PETER PARLEY’S ANNUAL.

PETER
PARLEY’s ANNUAL.

A Christmas and New Year’s Present
FOR
YOUNG PEOPLE.

NEW YORK:
EVANS AND DICKERSON, 697, BROADWAY.

MDCCCLV.

Contents.

Preface.

Holiday faces! Aye, they are bright, shining, and beautiful as dewdrops glistening in the morning’s splendour—stars sparkling in a clear midnight sky—flowers lit up by the summer’s sun. It makes the heart of poor old Peter Parley glad when he sees them—whether they belong to young or old, to rich or to poor, it is one of my chief delights. I do assure you, my young friends, that a good deal of my parleying has to do with Holiday Faces. I see them again and again, year after year, and they make me feel young again; and, like the old rustic of the Suffolk poet, Bloomfield, I am often ready to jump with joy when I see the cabs and coaches, post-chaises and omnibuses, crowded, inside and outside, with school children, going home for the Holidays. Old as I am growing, I still feel that I belong to the order of light hearts and merry looks—to the heraldry of smiling faces—and my escutcheon is charged with “nods and becks, and wreathed smiles.”

Hurrah, then, for the Holidays, say I! Be cheerful, my young friends—not more for the sake of being merry, than for the sake of being serious again at the proper time. Unbend the bow and loosen the string, that both string and bow may have more force when again brought into action! Make the air ring then, I say, with the Holiday Cheer of Merry Christmas time! Sing, and skip, and dance, and play, like “lambkins by the hill side,” and let love reign in all your hearts, a perpetual sunshine, from year to year, and from youth to age, until you are as old as your ever sincere

And Affectionate Friend,

Story of an Anchorite.

Among the many celebrated ruins of Abbeys in Ireland, is that of Foune, or Fowne, in the county of Westmeath, Leinster. This Abbey is situated on the north-side of the hill or rising ground, which interposes between it and Lough Larne. It was a Priory of Canons, built by St. Fechin, about the year 630. For although the oldest and most authentic Irish records were written between the tenth and twelfth centuries, yet some of them go back, with some consistency, as far as the Christian era; but there is no evidence that the Irish had the use of letters before the middle of the fifth century, when Christianity and Christian literature were introduced by St. Patrick. The new faith did not flourish till a century later, when St. Columba erected monasteries. The Abbey presents a large pile of simple, unadorned masonry. The chapel is still in a tolerable state of preservation, so is also the chapel tower. The valley in which this Abbey is placed must, in the time of its prosperity, have been a delightful retreat. The outline is still good, and nothing is wanting but a little more wood to render it an attractive spot in modern days.

The town is said to have been, anciently, a University of Literature, and the name signifies in the Irish tongue, “the Town of Books:” and the above-mentioned lake (Lough Larne) “the Lake of Learning.” This town was not only the mart of learning, but of devotion—there being in it the ruins of no less than three parish churches; and here lived a famous anchorite, of whom Sir Henry Piers—who wrote an amusing description of the county of Westmeath—gives the following account:—

“This religious person, in his extremity, maketh a vow never to go out of his doors all his life-time, and accordingly here he remains pent up all his days; every day he sayeth mass in the chapel, which also is part of, nay, almost all his dwelling-house—for there are no more houses, but a very small castle, wherein a tall man can hardly stretch himself at length if he be laid down on the floor, nor is there any passage into the castle but through the chapel. He hath servants that attend him at his call in an out-house, but none lieth within the church but himself. He is said, by the natives—who hold him in great veneration for his sanctity—every day to dig, or rather scrape—for he useth no other tools but his nails—a portion of his grave, being esteemed of so great holiness—as if purity and sanctity were entailed on his cell; he is certainly visited by those of the Romish religion who aim at being esteemed more devout than the ordinary amongst them.

“Every visitant, at his departure, leaveth his offering, or as they phrase it, ‘devotion,’ on his altar; but he relieth not on this only for a maintenance, but hath those to bring him in the devotions of those whose piety is not so fervent as to invite them to do the office in person; these are called his ‘proctors,’ who range all the counties in Ireland to beg for him, whom they call the ‘holy man in the stone.’ Corn, geese, turkeys, hens, sheep, money, and whatnot, nothing comes amiss, and nowhere do they fail altogether, but something is had, insomuch, that if his ‘proctors’ deal truthfully, nay, if they return him but a tenth part of what is given for him, he may doubtless fare as well as any priest of them all. The only recreation this poor prisoner is capable of, is, to walk on his terrace, built over the cell where he lies, if he may be said to walk, who cannot in one time stretch forth his legs four times.”

Such, my young friends, is the story of an Anchorite. It is well for us that we live in times when such nonsense is not tolerated. An attempt was made, some years ago, by a poor half-witted creature, called the “Shottisham Angel,” to revive this kind of imposture among credulous persons, but timely exposure frustrated the attempt.

The Sailor’s Grave.

Dark flew the scud along the wave,

The booming thunders rolled on high;

“All hands aloft, the storm to brave”—

At midnight—was the boatswain’s cry.

On deck sprung every soul apace,

But one—bereft of human joy—

Within a hammock’s narrow space

Lay stretched a “sad, sick sailor boy.”

Once, when the boatswain’s pipe would hail,

The first was he of all the crew

On deck to spring—to trim the sail—

To steer—to reef—to furl—to clew.

Now “fever dire” had seized a form

Which nature cast in happiest mould;

The bell struck midnight through the storm,

The last—the death-knell tale is told.

“Alas!” he cried—and dropped a tear,

“Before my spirit mounts the skies—

Are there no friends or messmates near

To close, with looks of love, my eyes?”

All hands aloft—loud blows the wind,

Surrounding billows loudly roar;

He gave one sigh, and sank resigned

To hope, and think, and love no more.

The morning sun in glory rose,

The gale was hushed, and still’d the wave;

The sea boy found his last repose,

And in the ocean’s breast a grave.

Royal Sledges at Windsor

Sledging.

Sledging is a very pretty pastime in cold weather, and in Poland, Russia, Holland, and other northern countries, it is the regular mode of travelling during the long frosts that annually prevail in those regions. A couple of rein-deer yoked to a sledge can travel more than a hundred miles in a day, with a load of half-a-ton.

In fine weather, on a good snowy road, there is something delightfully exhilirating in sledge travelling, snugly enveloped in furs, whilst

“The vault is blue,

Without a cloud, and white without a speck.”

The traveller glides swiftly over the level snow, enlivened by the tinkling of a sonorous bell attached to an arch that rises off the head of the centre horse; for sometimes three horses abreast are used in sledges, and cheered or soothed, as his mood may be, by the wild yet plaintive song of the driver.

The traveller is laid in the sledge like a child in his cradle. He holds the rein or puller, which is fastened to the deer’s or horse’s head, on his right thumb. When the driver is ready to start, he shakes the rein, and the animal springs forward with great speed. He directs his course by the rein and by the voice; he sings to him as he goes along; speaks kindly to him—and cheers him on his way. He never strikes or hurts him, for he loves the animal too much to be cruel to him.

The Laplanders, Russians, Poles, and other nations are thus enabled to travel in winter, by night and by day, when the whole country far and wide is entirely covered by snow, and scarcely a hut or tree is to be seen, and they travel from one part of the country to another with great speed. In the Royal Palace of Sweden is a portrait of a rein-deer which is described as having travelled with despatches eight hundred miles in forty-eight hours.

It was a very pretty thing to see our beloved Queen and family “sledging,” because it shows that the Queen has courage, and a love of amusement; and should this winter be a cold one, Peter Parley hopes to see Her Majesty again in her sledge.

Exploits in the Desert.

The deserts of Southern Africa are immense and formidable, rarely trod by the foot of civilised man. They present features the most wild, and at times, the most sublime that can be imagined; but man has a great knack of destroying the grand, and blotting out the wonderful. South Africa, in its central parts, abounds in features well calculated to inspire grand ideas, and to call forth all the powers of the mind in heroic exploits among the wild beasts of the desert. Here roam, in all their native freedom, bisons, blesboks, and springboks in millions; and among them prowls the lion, in all his fierce dignity of bearing, with his attendant the jackall, who follows and precedes his footsteps. The blesbok is one of the true antelopes, and is as large as a fallow deer, and all its motions and paces are full of grace and elegance; these have also a pecularity of manner (whence their name), of jumping up into the air, like so many fleas, when they first dart off into rapid motion; thus they scour the vast plains in myriads, and may be seen for miles, as if the whole desert was endowed with motion.

The springboks, which, in equal numbers, frequent the same immense plains, make away in every direction over the wildest part of the country, sometimes with flying bounds (beautifully exhibiting the long, snowy white hair, with which their backs are adorned), and at others, walking carelessly and slowly out of the hunter’s way, scarcely deigning to look at him. Black bisons also cover the entire length and breadth of this wild country, and may be seen in herds, averaging from fifty to sixty, wheeling about in endless circles, and performing the most extraordinary variety of intricate evolutions round the hunter on every side. While he is riding round to take a shot at some of the herd in front of him, other herds are charging down right and left; and having described a number of circular movements, they take up positions upon the very ground across which the hunter rode only a few minutes before. Throughout the greater part of the plains frequented by blesboks, numbers of sun-baked hills, or mounds of clay, formed by the white ants, occur, the average height of which are from three to four feet. These ant-hills are generally distant from each other from about one to three hundred yards, and are of great service to the hunter, as he can conceal himself from observation behind them, when he advances to the attack.

It was amid these scenes that, a few years ago, Gordon Cumming luxuriated as a hunter, and noble and not a few, are the trophies of this modern Nimrod—as may be seen at the Exhibition of his Game, in the Museum, near Hyde Park. Overpowered with the sports of the gun and the chase, he had laid down for a brief repose behind one of the ant-hills already alluded to; but he had not slept long before he was aroused by a strange, multitudinous pattering of feet. On raising his head, he saw to his utmost horror, on every side, nothing but savage wild dogs, chattering and growling. On his right and on his left, stood two lines of these ferocious-looking animals, cocking their ears and stretching their necks to have a look at him; while two large apes, with which there were at the least forty more, kept dashing backwards and forwards within a few yards of him, chattering and growling with the most extraordinary volubility. He expected no other fate than to be instantly torn to pieces and consumed; his blood seemed to run cold, and his hair bristled on his head. However, he had presence of mind to consider that the human voice and a determined bearing might overawe them; and, accordingly, springing to his feet, he stepped on one of the ant-hills, and drawing himself to his full height, he waved his coarse blanket with both hands, at the same time addressing the assembly in a loud and solemn manner. This had the desired effect: the wild dogs removed to a more respectful distance, barking at him the while. Upon this, he snatched up his rifle and began loading, but before this was accomplished, the entire troops had pushed away, and did not return.

“The next night,” this enterprising traveller says, “was a memorable one, as being the first on which he had the satisfaction of hearing the majestic thunder of the lion’s roar.” There was no one near to tell him that this was the roar of a lion; but he seemed to know by instinct that it could be nothing else. This roar consists, at times, of a low, deep moaning, repeated five or six times, ending in faintly audible sighs; at other times, he startles the forest with loud, deep-toned, solemn roars, repeated five or six times, in quick succession, each increasing in loudness, to the third or fourth, when his voice dies away in five or six low, muffled sounds, very much resembling distant thunder. At times, a troop may be heard roaring in concert, one assuming the lead, and two, three, or four more regularly taking up their parts, like persons singing a catch; but on no occasion are their voices heard to such perfection as when two or three strange troops of lions approach a fountain to drink at the same time. When this occurs every member of each troop sounds a bold roar of defiance at the opposite parties; and when one roars all roar together, and each seems to vie with his comrades in the intensity and power of his voice. As a general rule, lions roar during the night; but in distant and secluded situations, they may be heard roaring as late as nine o’clock in the morning. It often happens that, when two male lions meet at a fountain, a terrific combat ensues, which not unfrequently ends in the death of one of them.

The habits of the lion are strictly nocturnal. During the day, he lies concealed beneath the shade of some low, bushy tree, or wide-spreading bush, either in the level forest or on the mountain side. He is also partial to lofty reeds, or fields of long, rank, yellow grass. From these haunts he sallies forth when the sun goes down, and commences his nightly prowl. When he is successful in his beat and has secured his prey, he does not roar much that night, unless some rash intruders approach him, when the case will be very different.

Lions are most active and daring during dark and stormy nights. Mr. Cumming noticed a fact with regard to their hour of drinking, which is worthy of record. They seem unwilling to visit the fountain during good moonlight. Thus, when the moon rose early, lions deferred their hour of watering until late in the morning; and when the moon rose late, they drank at a very early hour in the night. When a thirsty lion comes to the water, he stretches out his massive arms, lies down on his breast to drink, and makes a loud, lapping noise in drinking, not to be mistaken; he continues lapping up the water a long while, and four or five times during the process he pauses for half a minute, as if to take breath. One thing conspicuous about them is their eyes, which, in a dark night, glow like two balls of fire.

Having determined upon a lion hunt, Captain Cumming, with a few riders, dashed on to the immense plain. As he proceeded, thousands upon thousands of blesboks darkened the ground. “After a ride of some miles, the lion’s roar was heard, and we soon discovered a dead wild bull, newly killed by a lion, and half eaten. His large and striking foot-prints were deeply marked in the sand. We felt convinced the lion was somewhere near us, but before we could track him out, the night came on, and the most furious thunder-storm I ever knew. The most vivid flashes of lightning followed one another in quick succession, accompanied by terrific peals of thunder, and the sky was black as pitch. The whole plain was soon a sheet of water. About midnight, however, we heard the lion roar, about a mile off. We then rose, and saddled our horses. We rode forward towards the lion’s feasting-place. As the light broke upon us, we slackened our pace, and rode slowly up the middle of the vast level plain towards the carcase of the wild beast, with large herds of springbok, blesbok, and quaggas on every side. Suddenly I observed a number of vultures seated on the plain, about a quarter of a mile a-head of us, and close behind them stood a huge lioness, eating a blesbok she had just killed. She was assisted in her repast by about a dozen jackals, which were feasting along with her in the most friendly and confidential manner. Directing my followers’ attention to the spot, I remarked, ‘I see the lion!’ to which they replied, ‘Whar! whar! yah, Almagty, dat is he!’—and instantly wheeling about their horses, they were about to fly. At the same moment the lioness moved off at a rapid pace. I was determined to have a shot at her. The first move was to bring her to bay, and not a second was to be lost. Spurring my good and lively steed, and shouting to my men to follow, I flew across the plain, and soon gained upon her. This was to me,” says the bold hunter, “a joyful moment, and I at once made up my mind that she or I should die.

“The lioness was a full-grown beast, and the bare and level nature of the plain added to her imposing appearance. Finding that I gained upon her, she reduced her pace from a canter to a trot, carrying her tail slackened behind her, and slewed a little to one side. I shouted loud to her to halt, as I wished to speak with her; upon which she suddenly pulled up, and got upon her haunches like a dog, with her back towards me, not even deigning to look round. She then appeared to say to herself, ‘Does that fellow know who he’s after?’ Having thus sat for half a minute, as if involved in thought, she sprang to her feet, and facing about, stood looking at me for a few seconds, moving her tail slowly from side to side, showing her teeth and growling fiercely. She next made a short run forward, making a loud rumbling noise like thunder. This she did to intimidate me, and to show her ‘monkey’ was up. My Hottentots now came on, and we all three dismounted, and drawing our rifles from our holsters, we looked to see if the powder was up to the nipples, and put on our caps. While this was doing, the lioness sat up, and showed evident signs of uneasiness. She looked first at us, and then behind her, as if to see if the coast was clear; after which she made a short run towards us, uttering her deep-drawn, murderous growl. Having secured the three horses to one another by the reins, we led them on, as if we intended to pass her, in the hope of obtaining a broadside. My men, as yet, had been steady, but they were in a precious ‘stew,’ their faces having assumed a ghastly paleness, and I had a painful feeling that I could place no reliance on them.

“‘Now then for it—neck or nothing! she is within sixty yards of us, and she keeps advancing.’ We turned the horses’ tails to her. I knelt on one side, and taking a steady aim at her breast, let fly. The ball cracked loudly on her tawny hide, and crippled her in the shoulder; upon which she charged with an appalling roar, and, in the twinkling of an eye, she was in the midst of us. She sprung upon Colesberg, one of my men, and fearfully lacerated his ribs and haunches with her horrid teeth and claws; the worst wound was on the haunch, and was most hideous. I was very cool and steady, and did not feel in the least degree nervous, having, fortunately, great confidence in my own shooting; and when the lioness sprang upon my man, I stood out from the horses, ready with my second barrel for the first chance she should give me of a clear shot. This she quickly did, for seemingly, satisfied with the revenge she had now taken, she quitted Colesberg, and slewing her tail to one side, trotted sulkily past within a few paces of me. Taking one step to the left, I pitched my rifle to my shoulder, and, in another second, the lioness lay stretched upon the plain a lifeless corpse.

“We now skinned the lioness, and cut off her head; and, having placed our trophies on our horses, we made for the camp. Before we had proceeded a hundred yards from the carcass, upwards of sixty vultures, whom the lioness had often fed, were feasting on her remains. We led poor Colesberg slowly home, where, having washed his wounds and carefully stitched them together, I ordered the cold water cure to be adopted. Under this treatment the wounds rapidly healed, and he soon recovered. When the shades of evening set in, terror seemed to have taken possession of the minds of my followers; and they swore that the mate of the lioness, on finding her bones, would follow in our spoer, and revenge her death. Under these circumstances, they refused to remain about the waggons or in the tent after the sun went down; and having cut down the rafters and cupboards of the house for fuel, they kindled a large fire in the kitchen, where they took up their quarters for the night.”

A Touch with the Brigands.

It is now several years ago since the author of this “little episode in his life” was travelling in Spain. “I was,” says he, “on the road between Madrid and Bayonne, where the road was rugged, the mountains high, the rivers loose, and the people poor. There were a good many passengers in the rumbling old coach—six within, and ten or twelve on the outside, behind-side, and fore-side of the vehicle. My companions were—a French opera-singer; an old clergyman, who had returned from Rome through Spain, after having embraced the Catholic faith; a French clown, named Moliere, who was, in Paris, said to be equal to one Joe Grimaldi (of facetious memory); an old lady, with her lap-dog and a monkey in a box, attended by her servant, companion, and myself; so that the carriage was almost as infinite in variety as Noah’s Ark, only on a smaller scale.

“The other passengers I could tell but little of. Some, however, were Frenchmen, and others either Italian or Spanish; but there was one who struck my attention by the rotundity of his person, who seemed to have been formed much upon the principle of apple-dumplings or a humming-top. This gentleman, broad, round, thick, and lumpy, was a taciturn Dutchman.

“Now, in the part of Spain to which I have alluded, there is a set of people (Knights of the Moor, as Falstaff calls them), who make the mercurial art of robbery a profession—who pass for the most cavalleros (gentleman-like) men. They are the padrones of old Castille. These brigands had, in the most polite manner imaginable, attacked several pleasure and business parties, with great benefit to themselves and discomfiture to their victims. The government, which in these countries, do everything, but nothing well, had our coach escorted by cavalry, as far as Baitroget; also certain stages between Arendo and Burgos. But when we got into one of the most cut-throat looking places, about three leagues from Orendo, at the cut-throat time in September of about eight in the evening, when the gloaming was fully set, and the moon had risen with a sickly, comsumptive aspect, our ‘John,’ or rather the head postillion was suddenly stopped short; a chain was immediately entangled in the wheel, the traces were cut, and both the postillions were pulled off their horses and thrown on the ground by a couple of surly, well-dressed brigands; while four others, two on each side, came to the carriage, and called upon the conductor and the people in the char-a-banc, as well as those in the coach, and those above, to come down and be robbed in a quiet way. One of the brigands had a hand-lantern, which he thrust into the ”interior“ of our vehicle. The old lady with her lap-dog gave a most piercing shriek, as did her waiting-woman, while the dog barked so furiously, that the brigand seemed excessively savage, and gave the yelping cur such a blow with the lantern, that it knocked the light out, and we were in a moderate degree of darkness. In a few moments, however, we felt the rough hands of two of the brigands, who pulled us out of the coach, and told us to lay down on our faces; the French opera-dancer appealed to their feelings as gentlemen, not to injure female delicacy, and to preserve the old lady, her waiting-woman, and herself from any unnecessary violence. The clown made a sudden summersault over the heads of the brigands, which astonished them to such a degree, that they thought they had come in contact with the Prince of Evil himself; while the Dutchman from the roof laid groaning and trembling all over like a jelly, and imploring for mercy. The other travellers were put hors de combat without ceremony, and the whole group presented as pretty a picture of still life as can well be imagined.

“The driver and postillions had their hands bound behind with strong cords; these necessary precautions were soon exercised on us. The clown’s hands were tied—and so were his legs; and in addition to tying the hands of the old lady and her maid, a couple of gags were obliged to be put into their mouths to prevent their ‘sweet voices’ from disturbing the harmony of the scene. The captain of the band, a fine handsome fellow, with beard enough to stuff a sofa, called upon us, in very bad Castillian, to declare what money we had, and where it was—adding, that if we did not tell the truth, we should be cut-throated or burned. He interrogated us with all the acuteness of Mr. Pegler, (one of the best detectives, and also one of the best of men), frequently changing his tone and accent. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Whence do you come?’ ‘Where are you going?’ were questions put to us, and if we had the misfortune to belong to any place near the haunts of the brigands, or had happened to know the person of any of them, we should have been inevitably assassinated. In fact, a poor postillion was so served only three months before by these very identical brigands, because he happened to be acquainted with one of them.

“They inquired of us whether we were Englishmen, or Americans, for if we had been the former, we should have been completely stripped. The Spanish lower order of people imagine that the clothes of the English and Americans are stitched with gold thread. The lady with the lap-dog, and her maid, unwittingly said they were English, and I, scorning to tell a lie, even in such a case, said that I was from Middlesex, which the chief brigand, whose geography was something like that of the pope, seemed to think an outlandish place, somewhere in the extreme corner of the earth. All these necessary preliminaries being gone through, the picturesque gentlemen began plundering the coach, throwing down and breaking, or ripping open with their long knives, all the boxes, trunks, bags, and packages. Knowing that they could not get at mine without a great deal of trouble, I looked up and told them that I would open my trunk and give them all the money it contained, if they would unbind my hands, for they had drawn the cord so tight that I was in great pain. They consented, and brought my trunk to me. The money they found in it did not satisfy them. They left me in the hands of one of their band, a young man not more than twenty years of age, who continued to search my trunk, while an older and fiercer brigand watched my looks with his carbine levelled at me. The young man, although he made use of the coarsest oaths and other expressions, which beautifully illustrates the fact, that every variety of human speech can be adapted to blaspheme the ”good God who made us,“ was not so savage as the rest, and this was evidently his first expedition. He carried neither carbine nor sword, and the only weapon he had was a Catalonian knife stuck in his belt. Everything he saw in my trunk caused him surprise and wonder. He asked me to tell him the age of each. On finding some rosaries, he exclaimed—‘Ah, you are a priest!’ I told him no, but had bought the rosaries at a fair at Madrid as curiosities. He, however, with great devotion kissed the crosses suspended to them with other emblems, but finding they were of silver, he broke the stones, letting them all fall to the ground. He carefully picked them up, and again kissed each bead and emblem, but at the same time renewed his oaths at his awkwardness. He secured these, and everything else he thought valuable, between his shirt and his skin, but my clothes and linen he put into a large sack, which appeared to be the common receptacle. I had also some small knives and daggers. He asked what I did with them. I told him they had been sold to me as having been worn by the Manolas of Spain under their garters. At this he laughed, and throwing two of them to the ground to me, he put the rest into his private magazine.

“I hoped to make something of my grand brigand, but while I was talking to him the captain came up suddenly, and struck me with violence on the back of the neck with the butt-end of his carbine, saying, in a furious tone, ‘You are looking in his face that you might be able to recognise him!’ He then seized me by the right arm, while another took my left, and they again bound them behind my back. In my bad Spanish, I assured them I was a foreigner from the remote county of Middlesex; but they would not have cared had I been Joseph Hume himself, and threw me down like a sheep tied fast together ready for the slaughter, upon the body of the Hollander, who roared out loudly, and shook most convulsively all over, imploring the brigands not to kill him, for that he had several bills to take up on the 10th proximo at Amsterdam; beside which he had a wife, six children, and two sisters-in-law dependent upon him for support, and an aged mother and two children of a deceased brother. One of the brigands laughed at hearing all this, although he could not understand it in High-Dutch; but I, who knew a little of the language, ventured to translate it for him, which made the chief brigand laugh ten times more. Taking one of the crucifixes found on me he held it before his eyes, and told him to be at once a Catholic, and he would spare his life. ‘Kiss the cross,’ he said ‘or I will cut your throat!’ This was a plain and simple proposition, and the method of its solution freely given. However, much to the honour and glory of the Dutchman, he resolutely refused to do any such thing, and told the brigand that ‘he might kill him if he liked, and that God would take care of all those dependent upon him;’ and when the cross was again presented to his lips, the burly Dutchman turned himself right over on his side, and the ground on which he lay being upon a slight declivity, he began to roll, and his descent being accelerated as he moved downwards, he in a few seconds obtained such a velocity, as to roll down the incline with a rapidity most wonderful—the brigands pausing in their work at so strange a sight, and laughing immoderately.

“The next work of our friends was upon the French opera-dancer, and the old lady and her female companion, who had all been passed at the first movement, and who lay groaning, weeping, sobbing, and rolling about in the utmost trepidation. The dancing lady had fainted two or three times, and finding no one to attend upon her, had come to again of her own accord, till at last, upon one of the brigands approaching her, she went off in apparently a dead swoon. But these kind of things were nothing in the eyes of the bravos, who proceeded to strip her of her outward silk, and to rifle her of all her secret treasures, which had been stowed away in various parts of her inner dress. These consisted of various sums of money, stitched amid wadding and padding, trinkets, love-tokens, charms, bank-notes, &c.; but the brigands were particularly amazed when, upon turning madam over, they found a long, hard roll behind the lady, which was, ostensibly, a padding-machine made to keep the dress from falling down, and for making it to display itself with grace and dignity rearwards; this was manufactured entirely of Napoleons and French bank-notes, the former making up the more substantial part of the article alluded to, and the latter lining the outstanding portion. The fun and frolic of the brigands at this discovery were immense; they joked, they leaped, they danced, they swore, and committed many wild pranks in the joy of their discovery, and falling upon the old maid and her waiting-woman in the same way, they proceeded to unroll them both, as carefully as Professor Owen would an Egyptian mummy, but not finding the same treasures, they cursed and swore in the most vociferous manner, giving the old lady many a good cuff, and behaving to her companion with the same rough ceremony. At this time others of the brigands were knocking the carriage to pieces, and having fallen upon the box containing the monkey, with a blow demolished its upper postern, and in a moment—in less than the twinkling of an eve—out popped the imprisoned monkey, who, immediately leaping on to the shoulder of the nearest brigand, took hold of him by the ear, which it bit in two, and flying from his shoulder to the next, made a laceration of the second brigand’s nose, who, finding himself thus suddenly attacked by what was not very discernable in the moon-light, threw himself down, roaring out his ‘Aves,’ thinking that an imp of the Prince of Darkness was suddenly upon him. In vain did the other brigands make slashes and stabs at the monkey, who ran upon the shoulders of the next one, between the legs of another, up the back of a third, down the breast of a fourth, and kept the whole in perpetual alarm, till at last the poor wretch, having had one or two unlucky knocks, made his escape to some distance, where he sat chattering defiance, and picking up some stones, threatened to throw them at his pursuers.

“The trunks, boxes, bales, and packages, having by this time been thoroughly ransacked, the next object of the brigands was to burn the carriage, in the hope of obtaining, by this means, all the concealed treasures it contained in its various hiding places which are so difficult to find out. Accordingly, straw, stubble, and dried boughs were procured, and a quantity being placed underneath the old vehicle, it was very soon under the horrifying process, and the flames rose up bravely, throwing a broad red light on the surrounding scenery, and the ungagged ladies uttered many loud screams and interjections. The brigands set themselves quietly down by the fire, and watched the progress of the flames upon each part of the burning carriage, having the satisfaction to see several pieces of gold, in the shape of Napoleons, fly out as the parts separated, which they snatched eagerly from the fire with their daggers, and often burnt their fingers to secure. Just as the blaze was at its proudest height, and the brigands were at the full point of triumph, a tremendous discharge of musketry was heard close behind, and three of the robbers fell wounded. The others sprang up, levelled their carbines, and fired in the direction of the noise. Another rapid but irregular discharge, then an immediate onslaught, for, by the light of the moon which then broke out rather brightly, was seen coming onwards some twenty armed cavaliers, who rushed upon the brigands, sword in one hand and pistol in the other, and immediately a most furious combat between the two parties took place. The brigands fought desperately, and their assailants bravely. The three women screamed lustily. I looked on quietly, as did the Dutchman who had rolled to the bottom of the slope. In less than half-an-hour, five of the brigands had been shot down, the rest had dispersed; in the meantime, the carriage had been carefully consumed, and the cavaliers stood victors over five dead brigands, eight bound men, and three bound women. Of course the bound were soon unbound, and then we discovered to whom we had been indebted for our delivery.

“And this was to no less a person than our clown. He had been bound hand and foot at the first, but having, by virtue of his profession, been enabled to walk on his back without any aid from his legs, he had shuffled or wriggled himself off, in the confusion, to a considerable distance without being observed, and when sufficiently away from the daggers of his enemies, managed to get clear of his bandages, and running off in the direction we had left, had the good luck to come up with our escort, which had halted at a kind of halfway-house below us and the nearest town, for the purpose of watering their horses and come-ing themselves; and being somewhat overtaken with the delectable comforts of the hostlery, had stayed much longer than their commission gave them licence to do. Here our clown found them, and they immediately gave chase and came up in the ‘nick of time’ described.

“As soon as the whole of our party could be collected together, we were put one behind each of the cavaliers, and picking up our scattered matters, and robbing the dead bodies of the fallen brigands of that which belonged to us, we all proceeded back to the small village of Orguillas, about half a league from where we had been stopped, and here we were all shown into the ‘venta’ of the village, which consisted of little more than a kitchen with four bare walls, where we laid down, like so many pigs, among the straw till the morning, when we were taken before the Alcade, who gravely heard our depositions, took them down, examined our cavaliers, and told us for our especial benefit that we must find our way back to Madrid as we could. So getting away from the village, and plenty of straw in, then we set off as quickly as bad horses, bad drivers, and bad roads would allow us, and reached the chief city of Spain in the most deplorable plight imaginable. So ended my acquaintance with Spanish Brigands.”

Gustavus Vasa.

There is nothing which delights me more, my young friends, than to tell you tales of the Great and Good; and among many, who are truly great and good in the pages of history, few stand more pleasingly prominent than Gustavus I., King of Sweden. He was one of those great men whom nature so seldom produces, and who appears to have been endowed by her with every quality becoming a sovereign. His handsome countenance and noble bearing prepossessed all persons in his favour; his artless eloquence was irresistible; his conceptions were bold, and his indomitable spirit brought them to a happy issue. He was intrepid and yet prudent, full of courtesy in a rude age, and as virtuous as the leader of a party can be.

When the tyrant, Christian II. of Denmark, sought to make himself master of the throne of Sweden, Gustavus resolved to save his country from the oppressor; but the execution of his plans was interrupted, as Christian seized his person and kept him prisoner at Copenhagen, as a hostage, with five other heroic Swedes. When at last, in 1519, he heard of the success of Christian, who had nearly completed the subjugation of Sweden, he resolved, although still immured in a loathsome dungeon, to deliver his country. Gustavus escaped to Lubeck, but soon found that the Danes were after him, which obliged him to assume the habit and manners of a peasant. In this disguise he travelled on foot among the plains and mountains as a fugitive, and frequently walked fifty miles in a day, from place to place, to elude his pursuers. When he became familiar with his disguise, and the rude language of the peasantry, he became very bold. He passed several times through the Danish army; when that army was looking out for him, by its scouts, in every direction, he passed through the midst of it in a waggon of hay, and proceeded to an old family castle at Sudermania. He dispatched letters to his friends in the hope of arousing them to the recovery of their liberties; but, meeting with little success among the great, he next tried the peasantry. He visited their villages by night, harangued them at their festive assemblies, but without effect—as they uniformly told him it was in vain for them to attempt to better their condition, for peasants they were and peasants they must remain.

Gustavus next determined to try the miners of Delacarlia. He penetrated the mountains of that remote province, and was obliged, for a scanty subsistence, to enter himself as a common labourer at a mine. Here he worked within the dark caverns of the earth; but the fineness of his linen soon led some of his fellow labourers to suspect that he was more than what he seemed.

By the advice of a friend, at whose house he concealed himself, Gustavus repaired to Mira, where an annual feast of the peasantry was held. There, as his last resource, he displayed with so much mature eloquence and energy the miseries of his country and the tyranny of Christian, that the assembly instantly determined to take up arms and adopt him as their leader. While their hearts were overflowing with an ardent patriotism, Gustavus led them against the governor’s Castle, which they stormed, and took or destroyed the whole garrison. Success increased his forces; multitudes were eager to enlist under the banner of the conquering hero, Gustavus. At the head of his little army, he overran the neighbouring provinces—defeated the Archbishop of Upsala, and advanced to Stockholm. Christian, who had in vain attempted to stop the progress of Gustavus, by the threat of massacreing his mother and sisters, at length put the dreadful menace into execution. This cruel deed only animated Gustavus to a bloody revenge, and warmed more fiercely the blood of his devoted followers.

Gustavus now went forward only to triumph, and, having overcome all opposition, he assembled the states of Sweden at Wadstena, where he received the title of Administrator of the Kingdom, and in 1523 they proclaimed him King. He then set himself zealously to work in the reformation of the abuses both of Church and State. The Lutheran religion began to gain ground; the Scriptures were preached; the lazy drones of the church were shorn of their wealth, and compelled to do their duty; and, while the Danes were completely expelled from Sweden, Gustavus conquered all the internal treacherous enemies of Freedom. Although Sweden was a “limited monarchy,” so great a faith had the people in the justice and love of freedom which Gustavus possessed, that they granted him almost unlimited powers, and this power he never used in the least, but for the good of his country. He perfected the legislation, softened manners, encouraged industry and learning, and extended commerce. After a glorious reign of thirty-seven years, he died in 1560, at the age of seventy, leaving behind him a character, which the brave boys of England may love and venerate.

The Town Pump.

A STORY OF THE COW WITH AN IRON TAIL.

Noon by the Town Clock; noon, by the shadow of the blessed sun on the dial face, on the face of the Town Pump. High, hot, scorching, melting, smelting noon. Noon, by the thermometer at eighty-two degrees; noon, by the whirr of the dragon-fly,[A] and the quivering haze over the meadow; noon, by heat without and heat within, and by every melting moment. Come, then, my younkers, fresh from school, where you have been turning over dictionaries and spelling, with sweaty fingers—come and take another lesson. Come and shake hands with the Town Pump!

[A] The dragon-fly rests at noontide, and flies most actively towards sundown.

How do you do, my young gentlemen? Take hold of my iron hand. Welcome to you all; I am not above shaking hands with the meanest of you, although I am a public character. Some people have dignified me with the name of Town Treasurer; and not an improper title either, as I am the guardian of the best treasure the Town has: whoever has a draught upon me will be sure to get it honoured, which cannot be said of every Treasurer. The Overseers of the Town ought to make me their Chairman, since I have the best interests of the Town’s people at heart. I am at the head of the Fire Department, and one of the Physicians of the Board of Health. I ought to be dubbed High Constable also, as I am the best Justice of the Peace; for whosoever taketh my cool advice will seldom fall into black eyes or bloody noses: and, in this my magisterial capacity, I think myself as useful as a dozen policemen at least. To speak within bounds, I am the chief person in the Municipality; a Mayor in my own right; and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother officers, by the cool, steady, downright-and-upright motion of my arm in the cause of sobriety and virtue, and by the copious and impartial discharge of my duty. Summer and winter few seek my aid in vain; for all day long I am sure to be found at my post, ready to welcome all comers with a pure and delightful glass, sparkling like the diamond, or the light of gladness in a good man’s eye.

Let me be the Cup-bearer to the State; for I ought to be, by virtue of the iron goblet chained round my waist, and I can sing, with swanging jingle—

“Let’s quaff the goblet full and bright,

And see it in the soul’s best light!—”

and be a water-Anacreon. I am the wisdom that crieth out in the streets, “Will no man regard me?” Yes; I am sure some will. Here is the aqua vitæ, the pure blood of the earth, the distilled juices of heaven. Walk up, gentlemen and children! walk up! Here is the true elixir of life, the primum mobile of existence—the spring of springiness in the joints—the fountain of Diana herself—chaste, pure, and holy! Come and taste the unadulterated ale of Father Adam! Here you can have it pure, or mixed with sunshine, or bubbling with cheerful looks—all without stint—by the hogshead or single glass; and all for love, and nothing to pay! The only untaxed article in the kingdom; think of that! Walk up! walk up! friends and neighbours, and help yourselves.

It would be a pity if this outcry should draw no customers. Here they come, scores of them. A hot day, gentlemen! Quaff, and away again! You, my friend, will need another cupfull to wash the dust off your mustaches—the new English invention. I see you have been inhaling the dust of a cotton-mill, and this will wash it all down, not leaving one single particle sticking to the palate, as the “jolly fat ale” does. Come on you, also, Mr. Traveller; you have walked half a score miles to-day, and, like a wise man, have passed by the taverns and stopped at the running brooks and well-curbs; otherwise, betwixt heat without and fire within, you would have been burnt to a cinder, or melted like a lump of butter in a frying-pan. Drink, friend, and be thankful, and make room for that other fellow who seeks my aid to quench the fever of last night’s potations at the “Pig and Whistle.” Welcome, most rubicund sir, with your rosy gills, round paunch, and pimpled nose; I am very glad to see you here, sir! You and I have been great strangers hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your breath become a little less potent. Mercy on you, man, the water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet, and is converted quite to steam in the miniature “tophet” which you mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and tell me, on the word of an honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, gin palace, or dram-shop, spend the price of your children’s food for a swig half so delicious? Now, for the first time for a long while, you know the flavour of cold water. Good bye! and remember, whenever you are thirsty, that I keep a constant supply at the old stand. Who next? O, my little friend, just let loose from school; you would clear your throat with a sup of the pure and lovely? Take it, and may your heart and throat be never scorched by a fiercer thirst than now. There, my dear child, put down the cup, and yield your place to this good-looking gentleman, with a countenance fair and ruddy, and cheerful as the sun in May. It is Stephen Grovely, a friend to water, and to peace, and to vegetable food, and a good friend beside. He takes a sup as if he could make a supper of it, and sleep like moonshine on the placid deep. Who is that coming by, with a sneer and a laugh at Mr. Grovely? He is an oldish kind of gentleman, and treads very lightly on the stones, saving his poor old toes with a stick, and stopping for breath every minute or so. How he pants and wheezes, and what strange winces and contortions are on his face at every movement! How do you find yourself this morning, sir? I hope you had a comfortable night—no nightmares, groanings, fearful dreams, or kickings about in your sleep. “You be hanged!” says the old man. “Thank you, sir, for your good wishes.” I only say:—Go and draw one cork, tip the decanter, pour out the ‘rosy red,’ the ‘golden saffron,’ the ‘purple blue;’ but, when your great toe shall set you a-roaring, don’t say it is the Town Pump.“ If gentlemen love the pleasant titilation of the gout, and won’t take advice, ’tis all one to the Town Pump. Ah, ah! Old Lion, Peter Parley’s old dog, sixteen years old this very day! Come and celebrate your nativity. Well done, old boy, with your two fore-legs on the cistern, and your hind-legs erect; loll out your red tongue, while I pump you a draught. Well may you wag your old tail as thanks, and walk away satisfied, and, old as you are, gambol about refreshed. Lion, Lion! your worship never had the gout, so do not bark at that poor old gentleman who hobbles by you, looking so sour and woeful.

Are you all satisfied? then wipe your mouths, my good friends, and be thankful; and while the spout has a moment’s leisure, I will delight the town with a few historical reminiscences. In far antiquity, beneath the darksome shadow of venerable boughs a spring bubbled out of the leaf-strewn earth, on the very spot where you now behold me on the sunny pavement. The water was bright and clear, and seemed as precious as liquid diamonds. Amid the grove—for it was a sacred one—Druid-seers celebrated their mystic rites, and, with the pure, undulterated stream, allayed the fiery thirst of feverish lips, and cured diseases. Here they assembled in high delight at Christmas time, and while snow covered all the earth, was kept open by their prayers the then only bubbling spring. But the Druids passed away, and in their place, ages after, were seen, yet still in the same white robes, holy priests of Christ, sanctifying the sacred spot. The spring bubbled as before: but now it had the power to heal—pilgrims flocked to it from all parts—the pious St. Columb had sanctified it. It worked miracles on the diseased. The halt, the maimed, the sick came to it and were healed. Free rose the spring; but it was no longer a free offering to the poor, the sick, and the wretched. A price was set upon it. Those that thirsted for the water had to pay before they got any;—as the pay was increased the miracles were more wonderful, till at last, over the once free and natural spring a stupendous building arose, with its flying buttresses high in air; its spandrils within, and their corbels capped with the faces of the condemned; its lofty pinnacle studded with angels, and every coign of vantage speaking the mysteries of a faith which was obliterated by its grotesque ornaments; yet, age after age, the miraculous waters flowed. At last, the sacred fane decayed, and holy men were no more seen; broken pillars and scattered mouldings bestrewed the place; and the grass, and the rank plants of summer, and the briar, and the burdock, and the tansy were the only guardians of the spot; yet, still the spring bubbled forth, and threw its bright gems of brilliance to the light of heaven; and solitary men would come and moralise over its site, with tears as deep as its own gushings. At last the fountain was broken up; the ruins of the old abbey were cleared away; place was given to the levelling hand of time; a hostlery arose near to the place whereon the fountain stood, a part of which occupied the very spot. Still, however, the spring bubbled forth by fits and starts,—its waters sometimes clear, sometimes turbid. It was turned into a tank or pool; and while horses slackened their thirst, their masters increased theirs by the strong waters of the inn; and there were carousals, and debaucheries, and strifes, and murders upon a place which had once been considered holy. Fire came during an intoxicating season—the season when peace on earth and good-will towards man was proclaimed. The hostlery was burnt down—the pure spring was smothered—and its very site, after a lapse of years, forgotten. At last foundations were dug—a new town sprang up over the old—a church and market-house took the place of the old abbey—and a Temperance Hotel that of the Inn. The old spring bubbled up again, in delight, at the improved prospect. But it now lay on the earth, yet higher on Sabbath-days. Whenever a baby was to be baptised, the sexton came and filled his basin, and placed it on the font in the baptistry of the church: and hither, too, came the pious deacon of the chapel, with his rude basin of delf, for the same holy purpose. Thus, one generation after another was consecrated to heaven by its waters, and cast their waning shadows into its crystal bosom. But in course of time another change took place; a greedy bricklayer of a churchwarden, who wanted a job out of the parish, proposed to build over the spring; and cartloads of bricks and high mountains of mortar incased it on every side. The spring was effectually brick-bound, and upon it arose the Town Pump, with its spout and handle of iron, and a gas-light above it, and a stone cistern below, on which appeared, in all the emblazoning of municipal grandeur—“Erected in 1848: Job Trick and Giles Keen, Churchwardens.” Then let us drink the health of these worthy gentlemen, and success to their better motives. Drink then again, my friends, to the cause of Temperance; drink to the cause of peace all the world over; drink to the cause of righteousness; to that of pure religion, drawn from the fountain-head of Him who called himself the “Living Water.” Pump away, while you have life, in the cause of Truth! Pump away, my lads, for all that thirst! Let our Town Pump be our Physician, our Town Councillor, our Keeper of the Peace, and our best resource when we are sick, sad, or thirsty.

The Youthful Nelson.

NELSON’S SCHOOL-HOUSE.

Lord Nelson, our great Naval Commander, was, in his youth, remarkable for his disinterestedness and intrepidity. Among his school-fellows, he was always the first to do a noble thing; and, whenever he thoughtlessly joined others in doing a foolish one, he never shrank from the responsibility; but, instead of trying to shift the blame upon others, was always ready to take it upon himself. On one occasion, while at school, upon an approaching Fifth of November, the Rev. Mr. Jones, with whom Nelson went to school, at North Walsham, strictly prohibited any of the scholars from leaving the house or grounds, to go in search of what is called “Plunder;” that is, wood, sticks, and loose stubble, with which bonfires are generally constructed, and the getting of which sometimes plays sad havoc with hedges, railings, and the like. This was, indeed, a sad misfortune to the school-boys, who always feel that the best part of the fun of a Fifth of November is the prowling about for forage; and a glorious thing it has ever been and ever will be, to see boys bearing their boughs of trees, roots of trees, stumplings and hedgelings, into the grand square of the play-ground, with almost military honors. The shouting, the warm hands and hearts, the cheerful faces, the mad pranks, and the thousand laughable incidents which occur, give to these sports a charm unknown to any other youthful frolics. Nelson was not a boy to relinquish this old custom; and therefore, when before going to bed on the Fourth of November, the Reverend Dominie pronounced the interdiction, and solemnly warned the school-boys not to attempt any wild freaks on that day of brimstone-matches and fire-works, Nelson’s blood rose into his face, and he said, loudly—

“I hope you don’t include me, Sir.”

“Not include you, Sir?” replied the indignant Clergyman. “Indeed I do include you, Sir! and positively insist upon your keeping with the other boys in the school-room, and not to leave the play-ground.”

“I can’t answer for myself, Sir,” replied Nelson; “and you can’t answer for the boys, I am sure. Such a thing was never heard of since the days of James the First.”

“I do positively enjoin the strictest obedience to my commands,” said the Master, “and positively forbid any one from leaving the school premises to-morrow,” and, with a severe look at Nelson, the Master ordered the boys to bed on the instant.

The lads of the school, in number about forty, were domiciled in one large bed-room. As soon as the doors were shut and the lights out, little Nelson leaped out of bed, and whispered, loud enough to be heard by all—

“Who is for a sky-lark?”

“I—I—I—I—I—I am,” responded a dozen voices; and, in the same moment, as many lads leaped out of their beds, and were jumping about the dormitory in their long bedgowns.

“It is bright moonlight,” said Nelson.

“What a beautiful night for a ramble,” said little Eugene Harris, the schoolmaster’s nephew.

“What a beautiful night for ‘plunder’ for a bonfire,” rejoined Nelson; and thereupon all the boys leaped out of bed, and ran to the windows.

“’Tis too soon yet,” said Nelson; “it is but nine o’clock: let us wait till twelve and then sally out, and get as much fire-wood into the play-ground as will reach to the level of the old Clock-house, and set fire to it in the morning, and begin our day as we are wont to end it,” cried Nelson. “In the meantime put on your clothes, and get ready for a start.”

The boys did as they were told; for, although Nelson was smaller than many, and younger than most, he had obtained such an influence over his schoolfellows, that every one seemed quite ready to do his bidding. They knew that they could depend upon him; that, if he got them into a scrape, he would, somehow or other, contrive to bring them off again with honor, although he suffered in their stead. Thus, the boys made themselves ready for the enterprise; and Nelson began by tying the sheets and blankets together, by which the boys were to descend from the bed-room to the ground; and long before midnight all was ready for the exploit.

The moon, which had been shining brilliantly, had, however, now become obscured by darkened, dismal clouds, and the wind began to howl fearfully. Some of the boys were disturbed at this state of the elements, and ventured to suggest a postponement of the enterprise.

“The more the danger the greater the fun,” cried Nelson; “besides which, the less likely are we to be seen or heard—

‘So, let the wind blow;

Our ship rocks so.’

The wilder the night, the frisker we will be.“ He then opened the window, and let down the first knotted set of blankets; and, calling on all those who had got any spirit for a good thing to follow him, he descended by the said blankets into the shrubbery underneath.

Most of the boys followed; but a portion of the younger branches were too timid to descend, and kept a good look-out at the windows. In the meantime, Nelson mustered his followers in three divisions—ten in each—placing a captain to each “corps.” He then directed them to proceed in three several directions, and to capture all that was burnable, and bring it to a grand rendezvous, underneath the great clump of trees at the further end of the shrubbery contiguous to the play-ground.

“PLUNDER.”

Noble and exciting was the work of that dreary night. The wind blew, and the rain came; but, nothing daunted, the little heroes went long distances for their “plunder;” and, like bees in search of honey and wax, went and returned with all the delight and joy imaginable. Young Nelson was here and there, and everywhere; now guiding, now directing, now cautioning, and now cheering his little army. At last, by the time morning dawned—which was not very early at that time of the year—such a tremendous lot of matters were brought together as had never been known on any former occasion. It filled all the back avenue of the shrubbery, and there seemed almost enough of material to set a town on fire. Nelson, who beheld this accumulation of igneous matter, felt his heart beat with joy; and a thought suddenly seized him of bringing the whole into the play-ground, and of setting fire to it, to begin the day. This idea was no sooner communicated to his playmates than it was eagerly adopted; and, in less than half-an-hour, bushes, straw, branches of trees, blocks of wood, tarred palings, and a variety of odd things, such as it would be puzzling to describe, were piled up in the centre of the play-ground to the height of twenty feet, and with a base equal to it, so as to form a most noble pyramid.

The day was breaking; and, just as the full light broke upon the pile, worthy of a Sardanapalus, all the merry workers felt proud of their labours. Some capered, some danced, some almost shrieked with joy; and Nelson, beholding the excitement, could not refrain, in the true spirit of a sailor that was to be, from crying out, at the top of his voice—

“Three cheers for an old Guy! Hurrah for a bonfire!”

Three cheers were immediately given, shrill and loud as the wild war-whoops of so many ferocious Indians. Again, and again—for, once begun, the youngsters seemed as if they could never leave off, and the welkin rang with the noise.

Its effects had not been anticipated; and the cheering had scarcely subsided, when up flew a window, and in the centre of it appeared the head of the Reverend Doctor. In a moment the boys vanished, as if by instinct; and, rushing round the gable end of the premises, regained their bed-chamber by the same means they had escaped from it. Not so, however, with their leader. He only hid himself behind the laurels and evergreens; feeling it a point of honor not to leave the post of danger till the very last. At the same time, the Dominie kept vociferously shouting from his chamber-window—

“You wicked boys! you shall all of you smart for this! I will flog every one of you who have dared to disobey my orders; and, as to a bonfire, you shall never have one as long as I live.” So saying, he disappeared from the window, with the intention of coming down to the court-yard; and ringing furiously at the bell to awaken the servants, and calling loudly for John and Richard, the groom and gardener, he made the best of his way down stairs.

In the interim, Nelson, who had heard the threat, fearing that after all he and his companions would be deprived of the fun, frolic, and glory of a bonfire, determined to be beforehand with the Magister,—crept slyly into the stable, where he knew a tinder-box and matches were always kept, speedily struck a light and, as quick as light itself, ran to the immense pile, and set fire to it. In a few seconds all was in a blaze; and as the flames rose up, and thick volumes of smoke on every side, and the whole atmosphere became illuminated, the Dominie appeared with his servants, male and female, at the back-door. He, indeed, wore a look of most odd consternation, while a sly laugh peeped from the peering eyes of the groom and gardener, and twinkled out of the corners of the mouths of the cook and housemaid. Nelson had mounted a fine old Scotch fir-tree a short distance off, to observe the fun—and rare fun it was—for the Reverend Doctor took to pulling the fire to pieces; and in so doing set fire to the thatched roof of the cow-house, which required the united aid of John and Richard to extinguish. All was hubbub and confusion; no one knew exactly what to do—and one ran one way and one another. The stable-boy, a sly rogue, thought he could not do better than run for the parish-engine; but the flames rose so high and furiously, that they threatened, long before the parish-engine arrived, to make up their minds to burn themselves out, with “all the honors.” By this time the boys had all dressed themselves, and came to the scene of conflagration as meek and astonished as if they knew nothing whatever about it. The Master was in a furious fever, and had under his arm his very best strapping-cane, determined to use it woefully so soon as the fire was got under. At last, the great blaze slackened; sundry crackings and bangings were heard. Now the upper parts fell in, and made a great dust and smoke—then again it blazed out for a few brief moments with redoubled fury, at which the young gentlemen could not refrain from testifying their infinite approbation, to the extreme mortification of their Master. The engine at last arrived to play on the expiring embers; and, in the language of that part of the country, the fire was “douted.”

But “after pleasure cometh pain,” as the old round-hand copy used to preach. The period of retribution walked quietly forth. It was not yet the hour of breakfast, and the first thing the enraged Dominie did was to issue a mandate for the stoppage of the breakfast supplies, till the bold, daring, impudent, disobedient authors of the freak were discovered, and brought to condign punishment. The whole of the boys were speedily mustered, (to be soon peppered) and brought into the school-room, where they stood trembling for their fate. Fierce with rage—his pig-tail bristling with indignation—the Master, with cane under arm, and with a frown on his face, appeared at his desk. Forty boys stood before him, uncertain of their coming tortures, and Nelson foremost among them. “I demand,” said the Master, in a voice of thunder, “who it is that has dared to brave my authority; and I promise free pardon and a holiday to those who will——”

“Betray their companions?” said Nelson.

This was a flash of lightning on a touch-hole of powder, and immediately made the Master spring from his desk, and taking hold of Nelson by the collar, brought him into the middle of the school.

“You are one of them!” said the enraged Clerical, “and unless you immediately tell me who are the guilty parties in this exploit, I will strip the skin from your shoulders.”

“The skinning of an eel is a difficult job,” said Nelson—“but as to who did the deed, I can inform you at once. It was I.”

“Yes, I know it was you—for you are the mover of all such harum-scarum exploits; but who were your abettors and instigators?”

“I instigated myself,” said Nelson.

“No doubt, no doubt—but I will know who your companions were, and I’ll warrant this cane shall bring it out of you.”

“Try it,” said Nelson.

Exasperated by this cool impudence, the Master applied the cane vigorously to the young hero’s shoulders, who stood the process with much about the same indifference as a gate-post. At the end of the caning, Nelson said, mildly—

“Stop and take breath, Sir—you will hurt your constitution.”

This was too much for human endurance, and the Master gave it to Master Nelson again, with a hearty good will, and only ceased when the cane split into two. Nelson, standing as obdurate as before, said—

“I think that tree will bear no more good fruit, and ought to be cast into the fire. But Sir, let me tell you, had that cane been a crab-stick, and had that crab-stick been knobbled all over, and had each of those knobs had a sharp spike on it, it would not have made me dishonourably betray my companions. I am quite ready to bear this, and as much more, for their sakes. Thirty were with me, and ten were not—you cannot thrash the real heroes, because you cannot tell which they are; but give me twenty times my share, and I shall be thankful—I am the ring leader of the affair, and ought to be punished. I instigated thirty Spartans to the noble work of keeping up Guy Faux Day—I am proud of it.—A bonfire on the Fifth of November is a chartered right of school-boys, and we only say, ‘Pro aris et focis.’ Do not be unmerciful to us, good Sir—you were once a boy—and how many ‘bonfires’ may you not have had—and how many ‘Guys’ may you not have dressed? Do look over this offence, if it be one, and we’ll all do double tasks for the next month, and say you are a good master, as you always have been.”

This pertinent, but noble speech, found an echo in the breast of the good old Clergyman, for he was, notwithstanding this somewhat stringent prohibiting, a kind old man at heart. He could not conceal his emotion—and hid his face behind his desk, under the pretence of having dropped his key. Presently, after a short season of cool reflection, he descended from the rostrum, and coming among the boys, thus addressed them:—

“My boys,” he said, “obedience to my orders is not only a duty to me, but to yourselves—you are not old enough to know at all times what is really good for you. Nor is it proper at all times that I should give you reasons for my conduct. It ought to be enough, that when I lay down a rule you should have good faith in my intentions, and you ought to be well aware that I would in no way restrict your enjoyments but for some good reason. By your conduct you have not only disobeyed my commands, but you have probably inflicted a very serious wound in the breast of one who is a stranger in this place, deserves all the rights of hospitality, and of Christian charity. Our new neighbour here, Sir Thomas Alton, is a Roman Catholic; his gardens adjoin ours. As a school, our doings must be a sufficient nuisance to him. He only came amongst us last Michaelmas, and yet he gave you peaches by the hat-full, and nectarines by scores. He is a Roman Catholic, as I said before, and it was not for us to poke a ‘Guy Faux’ or a ‘bonfire’ under his nose—we should not have liked it ourselves—and there is nothing like the religion that teaches us to do as we would be done by. The first duty we owe to a neighbour is to be charitable to his opinions; if they are not the same as ours, that is the very reason why we should act the more forbearingly and lovingly towards him. But, by your conduct, you have thwarted all my good intentions, defeated my charity, and spoiled my love.”

“If we had known this,” said Nelson, “we would not have touched a billet or a faggot for the world.”

“Would that I had informed you of it,” replied the Master; “and from the circumstance I may also learn a lesson: That it is wiser to teach by appeals to reason and to conscience, than to expect much from a blind obedience. Boys are, indeed, but men of a smaller growth. Yet still, if you love me, and have faith in me, you will obey me without asking the reason.”

“We will do anything,” said Nelson, “to show our love to Sir Thomas.”

“You can do nothing, Sir,” replied the Master. “You will probably have inflicted a wound which I shall find some difficulty in healing.”

“Not in the least, my dear Sir,” said a voice, in an Irish accent, from the door, which stood partly open. “By my faith, I think the boys are all heroes; and if they want a Guy, if they will come up to the Hall, I will be a Guy myself, and we will have a good fire, and roasted apples, and roasted chesnuts, and sure we will roast one another; which is a vast deal better than so much basting. So come along my lads, and take me for your Guy Faux.”

Three cheers simultaneously burst forth at this speech. The Doctor was overcome with agreeable emotion. Nelson ran to kiss the hand of Sir Thomas; and after mutual congratulations, the boys had a cheerful breakfast, and made the merriest day at the Hall that they ever before enjoyed, by the most grotesque Guy on the most splendid bonfire.

Something about the Turkish Provinces.

War, my young friends, is a fiendish sport. It has been said it is a game that, if their subjects were wise, kings could not play at. Its object is—killing on a large scale; mowing down men as if they were fields of corn, and with as little compunction; bringing bristling bayonets, grape and canister-shot, red-hot balls, explosive bombs, and volleys of bullets upon poor humanity; and blowing up into the air, or down into the deep, thousands of poor unfortunate fellows who, perhaps, know no more about the quarrel that produced the war, than so many unhatched chickens. Truly, to read history, one might suppose that the human race, during the last four thousand years at least, must have been a little insane; there seems so little reason for all the bombardments, assaults, battles, and massacres, which have taken place. Well, we thought ourselves getting wiser; the boys and girls that had read “Peter Parley’s Annual” fifteen years ago, had become men and women; and education had made great strides. The drill-sergeant of the German despots was drafted into our schools; and Chelsea children were taught to read by military discipline, with a view to their being made friends of humanity, and lovers of peace. The European kings and potentates were a Holy Alliance of loving brothers, and had pretended that the Christian religion should be their future guide. They said this, after they had received several and sundry sound drubbings from the great Napoleon; and, while rubbing their shoulders and sides, after one cudgelling they had received—and deservedly received, too—said, they would be very good boys. But, as soon as the danger was past, and they had got a little over their various mishaps, they began to lie, rob, cheat, and filch, not only from each other, but from their next-door neighbours, like so many wolves or foxes. At last, one savage old Bear, more savage and more powerful than the rest, makes a grab at a Turkey; whereupon the Turkey, instead of falling a victim, like a goose, blew up his purple nose like a windy sun-rise, and puffed out his feathers, and stretched forth his wings, and came towards the old Bear like a game-cock, and called upon the British Lion and the French Eagle to back him. “But what is all this about?” my young friends inquire. Take a map, and look at it. Find out the Black Sea; and you will see on its northern coast, the Russian Empire stretches down towards the south; and, to the west, you will see certain provinces which belong to Turkey, the principal of which is Moldavia. It is the most northern province of Turkey. It is bounded on the east by Bessarabia—a province which formed part of Turkey until 1812, when it was given up to the great Russian Bear; on the south is Wallachia; and on the west and north, by the provinces of the Austrian Empire. The province forms a compact territory, about 200 miles in length, and 120 in breadth.

Moldavia formed part of the Byzantine or Eastern Empire, and suffered greatly from the incursions of the rude hordes which infested Europe in the middle ages. When the Turks conquered Constantinople from the Greek Emperors, Moldavia by a timely submission, obtained favourable treatment from the Sultan; and had its own laws, liberties, and religion secured. Thus it remained for two centuries: at length the Czar of Russia directed his attention to this province; but was unable to lay hold of it at that time. What he will do now remains to be seen.

Although Moldavia forms a part of the Turkish dominions, the Moldavians are not Mahommedans. They profess the religion of the Greek Church—a superstitious and corrupt form of Christianity professed also by the Russians. Persons who have not received baptism by the rites of this Church are not deemed Christians; the misguided people dwell upon rites and ceremonies, oblations, offerings, prayers to images, severity of discipline; and the heaviest crimes are settled by confession and absolution of the Priest. Reading and the perusal of the Holy Scriptures are almost wholly unknown; and though we might at first be glad that the Moldavians were not Mahommedans, yet, when we consider the iniquities of the creed they follow, it would perhaps be better if they were.

The Moldavians believe in all sorts of witchcraft, in apparitions of the dead, in ghosts and in miracles performed by the images of saints. In illness they place an image near them, and when they recover, they attribute the recovery to the efficacy of the image alone. No prayers or thanksgiving are offered up either to the Deity or to the Saviour; but to the Virgin and a prodigious number of Saints.

The principal food of the peasantry consists of a kind of dough, called mamma linga, made of the flour of Indian wheat, sometimes mixed with milk. The season of Lent is usually kept by them with vigorous severity, and for the first two or three days after its termination, they sparingly indulge themselves with a little meat; but many of them are too poor to obtain this indulgence, and content themselves with a few eggs only.

The dress of these people bears some resemblance to that of the Dacians, in the time of the Romans; and has probably suffered but little change for centuries. Their feet are covered with sandals made of goat skin. They wear a kind of loose pantaloon, which is fastened to the waist by a light leathern belt, and closes from the knee downwards. The upper part of the dress is composed of a light waistcoat, and a short jacket over it, of coarse cotton stuff; in winter they add a white sheep-skin, which is hung over the shoulders in the manner of the hussar’s pelisse. The hair is twisted round the back of the head, and covered with a cap, usually of sheep-skin. The women are generally clothed from the neck to the ancles in a long gown of light-coloured cheap cotton, made high at the waist, which they cover on holiday occasions with a shorter dress, buttoned from the neck to the waist, and ornamented with one or two rows of beads. Under ordinary circumstances the poorer classes go barefoot, and have no covering for the head, except a handkerchief.

Almost every village has a small church or chapel belonging to it, and one or two priests who act as curates. The ecclesiastics of their order are chosen from amongst the ordinary peasants, from which they are only distinguished by an immense beard. They lead the same sort of life, and follow their usual labour, when not engaged in the exercise of their clerical functions; but they are exempted from taxes. The generality of them can neither read nor write. They learn the formula of the services by rote, and if a book is seen in their chapels, it is more for ornament than use.

The towns and seaports of Moldavia partake of that mixed European character that results from the intercourse between merchants, dealers, &c. The peasants’ huts are all built of the same size and style; the walls are of clay, and the roofs thatched with straw, neither of which is calculated to protect the inmates from the inclemencies of bad weather. The ground-floors are, however, occupied as long as the weather will permit; and in the winter the inmates retire to cells underground, easily kept warm by a little fire made of dung, roots, and some branches of trees, which, at the same time, serves for cooking their scanty food. Each family, however numerous, sleeps in one of these subterranean habitations, the beds being formed of coarse woollen rags.

Perhaps the most extraordinary feature in the structure of Moldavian society is the vast number of gipsies residing therein. Their bodily constitution is strong, and they are so hardened by constant exposure to the cold weather, that they appear fit for any labour or fatigue; but their natural aversion to a life of industry is, in general, so great, that they prefer all the miseries of indigence to the enjoyment of comforts that are to be reaped by persevering exertion.

Both men and women are finely formed, but are exceedingly dirty in their habits and appearance. They acknowledge no particular religion; nor do they think of following the precepts of any, unless compelled. Their chief occupation, in their vagrant life, is the making of iron tools, baskets, and other cheap articles. They attend wine-houses and taverns, and are sometimes called to the houses of noblemen when a concert is to be given; as many of them play rudely on various concert instruments. When the public works are to be constructed, the Government gipsies, who are acquainted with masonry, are called in to assist the labourers, receiving food and no wages, and are, in other respects, treated like cattle.

I have, for the present, confined myself principally to the humbler classes of the Moldavians. I shall, in my next prattle, inform my young readers of the Wallachians, and of the country of Wallachia, which the Great Russian Bear wants to steal.

Something about the Old Abbeys and Castles of England.

We give in the above engraving a view of the rains of an Old Monastery, and as it suggests a train of ideas, pertaining to bye-gone ages, I must give my young friends the benefit of them.

What about Monasteries? I should like to hear something about them—for wherever we travel we come to ruins of some kind or other, most of which are of Old Castles, or Old Monasteries, and therefore I should like to know more about them. This is what many of my young readers would say, and upon this “would say”—I join issue.

Monasteries are buildings to which people retired when they were tired of the world, or when they were unfortunate, or when they were wicked—and sometimes when they were good. The inclination to a monastic life arose with the corruptions of society, and with the dangers in which every body shared in the strifes, feuds, and wars of the dark ages. Those well-disposed persons who found it difficult to resist the corruptions of the times, sought in solitude a protection against temptation; and that fondness for contemplation, so curious in Eastern parts of the world, gave rise to the most ancient oriental philosophy, and also to that peculiar sanctity to which those who retired from the world often attained. To this was added the opinion, that, transgressions may be best atoned for by abstinence from all the pleasures of life, and from all society with men. And thus, according to an early notion popular througout the East, the Deity might be appeased. Anchorites, hermits, recluses, and monks are therefore found in the anti-christian times of Asiatic antiquity, and are also still prevalent in India and other parts of the Orient.

Among the Christians, whose religion assumes a spiritural and solitary nature among some,—a man used, as he thought, to elevate his soul above the world by hiding himself in buildings of thick stone, with little low doors and windows barely sufficient to let in the light of Heaven. Monasteries were first founded in the deserts of Upper Egypt, where Antony commonly called “the Great,” collected a number of hermits, about the year 305. These, for the sake of enjoying the benefit of retirement from the world in each other’s society, built their huts close together, and performed their devotional exercises in common. In the middle of the fourth century, Pachomius built a number of houses at a small distance from each other, upon the island of Tabenna, on the Nile, each of which was occupied by three or four monks in cells, who were all under the superintendance of a Prior. These Priories formed together the Cænobium, or Monastery—which was under the care of a Superior, the Abbot (from Abbas father)—and the monks were obliged to submit to uniform rules of life. Many of the monasteries were strictly enclosed with high walls, so as to preserve the immates from the temptations of the world around them; and to supply the place of the solitude of deserts. Hence the name of Cloisters, from Claustra, “inclosures.” The monks were soon after made to conform to still more strict discipline, which, in many cases, consisted in the most extreme mortification of the body. Stone beds, hair shirts, roots to eat and water to drink; long kneelings, frequent prostrations, severe whippings, and endless repetitions of prayers, were among the more common ways of securing admission to the realms of bliss; thus monasteries became the resort of all those who thought that heaven was attainable by such methods. Similar establishments for females were also instituted, called Nunneries, where women underwent complete exclusion from the world and the severest mortifications, many of which have been attempted to be revived in our own times, in connection with the Church of England. The Nunneries were, in some instances, worse in their effects than the monasteries; and it is a well-known fact that the vilest means were taken to imprison young females in such places by wicked relatives, who divided their fortunes with the priests, who shut them in.

Yet with all their abuses, many of the monasteries of the more enlightened European States became the dwellings of piety, industry, and temperance; and the refuge of learning, during the prevalence of those frightful wars which desolated the world in the dark ages. Yet, as the world became more settled, and as wealth began to abound, the monasteries became the receptacles of every kind of iniquity and luxury; and with it, the grossest immorality crept within their walls—together with all the vices of the world; indeed, murders, with other abominable crimes, were frequently committed in these dismal dwellings. At last the Reformation arose. In this country, King Henry VIII. seized upon the monastic revenues, and applied them to the service of the State, and to himself. In various parts of Europe where the Light of the Gospel penetrated, other kings or rulers imitated our King Henry; and from these enormous revenues, institutions for educational purposes were founded and supported. In Catholic countries they retained their original constitution, till the eighteenth century. From the influence of the spirit of the age they sunk in public estimation—their whole system was exploded. Many monasteries have become extinct, many others are with difficulty sustained; but still, in the more benighted countries of Europe they exist, to the great detriment of social progress, and will be only overthrown by the advance of intelligence, and the spread of sound religious principles.

One of the most famous of these institutions, in England, was St. Mary’s Abbey, York. It was situated near the walls of York, and during nearly five centuries maintained a very high rank among the religious establishments of the North. Its origin, as given by its first Abbot, is as follows:—Not long after the Norman conquest, Runifried, a pious monk, fixed his cell at Whitby, with the hope of being there wholly secluded from the world. His fame attracted round him a great number of devout persons, among whom was Stephen, afterwards the Abbot. From the Earl of Northumbria the monks obtained a grant of land; but when, by their labours, they had cultivated and improved it, the Earl became their persecutor, to induce them to relinquish what they had made trebly valuable. They were also harassed by the frequent attacks of pirates by sea, and robbers by land. Driven from their first place of sojourn by these distresses, they obtained from the King permission to repair for themselves the Monastery of Lashingham, then lying in ruins, about twenty miles to the north-west of Whitby. Nevertheless, in this solitude they found no rest; they were constantly subjected to the assaults of robbers and the enmity of their former persecutors, and also of the Archbishop of York, who claimed part of their domain. The case was carried at last before the tribunal of the King in person, who promised to see the monks righted; but the King dying, the claim of the Archbishop was renewed, till William Rufus interfered and gave to the Archbishop, in lieu of the disputed ground, a Church in York, dedicated to St Stephen. Soon afterwards, this monarch visiting York, laid with his own hand the first stone of a new and larger establishment than that which the monks had hitherto possessed, and calling it after St. Mary, made to it liberal grants and privileges.

This religious fraternity were Black Monks, of the Order of St. Benedict. Their Abbot was little inferior to the Bishop of the province, being mitred, and having a seat in Parliament, which entitled him to the dignified appellation of “my lord.” His retinue was sumptous whenever he travelled abroad, and he possessed two country seats in the neighbourhood of York, and a house in London, near Paul’s Wharf. He had also a spacious park well stocked with game. This sumptousness engendered jealousy among the people of the City of York, who on several occasions burned parts of the abbey, and slew the monks. Simon, the Abbot, could not appease the tumult, except upon paying a hundred pounds as a peace offering to the enraged party. Afterwards, an enormous wall was built to defend the abbey from these depredations, which effctually prevented such disasters, till the time of the dissolution of monasteries, of which I have spoken.

At this time there were, in the house, fifty monks, including the abbot, the prior, and one sub-prior, with a revenue of £2,091 4s. 7d. per annum, equal to £20,000 of our money, which was a pretty good sum for the support of fifty monks.

The mitred abbeys, at the dissolution, were for the most part granted by the King to noble or wealthy families, in consideration of service or exchange of lands, or for the payment of money; and the harvest was a rich one that the King reaped by this plundering of the monks. Soon after the dissolution, an order was issued by the Crown, to level the Abbey, and erect, with due alacrity, a palace for the residence of the Lords President of the North: thus its splendid architecture was cut up piecemeal. Some beautiful remains were, notwithstanding, still left; and, upon the formation of a Philosophical Society, in 1822, the site of St. Mary’s Abbey was chosen as a proper situation for the erection of a Botanic Garden. It was the spot on which the front of the palace had formerly stood, and which had previously been occupied by the range of buildings and apartments of the monastery. The first opening of the ground discovered antiquarian treasures, that even Keet, the great antiquarian, would have rejoiced at. Not mere heaps of mutilated stones were there, but whole portions of the walls of the monastery; of spacious and elegant door ways; of columns of various forms, rising to the height of five or six feet, standing, as they had been, before the dissolution of the monastery, intersected by massive foundations of the palace. Not an hour passed without bringing to light some long-buried specimens of the art and fancy of the monastic sculptor.

In travelling over a country, my young friends will frequently meet with similar buildings to those I have attempted to describe—and I would only observe, that antiquities are a most interesting study. The spirit of times gone by live in the midst of monastic ruins—and from such we may trace the deeds of our forefathers, and enter into familiar conversation with them. Nor must we deem our progenitors entirely unworthy our regard and veneration; for, notwithstanding the barbarous ages in which they lived—notwithstanding the ignorance that surrounded them—and notwithstanding their superstition and bigotry—they have left us a rich inheritance; and our own times teem with the glories, the virtues, and sterling worth of the past.

Oranges and Lemons, or the Bells of St. Clement’s.

What a beautiful thing is Memory! It is like the softened sounds of receding music; it is like the long track of silvery spray which a ship leaves on the divided waters. Twilight is the air’s remembrance of the sun. In the olden time, there were some who thought that in childhood we had recollections of Heaven; and, probably, this little world of ours will be a memory to us when we have left it for ever. It is a happy thing that we can drink again some of the sweetness of a by-gone joy; and very useful, though not so pleasant, that we can recall our past errors and follies, and, by steeping them in regret and shame, turn them into lessons of duty.

Pietro Limoncelo was a poor foreigner from the sunny shores of the Mediteranean. While yet a youth, the political troubles of his country had obliged him to leave his home among the fruits and sunbeams, and to find a refuge in London, where he earned a poor living as a journeyman-tailor. He lodged in a garret, in a court branching off from the Strand, near the church of St. Clement Danes. What a change for him! He who had lived near an orange grove, who had basked in the sunshine of the South, or under the shade of purple vines, or beneath the trees where “orange lamps in a green light,” glimmered with a golden beauty—he to become the tenant of a poor room in a dingy thoroughfare, amidst gloom and discomfort, and the hard life of English poverty—it was a sad change, indeed. If such changes happen to any of us, we must keep up our hearts, by remembering that no gloom or darkness can obscure the vision of the Supreme, and that the beams of his blessedness may penetrate even into the dreariest places.

Pietro had not been regularly apprenticed to a tailor: it could not be said of him that he had learned the trade; but he had picked up a little knowledge of it from time to time, and practice improved him. What he did was done pretty well, but he was not ranked as a first-class workman; consequently, the only department in which he could get employment was that in which is called the “Slop”—a department in which goods are got up, common in quality and low in price, for the accommodation of humble customers. There was not much opportunity here of earning handsome wages; it was a bare living, and nothing more.

One evening he was sitting cross-legged on his board, bending wearily over some work that had just come in from his employers, the great Tailoring firm of Push, Puff, Poetry, Placard, and Company. He had lately felt very unwell, and unable to work with his usual energy; he had been obliged more than once to cut off three or four from his wonted number of labour hours. Less work brought, as a consequence, less pay; and so the cupboard got bare, and matters became very desperate indeed with the poor Tailor. He had just put the last stitch to a couple of waistcoats which were lying on the board beside him, when a mixed feeling of hunger, pain and weakness, brought this sad thought into his mind:—“Might I not, without crime, raise a little money on one of these waistcoats, to give my sinking body its needful nourishment? I would make restitution as soon as my health returned.” Conscience grew very uneasy at this thought, and interrupted it several times with “No! no! no!” but want and pain were so loud in their clamours that these “noes” were overwhelmed. Pietro determined to go out and see if half-a-crown could not be borrowed, for a day or two, on one of the waistcoats; he was rising from his board for the purpose, when a giddy faintness came over him, and he was obliged to sit down again. “Ah! I see how it is,” said he; “I am too weak to move to night; I must lie down and rest; I must put it off till to-morrow. Meanwhile, I’ll sleep upon it.”

At the counter of that Pawnbroker’s shop, where three gilt balls hang over the door, and where brushed-up clothes of all kinds for men, women, and children dangle, from pegs in back rooms and gloomy passages, there stands a wretched man, with sallow cheeks, wild-looking eyes, and long streaming hair. He has just pledged a waistcoat, and with the money in his hand is leaving the shop, when he hears a rustling sound from above. Looking up, he sees a pale, serious face looking down upon him. It has an airy, spiritual look, and seems to be floating in the air on misty wings; and then, with a low, solemn, whispering voice it sings these words:—

“Toll! Toll!

When a wandering soul

Forsaketh the truthful and fair:

Its days are unblest,

Its nights are unrest,

In the bud of its hope is a worm of Despair.

Toll! Toll!”

Immediately a strong wind stirred through the belfry of St. Clement’s, and the Bell gave out one long, funereal tone.

The bewildered man leaves the shop and wanders into the street, not knowing whither. He had intended to buy some bread, and tea and sugar; but, in the remorse of his mind, and with those words ringing in his ears, hunger, and thirst, and faintness were all forgotten. He tramps backwards and forwards in the streets, like a sleep-walker in a wild dream.

“Hollo!” says a voice, “what’s the matter with you? you don’t look over cheerful this evening. Why, if you was to go into a dairy, you’d turn the milk sour! Step in here, man, and take a thimble-full to cheer your spirits! It will do you good. Come! I’ll stand treat to-night, and you shall do the same for me to-morrow.”

A door that swung upon its hinges admitted the two men into a glittering-looking temple, where many lights were shining with great brilliancy. Sparkling glasses and polished vessels of pewter increased by reflection the brightness of the light, and made the place look gay. There was the hum of many voices. In one corner the ringing of loud, coarse laughter—in another, the mutterings of rising quarrel; here a song, there an oath, and everywhere that sad mingling of misery and merriment which are to be found in those scenes of sensuality.

“Now, young lady with the pretty curls, a couple of glasses here for me and my friend! Here’s a furrener, you see. I aint got no prejudice against a furrener. I says to him, ‘Aint you a man and a brother?’ Fine sentiment that, Miss! When I was at school, at the Parochial College of St. Calves and Leather Breeches, I put that ‘ere sentiment into my Christmas piece, and it were very much admired. Come, mate! your glass is standing! Drink up! Here’s towards you! Hollo! music above stairs, eh? ‘Sons of Harmony! Grand Meeting Night! Glorious Apollo! Bacchus, God of Wine! Marble Halls! Alice Grey! Never mention Her! Nix my Dolly! Buffalo Gals!’ Well, if that aint a mixtur! Two more glasses, Miss! Drink up, mate!”

The wretched “mate,” thus appealed to drinks up his glass and feels inspirited—his cheek glows—his blood flows merrily through his veins—and he is just beginning to forget that pale face in the air and the solemn singing. He goes to the doorway for a moment, and looks up into the misty night. Just then the Bells of St. Clement’s chime—a fluttering, like wings is heard, and then a solemn whispering.

“The phantom voice! The phantom voice, again!” cries the wretched man; and he runs from the place with the quickness of desperate fear. But the voice follows, and it sings:—

“Hark! the spirit of the Bells

Upon St. Clement’s Tower,

Groans at every deed that tells

Of Evil’s guilty power.

Struggle, strife!

And feverish life—

Struggle, strife, and din;

Night bells chiming,

Souls declining

Into deeps of sin.”

“Why, where are you running to? What the deuce is the matter with you?” said the man left behind in the gin-temple, who had followed and overtaken the frightened runaway. “You’re not going to get rid of me in this fashion to-night, I can tell you. I have got a little job for you to lend a hand in. Follow me!” and he takes him by the arm.

They go on down a street towards the river, and in a dark bye-place, under a gateway, they meet two other men, with crape-masks on their faces and iron instruments in their hands.

“Jim!” said one of the disguised men, “is that you?”

“All right!”

“Who have you got there?”

“A new friend of yours and mine. It’s all right with him, too. He has been to ‘my Uncle’s,’ and another shop since then. He’s regularly in for it, now.”

“Let him come with us to-night, then; we want a hand outside to watch, and help to carry. There’s good booty to-night at that house yonder, in the left-hand corner. They have been borrowing plate to-day, against a grand wedding there to-morrow morning.”

The men skulked forward to the house named, and one with his iron instrument broke a shutter, then opened a window, and crept in. Others followed, and the wretched new accomplice is left outside to take what they shall hand out to him. The night is calm and still, with a few cold, glimmering stars above, and darkness all around. The wretched man paces up and down the dark gateway at the side of the house, trembling at the remembrance of those songs in the air. It is now twelve o’clock, and from all the belfries in the Strand, iron tongues proclaim it in solemn tones. The man’s quick ear plainly distinquishes St. Clement’s among them; and, as he listens with fear, the pale face hovers over him once more, resting on its misty wings—

“Tis midnight, and St. Clement’s chime

Counts the wicked hours of crime.”

He will hear no more. With hands raised to his head, and pressed tight against his ears, he runs with all the strength and fleetness of fevered madness and despair. Away! away!—from street to street! Away from his guilty confederates—from the sound of St. Clement’s bells—from the ghostly look and the fearful singing. Away! if it were possible, from himself—away from the world!

He had reached a street in the neighbourhood of the Park, when he came to a house where a juvenile party was just breaking up. Some little boys and girls, rather sleepy and weary, and well wrapped up against the night air, were being lifted into coaches; while others, a little older, were jumping in of their own accord, in a manner so fresh and vigorous, that one would have supposed they were going to a party instead of coming from one. In particular, there was one very fine boy, with a beautiful eye sparkling beneath a bold, open brow. He came dancing down the steps of the doorway, his pockets full of fruit, and a bright orange in his hand. He appeared to be thinking of one of the games he had played that evening, for he was singing to himself—

“Oranges and Lemons!

Say the bells of St. Clement’s;”

and turning round to a playmate, he said, “Ah, Charley, my side pulled the strongest, you know.” Into the coach he jumped almost at one bound. As he did so, the orange in his hand fell from him and rolled far away down the street with a swift motion: and as the beautiful fruit went round and round on the smooth pavement, the light of the lamps above gleamed on its golden rind. It catches the eye of the poor fevered man. The mere words, “Oranges and Lemons;” the sight of the beautiful fruit of his native land—the merry voice, the innocent brow, the happy smile of the child that had dropped it, came upon him like a spell,—he sinks down, and a vision floats upon his brain.

The scene is in southern Europe, where the blue Mediterranean rolls from the straits of Gibraltar to the Syrian shores. There was the murmuring of tranquil, silvery waves—the soft breathing of the winds—the gushes of sweet music and joy from many a grove on the shore, and many a green cleft in the hills; and one voice above the rest, in a tone of earnest and tender entreaty, rose in the warm skies as if a spirit were singing there. And this was its song:—

“Remember thine early days—

The orange grove, the vine-clad hill;

The river where the sunbeams play—

The evening calm and still.

“Remember thine early days—

Thy mother’s smile, thy sister’s song;

Thy childhood’s little hymns of praise,

Which kept the heart from wrong.”

Then did the air and the ocean break out into a tender joy; and the spirit of the man rode on the waves of sweet sound along the whole course of the Mediterranean into the sunny Adriatic, and among the rocks of the Ægean. And voices came from the Capes of Sicily, whispering that God the Beautiful expected his children to be Beautiful too—beautiful in spirit, in thoughts, affections, and desires. And a like strain floated over the Grecian Isles, and told the enraptured listener, what a spirit of love it was which had poured out the beauty of Heaven on the hills and plains and valleys of the world; and it bid him believe that He who had cherished the grass and the flower through the dews of night and the chill of winter, did also intend a kindness to the soul, in pouring on it the dews of sorrow.

And the man wept, and mingled his feeble voice with nature’s, and they worshipped together, and said—“Our Father! Hallowed be thy name!”

“Decidedly better! the skin is moist; the eye is clearer; the fever is subsiding; he will do very well now.”

This was spoken by the house-surgeon of one of the London hospitals, as he stood by the bed-side of a patient in the fever ward—feeling the pulse, and watching the countenance. The patient raised himself slightly on the pillows, and looked round with a wondering air.

“Why! who—who am I?”

“Who are you?” said the Doctor, “that is a pretty question for a man to ask about himself. You are described in the hospital books as Pietro Limoncello—Journeyman Tailor. You’ll remember it all presently.”

“How came I here?”

“You were brought here by those who took pity on you; you were found lying on your own shop-board in a state of delirium, and you were instantly removed to this hospital. You have been for some days insensible.”

“Oh, Doctor! I have had such dreams.”

“Very likely—men in health have strange dreams, sometimes; men in fever have still stranger ones. You have had time enough for a good deal of dreaming. But come! you are going to get well now; the fever has gone down, and your senses have come back to you. This is visitors’ day: would you like to see a friend for a moment? I think you may.”

“I have got no friends in this country,” said Pietro.

“Haven’t you? If I remember rightly, I heard some one asking to see you only a minute ago. It is a little girl that I have seen carrying milk about somewhere in the Strand.”

“Oh! To be sure, I remember her well. How curious that she should think of me! It is very kind. But she is a good girl; she looks as if she had a gentle heart. I should like her to come up, Doctor.”

“Well, if you will not keep her too long, and not talk too much, she shall come.”

The Doctor turned away, and in a few minutes the little milk-girl was at the patient’s bed-side.

“Well, Mr. Moncello, I’ve come to see you. I would have come before, only they told me you were too bad to know any one. Aunty sends a kind message, and says, If you will make haste and get better, I am to bring you a glass of new milk every day for a fortnight—real milk, sweet and new—that isn’t to be got every day in London, I can tell you.”

The patient lifted the hand of the little girl to his lips, and thanked her with his eyes.

“My little maid,” he said after a pause, “I must not keep you long, nor talk much; but just a few words I should like to say. You came from the country, did you not?”

“Yes!”

“And was it very beautiful there?”

“Oh very! My dear mother’s cottage was in the middle of a garden, and honeysuckle grew over the porch, and birds built under the eaves. I have heard the cuckoo sing there in the spring, and the nightingale, too, in the evening.”

“Remember thine early days!” said the patient with trembling fervour. “My child! you are a good girl; I think you must have had a good mother.”

“My mother!” said the child, bursting into tears. “Oh she was good indeed! Oh! how she prayed for me the night that she died! I shall never forget it, never!”

Again the patient broke out, “Remember thine early days! But go now my dear. Thank you, thank you kindly for coming. Heaven bless you!”

Pietro Limoncello recovered in due time, and returned to his poor trade. The visions of his illness strengthened his integrity; heavenly hopes grew out of the roots of heavenly memories. Thoughts of the loveliness in other lands upraised his heart to Him whose voice is gone out unto all lands; and he felt that God would be ever present to such as trusted, and waited patiently for him. Wherever the mind and heart are devoted to duty and to Heaven, there hovers the Guardian of Souls, with outstretched wings. Yes! even in the din of the Strand, in a wretched garret, at a tailor’s board, God the all-beautiful is there.

The Boy Bachelor, or something about Cardinal Wolsey.

Four hundred years ago, the Papal power was so great in Europe, that the whole of the countries of which it was composed formed, in reality, but one general state; for by whatever names the provinces of Christendom were distinguished—empires, kingdoms, or republics—the people and their rulers alike acknowledged themselves subjects to the Pope. Royalty did homage to superstition, and mankind were bound in chains which they could not break. Man surrendered his reason, and gave up both body and soul to the power of the clergy, who exercised it for their own advantage, without any regard to truth, justice, or humanity.

This state of things favoured opportunities for bold and resolute minds to exalt themselves to greatness, and it was the boast of the Church then, as now, that the meanest member might rise to the highest office, which consequently offered a strong temptation to those of superior talents and attainments to attempt great things. Many persons arose to eminence in the church at this period, but among all none were so conspicuous as Thomas Wolsey.

Wolsey was born at Ipswich, in Suffolk, in the month of March, 1471. His father is reported to have been a butcher, but this is not quite certain; it appears, however, that he possessed some property, and that “Thomas,” possessed much talent, and he was consequently sent to Oxford at the age of fifteen, when he obtained the degree of Bachelor of Arts, which procured him the designation of the “Boy Bachelor.” Few so young, with all the advantages of rank and influence, attained in that age academical honors—his great progress in philosophy and other learning, having early procured for him a fellowship at Magdalen College. He was also appointed master of the school, and entrused with the education of the sons of the Marquis of Dorset. The proficiency which these two young men made under his tuition, procured him the Rectory of Lymington, in Somersetshire, and afterwards he was appointed one of the Chaplains to King Henry VII.