns a ship except the cabin. I intend to be on deck as little as possible.

Emily. Well, I like to know as much as I can about every thing.

The anchor was now up and deposited in its place at the bow. The sails were shaken out, and rustled in the breeze which was soon to ¹²) fill them. The tide was favourable, and in a short time the vessel passed the light-house at Sandy Hook, and was at sea before the bell rang for dinner.

Seated at a long table which was covered with a variety of excellent dishes, the passengers all seemed to enjoy the favourable commencement of their voyage. The wind being fair ¹³), the ship went steadily on, and there was none of that rolling, tossing motion which causes sea-sickness. When they came on deck after dinner, the heights of Never-sink had assumed the blue tint of distance, and seemed rapidly receding from the sight. A boat came along-side in which the pilot took his departure, having safely brought the ship out of the

') § 28a. Rem. =) § 173. Rem. a. »)§ 159.1. ')§230.6. ^s)§188.Rem. ^B)§280.n. ') § 81. Rem. a.quot;) § 182. 3. •) §1C9.2.'») § 255. quot;) § 153. Rem. c. '=) § 147.1. quot;) § 207.

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harbour. Nearly all the passengers charged the pilot with farewell letters to their friends, which he was ¹) to put into the post-office on his return to New York.

Several of the ladies shed tears as the pilot descended into the boat, and the gentlemen all shook hands with him. He seemed to be the last connecting link between them and the country they were leaving, and whose shore had now faded into a dim, dark line along the edge of the western horizon.

At sunset the land had entirely disappeared, and nothing was visible all around but³) the vast, unbounded ocean, with the clear blue sky and the bright long rays of the evening star sparkling⁴) in the west.

quot;And now,quot; said Charles, quot;we are really at sea.quot;

quot;Hail! the multitudinous ocean!quot;

During the night the wind increased, and becoming more easterly, there was a great deal o'f motion in the vessel. Before morning, all the⁵) ladies were very sea-sick, and also several⁰) of the gentlemen. Mr. Chelmer, however, felt no symptoms of this most annoying disorder, and in a few ^T) hours Charles had perfectly recovered. Mrs. Chelmer and her daughters bore their sickness extremely well, and made great exertions to assist Matilda, whose groans and lamentations were most melancholy to hear. She screamed at every roll of the ship, and though she had at first³) chosen the upper⁹) berth, she insisted now on being removed ¹⁰) to the under one, lest she should¹¹) fallout. She would not allow her maid Phillis to go to bed, but ordered her to sit up with her all night, though the poor girl suffered much more from sickness than her young mistress¹²) did. At last, Mrs. Chelmer, whose compassion was much excited, dismissed Phillis to her sleeping place, saying she would herself¹³) attend on Miss Massingham. This was no easy task, and Matilda bitterly lamented that she had ever undertaken the voyage, and when Mr. Chelmer came into the cabin, to see how they all were, she foolishly insisted on his desiring the captain to go back to New York and put

') §147.1. ^g-ioi. ^ê'iSO.a. ')§20G. ^s)§8. d. ') ? 48. ') g-HO. Rem. a. quot;) i 54. 3. Rem. 6. ⁸) § 3(5. quot;) g 199. ■') § 222. c. 4. ^1!) § 23. 5. quot;) § 79.

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her on shore again, declaring that it would be impossible for her to live ') to get to England.

Next morning none of, the ladies were ²) well enough to appear at the breakfast table; but before noon little Emily's sickness was entirely gone ³), and Charles had no difficulty in persuading her to accompany him on deck. He assisted her carefully to the staircase, and as the ship rolled, they found their various slips and stumbles, and the difficulty they had in keeping their feet, rather amusing than otherwise.

Emily looked round, and saw not the glimpse of any thing like ¹) land; only the world of waters beneath them, and the clouds above their heads. The colour of the sea had changed from green to dark blue. It is always blue at a considerable distance from the land. Charles held Emily up to look over the side of the vessel, which was ploughing her⁴) waj'through the foaming waves, throwing her spray from her bows, and leaving a long white track of froth behind her ³). Emily was much ^c) interested in watching ⁷) the billows, which seemed to chase each otherquot;) till their curling tops burst into foam. Her father showed her some sea-gulls flying so low^1gt;) that their white wings almost dipped into the water, and a multitude of porpoises swimming at a distance, in a shoal which extended as far as the eye could reach. They are a large coarse fish with a head shaped something like ³) that of a hog. Sometimes one would ¹⁰) playfully spring out of the water, and tumble into it again with a great splash.

Several days passed on with much sameness. Once, on a sudden roll of the ship, Emily would have been precipitated head foremost down the cabin stairs, had she not been caught by a sailor that was standing near, receiving some orders from the mate, and who hastily started forward and saved her from falling. This man , Charles afterwards informed her, was called Tom White, and he was his favourite of all the crew. Being a Yankee, [this term, when ¹') used by an American ¹²), means a native ¹³) of New England] and of course very expert at working in wood, Tom White made in some of his leisure

') § 190. ') §109. ^s) § 174. ') § 19.2. ⁵)§78. ') § 234, Rem. a. ') § 194. Rem. a. quot;) § 180. ⁹) § 41. b. ¹⁰) § 150. 3. Rem. 2. 6. quot;) § 147,1. Rem. a. gt;=) § 49. h. quot;)§49.o.

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moments a very pretty wooden¹) bowl, plate, fork, and spoon, which he commissioned Charles to present to his little sister. Emily was delighted with these things. She put them away in a box, and was as ²) careful of them as Matilda professed to be of her trinkets.

In the course of a week all the passengers were again in good health and spirits ³), except Matilda, who continued sick ⁴), because she would not make the slightest exertion to be otherwise. She lay all the⁵) time in her berth, with poor Phillis sitting beside her, or going every hour to the steward to ask for something which Matilda had taken a fancy to eat, and which must immediately be prepared for her. Somtimes she wanted a pork steak, sometimes a piece of plum-cake; sometimes a mutton chop, and then a plate of figs ; sometimes a fried chicken, and then a custard or a slice of broiled ham ; sometimes coffee, sometimes lemonade, and sometimes chocolate. Of these various things she generally ate heartily, and then got^G) sick again. Never was there a more troublesome passenger than this forward and perverse girl. Mrs. Chelmer, finding that Matilda's sickness was protracted by her lying⁷) constantly in bed, and eating and drinking⁷) improperly, at last insisted on her making⁸) an exertion to go on deck, one day when⁰) the weather was fine, and the sea perfectly calm.

But Matilda refused to be seen in the cabin or on deck, unless she was handsomely dressed, and as she said that after her hair was pinned up, it would be several hours before the curls could be opened, her appearance in public had to be ¹¹⁾) postponed till next morning.

Accordingly, that night she managed to sit up in bed while Phillis pinned up her curls, and next morning the pins were taken out¹¹), the curls loosened, and the great business ¹²) of dressing ¹³) commenced; but it was not over in less than two hours. The captain then conveyed her up the cabin stairs, and she appeared on deck in a white muslin frock profusely decorated with insertion trimming and worked flowers, a pink

') S 45. Rem. ^r)§3i. ³)§13. ')§41.6. ^ § 103. 2. quot;jSil-quot;. ')§20I. quot;)§199. ') § 236. Rem. '») § 145. 2. a. quot;) § 171. ^i;:) § 12. 3. Rem. quot;) g 179.

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gauze scarf, and a leghorn') hat, ornamented with gauze ribbon and roses. Her stays ^ were laced so tight³) that she could scarcely breathe, and her feet were squeezed into shoes that were too small for them. Her style of dress was so entirely different⁴) from that of the other ladies and so ill-suited to the place, and she looked so conceited and so affected ³), that it was scarcely possible to avoid smiling ^c) as she took two or three turns up and down the deck, languidly leaning on the captain's arm, and then threw herself⁷) into a chair, declaring she was nearly dead with ^l!) fatigue.

However, as there was no motion in the ship, and as Matilda really felt⁰) better for breathing the fresh air, she was persuaded to remain on deck till dinner-time. But in the course of the morning her beautiful scarf became very much daubed with tar, the lower flounce of her frock was sadly nibbled by the ship goat, and one of her white kid gloves, which she had taken off while eating an orange, was nearly devoured by the same mischievous animal. These accidents much discomposed her, and she beat the goat so severely with her parasol that poor Nanny ¹⁰) never ventured to approach her again during the remainder of the voyage.

It was a lovely day, the sky was without a cloud, the sea was calm and smooth as a mirror, and various fishes and sea insects were swimming ¹¹) round the ship. Charles got a bucket with a long rope fastened to it, and amused himself by letting it down into the water to see what he could fish up. He caught a bead-fish, which was about a foot long, clear as an icicle, and with a dozen ¹²) eyes dispersed at equal distances from head to tail. He also brought up in the bucket a medusa or sea-nettle, which looked like a cake of yellowish ¹³) jelly. Charles had heard that the medusa, on being touched, caused a stinging sensation like a vegetable nettle, and he was going to put his finger on it, when Emily caught Ms hand, and begged him to desist. quot;My dear little sister,quot; said Charles, quot;do you think I cannot bear a trifling pain to satisfy my curiosity? I know that it will sting my hand, but I should

'HiS. ³)§'230.e. quot;) ? 43. d. ⁵) § 41. b. ^ § 193. t. ')§177. quot;) 270. b.

^s)§179. billy-goat; r.anny-goat. quot;) §173. Rem. 6. ^I2) § 20. 3. Hem. ^1:l)§40.

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like to ascertain exactly how it feels¹). I have heard it described²), but there is nothing like one's own experience.quot; So saying, he laid his finger on the medusa, and held it there for³) about a minute, but the pain -was very severe, and it caused for³) a short time considerable redness and inflammation. Charles, however, bore it with great composure, and joined the gentlemen in laughing⁴) at his experiment; but the tears came into the eyes of the tender-hearted little Emily.

quot;How calm, how beautiful is the sea,quot; said Charles, quot;how delightful it would be to bathe in this clear smooth water.quot; Just as he spoke, Mr. Chelmer told him to look towards the stern, and he would see something that⁵) -would totally destroy his inclination for bathing ⁽ⁱ).

He then pointed out to the children a monstrous shark, which was swimming near the ship, and opening his enormous mouth with its three rows of teeth, in pursuit of a small fish, which glided rapidly before him. The little fish suddenly displayed a pair of wings, rose from the sea, and flew out of sight. The children were delighted with the opportunity of seeing a flying ⁰) fish, and even Matilda seemed to take some interest in so singular a ⁷) spectacle.

In the afternoon Mr. Chelmer conducted his daughters all over⁸) the ship, and explained to them the various parts of the vessel, and their respective uses. On this expedition, Matilda would not accompany them, saying she had no desire to clamber up and down ladders, and poke into dark holes and corners, at the risk of tearing and soiling⁹) her frock, or knocking⁹) her hat against the low ceilings.

quot;When they came on deck again, the girls were much terrified to see Charles ascending ^{1 0}) the shrouds of the main-pot-gallant-mast. Emily began immediately to scream, and Mrs. Chelmer, who had just come out of the cabin, called to him to descend immediately. quot;If he chooses'M to risk his life,quot; said Matilda, who was sitting quietly¹²) on deck, quot;let him take the consequences. I am sure I have had no idea of screaming ^G) after him.quot; quot;Oh, Matilda,quot; exclaimed Sophia, quot;Charles is not

') §205.2. ³) §255.6. ^,)§2(M. ⁵)§95.1.c. ⁸)§200. ') § 8.2. a. quot;) § 263. Rem. quot;) 8203. io) §205.1. quot;) §150. 3. Rem. 2. d. «) §230.6.

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your brother. But see, he is coming down, as soon as he heard my mother call him.quot;

quot;My dear,quot; said Mr. Chelmer to his wife, quot;to¹) a strong active boy, with firm nerves and a steady head, the danger of going aloft²) is not so great as it appears to be, particularly when the weather is as calm as it now is. I have frequently, in former ³) voyages, been at the mast-head myself, and I assure you it is an exploit which any ⁴) one of our sex, above the age of childhood, ought⁵) to be equal to. You see how the sailor boys run up the shrouds ?quot; quot;But they are accustomed to it,quot; said Sophia. quot;Some⁰) time must be the first,quot; observed Mr. Chelmer.

Charles had now safely descended to the deck, and apologized to his mother and sisters for alarming ⁷) them, saying quot;he had hoped to have finished his tour above, before they had come up from theirs below.quot; quot;I can assure you,quot; said Matilda, quot;he has done even worse than you have seen ⁸), for he crossed over from one mast to another by a single rope, which hung suspended³) like a festoon. He reminded me of a man I saw at the circus, clinging to a slack rope.quot;

The calm continued nearly all day. As ^{1 0}) the sun declined, nothing could be more splendid than its reflection on the water, which was now slightly rippled by a light breeze. As

quot;The white sails caught the evening ray;

The waves beneath them seemed to burn.quot;

A sunset at sea is a glorious sight, as^{1 1}) there is nothing to intercept the view. The sun, broad and dilated, descends till it touches the line where the western sky meets the western ocean. There it appears to rest^{1 2}) awhile on the lowest verge of the horizon, and then it slowly seems to sink into the sea, leaving behind it¹³) a streak of crimson light, which gradually fades away as ¹⁰) the stars come out.

quot;Their march is o'er the mountain waves.quot;

In the course of the night a mass of heavy clouds gathered

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in the north-east, the wind sprang up right a-head, and before morning it blew¹) a violent gale.

Mitilda's terrors entirely banished her sea-sickness, and she lay ²) in her berth, declaring she would not leave it again till the voyage was over. One moment she screamed at the rolling of the ship, the next she cried out that she was sicker than ever. At intervals she fretted for ripe strawberries, and wished herself back in Virginia, that she might get some.

None of the Chelmer family were sick again, and very few ³) of the other passengers, so that, notwithstanding the storm, the breakfast-table was nearly as well attended as usual. The repast, however, was not a very comfortable one.⁴) The ship rolled so much that the waves frequently broke over her side, and the water pouring ⁵) down through the interstices of the sky-light, it had been necessary to put on the hood or cover. This made the cabin so dark, the windows being ⁵) closed also, that the lamp which hung over the table was lighted at breakfast-time.

The breakfast went on with great difficulty. The passengers had to hold their plates in their^c) hands as well as their cups, and frequently both ⁷) cup and plate fell, while the holder was saving himself by catching at the back of the settee. Suddenly a tremendous wave came pouring⁸) down the stairs, and swept everything off the table, leaving the cabin-floor several inches deep in water. The company, to avoid the wet, jumped on the chairs and settees, and some scrambled up to the bulk head, for so is called the broad sort of shelf which goes under the cabin windows. Charles, who sat near the stairs 'O, was completely drenched.

The passengers, though¹⁰) startled at first¹¹), could not help smiling¹ *) at the grotesque attitudes in which they saw each other. Some still kept in their hands forks with pieces of meat on them, others held egg-cups upside down , the egg streaming over their clothes ¹ 'J. One gentleman grasped tightly in both hands a plate of hot muffins, and several had their mouths full of salt water. Broken cups and plates, eggs, pieces of

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meat and bread, lumps of sugar, pats of butter, and various other breakfast-materials were swimming and melting about the floor; streams of sea-water were dripping from the tablecloth. There was much exclamation, and the shrieks of Matilda from the ladies' ') cabin added greatly to the noise.

She was sitting up in her bed, eating her breakfast, which Phillis held for her; the door of her room was open, when a sudden and violent pitch of the vessel tossed her out of her berth, and poor Matilda continued rolling⁵) over the floor,till she found herself³) at the foot of the stairs deluged in the water which had just poured down there. Mr. Chelmer and a young gentleman ran to her⁴) assistance, and soon found that, though very much frightened, she was not hurt. They carried her to her apartment; but when she passed the looking-glass that hung over the sofa, and which she had a habit of looking into⁵), that no disaster could conquer, she stopped, transfixed with ^c) horror at the deplorable figure she made. The water was streaming from the ends of her sleeves and from the hem of her wrapper; her cap had fallen off, and hung round her neck by its strings; her comb was broken in half; her hair, dripping with⁶) wet, was dangling over her shoulders; the curls which Phillis had pinned up the night before⁷), were in wretched disorder, the hair-pins having fallen out, and most⁸) of them lodged in the collar of her gown and down her back. quot;To think,quot; she exclaimed to Mrs. Chelmer, who came to Matilda's room to assist her, quot;to think that I should have been seen such a wretched figure,—I shall never be ablequot;) to look the gentlemen in the face again; I will¹⁰) stay in England all my life, I will never return to America, I will never go to sea again while I live.quot;

By¹¹) this time the water was wiped up from the floor, and carried out in a bucket, and some degree of order was restored, but as there ¹²) was a possibility of a similar accident recurring ¹the ladies retreated to their own cabin, and took refuge in their berths, where they spent a most¹⁴) tedious day; as the motion of the ship made it difficult for them to read ¹⁵),

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Sophia got') into Emily's berth, and very kindly amused her little sister by telling her stories, and relating various amusing anecdotes.

Charles ventured several times on deck, being unwilling, as he said, to lose the opportunity of witnessing so grand and awful a²) spectacle as a, storm at sea. The waves were tremendously high, and followed each other with a fury which seemed irresistible³). The sky was entirely obscured with clouds, and a heavier and darker mass was coming up from the north-east. As the wind rose, the swell of the waves increased, till the whole ocean looked as if⁴) covered with foam. The vessel carried very little sail, but the ¹) straining of the masts, the creaking of the timbers, and the whistling of the wind through the rigging, made a combination of melancholy sounds. As the ship rolled from side to side, she seemed alternately to sink into a deep valley between two mountains of water, which appeared nearly as high as the mast-head, and to rise upon them as they went down till she looked as if⁴) riding on their tops. It was²) not till a wave dashing over the deck carried off a hencoop, that Charles, whose whole attention was absorbed in the scene before him, found it was better for him to quit⁷) deck.

The night set in, dark, dreary, and with the storm increasing. The gentlemen all⁸) assembled in the dining-cabin; some, who had never been at sea before, testified much uneasiness; others⁰), who had witnessed storms still greater, made light of this. The captain, wrapped in his great-coat, remained on deck calling to the men through his speaking-trumpet¹⁰), and as the storm grew louder, the shouting, running, and trampling¹') over head was almost terrific to those below.

As usual on such occasions, the conversation in the cabin turned principally on shipwrecks, and various appalling tales were recounted on this melancholy subject.

One gentleman, who had frequently been at sea, related that he was once¹²) wrecked on some rocks near a small island in the West-Indies¹³). They saw the people on the shore, but

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the surf was so high and the breakers so tremendous, that no boat could be sent out to their assistance. The crew were¹) all night clinging to the wreck, expecting every moment to be washed away. Fortunately they had on board a large Newfoundland dog, and in the morning they put one end of a rope in the dog's mouth, and directed him to swim to the shore with it⁴), the other end being made fast to the vessel. The faithful and sagacious animal completely succeeded in the experiment. He soon reached the land, buffeting the billows with the most unshrinking courage. The people on the beech then took the rope, and held it firmly, while the crew one by one³) worked themselves along it, till they all reached the shore in safety. Just as the last man jumped on the beech, the vessel went to pieces.

Charles, who was extravagantly fond of dogs, was so delighted with this anecdote, that he could not forbear⁴) going to the door of the ladies' cabin and petitioning for admittance, that he might⁵) immediately relate it to his sisters. When he had done⁰) telling it, the girls made many inquiries as to what he had seen on deck. They were not much alarmed at the storm, as their father had assured them that there was no real danger, the ship being⁷) in every respect a good one⁸), and the captain an excellent seaman, and the whole crew expert and orderly.

Emily said she hoped that none⁹) of the poor sailors were aloft that dreadful night, and when Charles replied that several of them were in that dangerous situation, and that in a storm it was absolutely necessary that¹⁰) some of the crew should be thus exposed, she shuddered at every howl of the blast, and at every roll of the ship. But her brother consoled her by the assurance that sailors were so accustomed to going¹') aloft in dark nights, that they could manage to do so¹²) with little or no difficulty, and that from practice and dexterity they rarely missed their footing.

However, as soon as Charles had left the cabin, little Emily knelt¹³) in her bed, and clasping her hands, prayed earnestly

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that God would not allow any¹) of the poor sailors to fall into the sea, particularly Tom White.

quot;Merrily, merrily goes the bark,

Before the gale she ■) bounds.quot;

Towards³) morning the storm abated, and in the course of the following day it entirely subsided, so that the ladies could again venture on deck, though there was still⁴) considerable motion in the ship, as after a severe gale it is generally a long time before⁵) the waves settle, or before the sea goes down, as the sailors call it. But the sun was bright, and every thing looked cheerful.—The attention of all on board was soon attracted by a whale which was seen at a distance, spouting up water from his⁰) nostrils, and throwing aside the foam as hequot;) proceeded through the waves.

Next day, there was a fine fair wind, and early in the morning Charles ran down to inform his sisters that they were going nine knots an⁷) hour. He seldom failed to be present at the throwing out of the log-line, by which⁸) the speed of the vessel is ascertained, and which is always done by one of the mates. He had also learned to take an observation with the quadrant, and he taught⁵) little Emily the points of the compass,

quot;That oracle to man in mercy given.

Whose¹⁰) voice is truth, ■whose quot;wisdom is from Heaven.quot;

The wind continued fair, the vessel made rapid progress, and in a few¹') days they approached the banks of Newfoundland, which lie near an island of the same name, and are famous for their extensive cod-fisheries. Here they saw many land birds flying¹²) about, and the water again looked green. They passed two fishing-boats, from which they got thirty fresh cod, in exchange for some beef, pork, and cigars. These were sufficient to feast the whole crew, as well as the passengers.

Matilda, hearing that land was not far off, immediately summoned Phillis to commence dressing¹³) her, supposing that

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of course the passengers were all going on shore; and she was much disappointed when Mrs. Chelmer told her that American ships, on their way to¹) Europe, never stop at Newfoundland, and rarely approach near enough to discern the coast.

Two days after²) they passed the banks, the atmosphere became excessively cold, and the captain thought they were approaching an iceberg. quot;What is an iceberg?quot; asked Matilda. quot;It is an immense mass or rock of ice,quot; replied Sophia, quot;which in spring is loosened from the coasts of Greenland, or other northern regions, and floats down into warmer latitudes.quot; quot;Well, I do not want³) to see it,quot; said Matilda, quot;I hate all curiosities.quot;

Very soon an iceberg appeared at a distance. When far off it resembled a white cloud; but as it came nearer, it looked like an immense rock. The cold became so intense that the ladies did not find their shawls warm enough'¹), and went down to get their cloaks. Sophia tried to persuade Matilda, who was now quite wellquot;), to come on deck and see the iceberg. This she at first refused, but after²) Sophia had gone up, she recollected that she would now have an opportunity of displaying⁰) her rich purple satin cloak, which would appear to great advantage, beside¹) the plain back silk cloak of the Chelmers. She found that this capacious mantle would entirely cover her morning-gown. So putting a long white lacequot;) veil over her hat, to conceal that her curls were pinned up, she sent for⁸) Charles Chelmer to assist her to the deck.

They were soon within¹⁰) a mile of the iceberg, which was stupendously lofty, nearly as high as the main-mast head. It was broken in the most singular and grotesque forms; some of its pinnacles towering up to a great height above the rest, and others¹¹) leaning over so far that they looked as if they would fall every moment. Its general colour was a beautiful greenish blue¹ -), but as the sun¹ '■'•) broke from under a cloud, and shone full upon it, it displayed all the various tints of the rainbow. Its numerous summits were covered with snow,

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which was now melting and pouring down its sides like cataracts. The children were amazed at the tremendous height of the iceberg, but Mr. Chelmer told them that¹) there was very probably five times²) as much of it below the surface of the water as above.

The ship was kept off from the iceberg, as they are dangerous on account of³) their suction, or propensity to draw the vessel towards them.

The captain related that he was once very near¹) being knocked to pieces between two icebergs. The ship was drawn into the current between •quot;') them. They approached nearer to each other, and it appeared so certain that they would meet and crush the vessel, that the captain and crew abandoned her and took⁶) to the long-boat. quot;When, just as they had cleared themselves from the ship, a sudden gust of wind blew the icebergs apart in different directions, and the crew returned to the vessel, which thus escaped uninjured⁷).

In spite of her elegant cloak, the cold soon induced Matilda to return to the cabin, and the chilliness of the atmosphere continued long after they had lost⁸) sight of the iceberg.

Next day the weather was delightfully⁹) pleasant, and unusually warm for the season. The wind was still fair, and the vessel seemed almost to fly through the water. In^{1 0}) the evening the passengers remained on deck till long after dark, watching^{1 1}) the sparkling foam which seemed to play round the ship like liquid Are, and there¹²) were various discussions among the gentlemen as to¹³) the cause of the luminous appearance of the sea at night, when

quot;Awaked before the rushing prow.

The mimic fires of ocean glow,

Those lightnings of the wave.quot;

quot;For her there's a story in every breeze.

And a picture in every wave.quot;

The following day they saw a ship, which was evidently

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laying her course to the west, and which¹) the captain immediately pronounced to be an American vessel. As there was a probability of²) the two ships very soon passing each other, most³) of the passengers adjourned to the cabin to finish letters which they had been writing at their leisure, in case of meeting a vessel on her¹) way to America.

Sophia ran down to try and persuade Matilda to come and see the strange ship, but Matilda said she would not go on deck, unless she was dressed, and it was now too warm to envelop herselfquot;) in her cloak.

When Sophia returned to the deck, the strange vessel was coming⁰) on very fast, and when quite near she displayed American colours⁷).

The two ships were soon alongside, and the two Captains went to the tjuarter-railing with their speaking-trumpets⁸), through which they accosted each other⁰). The strange vessel was found¹⁰) to be a packet returning to Philadelphia from Liverpool.

Mutual inquiries having been made and answered¹¹), the letters were all tied together, and the ends of the twine were drawn through a hole made in a large potato, the weight of which¹²) was to prevent the parcel from being blown into the sea. The packet was then pitched on board the Philadelphia ship, and two letters for London were in the same manner thrown on the deck of the New-Yorkvessel. The latest¹³) news from England and America having been exchanged through the speaking-trumpets, the captains took their leave, the ships passed rapidly on, and in a short time lost sight of each other.

Among the other letters, was one which Emily rejoiced in having finished the day before, so that it was quite ready to be fastened to the potato with the rest, and thrown on board the Philadelphia ship. It was her first attempt at letter-writing, and addressed to her cousin, Harriet Williams.

Dear Harriet,

We are now at sea. We look all' round and see nothing

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but water everywhere. The land of America we have left¹) far behind us, and the land of England is still so distant that we may not come to it for²) several weeks.

At night when I lie in my berth under my mother's³), and hear the waves rushing⁴) along the side of the vessel so very near me, I often think, suppose the boards were to get⁵) loose, and the water pour in and drown me. Sometimes it makes so much noise that I really think it must begin to pour in, till my mother convinces me that there is no danger. And then at night, when the wind blows hard, there is such a trampling⁰) and running over-head, and such a shouting, and such a creaking and swinging of things backward and forward, as the ship rolls from side to side.

The rolling of the ship is a very bad thing, though it sometimes makes us laugh. Often, when we are walking⁷) across the cabin, we have to save ourselves from falling by catching at the chairs, table, doors, or anything we can get hold of; and going up stairs is very bad indeed.

But what I most wonder at⁸) is, that the poor sailors can climb up the masts, and stand out on the yards, when the ship is roiling as if she would fall over every moment. Would you believe, Harriet, that they go aloft, as they call it, in the night as well as in the day; yes, and in dark stormy nights too; and still not one of our sailors has yet⁹) fallen into the sea.

I pity the poor sailors very much. They work very hard, and the worse the weather, the¹⁰) more they have to do. And when they get wet with the waves that sometimes dash over the deck, they cannot immediately go down and change their clothes, as Charles does. Pulling¹¹) so much at the hard ropes makes their hands almost as¹²) rough as iron, and they are often daubed with tar. The sailors have no soft bread to eat, but only a sort of biscuit, which is so hard that I cannot bite it, though Charles says he likes it very well. They boil their tea iu tin cans, and their dinners are salt-beef or salt-pork with dried beans and pease¹³). I do not believe they ever

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have a dessert. I often wish¹) they could taste of some of the nice pies and puddings we have in the cabin, and particularly the plum-cake. At the cabin-table there is always plenty of wine and porter and lemonade; but the poor sailors have nothing to drink but nasty grog.

However, in spite of all their sufferings⁵) they seem pleasant and good-humoured³); I often hear them singing and whistling. There is one very good sailor, named Tom White, though he cannot be called handsome. He saved me from falling down the cabin-stairs, and has made me⁴) a very pretty wooden bowl, and also a plate, fork, and spoon. They are really beautiful, so very nicely finished. I will show them to you as soon as I return to Philadelphia.

One day when there was a calm, and the ship could not sail for want of wind, several of the sailors were whistling^) to call up the breeze. That is, they thought if⁰) they whistled the wind would arise. This⁷) is certainly very foolish. I should have supposed that men who had seen so much of the world would have had more sense.

The calm was very beautiful. The water was perfectly smooth, and as the sun shone on it, it looked of all colours⁸), blue and green and purple and gold. Still, though there was not a breath of wind, and no waves, the sea was all the time heaving slowly up and down.

Afterwards came a storm which was very dreadful and much likequot;) the storms in Eobinson Crusoe, only that our ship was not wrecked. quot;When I see you I will tell you a great deal more about it, and I will also describe to you the beautiful glittering iceberg which made us all so cold¹⁰).

We have a goat on board, and a dear little white kid, which I love very much indeed,—I even hug and kiss it. The goat gives us⁴) milk for our tea and coffee, and that is the way in whichquot;) ships are supplied with milk. We have also sheep¹²) and pigs, and long coops full of turkeys, geese, ducks, and fowls, some of which¹³) are killed every day for dinner. But I take care never to know anything about the killing.

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The kitchen is called the caboose, and is a little wooden house on the deck. I wonder how the cook, who is a black man, can get¹) so much cooking done in so small a place, for it is scarcely larger than a closet. The steward generally makes the pies and puddings in the pantry, and one day my mother made a very large plum-pudding. quot;We all helped by way of amusement. My mother beat²) the eggs and prepared the spice, Charles chopped the suet, Sophia stoned the raisins, and I picked the currants, and did not put a single one into my mouth. The pudding was very good indeed, and made none of us sick, though I was allowed³) to eat two slices.

Dear Harriet, I must now leave off, as my paper is entirely full. This letter is to be put on board¹) the very first ship that we meet on her³) way to America, and as there is no knowing⁶) at what moment we may see such a ship, I wish to fold it, and seal it, and have it quite ready.

Your affectionate cousin⁷),

Emily Cheljiee.

quot;When on a clear and cloudless night The moon shall pour her level light,

And tremble on the silver sea.quot;

The next³) evening was so warm and beautiful, that all the passengers remained on deck till⁹) a late hour.

Emily had volunteered to take a long sleep in the afternoon, that she might be allowed³) to sit up thatjevening and see the moonlight, and even Matilda consented to stay¹⁰) on deck. Suddenly a distant ship, which they had discerned before sunset, crossed like a dark spot the flood of light that glittered on the ocean, and came out with her topsails tinted¹¹) with the resplendent ray.

quot;How beautiful!quot; was the general exclamation.

quot;I am¹²) always delighted,quot; said Sophia, quot;to see a ship even at a distance. I wish¹³) we could meet one every day.quot;

quot;I once crossed the Atlantic,quot; said Mrs. Musgrave, a lady

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who was going') to London to join her husband, quot;at a time when²) we all dreaded the sight of a ship.quot;

Sophia. I do not understand how a ship can ever be an object of terror.

Charles. Oh! I do³). It must have been in time of war. And the fear was of being taken by the enemy.

Sophia. Or of having an engagement; that must be worst⁴) of all.

Emily. And did you often meet ships, Mrs. Musgrave, at the same time you were so much⁵) afraid of them?

Mrs. Musgrave. Not often. But we met one with which we actually had an engagement.

Sophia. An engagement! a sea fight! Dear Mrs. Musgrave, have you actually been in a battle ?

Charles. Oh, Mrs. Musgrave, how I envy you! Do^c) tell us how it was. Doquot;) describe it to us.

Matilda. I believe I will go down stairs. If Mrs. Musgrave is going⁷) to tell about wounds, and blood, and killing, and all such disagreeable things, I shall get⁸) quite sick.

Mrs. Musgrave. Do not be afraid. Miss Massingham. Though I was really in a ship during an engagement, I had no opportunity of witnessing any⁰) of the horrors you speak of.

Sophia. No, Mrs. Musgrave, be kind enough to tell us what you did^c) see and hear.

Emily. Dear mother, it is a warm pleasant evening, and I am very wide awake. Shall I not sit up, till Mrs. Musgrave has told us about the battle? Only think of a lady being in a sea-fight.

Mrs. Musgrave. I was then a girl but twelve years old.

Emily. So young! I wonder you did not die with^{1 0}) fear.

Matilda. And have you recollected it ever since?

Mrs. Musgrave. The impressions of childhood are generally lasting, and I happen¹') to be blest with a most excellent memory. So remarkable an¹⁵) event in the life of a very young girl was not likely to be forgotten; and for many years afterwards I occasionally heard my parents relate particulars¹³) of this

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engagement, so that it was impossible¹) I should not have a correct idea of it⁵).

Charles. Dear Mrs. Musgrave, we are all attention.

quot;The sun, just arisen, illumined the deep,

Onr ship skimm'd the surface with prosperous gale.

When the boatswain aroused our companions fvom sleep, And proclaim'd the approach of an enemy's sail.quot;

quot;I must first inform you,quot; said Mrs. Musgrave, quot;that the engagement, of which you wish³) to hear a description, took place at a time when¹) war was expected between France and America, and when both^r') nations had begun to capture each other's ship whenever they could. Our family had lived⁰) seven years in⁷) London, and on our return to Philadelphia we embarked⁸) in a very large vessel which had been an English East-Indiaman, but had been purchased by American merchants for the American India trade. This ship had thirty guns, and a gun-deck like a frigate. She was of great size, and exclusive of the cabin below, had a cabin on the upper deck, from which⁹) we walked in and out without having occasion to go up or down stairs.

Emily. How very convenient!

Mrs. Musgrave. This place, which was called the round house, was very plainly furnished. It had no carpet; there was a long dining-table with a locker on one side, and two green settees on the other, and some common green chairs. But its¹⁰) other equipment were of a very warlike description. Over the doors were boarding-pikes and hatchets or tomahawks. Bound the mizzen-mast was arranged a circle of muskets. The walls were decorated with swords, placed across each other, with a pistol in every angle. At each¹') end of the room was a large arm-chest, filled with cutlasses and pistols.

Matilda. What a¹⁵) horrid place ! I never could have eaten my dinner in it^J).

Mrs. Musgrave. Opening into the dining-cabin¹³) were two large state-rooms ; one occupied by the captain and another

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gentleman, the other by our own family. Our apartment was sufficiently spacious to hold two large beds, placed end to end, a table, a sofa, and a piano. It had three windows, and a back-door opening into the stern gallery, which was a fine balcony projecting¹) over the water, and enclosed¹) with Venetian shutters.

Sophia. That stern gallery must have been delightful to sit in, and read or work, or look out at the sea.

Mrs. Musgrave. It was certainly a very pleasant and convenient place, and having¹) a roof and shutters was secure from the weather. We had a tedious voyage down the British channel, in consequence of storms and contrary winds, and the morning after²) we lost sight of land, a large armed ship was discovered with⁵) the dawn, steering the same course, and evidently in chase of us. The sailors guessed her at once to be⁵) a French ship, and the captain being immediately called up, confirmed the suspicion as soon as he saw her. As she sailed much faster⁰) than we did⁷), and was evidently gaining on us, our commander seeing that an engagement was inevitable, determined to lay to and wait for her, that the event might be decided at once. The boatswain piped all hands, that is, he blew the little silver whistle, which hung by a chain to his buttonhole, in a manner which denoted that all the crew were to⁸) come on deck. Orders were given to prepare for action immediately.

The captain sent our family a message, informing us of what⁹) was apprehended, and requesting us to rise as soon as possible. Our alarm, as you may suppose, was very great; and looking out of the stern-gallery, we saw the French ship coming¹⁰) directly after us. We were all dressed in a few minutes and hastened pale and trembling into the dining-room. There we found the arm-chest thrown open, and several boys engaged in carrying out the pistols and cutlasses, and placing them in piles on the deck, that they might be¹') at hand if⁵) required. The steward, however, was very calmly laying¹³) the table for breakfast.

¹

•) § 206.') § 207.') § 239. II 6. Rem. 6. ^,)§270.a.^s) §187.') §231. ')§157. •)§147.

²

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160

quot;We went to the oabin-doors, and saw the captain pacing¹) the deck with his spy-glass in his') hand, sometimes giving orders to the mates, and sometimes reconnoitring the enemy. The decks had, as usual, been washed that morning with the engine, and everything³) seemed to go on with great order and very little noise. Above the sides of the ship, which were extremely high, were double nettings, between which the men were stuffing their hammocks as a defence against musket-balls. The hammocks which had been brought up for this purpose, were lying'¹) on the deck, and explained the boatswain's call of quot;up all hammocks ahoy!quot;

We looked down the main hatch-way, and saw the sailors clearing the gun-deck, that they might have ample space to work the guns. On this deck there were two large state-rooms, and several small ones⁵). From these apartments the beds, trunks, and every article of furniture had been removed, as there was a large gun in each.

Emily. What⁰) ! a cannon !

Mrs. Musgrave. Yes; a connon.

Matilda. I would rather¹) die at once, than sleep in a room that had a cannon³) in it.

Mrs. Musgrave. Tet one of these rooms was occupied by a family with three children, and there were two children in another.

However, to proceed⁰). quot;When the breakfast-bell rang, the captain and the other gentlemen sat down, and made their repast with great apparent composure. The ladies could eat nothing, but to pacify the fears'») of the children, they assumed an appearance of calmness which they did not feel. As soon as breakfast was concluded, the captain buckled on'¹) his sword, and said with a smile, quot;Ladies, I must request you to walk down below, till we see what can be done with this

Frenchman¹²).quot;

Conducted by some of the gentlemen, we prepared to descend into the hold, which being¹³) at the bottom of the ship, and below the water, is the safest place during the sea-fight.

¹

') § 205.1. a.') § 72. *) § 107.') § 173. Rem. a.') § 44.') § 90.1. Rem. 6.') § 183.3.

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There were six ladies and ten children on board. The gentlemen, generally, staid¹) on deck.

The enemy now displayed her²) colours, at that time the tricoloured flag of the French republic, red, blue, and white. Our American ensign was then run up, and the two ships were nearly alongside. The preparations for battle were now completed, and as we passed along the gun-deck, all was awful silence. The men were all in their allotted stations, and they stood by³) the guns with their jackets off, their shirt sleeves rolled up to their shoulders, and their heads tied up with handkerchiefs. The guns were loaded, the matches were lighted⁴), and they only waited the signal to fire.

Sophia. How dreadfully you must have felt⁵)!

Mrs. Musgrave. We did⁶); and I well remember how pale the mothers and children looked. We went down a ladder to the orlop-deck, which is under the gun-deck, and had great difficulty in⁷) getting over the various boxes and bales that impeded our way; for the ship had a full cargo.

At last we came to the hatch-way, through which we were to⁰) descend into the hold, which, as we looked down, seemed like⁹) a bottomless abyss. A faint light gleamed up from it. There was no way for us to get down, but by a single rope, which was suspended from the edge of the hatch-way. We had to¹⁰) take this rope in both hands, and slip down it as well as we could, till we found ourselves on the casks which were stowed in the bottom of the hold.

Matilda. Ladies and children to slip²) down a single rope! how could you possibly do such a thing^{1 2})?

Mrs. Musgrave. I can assure you we accomplished it with very little hesitation, and in a very few minutes. So great¹³) was our dread of the battle beginning before we were in a place of security, that we scarcely thought of any danger or inconvenience in gliding dow^rn the rope; though, at a time of less excitement, we should have found it a most difficult exploit.

Emily. What a dismal place the hold must have been!

¹

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²

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Mrs. Musr/rave. It was indeed. quot;We found there two women whom we had never seen before. One was the gunner's wife, the other the wife of one of the carpenters. The carpenter's wife looked much frightened; the gunner's wife sat quietly making¹) a muslin cap. A lantern was hanging over her head, and near it a pound of candles. I recollect exclaiming²), quot;Oh! is it expected that we are toquot;) stay here till all those candles are burnt out.quot;

The hold was literally paved with casks. We walked on them and sat on them. A canvas partition separated us from a sort of stable, in which there were three horses and three cows, which two English gentlemen were taking over to America.

We had scarcely all got⁴) down into the hold, when we heard a gun from the French ship, which was answered by one of ours fired by the captain. The sailors then gave three cheers, and the engagement began by a tremendous broadside from our ship; that is, all the guns on the side next⁵) the enemy were fired at once.

Sophia. Oh! what a terrible situation yours⁰) must have been!

Matilda. I wonder⁷) you did not actually expire with³) fear.

Mrs. Musgrave. Being under water, we were in little or no danger from the balls of the enemy. But if our vessel had been soquot;) shattered as to sink, or if she had caught fire and been blown up, nothing could have saved us.

Emily. And how much you must have feared for those that were on deck!

Mrs. Musgrave. Certainly we did. Terror for¹⁰) those whoso lives¹') were every moment in danger, was, after the engagement began, our predominant feeling.

Matilda. And how were you all dressed?

Mrs. Musgrave, smiling. We of course wore¹²) our usual sea-clothes, which undoubtedly that morning were arranged with with less care than usual. I do not believe a single curl was

pinned up that day.

Sophia. How terribly loud the guns must have sounded! To have had so many cannon¹³) firing over your heads !

¹

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²

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163

Mrs. Musgrave. The noise was indeed tremendous, and seemed to shake¹) the ship like an earthquake.

Charles. What²) size were your guns?

Mrs. Musgrave. They were generally carronades that carried balls weighing twenty-four pounds; therefore they were called twenty-four pounders. What added to the noise, was the frightful bellowing³) of the cattle that were') so very near us, and who being much terrified at the unusual disturbance, struggled to break their^-1) fastenings³), and we expected every moment that they would get loose, and breaking down the canvas partition rush in among us.

Emilij. And then you would all³) have been killed, trampled under their feet, and pierced with⁶) their horns. 0, how shocking! 0, the poor little children! I almost cry to hear it.

Mrs. Musgrave. But the boys soon got') over their fear, and played at⁸) hide-and-seek among the barrels.

Emily. Boys are afraid of nothing.

Mrs. Musgrave. We were all, however, much startled by the captain's great Newfoundland dog tumbling⁰) headforemost down the hatchway, and falling in the midst of us, where he lay for a long time, motionless, and severely hurt. This dog was remarkable for bis fondness for guns and every sort of ^lt;)) fire-arms. Whenever he heard a gun fired¹¹), he would jump, wag his tail and show every symptom of the most extravagant delight, and then getting out in the main chains at the side of the ship he would¹²) sit there and bark with⁶) joy for half an hour. When the gunner was cleaning the muskets, the dog never for a moment quitted his side.

The day of the engagement was a day of jubilee for poor Nero. His transport was unbounded, he leaped round the guns, took the ropes in his mouth, pulled them, and seemed trying¹³) to assist the men in working them. Being rather troublesome, and much in the way, some one very roughly took the poor dog and threw him down the hatchway into the hold. He was dreadfully bruised, and lay for sometime stunned and insensible. At last he was roused by a tremendous

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104

discharge of half the guns at once. He raised his head, barked faintly, then got on his feet, and in fact, during the remainder of the engagement he seemed so much exhilarated by the sound of the cannon') as to forget his hurts.

Charles. I never heard of so fine a²) dog.

Mrs. Musgrave. The engagement had continued for more than an hour, when the firing suddenly ceased, and some of the gentlemen coming down³), Informed us that the French ship seemed to be much injured by our shot¹), and had gone off') to a considerable distance, it was supposed with the intention of stopping leaks or repairing other damages; but it was evident that she would return and resume the fight. Several of our men had been wounded, but only one killed. We were glad⁵) to have a little cessation of noise and terror.

Sophia. Tou must have been delighted to go on deck again, and breathe the fresh air.

Mrs. Musgrave. We were advised⁰) to continue⁷) below, as there was no knowing⁵) how soon the enemy would return, and the difficulty of getting out of the hold was very great.

Matilda. Had you nothing to eat or drink all thequot;) time?

Mrs. Musgrave. Oh yes; about noon the children were very glad to see the steward swinging¹⁰) down the rope with a basket in his hand, containing³) biscuit, cheese, several bottles of porter, and a tin drinking-cup¹'). We were at first somewhat¹ -) alarmed at seeing his collar stained with blood; but he explained that his wound was very slight, his neck having been merely grazed¹³) by a musket-ball that passed closely by it.

Charles. But he had a narrow escape.

Mrs. Musgrave. It was two hours before the French ship was in a condition to renew¹⁴) the attack, which she did with redoubled fury. The supply of water on deck being exhausted, and the men very thirsty from fatigue and heat, one of them frequently came down into the hold to fill a bucket from the water-casks that lay there, and from him we always heard how the battle was going on. Once the gunner came to the hatchway and calling to his wife that the cartridges were

2.206.')§2(30,Rem.^!)§ 182.3. °) § 161. t.')§ tSC.quot;)g59.Rem. °) §83.3. Rem, 6. quot;) §205.1.0. quot;) §201. Rcm.c. '^{ilOS.Rem.n, quot;)§207. quot;)(il88.

165

nearly all gone'), desired her to come up to the gun-room and assist the boys in making more. The woman very obediently rose from her seat, folded up her sewing²), and had nearly ascended the rope, when her husband³) called out that she might go back, as two of the gentlemen had volunteered to make cartridges.

Soon after a most⁴) terrific broadside was fired from our ship. Expecting⁵) that the enemy would return it with interest, we listened with great alarm for the French guns. But there was au awful silence. A few more shots were fired by our men, but none of them were returned. What was our delight when several of the gentlemen came down to tell us that, after receiving¹¹) our last broadside, the French ship suddenly put about and scudded away as fast as possible. Still our fears⁷) that she might again make battle, made us unwilling⁰) to venture on deck. At last we were informed⁰) that our antagonist was nearly out of sight, and would certainly trouble us no more. Our joy can be better imagined⁰) than described.

We then commenced the difficult business of ascending^{1 ü}) the rope, and it was a much harder task to climb up than to slide down. We were glad when we found ourselves safe on the orlop-deck. The gunner came to the hatchway, and when his wife ascended, he shook hands with her, exclaiming, quot;Well, my girl, we've beat¹¹) off the Frenchman.quot; This woman, who had shown so much outward composure during the time of danger, now that it was all over, leaned on her husband's shoulder and burst into tears.

Mrs. Chelmer. I have no doubt, she suffered greatly during the whole action, as her husband's life was constantly exposed, but having probably been⁵) in such scenes before, she had learnt¹ -) to command her feelings till the danger was over.

Mrs. Musgrave. As we passed along the gun-deck on our return, it looked unusually light¹-¹) and vacant, the various canvas partitions having been torn down, and everything cleared away in preparing¹'') for the engagement. The sailors were all in high spirits, exulting in the fortunate issue of the

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1C6

contest, but lamenting that they had not been able¹) to capture the French ship. She had escaped from us in consequence of her rigging being almost uninjured, while ours was so shattered that it was impossible for us to pursue²) her.

Mr. Chelmer. The French always fire at the rigging.

Mrs. Musgrave. When 'we came on deck, our adversaiy was so far off that she looked like a spot on the verge of the horizon. Our own ship presented a most³) forlorn spectacle. Our sails were shot all to pieces, and were hanging in tatters from the broken yards. The shrouds were so cut away that it⁴) seemed to us impossible that the men could ever go aloft again. The smallest sail that was up on that day, had sixty holes in it, and the long-boat and barge as⁵) they lay on deck, were shot through in twenty places. The deck was blackened with powder, and covered with grapeshot, nails, old hoise-shoes,' and other broken pieces of iron, which the French had fired at us to cut our sails and ropes to pieces. These fragments of old iron are tied up in bundles and called langrage. They are put into the cannon⁶), and on being discharged'), they separate, and fly about in every direction. The hull of our ship was but little damaged, as the French had directed all their attention to the rigging. I remember⁰) beingquot;) glad to find our two goats frisking about unhurt, though they had been on deck all the time. There¹⁰) were two geese killed in their coops by musket-shot.

Matilda. Geese killed in a battle! how funny; I declare I cannot help¹¹) laughing.

Emily. I do not see much fun in the killing of geese at any time.

Mrs. Musgrave. When we went into the dining-cabin¹ -) and into our state-room, we found everything exactly as we had left it, no one having apparently been there during the action¹³). The boys were laying the table, and the cook, notwithstanding the battle, had managed to boil a large ham for dinner. Three large Cheshire¹⁴) cheeses, and an extra allowance of grog, were sent to the sailors.

OglSS.a.') § 190.') § 31. Rem. ^ § 181. 3.^s) § 288. a.quot;) § 1 i. 2.') § 201.') § 179. ') § 205. b. quot;) § 59.quot;) § 149. 3. Rem. i. quot;) § 201. Rem. c. quot;) § 207. quot;) § 35.

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Towards') evening, the gentlemen all went on deck to see the burial of²) the unfortunate man that had been killed. He was sewed up in a sail, with a cannon-ball at his feet, to make-¹) him sink immediately. He was laid on the deck, the passengers and crew all standing round. One of the gentlemen read¹) the burial-service, in a manner that drew tears from the eyes of many of the hearers, and the dead man⁵) was lowered down into the sea, where he disappeared immediately. I shall never forget the shudder with which I heard the plunge of the corpse into the ocean.

Sophia. Poor sailor ! I hope he had no children to lament⁵) his fate.

Mrs. Musgrave. No. But we heard he had a widowed mother in Philadelphia.

Mr. Chelmer. To what⁰) port did you go, to get⁷) the ship repaired ?

Mrs. Musgrave. Our rigging was in so shattered a³) condition that we could merely drift before the wind, and in this manner we gotquot;) into Lisbon, which was the nearest port that^{1 0}) we could make. There the ship was refitted, and the rigging entirely renewed, during which¹') time the passengers lived in lodgings in the city.

Mr. Chelmer. Did you hear any more of your antagonist ?

Mrs. Musgrave. Yes. While we were at Lisbon, two gentlemen came there from Spain. They had been at Corunna when the French ship that had engaged ours, came into that port to repair her damages. She was a very large privateer of thirty guns, and two hundred and fifty men. Her hull was so much shattered in the action, that it was with difficulty she could be kept from sinking. She had¹²) thirty men killed, and eighteen wounded.

Charles. Now, Mrs. Musgrave, what else?

Mrs. Musgrave. I believe it is now late enough for us to separate, as I have little more to relate that is worth¹³) mentioning.

Charles. But do tell us, Mrs. Musgrave, what was the fate of the poor dog?

168

Mrs. Musgrave. He was carried up out of the hold, and the captain, with whom he was a great favourite, and who had taken him to sea with him¹) for several years, consigned him to the care of a doctor who⁵) was on board. Every possible remedy was tried to cure his bruises, which were mostly internal; but in vain: the poor dog lingered for³) a few.days, evidently in great suffering, and, as the weather was fine, a bed was made for him in a comer of the deck. He had lain⁴) for several hours in a state of insensibility, and it was the opinion of almost every one that he was dead, all attempts to rouse him having failed. The captain, however, doubted it, and was unwilling to have⁵) him thrown overboard. Anxious to ascertain if any life yet remained in him, he loaded a pistol, and fired it over Nero's head. The poor animal started instantly on his feet, wagged his tail, and attempted to bark, but immediately dropped down and expired. The captain retired⁶) to his room, and was seen no more that evening.

Charles. I do not wonder⁷) at it; to lose so fine an animal.

Mr. Chelmer. Poor dog! He certainly quot;felt his ruling passion strong³) in death.quot;

Sophia. I am not surprised, Mrs. Musgrave, that you should recollect this engagement so perfectly. I am sure were such an event to⁰) happen in my life, I could not forget it if I were to live to be a hundred.

Mr. Chelmer. Ladies and children seldom have an^{1 0}) opportunity of knowing personally anything about a sea-fight.

Mrs. Musgrave. Yes, and a battle, even ot little importance in itself¹¹), must always be a memorable circumstance in the life of a female¹²).

Mrs. Chelmer. We are all much indebted to Mrs. Musgrave for having described it to us. Come, children, we will now retire⁶).

quot;For England, when with favouring gale Our gallant ship up channel steered.quot;

A few¹³) days now brought them so near¹⁴) the English coast,

■) § 78. ') § 93. \. ') § 255. 6. ') § 139. ^!) § 145.3. ') § quot;179. ') § 182.3. quot;) § 41. c. •) § 147.3. quot;) § 6. 6. quot;) § 81. quot;) § 49. a. quot;) § 110. Rem. a. quot;) § 43. c.

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that it was thought expedient¹) to try for soundings, and the passengers all, with deep interest, watched the experiment. A sailor stood out on the chains, with a line one hundred and ten fathoms long²), and heavy pieces of lead fastened to the end of it. At the bottom of the lead was fixed a piece of tallow, to which the sand might stick, if there was any. The man swung the lead several times round, and then let³) it run down into the sea. A bottom was found at eighty-five fathoms depth¹), and when the lead came up the tallow was covered with sand : a most joyful sight. Sophia scraped off a little of the sand, and, laying it on a piece of paper, carried it down to Matilda to show her, as the first specimen of the shore of England. But Matilda coldly said, quot;I see nothing worth⁵) looking at in a few grains of sand.quot;

The colour of the water had now changed from blue⁰) to green, as it always does⁷) near the coast. They passed several ships, and saw sea-gulls and other marine birds flying about. Immense quantities of sea-weed floated past, and induced Charles to let down his bucket, and he fished up a great deal⁸), some of it was covered with yellowish berries.

Next day they entered the British channel, but keeping in the middle of it, they saw no land on eitherquot;) side. At night, when the ladies were seated at their various occupations round the cabin-table, Charles remained on deck, anxiously looking out¹⁰), as the ship proceeded on her course with a light but favourable breeze, expecting to see¹ ■) the Eddy stone light-house. In a short time the captain pointed out to him, very far off,

quot;The dim distant rock, where the light-house fire blazed,

Like a star in the midst of the ocean.quot;

Charles instantly ran down to inform his mother and sisters, and little Emily, who was awakened by their exclamations of joy, begged so earnestly to be permitted¹²) to see it, that, by Charles's persuasions, she was allowed¹²)togetup, and wrapped¹ ^ in her cloak, with the hood over her head. Charles carried her on deck in his arms, to show¹³) her the beacon that¹') indicated

170

the speedy termination of her voyage. He had, in the afternoon, described to her this lighthouse, built on an insulated and dangerous rock, round which the breakers rage so frightfully, that it is¹) only in calm weather it can be approached by the boats which bring supplies to the men who live there to take²) care of the light. It was once blown down by a violent storm, and the unfortunate inhabitants perished under the ruins.

On³) the following morning, they saw the chalky cliffs of Hampshire, looking like white clouds on the edge of the horizon; and shortly after, a pilot-boat came along side, from whence thev took a pilot, who was to¹) have charge of the vessel till she arrived at the entrance of the river-') Thames. As they proceeded up the channel, some one⁰) of the sailors was constantly heaving the lead to ascertain the depth of the water. In the afternoon, the shore was distinctly visible, with its high cliffs of chalk crowned with green fields of the brightest verdure.

Next day they passed Dover, and were struck with the situation of this ancient town, between') two lofty chalk hills, one of which⁸) literally hangs over the roofs of the houses, and on the summit of the other is a castle, whose⁰) antiquity is of so remote a¹⁰) date that it is ascribed to Julius Csesar. On one of its towers the flag of England was flying. The children gazed with much interest on the first castle they had ever seen, and Mr. Chelmer pointed out to them the stupendous cliff which Shakespeare has so finely describedquot;) in his tragedy of King Lear.

On turning their eyes from Dover, they saw the opposite coast of France, also high, white, and chalky; and with¹²) a glass they had a distinct view of the steeples of Calais. The channel between⁷) Dover and Calais is here but twenty-one miles across¹³). quot;Does it not seem strange,quot; said Mr. Chelmer, quot;that so narrow a¹⁰) sea should divide two nations whose character, language, manners, and persons should be so essentially different, and whose animosities have always been

¹

)§58.3.«.') ^ 189.') § 26'2. b.') § 147.1.^s) § 26.3.^s) § 104. t. Rem. amp; § 103.') § 232.

²

a.quot;) § 94.2.') § 93.2. quot;) § 8.2. a. quot;) § 212.1.¹⁵) § 270. b.¹³) § 239. II. b. Rem. b.

171

so bitter that Shakespeare says quot;their very¹) shores look pale with²) envy.quot;

A steam-boat passed, on her way from Dover to Calais. She carried three small sails. When they came to Deal, a town whose harbour is called the Downs³), they found a great number of ships, and several large British vessels of war at anchor. Opposite Deal there is a long range of white breakers, dashing most¹) tremendously. Charles, who was well versed in English history and geography, pointed them out to his sisters as the famous Goodwin lands; explaining that they were quicksands, always fatal to vessels that were driven upon them; and that they were supposed to terminate the lands of Earl Goodwin, prime minister to⁵) Edward the Confessor. Those lauds had been overflowed and swallowed up by the sea about eight centuries since. Near those dangerous sands there are always anchored two floating beacons, or hulks, with lights.

They soon passed the bathing-towns⁰) of Eamsgate and Margate, and the North Foreland⁷) light-house. The cliffs now sank⁸) into green hills, on which were great numbers of windmills. The fields were of the most beautiful verdure, and divided by hedges.

In a short time they entered the river⁹) Thames, and soon arrived at Gravesend. They were now but twenty-two miles from¹¹¹) London. Every one began to prepare for going on shore. The trunks were brought out of the steerage, and the business of dressing¹¹) commenced. Matilda, who had begun her preparations early in the morning, said she was delighted to see the passengers quit¹²) their vile sea-dresses, and look once more like civilized beings. She gazed at herself¹³) in the glass with much complacency, arrayed in a beautiful purple silk, elegantly trimmed, and a superb lace pelerine.

The boat which was to¹¹) land them was soon ready, and the passengers stepped gaily into it. They had an early dinner at an inn at Gravesend, and Mr. Chelmer hired a coach and four horses, to convey them to London. They were driven by two postillions dressed in light blue jackets,

')§234.Item.(). ')§m6. ¹)§3.b. ')§31.Rem. 6.^s)§27. §201.Rem.c. ')§45. quot;) § 137. quot;gt; § 20' 3.¹⁰) § 250 amp; § 259. Rem. ^) § 200 amp; § 179.'«) § 187.») § 81.quot;) § 147.1.

172

white hats, and top-boots. They passed through a beautiful and highly cultivated country, and soon came in sight of the dark cloud of smoke that hangs for ever¹) over London. In a short time they saw the great dome of St. Paul s Cathedral, which Charles and Sophia recognised immediately from prints of²) London, and soon a multitude of steeples became visible.

They entered at the eastern end of the town, and proceeded through what³) is called the borough of Southwark, where they found the streets generally mean⁴) and dirty, and crossing London Bridge, came in view of the Tower, a place which Charles promised himself much pleasure in visiting³)- quot;I ⁸¹¹¹ sure I do not wish⁶) to go with you,quot; said Matilda.

They drove on for a while through narrow streets crowded with people, the houses being high and gloomy, and the bricks blackened with coal-smoke. Finally, they reached the beautiful west end of the town, and were delighted with Oxford Street, so wide, so full of elegant shops, and enlivened with a concourse of well⁷) dressed people.

It was night before⁸) they arrived at the hotel, where Mr. Chelmer intended stayingquot;) till they could procure private lodgings¹⁰); but the streets were so brilliantly lighted¹') with gas, that every object could be discerned as easily, almost,

as in the day-time.

At the hotel they found elegant rooms, and waiters whose bowing and skipping obsequiousness both surprised and ) diverted the young Americans¹²), who never saw anything of the kind on the other side of the Atlantic.

After supper the children retired for the night, with the intention of rising very early to take their first walk in London; but the novelty of finding himself at last in that far-famed metropolis, prevented Charles from closingquot;) his eyes till after the clock had struck twelve; and what he saw when he awoke, the sights and curiosities of the great city, would take more room and more time to describe than we have to spare just at present. But his father promised to purchase for him at Lacey's in St. Paul's Church-Yard, quot;the youth's

') § 238.') § '26. '2. § 96.1. *) § 162.2. Rem. b.^s) § 200.quot;) § 150.3. Rem. 2. d.') § 228. •1. quot;) 239. II. h. Rem. b. ») § 199. '») § 13. ¹²) § 275. quot;)§49.!gt;.

173

picture of London,quot; containing an interesting and instructive account of its rise, and progress¹), and present state; its public buildings, their use, amp;c; great men — trades — customs — charitable institutions — important societies — shipping — commerce—religion—exhibitions—amusements—and all that-) can inform the youthful mind, respecting the first City in the world, laid down in an easy and pleasing manner, and illustrated with above³) thirty plates.

The one Black Spot.

On the evening of a cold, bleak March day, in an early year of this century, a woman, scantily⁴) clad⁵), led a boy about eight years old along the high-road towards the old city of Exeter. They crept close to the hedgeside to shelter themselves from the clouds of dust which the sudden gusts of east wind blew in their faces⁶).

They had walked many miles, and the boy limped painfully. He often looked up anxiously into his mother's face, and asked if they had much farther to⁷) go. She scarcely appeared to notice his inquiries; her fixed eyes and sunken cheek gave evidence that sorrow absorbed all her thoughts. quot;When he spoke, she drew him closer to her side, but made no reply; until, at length, the child, wondering⁸) at her silence, began to sob. She stopped⁰) and looked at her child for¹⁰) a moment, her eyes filled with tears. They had gained the top of a hill, from which¹¹) was visible in the distance the dark massive towers of the cathedral and the church spires ■of the city; she pointed them out, and said, quot;We shall soon be there, Ned.quot; Then, sitting¹²) down on a tree that was felled by the roadside, she took quot;Nedquot; on her lap, and, bending¹²) over him, wept¹³) aloud.

quot;Are you very tired, mother?quot; said the boy, trying to

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174

comfort her. quot;'Tis a long way — but don't cry — we shall see father when we come there.quot;

quot;Yes —. you will see your father once more.quot;

She checked herself; and, striving to dry her tears, sat looking wistfully towards the place of their destination.

The tramp of horses,, coming up the hill¹) they had just ascended, drew²) the boy's attention to that direction. In a moment he had sprung from his mother, and was shouting, with child-like delight, at the appearance of a gay cavalcade which approached. About³) thirty men on horseback, in crimson liveries, surrounded two carriages, one of which⁴) contained two of His Majesty's Judges, accompanied by the High-Sheriff of the county; who, with his javelin men, was conducting⁵) them to the city, in which the Lent Assizes were about⁰) to be held²).

The woman knelt⁷) until the carriages and the gaudy javelin men had turned the corner at the foot of a hill, and were no³) longer visible; with her hands clasped together, she had prayed God to temper with mercy the heart of the Judge, before whom her unfortunate husband, now in gaol, would have to») stand his trial. Then, taking the boy again by the hand —unable to explain to him what he had seen — she pursued her way with him, silently along the dusty road.

As¹⁰) they drew nearer to the city, they overtook various groups of stragglers, who had deemed it their duty, in spite of the inclement weather, to wander some miles out of the city to catch an early glimpse of quot;My Lord Judge, and the gay Sheriff's officers. Troops, also, of itinerant ballad-singers, rope-dancers, mountebanks, and caravans of wild beasts, still¹') followed the Judges, as they had done throughout¹²) the circuit.

quot;Walk^{1 r}) more slowly, Ned,quot; said the mother, checking the boy's desire to follow the quot;shows.quot; quot;I am very tired; let us rest a little here.quot; They lingered until the crowd was far ahead of them — and were left alone on the road.

Late in the evening, as the last stragglers were returning home, the wayfarers found themselves in the suburbs of the

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175

city, and the forlorn woman looked round anxiously¹) for a lodging. She feared the noisy people in the streets; and, turning timidly towards an old citizen, who stood by²) his garden-gate chatting to his house-keeper, and watching the passers-by — there was a kindness in his look which gave her confidence — so³), with a homely courtesy, she ventured to inquire of him where she might find a decent resting-place.

quot;Have you never been here before?quot; he asked.

quot;Never but once, sir, when I was a child, many years ago.quot;

quot;What⁴) part of the country do you come from⁵)?quot;

quot;Uffculme.quot;

quot;Uffculme? How did you get here?quot;

quot;We have walked⁰).quot;

quot;You don't say that you have trudged all the way with that youngster?quot;

The house-keeper drowned the reply by loudly announcing to the old gentleman that his supper was waiting. quot;We have no lodgings⁷), my good woman,quot; she said, turning away from the gate.

quot;Stop, Martha, stop,quot; said the citizen; quot;can't³) we direct them somewhere? you see they⁰) are strangers. I wonder where they could get a lodging?quot;

quot;I am sure I don't know,quot; replied Martha, peevishly; quot;your supper will be cold—come in!quot;

quot;We've had no supper,quot; said the boy.

quot;Poor little fellow!quot; said the old gentleman; quot;then I am sure you shall not go without. Martha, the bread and cheese!quot; And, opening the garden-gate, he made¹⁰) the travellers enter and sit down in the summer-house, whilst he went¹¹) to fetch them a draught of cider.

In spite of Martha's grumbling¹²), he managed to get a substantial repast; but it. grieved him that the woman, though she thanked him very gratefully¹³) and humbly¹⁴), appeared unable to eat.

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17G

«Your boy eats heartily,quot; said he, quot;but I am afraid you don't enjoy it.quot;

quot;With a choking utterance she thanked him, but could not eat.

The good old man was striving¹), as -well as he could, to explain to them their way to a part of the city, where they might find a lodging, when the garden-gate opened, and a young man gave to the host a hearty greeting.

At the sound of his voice, the cup²) the woman held in her hand fell³) to the ground. This drew the youth's attention to her; he looked earnestly at her for¹) a moment, and, with an exclamation of surprise, said, quot;Why, this is Susan Harvey!

The woman hid³) her face in her hands, and moaned.

quot;Do you know her, then, Alfred?quot; said the uncle.

quot;She nursed me when I was a little sickly boy,' replied the youth; she lived many years in my father's house.quot;

quot;Then I am sure you will take her to some lodging tonight, for she is quite a^c) stranger here. There is Martha calling to me again; she is not in the best temper to-night, so I had better⁷) go in, and I leave them to your care.

quot;Oh! tell me, Mr. Gray, have you seen him?quot; cried the

woman eagerly.

quot;I have been⁸) with him to-day, Susan,quot; said Gray, kindly taking herquot;) hand; quot;do not be¹⁰) cast down; all that can be done for Martin, shall¹¹) be done. Let me take you where you can rest to-night, and to-morrow you can be with him.quot;

The weary little boy had fallen asleep on the seat; the mother strove to arouse him, but Alfred Gray prevented her, by taking the little fellow in his arms. He carried him by her side through the streets; she could utter no words of gratitude, but her tears flowed fast¹²), and told how the young man's sympathy had¹³) fallen like balm upon her wounded heart. quot;God has taken pity on me,quot; she said, when they parted.

quot;With a quick step Alfred regained his uncle's cottage; he had a difficult task to accomplish. Martin Harvey, now awaiting his trial for poaching, and for being concerned in

an affray with Sir George Robert's game-keepers, had once been

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177

his father's apprentice. Young Gray had been¹) endeavouring to procure for him all the legal help which the laws then allowed; but his own means¹) were limited, and when he met Susan and her boy in the garden, he had come to visit his uncle to ask his assistance. He had now returned on²) the same errand. He pleaded earnestly, and with caution, but was repulsed. It was¹) in vain he urged the poverty of agricultural labourers at that season, and the temptation which an abundance of game afforded to half-starved men and their wretched families.

'Nonsense, Alfred!quot; said old Mr. Gray. quot;I would⁵) not grudge you the money, if you did not want it for a bad purpose. You must not excuse men who go out with guns and fire at their fellow-creatures in the dark.quot;

quot;Martin didquot;) not fire, uncle—that is what I want⁷) to prove, and save him, if I can, from transportation. He has a wife and child.quot;

quot;Wife and child,quot; repeated the old man thoughtfully. quot;You did not tell⁰) me he had a wife and child; that poor woman came from Uffculme.quot;

quot;Providence must have guided her,quot; said the younger⁸) Gray. quot;It wasquot;) indeed Harvey's wife and son whom you so lately relieved.quot;

quot;You shall¹⁰) have the money. I have all through life prayed that my heart may not be hardened; and I find, old as¹ ') I am, that every day I have fresh lessons to learn.quot;

The next morning, while Alfred held¹²) anxious consultation with the lawyers, the wife and husband met within the prison walls. They sat together in silence, for neither¹³) could speak a word of hope. The boy never forgot that long and dreary day, during which he watched, with wondering thoughts, the sad faces of his ruined parents.

The Crown Court at the Castle was next morning crowded to overflowing. Among the struggling crowd that¹⁴) vainly sought to gain admission, was Martin Harvey's wife. She was rudely repulsed by the door-keepers, who quot;wondered what women wanted⁷) in such places.quot; She still strove to keep her

¹

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ground, and watched with piteous looks the doors of the court. She braved the heat and pressure for some time; but a sickly faintness at length came over¹) her. She was endeavouring to retreat into the open air, when she felt some one²) touch her shoulder, and turning, saw Alfred Gray making³) his way toward her. After a moment's pause⁴) in the cool air, he led her round to a side-door, through which there was a private entrance into⁵) the court. He whispered a word to an officer, who admitted⁰) them, and pointed to a seat behind the dock, where they were screened from observation, and where the woman could see her husband standing between his two fellow-prisoners.

The prisoners were listening anxiously to the evidence which the principal⁷) game-keeper was offering against them. The first, a man about sixty, excited greater interest than the others. He earnestly attended to what⁸) was going on, but gave no sign of fear, as to⁹) the result. Brushing back his grey locks, he gazed round the court, with something like a smile. This man's life had been a strange one'⁰). Early in his career he had been ejected from a farm which he had held under the father of the present prosecutor, Sirquot;) George Roberts; he soon after lost what¹²) little property had been left him, and, in despair, enlisted — was sent abroad with his regiment — and for many years shared in the toils and achievements of our Bast Indian warfare. Returning home on¹⁵) a small pension, he fixed his abode in his native village, and sought to indulge his old enmity against the family that had injured¹⁴) him, by every kind of annoyance in his power. The present baronet, a narrow-minded tyrannical man, afforded by his unpopularity good opportunity to old Ralph Somers to induce others to join him in his schemes of mischief and revenge. quot;The game,quot; which was plentiful on the estate, and the preservation of which -was Sir George s chief delight, formed the principal object of attack; the poverty of the labourers tempted them to follow the old soldier, who managed affairs so warily, that for nine years, he had been an object

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of the utmost¹) terror and hatred to Sir George and his keepers, whilst all their efforts to detect²) and capture him had, until now, been fruitless.

Martin Harvey, who stood by his side with his shattered arm in a sling, bore marks of acute mental suffering-¹) and remorse; but his countenance was stamped with its original, open, manly expression — a face often to be seen among a group of English farm-labourers, expressive of¹) a warm heart, full of both⁵) courage and kindness.

The evidence was soon given. The game-keepers, on the night of the 24th of^G) February, were apprised that poachers were in the plantations. Taking with them a stronger force than usual, all well armed, they discovered the objects of their search, in a lane leading out into the fields, and shouted to them to surrender⁷). They distinctly saw their figures flying before them, and when they approached them, one of the fugitives turned roundquot;) and fired, wounding one of the keeper's legs with a quantity of small shot. The keeper immediately fired in returnquot;), and brought down a poacher; old Ealph's voice was heard shouting to them to desist, and upon coming up¹⁰) they found him standing by the side of Martin Harvey, who had fallen severely wounded. Three guns lay¹¹) by them, one of which had been discharged, but no one could swear who had fired it; search was made all night for the other man, but without success.

When the prisoners were called on¹²) for their defence, they looked at one another for a moment as if neither wished to speak first¹³). Kalph, however, began. He had little to say. Casting a look of defiance at sir George and his lady, who sat in a side-gallery above the court, he freely confessed, that hatred to the man who had injured him in his youth, and who had treated him with harshness on his return from abroad, had been the motive of his encouraging and aiding¹⁴) in these midnight depredations; he expressed sorrow for having occasioned trouble to his neighbour Harvey. — quot;What I can say will be of little use to me here,quot; said Martin

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180

Harvey, in a hollow voice; quot;I am ruined beyond¹) redress; but I was a very poor man when I first joined²), with others, in snaring game; I often wanted bread, and saw my wife and child pinched³) for food also. The rich people say game belongs to them; but — well — all I can say more is, that I take God to witness I never lifted a murderous gun against my fellow-man; he who did') it has escaped; and I have suffered this broken limb — but that I don't mind — I have worse than that to bear — I have broken my wife's heart, and my child will be left an⁵) orphan.quot;

His voice failed. There was an uneasy movement among the audience; and a lady, who had been leaning over the rails of the side-gallery listening⁰) with deep attention, fainted, and was carried out of court. The prisoner's pale wife, who had bowed her⁷) head behind him in silent endurance, heard a whisper among the by-standers that it was Lady Roberts, and a hope entered her mind that the lady's tender heart might⁸) feel for them.

quot;Have you any witnesses to call?quot; asked the Judge.

Martin looked round with a vacant gaze; the attorney whispered to him, and beckoned to Alfred Gray.

Alfred went⁸) into the witness-box, and told of the honesty, sobriety, and good conduct of Martin Harvey, during all the years he was in his father's house. — quot;He was there before I was born,quot; said the young man, quot;and only¹⁰) left when I was obliged to leave also, sixteen years after. A better man never broke bread — he was beloved by everybody who knew him. Till now, his character was never tainted. It's the one black spot.quot;

The Judge commenced summing¹¹) up; it was evident to all who had paid attention to the evidence, that the conviction of two of the prisoners was certain. Alfred Gray knew this, and strove¹⁵) to induce the wife to leave with him before the fatal close of proceeding; but she shook her⁷) head and would not go. quot;I shall have strength to bear it,quot; she said.

He sat down by her side, and heard the fearful verdict of

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quot;guiltyquot; pronounced¹) against her husband and Ralph Somers; and then the dreaded doom of transportation for life awarded¹) to them. As they turned to leave the dock, Martin looked down upon the crushed and broken-hearted being whom he had sworn to protect and cherish through life, and in spite of every effort to repress²) it, a cry of agony burst from his lips, it was answered by a fainter sound, and Alfred Gray lifted the helpless, lifeless woman from the ground, and carried her into³) the open air.

Months passed; and on the day when¹) the convict-ship, with its freight of heavy hearts, began its silent course over the great waters, the widowed wife took her fatherless child by the hand, and again traversed the weary road which led⁵) them to their desolated home.

The kindness of the Grays⁰) had supplied a few immediate necessaries⁷). Some one had told her of women having^a), by the aid of friends, managed to meet their husbands once more in those distant parts of the earth; and this knowledge⁹), once in her agitated mind, raised a hope which inspired her to pursue¹⁰) her daily task without fainting, and to watch an opportunity of making¹¹) an attempt which she had meditated, even during that dreadful day of Martin's trial. She resolved to seek admission into Sir George Roberts' mansion, and appeal to the pity of his wife. It was told¹²) in the village that Lady¹³) Roberts had implored her husband to interpose in behalf of the men; that his angry and passionate refusal had caused a breach between them; that they had lived unhappily¹ quot;') ever¹⁵) since; that he had strictly forbidden any one to mention the subject, or to convey to Lady Roberts any remarks that were made in the neighbourhood.

Susan Harvey trembled when she entered the mansion, and timidly asked leave to speak to Lady Roberts.

The servant she addressed had known her husband, and pitied her distress; and, fearing lest¹⁰) Sir George might pass, he led her into his pantry, watching an opportunity to let the lady know of her being there.

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182

After a time, Lady Roberts' rnaid came, and beckoned her to follow up-stairs. In a few¹) moments the soft voice of the lady of the mansion was cheering her with kind words, and encouraging her to disclose her wishes.

Before she had concluded, a step was heard²) without³), at which⁴) the lady started and turned pale. Before there was time for retreat Sir George hastily entered the apartment.

quot;Whom have you here. Lady Roberts?quot;

quot;One who has a request to make, I believe,quot; said the lady mildly. quot;I wish a few moments with her.quot;

quot;Have the goodness to walk out of this house,quot; said the baronet to Susan. quot;Lady Eoberts, I know this woman, and I will³) not allow you to harbour such people here.quot;

Although the convict's wife never again ventured⁰) into that house, her wants, and those of her child, were, during three years, ministered to⁷) by the secret agency of the Good Heart that lived so sadly⁰) there; and when, at the expiration of that period, Lady Eoberts died, a trusty messenger brought to the cottage a little legacy sufficient⁹), if ever news came of Martin, to enable the wife and child, from whom he was separated, to make their way across the earth, and to meet him again.

But, during those weary years no tidings of his fate had reached either his wife or Alfred Gray — to whom he had promised to write when he reached his destination. Another year dragged its slow course over the home of affliction, and poor Susan's hopes¹⁰) grew fainter¹¹) day by day. Her sinking frame gave evidence of the sickness that cometh¹²) from the heart.

One summer evening, however, in the next year, Alfred Gray entered his uncle's garden with a letter, and was soon seated in the summer-house reading it aloud to his uncle and Martha. Tears stood in the old man'seyes, as some¹³) touching detail of suffering¹⁴) or privation was related. And, indeed, the letter told of little beside. It was from Martin. Soon after his arrival in the settlement, Martin had written to Alfred, but the letter had never reached England — not an

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unusual occurrence in those times. After waiting long, and getting¹) no reply, he was driven by harsh treatment, and the degradation attending⁵) the life³) he led, to attempt, with old Ralph, an escape from the settlement. In simple language, he recorded the dreary life³) they led in the woods; how, after a time, old Ralph sickened and died; and how, in a desolate place, where the footsteps of man had, perhaps, never trod before, Martin Harvey had dug¹) a grave, and buried his old companion. After that, unable to endure the terrible solitude, he had sought⁵) his way back to his former master, and had been treated more harshly than before. Fever and disease had wasted his frame, until he had prayed that he might⁰) die and be at rest; but God had been merciful to him, and had inclined the heart of one for whom he laboured, who listened with compassion to his story, took him under his roof, and restored him to health. And now, Martin had obtained a ticket of leave, and served this kind master for wages⁷), which he was carefully hoardingquot;) to send to Alfred Gray, as soon as he should⁹) hear from him that those³) he loved were still preserved, and would come and embrace him once more in that distant land.

quot;They shall¹⁰) go at once, Alfred,quot; said old Mr. Gray, the moment¹¹) the last sentence was read; quot;they shall¹⁰) not wait; we will¹²) provide the means, — hey, Martha?quot;

He did not now fear to appeal to his companion. Martha had grown kinder of late, and she confessed she had learned of her cousin what gives most comfort to those who are drawing near their journey's end. quot;I can help them a little,quot; she said.

quot;We will¹²) all help a little,quot; Alfred replied. I shall be off at break of day to-morrow, on neighbour Collin's pony, and shall give him no rest until he sets me down at TJffculme.quot;

Accordingly, early next morning, Alfred Gray was riding briskly along through the pleasant green lanes which led toward his native village. It was the middle of June, bright, warm, sunny weather; and the young man's spirits were unusually gay, everything around him tending to heighten

¹

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184

the delight which the good news he carried had inspired him with'). The pony stepped out bravely, and was only checked when Alfred came in sight of the dear old home of his childhood, and heard the well-known chimes calling the villagers to their morning-service, for it was Sunday. Then for²) a few moments the young man proceeded more slowly, and his countenance wore a more saddened look, as³) the blessed recollections of early loves and affections, with which the scene was associated in his mind, claimed their power¹) over all other thoughts. The voice of an old friend from an apple-orchard hard by⁵), recalled him from his reveries.

He shook hands through the hedge. quot;I will⁰) come and see you in the evening, Fred. I must hasten⁷) on now. She will go to church this morning, and I must go with her.quot;

quot;Who?quot;⁸) asked the other.

Alfred pointed to the cottage where Susan Harvey dwelt. 'I bring her⁰) good news — I have a letter. Martin is living and well.quot;¹⁰)

The friend shook his head.

Alfred dismounted, and walked towards Susan Harvey's cottage. The door was closed, and when he looked through the window, he could see no one inside. He lifted the latch softly, and entered. There was no one there; but his entrance had been heard, and a moment after⁵), a fine stout lad came out of the inner chamber, took Alfred's proffered hand, and in answer to his inquiries, burst¹¹) into tears.

quot;She says she cannot live long, sir; but she told me last night, that before she died¹²), you would come and tell us news of father. She has been saying all the past week that we should hear from him soon.quot;

Whilst the boy spoke, Alfred heard a weak voice, calling his name from the inner room.

quot;Go in,quot; he said, quot;and tell her I am here.quot;

The boy did so¹³), and then beckoned him to enter.

Susan's submissive features were but little changed, from the time when her husband was taken from her; but the

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weak and wasted form that strove¹) to raise itself in vain, as Alfred approached the bedside, too plainly revealed that the struggle was drawing to a close — that the time of rest was at hand.

quot;Thank God, you are²) come,quot; she said; quot;you have heard from³) him? Tell me quickly, for my time is short.quot;

quot;I come to tell you good news, Susan. You may yet be restored to him.quot;

quot;I shall not see Martin in this world again, Mr. Gray; but I shall close my eyes in peace. If you know where he is, and can tell me that, my boy shall go, and be with⁴) him, and tell him how, through these») long weary years, we loved him, and thought of him, and prayed for him —quot; Here she broke off, and beckoned the boy to her. She held his hands within her own, whilst Alfred Gray read from the letter all that would comfort her.

When he had done, she said, quot;God will bless you; you have been very good to us in our misery. Now, will you promise me one thing more? Will⁶) you send my boy to his father, when I am²) gone?quot;

The promise was made, and the boy knelt long by her bedside, listening to the words of love and consolation which, with her latest⁷) breath, she uttered for³) the sake of him who, she hoped, would hear them again from his child's lips.

Nearly forty years have passed since they laid her among the graves of the humble villagers of Uffculme. Few³) remain now who remember her story or her name; but, on the other side of the world, amid scenery all unlike to that in which she dwelt¹⁰), there stands a cheerful settler's home, and under the shadow of tall acacia-trees, which surround the little garden in which some few English flowers are blooming, there are sitting¹¹), in the cool of the summer evening, a group, whose faces¹²) are all of the Anglo-Saxon mould. A happy-looking couple, in the prime of life, are there, with children playing around them; and one little gentle girl, they call Susan, is sitting on the knee of an aged white-haired man,

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186

looking lovingly into his face, and wondering why his eye so watches the setting sun every¹) night, as it sinks behind the blue waters in the distance. Two tall handsome lads, with guns on their shoulders, enter the garden and hasten to show the old man²) the fruits of their day's exploits³).

quot;We have been lucky to-day, grandfather,quot; says the younger'); quot;but Alfred says these birds are not like⁵) the birds in Old England.quot;

quot;You should hear the sailors talk about the game in England, Martin,quot; replies the brother. quot;Grandfather has told¹¹) us all about England, except the'birds'. He thinks⁷) we should run away if he were to⁸) describe them.quot;

The old man looks⁷) steadily at the boys for a moment, and his eyes fill⁹) with tears. quot;It is a glorious land,quot; he says, with a faltering voice; quot;it is our country; but, Alfred, Martin, you will never leave this happy home to go there. Birds, there, are the rich man's property, and you would not dare carry those guns of yours¹⁰) over English ground. If ever you go there, your father will tell you where there is a churchyard, —and among the graves of the poor, there is one—quot;

He stopped, for Edward Harvey came to the place where his father sat, and took his trembling hand within his own; the boys obeyed their mother's signal, and followed her into the house; two men remained sitting¹ ^ together, and the silent stars came out.

Then, the aged man, leaning¹²) on his son's arm, rejoined the family at the supper-table; and the peace of God rested on the solitary home. Edward Harvey had faithfully kept within his heart the memory of his dying mother's commands.

Martin, his father, had nobly effaced the otie Black Spot.

The Vision of Mirza.

On the fifth¹³) day of the moon, which, according to the

') § 103.2. Rem. a. quot;) § 1(53. Rem. a. '} § '23.5. § 30.^s) § «. ^c) § 212.1.') § 2H .1. quot;)§ 147.3. ^,)§179. ¹⁰)§68. ¹')§205.1.6. ¹=)§207. quot;)§52.1.Rem.a.

187

custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy¹), after having washed²) myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here refreshing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to another, surely, said I, man is but a shadow, and life a dream. Whilst I was thus³) musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that ⁵) was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, but who was in reality a being of superior nature. I drew⁵) near with profound reverence, and fell down at his feet. The genius⁶) smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability, that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears⁷) and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, quot;Mirza,quot; said he, quot;I have heard thee in thy⁸) soliloquies; follow me.quot;

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock; and placing me on the top of it, quot;cast thy eyes eastward,quot; said he, quot;and tell me what thou⁸) seest.quot; quot;I see,quot; saidl, quot;a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling³) through it.quot; quot;The valley that thou seest,quot; said he, quot;is the vale of misery; and the tide of water that thou seest, is part¹ quot;J of the great tide of eternity.quot; quot;What is the reason,quot; said I, quot;that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other?quot; „What thou seest,quot; said lie, quot;is that portion of eternity which is called time measured out¹¹) by the sun, and reaching¹¹) from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now,quot; said he, quot;this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it¹²).quot; quot;I see a bridge,quot; said I, quot;standing in the midst of the tide.quot; quot;The bridge thou seest,quot; said he, quot;is human life; consider it attentively.quot; Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of three score¹³) and ten entire arches , with several broken arches,

')§ 41. c.amp;ij 102.2. Rem. b. ^,)§201.Rein.!gt;. ³)§237. ')§95.d. ⁵)§143. ⁸)§10.2-^,)§12.3.') §57.2. *)§205.1.a. quot;gt;)§4.2.((.Rem. ■¹)§20e. ¹⁵)§58.3.6. ¹³)§16.

188

which, added to those that were entire, made up the number about a hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first¹) of a thousand; but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition.²) I now beheld it. quot;But tell me further,quot;³) said he, quot;what thou discoverest on it.quot; quot;I see multitudes of people passing over it,quot; said I, quot;and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.quot; As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into'¹) the great tide that flowed underneath it; and, upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay¹¹) concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, than they fell through them⁰) into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls were set rery thick⁷) at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud than many fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire. Therequot;) were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling-march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent⁰) with so long a walk.

I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy, to see'⁰) several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching¹¹) at every thing that stood by them, to save themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and, in the midst of a speculation, stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles, that glittered in their eyes, and danced before them; but often, when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing¹²) failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in their¹quot;) hands, and others with filthy vessels, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not

') § 54.3. Rem. 6. ») §-101. Rem. a. ^ 30, Rem. 6. ')§258. ^s)§139. ⁶)§58.3.6. ')§«.c. quot;)§59.⁸)§135.d. ¹⁰)§189. ■¹)§205.1.a. ¹=)§193.1. ¹³)§72.

189

seem to lie in their way, and which they might have¹) escaped, had²) they not been thus forced upon them.

The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. quot;Take thine³) eyes off the bridge,quot; said he, quot;and tell me if thou seest anything thou dost⁴) not comprehend.quot; Upon looking up, quot;what mean,quot; said I, quot;those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering³) about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and, among many other feathered creatures, several little winged boys that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches.quot; quot;These,quot;⁶) said the genius, quot;are envy, avarice, superstition, despair, love, with the like⁷) cares and passions that infest human life.quot;

I here fetched a deep sigh. quot;Alas,quot; said I, quot;man was made in vain! how is he given away to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death!quot; The genius being moved with compassion toward me, bid⁸) me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. quot;Look no more,quot; said he, quot;on man in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out⁹) for eternity; but cast thine³) eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it.quot;¹⁰) I directed my sight as I was ordered, and [whether or not the good genius strengthened it with any supernatural fn -^e, or dissipated part¹') of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate] I saw the valley opening at the farther end, and spreading forth into an immense ocaan, that had a huge rock of adamant running¹²) through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted¹²) with innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand¹³) little shining seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of

')H51.3. ')§21.(/. ')§G7. ')§157.Rera.f. ^s)§173.Rem.B. quot;)§84.3. ')§83.2.!). Rem.b. quot;)§159.4. ')S194. quot;)§238. quot;)§4.2.lt;/.Rem. ^1!)§20C. quot;)§51.3.

190

flowers. Gladness grew in me at the discovery of so delightful a¹) scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats; but the genius told me there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. quot;The islands,quot; said he, quot;tjiat lie so fresh and green²) before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sands on the sea-shore. There are myriads of islands behind those') which thou here discoverest, reaching further than thine eye, or even thine imagination, can extend itself. These¹) are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasure of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections⁵) of those who are settled in them : every island is a paradise accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these¹), O Mirza, habitations worth contending for?⁰) Does life appear miserable, that gives the opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be⁷) feared, that will convey thee .to so happy an⁸) existence? Think not⁰) man was made in vain, who has¹⁰) such an eternity reserved for him.quot;—I gazed witli inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. quot;At length,quot; said I, quot;show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid¹¹) under those dark clouds, which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant.quot; The genius making no answer¹²), I turned about to address myself¹ •^,,) to him a second time, but I found that he had left me. I then turned again to the vision which¹⁴) I had been so long contemplating; but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen¹⁵), sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it.

¹

)§8.2.a. ³)s86. ')S84.3. ^s)§12.3. •)§198. ')H47.2.17*2. ')§2.

²

') § -153. Rem. c. ») §145.3.¹¹)H34.«) § 207. quot;) H77. quot;) § 201. Rem. a.¹⁵) §10.1.«.

191

The May to Wealth.

^ls dearly shown in the preface of an old Pennsylvania Almanack, intitled, Poor Richard improved.

Courteous Keader,

I have heard¹), that nothing gives an author so great pleasure, as to find his works respectfully quoted²) by others. Judge, then, how much I must have been gratified by an incident I am going to³) relate to you. I stopped my horse lately, where a great number of people were collected, at an auction of merchants' goods. The hour of the sale not being¹) come, they were conversing on the badness of the times; and one of the company called to a plain clean old man, with white locks, quot;Pray, Father Abraham, what think you⁵) of the times? Will not these heavy taxes quite ruin the country? How shall we ever be ablequot;) to pay them? What would you advise us to?quot; Father Abraham stood up, and replied, quot;If you would have my advice, I will give it you in short, quot;for a word to the wise is enough,quot; as poor Richard says.quot; They joined in desiring¹) him to speak his mind, and, gathering round him, he proceeded as follows :

quot;Friends,quot; says he, quot;the taxes are, indeed, very heavy, and, if those laid on by the government were the only ones⁸) we had to pay, we might⁹) more easily discharge them; but we have many others, and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed twice¹⁰) as much by our idleness, three times¹⁰) as much by our pride, and four times as much by our folly; and from these taxes the commissioners cannot ease or deliver us, by allowing⁷) an abatement. However, let us hearken¹¹) to good advice, and something may be done for us; quot;God helps them that¹²) help themselves ,quot; as poor Richard says.

quot;1. It would be thought a hard government that should tax¹³) the people one tenth part of their time, to be employed in its service; but idleness taxes many of us much more; sloth, by bringing on⁷) diseases, absolutely shortens life. quot;Sloth,

¹

)§201. •)§44. •)§225. quot;gt;)§54. quot;)§226.2. ¹²)§93.2.d. ¹³)§222.2.6.

192

like rust, consumes faster than labours wear, while the used key is always¹) bright,quot; as poor Bichard says. quot;But dost thou love life, then do⁵) not squander time, for that is the stuff ³)life is made of,quot; as poor Bichard says. How much more than is necessary do we spend in sleep! forgetting, that quot;the sleeping fox catches no poultry, and that there will be sleeping enough in the grave,quot; as poor Bichard says.

quot;If time be¹) of all things the most precious, wasting time must be,quot; as poor Bichard says, quot;the greatest prodigality;quot; since, as he elsewhere tells us, quot;lost time is never found again; and what³) we call time enough always proves little enough;quot; let us then be up and doing, and doing to⁰) the purpose; so by diligence shall we do more with less perplexity. quot;Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all easy; and he that riseth late must trot all day, and shall¹) scarce overtake his business⁸) at night; while laziness travels so slowly, that poverty soon overtakes him. Drive thy business, let not that drive thee : and early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,quot; as poor Richard says.

quot;So⁹) what signifies wishing and hoping¹⁰) for better times ? We may make these times better, if we bestir ourselves. quot;Industry need not wish, and he that lives upon hope will die fasting. There are no gains without pains; then help hands, for I have no lands,quot; or, if I have, they are smartly taxed. quot;He that hath¹') a trade, hath an estate; and he that hath a calling, hath an office of profit and honour, as poor Bichard says; but then the trade must be worked at, and the calling well followed, or neither the estate nor the office will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious, we shall never starve; for, quot;at the working man's house, hunger looks in, but dare¹²) not enter.quot; Nor¹³) will the bailiff or the constable enter, for quot;industry pays debts, while despair increaseth them.quot; What though you have found no treasure, nor¹³) has any rich relation left you a legacy, quot;diligence is the mother of good luck, and God gives all things to industry. Then plow deep, while sluggards sleep, and you shall have

¹

)§217.3.^lt)§i2.3.Rein.*)§237.¹⁰)§196.1.¹¹)§i28.1. fo. ¹²)§H8amp;§483.1.^1:,)§235.

193

com to sell and to keep.quot; Work while it is called to-day, for you know not how much you may be hindered to-morrow. quot;One to-day is worth two to-morrows,quot;¹) as poor Richard says; and, farther, quot;never leave that till²) to-morrow, which you can do to-day.quot; If you were³) a servant, would you not be ashamed that a good master should¹) catch you idle ? Are you then your own master? Be ashamed to catch yourself idle, when there is so much to be⁵) done for yourself, your family, your country, and your king. Handle your tools without mittens, remember, quot;that the cat in gloves catches no mice,quot; as poor Richard says. It is true there is much to be⁵) done, and perhaps you are weak-handed; but stick to it steadily, and you will see great effects, for quot;constant dropping wears away stones; and by diligence and patience the mouse ate in two the cable; and little strokes fell great oaks.quot;

quot;Methinks⁶) I hear some of you say, must a man afford himself no leisure?quot; I will⁷) tell thee, my friend, what poor Richard says; quot;employ thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure; and since⁸) thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour.quot; Leisure is time for doing something⁰) useful; this leisure the diligent man will obtain, but the lazy man never: for quot;a life of leisure and a life of laziness are two things. Many, without labour, would¹⁰) live by their wits¹') only, but they break for¹²) want of stock;quot; whereas industry gives comfort, and plenty, and respect. quot;Fly pleasures, and they will follow you. The diligent spinner has a large shift; and now I have a sheep and a cow, everybody bids'³) me good-morrow.quot;

quot;2. But with our industry we must likewise be steady, settled, and careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own eyes, and not trust too much to others, for, as poor Richard says,

quot;I never saw an oft-removed tree,

Nor¹⁴) yet an oft-removed family,

That throve so well as those that settled be.quot;

And again, quot;three removes are as bad as a fire;quot; and again,

¹

W.tRem, *)§266. ')§%%%c.3. ⁴)§222.2.a.Rem. quot;)i?172. °)5135.c. 'jHSO,

²

d.') § 288, a. °) § 106. quot;) § 225.2.6.quot;) §13. quot;)§ 255. c. quot;) § 139. quot;) § 235. Rem.

³

13

194

quot;keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep theequot;; and again, quot;if you would have') your business done, go; if not, send.quot; And again,

quot;He that by the plough would thrive,

Himself must either hold or drive.quot;

And again, quot;the eye of a master will do more work than both his²) hands;quot; and again, quot;want of care does us more damage than want of knowledge;quot; and again, quot;not to oversee workmen, is to leave them your purse open.quot; Trusting³) too much to others' care is the ruin of many; for, quot;in the affairs of this world, men are saved, not by faith, but by the want of it;quot; but a man's own care is profitable; for, quot;if you would have a faithful servant, and one that you like, serve yourself⁴). A little neglect may⁵) breed great mischief; for⁰) want of a nail the shoe was lost, and for want of a shoe the horse was lost, and for want of a horse the rider was lost,quot; being overtaken and slain bij the enemy; all for want of a little care about a horse-shoa nail.

quot;3. So much for industry, my friends, and attention to one's⁷) own business; but to these we must add frugality, if we would make our industry more successful. A man may, if he knows not how⁸) to save as he gets, quot;keep his nose all his life to the grindstone, and die not worth⁹) a groat at last, A fat kitchen makes a lean will;quot; and

quot;Many estates are spent in the getting,

Since women for tea forsook spinning and knitting,

And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting.quot;

quot;If you would be wealthy, think of saving¹⁰), as well as of getting. The Indies¹¹) have not made Spain rich¹²), because her outgoes¹³) are greater than her¹⁴) incomes.quot;

quot;Away, then, with your expensive follies, and you will not then have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes, and chargeable families; for

quot;Women and wine, game and deceit,

Make the wealth small, and the want great.quot;

')§«o.3. ')§73. ')§193.1, *)§ 74. ^s)5149..3. quot;gt;.5255. c. ')§65. quot;)H86.Rem. °) § 43. c. quot;) § 199. ^u) § 3.6. quot;) § 41. c. quot;) § 9. 4. Rem. quot;) § 19. 2.

105

And farther, quot;what¹) maintains one vice, would bring up two children.quot; Ton may think, perhaps, that a little tea, or a little punch now and then, diet a little more costly²), clothes a little finer²), and a little entertainment now and then, can be no great matter; but remember, quot;many a little makes-¹) a mickle.quot; Beware of little expences; quot;a small leak will sink a great ship,quot; as poor Richard says; and again, quot;who¹) dainties love, shall¹) beggars prove;quot; and moreover, quot;fools make feasts, and wise men⁵) eat them.quot;

quot;Here you are all got⁰) together to this sale of fineries and nick-nacks. You call them goods; but, if you do not take care, they will prove evils to some of you. Tou expect they will be sold cheap, and perhaps they may, for less than they cost; but, if you have no occasion for them, they must be dear to you. Remember what poor Richard says, quot;buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shalt⁴) sell thy necessaries.quot;⁷) And again, quot;at a great pennyworth pause a while.quot; He means, that perhaps the cheapness is apparent only, and not real; or the bargain, by straitening thee in thy business, may⁸) do thee more harm than good. Por in another place he says, quot;many have been ruined by buying good penny-worths.quot;⁹) Again, quot;it is foolish to lay out money in a purchase of repentance;quot; and yet¹⁰) this folly is practised every day at auctions, for want of minding the almanac. Many a one¹¹), for the sake of finery on the back, have gone with a hungry belly, and half starved their families; quot;silks and satins, scarlet and velvets, put out the kitchen fire,quot; as poor Richard says. These^{1 2}) are not the necessaries of life, they can scarcely be called the conveniences; and yet, only because they look pretty, how many want¹³) to have them? By these and other extravagancies, the genteel are reduced to poverty, and forced to borrow of those whom they formerly despised, but who, through industry and frugality, have maintained their standing; in which¹⁴) case it appears plainly, that quot;a ploughman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees,quot; as poor Richard says. Perhaps they have had a small

')§9C.1. ²)§46.c. ³)§14.Rem. *)§217.3. ⁵)§48.Rcm. ^s)§159.5.Rem.a.')§50 amp;§15.3.b. »)§«9.3. »)§«. ¹⁰)§281. quot;)§8.2.c.'v§8-i.3.quot;)§l00.2.rf. quot;)§94.3.

19G

estate left¹) them, which fhey knew not²) the getting of; they think quot;it is day, and never will be nightthat a little to be spent³) out of so much is not worth minding; but quot;always taking⁴) out of the meal-tub, and never putting in, soon comes to the bottom,quot; as poor Richard says; and then, quot;when the well is dry, they⁵) know the worth of water.quot; But this they might have known before, if they had taken his advice: quot;if you would know the value of money, go and try to borrow some; for he that goes a⁶)-borrowing goes a-sorrowing,quot; as poor Richard says; and indeed so does he that lends to such people, when he goes to get it in again. Poor Dick farther advises, and says,

quot;Fond pride of dress is sure a very curse,

Ere fancy you consult, consult your purse.quot;

And again, quot;pride is as loud⁷) a beggar as want, and a great deal⁸) more saucy.quot; When you have bought one thing fine⁰), you must buy then more, that your appearance may be all of ⁰) a piece; but poor Dick says, quot;it is easier to suppress the first desire than to satisfy all that follow it; and it is as truly folly for the poorquot;) to ape the rich, as for the frog to swell, in order to equal the ox.quot;

quot;Vessels large may venture more,

But little boats should keep near shore.quot;

It is, however, a folly soon punished; for, as poor Richard says, quot;pride that dines on vanity, sups on contempt; pride breakfasted with plenty, dined with poverty, and supped with infamy.quot; And, after all¹²), of what use is this pride of appearance, for which so much is risked, so much is suffered? It cannot promote health, nor¹³) ease pain; it makes no increase of merit in the person; it creates envy, it hastens misfortunes.

quot;But what¹⁴) madness must it be to run in debt for these superfluities! We are offered, by the terms of this sale, six months credit; and that, perhaps, has induced some of us to attend it, because we cannot spare the ready money, and

¹

)§145.3.~*)§153.Ilem.c. ³)§172. ')§196.1. ⁵)§63. ')§6.a. ^,)§8.2.a. quot;)§110

²

Rem. !0 § c.¹⁰) § 259. Rem.quot;) § 48. quot;) § 103.2. Rem. b. quot;) § 235. Rem. quot;) § 90.2.

197

hope now to be fine without it. But ah! think what you do when you run in debt; you give to another power over your liberty. If you cannot pay at the time, you will be ashamed to see your creditor, you will be in fear when you speak to him, you will make poor, pitiful, sneaking excuses, and, by degrees, come to lose your veracity, and sink into base, downright lying; for, quot;the second vice is lying, the first is running') in debt,quot; as poor Richard says; and again, to the same purpose, quot;lying¹) rides upon debt's back;quot; whereas a freeborn Englishman ought not to be ashamed nor afraid to see or speak to any man living^). But poverty often deprives a man of all spirit and virtue. quot;It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright.quot; What would you think of that prince, or of that government, who') should⁵) issue an edict forbidding you to dress⁰) like a gentleman or gentlewoman, on pain of imprisonment or servitude? Would you not say, that you were⁷) free, have⁷) a right to dress as you please, and that such an edict would be a breach of your privileges, and such a government tyrannical? And yet you are aboutquot;) to put yourself under that tyranny, when you run in debt for such dress ! Tour creditor has authority, at his pleasure, to deprive you of your liberty⁰), by confining you in goal for¹⁰) life, or by selling you for¹¹) a servant, if you should¹²) not be able to pay him. When you have got your bargain, you may, perhaps, think little of payment; but, as poor Eichard says, quot;creditors have better memories than debtors; creditors are a superstitious sect, great observers of set days and times.quot; The day comes round before you are aware, and the demand is made before you are prepared to satisfy it; or, if you bear your debt in mind, the term, which at first seemed so long, will, as it lessens, appear extremely short; time will seem to have added wings to his¹³) heels as well as his shoulders. quot;Those have a short lent, who owe money to be paid at Easter.quot; At present, perhaps, you may think yourselves in thriving circumstances, and that you can bear a little extravagance without injury; but,

¹

quot;)§147.4.Rem.b. •)§164. 'quot;)§255.i). quot;)§ 1(52.2.Rem.a. quot;) §222.c.3. quot;)|19.3.

198

quot;For age and want save ¹) while you may,

No morning sun lasts a whole day.quot;

Gain may be temporary and uncertain, but ever, while²) you live, expense is constant and certain: and, quot;it is easier to build two chimneys than to keep one in fuel,quot; as poor Richard says: so, quot;rather go to bed supperless than rise in debt.quot;

quot;Get what you can, and what^:i) you get hold,

'Tis the stone that will turn all your lead into gold quot;

And when you have got the philosopher's stone, sure you will no longer complain of bad times, or the difficulty of paying¹) taxes.

quot;4. This doctrine, my friends, is reason and wisdom; but, after all⁵), do not depend too much upon your own industry, and frugality, and prudence, though excellent things; for they may⁶) all be blasted, without the blessing from heaven; and therefore ask that blessing humbly, and be not uncharitable to those⁷) that at present seem to want it, but comfort and help them. Remember Job suffered, and was afterwards prosperous.

quot;And now,quot; to conclude³), quot;experience keeps a dear school, but fools will⁰) learn in no other,quot; as poor Richard says, and scarce in that; for, it is true, quot;we may give advice, but we cannot give conduct;quot; however, remember this, quot;they⁷) that will not be counselled cannot be helped;quot; and farther, that quot;if you will not hear reason, she will surely rap your¹⁰) knuckles,quot; as poor Richard says.quot;

Thus¹¹) the old gentleman ended his harangue. The people heard it and approved the doctrine; and immediately practised the contrary, just as if it had been a common sermon; for the auction opened, and they began to buy extravagantly. — I found¹⁵) the good man had thoroughly studied my almanacs, and digested all¹³) I had dropt on those topics during the course of 25 years. The frequent mention¹³) he made of me must have tired any one else; but my vanity was wonderfully delighted with it, though I was conscious, that not a¹⁴) tenth part of the

¹

) § 226. 1. ^s) § 96.1. *) § 200. ^sgt; § 103. 2. Rem.!). '')§149.3. ')§86.

²

') § 191. •) § 150. 2. d. quot;) § 72. quot;) § 237. quot;) § 283. Rem. quot;) § 101. quot;) § 6. 2.

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wisdom was my own, which he ascribed to me, but rather the gleanings that I had made of the sense of all ages and nations. However, I resolved to be the better for the echo of it; and, though I had at first determined to buy stuff for a new coat, I went away, resolved to wear my old one a little longer. Eeader, if thou wilt do the same, thy profit will be as great as mine.

I am, as ever.

Thine to serve thee, Eiohard Saunders.

Riddles.

1. Which is the strongest day in the week?

2. What is that which you aud every living person have seen, but can never see again?

3. What is that which no man ever yet did see,

Which never was, but always is to be?

4. Thirty white horses upon a red hill.

Now they tramp, now they champ, now they stand still.

5. Two legs sat upon three legs.

With one leg in his lap;

In comes four legs.

And runs away with one leg.

Up jumps two legs.

Catches up three legs.

Throws it after four legs,

Aud makes him bring back one leg.

6. Old mother Twitchett had but one eye.

And a long tail which she can let fly;

And every time she went over a gap.

She left a bit of her tail in a trap.

7. Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall;

All the king's horses, and all the king's men Cannot put Humpty-Dumpty together again.

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8. In marble walls as white as milk,

Lined with a skin as soft as silk;

Within a fountain crystal clear,

A golden apple doth appear.

No doors there are to this stronghold,

Tet thieves, break in and steal the gold.

9. Hick-a-more, Hack-a-more, on the king's kitchen-door; All the king's horses, and all the king's men Couldn't drive Hick-a-more, Hack-a-more, off the king's

(kitchen-door.

10. Formed long ago, yet made to-day.

Employed while others sleep;

quot;What few would like to give away.

Nor any wish to keep.

11. Little Nancy Etticoat,

In a white petticoat,

And a red nose;

The longer she stands,

The shorter she grows.

12. Higher than a house, higher than a tree; Oh ! whatever can that be ?

13. I have a little sister.

They call her Pretty Peep;

She wades in the waters.

Deep, deep, deep!

She climbs up the mountains.

High, high, high;

My poor little sister,

She has but one eye.

14. I went to the wood and got it,

I sat down and looked at it;

The more I looked at it, the less I liked it.

And I brought it home because I could not help it.

15. As soft as silk, as white as milk.

As bitter as gall; a thick wall And a green coat covers me all.

16. There was a little green house,

And in the little green house

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There was a little brown house,

And in the little brown house There was a little yellow house,

And in the little yellow house There was a little white house,

And in the little white house There was a little heart.

17. As white as milk.

And not milk;

As green as grass.

And not grass;

As red as blood,

And not blood;

As black as soot,

And not soot!

18. As I went through the garden gap,

AVho should I meet but Dick Red-cap !

A stick in his hand, a stone in his throat.

If you'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a groat.

19. Why is a cherry like a book?

20. What coin can you double in value by deducting its half?

21. Why would the people, in case of a revolution, be the greatest losers ?

22. When were there only two vowels?

23. What word becomes shorter by the addition of a syllable ?

24. Why is a door always in the subjunctive mood?

25. What is that which a cat has, but no other animal?

26. Which is the most wonderful animal in a farmyard?

27. Why do little birds in their nest agree?

28. Round the house, and round the house, and peeps through the keyhole.

29. Which travels at greater speed, heat or cold?

30. Which are the best letters in the alphabet ?

Proverbs.

Well begun is half done. He that would thrive must rise

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at five; he that has thriven may lie till seven. Everything has an end, and a pudding has two. The proof of the pudding is in the eating. Enough is as good as a feast. Half a loaf is better than no bread. They that have no other meat bread and butter are glad to eat. After dinner sit a while, after supper walk a mile. A pennyworth of mirth is worth a pound of sorrow. No rose without a thorn. A penny saved is a penny got. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. A mother's heart never grows old. March wind and April showers bring forth May flowers. Praise a fair day at night. Make hay while the sun shines. After rain comes fair weather. Christmas comes but once a year. After a Christmas comes a Lent. Green Christmas, white Easter.

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Blind men must not judge of colours. One must not sell the bear's skin before he is caught. One must not sell the chickens, before they are hatched. The eye of the master will do more work than both his hands. Not to oversee workmen, is to leave them your purse open. quot;When the well is dry, they know the worth of water. Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other. Experience is the mistress of fools. You must cut your coat according to your cloth. Tell me the company you keep, and I will tell you what you are. There are more flies caught with honey than vinegar.

Nobody knows where the shoe pinches so well as he who wears it. It is one thing to promise and another to perform. He is truly an ass who cannot read his own handwriting. If you cannot bite, never show your teeth. When candles are out, all cats are gray. quot;Where God has a church, the devil will have a chapel. If a man once fall, all will tread on him. The butterfly flutters so often about the candle, that at last it burns itself in it. Play with a fool at home, and he will play the fool with you in the market. When the fox cannot reach the grapes, he says they are not ripe.

When the fox preaches, beware of your geese. Grain by grain, and the hen fills her belly. They must hunger in frost that will not work in heat. Women are like horses, there

203

are none ■without some fault. Jack would be a gentleman if be could but speak French. Many go to seek iivool and come home shorn. Too much of one thing is good for nothing. quot;Where nothing is to be had, the king must lose his right. Who will not keep a penny, shall never have many. Every man is the architect of his own fortune.

Pride goes before and shame follows after. The receiver is as bad as the thief. Kiches are but the baggage of fortune. Name not a rope in his house that hanged himself. Samson was a strong man, yet he could not pay money before he had it. He that makes himself a sheep, shall be eaten by the wolf. As the old cook crows, so doth the young. There is no struggling with necessity. There is no now thing under the sun. A courageous man does not want a long sword.

He that talks much, lies much. A thin meadow is soon mowed. He that has a tongue in his head, may find his way where he pleases. If things were to be done twice, all would be wise. Who can mend it, said the poor boy, when ho had broken his pitcher. Who keeps company with wolves, will soon learn to howl. A woman conceals what she knows not. Young men think old men fools, and old men know young men to be so. They that will not be counselled cannot be helped. Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.

Familiarity breeds contempt. Barking dogs bite not. Show me a liar and I'll show you a .thief. So many men, so many minds. To him that wills, ways are not wanting. A penny saved is a penny got. The more haste, the less speed. Handsome is that handsome does. He that goes a-borrowing, goes a-sorrowing. It is better to be envied, than to be pitied.

Bought wit is best. The pitcher goes so often to the well, that it comes home broken at last. Man proposes, and God disposes. The master is known by his work. All's well, that ends well. Honesty is tiie best policy. An honest man is as good as his word. After rain comes sunshine. All is not gold that glitters. A hungry stomach has no ears.

One swallow doesn't make a summer. Once is no custom.

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Fortune favours the brave. Like loves like. What's done can't be helped. Time will show a plan. Might is above right. Hunger is the best sauce. To-day in full life and tomorrow in the grave. To err is human.

So many countries, so many customs. To live and let live. Strike the iron whiles it is hot. Idleness is the root of all evil. New brooms sweep clean. Necessity has no law. The cobbler must not go beyond his last. Despots seldom rule long. Still waters run deep. Practice makes perfect.

To mention the wolf's name, is to see the same. He who begins with a thing, must go on with it. quot;What the heart thinketh, the mouth speaketh. Pitch defileth. Ho who will not be advised, must take the consequence. A rolling stone gathers no moss. One mischief comes on the neck of another. Patience and time bring all things about. Act well and you will fare well. When times are the worst, they will certainly mend. A proverb is the child of experience.

Answers to Riddles.

1. Sunday, because all the rest are week-days. 2. Yesterday. 3. To-morrow. 4. Teeth and gums. 5. A leg of mutton_} a man, a stool, and a dog. 6. A needle and thread. 7. An egg. 8. An egg. 9. Sunshine. 10. A bed. 11. A candle. 12. A star. 13. A star. 14. A thorn. 15. A walnut. 16. A walnut. 17. A bramble-blossom. 18. A cherry. 19. Because it is red (read). 20. A halfpenny. 21. Because they would each lose a sovereign, and the queen only a crown. 22. In the days of no a, before u and i were born. 23. Short. 24. Because it's always wood (would) or should be. 25. Kittens. 26. A pig, because he is killed first, and cured afterwards. 27. Because, if they didn't, they would fall out. 28. The wind. 29. Heat, because you can catch cold. 30. U and I.

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Poetry.

Mrs. Mary Howilt, echtgenoote van William Howitt; beiden wel bekend in de Engelsche letterkunde door hun gedichten en geschriften, die zij deels gezamenlijk, deels afzonderlijk schreven. Mrs. Howitt geb. 1800 f 1890 munt voornamelijk uit door hare levendige tafereelen uit de natuurlijke historie.

* The Monkey.

* The Voices of Spring:.

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207

The Little Mariner.

Ay, sitting on your happy hearths, beside your mother's knee, How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea ? My father was a mariner, and from my earliest years I can remember, night and day, my mother's prayers and tears.

I can remember how she sighed when blew the stormy gale; And how for days she stood to watch the long-expected sail:

Hers was a silent, patient grief; but fears and long delay, And wakeful nights and anxious days, were wearing her away.

And when the gusty winds were loud, and autumn leaves were red, I watched, with heavy heart, beside my mother's dying bed:

Just when her voice was feeblest, the neighbours came to say, The ship was hailed an hour before, and then was in the bay.

Alas! too late the ship returned — too late her life to save; My father closed her dying eyes, and laid her in the grave.

He was a man of ardent hopes, who never knew dismay;

And, spite of grief, the winter-time wore cheerfully away.

He had crossed the equinoctial line full seven times or more; And, sailing northward, had been wrecked on icy Labrador.

He knew the Spice Isles, every one, where the clove and nutmeg grow, And the aloe towers, a stately tree, with clustering bells of snow.

208

He had gone the length of Hindustan, down Ganges' holy flood; Through Persia, where the peacock broods, a wild bird of the wood; And, in the forests of the West, had seen the red deer chased, And dwelt beneath the piny woods, a hunter of the waste.

Oh! pleasant were the tales he told of lands so strange and new; And in my ignorance I vowed I'd be a sailor too:

My father heard my vow with joy ; so in the early May We went on board a merchantman, bound for Honduras Bay.

Right merrily, right merrily, we sailed before the wind,

W^rith a briskly heaving sea before, and the landsman's cheer behind. There was joy for me in every league, delight on every strand, And I sat for days on the high foretop, on the long look-out for land.

There was joy for me in the nightly watch, on the burning tropic seas. To mark the waves, like living fires, leap up to the freshening breeze. Right merrily, right merrily, our gallant ship went free.

Until we neared the rocky shoals within the Western Sea.

Yet still none thought of danger near, till in the silent night The helmsman gave the dreadful word of quot;Breakers to the right!quot; The moment that his voice was heard, was felt the awful shock; The ship sprang forward with a bound, and struck upon a rock.

quot;All hands aloft!quot; our captain cried : in terror and dismay They threw the cargo overboard, and cut the masts away :

Twas all in vain, 'twas all in vain ; the sea rushed o'er the deck, And, shattered with the beating surf, down went the parting wreck.

The moment that the wreck went down my father seized me fast, And leaping 'mid the thundering waves, seized on the broken mast. I know not how he bore me up, my senses seemed to swim, A shuddering horror chilled my brain, and stiffened every limb.

What next I knew, was how at morn, on a bleak, barren shore, Out of a hundred mariners, were living only four.

I looked around, like one who wakes from dreams of fierce alarm. And round my body still I felt, firm locked my father's arm.

And with a rigid, dying grasp, he closely held me fast.

Even as he held me when he seized, at midnight, on the mast.

With humble hearts and streaming eyes, down knelt the little band, Praying Him who had preserved their lives to lend His guiding hand.

209

And day by day, though burning thirst and pining hunger came, His mercy, through our misery, preserved each drooping frame : And after months of weary woe, sickness, and travel sore. He sent the blessed English ship that took us from that shore.

And now, without a home or friend, I wander far and near, And tell my miserable tale to all who lend an ear.

Thus sitting by your happy hearths, beside your mother's knee. How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea ?

Mrs. Felicia Hemans, geb. 1793 te Liverpool, f 1835 bij Dublin, schreef gedichten, die zich onderscheiden door hun bevalligen vorm en hun romantische gevoelens.

* Casabianca.

14

210

The Sunbeam.

Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall;

A joy thou art, and a wealth to all—

A bearer of hope unto land and sea;

Sunbeam ! what gift has the world like thee ?

Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smiles— Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles ! Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, And gladdened the sailor like words from home.

To the solemn depths of the forest shades Thou art streaming on through their green arcades; And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow. Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.

I looked on the mountains—a vapour lay [Folding their heights in its dark array:

Thou brokest forth, and the mists became A crown and a mantle of living flame !

211

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot,

Something of sadness had wrapped the spot;

But a gleam of thee on its casement fell,

And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell.

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,

Flushing the waste like the rose's heart;

And thou scornest not, from thy pomp, to shed A tender light on the ruins head.

Thou takest through the dim church-aisle thy way. And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day; And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old. Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold.

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave. Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave;

Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest,— Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.

Sunbeam of Summer! oh, what is like thee ?

Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!

One thing is like thee, to mortals given— The Faith, touching all things with hues of heaven.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, de meest populaire Amerikaansche dichter, zoowel in, als buiten Amerika, werd geboren 1807. In 1835 werd hij Professor in de moderne talen en de letteren aan Harvard College, Cambridge U. St., welk ambt hij tot zijn dood in 1882 bekleedde. Zijn geschriften zijn zeer talrijk. De voornaamste van zijn groote gedichten zijn; Evancjeline, Hiawatha en The Courtship of Miles Standish. Van de kleine vindt men verscheidene hierachter, die algemeen bewonderd worden. Hij schreef ook een middeleeuwsch Mysteriespel: The Golden Legend en verscheidene verhalen in proza.

* A Psalm of Life.

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Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy I Our fortunes must be wrought;

friend, [Thus on its sounding anvil sh.-ped For the lesson thou hast taught! Each burning deed and thought! Thus at the flaming forge of life I

* The Bainy Day.

The day is cold, and dark and dreary ;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast. And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all.

Into each life some rain must fall.

Some days must be dark and dreary.

* Excelsior.

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* The Old Clock on the Stairs.