Wise Saws and Modern Instances, Volume 2 (of 2)
Date: 2012-03-11T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: English fiction -- 19th century; Short stories; English

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Title: Wise Saws and Modern Instances, Volume 2 (of 2)

Author: Thomas Cooper

Release date: March 11, 2012 [eBook #39105]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Bryan Ness, Katie Hernandez and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WISE SAWS AND MODERN INSTANCES, VOLUME 2 (OF 2) ***

WISE SAWS

AND

MODERN INSTANCES.

VOL. II.

London:

Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.

WISE SAWS

AND

MODERN INSTANCES.

BY

THOMAS COOPER,

THE CHARTIST,

AUTHOR OF
"THE PURGATORY OF SUICIDES."

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR JEREMIAH HOW,
209. PICCADILLY.
1845.

CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.

| PAGE
The Old Corporation | 7
Ned Wilcom; a Story of a Father's Sacrifice of His Child at the Shrine of Mammon | 25
London 'Venture; or, the old Story over again | 42
The Lad who felt like a Fish out of Water | 60
The Intellectual Lever that lacked a Fulcrum | 84
Nicholas Nixon, "Gentleman," who could not understand why, but who knew "it was so" | 111
Signs of the Times; or, One Parson and Two Clerks | 123
Dame Deborah Thrumpkinson, and her Orphan Apprentice, Joe | 150

Toby Lackpenny the Philosophical: a Devotee of the Marvellous

204

THE OLD CORPORATION.

Those words "odd," and "singular," and "eccentric," what odd, singular, eccentric sort of words they are, reader! How often they mean nothing,—being thrown out, as descriptions of character, by drivelling Ignorance, who scrapes them up as the dregs,—the mere siftings left at the bottom of his vocabulary, when he has expended his scant collection of more definite images-in-syllables. And how much more often are they affixed to the memories of the living or dead, who have been real brothers among men, and have thus earned these epithets from jaundiced envy, or guilty selfishness, or heartless pride and tyranny. How little it commends to us, either our common nature, or such corrupt fashioning as ages of wrong have given it, that, if we would become acquainted with a truly good man,—a being to love and to knit the heart unto,—we must seek for him among the class of character which the world—woe worth it!—calls "odd," or "singular," or "eccentric!"

Yet so it is, the best of mankind, those, most veritably, "of whom the world was not worthy," have been, in their day, either the butt for the sneers of silliness, or the object of envy's relentless hate, or they have toiled and toiled, perhaps unto martyrdom, beneath the withering, blasting frown of pride and oppression. Ay, and let us be honest with ourselves, and confess, that though years or hard experience may have bettered our own natures,—for we are all too much like that kind of fruit which takes long days and many weathers to ripen it, so as to bring forth its most wholesome flavour,—let us be honest, I say, with ourselves, and confess, that we were as foolishly willing as others, in our youth, to laugh at what the varlet world calls oddness, and singularity, and eccentricity. Some of us, however, now see matters in a somewhat different light. We have discovered that there is some marrow of meaning in many of those old saws we once thought so tiresome and dry,—such as, "All is not gold that glitters," and, "Judge not a nut by the shell," and the like; and we say, within ourselves, when we are in a moralising mood, (as you and I are now, reader,) that, if we were young again, we would not join the world in laughing as we used to laugh with it, at certain queer folk who dwell in our memories,—for we begin to have a shrewd suspicion that they were among the true "diamonds in the rough" of human character.

And, to be truly candid with ourselves, reader, have not you and I found out, by this time, that we are, to all intents and purposes, as "odd," and as "singular," and as "eccentric," as other folk? Is not the jewel of the truth this,—as pointless as the saying may look at first sight,—that—All men are singular? Hath not every man his likes and his dislikes, his whims and his caprices, his fancies and his hobbies, his faults and his failings? And are not these found so strangely interwoven in our daily thinkings, and sayings, and doings, that they may well make observers ponder upon them, if they had not enough of similar employment at home? Nay, if some one unnatural sort of thought, or impression, or habit, which each of us have, could be seen, at all times, by every body, in its true dimensions, would it not look as uncouth as one of those huge boulders of primary rock tumbled down from the mass, and left sticking out from some late-formed strata of marl, quite at a distance from its proper place, that the geologists talk of? Would not the thought, or impression, or habit, if our most attached friends could see it in its proper moral bulk, dwarf many of our "excellencies," as their partiality phrases it, and really render us poor deformed things, in their judgment?

"What, then, do ye mean to preach us into the belief that it is a crime for us ever to have a hearty, harmless laugh, at a queer fellow when we chance to see him?" Not exactly so, my lads; but we ought never to forget that we are queer fellows ourselves. Nor ought we to fail in the reflection that, if we were fully acquainted with that queer fellow, it might happen we should discover him to be of infinitely more moral value than ten thousand of the smooth-trimmed estimables in the eye of the world, who conform to all its precepts so obediently that they never anger it. And, much more, if we know enough of the "queer fellow" to be aware that a true, warm, glowing, fraternal heart for his fellow-creatures beats in his bosom, notwithstanding a few outward traits of somewhat striking difference from the crowd, why, then, it becomes our bounden duty,—I will not say, never to smile at his peculiarities, for that sort of puritanism will not make us better men,—but to dwell upon his virtues and excellencies,—to extol them, yea, to enthrone them, whenever he is seen, or heard, or talked of, by those with whom we company.

Perhaps political party is more universal than any other bad influence without, in misguiding Englishmen into ill-natured, or contemptuous, or depreciatory judgments of their neighbours and fellow-townsmen. The last dozen or fifteen years, especially, have engendered a superabundance of this foul canker;—so many new rivalries have sprung up with the great changes in political and municipal institutions; and men, from the mightiest to the meanest, have been caught up, and whirled along, in many instances so involuntarily, into the rush and torrent of change. And yet, how the lapse of these dozen or fifteen years hath altered the judgment of many of us, with regard to some men and their party-cries. What a wide-spread "liberal" laudation, for instance, there was about the famous definition of a Tory, in the Times,—and yet how soon it became its own "duck-legged drummer-boy," and all that! Nay, how soon did some of the very chiefs of the potential reforming party,—from idols of the multitude,—by their refusal to complete what they had begun, and, indeed, in some instances, by their open manifestation of a will to undo what they had done,—become its scoff and scorn, nay, even its detestation!

And then the old "Guilds," or "Corporations," to which the new "Town-Councils" have succeeded,—what a general tendency to exaggeration there was in the mode of judging of them, and in the tone of talking and writing about them, especially in the public prints. How witty were the newspaper people in their conceits of conserving, or pickling, or embalming an alderman, and having him placed in the British Museum, as a curiosity for antiquaries to form profound speculations upon, some ten or twelve centuries into futurity! Ay, and how eloquently abusive was the prevailing Whig strain about "nests of corruption," and "rotten lumber," and "fine pickings," and "impositions, and frauds, and dark rogueries of the self-elect!" And how the scale has turned, since, in the greater share of boroughs, where the poor and labouring classes threw up their hats for joy at "municipal reform,"—and now mutter discontent at the pride of upstarts become insolent oppressors,—or openly curse, as in the poverty-stricken and hunger-bitten manufacturing districts, at the relentless and grinding tyrannies of the recreant middle-classes whom municipal honours have drawn off from their hot-blooded radicalism, and converted into cold, unfeeling, merciless wielders of magisterial or other local power.

There was, it cannot be denied, in the droll trappings and antiquated mummeries of the old guilds,—in their ermined scarlet cloaks, and funny cocked hats, and in their maces and staves,—and above all, in the starch, and march, and swelling, and strut, and pomposity, with which these were worn or borne,—much that was calculated to tickle the spectator into mirth; but, really, when one thinks of it, are the horse-hair wig of a bishop, a judge, or a barrister, the robe and coronet of a peer, or the crown and sceptre of a king or queen, less like playthings for upgrown children than were the "regalia" and antique habits of the old corporation-men? Was Cromwell so far beside the mark when he called the Speaker's mace a "fool's bauble?"—and might not the expression be applied with as much fitness to many other "ensigns of office," as they are called?

And again: though it is true that a grand uncurtaining of robbery,—for that is the plain English of it,—was made in some, at least, of the old boroughs, by the inquest of that parliamentary commission which preceded the sweeping away of the old corporations,—yet are we not, now, become conscious, that amid the party heat and animosity of the period, much private excellence was over-shaded or forgotten in the rage of public censure, nay, that much virtue was denied, even where it was known to exist, lest the recognition of it should mar the scheme for overthrowing the party to which that virtue was attached?

This is a long exordium for a fugitive sketch, and it is time to say it has sprung from reflections created in the mind of an imprisoned "conspirator" and "mover of sedition," by the flitting across his cell, in his imagination, of sundry bygone shapes with whom he was, more or less, familiar at one period of his changeful life. It is the "Old Corporation" of the ancient and time-honoured city of Lincoln, of which the writer speaks;—and though wit might discover among its members many a foible that would form a picture to "make those laugh whose lungs are tickled o' the sere," yet generosity, and justice, no less, must confess, that after the most searching inquiry and exposure, they were neither individually nor collectively stained with the acts of peculation and embezzlement, nor application of public funds to political party purposes, which were so heavily, and, no doubt, truly charged on some of the old guilds in other parts of the country.

Yet they were, as a body, supporters of the ancien régime, as was natural: they had been inured, the greater part of them, through nearly the whole of their lives, to look upon the established state of things as the best and fittest;—and, no doubt, the majority of them conscientiously believed it to be so,—failing, through the confined and stinted nature of their social training, to reflect that what was productive to themselves, the few, of pleasure or comfort, might confer no benefits on the many,—but rather be a source, to these, of deep and increasing suffering. Passing by many a picture that starts to memory of "mayoralty," and its ludicrous airs of greatness, and many a reminiscence of grave joke and lighter whimsicality,—of burlesque importance, and mirth-moving earnestness about trifles,—recollection dwells with consolated interest on more durable limnings of simple, uncorrupted manners, and warm hearts, and really expansive natures, that belonged to some of that "Old Corporation."

There is one comes before me, vividly, at this moment,—while that sweet robin-red-breast hops into my day-room, and bends his neck to look at me so knowingly and friendlily in my loneliness, as he doth, almost daily;—and the loved bird's image consorts delightfully with him I was thinking of,—for, above all things, the fine, noble-hearted, yet meek and gentle old alderman, loved to be thought and esteemed an ornithologist! That was his pride, his loftiest aim, his highest ambition,—as far as reputation or a name was the subject of his thought. As for his charities, and enlarged acts of sympathy for his suffering fellow-creatures, his deeds of mercy and goodness, he strove to hide them, performing them often by stealth, and half denying the performance of them, when admiration of his beneficence kindled praise of it in his hearing. Ah! it is too true: he relieved wretchedness till his purse was scanty, and his circumstances were straitened;—and then,—and then,—in spite of his aldermanic dignity, in spite of his "respectable" family connections, and even the respectability of his own practice and profession, as a surgeon,—he was mentioned as the "odd,"—the "singular,"—the "eccentric" Mr. ——!

That is the world. Who would have dreamt that Alderman——was odd, or singular, or eccentric, had he kept his money, instead of giving it to the distressed?

But the kind-hearted old man thirsted for reputation as an ornithologist. Well, and in good sooth, he had some solid claim to it. Birds were his passion; and you seldom met any one who knew so much about them. I know not whether his relatives keep the book of drawings which the good man showed to me, as he had showed it to hundreds, with so much innocent pride;—taking care to relate how it had been begun when he was a young apprentice, and had taken him years to complete; above all, that it was the product of early hours stolen from sleep, and had never robbed, his professional duties of their proper share of attention. They ought to keep it, however, and to value it too. Not for the sake of any surpassing excellence in the portraitures of birds with which it was filled; for, although the good old man was so proud of the "real birds," which he used to observe it contained, yet they were embodied to the eye somewhat in Chinese taste, as clearly as I can remember: rather with exactitude of pencillings and shades, than with skill in the "drawing" or attitude of the bird, or observance of rules of perspective, or "fore-shortening," or any of the intricacies of art. But the heart—the heart of the good man whose hand performed these curious and laborious limnings—should stamp a precious value on the book that contained them.

Nor was it a mere unmeaning hobby, this love of the feathered tribe which was so strong in the benevolent alderman. He was another Gilbert White in diligence of observation on their habits in the woods and fields, and on the heath and the moor. In his rural rides as a surgeon, he was ever learning some fact relative to their economy, and he most diligently chronicled it. And at the return of the season, he was as punctually periodical as the fall of the leaf in acquainting his friendly circle with his impressions relative to the severity or the openness of the ensuing winter, from his observations on the feathered tribe. Many of these "prognostications," as some people called them, although he never assumed the character of a prophet himself, were registered in the Stamford Mercury, the long-established and ably-conducted medium of information for the extensive though thinly-peopled district of Lincolnshire; and they so seldom failed to be realised, that the ornithological surgeon was often complimented on his prophecies. "Nay," he would reply, "I am no prophet: I only go by Nature's books: you may do the same, if you'll read them."

Was it his diligent and loving perusal of these books which imbued him with that never-failing zeal to relieve the miserable? was it by his continued drinking of the lessons of bounty and care discoverable in those books, that kept open, to his latest day, the sluices of his beneficent heart,—so that the icy influences of the world never froze them up,—but they were left to well out goodness, and tenderness, and pity, for the poor, and hungry, and sick, and miserable, to the end of his life?

One cannot suppress a persuasion of this kind; and it seems next to impossible but that Gilbert White must have gladdened the poor of his "Selborne," to the very extent of his means, and, perhaps, sometimes beyond it,—secretly, humbly, and unobtrusively,—while his amiable mind was displaying so simply and charmingly, in that correspondence with Tennant and Barrington, its devoted love and admiration of the characters in "Nature's books." This thought may be but a prejudice of the imagination; but such prejudices are less criminal than the prejudices of the judgment or understanding, and one feels unwilling to have them removed in a case like this: we have, alas! too many examples of evil contradictions in the characters we thirst to love,—and our worship even of the noblest intelligences,—such as Bacon,—is too often checked by them.

In the devoted reader of "Nature's books," however, of whom we are immediately speaking, there was a delightful harmony of character. "I cannot pay you, yet, Mr. ——,"—said a poor woman to him, as I walked by his side, along the High Street of St. Botolph's parish, listening to his autumnal chronicle,—"I cannot pay you yet, sir, for my husband is out of work."—"Pr'ythee, never mind, woman," replied the good man. "Make thyself easy, and get that poor boy a pair of shoes, before thou pays me!"—"God bless you, sir!" replied the poor woman, with her ragged and shoeless lad, and dropped a courtesy, while the grateful tear rolled down her cheek. I looked, with an impulse of admiration, at the face of the good alderman, as we passed along, and the tears were coursing each other adown his face likewise!

And how often have I heard,—what, indeed, well-nigh every citizen of old Lincoln had either heard, or witnessed,—of his bounteous relief of famishing and clotheless families he was called to attend during the sickness of a child or father, or the mother's agony of Nature. One thought presents itself painfully: it is, that while he manifested so true a fraternity with man, and lived a life of so much private, unobtrusive blessing,—he was so frequently the victim of encroaching and designing knaves. His ready loans of money, in his wealthiest days, to needy tradesmen, were often punctually and honestly returned; but he was too often victimised. And there is one image now crosses me, very legibly,—that used to haunt and pester the good-hearted man, even up to the period of his straitness,—ever goading him with some plea of difficulty, and essaying to squeeze out of him another sum, under the unprincipled name of a loan. He was a "limb of the law," who had been "done up" in his profession, for his want of honesty. And yet I have some misgivings whether that human being were so morally culpable as his life of shuffle, and deceit, and meanness, would lead one to think; for I remember how often I noticed the large indentation across his bald head, caused by some accident, in which the bone of the skull had been bent or broken, and, consequently, the brain injured. His career is at an end, however; and whatever might be the true solution of the problem of his idiosyncrasy, one cannot help feeling a regret that the best and finest natures should so often, in this world, become a prey to the worst,—as in the case of this vile practiser, who often boasted over his brandy, in the presence of some base associate, that he had gulled the alderman again!——

Memory calls up another form less distinctly, since it belonged to one who was much nearer the end of his course; and the impression of his identity depends more on what others said of him than on any thing like personal or intimate acquaintance with his character. From some unskilfulness of speech, or want of grace in outward demeanour, or some other mark that the world thought "odd," or "singular," or "eccentric," he had gained the odd, singular, and eccentric, but very distinctive soubriquet of Alderman Lob. He was a bulky sort of man externally, talked thick, yet talked a great deal; was laid up with the gout often, and passed his closing years totally within doors as an invalid: but many a poverty-stricken habitant of Lincoln found weekly relief at his door; and more than one aged and infirm creature prayed for the lengthening out of his life, in the fear they would be left destitute, or be compelled to go into the workhouse, when they could no longer depend on his weekly charity.——

The master-spirit of that old guild, though too mentally acute, and too successful in the acquirement of wealth to leave room for the world to term him odd, or singular, or eccentric, united in his composition some high qualities that now rise in kindly answer to the record memory gives of the bitter things spoken of him by party. He had been the "town-clerk" of the guild, and even then wielded the principal power in it, being really its master, though nominally its servant; and only laid aside the black gown and quill to don an alderman's ermined cloak, because he had become too wealthy either to desire longer to reap the salary, or undergo the fatigue and labour of his first office.

His attention to every man in whom he discerned superior ability, without regard to conventional grade, and often in defiance of its rules; his real liberality in giving aid to honest industry, wherever he found it; his munificence in assisting either the "charities" which are the just pride of old Lincoln, or any plan for presenting its citizens with amusement that combined usefulness: these were among his life-long acts. And, in spite of the keen raillery with which his shrewd penetration of character often led him to visit the vulgar conceit or affectation of some with whom his office brought him into frequent contact, all bore testimony to his intelligence and honour. Nay, although he was one who never professed any fervid sympathy with popular progress, and therefore was not likely to become a favourite with a people so strongly political as the Lincoln cits were a few years ago, yet so deeply did they regard him as a man who, by the excellence of his understanding, had done honour to their city in bearing one of its chief offices, that a general and reverential sorrow was expressed when his end approached, for it was seen, in his wasted frame and fading eye, many months before the fatal moment came.

Perhaps their knowledge of the one bitter draught that was mingled with his life's chalice, during the concluding years of his course, served greatly to soften their thoughts towards the intellectual chief of the old municipal institution, even while many of them rejoiced at the overthrow of the institution itself. His tenderly beloved and highly accomplished daughter,—his only child,—faded and died; and, therewith, the charm of life seemed broken for him. How often was this a subject of kindly-spirited converse among citizens as he passed; and how reflectingly did they note what they learnt to be his own poignant observations on that heart-rending bereavement!—his pithy and thrilling confessions that he had toiled for nothing!—that life was only a scene of disappointment!—that he had used unceasing exertion to attain wealth; but he had, now, neither "chick nor child" to leave it to! So fertile is life in affording moral nurture and correction to all hearts!—creating sympathy with the sorrowful brother, with him to whom the bitter cup is appointed; but infusing a salutary admonition, meanwhile, not to set our hearts too passionately on things of clay, lest we doom ourselves also to drink of that bitterness!——

He who was esteemed the most "odd," the most "singular," the most "eccentric" member of that Old Corporation, lingered long after its demise; and by the popularity of his character, as the only radical alderman of the Old, became a town councillor, and eventually a mayor, under the New municipal institution. How rife were the stories of his furious attacks upon the "self-elect" of the olden time!—and what a rich hue of the burlesque was thrown around the pictures that were given of him in daily conversation! Yet, who did not, in spite of his slenderness of intellect, love him for his incorruptible honesty, and, above all, for his unfailing benevolence? Oh! there was not a human being,—beggar, pauper, distressed stranger, or townsman,—who ever went from his door unrelieved; nor could he pass, in the street, a fellow-creature whose appearance led him to suppose he had found a real sufferer, but he must inquire into it, even unsolicited. The abhorrent enactments of the New Poor Law,—how he hated them!—and how staggered he felt in his reforming faith, when the "liberal" administration urged the passing of the strange Malthusian measure! "I cannot understand it!" he would exclaim, in the hearing of the numerous participants in his English hospitality; "I never thought that Reform was to make the poor more miserable, and the poorest of the poor the most miserable: it is a mystery to me! Surely it is a mistake in Lord Grey and Lord Brougham!" So the good old man thought and said; but he did not live to see the "liberal" lawmakers either correct their mistake, or acknowledge that they had made one,—though agonised thousands pealed that sad truth in their ears!

NED WILCOM;

A STORY OF A FATHER'S SACRIFICE OF HIS CHILD AT THE SHRINE OF MAMMON.

"Sirrah! you have nothing to do but to get on in the world. You may do that, if you will. The way is open for you, as it was for me; so get up to London, and try. There's twenty pounds for you: I'll give you twenty thousand, as soon as you show me one thousand of your own; but I won't give you another farthing till you prove to me that you know the value of money, and can get it yourself. And mark me, sir! if you haven't the nouse to make something out in the world, you shall live and die a beggar, for me; for I'll leave all I have to your sisters, and cut you off with a shilling. There, sir! there's your road! Good morning!"

And so saying, Mr. Ned Wilcom, senior, pushed Mr. Ned Wilcom, junior, his only son, out of his counting-house, and shut the door upon him. That was an awkward way for a rich Leeds merchant to receive a son on the completion of his apprenticeship as a draper, and at the early age of twenty. Yet it was no worse than young Ned expected. Nor did it break his heart, as it would have broken the heart of a lad who had been more tenderly nurtured. Ned Wilcom never saw his father occupied with any other thought, act, employ, or pleasure, but what pertained to money-getting; nor ever heard his father pass an encomium on any human character in his life, save on such as succeeded in piling together large fortunes from small beginnings, or enriched themselves by outwitting their neighbours. From the age of nine to sixteen, he had only seen his father twice a year—Midsummer and Christmas; and having lost his mother when a mere infant, he never knew or felt the softening influences of maternal affection. The artificial life of a boarding-school, during those seven years, infused a good deal of craft, and nearly as large a measure of heartlessness, into Ned's nature—for it was not originally of such tendencies. The master and ushers were hypocrites and tyrants, only differing in grade; and if there were a lad with a little more gentleness, humanity, and openness about him than the rest, Ned observed that he soon "went to the wall" among his school-fellows. And so, with one influence or other, Ned Wilcom left school with the firm persuasion that the world was a general battle-field, where the weak and the virtuous were destined to become the prey of the strong and the crafty; and, all things considered, Ned resolved to take sides with the winning party.

Such were Ned's resolves at sixteen; and they were by no means changed in their direction, or weakened in their vigour, by an apprenticeship in a dashing and aspiring draper's shop in Liverpool during the succeeding four years. To that sea-port he was accompanied, per coach, by his father; whose parting words then were, that he was to remember that "he was going to be taught how to make money, the only thing worth learning;" and, until he received the summary benediction already rehearsed, Ned did not see his father again. It is true, he received from home a half-yearly letter, but it never harped on more than one string, and that was the old one; so that, drawing his inferences from these premises, Ned Wilcom was not surprised to be dismissed in five minutes, with twenty pounds, and to have the counting-house door shut in his face by his own father.

Within a week after his arrival in London, Ned Wilcom found a situation; and it was one to his heart's content—as he told his father in a letter of five lines, for he knew his parent too well to trouble him with a longer epistle. The lad's ambition could only have been more highly gratified by a reception into the establishment of Swan and Edgar, in the Quadrant, or the superb "Waterloo House" in Cockspur Street, for he had obtained a place in that immensest of show-shops which attracts the stranger crowds in St. Paul's Churchyard, where the business was of a less select nature than in the two rival first-rate shops at the West End, and was therefore a more fitting field for the exercise of such knowledge and tact as Ned had acquired in Liverpool. And all went on exceedingly well with Ned for several weeks. It is true, the discipline of the establishment was somewhat more rigorous than in the house he had quitted; but he was prepared to expect it. He was compelled to "look sharp about him;" but he had heard in the country that that would be the case. The matter of vianding, the exact minute of remaining out in the evening, the amount of exertion and energy in discharging his duties, all was so exactly defined, measured, and timed, that to a mere raw apprentice from the country, or to one whose mind was less determinately girt up to make his way, the situation would have seemed any thing but pleasant. Ned, however, felt quite at home, for he had yoked his will to his necessities; and in lieu of indulging the slightest disposition to grumble at his lot, set success before himself, and determined to achieve it. With a mind so fully made up, a handsome figure, a winning address, and a fair portion of natural shrewdness, Ned was sure to conduct himself in such a way as to please his employers. In fact, in the course of a dozen or fifteen weeks, he became the decided favourite with the manager of the concern, and, of course, experienced proportionate pecuniary advancement.

But a woeful change awaited Ned Wilcom, despite these fair prospects. His eagerness to succeed had urged him to stretch his powers beyond their strength, and his resolve to economise, so as to win the means of early independence, induced him to deny himself too rigidly of under-clothing, and the consequence was, that a nervous lassitude and a severe cold at once attacked him. He bore up some days; but was a little shocked to observe a change of look in the manager, and to overhear a little whispering by way of comment on his lack of energy. Five days had passed; but on the morning of the sixth, it was with extreme difficulty he rose from bed, and so lethargic were his faculties, that he felt it utterly impossible to put on appearances of excessive complaisance, or to display the customary grimaces of civility. Towards noon, excessive pains in the head and chest drove him from the shop; and, without saying a word to any one, he sought his sleeping-room, and threw himself on his bed. Here he was found in a state of insensibility, in the course of half an hour was undressed, and put into bed. Ned refused the cool offers of extra diet made him, when he came to his senses; and when visited by the manager, said he had no doubt he would be quite well by the next morning. The manager elevated his brows, said he hoped so, and walked away immediately.

When the morning came, however, the youth was so weak that he felt he would be utterly incapable of exertion if he went down stairs; yet he would have attempted it, had not one who had been much longer in the establishment than himself—though Ned had passed him by, in preferment—stepped into his bed-room, and most pressingly persuaded him not to think of going down. So Ned put off his half resolve to go down, and threw himself again on the bed. But what was his surprise, grief, and disgust, on seeing this very individual step again into his room in the course of five minutes, to announce with the most marble coldness of look, that the manager desired Mr. Wilcom would get up and make out his account—for it was against rule for any one to remain on the establishment who was unable to attend to business. "Immediately," was the only word the messenger added, turning back as he was about to quit the room, and then departing with a wicked sneer upon his face. Poor Ned! he felt he was in a hard case; but his native pride was too great to permit him to weep, or give way. Indignation strung his nerves for the nonce; he bounced up—dressed himself—though he trembled like one in the palsy—made out his account—went down stairs, and presented it—was paid, by the manager's order—and quitted the premises, in the lapse of fifteen minutes.

Occupied with the vengeful feeling that was natural after such cruel treatment—though it was but an every-day fact, with drapers' assistants, in London—the youth had arrived in Fleet Street ere he bethought him that he had left his clothes behind him, and had not made up his mind as to where he was going. Faintness began to come over him, and he was compelled to cling to a window for support. Two passengers on the causeway stopped, and began to address him sympathetically; the rest of the living stream swept on, without staying to notice him. A cabman, however, less from sympathy than from the hope of employ, speedily brought his vehicle to the edge of the slabs, and jumping from his seat with the reins in his hand, asked if he could be of any service to the gentleman. Ned felt it was not a time for prolonged consideration, and earnestly, though feebly, desired the cabman to convey him to some decent boarding-house. One of the persons supporting him saw that his state did not permit questioning, and prevented the cabman's asking where he would be driven to, by telling the man to proceed at once to a number he mentioned in Bolt Court. The same individual walked by the side of the cab, for the little way that it was to the entry of the court, and then helped to support Ned to the house. A sick man, however, was not likely to meet with a very hearty welcome in a London boarding-house; and, in spite of the entreaties of the person who accompanied him, the youth would have had the door shut upon him, had he not roused all his remaining vigour, and assured the keeper of the establishment, not only that he would soon be well, but that he was able to pay for what he might need. With such assurances he was reluctantly received, and supported up stairs to a bed-room. Presence of mind served him to give order for fetching his portmanteau from the establishment he had just quitted; and it was well that it was so, for he became insensible almost immediately. A fever ensued of some weeks' continuance; and, at the end of it, when Ned regained his consciousness, he found himself reduced to a state of emaciation, and under medical attendance, with a deeply reduced purse.

These were concomitants of a nature to bring great pain to the mind of one like Ned Wilcom; and it was with a severe struggle that he shut out despair, and encouraged himself to believe that, though so grievously frustrated in his commencing hopes of independence, the prospect of success would again bud, and finally blossom. After ascertaining from his physician that his state would bear a removal to a less expensive lodging, Ned wrote home to his father, and informed him of his unfortunate condition, and of what had led to it. Mr. Wilcom, senior, was a little surprised to receive a second letter from his son so soon, for "he had no notion," as he used to say, "of lads perpetually writing home, like unweaned babies that wanted pap;" and he, therefore, broke the seal of poor Ned's letter with no remarkable degree of good humour. The length of the letter, when opened, caused the money-getting father to throw it aside with an indescribable curl of the lip and nose, and a loud "Pshaw!"—and that was all the attention the poor youth's epistle received for the five next succeeding days, that is to say, until Sunday came, and the merchant thought he had time to look at it. The next morning Ned Wilcom received his father's answer: it was simply—

"Sir,

"Yours came to hand last Monday. If your illness was brought on by want of caution, it ought to teach you prudence. If you have been unlucky, you are only like many more; and, as your grandfather used to say, the best way and the manliest, with troubles, is to grin and abide by them. Wish you better.

"Your humble servant,
"Edward Wilcom, senior.

The letter dropped from Ned's hand like a lump of lead too heavy to hold. With all his knowledge of his father's nature and habits, he had not expected this. Indeed, Ned's uninterrupted good health, through the whole of his brief space of life, had prevented the possibility of his testing his father's tenderness before. For some hours, the youth experienced misery he had never known till then; and was so completely paralysed with the sense of his wretched and deserted state, that the physician, who made his usual call in the afternoon, could obtain no intelligent answer to his questions; and though by no means one whose heart overflowed with the milk of human kindness, felt constrained, in a sympathising tone, to ask if any thing extraordinary had occurred to his patient. Ned pointed to the letter which lay on the floor, and in spite of the hardness of feeling into which he had trained himself, burst into a flood of tears.

Nature was thus sufficiently relieved to enable the youth to answer the physician's inquiries as to his father's wealth, habits, and so on, with a slight but very significant additional query as to the extent of Ned's remaining stock of money. The conclusion was not any promise of help, but cool advice to remove, forthwith, to a cheaper lodging; or which, the physician remarked, would be far more prudent, to an hospital. The latter alternative Ned could not brook then, so he did remove to a cheaper lodging; but his feebleness disappeared so slowly, and the contents of his slender purse so rapidly, that he was compelled to enter an hospital, after discharging his medical attendant's bill, and finding himself possessed but of one sovereign, at the end of another fortnight.

For six dreary months Ned Wilcom's feeble state compelled him to remain an inmate of this charitable establishment; and though his wants were amply provided for, and his complaints and sufferings were met with prompt and sympathising kindness and attention, yet his spirit was greatly soured. He ventured one more letter to his father, but it received no greater welcome than the former one; and, in the bitterness of his soul, Ned cursed the parent who could thus treat his child, and resolved never to write home again, as long as he lived.

At length, he was strong enough to leave his refuge, and without staying to be told that he must go, he went. Once more, he took a cheap lodging, but a much cheaper one, as far as price went, than before, and in one of the purlieus of Lambeth, where he would have scorned almost to set his foot, when he first arrived in London. Though his scanty sovereign would have recommended instant search for a situation, his great weakness, and his looking-glass, told him he must take, at least, one week's further rest. He took it, and then commenced inquiry for a situation, not at the establishment where his misfortunes commenced, neither at any of the first-rate fashionable shops. Sourness of spirit kept him at a distance from the cathedral churchyard; and the somewhat seedy condition, even of his best suit, debarred his admission, he believed, at any of the "tip-top" houses. So he sought to be engaged in some more humble establishment; but, alas! his pallid face and sunken eye, his hollow voice and feeble step, were against him; and a shake of the head, or a hard stare, with a decided negative, was the invariable answer to his applications.

To shorten the melancholy story of his deeper descent into wretchedness—at the end of the tenth week after his departure from the hospital, he was so far restored to strength as to be able to walk upright, to speak in his natural tone of firmness, and would have been competent to have discharged the duties of a draper's assistant in any shop in the metropolis; but every article of clothing he had possessed, except two shirts, two pairs of stockings, and the outer suit he constantly wore, were all in pawn, and he was, now, absolutely—penniless!

It was when the eleventh week began, and the dreaded Monday morning returned, when his weekly lodging-rent should be paid, that Ned stealthily descended from his attic, and passed, unobserved by his landlady, from the front door, to wander he knew not whither—except to avoid shame. By the Marsh Gate he passed, and through the New Cut, and over Blackfriars' Bridge, and, losing the remembrance of where he was, he wandered from street to street, till, suddenly, in Old Street, he was awoke to the sense of delight—a feeling he had long been a stranger to—by seeing a half-crown at the edge of the pavement, as he sauntered along with his head dropped on his chest. He snatched it up with inconceivable eagerness: no one was near to whom he could suppose it belonged, had his necessity permitted him to think of asking for its proper owner; and galled by a complete abstinence of two whole days, he hurried to the very first appearance of food that met his eye—a stall of coarse shell-fish.

"How d'ye sell them?—what d'ye call them?" were the questions he put to the poor ragged man who stood by this stall of strange vendibles that Ned had seen poverty-stricken children and females stand to eat, but had never tasted them himself.

"Ve calls 'em vilks, sir," answered the man, "six a penny: shall I open ye a penn'orth o' fresh uns, sir?"

"Oh! these will do—let me have a dozen," said Ned Wilcom, and seized, and devoured a couple in a moment.

"La! stop, sir!" cried the man—"you vants winegar to 'em!"—and he took the old broken bottle of earthenware, with the cork and a hole in it, and would fain have poured some of the horrible adulteration upon the shell-fish, but the very smell of it was too much for the youth's senses. He devoured the dozen; but though the first mouthful had seemed delicious, he had some difficulty in gulping the last; and had not proceeded twenty paces from the stall, after receiving the change for his half-crown, before he felt half overcome with sickness and nausea. He was about to pass by a dram-shop—but the thought suddenly struck him that a small glass of brandy would dispel the sickness; and he stepped in and called for one. An elderly female was sipping a very small glass of liquor, when Ned crossed the threshold, but passed out immediately, after giving him a keen glance, as he gave his call, and laid a shilling on the dram-shop counter. By this woman he was immediately accosted, when he quitted the dram-shop:—

"Have you taken coffee this morning, sir?" said she, with a short courtesy: "I shall be happy to accommodate you, if you have not, sir: my house is just here, sir"—and so saying, she led the way into Bath Street, at the corner of St. Luke's, and Ned, half-helplessly, followed; for though the brandy had dispelled the sickness, it seemed to have given a wolvish strength to his two days' hunger.

A younger female, tawdrily clad, but possessing features of sufficient power to attract Ned's especial gaze, was the only apparent occupant of the low habitation into which the elderly woman led the way. Breakfast was speedily prepared, in a somewhat humble mode, but Ned was too hungry to be delicate. The younger woman was soon engaged so freely and familiarly in conversation with the youth, as to venture a mirthful observation on his good appetite. Ned's heart glowed too warmly with the fitful delight of having found the half-crown and the means of a breakfast, to permit him to cultivate secrecy. He told it outright—the fact that he had fasted two days, and found the half-crown but half an hour before on the pavement. What will not the tongue tell, when the heart has been suddenly and unexpectedly unbondaged, though it be but temporarily, from deep-during sorrow?

And then, of course, that confession led to others, and the whole story of Ned's life and parentage, of his sickness and harsh treatment, and of his sufferings and deprivations, till that moment, were unfolded. And then came the formidable question—What did he now intend to do?—and it was one that brought back the full sense of his misery, for his half-crown was reduced already to a shilling; and he knew not what must become of him when that was spent—unless he stood in the streets to beg!

The evil moment that was to seal Ned's ruin was come. The elderly female at a glance given her by the younger, which the youth's misery prevented his observing, threw on her shawl, and went out.—

She returned—but it was after two hours had passed; and Ned Wilcom, who, when he entered London, believed himself heir to a gentleman's fortune and rank, had become the slave of a prostitute, and had pledged himself to take lessons from her in the practice of dishonesty. That very afternoon, he entered on his guilty profession: she hung on his arm, and as they entered a crowded thoroughfare she taught him to purloin, successively, a handkerchief, a book, and a watch, from the pockets of passengers.

The perfect security with which his first thefts were accomplished, and the galling remembrance of his past indignities, added to the new fascination above mentioned, stifled the reproaches of Ned Wilcom's conscience, when the hour of reflection came. He advanced in the downward path, until he became a daring burglar, and a skilful adept at swindling, under the name of card-playing, in addition to his more petty practice on pockets. Some idea of his son's fate, at length reached the brutal and sordid mind of Wilcom the elder. He commissioned a friend, two or three times, on his London journies, to make strict inquiry as to the accuracy of the reports concerning Ned. The youth avoided the search as much as possible, but could not prevent the truth from reaching his native town.

The catastrophe approached in another year. The papers contained an account of Ned's apprehension for a series of daring robberies: his father's acquaintances boldly and honestly reprehended his unparental cruelty; and though the Mammon-worshipping wretch was unmoved for some time, at length he dashed up to town to "see what all the noise was about," as he said. He arrived soon enough to see his son at the bar as a degraded criminal; and before he had gazed upon him for more than five minutes, heard him sentenced to transportation for life! Ned was immediately reconducted to his cell, while his father fell, senseless, in the Court; and though he was taken home to Leeds the following week, it was to be a helpless, doting paralytic, and a proverb to the end of his life.

LONDON 'VENTURE;

OR,
THE OLD STORY OVER AGAIN.

It was in the year '39, a little before the "Dog-cart Nuisance," as it used to be called, was abolished in London, that Ingram Wilson had some curious thoughts as he stood looking at a very old and interesting dog, in one of the by-streets of the Borough.—Ingram Wilson, it ought to have been first said, was a young man who had forsaken an engagement on a thriving newspaper in an opulent agricultural district, and had "come up to London," partly through a slight disagreement with his former patron, but chiefly through a vivid persuasion, that London was the only true starting point for "a man of genius," a title to which young Ingram laid claim. Now, this claim had never been questioned by any one in the country, and Ingram thought every one would as readily acknowledge it in the metropolis. How could Ingram Wilson help thinking so, when every body had asked him, for three years, "why he did not go to London, and make his fortune?" But, good-lack! when Ingram arrived in London, and had stared at all the lions for three days, he began to feel himself in a desert, even amidst thousands. He knew nobody, and nobody knew him. He stept into two or three newspaper offices, stationers' shops, and booksellers' little warehouses, asking questions about an engagement; but people looked at him so suspiciously, that he grew afraid of asking further. He looked at the Times, and the Herald, and the Chronicle every morning, in one coffee-house or other—walked to this place and that—or wrote letters of application, in answer to advertisements, but all was in vain: two months fled entirely, and he had not received a single hour's employ, or earned one farthing in London; and he was now reduced to his last sovereign!

Feeling the necessity of an instant resort to the strictest and most prudential economy, he quitted his lodgings, and found one, (a beggarly bed, a chair, and broken table, in a fifth floor,) at eighteen-pence a week. All day he was out, and sometimes dined on threepenn'orth of boiled beef and potatoes, and sometimes he didn't: however, he contrived to make the sovereign last one more month, for he still found no employ. And now he was come to selling or pawning—what he had never been driven to before, in his life. His books none of the pawn-brokers would have: they were an article that could be turned to no account, if not redeemed. So Ingram pawned his watch; but for so small a sum, that though he was still more economical, he could only stretch another month on the "lent money," as he called it, little supposing he would never see the watch again. And then went extra articles of clothing, till he could go no farther. And when six months were gone, part of his books were gone likewise; but they were sold at comparatively waste-paper price at the second-hand booksellers.

It was then, at the expiration of six months' trial of London, without having found one hour's employ, and when he had reduced his clothes till he looked "shabby," and had not half-a-dozen books left that would fetch him the value of another week's subsistence at the book-stalls;—it was then that young Ingram Wilson had "some curious thoughts as he stood looking at a very old and interesting dog, in one of the by-streets of the Borough."

Ingram had been much disgusted with every dog-cart he had seen before; for he was driven to moralise, almost by necessity, as he wandered about from street to street; and he had made many a notch in his mind about costermongers riding on the front of their dog-carts in a morning, "four-in-hand," and all in a row, yelping as they galloped under the lash of the whip; and how much they must resemble Esquimaux emperors and Kamschatka princes, if there were any; and of the wicked glee of the rascally young sweeps who would rattle down Blackfriars' Road, and St. George's Road, and other roads of an evening, racing one against another—"taking home" the one-dog shay of some cat's meat man or dealer in greens, who had thus committed his chariot and animals to these sooty Jehus, while he himself staid at some favourite resort to smoke and tipple "heavy wet" till midnight. I say, young Ingram Wilson had made many a notch in his mind about these, and other dog-cart phenomena; but he had never felt so much melancholy interest in looking at a dog in a cart, as he felt in looking at this "very old and interesting dog."

There might be something in the way in which his attention was first aroused to look at the dog. He had just entered this by-street, and was so much absorbed in reflecting on his own increasingly perilous circumstances, that he had not even noticed the name of the street (though this was a practice he usually attended to so punctually, that he grew quite familiar with numerous localities during the six months):—he merely saw that it was a street of some length, with a ground-story room to every house on the right hand, what would be termed a cellar in the country,—fenced off by neat palisades from the flagged pavement. His reverie was broken suddenly, by the shrill, and peculiarly disagreeable, and well-known cry "Cat's m-e-a-t!" and the man jumped from his vehicle, the dog stood stock still, and almost along the whole line of the street, cats white, and black, and tabby, and tortoiseshell, were suddenly at the palisades, of the houses, setting up their backs and tails, and uttering a shrill "mew!" Ingram was a little struck with this; but still more with a fine large black tom-cat, that leaped from the palisade of the house where the cart was standing, and ran under the old dog's head. Setting up his back and tail, he passed under the head of the dog again and again, so coaxingly and soothingly, and uttered so kindly sympathetic a "purr," every time that he passed backward and forward, and the poor aged dog arched his neck, and hung his ears forward, and bent down to receive the soft rub of the cat's back under his chin, and looked so grateful, that Ingram stood still, and pondered curiously on this display of sympathy between brute creatures—a quality that he began to think scarce among human beings.

The poor old dog looked almost like a bag of leather, with a collection of old bones in it: he was so gaunt and worn, and the hair was so much chafed off, in sundry places with his harness; and, moreover, his back and limbs were so crooked and bent, that Ingram felt sure the dog had known no slight portion of slavery in his day. And, perhaps, he had a hard master, and no one sympathised with him but this black tom-cat, thought the poverty-stricken philosopher—but who sympathises with me? That was his only sour thought, but it did not abide with him. The man returned to the cart, said, "Go on!" and the dog went on; but none of the other cats came to rub under the old dog's head. Ingram felt he was attracting the man's frowning notice, by standing to look at the dog, and so he walked on to think.

"The world is not all misery for that poor old dog," thought Ingram, as he walked on: "very likely, the few minutes' pleasure he receives every morning from the gentle sympathy of the black tom-cat renders him happily forgetful of the labour and hardness of the remaining part of the day. And yet, the poor old dog looked as if he were poorly fed; and what a mortification it must be to be carrying food to the cats, and have so little himself: always in the smell of it, but never or seldom to taste: almost as bad as Tantalus steeped to the very chin, and most likely drenched through the skin, and yet dry as a fish! There is a something that pleases me, however, very much, in this act of the kind, brotherly tom-cat," said Ingram to himself, "and I'll see this sight again."

And Ingram saw the sight again, for he took care to walk in the same neighbourhood for the three mornings following, and felt increasing pleasure in witnessing the black tom-cat rub his back under the poor old dog's chin, while the dog looked each morning as richly gratified as ever. Ingram Wilson was satisfied that if those few minutes' pleasure did not form a compensation for the poor dog's every day's pain, they went very far towards it.

But the circumstance of a pale, handsome young man, though rather seedily dressed, coming through that particular street every morning, for four mornings, at the same hour, and standing to look at that old dog and tom-cat, was an occurrence not likely to go unnoticed in London, where people notice every minute circumstance in a way that much surprised Ingram Wilson, when he first began to find it out, for he had calculated on a very different sort of feeling in that respect. Nothing, indeed, annoyed him so much as the keen impudent stare of strangers, full in his face, and for several seconds: for Ingram did not reflect that he must be staring equally hard, or he would not know that other people were staring at him. And nothing pestered him more than to observe passengers smile and talk to their companions, as they observed Ingram's lips move, when some thought passed through his mind earnestly; and yet he forgot how much he had been struck with that circumstance, above every thing, when he first walked along Cheapside, and Ludgate and Fleet Streets, and the Strand: the very great number of people who talked to themselves as they walked alone, and even motioned with their hands in the most earnest manner.

Ingram had been closely observed, and the observance, on the fourth morning, produced him an adventure. He was turning to move on, at the end of his fourth soliloquy on the dog-and-cat spectacle, when a tall gentlemanly person, with a cane, stepped from the house where the tom-cat ran in, and seemed bent on walking along the street in Ingram's company.

"A fine morning, sir," said the gentleman: "you seemed to be interested with our fine old cat and his way of saying, 'How d'ye do?' to the old dog, every morning."

"Yes, sir, I was," answered Ingram, somewhat pleased with the pretty expression, as he thought it, of the gentleman, and the silvery voice in which he spoke.

"Ay, sir, there's more kindness among dumb creatures than we think of," rejoined the gentleman: "much more, I'm inclined to think, than amongst human beings."

"Do you think so, sir?" asked Ingram; for the observation awoke a vague painfulness that he did not like, at once, to express to a stranger.

"Why, have you found nothing but kindness, young man, in the world, hitherto?" said the stranger, with a look that Ingram thought so benevolent as to be completely melted by it. "Have you found nothing but kindness, now, in London, permit me to ask? You are from the country, I think?"

"Yes," answered Ingram, feeling too much at work with regret within to say more.

"Seeking for a situation, and finding none, perhaps?" continued the gentleman; "and—but I shall, perhaps, be obtruding where I have no right—perhaps, beginning to feel it difficult to subsist?"

Ingram looked volumes, but could not reply: he had lived on two cups of muddy coffee and a roll, daily, for the last month, and this was the first and only human being who had troubled himself to ask him a question relative to his circumstances. Ingram was next invited, very, very kindly, to return to the stranger's house; and he could not muster pride enough to refuse. There was one face at the window, which had been there every one of the four mornings that Ingram had passed, although he had not seen it; but he saw it now, and he thought it the sweetest he had ever seen; and, indeed, it was looking very angelically just then, when he caught the first glimpse of it. 'Twas an expression that said, "Oh! he's come back, just as I wished!"—if Ingram could have read it.

Ingram Wilson had found a friend: not a rich one, as he speedily found, but a human being with a heart—a real heart—and Ingram could not have found any thing more valuable had he searched the world over. After partaking a good plain breakfast—for, although the forenoon was advanced, the poor young fellow had not, till then, broken his fast—Ingram composed his spirits, and, at the request of his new friend—his first London friend—related the cause and intent of his leaving the country. His course of suffering in London he touched upon but slightly at first; but the gentleman gradually and winningly drew the entire truth from him, and then proceeded, with a paternal look, to give Ingram some little advice as to the future.

"You have only erred as hundreds have erred before you," he said:—"hundreds! I might have said thousands; for it is not merely through the persuasion that they shall be able to attain eminence in literature that the young come on adventure to London. A sort of universal romantic idea pervades the minds of most young people with regard to the capital; and, indeed, it is the same almost all over Europe, and, for any thing I know to the contrary, all over the world. I am sure, however, that the feeling is equally strong, and I think stronger in France. All young French people have an idea that Paris is the only place wherein to attain their wishes. With the same impression, all young people imagine, if they can only struggle up to London, they shall make something out in the world. Alas! thousands reach this overgrown hive, merely to starve and die in it; and they are fortunate who can find their way back into the country without falling victims to their own romance. Now, permit me to ask—and yet, your own account of the little rupture of good feeling between your former patron and yourself almost answers the question beforehand—did you bring with you any note of introduction or recommendation to any person in London?"

Ingram answered, that the thought had presented itself before he left the country, that a note of introduction from his patron to certain newspaper offices might be serviceable, but pride and temporary anger had prevented his asking the favour.

Ingram's new friend shook his head, but looked compassionately upon the lad, and told him nothing could be done without an introduction in London: it was what every one looked for who received an application, and what every body must be furnished with who made one.

The youth caught eagerly at the information, and said he could yet obtain a note of introduction—and he thought more than one—from the country:—such notes, too, as he thought must certainly be available in procuring him an engagement on some of the leading periodicals: or, perhaps, an offer for an independent work; and he had several tales and romances begun.

The gentleman smiled, but soon warned Ingram, in a serious tone, not to depend so sanguinely on what he had not tried. "I said that nothing could be done without an introduction," he continued; "but I did not tell you that introductions were always successful in bringing benefits to those who presented them."

However, Ingram's constitution did not permit him to sober down without experience, when once an idea had seized him. The gentleman quickly perceived it; for he had partaken of the same temperament in youth, although he had cooled down by age and disappointment. He did not use further dissuasion, then; but permitted Ingram to retire to his lodgings to write the letters he began to talk about, with hope beaming so lucidly in his face, and only pressed him cordially to sup with him in the evening. Ingram retired, shaking hands fervently and gratefully with the gentleman and his elderly lady, and then with the daughter—and saw nothing, mentally, all the way to his lodgings, but the sweet face of her whose hand he had last shaken. A thousand visions succeeded during that day as he wrote the letters—thought again and again of the beautiful face—took the letters to the post-office—and, in the evening, again saw the sweet face, and talked with the sensible gentleman, and received his kind hospitality.

The gentleman ventured to give a hint that he himself had influence enough to help Ingram to some occasional employs a copyist at the British Museum; but Ingram had, all along, most romantically resolved to aim at something more dignified; and, in his present sanguine mood, in spite of his poverty, he gave no ear to the gentleman's hint. So the gentleman did not repeat his hint; but reserved it, for an occasion when, he feared, it would become but too acceptable to the young man.

A week passed, and Ingram breakfasted at ten, and supped at eight, every morning and evening of the term, with the gentleman and his wife and daughter. The week was one of immense anxiety to Ingram when he was at his own lodgings, or wandering in the street; but it was productive of real pleasure, in the shape of solid information and advice from the kind gentleman; and it gave a commencement to a mutual and avowed attachment between the youth and the gentleman's beautiful and gentle daughter.

At the end of a week, two letters of introduction arrived: one to the M.P. who represented the borough in which Ingram had resided, and to whose cause he had rendered some service in his former newspaper capacity; the other was from a baronet, Ingram had also served in a similar mode, to a literary man of some eminence; in fact, the M.P. was also an eminent littérateur, so that Ingram's hopes grew large and fervid. The gentleman advised moderation; but Ingram could not observe it: his constitution, as yet, was master of his reason. He was smilingly received by the literary man; but he could not help observing that the literary man smiled more as he read the baronet's letter, than at his, Ingram's, application. He was begged politely to call again. He did call again—and again—-and again—before he found the literary man once more "at home." The event was a recommendation to wait on a small publisher, who had commenced a small periodical, and wanted a young man of genius, and all that, to edit it. Ingram went to work in that quarter:—helped to bring out four weekly numbers of the periodical—received one sovereign for his month's labour—and then the thing was stopped, like hundreds of similar ephemera, because "it did not sell."

The same literary man was visited again, when this engagement failed; but Ingram left his door in wrath, and never called again; because he saw the literary man enter his own house, while he, Ingram, was but at a dozen yards' distance from it; and yet the servant affirmed "he was not at home."

Ingram's better and more magnificent hopes, however, were yet undissipated. During his month's harassing and ill-paid labour on the unsuccessful magazine, he was awaiting an important decision: at least he believed so. The literary M.P. had also received him with smiles—smiles that Ingram had been inured to at election seasons; but which, as green as he was, he always felt to be assumed; for it is the heart, not the understanding, that really judges of the genuineness of a smile. Yet, on the occasion of Ingram's first call at the town residence of the legislator, the smile was so prolonged, that Ingram conceived it to be more like a real smile, than the evanescent and valvular-like changes of skin and muscle that the M.P. always seemed to have at such delightful and momentary command while "canvassing" or "returning thanks," in the borough he represented. And then the M.P. entered, of his own accord, on the inquiry as to what Ingram had written, and begged he would entrust a little manuscript or two, to his, the M.P.'s, care, and he would place them in the hand of his own publisher, with his own recommendation, if he believed they possessed merit.

The if shook Ingram a little; but he, next day, took his best manuscript, and left it at the M.P.'s house, for he was "not at home," like the other literary man, although Ingram really thought he heard his voice, when the servant took in the name of the caller; but the valet said, "Not at home, sir," when he returned, and so Ingram left the manuscript, and called again next day. To make the story as short as possible, he called fifteen times during the four weeks, but had only one more interview with the literary M.P. during that term; and this was the product of it: the M.P. assured Ingram that his manuscript possessed merit, much merit; that he had left it with his own publisher; and begged Ingram would call again in a few more days, and he would tell him whether the publisher received it.

This seemed to Ingram Wilson a very solid foundation for most magnificent hopes. How could a publisher refuse a manuscript which was so highly recommended? and how could the M.P. fail, very highly, to recommend what he himself said "possessed merit, much merit?" Such were Ingram's questions; and he was a little shocked to see his friend, the kind gentleman, shake his head and give a silent look, when they were proposed in the gentleman's hearing.

Another month passed, and the dream was dissipated! Ingram was always answered, "Not at home," when he called at the M.P.'s: his friend, the kind gentleman, called at the publisher's, and learned, most unequivocally, that the publisher had never had such a manuscript presented to him, either by the M.P. or any other person: Ingram wrote to the M.P., and received his manuscript by a messenger, for an answer; and was only prevented from writing back to tell the M.P. he was a rascal, by the advice, or, rather, authority, for it amounted to that, of his friend, the kind gentleman.

And now, Ingram, spirit-broken and humbled with what he conceived to be his sanguine and foundationless folly, vowed to his friend that he would never believe promises in future, and would copy at the Museum, or "do any thing" as a means of obtaining a mere livelihood, till he could finish one of his works entirely, and try a publisher by his own application, and solely on the merits of his production. The gentleman cheered the youth, as well as he was able, but Ingram drooped from that time.

A winter of heartache, inward grief, mortified pride, colds and coughs, and, eventually, consumption, succeeded. And then the sweet face of his beloved faded; and when the spring returned, it did not bring back the roses to her cheek.

A summer of toil for little pecuniary reward succeeded that winter, and Ingram received, at length, the appalling information from his friend, the kind gentleman, that he had embarrassed himself by entertaining him, for the gentleman was merely a retired half-pay naval officer. A look, depicturing such agony as Ingram never saw before, in the face of man, accompanied this declaration on the part of his friend, and Ingram never felt so truly miserable, since he was born, as he felt while witnessing it.

There was no room for hesitation: Ingram never tasted food in the kind gentleman's house after that avowal. Yet he called every day to exchange words of grateful friendship with the gentleman, words and looks of love with the beautiful being that was fast journeying to the tomb. In mid-winter she died: her delicate constitution, her sensitive fears and griefs for Ingram's fate, combined, were too much for her endurance.

Ingram drooped, and became a dependent on charity, in an hospital for six weeks; and then the kind gentleman and his wife followed his corpse to the grave, which was dug beside that of their daughter—the beloved of the unfortunate young man of genius!

Will the story prevent or check romance and adventure in others? Ah! no: more Chattertons will perish, more Otways be choked with a crust, unless human nature becomes unlike its former and present self; ay, and more Shakespeares will prosper, in the ages to come, or, otherwise, the true glory and vigour of the human mind have all gone by, and the future must feed on its dregs!

THE LAD WHO FELT LIKE A FISH OUT OF WATER.

Diggory Lawson was not fond of his baptismal name, and often wondered what in the world had put it into his father's head to give him such a one. But where was the use of grumbling, now the name was inevitably his own?—was a sensible thought which often passed through the brain of Dig (for his mother used to shorten the awkward name into that still more awkward one of three letters), where was the use of grumbling about it? His name could not mend him if Nature had marred him, nor could it mar him if Nature had made him fit for any good and useful purpose of existence.

With such thoughts, though but a very little lad, Diggory used to ramble, when school was up, about pleasant Nottingham, where he was born, and about its charming neighbourhood. His father was only a poor lace-weaver; but an affectionate and almost overweening fondness for their only child rendered his parents prompt to sacrifice any personal comfort, in order to secure him a respectable portion of education. The lad was, therefore, kept steadily at school. But his father mingled no little of the eccentric in his constitution, as may be guessed from the name he gave his child, for he had no "family reason" for it; and so it happened, which was not at all the worse, that the lad was not left to gather his knowledge simply from the dry and barren teaching of a day-school. His father was a dabbler in the mathematics, in astronomy, in dialling, in botany and floriculture, in history and antiquities; and so Dig Lawson caught a tincture of each of these knowledges, at such seasons as his father felt disposed to communicate what he knew of them.

Nor did the irregularity of communication in his father's fragmentary hints prevent the lad's mind and its stores from taking a regular form. That form was somewhat unique, perhaps, but a true philosopher would have thought it symmetrical. The lad did not forget his humble condition: he was never proud: but his thinkings were far more exalted than those of the majority of the children who were, at times, his playmates. The greater part of his leisure was spent in lonely wanderings. And if any locality in England can tend to elevate the sentiments of its young habitants, one would think it to be Nottingham. Such was its effect, however, on the mind of young Dig Lawson: he became a vehicle of noble, though somewhat romantic thinkings, while wandering in the meadows by the beautiful Trent, and watching, alternately, the ripple of the stream, or the unfolding of some beautiful flower that grew on its border; or rambling over the wildernesses of the Forest-ground, so classically English, and giving himself up, for the nonce, to day-dreams of Robin Hood, till he half imagined he saw the merry band tripping over the hill-side among the furze and stunted trees, clad in their Lincoln green, and heard the real sound of bold Robin's bugle; or climbing the rocks that project round the beautiful park, and looking up at "Mortimer's Hole" in the castled cliff, and picturing the chivalrous attack on the concealed traitor by the mailed bands of the third Edward; or creeping among the strange-looking Druid caves on the border of the silver Lene, and conjuring up in his imagination the white-bearded priests crowned with oak, and bearing the "mistletoe bough," and chanting the hymn to the sun or moon, while a crowd of painted Britons struck up the chorus "Derry-down." Less florid but more substantial thinkings often occupied him, when he watched the last rays of the setting sun tint up the windows of the modern building called "the Castle" (the unruly Radicals had not blackened it then,) and remembered how, on its memorable rock, the fated Stuart first unfurled the standard of war against his own people and parliament, and how unweariedly the high-souled and incorruptible Hutchinson sustained the harassments of petty faction so long on the same spot. These more weighty thoughts, especially, visited him as his boyhood began to ripen into youth. And as soon as his understanding began to mature, and he became capable of combining the useful with the comely, in his delights and preferences, he could derive almost as much pleasure from a walk round the splendid area of the market-place of his native town, as from a stroll in the park, or by the Trent. He was often told there was no market-place like it in England; and he felt as proud of its superb space and neat ornamental piazzas, as if he were a man, and owner of half the buildings round it. Diggory Lawson, therefore, had not yet become "the lad who felt like a fish out of water."

Neither did Dig at all resemble such an unfortunate animal for the three years, that is to say, from fourteen to seventeen, that he passed at his father's humble trade. Every leisure season was spent in literature; and he had not only read some hundreds of volumes by the time that he had reached the age of seventeen, but he had made some attempts at original composition that were by no means contemptible. The lad was happy enough, and was likely to make a happy and useful man, had "Luck"—that spirit with so questionable a name—kept out of his father's way, and thereby prevented the father from placing himself in Dig's way.

The brilliant but evanescent "Bobbin-net" speculation sprung up, like a forest of mushrooms—with an immense surface of promise, but very slender stalk for continuance—in the town of Nottingham. Diggory's father was just the man to jump into a new scheme; and he really jumped into the bobbin-net speculation to some purpose, apparently, for he realised a thousand pounds' profit in twelve months. Such "luck," of course, determined him to continue in the pursuit of money, in the same line; but he was seized, alas! with a vehement resolution to make Dig into a gentleman!

The large admixture of whimsicality in his father's composition, however, left Diggory's destiny in a very nondescript condition for some time; since his ideas of the exactest, best, and fittest way of making his lad into the thing he thought of were none of the clearest, and most fixed. One step, and one only, could Dig's father determine upon—and that was—that Dig should work no more! No: he could work himself, and could make as much money as ever Dig would want as long as he lived: but Dig shouldn't work; and his mother said, "No, that he shouldn't," when she heard her husband say so; and so Dig was compelled, as the neighbours said, to "drop it"—and to lay aside his every-day clothes, and put on his Sunday ones, and to consider that, from that day forth, he had done working with his hands—to the end of his life.

Well: for a lad of seventeen, who was so fond of books and of sentimentalising by the Trent, and in the Park, and as far as Clifton Grove, this was, certainly, for the first week, a glorious state of existence. But, somehow or other, the second holyday week, in Sunday clothes every day, was not so happy as the first; and when the third arrived—then Diggory Lawson, for the first time in his life, became "the lad who felt like a fish out of water." The river did not look so beautiful and silvery, nor the flowers so lovely, nor the Park so green; in brief, Dig was tired of all he saw, and all he read, and tired even of himself; and he told his father and mother so outright. But la! the mother had an answer for Dig so nicely opportune that she was in ecstacies to tell it—for she was sure it was a piece of such excellent "luck." Mrs. Strutabout, the lace-merchant's lady (who had a large family of unmarried daughters), had sent so politely to say that she would be very happy to see young Mister Lawson to tea that afternoon—and they were such respectable people! Dig's father said, "Capital! just the thing!" when he heard it; for he felt instantaneously sure—and indeed all his convictions ran by fits and starts—that that was certainly a step towards making Dig into a gentleman. An introduction to genteel society, to "respectable" company—what could be finer?

Diggory himself, however, hung his head, and felt shy about it, for he had never been "out to tea" before, in his life. But his father said, "Pshaw! you young shame-face! you must shake all that off: remember I intend you to be as respectable a man as any of 'em!" And the mother reminded Diggory that he would be sure to hear some music, for the young ladies Strutabout were thumping away on the piano from morning to night; you might hear them any hour of the day that you went by the front-room windows. It was the last hint that enabled Diggory to master his bashfulness; for although he knew not a note scientifically, nor could he play on any instrument, yet his love of music amounted to a passion.

And so, at five o'clock in the afternoon, Dig knocked, with a heart pit-a-pat, at the front-door of the merchant Strutabout, and was immediately welcomed in, and received, in the best room, by Mrs. Strutabout herself, so smilingly—and by the half dozen Misses Strutabout, so sweetly—that he hardly knew where he was with the novelty of so much genteel welcome. One of the young ladies, so gently and winningly, took his hat, saying, "Pray let me take your hat, Mister Lawson!"—for poor Diggory, in his plainness, had brought it into the room, and, for the life of him did not know where to put it! And then "the infinite deal of nothings" that the young ladies talked for a full half hour—Mrs. Strutabout herself retiring, and saying so politely, "She hoped Mister Lawson would excuse her a short time,"—and poor Diggory's difficulty in framing answers about nothing! If they had talked of anybody he knew from books, either of Socrates or Alexander, of Cicero or Cæsar, of Wat Tyler or John of Gaunt, of Hampden or Lord Chatham, of Marlborough or Napoleon; or of anybody that was "worth talking about," as he said to himself; or of any thing, or place, or substance, of which any thing could be said that was sensible, Diggory could have talked, ay, and in good, thundering, long-syllabled words, too, as well as any man or youth in the three kingdoms. But to take up a full half-hour in prattling about—Lord! he could not describe it when he returned home, it was such infantile sort of stuff as he had never supposed mortals uttered in "respectable" or any other sort of society! Diggory Lawson was, indeed, during that half-hour, "the lad that felt like a fish out of water."

At length, Mrs. Strutabout sailed in with her high turban cap, and her wide-spread swelling dress, more smilingly than ever, and the tea was brought in, and Mr. Strutabout arrived from the counting-house, and places began to be taken, and Mister Lawson was "begged" to come to the table, "unless he chose to take a cup where he was." Diggory stared at the addition to the invitation. And it was well for him that Mr. Strutabout jumped up, and began to urge him to the table, for had they handed Dig a cup of tea with cake, as he sat in the recess by the window, he would have been in a woeful pucker, no doubt. As it was, he was in trouble enough. Poor Diggory! he took his tea every day in a basin at home, and held up a book before it, devouring the contents of the volume far more eagerly than his food; and it was a cruel piece of ambition in his mother and father to thrust him upon "respectable" society so unthinkingly. It may seem strange to fine drawing-room people, but with all Dig's knowledge, and as old as he was, the silver tea-spoon bothered him so indescribably, in the cup, that he knew not what to do; yet he durst not put it out upon the tray, because he saw, by peeping aside with his head down, that no one else did so. The eldest Miss Strutabout saw this, and would have liked to show him how to place the spoon neatly under the side of his forefinger, but then, it would be so strange a thing to tell him at table. As for the younger misses they were much disposed to giggle at poor Dig's awkwardness, only the mother looked gentle daggers at them, and restrained their lightness. The good lady strove to hide Diggory's blunders, and the merchant engaged the youth in general talk on trade and business, so as to enable him to get through with the appearance that he was too much taken up with the conversation to attend to table etiquette. But for all this good service and kindly interference, Diggory Lawson, while at Mrs. Strutabout's tea-table, was indeed, and of a truth, "the lad who felt like a fish out of water."

The mortal agony was at last ended; and Diggory began to hope that he would reap some little enjoyment from his stay the remainder of the evening, since the piano was mentioned. But, lackadaisy! the young ladies thumped and rattled, till Dig thought it was any thing but music; and as for their singing—so unlike the simple ditties of the milkmaids, under the cows, which he used to listen in the early summer mornings by the "pasture Trent," with the skylark carolling overhead—so much like the midnight melody of some stray grimalkin was the singing of the Misses Strutabout, that it made Dig wish himself, over and over again, five miles out of hearing of it. He must endure it, however, since he dare not offend the family by suddenly withdrawing, they were so "respectable:" nay, more, he was compelled to praise, for at the end of every overture, or solo, or duet, he was asked "how he liked that?" or "what he thought of that?" and the poor lad was compelled to torture his tongue into the utterance of commendations on what he began actually to loathe, until the announcement of supper gave a momentary suspension to his discontent. And merely momentary was his ease, for the confounded ceremoniousness of the supper plagued him worse than the etiquette of the tea-table; and passing over the mention of all his blushes and throbbings, under the consciousness that he knew nothing about the niceties of this second eating process, let us come at once to the end of the adventure, and say that when he had fairly stepped into the street at ten o'clock, and when, after unnumbered polite adieus, the door of the merchant Strutabout was closed behind him, Diggory Lawson drew in a full breath of air with a feeling of thankfulness similar to that of one who passes out of a prison after a twelvemonth's confinement.

Very gleefully did Dig's mother salute her boy when he came home, and his father not less proudly; but how queer they felt, when the poor lad told them he had "felt like a fish out of water!" And when Diggory had given them such a brief account of his treat, as his dislike would permit, they looked at each other, and began to think, and to remember, that "they ought to have known that the lad would meet with fine manners that he was unused to at home." But Dig's father told him to "cheer up," for he would know better how to go on another time. But Diggory, inwardly, felt indisposed to try another time; yet he did not say so, and so the affair passed over.

Now Diggory's mother knew no more about the right way of making the lad into a gentleman than the father; but she began to grow greatly distressed at observing the lad's restlessness and disquietude, for the hours and days went over Diggory's head more heavily the longer he was idle. So she seriously took her husband to task, as they say in Nottinghamshire, about his delay in determining how Dig was to begin to be a gentleman. Her discourse would have rendered the poor man very uneasy, indeed, had not "luck" extricated him from his dilemma on the next day succeeding the curtain lecture.

In his new manufacture, Diggory Lawson's father did business with a Londoner: this personage made his quarterly call at the very moment when his customer was so much intent on the great problem as to display much concern in his face. A shrewd question was put: Dig's father told his trouble, and the cockney gave most instantaneous advice how the thing was to be done, as soon as he had been informed of what was so much desired. "The young man must be had out to travel," he said; "he would procure him a 'highly respectable' situation as a genteel commercial traveller for a house in town: that was the way to set him off in the world, and make a real gentleman of him, for he would be thrown into the very best society!"

Such was the cockney's advice; and it was sincere, too, for the pert little man really believed there was nothing in the world more "highly respectable" than that morsel of vanity—himself! And then his prate was so fluent, so glib, so high sounding, he was such a walking vocabulary of commercial phrases, that he completely enfevered Dig's father with the persuasion of his cleverness; and the countryman yielded to the advice of the Londoner, believing he had been shown the very best way in the world for beginning to make his son into a gentleman. The lad was, it is true, willing to go, he was so weary of the insipidity of his present idleness, and besides, he wanted to see London, and other parts of the country, never having yet quitted his native shire; but yet his common sense was a little suspicious, that this was not exactly the way to make him a gentleman. Still this suspicion on the part of Diggory was no impediment in the way of a trial—for the lad did not so much wish to be a gentleman as a man—and he thought a little knowledge of the world would not prevent his progress towards that better climax.

"Mr. Lawson, the bobbin-net manufacturer," would have had his son fashionably clothed ere he started for town; but the cockney turned up his nose at the very idea. "It was a thing quite out of character," he told Mr. Lawson: "all the country tailors' fits were reckoned only dresses for scarecrows by the best tailors in town: it wouldn't do at all: he was against it, most decidedly!"

Young Diggory, therefore, was impursed with a handsome sum, more than sufficient to purchase an outfit in London; for his father well knew he could trust to his prudence, and was despatched, per mail, to town, in company with the all-sufficient Londoner. A week, or so, was spent, in visiting the various public exhibitions, and seeing the sights,—a change of neat suits was purchased (for the lad was too sensible to be fooled into the kickshaw dandy habits which the cockney recommended),—a situation, a "highly respectable" situation, (although but at very low remuneration, a thing of no consequence to Diggory,) was procured by the all-sufficient gentleman; and off started the new adventurer into Kent, to canvass for orders for a citizen and dry-salter of London.

The merchant, his employer, had had but one interview with him, having engaged him chiefly through a quick impression of his solid intelligence, rather than from the cockney's florid recommendation; but the cockney gave him a regular "drill," as it might be called in his new profession, before he started out; and, although the tradesmen upon whom he called perceived that he was a "new beginner," yet his good sense prevented his experiencing any insurmountable difficulty in making his way as a commercial traveller. In fact, Diggory had a much larger stock of theoretical knowledge to enable him to eke out his deficiencies in what was practical, than most young fellows who go out, for the first time, on similar engagements; and, therefore, it was not as a "greenhorn" among tradesmen, that he was likely to feel "like a fish out of water:" that was not the sort of uneasiness that newly awaited Diggory Lawson.

What was it then?—Nothing less than the old pest in a new form:—etiquette. He had been most cogently admonished by the cockney to take up his quarters at the very best commercial inns in his prescribed route,—or it would let down his employer, disgust customers, and injure his patron's business; nor had he been less earnestly warned to avoid deporting himself in any way contrary to the rules and customs of gentlemen he would meet with, who were "on the road" like himself, and who had their "highly respectable" established usages. Diggory, like an obedient son, followed his father's monitions, and strove to conduct himself exactly as the Londoner advised and directed. At the first-rate commercial inn in each town he stopped, hasted to canvass the tradesmen, and punctually returned to the inn at the hour when he was told dinner would be on the table in the "Commercial Room." Diggory, too, being a sharp lad, as the reader knows by this time, bought a book on "Etiquette" and all that sort of thing, while in London: but though he imagined he would be a match for his new compeers "of the road," he found himself sorely mistaken, in the very outset, at Maidstone.

At four, exactly, returned Diggory to his inn, having despatched considerable business for a mere beginner, and entered the "Commercial Room." A buzz and a general whisper went round, as he entered, and no one returned his courteous movement (for he followed his book) when he performed it! The company was large, well-dressed, and from the "bang-up" appearance of the numerous leather portmanteaus under the side-tables in the room, and the dashing whips and proud cloaks on the hooks, Diggory was sure they were, indeed, what the cockney would call "highly respectable" commercial gentlemen, or "gentlemen on the road." It was strange, he thought, that they should be so uncourteous. Yet, Diggory observed, that every new comer was received in the same way; and so he set it down in his memory that it was the wrong time of the day for bows of courtesy among "commercial gentlemen;"—and that was not a bad idea, either, for so green an observer,—especially as the gentlemen had not dined.

Dinner was brought in, and a tolerably sumptuous affair it was. "Commercial gentlemen," even at the "first-rate commercial inns," don't "cut it quite so fat" (for so vulgar a phrase may be allowed since it will apply to the dinners) now-a-days, as they did then,—since we are speaking of something more than twenty years bygone; and the last twenty years, with their wonderful innovations of railway travelling and increased competition, have made woeful alterations among your princely commercial travellers: they were the innkeeper's grandees then: the case is altered now. Diggory, with all his intellectuality and sentimentalism and so forth, was pleased to see the goodly provisions of the table, for he was very hungry; and he began to muster up his recollections of "the book of etiquette."

But, behold!—a single moment threw all his calculations out of order. He was the youngest in the room; and by the rules of the road, he must, therefore, take the post of vice-president at the dinner! Diggory's book said nothing about this; for it was not written expressly for "commercial gentlemen," but for "good society" generally. Poor Dig took the post, however, but felt in a strange perturbation as the gentleman at his right hand intimated a wish for a little mutton, and looked at him, "the Vice!" The chairman was already helping his end of the table to slices of a sirloin, and so Diggory drew the piece of hot mutton near him, and was beginning to cut, but did it so awkwardly that the gentleman at his right-hand, who was somewhat of a gourmand, cried out, "Oh dear, sir! not that way!" Diggory stopped,—stared,—blushed: but the chairman, an elderly and fatherly-looking man, put on an encouraging smile, and said, "Lengthwise, sir, if you please; not across: the other way keeps in the gravy best." Diggory's heart cleaved to the man who told him this so kindly and handsomely, and he thanked the chairman, adding, in his simplicity, that he was unused to carving mutton, especially a shoulder, he added, looking at it, and thinking it could not be a leg.

"A shoulder!" exclaimed the gentleman on his right hand, staring like one who was horror-struck; "why, God bless me, 'tis a saddle!"

Diggory blushed worse than before, for there was a perceptible laugh round the table; but he made no reply, and tried to proceed with his work of carving. Trembling as he did, there was no wonder that he spattered the right-hand gentleman with gravy until the gentleman grew angry. And then Diggory apologised; but the gentleman, still more indignantly, besought him to go on, and not keep the company waiting,—meaning himself. How glad was the lad when he had succeeded in filling the man's plate, and silencing him! The rest whom he had to accommodate were of less irritable natures; but no one offered to relieve him, until each had despatched their first plate, and then Diggory's appetite was gone, for he had not been able to eat a mouthful up to that time, through the throng of his new and difficult employment.

The next course increased poor Diggory's trouble: he knew no more about carving a fowl than conducting a ship to China; and when he had cut off a blundering slice at a venture, and put it on the right-hand gentleman's plate, the irritable gourmand stared ferociously in his face, shovelled the clumsy slice off the plate into the dish, cried aloud, "Mangling done here!" and to Diggory's consternation seized the carving-knife and fork, to cut for himself.

And now the chairman interfered. "He trusted he should be supported by the company, sitting there as he did: if the young gentleman was an improficient in the duties of the table, perhaps he might be allowed to say that they all knew what it was to be young at one time in their lives, and he did think—though he was the last man in the world to wish to give the slightest offence—that the gentleman to the right of the vice-president of that table had not acted so courteously as he might have done." And then there was a pretty general "Hear, hear!" But quickly uprose the irritable gentleman, and rejected the admonition of the president with scorn, and thumped the table during his delivery of a most energetic oration of half a minute, until he shook the glasses so that they rang changes against each other.

The irritable gentleman no sooner sat down than another arose, and another, and another, each demanding that he should apologise to the president for his want of courtesy, and the irritable gentleman yielded to apologise—though it was far more from eagerness to eat, than a return of good-nature.—Diggory was "assisted" in cutting up the fowl by one on his left, who began to be warmed with sympathy for the youth, now the sympathiser's stomach was allayed in some small degree by sundry hearty slices of mutton. To the drawing of the cloth Diggory experienced no further mortification: but the past was enough, in any conscience; and during the season in which that company of "highly respectable gentlemen" were masticating their viands, poor Diggory, who did not eat three mouthfuls, might most aptly be styled "the lad who felt like a fish out of water."

And now the wine was pushed about; and whether it was the little "tiff" which had taken place during the dinner, or whatever might be the cause, considerable difficulty was felt, for some time, by all the company, in attaining that sense of freedom, that warm hilariousness, which an Englishman always looks for, over the bottle, and by the charm of which, and not by the animal gust for the liquor, drinking usages have become so widely established. This uneasy feeling, however, was dissipated by degrees; and then, by the natural reaction of the human spirits, the zest for good-fellowship grew unbounded. And yet this over-heated, steamy sort of boon companionship manifested itself exactly as might be expected among "highly respectable commercial gentlemen," though poor Diggory was too ignorant of the genus to make the proper calculation. They neither called each other by familiar names, nor sang, nor shouted, nor huzzaed, nor laughed, till they hiccupped. Compliments, that out-heroded Herod in their gorgeousness of dress and brilliancy of colouring,—good-wishes,—mighty, vast, profound, coming from the "bottom of their hearts,"—for the prosperity of each other in their undertakings,—testimonies to each other's "respectability" (always first), honour, candour, probity, (take the first catalogue of the virtues you find, and supply all the rest,)—flowed out of the smiling, bubbling, fountain of their wine-warmed hearts, and wreathed itself so fantastically into the vaporous shapes of words (if that be nonsense, take it for a specimen of their speeches),—that Diggory Lawson was puzzled to determine whether they were more lunatic or tipsy.

Luckily, he found a little relief, both corporeally and mentally in nibbling at the remnant of the dessert, which the whole company forgot for wine and speechifying. Yet he had but a torturous time of it, and was still "the lad who felt like a fish out of water."

It should scarcely be omitted, that by the natural way of ascending from the mediocre to the sublime, so genial to the minds of "highly respectable commercial gentlemen," the last hour of the speechifying was entirely occupied by that grand problem,—that question of questions,—that important and absorbing interrogation of "the commercial room,"—"Is it not time to smoke?"

Now the president insisted, that eight o'clock being the established hour for "permitting to smoke" in that room, he, as president of that company, sitting there as he did, could not grant permission to smoke, since it was but just seven. And then arose the irritable little gentleman who talked so politely about "mangling" when Diggory spoilt the fowl. He really felt that he must claim the indulgence of the company: but he would appeal to every gentleman in the room, and he, most conscientiously, felt that he could safely and confidently appeal to them, and he was sure they would bear testimony that no one was more observant than himself of the rules of that room, (and then there was a general "Hear, hear!" though Diggory, in spite of his timidity, could not forbear saying "Hem!")—and he would feel it beneath him to infringe on the necessary regulations for the preservation of comfort in good society; but yet,—but yet, on the present occasion,—feeling as they all did, that warmth of esteem, and union of sentiment and feeling, and—(we omit a page here)—he thought the president of that company might take it upon him to dispense with the peculiar rule relative to smoking on that occasion.

Pro and con—the arguments were equally laborious, equally long, and equally senseless; and the president, being one of the oldest "gentlemen on the road," and though very bland in his nature, yet a stickler for custom, stuck to his point to the last, and was only worsted by the clock. Truly, Diggory Lawson, during the smoke discussion, was "the lad who felt like a fish out of water." Much more did he resemble the said unlucky fish when the smoking began, insomuch that he was compelled to seize an early opportunity of retiring to bed.

Diggory Lawson completed his journey, but returned to London with a complete mental nausea of the cockney's plan for making him into a gentleman. Torn entirely from his beloved books, he was infinitely more miserable than when their only companionship subjected him to weariness. His mind hurried with anxiety, dissipated by the unintellectual nature of his engagement, annoyed and disgusted with the manners of those he was compelled to regard as the proper associates of his leisure, he wrote home to his father entreating permission to return. One paragraph will show the character of his letter:—

"Not a single thought or habit of my short life has prepared me for such an engagement as that procured me by your friend. It was misery enough to listen to the prattle of 'unidea'd girls,' as Dr. Johnson expressed himself on a similar occasion; but of all the tortures in the world, deliver me from the company of empty, conceit-blown mortals, who have such large notions of their own importance as these 'highly respectable commercial gentlemen.' I entreat your permission to return home, for I am 'like a fish out of water.'"

The boon was readily granted,—for Diggory's mother, having never been separated from her child before, had wept every day since she parted with him. The very next month, Dig's father gave up the notion of making him into a gentleman,—for the bobbin-net speculation waned,—and there was an end to making an immense fortune in a twinkling. He embarked the little capital he had gained in the more staple manufacture of the town, took Diggory into the trade, and associating with plain, sensible men, and cultivating knowledge in his leisure hours, Diggory Lawson was happier every day, and was no longer "the lad who felt like a fish out of water."

THE INTELLECTUAL LEVER THAT LACKED A FULCRUM.

Mr. Mortimer had suddenly inherited an estate of something more than five hundred a year, by the death of an uncle, and was persuaded by his Whig acquaintances in the metropolis, since he had just jumped into "a qualification," to set himself in earnest about getting into Parliament: for a seat then, when Lord Melbourne's premiership seemed to be held by a very frail tenure, might—his cockney friends entreated him to remember—enable him to "save the country" for, at least, another year, from the "merciless grasp" of the Tories. So Mr. Mortimer set his wits to work, to find out how the seat was to be gained. He hunted for opinions wherever he went; but none "took his fancy" so much as a shrewd hour's advice given him one day, without a fee, by a lawyer, or a person who said he was one, and with whom he fell into conversation on board one of the Richmond steamers.

"Start a newspaper, sir; that's your only sure card, for cheapness," said the earnest talking man who called himself "a solicitor:" "the press gives a man a power that is irresistible."

Mr. Mortimer was struck with the words, and wondered that he had never, by his own unassisted thought, alighted on so "tangibly-intelligent an idea," as he inwardly and emphatically termed it. But the "legal gentleman's" next words made him feel still more confident that he was talking to a man who was worth listening to:—a solid matter-of-fact man, and not a mere fanciful idealist:—one who surveyed his ground before he either trod upon it himself, or recommended others to set their feet upon it.

"And, if I were asked," the said legal gentleman continued, without being asked,—"if I were asked where would you start it? I should say 'Kent,' in one word. You desire to serve the present administration. Well: there's Greenwich, and Deptford, and Woolwich: the naval and military establishments give the government full sweep there: Chatham, the same: Deal and Sandwich, no difference: Dover, as beforesaid: Hythe—there Marchbanks (that's the genteel way of pronouncing his name) can put you in if he likes, for he's a Whig: Canterbury: Lord Albert Conyngham's going out, and a Whig's sure to be returned there. In fact, there is but old Rochester where the Tories are sure; and Maidstone where the Conservatives can't easily be got out. Start a paper on Whig principles in Kent, sir; and—this is autumn of Eighteen-Forty—and, my word to a thousand pounds! before Forty-one is out, you will be returned for one or other of the Kentish boroughs."

Mr. Mortimer was quite decided: he declared he was. And so he buttoned up the breast of his surtout, and put on his gloves, after pulling them off very suddenly,—and began to walk, very energetically, about the deck of the little packet. The "solicitor" took care to keep close to his elbow, suggesting, and then answering, a hundred questions on hops, and cherries, and wheat, and sanfoin, and clover, and smuggled spirits and tobacco; and the scores of "houses to let" at the watering-places, and the company there, and how it differed at Margate and Ramsgate, and Dover and Gravesend, respectively; and, in short, on "all and sundry," the natural and manufactured productions of "Kent, the first English county in point of rank," as the legal gentleman assured Mr. Mortimer it was always esteemed to be.

Mr. Mortimer was quite decided: he declared he was!

"Egad! now I recollect," said the legal gentleman. "A friend of mine in one of the streets leading into Cheapside, has, at this very time, a large assortment of type, with a small handy machine-press, a most neat affair, I'll assure you! in fact, every thing that would be suitable for a commencement: they came into his hands for a bad debt, and might be had amazingly cheap."

Mr. Mortimer looked just as eager as the solicitor wished him to look.

"And, if you like," continued the solicitor; "if you like,—but 'tis of no consequence if you prefer new type,—only that would be most confoundedly expensive,—but, if you like,—I have no doubt I could get the whole lump,—I had almost said, dirt-cheap for you."

Mr. Mortimer commissioned the legal gentleman, in a twinkling, to make the purchase; for he was decided: he declared he was. So Mr. Mortimer gave the gentleman his card; and the "solicitor" (who swore, when he discovered that he had "lost his card-case") gave Mr. Mortimer his address; and as the packet was at Westminster Stairs by this time, Mr. Mortimer got out, and bade "good day," with a grateful smile, to the "solicitor," who remained in the boat to land at London Bridge, for the city.

Mr. Mortimer dined very heartily, and in most speechless silence; for he was exceedingly full of thought, and exceedingly pleased with his good-fortune. Every thing had fallen out so exceedingly, so wonderfully lucky. The advice of the legal gentleman was so intelligent,—so sensible,—so deeply distinguished by common sense, which Dean Swift (Mr. Mortimer remembered) always said was of more value than all other kinds of sense put together. In fact, the man he (Mr. Mortimer) could clearly see was "up to snuff," and knew all about the mysteries of government influence, and where it lay, and what the county produced; and—every thing! But to complete his good fortune, to put the crowning mark upon it, this very man knew where type and a machine-press was to be had for a mere trifle! so that he (Mr. Mortimer) had nothing to do but to write out an advertisement for the Chronicle; and he would write it out that very afternoon, and take it to the office himself; and to-morrow morning, within three hours of the paper being published, no doubt, half-a-score literary men would be at the door, as corrivals and competitors for the new editorship.

Thus was Mr. Mortimer ruminating over his third glass of claret, when the servant's announcement that Mr. ——had called,—the very legal gentleman whom Mr. Mortimer left at Westminster Stairs but two hours before,—caused him to open his eyes very wide, and ask the gentleman's name again. The gentleman was introduced, however, and, with a world of apologies, but another world of assurances that it resulted from his zeal to serve Mr. Mortimer, regretted that he should have intruded at such a time; but he had bought the machine-press and the type, for he had run upon his friend in Cheapside before he reached his own residence, and snapped up the whole thing before any one else found it, and it was now actually at the door!

"At the door!" cried Mr. Mortimer,—"what door?"

"My dear sir," answered the legal gentleman, with singular suavity, "I regret exceedingly, as I have just observed, that I should have intruded at this particular time; but I knew the highly important object,—the national object, as I may say,—that you had fixed your mind upon—admitted of no delay, and so I went to work instanter. To a gentleman who is rather unused to these things——"

Mr. Mortimer confessed he was unused to these things, and felt that he ought to feel grateful, exceedingly grateful, to the gentleman.

The gentleman begged there might be no apology.—But Mr. Mortimer really felt he ought to apologise.—Yet the gentleman most particularly begged there might be no apology; and—there was the little bill!—and—where would Mr. Mortimer have the goods put, since they were in a van—the very first thing, in the shape of a conveyance, that the gentleman could see when he had bargained for the type and the machine-press—in a van, at the door!

The bill was something more than one hundred pounds, and—and—Mr. Mortimer was staggered, for he had not calculated on half the sum; but, what could he say? It would be so disrespectful, so ungrateful, so ungentlemanlike, to demur to the price or the purchase; so Mr. Mortimer thanked the gentleman "most heartily:" he was under very deep obligations to him: it was what he ought not to expect from a mere stranger: he would retain a most grateful sense of the gentleman's kindness. And he begged the gentleman would be seated; and would the gentleman take claret, or did he prefer Burgundy?

The gentleman reminded Mr. Mortimer that the van was at the door, and it was necessary to say what was to be done with the goods. He (the "legal gentleman") had an unoccupied office just now on his hands, and it was at Mr. Mortimer's service if——

An English thought shot across Mr. Mortimer's mind, and he rang the bell, and summoned his landlady. "Did she know of any upholsterer, or other tradesman in the neighbourhood, who could take care of a little furniture that was in the van at the door?" The landlady replied that she did, and Mr. Mortimer begged she would see it taken care of, in her own name.

The legal gentleman looked very sharply and earnestly at his watch,—when the landlady withdrew, and Mr. Mortimer again mentioned the wine. He, the "legal gentleman," really could not stay at that particular time: he had acted thus promptly in order to serve Mr. Mortimer, for he was aware of the vast importance of promptitude in national affairs, and Mr. Mortimer's particular business might most emphatically be termed a national affair, when its ultimate purpose was considered.

Mr. Mortimer could not press the gentleman under such circumstances, so began to write out a cheque for the amount of the bill. A sudden thought struck him, however, just as he had handed it to the gentleman.

"We must talk one point over, my dear sir," he said, "and that is, where must the paper be published? for you observed that there were already several small papers of an insignificant character in the county, and that they were published at different towns. Now where must my new paper be published, so as best to compete with one of them?"

The legal gentleman looked as if taken aback for a moment, but speedily answered, "Why not in London?"

"Hum!" replied Mr. Mortimer, musingly: "would not that be rather out of character? Might not the Kentish people deny that the paper was a Kentish paper at all, then?"

"Your plan, sir, is this," answered the solicitor, with the same air of unanswerable decision and discernment which he wore in the steamer;—"take a trip of observation through the whole county for yourself: it will cost you little, if you go shrewdly to work; and you will learn much, by the way, that will be of immense service to you, in the great undertaking itself: that's the likeliest way to find your fulcrum, as a clever mechanical friend of mine always says, and then plant your intellectual lever; and may it prove successful, sir, is my heart's best wish, in raising you speedily to the House of Commons!"

The legal gentleman rounded with a smile; but his speech needed no gilding for Mr. Mortimer: it went to the inmost chamber of his brain, with the speed and power of instant and undisturbable conviction; and he shook his adviser most fervently by the hand, and regretted, again and again, that the gentleman could not stay and spend the evening, but hoped he would have the pleasure of his company again, when he, Mr. Mortimer, had completed the little projected tour. The legal gentleman assured Mr. Mortimer he would feel honoured in accepting the invitation, and, with great politeness, withdrew.

Mr. Mortimer's Kentish tour was commenced the very next morning. He was in the street at Greenwich, as soon as the first train could arrive there, in its fifteen minutes' journey from the foot of London Bridge. Mr. Mortimer could, of course, think of no step so likely to be taken with a view to obtaining information, as calling at a respectable business-like inn. He had made a little inquiry in the railway carriage; and "The Mitre" and "The Greyhound" were recommended as highly respectable resorts of company. Mr. Mortimer bent his steps towards the Greyhound. He found the landlord to be a person of very frank and pleasing appearance, and of very courteous manners; but it was too early for company, so the tourist intimated that he would require dinner at such an hour, and went out to saunter a few hours about the Hospital and the Park. There seemed to be much that a person might be pleased with, he thought, amidst all that he saw; but his mind was fixed on obtaining information, and he could see no one walking in the Park, nor about the Hospital colonnades, that was at all likely, in his judgment, to tell him any thing about the desirableness or propriety of starting a newspaper at Greenwich. He passed several old pensioners, while in this discontented mood, sitting under the shade of the noble chestnut trees, some recounting their naval adventures while turning the quid, or smoking, and others reading. Suddenly, he observed that a veteran who was reclining alone was reading a newspaper; and the whim seized him to make a little inquiry in the line of his own pursuit, though he thought it a somewhat unlikely quarter from whence to obtain the information he was seeking.

"You are busy, I see, my friend," said Mr. Mortimer: "any particular news, just now?"

"Why no, sir?" answered the veteran, looking through his spectacles at the person who asked him the question: "every thing seems very dull, but you know they always fill the newspapers up with something,—what with things that happen and things that never did happen, and what with things that they invent, and things that they borrow."

"Do you read the papers much?" asked Mr. Mortimer, thinking the old man displayed shrewdness enough to deserve another question.

"Why, sir, I might read 'em more than I do, if I would," answered the veteran; "but I don't think it worth the trouble. This is a London paper, and I see it weekly. They publish two papers in Greenwich here, but they're neither of 'em worth looking at, according to my thinking. How they get supported I can't make out, for nobody thinks any thing of 'em; yet I heard a person say that there was strong talk of another being started by some gentleman that's disposed to fool his money away. 'Tis a pity but what somebody or other would advise him different, for it's the wildest scheme in the world, I think, to imagine that any newspaper can prosper in a place like this, that's so near London."

Mr. Mortimer felt as if he would have dropped into the earth, and had but just presence of mind left to bid the old pensioner "good morning," before he walked away to recover the blow thus given to his hopes. But he consoled himself by reflecting that it was a "mere vulgar old man" who had delivered this opinion,—one who was not at all likely to know what chance there was for the success of a newspaper enterprise, into which so many commercial and political interests and considerations must needs be woven. It must be a matter altogether beyond the scope and reach of a mere Greenwich pensioner. After restoring his own confidence in some degree, the tourist returned to his inn, dined, read the papers, and at length had the pleasure of seeing the evening company begin to gather. But Mr. Mortimer was resolved to make longer preliminary observation this time, ere he introduced the subject that most nearly concerned him. He was pleased to find, by attending to the tone of remarks, as the current subjects of Mahomet Ali, and Napier, and the Syrian question, were being discussed, that the two great parties of Whigs and Tories were fully represented in the room. He thought this a fortunate circumstance for himself, since he would be less likely to gather a biassed decision among the company, on his great newspaper question, when he thought the time was come for his introduction of it. And after waiting long, he did introduce it, cautiously concealing, as he thought, the fact, that he himself was desirous of commencing a Kentish paper. But Mr. Mortimer was not the cunningest man in the world, and more than one member of the company perceived his purpose before the close of the conversation.

"Vy, sir, you understand,"—began a very elderly person, of a portly figure, who seemed to be held in great respect by his companions, but who, by his dialect, had evidently been thrown among the least cultivated portion of the metropolitan population,—"you understand, that's a vay o' hembarking cappitle, as it vere, vich I vouldn't recommend, for von: for, by the same rule, you understand, another gen'lmans a-been thinking of it, and I said the same, you understand, to him."

But Mr. Mortimer did not understand; and he therefore made no reply.

"But it depends a good deal on the particular object the individual has in view who embarks the capital," observed a thin, keen-looking man: "if Captain Dundas, now, were to start a paper in Greenwich, it could not fail to answer his purpose."

"By the same rule," interjected the elderly person, "that's quite another affair, as it vere. The Captain, you understand,—and success to him say I, vith all my 'art!—the Captain, you understand, by the same rule, vouldn't care about the paper paying."

"Exactly," observed the bland landlord, reconciling the apparent difference of his guests; "so that that does not disprove your point."

"But pray, gentlemen," asked Mr. Mortimer, "may I ask what would be the particular object of Captain Dundas, if he were to start a new paper in your town?"

"O! Parliament, sir!—Parliament, of course!" quickly replied the thin, keen-looking man, with a very significant shake of the head.

Mr. Mortimer's blood beat quick with a rush of thoughts; but he resolved to be prudent, and so he said nothing; but he felt more than ever assured of the legal gentleman's intelligence who had first recommended his present errand, and he sank gently back, when he had sipped largely at his brandy and water, and pulled away vehemently at his cigar. "It is indeed the intellectual lever, as the gentleman said," reflected Mr. Mortimer within himself, "whereby a man may raise himself to the House of Commons: every intelligent man thinks so: but then—where to plant the fulcrum?"

So Mr. Mortimer rejoined the conversation, which was now in full tide respecting the relative chances of a new Whig, and a new Tory paper; and pressed the question very closely, whether, in the whole county of Kent, Greenwich were the more likely place to start a new paper. To this question there were many answers: one said it was a better place than Woolwich, where a new paper had just started; and another compared it with Gravesend; and others with Canterbury, and Dover; but there was a fair majority in the room for Greenwich;—yet, what chiefly puzzled Mr. Mortimer was the fact, that when he subjected his own doubt to the consideration of the company, as to whether the immediate proximity of Greenwich to London would not militate against the chances of prosperity for a new Greenwich paper, there were equal numbers, for and against. One circumstance particularly gratified Mr. Mortimer: the thin, keen-looking man strenuously maintained that the contiguity of Greenwich to London would be, and was, and must necessarily be, the strongest, the most advantageous point of view in which the whole question to be solved could be entered upon. The thin, keen-looking man said a great deal more,—but, somehow or other, Mr. Mortimer understood him less, the more he talked; and as the hour was advancing on midnight, Mr. Mortimer withdrew, resolving to turn the whole conversation over, and make up his mind in bed.

But Mr. Mortimer did not turn the conversation over there, for he had smoked and drank too much, in his earnestness, to keep awake one minute when he was fairly abed. Yet he dreamt wonderful things about the "Intellectual Lever,"—things that warmed and enraptured his fancy when he woke the next morning;—but nothing about the "fulcrum,"—so that he gained no help by his dreams towards making up his mind about publishing at Greenwich. It was "all right," however, Mr. Mortimer reflected, as he sat down to breakfast,—it was all right, that he did not make up his mind at the outset: it was most judicious to keep himself, mentally, in equilibrio, until he had been round the country, completed his tour of observation, and then put the merits and advantages of each town side by side,—so as to enable himself to draw a correct judgment.

If all Mr. Mortimer's thinkings were to be related, his story would be a very long one. Suffice it to say, that he, forthwith, set out for Lewisham, when he had breakfasted, and paid his bill, and bidden the landlord good-morning. From Lewisham Mr. Mortimer strode on to Bromley; and from Bromley, per stage-coach, he went to Sevenoaks, and the next day to Tunbridge, and to the Wells the following day. This was the route Mr. Mortimer had most sagaciously chalked out for himself,—he being thoroughly bent on making the complete circuit of the county. The "Intellectual Lever" he took care to mention whereever he went,—for he had now fully resolved to give his projected newspaper that name,—and he thought every one looked as pleased with it as he felt himself. Indeed, every one was delighted during the whole of this part of Mr. Mortimer's tour with the idea of a newspaper that was to take up the interests of parts of the county which, they assured him, had been so much neglected, notwithstanding they were so highly important. Equal delight and similar assurances greeted the ears of the projector at Cranbrook, and Tenterden, and Ashford, and Hythe, and Folkestone,—insomuch that Mr. Mortimer began to feel more than ever puzzled with the task of arranging, in his own mind, the astounding claims of importance preferred by the respectable denizens of the towns through which he passed,—ever announcing his design of planting the "Intellectual Lever"—when he should have found a "fulcrum."

At Dover, Mr. Mortimer made a longer halt, finding a most agreeable lodging at the Gun Hotel, and meeting, moreover, advisers of a determined character for "planting the Intellectual Lever" there: it was the key of England, these counsellors assured Mr. Mortimer: it was, really, the only natural "fulcrum" for the lever, seeing that it received the first continental news: it was, anciently, of so much importance; it was about to become of so much importance, by the formation of a grand new harbour, and by its new railway connection with London; and, above all, it sent two members to parliament. Mr. Mortimer was troubled, for the Dover counsellors assured him they would have nothing to do with a Greenwich paper: Greenwich was nothing to them; and as for the other towns through which the projector had passed, they only laughed to hear them mentioned.

"It must be Dover," thought Mr. Mortimer;—yet he had resolved to act prudently, and so he did not positively say so; but bidding his earnest advisers a very earnest farewell, mounted a daily conveyance for Deal and Walmer. There, he was assured by all with whom he conversed, that the "Intellectual Lever" must be published at Dover,—and then—and then—it could not fail to secure the entire patronage of Deal and Walmer! Mr. Mortimer thought the Deal and Walmer people talked somewhat inflatedly anent their straggling sea-side villages,—for so he was inclined to call them: but then, he reflected again, that they shared with Sandwich in returning two members to Parliament. To Sandwich he went, next day; but—what was the importance of any town he had visited compared with Sandwich—in the eyes of its little population? Mr. Mortimer was perplexed—greatly perplexed—for the little old town looked, to him, so very unimportant, and the claims of its inhabitants to political consideration were so lofty! Dover? yes, they thought Dover might do,—or Canterbury; but the "lever" must be planted in their neighbourhood. In fact, Mr. Mortimer perceived, clearly enough, that the Sandwichers would have liked to tell him, plainly, that Sandwich was the proper "fulcrum" for the "Intellectual Lever," but very shame withheld them.

The next day, the traveller went on in the same kind of daily conveyance—half-cab, half-cart—to Ramsgate. The journeying was very pleasant, in the neighbourhood of the sea, and the company very cheerful; but they were not of a character to understand much about levers and fulcrums,—so Mr. Mortimer said nothing about either, but listened rather than conversed.

Mr. Mortimer had been perplexed before,—but what could describe his perplexity, when he had spent a day each in Ramsgate and Margate? He was lectured rather than told,—by every company he joined,—on the absolute, the imperative necessity of regarding "the Isle of Thanet" in its proper light: every body was neglecting it: no one attended to it: their interests were vanishing: property was becoming of no value: any petty village in Kent could have its puffs and its praises, while their towns—the two most respectable watering-places in all England—were forgotten! Dover?—nonsense!—Canterbury was the place—if the gentleman did not like to venture on taking the Isle of Thanet for a fulcrum. But the gentleman must remain another day, and attend the grand "annual dinner of the Isle of Thanet," at the "Ranelagh Gardens;"—a delightful spot, Mr. Mortimer was assured it was: the gentleman would then be able to draw some more accurate conclusion as to the real importance of their distinct part of Kent. So Mr. Mortimer staid, and attended the dinner, and was much pleased, for a time. A London editor of a newspaper was there, it is true; and drew a little more attention than Mr. Mortimer was pleased to see; but then, the editor belonged to a daily paper, and Mr. Mortimer consoled himself with the belief that that would not stand in the way of his weekly "lever," when he had found the fulcrum, and planted it. But, alack! poor Mr. Mortimer—how did he feel during the last three hours of the feast;—for it was a protracted midnight affair, according to custom, elsewhere, in similar "annual" meetings;—how did poor Mr. Mortimer feel when, after all the usual "loyal toasts" had been drunk,—and the grand toast of the evening, the "prosperity" toast, came on,—an ambitious Ramsgate-man dared to put the name of his town before the name of Margate! Thunder and lightning! Etna and Vesuvius!—Was there ever any thing comparable to the rage that followed, and the denunciation, and the eloquent invective, so far transcending Chatham and Grattan and Brougham, and all the wielders of scathing sarcasm that ever breathed! Ten?—no! nor twenty pages—would not hold the speeches:—so 'tis to no purpose making more words about it: Mr. Mortimer was—to use a very expressive slang phrase or two—Mr. Mortimer was completely flummaxed and flabbergasted; or, as Jonathan would say—he was "struck all of a heap!" Mr. Mortimer's head reeled, and he said nothing,—no! not a word, as they crammed him into a carriage with half-a-dozen more, at midnight, to go back to Margate; though the reason might, partly, be, that he had tippled two bottles of sherry, and was asleep: but, suffice it to say, that, the next morning, Mr. Mortimer left Margate for Canterbury, more than ever puzzled with the immense problem of the "relative importance" of towns in Kent,—more than ever in a quandary as to where the true and indisputable "fulcrum" existed for "planting the intellectual lever."

Canterbury,—ah! Canterbury was a city he had often longed to see, and he had, more than once, half made up his mind to visit it, for mere curiosity. But, now, when his brains were in such a whirl with thinking about the lever, and finding such alarming difficulty in discovering the fulcrum—why he forgot Becket, and the Black Prince, and St. Augustine, and deferred all historical inquiries and all sight-seeing, and asked about nought but newspapers. "Newspapers, sir!"—exclaimed the landlord of the inn at which he alighted,—"newspapers!—why, Lord love ye! we have four published here in Canterbury, already!"

Mr. Mortimer stared more than ever he had stared in his life. "Four!" he echoed; "four! What sort o' papers are they, pray?"

"Sort o' papers, sir!" answered the landlord, "why very capital papers: three of 'em at least,—them as is heddited by Mr. Mudford, a werry clever man, sir."

"Mudford!—what—Mudford that used to edit the Courier?"

"The werry same gen'lman, sir," answered the cockney landlord.

Mr. Mortimer turned pale. "And the other paper?" he said, by way of question.

"Oh! that, sir, is a low radical affair—"The Kent Herald;"—but I don't belong to that party, though they're werry strong here; and the paper sells well, they say."

Mr. Mortimer sat down, and tried to think. He sipped a pint of sherry, and munched a couple of biscuits, and he did think; for the result was, that he took coach in another hour, and set off for Chatham and Rochester.

And now, Mr. Mortimer, singularly enough, rose from zero to fever heat, in his hopes and resolves about the fulcrum and the intellectual lever. "The four towns," as the Chatham people told him,—Strood, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, united as they were, lying around the basin of the Medway, filled with trading enterprise, blending so many great interests,—the dockyard, the soldiers' barracks, the hulks, the Dissenters, so all-powerful in Chatham, the Jew brokers, the cigar smugglers (or makers rather), the corporation of Rochester and its two members, and Chatham and its one member of Parliament, the cathedral, and the castle in ruins,—were all thrown upon Mr. Mortimer in such clustered phrases of inviting importance, that he completely lost his "rules of prudence," and proclaimed in a tone very like a shout, and very like Archimedes, only he didn't speak Greek,—"I have found it!" Yes: Mr. Mortimer declared he had found it; found the fulcrum for the lever, and the new newspaper should be published at Chatham: the forty thousand inhabitants of the four towns, he said, were surely able to support a paper themselves. He was decided, he declared he was.

Mr. Mortimer's resolution was confirmed beyond the possibility of change, he felt assured, by a little voyage in the steamer to Sheerness. Chatham was "just the place," the Sheerness people assured him, for the publication of a paper, and they would support it; in fact, it would have the support of "the whole Isle of Sheppy!" Mr. Mortimer was exhilarated,—nay, he was exultant; and, although he had determined only to stay an hour in Sheerness, and then get on board a steamer for returning up the Thames, he was so pleased that he remained all day, and drank as hard, in his earnestness, as he had at the "Ranelagh Gardens" in the Isle of Thanet.

Mr. Mortimer had but one call now to make, in order to complete the line of Kentish survey,—circle, rather, which he had so sagaciously laid down for himself; and he, accordingly, got out at Gravesend, the next morning, as he was proceeding in the packet on the Thames. Not that Mr. Mortimer thought Gravesend of great importance, but it might be as well, he said within himself, to call there. Unfortunate Mr. Mortimer! what did he know of the "relative importance" of the towns of Kent? Landlords, company, shopkeepers, loungers of all grades, in fact, every body, insisted that Gravesend was the only place in Kent where a paper could possibly prosper! People little thought of the real worth of Gravesend. "But you have no member of parliament," said poor Mr. Mortimer, feeling all his old tribulation returning. What then? it was answered: they had a corporation, and two piers, and two packet companies, with eternal war between the piers and the companies,—war that shook the whole bank of the Thames, and was even perceived to have caused sundry vibrations in London bridge itself, where "the companies'" packets landed their passengers. Besides, they had had a paper in Gravesend once,—"The Journal,"—and it prospered; but no sooner was it removed to Greenwich than it became worthless. That ought to be a convincing proof to Mr. Mortimer that Gravesend was the proper, the only fulcrum for his intellectual lever. Above all,—Gravesend was now become "London in parvo,"—a fine, well-fed and well-dressed gentleman observed: genteel people,—he meant prosperous merchants,—removed their families thither for the entire summer season, and just took the run with the steamers to London and back, morning and evening, to transact business: the metropolis possessed its finest suburb in the rising and extending and rapidly-improving town of Gravesend!—and the company cheered the gentleman's speech most enthusiastically,—and, poor Mr. Mortimer! he was, more than ever, confounded, puzzled, bothered, perplexed, flummaxed, and flabbergasted! He could not return to London that day: that was as clear as the sun at noon,—although the "fulcrum" question was become so disastrously dim, since he left Chatham and Sheerness. Nay, Mr. Mortimer staid at Gravesend even the whole of the following day; and the more people he saw—(and he saw no end of new faces,—in fact, they appeared to him, in his puzzled condition, to spring out of the earth—though the fact was they came in fresh shoals by the packet every morning, noon, and night, from town,)—the more people he saw, the more he was told that Gravesend was the place wherein he ought to publish "The Intellectual Lever:" that there he could lift all Kent, and get himself returned,—the conclusion, he thought, ought to be,—for any Kentish borough he chose to represent!

"Well," said Mr. Mortimer to himself, as he was dressing on the fourth morning of his stay in Gravesend: "it is strange—certainly."

Mr. Mortimer would have said more to himself,—but he just then happened to be glancing down into the street, as he was tying his neckerchief, and seeing an omnibus going by,—one of the regular and frequent conveyances from Gravesend to Chatham,—that run the eight miles with passengers,—he read upon one of its sides—"Meets conveyances to Maidstone."

"Why, what in the world has possessed me, all this time?" exclaimed Mr. Mortimer, aloud, although he was alone,—"what in the world has possessed me, that I have been going round Kent, and calling at every little hole without thinking of Maidstone,—the county town, where the assizes are held,—in the very core and centre of the shire?"

There was no one to answer Mr. Mortimer,—but he was down stairs in another minute,—besought the landlord to stop the omnibus,—paid his bill,—and set off, breakfastless, for Maidstone, by way of Chatham. Mr. Mortimer was resolved he would have his own unbiassed judgment this time, and so called on no one at Chatham or Rochester.

Maidstone—finished Mr. Mortimer! A new newspaper for Kent?—why, every one assured him it was of all schemes the most foolish. The "Maidstone Gazette," on the Whig side, was edited by Mr. Whiting, a gentleman of real talent, swarmed with advertisements, and had a good circulation: the "Maidstone Journal," on the Conservative side, was rising into favour and patronage, with its own party: these were the two real representatives of Kent: there was no room for another paper: fools might speculate, in any corner, to please knaves, and throw their money away: there was no full growth of radicalism, as in the manufacturing districts: London was so near at hand that its daily papers and literary periodicals supplied every want:—in short, every man of any pretensions to common sense assured Mr. Mortimer, if he desired to throw away his fortune, his projected "lever" was the very instrument to enable him to throw it away effectually,—if he chose Kent for the "fulcrum!"

Mr. Mortimer returned to London an altered man. He believed he had been "humbugged;" and so it proved. He tried to find "the solicitor," but no such person was to be found at the house he had pencilled down on his tablets. "Ah!" thought Mr. Mortimer, as he returned towards the West end,—"how lucky it was that I bethought me not to let the fellow place the types and the press in his 'office,' as he called it!" Mr. Mortimer resolved to sell the materials, get back his hundred pounds, and give up the scheme. He sent for an appraiser. The press was only fit to burn, and the types had to be sold for old metal!!—

Mr. Mortimer is not in parliament yet.

NICHOLAS NIXON, "GENTLEMAN,"

WHO COULD NOT UNDERSTAND WHY, BUT WHO KNEW "IT WAS SO."

Dullness was well nigh at the meridian of her reign in old Lincoln. In the solemn "precincts" of the cathedral the humble bees seemed almost afraid to disturb the solitude by a hum; and venerable maiden ladies had no vicissitude of existence, save an occasional scold at their servants, or a grumbling complaint of "short measure" to the coalman as he made his weekly call. And, indeed, the rest of the city was most autumnally tame and uninteresting. The fashionables were at the watering-places,—the throng of the working population was in the fields,—and while one tradesman complained, with a yawn, to his neighbour, that there was "nothing doing, and no money stirring," the other invariably rejoined, "No, nor won't be, till after harvest!"—and then imitated his neighbour in stretching his mouth from ear to ear.

In fact, the only interesting people you met were those who endeavoured to keep you awake by collecting and pouring out several dull, disagreeable, or doleful subjects in a breath; such as the relation of the robbery of such a tradesman's shop at noon-day,—the thieves having taken advantage of the extreme dullness of the time to effect their villainous scheme;—or, the accident of the poor-fellow, the bricklayer's assistant, falling from the top of his ladder, with the hod on his head, and being taken up to the hospital;—coupled with the "remarkable fact" that he was the second husband of a poor woman whose first fell from a pear-tree, and was killed, leaving her with a large family;—with an additional half-score of disasters, if your nerves or inclination would permit you to stay and learn the sum-total of the catalogue.

Nicholas Nixon, "gentleman," had dwelt threescore years in the venerable city; that is to say, the whole of his life, and had kept decent state as a householder among the genteel people of the Minster-yard, for at least half of the term. Living "retired," on a yearly income, and passing each successive day of his existence in an almost unvaried routine of eating, washing, dressing, walking, and sleeping, one would have thought that all seasons of the year would have become equally agreeable or indifferent to him. But Mr. Nixon was too true a Minster-yard cit either to feel or to affect indifference in a matter that, he knew, drew forth so much dull comment among his fellow-citizens, as did the dullness of the autumn season.

"Really, Mr. Subdean," said he to that cathedral dignitary, as he overtook him, by the County Hospital, at the top of the "Steep Hill," in the forenoon of one of these drowsy days, "I think our autumns grow duller and duller every year: I'm sure you must feel it to be a bore that you are in residence this latter end."

"I feel it to be a little dull to be among you, at this time of the year, Mr. Nixon," replied the subdean, "but still it is an agreeable change."

"I am glad you can think so, sir," rejoined Gentleman Nixon;—for that was the mode by which he was usually distinguished from the several tradesmen Nixons who inhabited the city,—"I am glad you can bring yourself to think so: for my own part, I feel it to be very dull, very dull, indeed!—Are you for a walk to the Bar, sir?"

"I am, Mr. Nixon: shall I have the pleasure of your company?" was the rejoinder of the courteous and kind-natured clergyman.

"I shall be most happy, Mr. Subdean: I feel very highly honoured, sir: I——"

"And what is the best news, stirring, Mr. Nixon?" asked the subdean, desirous of cutting short the retired gentleman's flourish of politeness.

"Well, sir," answered Mr. Nicholas, very quickly, "I think the best news is that the poor freemen have had the spirit to stop this mushroom scheme of the town council to turn the West Common into a botanical garden. They are a mischievous set, these Below-hill Whig-radicals, depend upon it, Mr. Subdean: we shall have need to look sharp after 'em."

The churchman was full well acquainted with Gentleman Nixon's undeviating adherence to the "Pink" partisanship,—that is to say, Sibthorpian, or "House-of-Canwick" side of politics, which was most prevalent "Above-hill"—the division of old Lincoln comprising the habitations situate around the ancient castle and magnificent cathedral, and beyond which the Roman city did not extend. The subdean, I say, knew well that Mr. Nixon was among the most unchanging of the well-nigh changeless denizens in this elevated region: he knew that Mr. Nicholas professed the highest, the most exclusive toryism; and therefore he showed no signs of surprise at the uncharitable manner in which Mr. Nicholas chose to express himself upon the question of the political morality displayed by the citizens dwelling in the lower region; and yet the clergyman, by one gentle word, excited great surprise in Mr. Nicholas Nixon.

"I really don't think the new corporation are intentionally mischievous," said he; "I have no doubt they mean well: 'tis reckoned to be an age of improvements, you know, Mr. Nixon, and they must be in the fashion."

"'Pon my honour, sir, I don't understand the rule by which you distinguish between mischievous deeds and intentions," sharply observed Mr. Nicholas: "I always think that when a number of men deliberately attempt mischief they mean it."

"I think their scheme would have been less objectionable had they proposed that each of the poor freemen should have cultivated a little plot of garden ground for himself on the common," observed the churchman, by way of parrying the citizen's strong remark.

"But the law would not permit that, in my opinion, any more than the other," said the retired gentleman: "besides, the fact is just this, sir: once permit these reforming gentry to begin their schemes of improvement, and one acre after another would disappear from the corporate tenure of the freemen,—until, the property becoming individual, it would quickly be bought for a dog's price, by one or other of these liberals who have longer purses and more knavish heads than the rest of their neighbours."

"I hope none of the new corporation are such men as you are speaking of," said the subdean: "you know, Mr. Nixon, I neither go along with them nor their party; but I do not like to be uncharitable."

"Uncharitable! nonsense, sir!" exclaimed the exclusive cit, forgetting his courtesy, through bigoted partisanship: "I do not hold these fellows to be at all deserving of a charitable opinion, for I believe them capable of any wickedness. Why, sir, as Mr. Christopher shrewdly observed on the hustings in the castle-yard at the last county contest, while he pointed to the venerable Minster, 'These fellows would turn that sacred and time-hallowed building into a cotton-mill to-morrow if they had the power.' I believe he hit the mark there, sir, for he made the liberals very sore, I assure you," and Mr. Nicholas Nixon chuckled with a vindictive pleasure as he ended.

"If I did not excuse Mr. Christopher from a knowledge of the rash speeches which excitement and opposition impel country gentlemen to deliver on the hustings," rejoined the clergyman, looking somewhat grave, "I could not hesitate to censure him for making so offensive a remark. I do not see any good to be done by this fierce spirit of quarrel—but much evil."

"Pardon me, Mr. Subdean," persisted Gentleman Nixon, "but I really must say that I think if all of us were as tamely disposed as yourself, the church would soon tumble over your ears."

"I think nothing can tend to build it up so securely, Mr. Nixon," returned the dignitary, with a smile, "as showing the world that we, as ministers of the church, are the truest friends of mankind,—the readiest and most cheerful toilers for human happiness. You know I never like to talk politics, in any shape; I would much rather hear you and other gentlemen propose some plan for making the poor more comfortable in their circumstances,—or join you in any little scheme for amusing them. Do you attend the concerts of these young working-men in St. Peter's church, Mr. Nixon?"

"Sir, I take the liberty to tell you plainly," persevered the heated "Pink" partisan, "that the easy good-nature of such kind-hearted people as yourself, and the indolence of our most respectable citizens Above-hill, go far to make it nearly impossible, already, to recover any degree of influence in city affairs. We are almost a lost party: the Blues have it all their own way,—and although you must be aware they are bent on ruining the poor entirely, under the mask of helping them, yet you will not lend a hand to oppose them——"

"But am I not telling you, my dear sir," interrupted the subdean, "that I think all the quarrels in the world can never convince mankind—the poor as well as the rest—that the quarrellers are the friends of mankind? If the Blue party be so bitterly bent on ruining the poor, as you say they are—let us carry relief into the houses of the poor always in the spirit of benevolence, and never as an act to oppose a party. If we look at the very persons we have to relieve, I think we may learn to do this,—for indeed, Mr. Nixon, there is no denying but that the poor are much more skilful in discerning the motives of those who visit them with charitable professions, than they were some years ago."

"Why, sir, what with Methodist cant on the one hand, and demagoguism on the other, the poor are spoilt," replied Mr. Nicholas, in the same tart spirit: "they have the impudence, now-a-days, to pry into the conduct of all ranks and conditions: your cloth does not screen you from their envious inquisitiveness; and they make all kinds of offensive and sneering remarks on respectable people. And then, their pride! Why now, Mr. Subdean, here we are, nearly at St. Botolph's bar, and not a single poor man has paid you a mark of respect, all the way we have walked! Take my word for it, sir,—forty years ago if I had been honoured to walk down the street with a cathedral dignitary, I should have seen every poor man that we met touch his hat to him! I ask you, sir, what is to come of such a state of things?" concluded Mr. Nicholas, in a very earnest and emphatic tone.

The churchman fairly burst into laughter; and had it been any other than a Minster grandee, Gentleman Nixon would have been highly irritated by his mirth. As it was, he began to suspect himself of folly, for having carried his opposition to such an extremity in a merely friendly dialogue.

"Come now, Mr. Nixon," resumed the subdean, in a tone of pleasant expostulation, "does not this very circumstance, of the striking change in manners that you have alluded to, convince you that the hostile course is unwise? Do you expect, now, that the poor can be brought to observe the same outwardly submissive courtesies that their fathers practised when you and I were young?"

"Well, I must confess, I do not," tardily—but perforce of conviction—Mr. Nicholas made answer.

"It would be foolish to expect it, Mr. Nixon," continued the clergyman; "and as they will continue to keep the course they have commenced outwardly, so will they grow in the habit of scrutinising the conduct of those above them. I think the time is nearly at hand when neither Blues nor Pinks, nor any other shade of political party, will be able to raise excitements by attempting to persuade the poor, that these are designing to cheat them, while those are their disinterested and sympathising friends. The times are changed, for the English people are changed: we cannot deny it, since we have here a proof of it, Mr. Nixon."

"That we have, too truly, Mr. Subdean!" echoed Mr. Nicholas, and sighed very dolorously.

"Nay, I do not think there is any cause for regret, in all this," observed his cheerful and more enlightened acquaintance; "whatever severe causes may have operated to produce it, no philanthropist can regret that there is discernible the commencement of a spirit of self-respect on the part of the poor. We are all equal in the sight of our Maker, you know, my friend; and for my part I assure you, I do not desire that the old usages of servility should be resumed, and the great first law of human brotherhood be again lost sight of—for, I suspect, that was too often the fact while the brother in superfine cloth received such frequent obeisance from the brother in ragged linen."

"I must again say you surprise me greatly, sir," observed Gentleman Nixon, beginning again to recover his belligerent humour.

"But do not be surprised, Mr. Nixon," answered the churchman, instantly and persuasively: "the world has changed, though you remain an honest Tory, and——"

"And you have become a Whig, sir, I fear," observed Mr. Nicholas, while his face and throat began to assume the hue of a distempered turkey-cock.

"No, Mr. Nixon, a Conservative, if you please."

"All the same," said the retired gentleman, but with a subsidence of his mettle; "scarcely any thing but a distinction without a difference."

"To speak the broad truth," resumed the clergyman, "there are but very few now, who boast themselves,—as you do, Mr. Nixon, most honestly,—to be Tories. Nor are you very far from right in your belief of the resemblance of some other parties,—for the old Whig and the modern Conservative are nearly akin. The modern Whig would also have been a Radical some few years ago, while the hotter advocates for change have also considerably enlarged their demands."

"And do you pretend to tell me, Mr. Subdean," asked Mr. Nicholas, very impatiently, "that you and others are any other than madmen to yield to this jacobinical spirit of change?—I say jacobinical—the plain word that my father used, and that I believe to be the best word."

"But I do not believe it to be the best word, my dear sir," repeated the subdean, and took the hand of the retired gentleman with a smile,—seeing they were about to separate; "I believe we should be madmen indeed if we did not yield wisely to this spirit of change. You will never find me among the advocates of rash and hasty changes, Mr. Nixon; but I repeat—change has begun,—and if we do not yield to it wisely, it will speedily proceed more rashly and hastily than any of us would wish to see. All parties are amalgamating, for they are blending names; and all ranks are converging to a common point, where rank will be forgotten. Forty years ago you could not have imagined that a cathedral dignitary would have walked from the 'Chequer Gate to St. Botolph's Bar, and not one of the hundreds of poor men he met ever touch their hat to him;—and yet you have walked with me every inch of the way this morning, and seen every poor man pass by without showing the subdean any more respect than he shows to one of his ragged neighbours:—you have seen this, Mr. Nixon, and you cannot deny that it was so. Good morning, sir!"

"Good morning, sir!" echoed Mr. Nicholas Nixon, though it was somewhat vacantly. And thrice he turned to look after the clergyman when they had separated,—stunned and confounded as he felt at what the dignitary had said; and then wondered how it could be! But the more Mr. Nicholas wondered, the less he could comprehend what he wondered at. He knew that he himself was what he was thirty years ago,—the same old-fashioned Tory, who, even then, lived each day alike, in the same house in the Minster-yard; but as for the subdean and many others, though he perceived they had changed, he could not comprehend why:—all that he could comprehend was,—that it was so.

SIGNS OF THE TIMES;

OR,
ONE PARSON AND TWO CLERKS.

It was at the very time,—for History is notoriously fond of synchronisms for her greatest events,—witness Mycale and Platæa, fought and won on the self-same day,—it was at the very time that Papineau and the Canadian rebels took up swords and guns to resist Sir John Colborne and the English troops,—that the old women of Stow, in the parts of Lindsey, took up eggs to pelt the parish parson!

All the world knows, or if it doth not know it has profited but little by the industry of antiquarians, that Stow, in the division of Lindsey, and eight miles north-and-by-west of Lincoln, was an ancient Roman station, under the euphonic appellation of Sidnacester; that under that name it was the seat of a Saxon bishopric; that although Remigius de Feschamp, one of the Norman tyrant's fighting churchmen, transferred the seat of the diocese to Lincoln, yet when the stately cathedral which he founded was finished, while they placed his episcopal effigy on one of the grand pinnacles of the imposing west front, they fixed the grotesque image of "the Swineherd of Stow" (holding in his hand the horn which he gave filled with silver pennies, towards building the Minster,) on the other; that the episcopal palace of Stow was the favourite residence of the bishops of Lincoln down to the close of the fourteenth century, and that Stow still gives title to an archdeacon; lastly, that its venerable-looking church, dedicated to the blessed Virgin, constructed in the form of the Holy Rood, and adorned with a west door of decayed Gothic grandeur, is, to this day, called "the Mother of Lincoln Minster."

Now such being the distinctions of Stow itself, of course the "Perpetual Curate" of Stow, on receiving the awful impressment of episcopal hands, and the mysterious investiture of canonical habits, together with the comfortable appointment of the patron to the vacant curacy, entered on the discharge of his spiritual functions with strong notions of the altitude of his office, and of the plenary powers attached thereto. The ideas of the governed, however, in these days, somehow or other, don't happen to preserve an equal altitude, respecting office, with those of the governors; and the new Perpetual Curate of Stow, the successor to the once vice-regal priests of Sidnacester, was stricken with ghostly astonishment at finding that sundry rustics of his parish cared not a bodle for his new authority; that they snapped their fingers at his counsel and reproofs; and, setting at nought his college learning, preferred lending their ears to the unlearned Wesleyan local preachers,—a race of heretics who are so vulgar and unfashionable as to follow the example of Paul, and other vulgar workers of old, who earned their bread with the labour of their own hands, and yet, occasionally, ministered in word and doctrine. In the very nature of things this was unsavoury to a clergyman,—especially to a young one,—but more especially to one who actually stood in the shoes, speaking spiritually, of the princely and potential bishops of Sidnacester: it was not for him, above all established teachers in the shire, to endure such contemptuous preferences, and by that endurance permit heresy to bud and blossom unchecked.

Now, a neighbouring reverend brother of his, the fox-hunting shepherd of Willingham, was also very grievously pestered with these energetic heretics,—and he had resorted to the ancient evangelical custom of thundering forth anathemas against them from his pulpit: but that only seemed to render the pestiferous teachers more successful,—so the Perpetual Curate of Stow resolved to exert the whole power of his wit in discovering some effectual way of doing, what his zealous and pious brother of Willingham could not do,—driving out heresy, and subduing the rebellious spirit of his flock. So to work the Perpetual Curate went with his wit, and a profound mine he wrought: such a mine as would, no doubt, have blown up heresy for ever in his parish, had he ever been able to put the match to it: so profound, that, since his scheme was frustrated, no one has ever been able to fathom it, and, therefore, nobody can tell anybody what it really was. But how was it that a scheme so profound, so workmanlike, so masterly, did not succeed? Alas! how often in this frail humanity of ours do the most exalted enterprises fail, yea, often by the unexpected resistance of the very instruments on which we think we can most unerringly and safely depend! And thus it was with the great Perpetual Curate: he was most magnanimously bent on subduing revolt and heresy, when, lo! even Sir Amen, his clerk, lifted up his heel against him!

Now this was a notable event of a very auspicious character for the revolters. Clerk William Middleton was no ordinary clerk. Gervase Middleton, his father, had been clerk before him. Clerk William Middleton had, therefore, an important hereditary stamp upon him. And then, he was a schollard, as the old women called it, and was so gentle, that he was never known to hurt a worm; so moral, that he was never seen drunk in his life; so religious, that he never used a stronger oath than "Marry good faith!" and "By'r Lady!" (old oaths of popish times that are not yet lost in old Lincolnshire); and so upright, that he would not deny his conscience, even for the parson! This was no ordinary auxiliary on the side of the enemy; and there was no wonder that it put the Perpetual Curate, for a while, to his wit's end, to hear the reports which were brought to him by one Spurr (who was spurred on by his own inward aims to reach Sir Amen's office), of the stout and unflinching and open assertions made in the streets of Stow, by Clerk William Middleton, that the Methodists had as much right to preach as the parson! It was heresy he did not expect from such a quarter; but he was resolved he would be even with this member of the revolt, however; so he played a master-stroke so suddenly, that it shook the whole parish like an earthquake: he actually un-clerked Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase, the old, learned, hereditary, gentle, moral, upright, pious, and religious parish-clerk!!!

This was a most unprecedented and most unexpected event; and it gave rise, as may be guessed it would, to a mighty concatenation of stupendous occurrences. The spirit of the Perpetual Curate was roused, and his genius, too, as was proved by his statesmanlike blow at the ring-leader of the rustic confederacy; and the spirit of the parishioners was roused likewise, for they were determined that, although the parson might appoint a new clerk, they would stick by the old one. The ensuing Sunday, accordingly, brought forth the strange anomaly of one parson with two clerks, reading the church service in the ancient aisle of Stow! Moreover, when the chosen of the Perpetual Curate was beheld to be the egregious tale-bearer and notorious sycophant, Spurr, who was no adept at the letters of his prayer-book, the churchwarden and parishioners were alike wroth, and resolved, still more resolutely, on abiding by their old respected utterer of amens, Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase. Thus it fell out that Clerk Spurr,—we know not, nor care we, what was his pronomen, or "christened" name, as they call it in Lincolnshire; whether it were Moses or Mahershalalhashbaz, Nahum or Nebuchadnezzar, Jeremiah or Judas Iscariot, we cannot tell, nor doth it concern the dignity of this our record, to say with positiveness,—for the fellow was but as a buzzard to a sparrow-hawk, when compared with the rightful clerk; but thus it fell out, that Clerk Spurr was called "the Parson's Clerk," while Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase, bore the creditable and legitimate epithet of "the Parish Clerk."

And, then, it came to pass that, when announcements of christenings, burials, or marriages, had to be made, the parishioners, in the spirit of their preference, commissioned their own clerk, "the Parish Clerk," to inform his Reverence the Perpetual Curate of the same, and to request the fulfilment of the accustomed rites. But the cooler the parishioners grew towards "the Parson's Clerk," the hotter did the parson grow towards his parishioners. He scorned to compromise his sacerdotal dignity by attempting a reconciliation with the unruly spirits by which he was surrounded: he spurned the ignoble example of the ancient worthies who thought the first and last part of Christianity was meekness and long-suffering; and he meditated a still more afflictive stroke of retaliation on his spiritual rebels.

Clerk William Middleton conveyed a request to his spiritual superior from a sorrowing villager to bury his dead child;—but the grand Perpetual Curate would not fulfil the request because it was brought him by the discarded, though old, hereditary Amen,—and adjourned, in dudgeon, to the hamlet of Coates,—while the poor villager's child was put into its grave,—as every child of such rebels deserved to be put,—like a dog,—without a prayer being read, or a hope expressed about its resurrection!

This circumstance sank deeply into the minds of the Stow revolters: it was a something that had never been heard of a clergyman in the memory of man,—at least at Stow in the parts of Lindsey: it made their skin creep, and the very "hair of their flesh to stand up,"—for they were simple, unsophisticated sort of people, and, therefore, all strong mental emotions had the same effects upon their physical frames, as the author of "Job" and Homer describe in their days. But the strong feeling did not evaporate through the pores of their skin, especially with the more noble, though tenderer, sex: they laid their heads together to do such a deed upon a parson as had never been done upon one since the name of parson had been known in Stow. In a short time another message had to be despatched to the Perpetual Curate: a woman had to be churched, and a child to be buried, on the same afternoon,—and, judging from the former example, the villagers conjectured that his Reverence would "make himself scarce" after the churching, and leave this child, also, unburied. And now, a valorous army of the female gender, their pockets plentifully provided with plenipotent ammunition of eggs, formed themselves, in heroic ambuscade, near the church door, purposing right courageously to assail the clerical enemy, if he should haughtily refuse the offices of Christian sepulture to the deceased child. "Enterprises of great pith and moment," however, as the immortal one saith, often "their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action." So it was in this ambuscade so gloriously planned. The clerical enemy wisely capitulated: his clerk, "the Parson's Clerk," preceded the Perpetual Curate from the church, as a herald of moderation, assuring the armed battalion that his reverence would peaceably inter the child; and, forthwith, some of the gallant troop immediately grounded their arms, while others preferred throwing them to a distance,—in token that they put away all hostile thoughts far from them.

And here, perchance, this chivalrous history might have ended, had not the demon of Litigation, who was doubtless hovering near the field of intended affray, taken the case into his own foul hands. Some part of the rejected artillery chanced to alight upon the garments of "the Parson's Clerk's" wife, and of the Perpetual Curate's servant-maid. It was in vain that the members of the ambuscade protested this mishap to be owing in no degree to their intent:—the parson commenced an action at law against the entire petticoat regiment, or its ringleaders, for "assault and battery."

Another untoward event thickened the quarrel, and doubled the action at law; but the event itself cannot be so distinctly related as the last, seeing it occurred in the dark, while the female ambuscade was planted by broad daylight. The successor of the bishops, bearing a staff instead of a crosier, and his chosen Amen, bearing a hayfork, chanced to meet two youths connected with the revolters, one evening after dusk, in the churchyard. Who gave the primal assault cannot be positively affirmed, for it is not over safe to speak closely after the parties in a squabble, when there are no other witnesses. However, a fight certainly took place, even among the tombs of the dead; and so high did the wrath of the belligerent Clerk Spurr rise in the conflict, that a cottager, neighbouring to the church, heard with alarm, even at his own door, the said clerkly warrior threaten to stab his opponent with the hayfork! Ere the cottager could quit his door, up came the parson and demanded help; but the cottager honestly told the parson "he would look better at home." His Reverence then sought "help" at the blacksmith's shop, but there, also, no one thought he needed it,—and so he retreated to his lodgings.

Such, in a few words, was the cause of the double action at law; and, at the ensuing Kirton sessions, the two youngsters who had either cudgelled the parson, or had been cudgelled themselves, together with the ringleaders of the famous female ambuscade, were together tried for "assault and battery." But the wrathful parson did not get his will: the affair was so ludicrous that he was compelled to consent that it should be "hushed up."

To hush up the heart-burnings of the parties, on their return to the seat of war, was, however, not so easy a matter. Above all things, did it now become a difficult task to keep peace between the rival clerks. Passing by the many minor occasions wherein fiery frowns and black glances were exchanged, this history, which we must abridge, through dread of being adjudged tedious, conducts us to another notable event, which became the subject of another "action-at-law," at a succeeding Kirton Quarter Sessions.

The funeral of a parishioner was about to take place, and the friends of the deceased "particularly requested" that Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase,—the true "Parish Clerk,"—the old, hereditary, and established, and legitimate pronouncer of conclusive amens,—might give the responses at this funeral. Clerk Spurr, the "Parson's Clerk," however, determined on contesting the point;—and—a struggle for the old folio prayer-book actually took place in the church!

Here, again, was a sight that had never been beheld, or dreamt of, before, in the parish of Stow: but as strange and indecorous a sight as it was, it was one that many a rural spectator declared he wouldn't have missed for a quart of ale!—The very mourners for the dead were compelled to hide their laughing faces with their white handkerchiefs,—for the grotesque wrestling of the rival clerks, and their looks of rage, as they together grasped and tugged at the prayer-book, put weeping out of the question. The parson had got through—"I said I will take heed to my ways,"—and wanted to begin—"Lord, thou hast been our refuge,"—but there stood the wrestlers, grasping, and pulling, and panting, and sweating,—and it was a most difficult thing to say which would be likely to beat. Many a stout farmer that shook his sides,—for the laugh became broad and general, in spite of the solemnity of the occasion,—longed to shout out, "A crown to a groat upon Middleton!"—but restrained himself. At length,—the genuine, hereditary spirit of the true "Parish Clerk" prevailed!—he possessed the book: the "Parson's Clerk" sought a seat, to take his breath;—and Clerk William, panting, and wiping the streaming perspiration from his comely and heroic brow, proceeded to echo the "Confession" after the Perpetual Curate.

Such was the cause of the "action" brought by Spurr (at the direction, and by the ghostly advice of the Perpetual Curate) against Middleton at the succeeding sessions,—an action of "assault committed by the said Middleton upon him the said Spurr, while in the performance of duty." The jury, on this occasion,—to make short of the narrative,—sat till eleven at night,—the Court rang with laughter for hours,—and the affair was, at last, got rid of,—by some legal resort, and Spurr (or his advisers) were saddled with costs. That was a conclusion that "gravelled" Spurr, as he said, on leaving the Court; and the Perpetual Curate was also "gravelled"—though he did not use the same expression; and they each showed it, soon after their second return to the old seat of war. But another slight event must first be chronicled, ere the several succeeding and exalted doings of the "Parson's Clerk" and the Perpetual Curate are narrated.

Thomas Skill, was a skilful yeoman of good report, holding two farms in the ancient parish of Stow; and although he eschewed all heresy and dissent, and willed to worship after the fashion of his forefathers,—who had been creditable yeomen in Stow from time immemorial,—yet liked he not of the wayward doings of his Reverence the Perpetual Curate. Now it chanced that on a certain Sunday in November that the said Skill the skilful went, as was his pious and religious wont, to pay his devotions according to law, in the parish church of Stow, the ancient and venerated sanctuary of his forefathers. As a holder of two farms, be it observed, this creditable yeoman had a right, by the customs of this rural district, to two pews; nevertheless, being by no means a person of an unreasonable disposition, he was content, on that day, to occupy but one, if so be that he might be allowed to worship quietly. Nevertheless, scarcely was he seated, ere a certain Jesse Ellis, an aged man of some rural rank as a master-husband-man who had been selected by the Perpetual Curate as his churchwarden, came up to the pew-door, said "he was ordered to pull Skill out," and, forthwith, attempted to put the "order" into execution. Did Skill the skilful resist?—Did he yield? No, no: he knew a trick worth two of either. He had not his name for nought! When Ellis laid his grasp vehemently on the pew-door, skilful Skill held it fast for a few moments, and then skilfully let it go,—all in a moment,—so that the vehement Ellis, by the vehemence of his grasp and the rebound of the pew-door, was overthrown; and there he lay,—he, the parson's own churchwarden,—on the floor of the aisle of Stow church, in the time of "divine service," with the congregation from their seats and pews, and the Perpetual Curate, from his reading-desk, and Clerk Spurr, the "Parson's Clerk," and Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase, squeezing one another in the desk below, and yet looking on, and all looking on, at his signal defeat and overthrow: there he "lay vanquished—confounded;"—like Milton's Satan, sprawling on the "fiery gulf," when all the fallen angels were sprawling there likewise, but yet looking on and shaking their heads at him for a rash captain—no doubt!

Then appeared Skill the skilful, and Ellis the sprawler, before a bench of "Her Majesty's Justices of the Peace for the parts of Lindsey," in the Moothall of Gainsborough; where the justices acted with sense and discernment, and dismissed the sprawler's suit, saddling him with costs. An end might have come to this episode here; but the sprawler and his son were people of spirit, and were so much dissatisfied with this decision of the justices, that they went home muttering all the way about law, and declaring to every one they met, that they "would yet have it." And so skilful Skill thought it wise and prudent to let them "have it;" and, therefore, from mere neighbourly good humour, commenced his action, in turn, against the said Jesse Ellis for attempting to pull him out of his own pew, on the said Sunday in November, and in the parish church of Stow aforesaid. Our manuscript hath, in this place, an hiatus; so that we cannot say how the said action terminated: but it will not excite wonder that amidst the ravelled tissue of broils and litigations occasioned by the gospel-mindedness of the illustrious successor to the Sidnacestrian prelates, some of their issues should escape complete and satisfactory chronicle.

It behoveth, moreover, that we now attend to the more lofty department of this our history of ecclesiastical revolutions,—for, as the sun transcendeth the stars, so do the acts of sacerdotal personages outshine the brightest deeds of the vulgar laity.

And first, of the continued luminous acts and deeds of Clerk Spurr, the notable and notorious "Parson's Clerk," the hero of the hayfork. Let none imagine that he always warred with such a vulgar weapon of the field; forasmuch as his Reverence the Perpetual Curate, being in possession of a grand double-barrelled gun, was wont to commit and intrust it to the lawful custody of his worthy coadjutor in heroic exercises, the heroic Clerk Spurr. Neither did it redound a little to the credit of the Perpetual Curate's humanity, that he did so commit and intrust the said formidable piece of ordnance to the custody of the said Spurr;—forasmuch as the life and safety of that hero of the hayfork were discerned to be seriously in danger,—inasmuch as it had been proven how the malicious urchins of the community, participating deeply in the heart-burnings of their sires and mothers, were wont often to annoy, with sundry small pebbles and other mischief-working missiles, the precious person of the said hero. Lest, therefore, these assaults should issue in some bodily harm to himself, the man of nightly valour was equipped with the gun, and speedily proceeded to defend himself therewith, in the manner that shall now be described and related, together with the fruition of his new act of heroism.

The night was two hours old,—no moon, no stars,—it was deeply dark and murkily cloudy, and—but never mind all that! Anon, up cometh the troop of youngsters, whispering laughter, and saying "Hush!" to each other, as they approach the camp of the enemy. Little thought they, as they marched along, each laden with his pocket of pebbles, of the sore discomfiture which had been planned for them by the foe! Clerk Spurr, that signal warrior of the implement with prongs, had planted himself, firelock on shoulder, eye full of aim, and heart full of valour, close by the usual point of attack. The besiegers halt,—and, in a moment, a shower of gravel gravelleth their enemy; but loud as was the war-cry of their tiny voices, above it rose the booming thunder of the "Parson's Clerk's" grand double-barrelled gun,—and woeful was the effect thereof!!! The shot or the wadding,—the manuscript sayeth not which—had entered,—not the brains, nor, even, the hats of the juvenile assailants,—but—but—the church windows! Away scampered the youngsters,—every mother's son feeling whether his head was off or on,—and yelling, till every cottage door in the neighbourhood was thrown open, and lights were brought out in alarm! Down tumbled the old coloured glass from the ancient mullions, rattling on the tomb-stones beneath, and sounding like curses on sacrilege in the ears of the affrighted hero of the gun and the hayfork! His weapon dropped,—for he was panic-struck! The churchwardens brought a bill against him for the repair of the church-windows: he refused to pay: was brought before the Lincoln county magistrates for recovery; and the hero of the hayfork had to "fork out" seven shillings and sixpence for his freak! The Stow rustics grinned from ear to ear, nodded approbation of the sentence, and spread mirth and fun when they reached home with the news; but the reverend successor of the ancient episcopal potencies was sorely grieved at heart when he heard of this repetition of defeat for his chosen and chop-fallen ejaculator of amens.

As for the grand Perpetual Curate himself, his personal troubles and griefs, and the uninterrupted continuation thereof, would require volumes for full narration. Suffice it to say, ere we bring this exalted record to an end, that, in the profundity of his wisdom, he resorted to multitudinous devices of apostolical character, after the defeats at law that have been heretofore noted. During ten successive Sundays he resorted to a most novel course of Christianity, closing the service after merely reading a few of the "Sentences,"—or, in addition, a few words of the "Absolution,"—and then, leaving his flock to find their way to heaven as they might. The legitimate "Parish Clerk" would come into his desk pretty early; then would come in the "Parson's Clerk;" and, lastly, the parson would walk into his desk, and commence reading after the following unique method:—

"When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.——William Middleton! I charge you to come out of that seat, and let the clerk come in peaceably and quietly!"

The poor "Parish Clerk," meanwhile, would make no answer; but full meekly, and in the spirit of his vocation, would hold his peace. Again the parson would proceed:—

"Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places to——William Middleton! if you do not come out of that seat, and cease interrupting me in my duty, I shall conclude the service!"

And then would he close the book,—the poor "Parish Clerk" answering not a word,—and, walking to the communion-table, give a couple of parish alms-loaves to such as he chose to call—usually his own clerk, for one,—and then,—and then,—in the spirit of Jewel and Latimer, and the rest of the tireless and devoted exemplars of his religion, would he quit the consecrated edifice, and leave the congregation to finish by themselves,—or disperse, which of course they preferred to do, after witnessing these apostolical exhibitions. One more relation of the subtle and profound devices of the immortal and Perpetual Curate, ere we come to an end.

Vexed, teased, troubled, and circumvented, as he was, it came to pass that, in the plenitude of his mortified and yet haughty reflections, the successor of purple prelates bethought him that it was not seemly for the rebellious herdsmen, ploughmen, and other rustics of low degree, wherewith he was surrounded, to walk daily over the "consecrated ground" of the churchyard, in the ancient footpath. The more he thought of it the more he shuddered at it; that a number of rude rebels, with their heretical and sacrilegious feet, should tread daily on ground which had been "consecrated" in the hallowed mists of dateless antiquity, by mitred magnates, before whose uplifted crosier kings had lowered their sceptres, and mailed barons trembled and turned pale. It was not to be permitted: the magnanimous Perpetual Curate resolved to root out such impious sacrilege from the face of the earth; and immediately fastened up the gates of the said ancient footpath with strong locks and chains; yea, planted goodly young trees in the line of road hitherto trodden by unworthy and rebellious rustics. Nay, more, conceiving that even the remembrance of every grandmother and great-grandfather of such a stiff-necked generation should be obliterated, his high-minded Reverence gave order that all the hillocks over the graves should be laid low, and the whole churchyard be levelled!

But now the grand priest had reached a climax, in the judgment of his parishioners; and now arose the mighty wrath of the people,—that barrier which hath so often stood before proud priests,—yea, and will so stand again,—seeming to bear on its front, "Thus far shall ye go, and no further, and here shall your proud wills be stayed!" A parishioner, whose purse was lined with a store of guineas to back his resolution, avowed that the Perpetual Curate, if he caused to be touched a single clod that covered the ashes of his, the parishioner's, forefathers, should have his clerical cup sweetened with all the sugar that could be purchased for him in a court of law; and, lo! the successor of the prelates of Sidnacester rescinded his "order" for levelling the quiet graves of the dead!

Nor long did the other late devices of his canonical wisdom stand. The urchins of the parish contrived to slip slily over the churchyard wall, and to break down the newly-planted trees; and, at length, one parishioner, having conversed with Sir John Barleycorn at Gainsborough market, and being strongly advised by that notable counsellor of courage to set the proud parson at nought, and "break his bonds asunder," rushed to the churchyard gates, as soon as he arrived at his native village, and smiting at locks and chains, as if he had been Samson before Gaza, burst his way valiantly through,—and, thereafter, did the sacrilegious feet of every rebel rustic again press the path of their forefathers, without let or impediment! Such are the sovereign achievements of the magisterial "people," when engaged in the assertion of their time-hallowed "rights!" What are the acts of emperors compared therewith?

And now come we to the final "action" in this concatenation of litigation, one that gave consternation to the poor "parish clerk," be it understood. We have spoken of the "actions" at the first Kirton Sessions; namely, the Perpetual Curate versus the Female Ambuscaders, and the Perpetual Curate versus the Cudgellers in the dark: then spoke we of the "action" at the next sessions, Clerk Spurr, the Parson's Clerk, v. Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase, the Parish Clerk: then of the petit "action" before the Gainsborough Justices—Ellis v. Skill: then of the greater "action" at assize—Skill v. Ellis: then of the "action" before the Lincoln magistrates for recovery of value for broken church-windows—the Churchwardens of Stow v. the Parson's Clerk: lastly, of the threatened action by the parishioner of the long purse, which the Perpetual Curate avoided by rescinding his presumptuous "order" for levelling the graves:—but now come we to the final "action"—the action of actions: that to which all the rest formed but a petty preface: that wherein the Perpetual Curate departing from all by-ways of attack, undisguisedly assumed a position of legal and spiritual antagonism against the foe whom he esteemed as the chief author of his ills, the disturber of his projected schemes, that would, so many months before, have issued in subjugating the rebels, and consuming heresy in his parish,—against the old, hereditary, gentle, moral, upright parish clerk, Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase.

And where was the action commenced?—Before the county magistrates,—or at sessions,—or at assize? Pooh! nonsense!—that was not the way to finish Middleton's business as the parson intended to finish it. Where then? In the Queen's Bench, or the Common Pleas, or the Exchequer? No. What then, in the Vice Chancellor's Court, or the Court of Chancery itself? Not one of 'em, sir; but in a more awful court than any of 'em, or all of 'em put together: in the Spiritual Court, sir!

What aged dame in Lindsey had not heard of the Spiritual Court? Why the mere sound of the word served to fill her with mysterious awe, and to call up in her memory all the fireside stories of her grandmothers: how such awful "penances" were inflicted by this court, on erring females, in their days,—when the dread power of the priesthood was displayed in punishing the subjects of that natural frailty called "scandal," by compelling them to walk up the church aisle covered with a white sheet, and bearing a wax taper in their hand! With such associations derived from his grandmother, only conceive how awfully queer poor, moral, gentle, religious, upright Clerk William felt when he received the mysterious "writ," issued against him by this mysterious court. "Schollard," as he was, it was so strange a thing to look upon, that he instantly sent for the parish schoolmaster, who, with spectacles on nose, and frequent spelling and some mispelling, read aloud—to a house full of consternated neighbours,—Clerk William turning pale as he heard the beginning,—

"In the Name of God, Amen!

"We, John Haggard, Doctor in Civil and Canon Law, Vicar-General in spirituals of the Right Reverend Father in God, John, by Divine Permission, Lord Bishop of Lincoln, and official Principal of the Episcopal and Consistorial Court of Lincoln, lawfully constituted,—to you William Middleton, of the parish of Stow, &c. &c., touching and concerning your soul's health, and the lawful correction and reformation of your manners and excesses, and more especially for profaning the parish church of Stow aforesaid, by brawling, quarrelling, or chiding in the said parish church during the celebration of divine service therein by the Rev. ——, perpetual curate, &c. &c., and also for contumacious behaviour, and refusing to obey the lawful commands of the said ----," &c. &c.

And then followed a pompous quotation from a statute of Edward the Sixth, showing that a clergyman had power to prohibit a contumacious member of his flock ab ingressu ecclesiæ,—that is to say, from entering the church: in other words, to excommunicate him! Furthermore, an act of the 53d George III. was quoted, declaring that "Persons who may be pronounced or declared to be excommunicate by any ecclesiastical court in definitive sentences, or in interlocutory decrees, having the force and effect of definitive sentences, as spiritual censures for offences of ecclesiastical cognisance, shall incur imprisonment not exceeding six months, as the court pronouncing or decreeing such person excommunicate shall direct."

That was a sore shake for poor Clerk William! Excommunicated! Why, the thought of such a fate to one who had been brought up in a veneration of the church, whose father was a clerk, and thought himself as fully consecrated as a bishop!—it was no joke to such a one to hear there was a chance of his being excommunicated. Yet he would not "give it up!" No, that he wouldn't: his father had said, "Nobody could turn the parish clerk out of his office so long as he had morality on his side: his office was his freehold:" so his father, Clerk Gervase, of pious memory, had said; and he, Clerk William, would abide by it. So he took the desk on the following Sunday, and kept up the war as usual. Yet he often pondered on "definitive sentences" and "interlocutory decrees,"—when he had learnt the words by heart,—wondering what kind of awful things they were.

The effect of issuing this writ, however, so completely astounded the parishioners that they thenceforth only whispered where they had shouted, and were silent where they had whispered, in all matters relating to the parson: true, whenever a paper for convening any particular parochial meeting was attached to the church door, bearing the usual signature of —— ——, Incumbent Minister, some wag would be sure to scratch out one of the words, so as to make it read "Incumbrance" Minister, instead: but beyond that there was, now, no further daring.

And, at last, the summons came, and no less than a score of witnesses were taken to the Consistory in Lincoln Cathedral, to be sworn that they would give evidence on the case. And week by week—week by week—the prosing "examinations" were proceeded with, on a certain day of the week, until a thousand folios of "examination" were counted; and when a parishioner asked how much he must pay for a copy of the depositions for Clerk William, the reckoning was made by the "registrar" of the court, at the usual sum per folio—and he was told it would merely be such a trifle as five-and-twenty pounds! And then the calculations, and the wonders, and wishes that were expressed, night by night, and day by day, in every cottage at Stow,—nay, in all the villages round, and the wagers that were laid in every village ale-house on a Saturday night, what would be the cost of the whole trial, and how long Clerk William would be imprisoned, and where they would imprison him,—for nobody was so slow of heart or understanding, as not to know beforehand that the "Vicar-General in Spirituals" would give judgment against the poor "parish clerk," as a matter of course, whenever the trial should come to an end.

And did the trial ever come to an end? and was Clerk William Middleton, the son of Clerk Gervase, really excommunicated? "By no manner of means, sir," as the pompous fellow says in the play: the grand suit, after causing so tremendous a quassation, and all that, of a considerable quarter of Lindsey, was—given up! Yes, it was: and more than that, the true "parish clerk," Clerk William, was reinstated, fully and entirely, in his rightful office. Ay to this day,—unless our information misleads us,—he exercises the same without losing an inch of his height, or a fragment of his independent spirit; for it is but a few months bygone since he showed it. The grand Perpetual Curate, according to his wont, took upon him to reprehend, at the very grave-side, a Wesleyan, whose child, then being interred, had been baptized by a Wesleyan preacher: Clerk William, right bluntly, told the priest that the Wesleyan had a right to please himself! "Why, as for you, you will say or do any thing," retorted the priest, "if they'll pay you for it!"—"And would you be standing there in that gown, with that book in your hand, unless you were paid for it?" asked and answered Clerk William. The grand Perpetual Curate bit his lip, and walked away!

Reader, we have been relating facts: perhaps, in adopting the style of half-rhodomontade, we have not displayed very good taste; but the narrative itself contains uncontradictable facts. And these did not occur in a district disturbed by chartism, nor revolutionised by radicalism, or anti-corn-law agitation; but in the old-fashioned, rural centre of Lindsey: it is even there where the "spiritual court" shrinks from employing the foolery of its own worn-out terrors; and where the peasant adventures to beard the priest! Are not these "Signs of the Times?"

DAME DEBORAH THRUMPKINSON,

AND HER ORPHAN APPRENTICE, JOE.

Joe's story opens in that unclassical region, the Isle of Axholme,—a section of Lincolnshire divided from the main body of the county by the broad and far extending stream of the Trent. Insular situations are invariably held to give some peculiarity of manners to their inhabitants; and the Axholmians, or "Men of the Isle," have always been reckoned to be an odd sort of, plain kind of people, by the other inhabitants of Lindsey, the great northern division of the shire, of which the Isle is accounted a part. This was more emphatically true of them seventy years ago; and the face of the country was, at that time, much in keeping with the unpolished character of the Axholmian people. A journey through the Isle, in the autumnal and winter months especially, would then have been studiously avoided by a traveller acquainted with its excessively bad roads, rendered insufferably disagreeable by the stench of the sodden "line" or flax, with which the broad ditches on each side of the rural ways were filled. Low, thatched abodes, built of "stud and mud,"—or wood and clay, were the prevailing description of human dwellings scattered over the land; and swine were the animals most commonly kept and fattened by the farmers and peasantry.

The two considerable villages of Owston and Crowle (pronounced Crool by the euphonious Axholmians), together with the town of Epworth, the modern capital of the Isle, were the only localities in Axholme to which improvements, common in the rest of the shire, had then penetrated. Haxey, the ancient capital of the district, meanwhile, remained unvisited by the spirit of modern change, and drew its only distinction from the historic associations connected with its decay. In remote times, and under its Saxon appellation of "Axel," the town had been fortified with a castle of the Mowbrays, to a chief of which chivalrous race the greater part of "the Isle of Axelholm" was given as a manor, by the Norman conqueror. And, amid the straggling and irregular assemblage of buildings which now form the village, an intelligent visitor would discover indubitable evidence of the former importance of the place. Its large church, displaying the rich architecture prevalent during the wars of the Roses, and supporting a lofty tower resonant at stated hours with chimes of loud and pleasing music, looks from an eminence, almost in cathedral state, over the greater extent of the Isle; and a few ample and curiously built houses of some centuries old,—affording a striking contrast to the paltry erections of the day,—denote the ancient denizens of Haxey to have been the principal possessors of comparative wealth, and, it may be added, of the soil in the neighbourhood.

On a fine summer's evening, at the door of one of these large antiquated houses, sat Dame Deborah Thrumpkinson, the aged widow of Barachiah Thrumpkinson, cordwainer, deceased. Her husband, who had been long dead, was a thrifty man at his trade, and had, by habits of strict industry and parsimony,—holpen therein by the like disposition of his beloved Deborah,—contrived to store a good corner of his double-locked oaken chest with spade-ace guineas. Deborah had acquired sufficient skill in the "art and mystery" of her husband's employment to be able to carry on his trade after his death; and, with the assistance of two stout apprentices, and as many journeymen, was, at the season in which our narrative begins, conducting the best business in that line within a circuit of several miles.

We have hinted that Dame Deborah began to be stricken in years: nevertheless, the labours of "the gentle craft" gave little fatigue to her elastic mind and strong sinewy frame; and as she sat in the old-fashioned oaken chair, enjoying rest, and inhaling the soft breeze, after a day of healthful toil, she neither stooped through infirmity, nor experienced dimness of vision, though sixty winters had gone over her head. The short pipe in her mouth proved that she had discovered an effectual, though unfeminine, solace for a weary frame; and although, through the flitting volumes of smoke, you saw that their frequent visitings had left on the dame's cheek a deeper shade than years only would have imprinted there,—yet, a nearer gaze would have convinced you that, in youth, no contemptible degree of comeliness had been commingled with her strength. With the calmness derived from experienced age, and from a consciousness of honest independence,—thus, then, sat the grave Deborah, receiving, now and then, a mark of respect from the slow, worn labourers of either sex, as they passed homeward, with fork or rake on shoulder, from the hay-field.

The dame had just knocked the ashes out of the head of her pipe, and was about to retire within her dwelling for the night, when her attention was strongly attracted by the conversation of a group which was suddenly formed but a few yards from her threshold. A pale, melancholy-looking woman, with a very little boy clinging to her blue linen apron, was met by a master chimney-sweep, followed by a couple of wretched-looking urchins bowed beneath enormous bags of soot.

"Well, mistress," said the man, in a voice so harsh that it grated sorely on the ears of Dame Deborah, who would have been offended with the words of the speaker, even if they had been uttered in the softest accents, "you may as well take the fasten-penny I offered you the other day, and let me have this lad o' yours."

The child clung more closely to his mother, and looked imploringly and pitifully in her face.

"Nay, I think I mustn't," replied the pale-looking woman, in a faint and somewhat irresolute tone, catching the wistful glance of her child, and then bending her eyes sorrowfully on the ground.

"Why, a golden guinea'll do thee some service," resumed the sweep; "and I'll warrant me, I'll take care o' thy little lad. He shall get plenty to eat and drink,—and I reckon he doesn't get overmuch of ayther with thee."

"I get as much as my mammy gets," said the child, adventuring to speak, but looking greatly affrighted.

"Why, thou art a tight little rogue," said the chimney sweep, smiling grimly through his soot, "and could run briskly up a chimney, I lay a wager.—Come, give us thy hand, and say thou wilt go with us."

The man's attempt at coaxing had a repulsive effect on the child, for he drew back, and trembled lest he should be laid hold of.

"Come, I'll make it two guineas," resumed the sweep, again addressing the mother; "and what canst thou do with him, now his father is dead,—as thou saidst when I met thee at Wroot, the other day? Thou wilt be obliged to throw thyself on some parish, soon,—for they'll never suffer thee to go sorning about in this way; and if thou art once in the workhouse, depend on't th' overseers will soon 'prentice the poor little fellow to somebody that may prove a hard master to him, mayhap. Better take my offer, and let him be sure of kind usage."

The mother was silent and motionless, and tears began to fall fast, while the sense of her present destitution and fears for the impending future struggled like strong wrestlers, with natural affection:—a fearful antagonism within, of which none but Adversity's children can conceive the reality of the portraiture.

"Nay, prythee, do not fret," said the man, with affected pity; and then taking out his begrimed hempen purse under the confident expectation that he was about to gain his point at once from the heart-broken weakness of a woman, added, "Come, come, here's that that will get thee a new gown, and, maybe, put thee in the way of getting on in the world besides."

The woman did not put forth her hand to take the proffered price for her child, for her mind was now too deeply distracted to understand the sweep's meaning; or, if she understood him, her frame was now too weak with grief to permit her making any answer.

"Oh, mammy, mammy!—do not let the grimy man take me away!" exclaimed the child, bursting into violent weeping, and pulling forcibly at his mother's apron.

"What's the matter with your bairn, good woman?" cried the benevolent old Dame Deborah at this moment,—for she had heard too much to be longer a listener, merely;—and the Axholmians were not versed in those refinements of modern society which define a neighbourly and humane interposition to be an act of unmannerly officiousness.

"Mammy, mammy!—good old woman speaks you," said the eager child, striving to arouse his mother's attention, and to call off her mind from the intense conflict which seemed to have paralysed her consciousness.

"Ay, ay," observed the sweep, "Dame Thrumpkinson is a thrifty, sensible body: let us put it, now, to her, as a reasonable matter, and see if she does not say I speak fair."

The group drew near the dame's door, and the man recounted the terms of his proposal with a self-complacent emphasis which indicated that he believed the dame, being a well-reputed tradeswoman, would assent at once to the advisableness of his scheme, and assist him in its immediate accomplishment.

"Now, what d'ye think, dame?" he said in conclusion; "d'ye not think that I speak fair?"

"Think!" answered the aged woman, fixing her keen grey eyes upon the trafficker with an expression which withered his hopes in a moment;—"think!—why I think it would be a sinful shame to soil that bairn's pratty face wi' soot; and I think, beside, that thou hast so little of a man in thee, to wring a widowed-woman's heart by tempting her to barter the body and soul of her own bairn for gold, that if I were twenty years younger, I would shake thy liver in thee for what thou hast said to her."

The man's countenance fell, and he looked, for a moment, as if about to return an answer of abuse; but the dame kept her keen eye bent unblenchingly upon him;—and it seemed as if his courage failed, for he put up the guineas hastily into his purse, and turned from the spot, without daring to attempt an answer, followed by the two diminutive slaves whose hard lot it was to call him "Master."

"Ah, poor woman!" exclaimed Dame Deborah to the weeping and speechless mother;—"what a sorry sight it would have been to see you take yon hard-hearted rascal's money, while this poor faytherless innocent trudged away with a bag o' soot on his feeble back! No, no, it isn't come to that, nayther," she continued, vacating her arm-chair, and gently forcing the distressed woman into it; "sit thee down, poor heart! the bairn shall not want a friend, if aught should ail thee. I'll take care of him myself, if God Almighty should take thee away as well as his poor fayther."

"God bless you, dame!" sobbed the cheered mother, clasping her hands, and bursting anew into tears, which were now tears of joy.

"God bless good old woman!" shouted the little fellow, with the real heaven of guileless childhood in his face.

"My poor child may soon need your goodness, kind dame," rejoined the melancholy mother, turning very deadly pale,—"for I feel I am not long for this world: my strength is nearly gone."

"Well, well, poor heart, cheer up!" said the dame, in a tone of sincere condolence:—"remember, that there is One above, who hath said, He will be "a husband to the widow, and a"——but I'll fetch thee and thy pratty bairn a bite o' bread and cheese, and a horn o' mead.—Lord bless me! how white the poor creature is turning! God Almighty save her soul! she's going!"

The kind old woman hastened to support the sinking head of the dying stranger, and the child clung, convulsively, to the cold and helpless hand of his mother,—and uttered his wailing agony. All was soon over,—for the poor wanderer died almost instantaneously in Dame Deborah's arm-chair.

Reader, if thou hast a heart to love thy mother, I need not attempt to describe to thee how deep was the grief and horror felt by the orphan as he gazed upon his dead mother's face. And if thou hast not such a heart, I will not give thee an occasion to slight a feeling so holy as a child's absorbed love for its loving mother.

Suffice it to say, that after three days of almost unmitigated grief, the child, led by Dame Deborah, followed his mother's corpse, sobbing, to the grave; but the aged hand that conducted him to witness the laying of his heart-broken parent in her last resting-place led him back to a comfortable home. The sudden and striking circumstances of his mother's death saddened the orphan's spirits for some time; but he soon recovered the natural gaiety of childhood, notwithstanding his transference from the care of an affectionate and over-indulgent mother, to that of a guardian of advanced age and grave manners.

Deborah Thrumpkinson in vain inquired after the orphan's full name. He only knew that he had been called "Joe." She guessed that he must be about four years old; and, fearful that a ceremony which she conceived to be an indispensable preparative for his eternal salvation might have been neglected, she took him to the font of the parish church, and had him baptized "Joseph—in a Christian way," as she termed it: the good dame, herself, becoming surety for the child's fulfilment of the vows thus taken upon himself by proxy.

Joe's godmother and protectress taught him to read. And no benefit she conferred upon him in after-life was more thankfully remembered by him than this, her humane and patient initiation of his infantile understanding into the mystery of the alphabet, and the formation of syllables. Here her labour ended, for her science extended little further; but a Bible with the Apocrypha, ornamented with plates,—a valued family possession of the Thrumpkinsons,—was within his reach, and, at any hour of Sunday,—and sometimes on other days of the week when he had washed his hands very clean,—he was privileged with the growing pleasure of turning over the pages of the folio of wonders ever new.

The good old Dame was not disposed to mar her act of genuine charity,—the adoption of an orphan,—by imprisoning his young limbs too early in the bonds of labour. She did not place him on the humble stall to bend over the last, till she supposed he had reached the age of fourteen. The ten preceding years of his orphanage passed away in a course of happy quietude. The staid age of his venerated protectress forbade any outbreaks of juvenile buoyancy in her sedate presence; but in Joe's lonely wanderings through the fields and lanes, as well as in his silent readings of the pictured Scriptures, he found pleasures which abundantly repaid the irksomeness of occasional restraint. His simple heart danced with joy at each return of the gladsome Spring, when his beloved acquaintances, the wild flowers, shewed their beautiful faces by brook and hedgerow; and he became familiar with all their localities, and felt a glowing and mysterious rapture in the renewed survey of their glorious tints and delicate pencillings, long before he learnt their names.

The commencement of his apprenticeship was marked by an event of no less importance than his introduction to Toby Lackpenny,—the most learned tailor in the Isle of Axholme,—and a personage of such exalted merit, that we purpose to pluck a sprig of "immortal amaranth," by making the world acquainted with his separate history:—"but let that pass." Toby,—from the rich immensity—for such it seemed to Joe—of his "library,"—furnished the young disciple of St. Crispin with two books which completely fascinated him: they were—the immortal fables of "The Pilgrim's Progress" and "Robinson Crusoe,"—by the immortal toilers, John Bunyan and Daniel Defoe. Joe was assured by his new friend that Crusoe's adventures were no less veritable true than wonderful,—while the "Pilgrim" had a hidden and all-important meaning, which he must endeavour to discover, and apply to his own spiritual state as he went along.

During the season of his intense and enamoured pursuit of these absorbing studies, an incident occurred which produced some uneasiness both to teacher and disciple. Joe was seated, one evening, on a stool at the tailor's door, fervently engaged in his usual recreation,—the tailor meanwhile plying his needle,—when the clergyman of the village passing by, and observing the boy's studious deportment as something unusual, stepped towards him, and desired to know what he was so intent upon. Joe naturally felt some diffidence in returning an answer, and turned towards his friend on the shop-board with a glance that was meant to entreat his kind offices in the formation of a reply. But the tailor, to Joe's utter confusion, hung down his head doggedly, and struck his needle into a nether garment that lay upon his knees, with singular vehemence. In default of this expected help, Joe gave his two precious volumes, silently and resignedly, into the hands of the vicar,—a reverend gentleman held in deserved respect by his humble flock for the rigid purity of his morals, but of small skill in the waywardness of the human mind.

After a very few minutes' examination of the books, the spiritual overseer crimsoned with apparent displeasure, shook his head very expressively at the boy, and returning the volumes into his hands, assured him he was very sorry to see him so ill employed,—"for one of the books," he said, "contained only a foolish tale,—and the other was as whimsical a dream as ever ran through the brains of a fanatic." So saying, the well-intentioned, but ill-informed, teacher turned away,—leaving the boy to his own reflections, and the hot criticism of the tailor on what they had just heard from the village parson. These by no means led Joe into a coincidence with the vicar's way of thinking; and, whenever opportunity served, he was sure, as before, to be wandering, ideally, with the romantic and intrepid adventurer on the desert island, or to be found absorbed in the effort to penetrate the spiritual mysteries he had been directed to discover in the remaining volume whose enchanting imagery had captivated his young understanding. "A foolish tale,"—he could not conceive the narrative of the shipwrecked and eremite mariner to be: it was too full of sober earnestness, he thought, to be fantastic: it created before him a verisimilitude in which he himself lived all the wild yet truthful adventures of the cast-a-way seaman over again. And if he had not been told that the story of the Pilgrim was a parable, his simple and eager phantasy would have, primarily, set it down for a literal truth,—however after-reflection might have qualified his first conclusion.

But the accident of his evening's occupation having been scrutinised by the clergyman had not yet expended its influence on Joe's thoughts and feelings. On the first ensuing visit made by Dame Deborah to pay her tithes, she was solemnly admonished to forbid her godson's unprofitable studies, and to interdict his future association with the tailor. The good dame's reverence for her spiritual guide inclined her, at once, to yield obedience to his recommendation; more especially as she had for some time noted that the boy did not, as formerly, eagerly resort, at every leisure opportunity, to the old family Bible.

Accordingly, on her return home, she sharply reproved him for his neglect of the sacred book, and insisted that he should discontinue his communings at the tailor's cottage, and read no more of his books. Joe returned not a word in answer to the reproof of his aged mistress, for mingled gratitude, under a sense of her tender kindness, and reverence for her authority, rendered him incapable of disobeying her orders. He returned, dutifully, to the perusal of his first book; but though the rich variety of its histories, and the sublime interest of its matchless poetry, did not fail to keep alive his attention while he bent over its pages, yet, in the long hours of daily labour, his desire strongly thirsted for the more exciting intellectual draught of which he had lately partaken, and a dreary and monotonous feeling of weariness consumed his spirit. Dame Deborah little knew the evil she was doing when she bereaved her foster-child of his innocent pleasures. In the lapse of a few weeks she became sensible that it was not always wise to pursue the counsel even of the village parson too strictly.

Among the visiters to the dame's domicile, there had long been some who professed the tenets of Wesley,—the great heresiarch who drew his first breath in the Isle of Axholme. Of the peculiar doctrines set forth by this celebrated religious teacher, Joe, like Deborah herself, knew nought, save that the parson said they were "heresies." The sturdy intelligence of Dame Deborah led her to turn a deaf ear to all innovations in religion. She had been bred a strict church-woman, and never conceived the slightest idea of the fallibility of the orthodox and established Protestant faith. Her apprentices were not permitted to attend meeting or conventicle; and she steadfastly repelled and discouraged all attempts, on the part of her visiters, to introduce religious novelties in their daily gossip. But the restlessness and disquietude of his mind, now its faculties were once more without a fixed object of attachment, impelled Joe to discard, imperceptibly at first, the rules on religious matters, which had been tacitly observed by every member of the dame's household ever since he had entered it. With those who manifested a disposition to enlarge on the merits of the new religious system, he entered eagerly into discussion; and the result was, a determination to pay a secret attendance on one of the meetings of the sect, and thus form a judgment for himself.

A preacher of considerable rhetorical powers occupied the meeting-house pulpit, during his first stolen visits; and the skill with which passages from the book which had been his first source of instruction were quoted and applied, rivetted his attention and inflamed his fancy. The speaker gave illustrations of some of the patriarchal histories, and founded on them, and upon the sacrifices under the Mosaic law, such hypotheses as were exactly calculated to awe, and yet to lead captive, Joe's active imagination. To tell, in one sentence, the history of numberless hours of mental revolution, Joe brooded over these theories and their consequences while engaged at his daily labour, and repeated his secret visits to the meeting-house, until his young and earnest mind was filled with the one pervading idea that the only true happiness for the human soul was to be found in some sudden and ecstatic change to be received by what his new teachers called "an act of faith in the atonement."

From the period in which this conviction took entire hold of his judgment, the alteration in Joe's conduct was so decided as to become serious cause of alarm, even to the firm common-sense of Dame Deborah. He spurned the thought of any longer concealing his attendance at the sectarian meeting-house; and at every brief cessation from labour, as well as at prolonged hours in the night, and early in the morning, he was overheard in a weeping agony of prayer. His humble bed-room, an out-house, or the corner of a field, served the young devotee alike, for a place of "spiritual wrestling;" and whoever gave him an opportunity was sure to receive from Joe an earnest warning to "flee from the wrath to come!" Days,—weeks rolled on,—and the ardour of the lad's enthusiasm was approaching its meridian,—for he had given up himself so completely to its power, that not only did he consume the night more fully in prolonged acts of ascetic and almost convulsive devotion,—but his mind was so entirely wrapt up in the effort to "pray without ceasing,"—that he was scarcely conscious of what passed in the dame's cottage during the hours of work.

The visit of a "Revivalist" to the new religious community at Haxey thus found Joe fully prepared to hail the event as one fraught with unspeakable benefits. The narrow meeting-house was crammed with villagers attracted by the loud and unusual noises, and affected by the agonised looks and gestures, of their neighbours. Many of these stray visiters, in the language of the initiated, "came to scoff, but remained to pray." The "Revivalist" crept from form to form,—for the humble meeting-house was unhonoured with a pew,—urging the weeping and kneeling penitents to "press into mercy;" and pouring forth successive petitions for their salvation until the perspiration dropped from his brows like rain.

Joe was too intensely absorbed in the burning desire to obtain the immediate purification of his nature to be able to reflect, for a moment, on the question,—whether, in all this boisterous procedure, there was not an appalling violation of every principle of worship. And when the preacher approached the form at which he was kneeling, the workings of his spirit shook his whole frame with expectation. The preacher, at length, addressed him:—

"Believe, my young brother," said he, in a voice
naturally musical, and rendered wonderfully influential by enthusiasm,—"believe, for the pardon of your sins!"

"Oh! I would believe in a moment, if I felt they were pardoned!" cried Joe, in all the earnestness of excitement.

"Nay, but you must believe first!" rejoined the preacher; "only believe that your sins are pardoned, and you will feel your burden gone!"

The boy's reason, for a moment, asserted its own majesty, at the broaching of this wild doctrine; and he returned an instant answer to the preacher which would have confounded a less practised casuist.

"That would be pardoning myself," he said: "I want the Lord to pardon me: if believing that my sins were forgiven, while I feel they are not, would produce a real pardon, I need never have asked the Almighty to perform the work."

"Ah, my dear young brother!" quickly replied the preacher,—"I waited, as you have, no doubt, for weeks and weeks, expecting some miracle to be performed for me; but I found, at last, that there was no other refuge but believing. You must believe: that is your only way! All the direction that the word gives you is, 'Believe, and thou shalt be saved!' You have nothing else to do but to believe; and the moment you do believe—that moment you will be happy! Try it!"—and, so saying, the "Revivalist" hastened on to make proof of the efficacy of his wild notional catholicon upon the comfortless spirit of some less hesitating patient or penitent.

Joe's distress, when the preacher left him, became greater than ever. He felt fearful, on the one hand, of becoming a victim to self-deceit; and was horrified, on the other, with the terrible dread of losing his soul through the sin of unbelief. But the combat between his imagination and his understanding was one in which the former faculty had all the vantage-ground of his youthful age and his tendency to the marvellous,—and was immeasurably assisted by the overwhelming energy of his desire. The attainment of the new spiritual state had become his sole idea; and his reason succumbed beneath the combined strength of his wishes and the prurience of his ideality.

"The preacher says he has tried believing, and it has made him happy; therefore, I will try to believe," said Joe to himself,—becoming mentally desperate with distracting fears.

He did try; and the experiment produced,—as it could not fail to produce in such a mind, surrounded with such excitements,—a thrilling and ecstatic feeling; but yet, he doubted again, a few moments after! Thus, his intellect, all undisciplined and untutored as it had been, still revolted at the indignity of becoming the dupe of its own trickery. But the misery of doubt, and the pangs of spiritual condemnation, were more insupportable than the effort to impose upon himself the delusive assurance that he really possessed what he so ardently sought; and he, therefore, rushed to another act of desperate credence:—"I will believe! I do believe!" he wildly cried, at the full pitch of his voice, while the din and confusion of fifty persons praying aloud, at the same time, rendered his enthusiasm unnoticeable. At every new resurrection of his reason he thus drew afresh on the exorcism of his ideality, and allayed the troublous misgivings of the sterner faculty; so that, by the time the meeting was concluded, his reason had ceased to rebel,—and he went home, persuaded that he had attained the "new birth."

For some days, Joe dwelt in a frame of greater tranquillity than he had experienced since the commencement of his religious "awakenings." But the calm was a deceitful one; and was but the prelude to a more terrific tempest than had ever yet raged in the breast of the young victim to the ideal. Joe heard descriptions from the pulpit of the sectaries, of the unspeakable ecstasy of true believers; and reflected that his own feelings bore scarcely any resemblance to such highly-wrought pictures. Gradually, he felt it utterly impossible to conceal from himself the tormenting conviction that he had never received that amazing change of nature which he had been taught, so energetically and sanguinely, to expect as the fruit of his "act of faith." Instead of the "heavenly joy of assurance," which the preachers described,—Joe could not conceal from himself the fact that his nearest approaches to inward joy and calm,—fitful as they were,—resulted from the effort to assure himself; and this seemed too strained a mental state, he thought, to be termed "heavenly joy of assurance." Then, again, he was conscious that he had not the mental purity that he had heard described as one of the certain marks of regeneration. And this, soon, hurried him into a whirlpool of inward distraction;—for, instead of attributing the irritability and peevishness which now frequently agitated him to their real source,—the exhaustion of his nervous system by extreme asceticism,—the poor boy set them down, in his helpless and pitiable ignorance, to the inheritance of a nature that involved him, still, in the awful sentence of divine wrath. The tortures of disappointment thus augmented the distraction of doubt; and, at length, Joe was unable to quell his uneasiness for another moment by resorting to the act of self-delusion recommended by the "Revivalist,"—and called by him "the act of faith." Worn out, and jaded, with his daily, hourly, and almost momentary attempts to palm the fiction, anew, upon his understanding, Joe gave up the practice of "the act of faith" altogether, with a feeling of weariness and disgust and self-degradation too bitter for description!

The prostration of the youth's corporeal strength accompanied this distressing mental conflict. Dame Deborah began to watch the hectic flush on the cheek of her beloved foster-child with an aching heart; and, for the first time, entertained fears, that Time, so far from curing him of his errors, would only serve to mark his early grave. She would have interdicted his future attendance on the meetings of his religious associates; but the drooping state of his health deterred her from crossing his will, lest she should hasten the catastrophe which she began, in sadness and sorrow, to anticipate.

The good old dame finally resolved to try the efficacy of a change of scene and circumstances, as means of aiding the youth's recovery. Joe had never yet crossed the bounds of Haxey parish since he entered it; but the Dame being in the habit of attending the weekly market at Gainsborough, the nearest trading town, she determined that he should become a partner in her future journies. Her project was as sensible as it was benevolent. The new excitements created for the lad by these little expeditions could not fail to produce an issue in some degree salutary to his mind. And yet the relief he experienced might have been but temporary, had not a medicine,—seemingly hazardous,—but yet, signally well adapted for his disordered mental condition,—been opportunely disclosed from the womb of Circumstance,—the great productive source of new thinkings, new resolves, and new courses of action, which, in mockery of ourselves, we so often attribute to our own "will" and "intelligence."

Mounted on a stout grey mare, with his aged mistress behind, on an old-fashioned pillion-seat, Joe set forth on his first journey with emotions of natural curiosity; and, in the course of his progress, began to regain some degree of his constitutional cheerfulness. Eight miles of country, beheld for the first time, though its landscape was only of an ordinary and monotonous character, presented a world of objects for reflection to Joe's impressible spirit. The season was an early spring; and albeit the young equestrian felt some slight alarm when the animal sunk, beneath the superincumbent weight of himself and his companion, well-nigh up to the saddle-skirts, in the miry sloughs that intervened between Haxey and the Trent,—yet the view of the face of nature, smilingly outspread around him, fully compensated, he felt, for these occasional drawbacks on the pleasure of the journey. The few verdant meads which were scattered among the dull fallows looked as lovely, Joe thought, as they could look in any other part of England; while the cottages, in their array of honeysuckles, were attired as blushingly and beautifully, he thought, as if reared in the sunny climes of the South.

Midway in the journey, Joe and his aged mistress dismounted to cross the Trent,—and four more miles brought them to Gainsborough. On arriving at the market-town, the good old dame, somewhat to the lad's surprise, presented him with half-a-crown,—a sum he had never, till then, possessed. After a brief preface of prudence, she informed him that he was at liberty to spend the next three hours in looking at the rarities in the market, in walking about the town, or in any mode that he thought would most highly gratify his curiosity. Joe set forth, anticipating sights which might afford a passing gratification; but in the course of the first hour became immovably attracted by a display of merchandise, from which the rustic traffickers of the market, too generally, turned away with indifference,—a spacious stall of old books.

The image of a homely country lad, clad in a rustic garb, and shod with heavy-laced boots, standing by that old book-stall, presented a very uninteresting spectacle to the market people at Gainsborough. The butter-women brushed rudely past him, grumbling at the awkwardness with which he obstructed their crowded path; and the hucksters roughly cursed him, half-overturning the absorbed youth in their haste to forestall each other in cheapening the produce of the village dairies. Yet Joe was wont to refer to the hour during which he looked over the tattered treasures of the travelling bookseller as the most important in his whole life. He laid out the first half-crown he had ever possessed in purchasing the translated work of a French philosopher, without knowing, for many months after, that the author of the book bore an opprobious designation among theologians. At successive periods of his after-history, Joe attributed this occurrence to the operation of the inevitable laws of necessity, to accident, to permissive Providence: but, without entering into the labyrinth of his progressive trains of thought, or solving the question of the validity of any of his conclusions,—suffice it to say, that the purchase of that book produced a sequel of the most intense interest to the young and undirected inquirer.

Joe had but just paid his half-crown into the hand of the bookseller, and buttoned the volume in the breast of his coat, when his ears were stricken by the boisterous tones of a bawling pedlar. With remarkable elongation of face, the man was proclaiming the wondrous contents of a pamphlet that he held in his hand, copies of which he was offering for sale, "amazingly cheap," as he avowed, to the staring by-standers. The stroller rapidly gleaned coppers among the wonder-stricken butter-women, who forgot their baskets in the serious interest awakened by the pedlar's tale; and Joe could not refrain from noting the comments which the simple people made upon the story.

"Here is a true and faithful account," reiterated the pedlar, with all his power of lungs, "of the awful apparition of a young woman to her sweetheart, three weeks after her death,—warning him, in the most solemn manner, to forsake his evil ways, and not to deceive others, as he had deceived her,—and foretelling to him that he would die that day fortnight,—and then vanishing in a flash of fire, leaving a smell of brimstone behind her! And how the young man took to his bed immediately after, and died at the time his sweetheart had foretold,—making a godly confession of his sins on his death-bed. All which happened," concluded the pedlar, with a look of solemn assurance that went at once to the hearts of his unsuspecting audience,—"but one month ago, in the county of Cornwall;—and here are the names of ten creditable parishioners of the place, who heard the young man's confession, and have set their names as witnesses of the truth of the circumstance, that it might be a warning to young men to repent, and not to deceive their sweet-hearts,—and all this you have for the small charge of one penny!"

"The Lord ha' marcy on us, Moggy," cried a young and blooming butter-woman to her elderly neighbour, as they leant over the handles of their baskets, aghast with wonder:—"what an awful thing it must ha' been to see that young woman come from the deead!"

"It must, indeed, Dolly," replied the older gossip, shaking her head: "it's enough to mak one tremmle to think on't! Some folks say that there's no sich thing as a ghooast,—but I'm sewer I wouldn't be so wicked as to say so."

"And she vanished in a flash o' fire and brimstone, did she, maister?" said Dolly to the pedlar, as she tendered her penny.

"That she did, pretty maid!" quickly answered the vender, with a look of roguish seriousness: "take the book home, and let your sweetheart read it to you, if you can't read it yourself; and you'll find that what I have said is all true."

"I hope it is, maister, for they're solemn things to joke about!" remarked a staid-looking matron, who was taking out her spectacles to read the veracious story.

"True as the Gospel!" exclaimed the ready pedlar: "I was born and brought up in the parish, and know every one of the creditable yeomen who have signed the young man's confession."

"Yo may ha' been born there," interjected a Sheffield huckster, with a satirical grin; "but it's many a moile off!"

The pedlar strode rapidly away to a distant part of the market.

"Why, you dooant doot what th' man says, do you, Roger?" asked a fair Axholmian butter-maiden of the huckster.

"Daht!" replied the Sheffielder, in his own dialect; "I al'ays daht loies, mun! But come, lass! tak t'other hawp'ny a pahnd, and bring t' basket along wi' thee!"

"Marcy on us!" exclaimed the butter-woman in spectacles, as the rude huckster left the market; "you Sheffield fellow'll hev to see a ghooast before he believes there is one! What an alarming accoont this is, to be sewer!"

"Would you be so kind," said Joe to the elderly dame who uttered this latter exclamation, "as to let me look at the account for a few minutes? I will return it to you again, very soon."

"Why, yes,—I'll let you look at it," answered the woman, scanning him from head to foot; "and I hope you'll take a lesson from the book, and never act so wickedly as this young man did."

It was not mere curiosity which prompted the lad to ask the loan of the pedlar's tract. He felt certain that he had glanced at a similar tale in a volume of old pamphlets on the bookseller's stall, but a few minutes before. After a short search, he found the volume again, and comparing the stories, saw that they were the same, to a letter, save that the copy on the stall affirmed the apparition to have taken place in Westmoreland, more than half-a-century before. While his thoughts were all in a tumult at this strange discovery, the bookseller, who was attentive to the behaviour of his customers, stept up, and addressed him in a whisper.

"You look surprised, young man," he said, while Joe gazed at the sinister expression in his countenance; "but I knew it was all an old story, though the fellow was making such a noise about it. Say nothing about it, however,—for all trades must live,—and most people would think one tale as good and as true as the other!"

The bookseller was only just in time with his precept of caution; for Joe's gathering indignation at the pedlar's imposture would have impelled him, the next moment, to break through his boyish bashfulness, and proclaim his discovery aloud, in the ears of the surrounding butter-women:—a proceeding which, in lieu of thanks, would have, no doubt, drawn down upon his head a storm of wrath from their disturbed superstition. Feeling unspeakably confused with his reflections, Joe now hastily returned the volume to its place on the stall; and thanking the kind butter-woman for her loan of the ghost-story, gave it carefully into her hands. He then hasted away towards the little inn where he was to meet Dame Deborah, partly under an impression that his hours of liberty were near their expiry,—but much more with the persuasion that he would be able, as he went along, being no longer surrounded with the market-din, to disentangle the web of conflicting thought into which the slight incidents just narrated had cast him.

The pedlar's falsehood and audacity,—and the whispered caution of the bookseller, whom Joe felt strongly inclined to characterise as an abettor of imposture and knavery,—the credulity of the butter-women,—and the gaping wonder manifested by the listening crowd,—formed a mass of striking corroborations,—a sort of powerful running commentary on what he had hastily read in the volume he had just purchased. The incidents in the little market, in fact, opened to the lad's inexperienced mind a glimpse of the melancholy truth that man and the multitude have been prone to superstition in all ages, and have eagerly received frauds which have been imposed upon them, throughout all time, by the craft of interested and organised parties; or, where these were wanting, that man has forged deceptions for himself, through the strength of his own wondering faculty. The end to which these incipient reasonings would lead him was not, and could not, then, be manifest to him; or Joe, scarcely rid of his fanatical incubus, would have revolted from them with horror. It was merely the dawn of thoughts which were waiting to break in upon his mind with all the power and effulgence of new truth. But, whatever might be the tendency of these commencing reasonings, the progress of them was speedily arrested by the beginning of the journey homewards.

Joe, with the good old dame behind him, rode as far as the Trent ferry, at Stockwith, in company with sundry rustic frequenters of the weekly market. The gossip chiefly consisted of a recapitulation of the prices of corn and flax, and poultry, and pigs, and butter,—until the re-introduction of the ghost-story, at what time Joe and his foster-mother, with the rest, were seated in the ferry-boat, and were recrossing the Trent.

"Well,—it's an awful accoont, Maister Gawky!" exclaimed Diggory Dowlson, the rough old ferryman, after an Axholmian farmer had briefly recounted the pedlar's tale; "but I've heeard many sich i' my time,—thof I nivver seed nowt mysen."

"And the Lord send I nivver may!" ejaculated Betty Bogglepeep, a tottering old wife of Owston, who had, the day before, as she said, in the course of her gossip, chopped off the head of her best black hen, because she crowed like a cock:—"the Lord send I nivver may, for it maks me queer to think a thowt o' sich things; and I'm sewer if I woz to see 'em, it would freeten me oot o' my wits!"

"Hold thy foolish tongue, prithee!" chimed in her loving husband, whose bravery seemed chiefly owing to his late fellowship with Sir John Barleycorn, at the market:—"why does ta talk aboot being freeten'd at shadows?"

"Nay, nay, Davy, it's to no use puttin' it off i' that way," interjected the old ferryman, taking up the cause of the old woman and the ghost, with the fervour of gallantry and faith united;—"depend on't, though deead folks may come like shadows, yet it's a fearful seeght to see 'em!"

"No doot, no doot, Diggory!" replied the farmer, "but seeing 'em's all—thoo knaws!"

The farmer meant this for an arch sally, but his companions in the boat were not in the vein to relish his humour.

"What do you think aboot sich solemn things, Dame Thrumpkinson?" asked the old ferryman, turning to the corner of the boat where Deborah seemed buried in reflection;—"you sit and say not a word, all this time. Give us your thowts, dame, for ye've more sense than all of us, put together!"

"I don't give heed to every fool's tale about such things," replied Dame Deborah, in her usual grave tone; "but I've serious reason for believing that the dead often know what the living are doing."

"Why, did ye ivver see owt spirit'al, Dame Thrumpkinson?" instantly asked half-a-dozen voices, while twice as many eyes glared upon the aged Deborah with a gaze as wonder-stricken as that of a nest of owls suddenly awakened by daylight.

"Nay, neighbours, nay!" replied the dame, drooping her head, and speaking in a tone of melancholy tenderness;—"do not ask me further. I think we ought to keep sacred the secrets of the dead that have been near and precious to us!"

The manner of Dame Deborah's reply was so affecting, and its intimate meaning, though only guessed by her rude auditors, seemed to command so deep a respect from their simple feelings, that the subject was immediately dropped; and the whole party remained silent until the boat had touched the western bank of the river.

Some of the company now took a direction for Owston and Butterwick, and such parts of the country as lay on the banks of the Trent; while the remnant, who were bound for the more central parts of the isle, being more strongly mounted than Joe and his aged mistress, and many of them having a greater distance to reach ere night-fall, sped on before, after bidding their deeply-respected acquaintance, Dame Deborah, a hearty and kindly farewell. The journey home was nearly ended before the dame broke silence, her mind seeming deeply intent on thoughts which the conversation in the boat had awakened within her; and when she addressed her foster-son, it was but briefly, though kindly.

"I hope the ride will do thee no harm, bairn," she said, in a tone of the gentlest affection; "and how did ta spend the half-crown?"

"I bought a book with it, dame," Joe answered.

"A book!" said she, pleasantly:—"well, well, it's like thee: but, may be, thou could not ha' spent it better. And what sort of a book is it, bairn?"

"Quite on a new subject," Joe replied, scarcely knowing how to describe the book to the dame's plain understanding.

"A new subject!" she repeated, with a gentle laugh;—"well, well, I hope it will do thee more good than some of thy old subjects." And then, as if fearful of bringing back distressful thoughts to the heart of one over whom she yearned so tenderly, the good old dame permitted the journey to end without further remark. Joe would fain have entreated an explication of the mysterious conclusion given by his aged protectress to the conversation in the boat; but there was something too sombre in her mood of mind, at that time, he thought, to permit his hazarding any reference to such a subject.

Almost insensibly, to himself, Joe's opinions on religious matters began to undergo an entire change within a short period succeeding his acquaintance with the work of the French philosopher. The arguments of the book were conducted in too covert a mode for one, so little skilled in the arts of disguise, to be able to detect its real tendency in the outset. The blandishments of the writer's style captivated his taste; and the boldness with which he saw the doctrines of natural liberty asserted, took strong possession of his judgment. Degraded as his reason had felt itself to be while enslaved to the teachings of fanaticism, there was no wonder that he felt the awakening of a desire for mental independence, and listened willingly to the voice of an advocate for the native dignity of man's understanding. Appended to the volume, which now began to engross his leisure hours, was a treatise, entitled "The Law of Nature." Joe perused its precepts and digested its reasonings, until he believed he had committed a lamentable error by wearying his flesh and spirit with acts of ascetic devotion,—and resolved he would address himself to the practice of the elevated moral virtue which the French writer asserted to be easy and natural to man when brought within the influence of instruction.

The native activity of his intellect prevented a prolonged abidance on the mere threshold of opinion: a few months rolled over, and Joe's convictions took a current which they kept for some years. In truth, the formation of his conclusions was hastened by the very circumstance of his being compelled to pursue his doubts and inquiries in silence. No one around him understood the questions with which his mind was grappling; and the answers which his own judgment gradually gave them, would, he was sensible, create a general horror if broadly proclaimed in the hearing of the simple people by whom he was surrounded.

His faith once shaken in the rules of practice prescribed by the sectarian teachers, since he knew no other way of interpreting the experimental doctrines of the Scriptures than that they pursued,—his reason became gradually distasted with the Scriptures themselves,—and he easily adopted the arguments against the Bible contained in his favourite volume of French philosophy. He began to suspect, and, at length, boldly concluded, that the Jehovah of the Hebrews was, indeed, the mere mythological fiction of a rude and barbarous age,—a Deity scarcely more godlike in his character and attributes than the savage Moloch of the Ammonites. To class the garden of primeval innocence, and the forbidden fruit, and the tempting serpent, and the lapse of the first human pair, among the allegories which, he now learned, the ancient nations were wont to adopt in order to embody their conceptions of things otherwise difficult of narration, was a still easier step. The Prophecies, he thought, were evidently attributable to that prolific Oriental faculty which gave birth and authority to the pagan oracles; and the Miracles, as events opposed to general experience, were to be at once discarded from the catalogue of historic facts, by every true philosopher.

Amid these rapid and decided changes of sentiment, Joe sometimes wondered that he felt none of the inward terror and the "stings of conscience," which he had so perpetually been taught to regard as the sure avenging vicegerents of a Deity, in the breasts of those who dared to doubt revealed truth. That he was tormented by none of these appalling visitings, was another proof to his mind of the fallacy of his rejected teachers. He was conscious that, in his conclusions, whether right or wrong, he was sincere: he was satisfied that his new mental condition was far preferable to the spirit-degrading and wearisome slavery he had so recently shaken off; and he had not, yet, sufficiently probed the depths of his own heart to know that his self-gratulation was also aided by the pride of thinking diversely from the mass of his fellows. The ghost story at the market, and its accompanying circumstances, often ran through his memory, and served, not a little, to enforce his persuasion that the mass of mankind were the dupes of superstition; and, at the close of every similar train of reflection, he could not refrain from indulging a self-complacent feeling on his having, himself, thrown off what he gradually deemed to be a blind and implicit trust in fables under the delusive guise of Divine inspiration.

Glowing with the conception that he had hitherto been living in a dream of multiform illusions, but had now broken it, Joe resolved to "gird up the loins of his mind" for the laborious and persevering pursuit of solid knowledge; and said within himself,—"I will henceforth converse with experience, and not with imagination: I will cleave to fact and not to phantasy." The weekly journies to Gainsborough with his aged mistress, which were uninterruptedly kept up from their commencement, afforded him what he conceived to be ample means for carrying this resolve into successful practice. And so, in some measure, it proved; for, by an exchange of volumes with the travelling bookseller, and the casual assistance of a few shillings from his indulgent godmother, he reaped an unremitting supply for his intellectual appetite,—a faculty which rapidly "grew with what it fed on." He eagerly devoured whatever came within his reach in the shape of history or chronicle;—he sought industriously to acquire the rudiments of real science;—and strove to sharpen and fortify his reason by the perusal of ancient tomes of logic and philosophy. For records of travel he craved with an incontrollable passion: a feeling which was, in reality, but a revivification of the ardour awakened in his boyish mind by the adventures of the shipwrecked Crusoe. But the fervid desire he once cherished, to penetrate vast deserts and visit unknown realms, was now transmuted, by the influence of his more sober associations and habits of reflection, into a prevalent wish to see the world of men; and the prospect of a new and wider field of observation to be entered upon at the close of his humble servitude began thenceforth to pervade his daily musings, and, eventually, to take a shape in his purposes.

The secrecy which Joe was compelled to observe on religious subjects was a restraint through which he would gladly have broken; but there was not one to whom he could communicate his sceptical views without fear of an explosion of alarm. Observance of caution being repulsive to his feelings, it was, therefore, natural that his real sentiments should occasionally escape. Only, however, when the gross superstitions of his daily associates excited very strong disgust within him, did Joe utterly forget his rules of caution. His fellow-apprentices were in little danger of imbibing heretical opinions, from the fact of their understandings being too uninformed to apprehend the real drift of his thinkings when expressed. But Dame Deborah pondered on some of these hasty expressions of opinion, until her aged heart often ached with the suspicion that all was not right in the new religious state of her foster-son. Yet, when she marked the tenour of his daily conduct,—his inviolable regard for truth,—his steady rebuke of every thing coarse and unfeeling,—when she listened to the language in which his conceptions, even on ordinary subjects, were uttered,—and when she contrasted his manly cheerfulness with his former gloom and despondency, a confidence arose that dispelled her temporary doubts of the correctness of his heart, and her bosom glowed with pride at the remembrance that she had adopted him for her own.

During the concluding five years of his apprenticeship, Joe had piled together in his mind, though after no prescribed rule, much knowledge of a multifarious character. The acquirement of one of the noble languages of antiquity was his severest unassisted struggle during this probationary course; but it was a strife from which he reaped the richest after-pleasures. The facts he gleaned from history were stored up faithfully in his memory, not merely as chronological items, but as texts for fertile and profitable reflection; while he assiduously strove to catch the rays of such new truths as were perceptible in his more limited reading of ethics, and to evince their spirit in his thoughts and actions. Thus, without written pattern or oral instructor, the orphan apprentice endeavoured, by the selection of such materials as lay within his grasp, to build up, within himself, a mental fabric of seemly architecture. But, to cut short observations that are already too protracted,—Joe, with all his efforts after mental discipline, was, at twenty-one, what all the lonely self-educated must be at that age, often the slave of his own hypothesis when he believed himself to be following the most legitimate deductions from an authenticated fact,—oftener a visionary than a true philosopher.

On the evening preceding the day of Joe's freedom, the good old Deborah, sitting at her own door, presented a picture almost identical with the sketch attempted at the opening of this brief recital. Except the deeper furrows on her face, there was no token that age had strengthened its empire over her. The fine old woman sat as erect in her arm-chair as she had sat there sixteen years before. Her eyes also beamed with the same wakefulness and kindliness on her neighbours, as they passed by, from their labour, and tendered her a respectful recognition,—for she was at peace with all, and beloved by all; and while the light vapour curled and wreathed, as it floated slowly upward from her pipe, and then melted, above her head, into the invisibility of space, it seemed a type of the serene and healthful course she had trod in her uprightness, that was, in due time, to receive its quiet change into the unseen but felicitous future. The solicitude she had, for seventeen years, increasingly felt respecting the welfare of her foster-son,—now the youth was within a few hours of being at age,—filled her heart so completely, that she could do nothing as she sat in her customary seat, that evening, but con over the probable consequences of Joe's emancipation from the thraldom of apprenticeship, which was to take place the following noon.

"Well, I'm truly thankful," soliloquised the peaceful septuagenarian, puffing away the clouds from her pipe with growing energy, and now and then ending her sentences in an audible tone, through the strength of earnestness,—"that the Lord moved my heart to take care of this poor motherless and faytherless bairn. It's Him, I'm sensible, that inclines us to do any good,—for there's little that's good in us by natur'. I've no reason to repent what I did; for though the dear lad has a few whirligig notions, yet I'm sure there's a vast deal o' good in him. He doesn't like church over well,—but then the parson grows old and stupid, like me; and it's not likely that a young fellow that's grown so very book-larnt as our Joe, should be fond o' spending his time in listening to an old toothless parson's dull drawling. Neighbour Toby Lackpenny says that the lad's ower nat'ral; and not abstrac' enough, in his way o' thinking; but, for my part, I think he's far ower abstrac' already! At least, I hope he'll grow wiser, in a few years, than to say that the dead never appear to the living. He may talk in that way to green geese like himself, but not to me. Didn't I see my own dear Barachiah, for three nights together, stand in the moonlight, at the foot of my bed, while I was weeping sore for the loss of him?—The Lord forgive me, that I should have grieved so sinfully as to have disturbed his rest! But that's past and gone, and many a deep trouble besides, thank Heaven above! And now, here's this lad. I wished, often, that I had one o' my own;—but it was not God's will so to bless my poor Barachiah and me,—and how could I have loved a child of my own better than I do love this poor bairn? But I was thinking about what I must do for him before he leaves me,—for he's long talked o' seeing the world when he was out of his time;—and, I make no doubt, he'll want to be off to-morrow, as soon as noontide makes him free. I must say a few words to him about it, to-night,—and yet, I feel so chicken-hearted about his going, that I hardly know how to speak to him."

The good dame's irregular soliloquy was put an end to by the voices of her younger apprentices, who were drawing homewards for the night. Her foster-son soon afterwards made his appearance,—book in hand, as usual, at the end of his evening's walk at the conclusion of labour. The supper-table was spread,—the meal ended,—and Joe and the aged dame were speedily left the sole occupants of the little kitchen. Joe had retaken up his book, and had been buried for more than half-an-hour in deep attention to its contents,—the hour was growing late;—and Dame Deborah, after many inward struggles, began, in a very tremulous tone, to address her foster-child on the most important theme in her recent soliloquy.

"Joe," said she, "I was thinking, since you will be of age, and a freeman, to-morrow——" and there her emotion compelled her to hesitate; but although Joe had laid down his book to attend to his aged protectress, he felt too much agitated to take up the observation where the dame had left it.

"I reckon you are in the same mind about leaving me, Joe," resumed the aged woman, trembling with extreme feeling, and uttering the sentence with a cadence that sounded like the key-note of desolation;—"but I wish you to say what you are intending to do when I give you your indentures, to-morrow at noon."

"My kind mother,—for a true mother you have been to me," replied the youth, forcibly subduing his feelings, and addressing Dame Deborah with a degree of animation and a fervency of look she had seldom witnessed in him,—"it is high time I became acquainted with the world. Believe me,—I do not desire to leave you through ingratitude for your unremitted kindness to a poor orphan,—but I feel I am fitted for other scenes than these. More than all, man is the great book I wish to read; and the few humble pages of his history which lie around me here I have turned over, till I am weary of the writing. I shall be useless to you if I remain, for I shall never be content, or at rest. I go from you, for a season; but never, never, dear mother, shall I cease to think of you!"

Joe bowed his head, and covered his face with his hands, in deep emotion; and the dame, moved utterly beyond self-possession, arose with trembling haste, and clasping her foster-child in her aged arms, kissed his fair forehead, while the unwonted tears trickled down her furrowed cheeks.

"My dear bairn! my pratty bairn! my noble bairn!" exclaimed she with a bounding heart, as she stood over him in affectionate admiration.

Joe wept, in spite of his efforts to master tears,—but, at length, recovered sufficient self-possession to lead his aged protectress back to her chair, and to recommence the conversation.

"You will consent, then, I hope, to let me go, kind mother," he said, still holding her hand.

"The Lord's will be done, bairn!" replied Deborah, in a tone of calm and natural piety. "Yes," added she, with resumed cheerfulness, and in her customary firm under-tone,—"thou shal' go, Joey, lad! and thy pocket shall not be empty, nayther!"

"Nay, dear mother," answered the high-minded lad,—"I have already burdened you too heavily, and I will never consent to rob you of the refuge of your old age:—remember, I have hands and health, and can work for my own support."

"God forbid thou should'st be idle!" answered the dame;—"for idleness leads to sin and crime, while honest labour needs never be ashamed. But a few guineas in thy pocket will do thee no harm, an' thou husbands 'em well. More than that, 'There's no knowing what a man may have to meet when he leaves home,' thou know'st is an old saying, and thou'lt find it so apt, that thou'lt think on't when thou has left me, mayhap."

A calm and provident conversation ensued, during which Joe agreed to accept a purse of twenty spade-aces from the good old dame, after she had assured him it would by no means straiten her means either of subsistence or plenty.

"And now, dear Joey," said the kind old woman, "let me persuade thee to throw aside some o' thy whirligig notions. Do not contradict every body thou meets who are so old-fashioned as to believe what their forefathers taught 'em. More than all, Joey," continued Deborah, with some warmth, "I'm shocked at your stubbornness in trying to deny what the Scripter says about foul spirits:—the Lord keep us from them!—and, especially at your daring to threap so stoutly that the dead never come again!"

"Indeed, dame," replied Joe, in a tone of conciliation and respect, "I never denied these things out of stubbornness, but because they are opposed to all experience:—who, and where, is the person, now living, that has really seen a ghost?"

"Who—and where—Joe?" echoed Deborah, with a strange and solemn look.

Joe felt amazed that he had not, before he had asked the last question, called to mind the dame's serious observations in the ferry-boat, five years before, and sat gazing upon the changed countenance of his aged mistress with intense earnestness.

"Joe," continued Deborah, after a deep pause succeeding her emphatic echo of the youth's sceptical question,—"I thought to have kept what I am about to reveal of the dead as a solemn secret, and to have buried it with me, in my grave; but to save thee from foul unbelief about such solemn things, I will reveal it to thee.

"Wedded husband and wife could not live in greater happiness than my dear Barachiah and I," continued the aged woman, in a voice faltering with affection:—"the stroke which took him from me raised a murmuring spirit within me, and day after day, as I moved about this dwelling, my rebellious heart dared to say that He who lives on high, and does all things well, had stricken me in wrath that I deserved not. My neighbours would often attempt to soothe me; and some of them treated my sorrow with lightness, and said, I would soon forget my dead husband, and seek another. But they who uttered this mockery little knew me. Added days and nights only served to increase my grief; and, at length, I began to watch through the night, until my strength failed, and, as I watched, I prayed, in sinful stubbornness and presumption, that my Maker would either take me away to join the dear being that I loved, or bring him once more to me. It was done unto me according to my wicked prayer;—for, one midnight, about ten months after my dear Barachiah's death, as I sat up in bed, with the burning desire in my heart to see my husband once more, and giving full vent to my rebelliousness by the utterance of words which I remember with horror,—behold! he whom I had lost stood at the foot of my bed, but with such a piercing look of reproof as I never saw him wear when alive. He wore a garment of lovely light, and I could have delighted for ever to gaze on him, had it not been for that severe look which ran through my heart, and told me I had done wrong. I sank away, senseless. When I came to myself, and the vision was gone, I vowed that I would never pray more as I had done that night. But, my will was perverse; and, on the next night, I was tempted again to desire, and then to pray, that I might, yet once more, see my departed husband. I was punished as before;—but such was my wickedness, or my weakness, I cannot tell which, that I prayed yet a third time, as presumptuously as ever, and was visited by another and still more reproving apparition of him God gave to me, and whom He had taken away. The next morning I was unable to attend to my daily cares, and was compelled to send for a physician. I took medicines, but I think they helped less to heal me, than did the kind counsel of the aged man who administered them, and who is now in his grave. I prayed no more the prayer of the presumptuous, but asked for resignation, till He who has promised to be a husband to the widow, filled my bosom therewith."

Deborah ceased, as it seemed, disabled by the fullness of her heart, from prolonging her narrative. Joe had not only listened to her revelation with the profoundest attention, but felt an irresistible awe under the recital. Deborah had never risen so much above her ordinary self, in his eyes, as while she was thus unbosoming a secret she had kept for years. Her attitude, and the expression of her features, her tone of voice, and the very words in which she conveyed her solemn story, indicated an unusual frame of mind, and formed a combined and undeniable proof that the utterer of such unearthly news was as fully persuaded, as of her own existence, that she was delivering truths.

Joe's strong affection for his aged protectress, and his reverence for her sterling uprightness, contributed to fix his mind more absorbingly on what he heard. The relation of the apparition of Barachiah Thrumpkinson, although authenticated solely by this solemn averment of his aged relict, thus made a stronger impression on the faith of the youthful listener than any former narrative of the supernatural, written or oral. The united reasonings of five years seemed to be shaken to atoms; and Joe remained answerless, with his eyes fixed on the floor. Nor had his reasoning faculty re-asserted its dominion, ere the aged dame rose, and looking parentally upon him, while she uttered her usual evening farewell, "Good night, bairn!" took the way to her rustic couch.

Joe returned the salutation with a faltering voice, and hasted, likewise, to seek his place of repose; but sleep was long ere it visited his eyes, even when he had overcome, in some degree, the strange over-awed feeling which had crept over him while listening to Deborah's story. Amid the solemn stillness of the night, Memory ran through her beaten paths, and Imagination arose, and mingled therewith the scenes of the future. The great event of to-morrow,—the greatest, hitherto, in the life of the humble shoemaker's apprentice,—soon dissipated all other excitements. Would he be happier when he was free, and had entered the world, as a personal observer, instead of learning its varied character from books? Something whispered a doubt. But would he not be wiser? Yes; that, he thought, was certain. He would be able, by the practice of close observation, to compare men with each other: he would have the opportunity of trying, as upon a touch-stone, the truth or fallacy of the peculiar hypotheses he had framed: he would learn to read the human heart. And then he thought of the probability, nay, certainty, of his finding some kindred mind, but farther advanced in great truths, that would be able to set him right where he was wrong; who would teach him the true secret of perfecting his moral nature, and would lead him on to the acquirement of intellectual stores, of the very existence of which, it might be that he had scarcely a faint conception,—thoughts that enfevered him with pleasurable anticipation.

Then, reverting to the past, he reminded himself of his orphan condition, of the gratitude he owed his affectionate foster-mother, and of the kind and parental assistance she had offered him, although he was about to desert her. Often he felt the melting mood come over him so conqueringly, that he was all but resolved to tell the aged dame, in the morning, that he would remain with her, and try to comfort her old age. And then he thought of the many sensible lessons she had given for his future conduct in the world,—till, wearied out with the variety of his thoughts, and physically, as well as mentally exhausted, he sunk to slumber.

Joe awoke early, after a dreamless and refreshing sleep, and again his mind laboured with its difficulties about Deborah's relation of the apparition; but its labour was vain. The more he reasoned the greater were his difficulties. The healthful effect of these baffled and perplexed thinkings upon Joe's intellect was, the deterring of its powers from precipitant and immature conclusions,—the throwing of its energies back upon fresh and deeper inquiry,—and the in-fixing of a humiliating consciousness that, after all his struggles in pursuit of knowledge, he scarcely knew any thing yet as he ought to know it. Thus, his conscious ignorance for the present was really beneficial to him; and when the voice of his affectionate mistress was heard summoning him to breakfast, he stept down the ladder, shaking his head at himself for a conceited puppy, and applying homeward to his own case the significant rebuke—

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Joe,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

Labour, the honest dame declared, should not be thought of, in her house, the day that Joe was of age,—according to her reckoning by guess,—and free. And she bustled about, as old as she was, to place her best earthen jugs, filled with mead and ale, in goodly array, on the white and well-scoured table, that every visiter might drink the young freeman's health; and she hasted to prepare a large plumb-pudding, and other homely eates, for dinner,—all the while holding up her head, and striving to look as blythe and merry as if she had been in her teens.

At length, the hour of parting came; and when Joe rose and took up his hat,—and his fellow-apprentices that were,—but a few hours before,—took each a bundle to accompany him a few miles on the way,—Dame Deborah's aged frame shook violently, and the tears streamed, unchecked, down her time-worn face.

"God speed thee, my dear bairn!" she cried,—"and help thee to take heed of thy ways, that no harm may befall thee!"

Joe felt completely unmanned, and mingled his tears with those of his beloved and revered benefactress, while he bent to receive her parting benediction.

The orphan saw his foster-mother no more alive. When, three years afterwards, he again entered that little village of Haxey, it was to attend the interment of Dame Deborah in the same churchyard to which she had conducted him to witness the burial of his mother. And what an altered man was Joe! A residence in the manufacturing districts had unveiled to him a world of misery—contention—competition—avarice—oppression—and suffering—and famine—that he had never supposed to exist! As for his religious opinions they changed, and changed again,—amidst varnished, high-sounding professors of sanctity, on the one hand,—and starving thousands, who in the pangs of despair charged God with the authorship of their wretchedness, on the other. Had Joe been asked, ten years afterwards, what were now his religious sentiments, he would have answered:—"I am wearied with talking about creeds, and I am trying,—by relieving misery as much as I can, and diffusing all the happiness I can,—to show that I believe all men to be my brethren: I think that is the best religion."

TOBY LACKPENNY THE PHILOSOPHICAL:

A DEVOTEE OF THE MARVELLOUS.

Among the most remarkable events which took place in Haxey, towards the close of the last century, was the settlement, in that ancient village, of curious Toby Lackpenny, the philosophical tailor. Toby's coat was usually out at the elbows, but he had long held, throughout the whole Isle of Axholme, a high reputation as a man of deep and singular learning. His "library" was the theme of marvel unceasing to his plain and unsophisticated customers; and though it consisted but of forty or fifty ragged volumes, it constituted a wealth that the philosophical Toby, himself, priced above rubies. To this treasury of wisdom he, nightly, resorted, with ever-fresh delight, as regularly as his manual labour closed; and many an ecstatic hour did he live over his books in the sweet stillness and solitude of early morning. There were tractates on the whole circle of science, in his bibliographical collection, Toby asserted; for, like all other great philosophers, he aspired to be an encyclopedist in knowledge: but, up to the time at which we are commencing this brief record of Toby's history, it was simply, by his mastery of the erudite pages of Nicholas Culpepper,—and of a very ancient volume comprising treatises on Astrology, Geomancy, Palmistry, and other kindred occult studies,—that Toby had won for himself, throughout the length and breadth of Axholmian land, so high a character for wisdom. None could doubt the profundity of Toby's acquirements; for whoever took a wild flower to his door was sure to be told its name,—its healing virtues,—and the names of its presiding influences, the planets and zodiacal constellations,—those celestial potencies from which, he assured the visiter, every herb and flower derived their medicinal virtues. And, oh! the decoctions, and the salves, and the ointments, and the plasters, and the poultices, and the liniments, and the electuaries, and the simples, and the compounds, that were made by the old women of Haxey, and all Axholme, by Toby Lackpenny's oracular direction! And then the exultant looks and honied words with which some would return thanks to Toby, and assure him all their tooth-ache, or head-ache, or elbow-ache, had vanished, like magic, by their diligent attention to his prescription; and then the reach and shrewdness he displayed in answering such as complained that his advice had not been of the service they had apprehended, namely, that they had not plucked the flower in the hour when its own planet presided,—or they had not boiled it before the Moon rose,—and she was in opposition to Jupiter, the lord of the plant wormwood,—or some other convincing reason why the device had not succeeded.

Toby's advancement in the "astral science," also brought him an increasing number of customers,—though the naked condition of his elbows told the fact that this growing knowledge was somewhat profitless in a substantial sense. Nevertheless, every successive day strengthened his confidence that he would soon be "even with Booker, or Lilly, or Gadbury, or any of 'em that his grandfather used to talk about;"—for he had also been eager, in his day, to be able to prognosticate future events by tracing "the stars in their courses." And, now, as surely as the evening returned, Toby might be seen at his own door, seated on a low stool, drawing astrological diagrams on a fragment of slate, and placing the symbols of the planets and signs of the zodiac in due position in the "table of houses."

The vagueness which Toby found to be so characteristic of what astrologers call the "rules of judgment" often brought the zealous student to a pause, as to the real utility of his pursuit; but the extreme credulousness of his constitution usually urged him to put an end to the dubious reasonings that often rose within him. Now and then, a sharp stroke from the village parson,—levelled, in full canonicals, from the pulpit of a Sunday forenoon,—with the marksman's stern eye fixed, meanwhile, on poor Toby,—made him stagger a little. It was a guilty act,—the clergyman asserted,—to rend away the natural veil which the Creator had drawn over man's discernment of futurity: it was a controversion of the order of His Providence: it was an attempt to seize upon the Almighty's own attributes, and wield a power that belonged solely to Himself. Such eloquent sentences bothered Toby still more, when the well-intentioned shepherd rounded them by exclaiming, as he beat the

"——drum ecclesiastic
With fist instead of a stick,"

that "star-gazers, and wizards, and enchanters, were, each and all, an abomination to the Lord!"

But, alas! for poor Toby,—when his favourite disciple Joe, after being torn from him by Dame Deborah's commandment in obedience to Toby's great foe,—the vicar,—alas! for Toby, when Joe, filled with zeal to discharge his conscience, re-entered the tailor's cottage one evening at dusk, and attacked his old teacher in the very heart and centre of his predilections, declaring there would be no salvation for him in this world, till he had followed the example of the Ephesian Christians, and burnt his cabalistical books; nor any happiness for him in the prospect of a future life, until he had eschewed all his delusive vanities, and cried at the footstool of his Maker for the pardon of his sins! Never was the might with which a mind sinewed by some strong enthusiasm controls even an elder and more experienced intellect more signally evinced than in the contest between the orphan Joe, under his religious frenzy, and his old teacher, the soothsaying tailor. In the outset of this strange opposition and aggression on the part of his late scholar, Toby Lackpenny stoutly parried the blows of his unexpected adversary by returning text for text, and argument for argument.

"Is it not plainly declared in the Book of Judges, that 'the stars in their courses fought against Sisera?'" asked Toby, with all the emphasis which his zeal for the hereditary honour and power of the stars prompted;—"can any thing prove more clearly that they sway human affairs? And the inspired Psalmist saith of the heavenly bodies, that 'Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world.' Which word line, according to Aben Ezra, and the most skilful cabalists," continued Toby, diving into the profoundest depths of his learning for the defence of his beloved theories, "ought to be rendered rule or direction, and evidently sets forth the fact that the planets exercise lordship in their respective houses,—while the latter part of the passage makes known the precious truth that the wise and skilful student will learn to understand their language."

"But you have studied their language a long time without understanding it a whit the surer,—you know you have,—for you have told me so more than once, neighbour Toby," replied Joe, with honest and unshrinking fervour; "and as your head is fast becoming grey, and as flowers are often nipped though but in the bud,—I think it would be wiser in you as an aged man, and in me as a frail youth, to get prepared for death;—therefore, I conjure you, Toby, as you value your own soul, to forsake these vanities!"

This simple and sincere language, from one who was then little more than a child in years, shook the old man's heart more than all the clergyman's hortatory thunderbolts had shaken his reason. Toby attempted to renew his sophistries, at Joe's succeeding visits; but felt, at length, thoroughly subdued under the heartfelt and persevering enthusiasm of a mere boy.

"Verily!" Toby Lackpenny often exclaimed in after-times, when relating the progress of his conversion,—"although my will was stubborn, I often trembled before the spirit of that child, like Felix before Paul, or like the gaoler in the prison at Philippi!"

The astrologer burnt his books of the astral science, and all the other occult, and therefore satanical sciences; and he and Joe were thenceforth united in a novel and more elevated pursuit,—the acquirement of a purified and spiritual nature. But the distinctness of minds, and the force of habit in different natures, were strikingly discoverable in the relative degrees of zeal with which the youth and Toby followed their new object. Joe's ascetic fervour has been described. But Toby's bent was of a diverse character: he found it impossible to enter with Joe's vehemence into the quest of an entire renewal of heart,—and could not resist the tendency to seek for enlightenment among the curious treasures of his little library. With indescribable rapture Toby found, as he thought, exactly what he wanted, in the abstruse pages of Jacob Bœhmen. He had long kept the volumes of the mystical German on his shelves; but he assured himself that he never saw the true meaning of the high mysteries developed in the "Forty Questions," with so clear a vision as he did now the films of the "old Adam" were beginning to fall from his eyes.

It need scarcely be observed that Joe heard Toby's announcement of these abstract discoveries with rigid indifference. Neither when the lad's fervour had abated, and disgust and melancholy succeeded, did he feel able to receive the tailor's assurances of the superior consolation to be derived from these puzzling studies. Toby's exhilaration of spirits, happily for himself, suffered little interruption after the full growth of his devoted attachment to the cloudy exercitations of the old quietest.—"Of a truth," he would often say to his customers, "I can never be sufficiently thankful that a merciful Providence showed me the spiritual lantern of Jacob Bœhmen, wherewith I might find, and possess, the pearl of great price!"

Within two years of the expiry of Joe's apprenticeship, however, the devotional and marvel-loving tailor had transferred his worship from the shrine of the mystical German shoemaker to the more lofty, as well as more celestial image of Baron Emanuel Swedenborg. The Scripture histories had, thenceforth, an allegorical sense for Toby, as well as for Joe; and the lad could scarcely hint that he thought the transactions in the garden of Eden were to be read as a figure, before the learned Lackpenny was ready to pour out a profound descant on the proprium, or "sensual principle," which he affirmed to be typified by the serpent in the garden;—and declared his conviction, that the Mosaic account of the first human pair was, in reality, a mere symbolical history of "the First Church," and of the causes of its forfeiture of purity.

At another argumentative season, when the apprentice had ventured to ask if Toby did not think there was something incongruous in the account of Noah's flood, and in the size the ark was said to be,—and how the beasts went in,—and how they were supported,—the penetrating Swedenborgian assured the inquirer, with the utmost gravity, that he thought there was nothing in the whole world of books or facts more easy of explication.

"Know thou, my beloved Joey," said the sincere old man, raising his spectacles, and placing them, like two additional eyes, in the centre of his large forehead, "that whoever giveth his hearty faith to the teaching of the celestial-minded Swedenborg will receive a second eye-sight,—spiritual, and far more precious than the eyes of this earthly body. The Deluge, Joey, represents 'the Second Church,' as the garden of Paradise represents the first. The ark is the man of the church; and the forty days' rain is a figure for the temptations of the senses, by which the Second Church, as well as the First, was tried: you may see that figure plainly cleared up by our Saviour's temptation in the wilderness. The ark is also described as having a window above,—that signifies the intellectual principle; and a door, moreover, at the side,—that denotes the faculty of hearing."

"I wish all these things had been described in a plainer way, if they mean all this," interjected the youth, impatient of his mystic friend's harangue.

"If!" exclaimed Toby, astonished out of measure that any sane person could, for one moment, doubt what seemed to himself to be so pellucidly clear;—"if!—why, only read it for yourself, Joe, in the 'Celestial Arcana' of the inspired Emanuel of the North!"—and, therewith, the agile old philosopher sprang from his chair, and reached the volume from his shelves.

"Never mind, friend Toby: not at present," said Joe, very quietly.

"Well, well," said Toby, "another time then;—but you won't hear me out, or otherwise I could clearly prove what I had begun to say."

"But what confidence can one place in these dreams of your favourite Emanuel?" said Joe.

"Dreams!" retorted the mystic tailor, lowering his voice, and changing the expression of his countenance, until Joe wondered what was the matter with him.—"Dreams! no, no, he didn't dream, Joey. He was favoured with heavenly visions! The angels actually took him several times to heaven,—for he says so himself——"

"And Mahomet said the same," interjected Joe.

"Interrupt me not!" continued Toby, looking still more awfully mysterious:—"I tell thee, the angels took him to heaven, and unfolded to him hidden mysteries! And I tell thee, Joey, that I believe it is possible to attain unto such a pure state here, in this world, that we may converse with angels. I have fasted every day this week till sunset," concluded the poor honest old enthusiast, creeping close to Joe, and speaking almost in his ear,—"and I have faith to believe, that, in a little time, after much prayer, I, even I, shall be permitted to see the angelic world, yea, and to converse with it!"

One of Joe's fellow-apprentices here lifted up the latch, and informed him that Dame Deborah wished he would come home, for the hour was getting late. Pressing his old friend's hand, without looking him in the face, the youth wished him "Good-night!" not a little relieved by the summons of his mistress.

On the morrow, the neighbourhood was thrown into a state of alarm by a cottager having found poor Toby Lackpenny in a swoon upon his shop-board. Finding the experiment attended with such imminent hazard, the fervent enthusiast was persuaded the next night, by Joe, after two hours' indefatigable argumentation, to lay aside his attempt, by devout abstinence, at "purging the frame terrestrial till it could witness the vision celestial."

The occurrence of a very singular incident, however, and some effects that followed it, produced many a misgiving in poor Toby's mind that he had done wickedly in giving up the pursuit of this spiritual and exalted object. It was about the third night after Toby had yielded to Joe's prudent counsel,—and while they were sitting in quiet converse on one of their old themes,—that Toby's cottage door was suddenly burst open by a blow which resembled the stroke of a thunderbolt in the imagination of Joe and his ancient gossip,—and, on the centre of the floor, as suddenly stood Frank Friskit, Joe's younger fellow-apprentice, and the most mischievous scape-grace in the village. The face of the unexpected visitant was like the whitened wall; and his curly locks, as if in consternation at the unwonted pallor of his countenance, stood "nine ways of a Wednesday," as Toby phrased it. His trembling knees and torn dress made confession,—the trembler himself being tongueless with dread,—that Frank had been engaged in some fearful adventure. Joe hastened to support him,—for the lad swooned almost instantly. Toby hastened for cold water to aid his recovery;—and, in a few seconds, Noah Wallhead, Joe's other fellow-apprentice, also entered Toby's cottage, and manifested considerable solicitude about Frank's alarming condition. After a plentiful libation upon his temples, Frank began to come to his senses.

"What's the matter, Franky?" said Toby, gently, as soon as he thought the convalescent was able to bear the inquiry.

"I've—I've seen some'at!" replied Frank, hysterically.

"Seen!—well, but what have you seen, Frank?" asked Joe.

"A bar-ghost, Joe, or else th' old lad!" answered Friskit, with a chattering of the teeth.

Noah Wallhead laughed; but Toby and Joe, seeing the young ghost-seer was now able to sit up without help, requested him, when they had closed the door, to tell his story at length, and conceal nothing.

The repentant Frank avowed himself to be the guilty perpetrator of a series of malicious attempts upon the natural liberty of Toby Lackpenny's cat! Every urchin in the village of Haxey had been blamed, at one time or other, for the base machination of setting "snickles," or nooses of wire, in the tailor's little garden. The sage Toby profoundly conjectured, and openly maintained, all along, that these wicked devices were intended to ensnare his favourite tabby; but neither he, nor any one else, had ever suspected Frank Friskit to be the foul conspirator, inasmuch as he was so frequently in Toby's cot, and on friendly terms with him. Under the agitation of affright, the conscience-stricken and self-discovered culprit solemnly vowed that he would forsake the way of transgression thenceforth; for he had seen such a sight, while setting a snickle, as he could never forget as long as he lived! How he had got over the hedge he could not tell:—he believed his wits left him as soon as he saw the bar-ghost,—for he could remember nothing besides that queer sight!

"But what was it like, Frank?" asked Joe.

"Like!—why it had a dark-looking face, and a pair of eyes as big as owls' heads!" replied the lad, with a shudder.

"And how big was it?" asked Joe, again.

"I only saw the great foul face grinning and staring at me, and all on a blaze,—and then it was gone!" said Frank.

Joe received the last answer with a smile,—but, on turning round, when Noah Wallhead touched his elbow, he could not forbear laughter. Noah showed Joe the hollow turnip, with its eyes and mouth, that had so marvellously affrighted the younger apprentice when lit up with a bit of candle,—a common trick among rustic youngsters. Toby, however, was not let into the secret, and took it very ill that Joe, especially, should laugh at what he considered a very alarming narrative. Feeling it incumbent on himself to use this advantageous opportunity for enforcing a homily on reform, he thus addressed himself to the penitent Frank Friskit:—

"Be thankful, foolish boy," he said, "that this evil spirit has done thee no real harm; and, for the future, lay aside thy wicked follies. And, above all, Frank, bethink thee that thou has' been guilty of a great sin to be so long pretending good neighbourship with me, and yet to be all the while plotting how to snickle my poor dumb creatur'. No wonder the bar-ghost should visit thee! Say thy Belief, as well as thy prayers, to-night, Frank,—and be a good lad in futur', and then thou may' hope that the Lord will forgive this deceit, for that's a greater sin than mischief!"—and then, fearing to renew the lad's terrors,—since he already began to tremble afresh,—Toby besought Joe and Noah Wallhead to take him home.

Toby Lackpenny felt "indescribably queer," as he afterwards said,—when left alone that night. He tried to banish the remembrance of Frank's strange description of the trunkless head,—but he found that to be impossible, as long as he sat by the fire,—for every flicker of the flames startled him with a new fear or fancy. So he betook himself to bed. But alas! poor Toby's frame had been so completely weakened by fasting, and his indulgence of the marvelling propensity of his constitution had rendered his understanding and will so powerless, that he felt like a being that has no longer any self-government. The head,—the queer head that Frank had seen,—with its fiery eyes and mouth,—was all Toby could think about, as he lay tossing to and fro in bed:—"What a marvellous sight it must have been!" said Toby to himself,—"a grinning dark face, with eyes as big as owls' heads,"—the boy said;—"all on a blaze in a moment, and then gone!" And the revolting picture, at length, burst in reality,—he believed,—before his eyes! Nor had he the power to banish the uncouth and distorted phantasm,—although he gathered up all his courage and tried to laugh, once:—it was in vain,—the sound of his own forced laughter caused his skin to creep! Then Toby shut his eyes, and turned himself on his pillow, and bravely resolved he would sleep,—but it still was in vain:—when his eyelids ached with the compressure he had exerted upon them, he opened his eyes once more,—and lo! there was a real, grinning, goggle-eyed head,—all on fire,—coming towards him, from an immense distance! The trunkless head was a mile off, apparently,—but it was coming,—and what was he to do? It came on rapidly,—and the heart of poor Toby beat loudly against his ribs, and the perspiration started from his brow; and, at length, when the glaring phantom of a head was approaching very near, he made a convulsive effort, and dashed his head beneath the bed-clothes! Half suffocated with heat and fear, he threw the clothes sufficiently off to obtain a breath or two, when, to his unspeakable relief, his incomprehensible tantaliser vanished.

In a few minutes, however, the horrible spectre of a head appeared again, in the immense, immeasurable distance. It approached at the same rapid and threatening rate as before, and with features he thought still more frightful; and, again, he had recourse to the bed-clothes for protection from this terrific visitant. When the head commenced its menacing approach for the third time, Toby's horror exceeded endurance, and he jumped from his low bed, and threw open his little window to catch the cool air. The night breeze speedily dispelled his giddiness, and effectually banished the disturbing figure from his disordered sensory.

Toby stood a few moments attempting to rally his mind, by his old employment of counting the stars in each of the more striking constellations, which were at the time distinctly and brightly visible;—but the hour of midnight, told by the solemn tones of the church clock, warned him to close the window, and endeavour to find the rest he felt he now so much needed. Exhaustion, happily, came to his relief, and Toby forgot the fiery head without a trunk, in more gentle dreams.

Joe heard Toby's relation of this singular visit, the next night, with a degree of phlegm and coolness that amazed the marvel-stricken tailor. Nor could Toby receive for gospel any of the natural explanations of his young friend: it was in vain that Joe recounted what he had lately read of Nicolai, the printer of Berlin, and his wondrous diseased visions,—it was equally in vain that the youth strove to shew Toby that the very manner of the strange head's visit,—so like what was called "phantasmagoria" and other optical delusions,—proved, to a dead certainty, that it all arose from over-excitement of the brain. Toby poohed and pshawed at every thing Joe said,—and was nearer than Joe had ever thought him towards calling his former disciple by some offensive name. The lad was compelled to desist from his attempt to reason Toby out of his uneasy conviction, that he had actually been visited by some evil agent as a punishment for his infraction of the vow he took never to eat food till sunset,—that so he might attain to communion with heavenly angels!

Left to himself, the stricken idealist fell into still more pernicious errors. Witchcraft, was the next delusion he was fated to experience. Not that Toby ever imagined himself to be either a witch or a wizard; but he fell, most obstinately, into the belief,—ay, as obstinately as the knight of La Mancha himself,—that he was under the mischievous power of some who dealt with wicked spirits and practised enchantments. His imagination in this, as in earlier instances of its treacherousness to his judgment, made a rapid, though gradual, abandonment of all self-evident and common-sense conclusions, even in the every-day affairs of life. That nest of temptation—his library—as, also, in the case of the world-known Quixote, was, again, the source from which Toby Lackpenny drew the written proofs for the reality of his credulous vagaries. "Gloomy Glanvil," as critical Toby had called him in the days of his higher spiritual-mindedness, was the superstitious expounder of doctrine to whom the philosophical tailor now attached himself. How could he deny that a compact with evil spirits was possible to fallen human creatures, when he had believed, so heartily, with Swedenborg, that it was possible for sinful man to hold communion with celestial ministers? Besides, was there not the indubitable history of the Witch of Endor, and innumerable other references to dealers with familiar spirits, in the volume of Holy Writ? And were they likely—these wicked and envious agencies of the "evil eye"—to look on any human being so maliciously as on him who had aspired to converse with good angels? Would they not feel an instinctive antipathy towards him? He was convinced they would, as soon as he inwardly asked the question.

He had just lost his thimble while he was thinking thus; and though he hunted for it a full hour, he was not able to find it! What though this had often fallen to his share of ill luck before? It was not, now, to be accounted for as an accident. No: it had been spirited away: he was bewitched; he was sure he was. It was by petty acts of mischief that the withered hags of hell usually commenced their annoyance of those whose aspirations after purity had raised their devilish hate. His case, he feared, was too sure to prove a sorrowful one, for he knew not how to counterwork their malevolence. What a dunce he had been to neglect that branch of occult study! But it might not be too late to acquire even a profound knowledge of it; and so he would set about it in right earnest.

And, poor Toby! he did set about it in earnest, insomuch that he sewed side-seams to tops and bottoms of new garments, and stitched circular patches on square rents, and squares on circular apertures in the damaged attire he undertook to repair, and mislaid his thread where he could not find it for hours,—and pricked his thumbs and fingers, half-callous though they were, with the needles,—and heated his goose till he burnt the cloth,—and fell into blunders and mishaps of most awful consequence to his professional reputation, day by day, more thickly and disastrously, until the very disasters themselves convinced him that he was approaching a climax of knowledge in the gloomy science of which he had now become so devoted a student. The witches knew—foul, cunning, devil-dealers that they were—they knew, although he did not, as yet, ken who they were, that he was about to become a match for them; and, therefore, they were thus bedevilling him and his cloth, and goose, and shears, and thimble, and needles, in this "hey-day, hide-and-seek, burn-it-and-bother-it," sort of way.

Toby would not "give it up," however, torment him as they might—the spiteful fiendlings! He still read and thought, and thought and read, and compared the descriptions of feature which his books contained, with the physiognomies of all who visited his abode, until he entertained a shrewd suspicion of who were the real and identical, though secret, practisers of all this infernal mischief. Yet, as some of these had been, for years, his best and kindest employers, the witch-seer found it go sorely against the grain of his affectionate nature to provoke a quarrel with them. Often did he chide his spirit when he had permitted any of these suspicious visiters to depart with heartfelt thanks for the kindly present of a cake, or a new cheese, or a dish of butter, or half-score of eggs, with which they had coupled their order for the repair of a coat, or nether habit; and as often did he resolve to prepare himself against their next visit for a red-hot quarrel.

Months elapsed before the amiable-hearted visionary could "screw his courage to the sticking-place," so as to enable him to "fall out" with his friends and benefactors: not that he feared their witchery, or the heavier harm it might bring upon him, when he had defied it. He soon lost all dread of that kind. It was his true-heartedness—his genuine gratitude—that precious quality which a rogue never feels, though he talks the most loudly about it, but which honest and noble natures cannot stifle, even when warm friends have become persecuting foes,—it was that superlative virtue which struggled to keep its citadel in gentle Toby's heart's core, and the contest with which was so troublous to him. Happily for the poor mistaken philosopher, his loving-heartedness had rendered him so dear to all who knew him, that none would believe he was in his right mind, when he suddenly became so discourteous and angry-tempered.

"Pr'ythee, Goody, what think'st ta?" said Dolly Dustit, the little hard-working flax-woman, to Peggy the staid housekeeper at Farmer Robinson's,—"is neighbour Toby growing queerish in his heed, wi' so much book-larning,—or, what the plague can be the matter wi' him? I asked him to tell me what yerbs I should get to mak' a green plaister for our Jack's sore scaup, and he grinned like a fummard, and tell'd ma to gooa to the divvil, and as th' oud lad was a friend o' mine he would mak' ma my plaisters, with a witness! Doesn't ta think he's gone stranny?"

"For sartain there's summat the matter wi' his wits, from what our maister was saying about him this morning," answered Peggy; "but who can wonder at it, Dolly? I wonder his knowledge-box hasn't gone wrong-side up'ards many a year since!"

"And Maister Robinson has had some foul speech from him, has he, then, Peggy?" asked the little flax-woman, curious to learn more of Toby's vagaries.

"Sich foul speech as maks one queer to mention it," replied Peggy, though she evidently wanted to unburthen herself of it to her gossip, and told the shuddering news in the next breath:—"he tell'd th' farmer that his breeches smelled o' brimstone, and he wouldn't put a stitch in 'em to please ayther him, or the divvil his maister!"

"The Lord ha' marcy on us, Peggy!" ejaculated the honest little flax-woman, "it's a sore thing to think on; but poor Toby's brain's addled at last, I'm varry sewer. He's as harmless as a lamb, when he's right: one nivver heeard a foul word come out of his mouth. I'm varry sorry for him, Peggy——" and so saying, Dolly Dustit sped on to her daily work in the flax field, more deeply grieved at what she believed to be poor Toby's affliction, than at his repulsive treatment of her application for his medical advice.

Such conferences of inquiry, wonder, and regret, began to arise daily, in the ancient little town of Haxey, as Toby advanced further into the spirit and essence of witch-knowing; but the erring philosopher, at length, set the whole village into uproar by telling no less-beloved a personage than Dame Deborah Thrumpkinson, herself, that he believed she was a witch,—nay the queen and ring-leader of all the witches in the Isle of Axholme,—and, to complete his madness, Toby actually strove to eject the venerable old woman from his cottage! Fortunately, his corporal weakness prevented him from effecting the rudeness which he thus attempted; and the hearty old dame, though pitying, rather than censuring his folly, felt disposed to try the effect of a somewhat vigorous reproof of it. Seizing the lean, attenuated student by the collar, she laid him, with one sinewy lift, fairly on his back, breathless and fear-stricken, upon the shop-board.

"'Od rabbet thee, and thy fizzlegig foolery!" she exclaimed, setting her teeth together, as she was wont when moved more strongly than usual, "what maggots hast thou got into thy star-gazing noddle, now? A witch, indeed! Who will take thee to be a wizard for saying so, thou dreaming old owl? Marry, come up! I say a witch, too!"—and then she shook poor Toby till his teeth chattered, and he would fain have uttered a loud alarm, but durst not speak, for the life of him.

The dame left him to recover his courage, and laughed heartily, in spite of some slight feeling of vexation, as she told the story to her customers during the day. A few hours served to bring a crowd round the tailor's dwelling, though none would enter it; and, till night-fall, Toby's ears were assailed with epithets which shook his nerves till he wished himself a thousand miles off, as he afterwards said to Joe. During the evening, the elder and more influential members of the little population of Haxey went from house to house expressing their deep regret for Toby Lackpenny's lunacy,—for they decided that he was lunatic,—and conjuringly besought the younger and more frivolous people to desist from persecution of one who had always been so good and kind-hearted a neighbour, and was now under a visitation of Providence that rendered him an object of commiseration rather than ridicule. And so the victim of imagination was delivered from the storm of persecution which he had foreboded would be renewed on the succeeding day.

Desirous, on her part, of making Toby feel the value of her neighbourship, Dame Deborah never crossed his threshold on that day. Toby was thus left a solitary; and yet his mental disease had not yet reached a stage that would render solitude curative. On the contrary, it permitted his prurient imagination to become more mischievous in its influence.

A neat little dove-cote was a conspicuous rural adornment to the ancient gable of Dame Deborah's dwelling; and its cooing habitants were familiarly acquainted with the tailor's threshold, and even with his cottage-floor,—whither they were often attracted by the crumbs Toby spread upon it, when his favourite tabby had strayed forth from the cot, and so could give no alarm to these feathered visitants. Toby had been reading a full description, during that solitary morning, in one of his witchery-books, of the way in which the most powerful of all charms might be prepared for subjugating a witch or a wizard; and the entrance of one of Dame Deborah's pigeons, into his cottage, seemed to give him the opportunity he coveted of testing the efficacy of the prescribed charm. He wilily closed his door, and after a brief struggle, captured the bird,—which he, forthwith, secured, by shutting it up in the oaken corner cupboard, which served him for wardrobe, larder, and coal-cellar.

The day wore on, and the philosopher, with a struggle against his misgivings that whispered "cruelty and barbarity," reckoned mightily on the triumph his newly acquired knowledge was to give him over the powers of darkness as soon as night arrived, and the murky hour of twelve approached. He sharpened a knife till the edge was most deadly keen; he made up a good fire: he collected, at least, one hundred pins from the patches on his shop-board and in his drawers: he prepared the string by which the dove's heart was to be hung to roast; and he drove in the nail to which the string was to be tied.

And now the black midnight hour was near, and trembling with agitation that might almost be called horror, Toby Lackpenny took the poor fluttering pigeon out of its hiding-place, and took the fierce knife into his hand to be ready to dash into its breast as soon as the church clock struck the first stroke of twelve. Need he had for self-possession and preparedness of mind and act, in order to complete his necromantic feat like a true adept,—for although he was not to wound the bird till he heard the first stroke of twelve, yet he must have its heart out, alive, and have it stuck full of pins, and placed down at the fire to roast,—and all before the church clock had told the last stroke of twelve!

"Pshaw!—nonsense—what a chicken-hearted fool I am!" said poor Toby to himself, as he stood trying to confine the bird's wings with one hand, and holding his sharp knife in the other: "let me think of the victory I shall obtain over these agents of the Evil One,—and not give way in this childish manner!"

But Toby did give way, and could not help it; as he said to Joe when he afterwards described this strange temptation to his beloved young friend. The faster the moments flew, and the more nearly the magical moment approached, the more Toby trembled, and the more loudly his heart beat against his ribs, and the more terrifically his conscience menaced his peace, till—as the last half minute was elapsing, he threw down the knife, and releasing the pigeon from his grasp, declared aloud, though out of the hearing of every human being, that he neither could nor would hurt the poor harmless dove, even if all the witches on earth, and all the fiends they dealt with in the other place, should, thenceforth, have power to torment him every minute of his remaining life.

There was an end of Toby's grand achievement of power over all the witches and wizards with whom he believed the Isle of Axholme to be infested! The hour had passed over, and it was too late—perhaps, for ever—for him to perform the all-potent immolation,—since the sacrifice of the same pigeon would be of no efficacy, after it had been prepared, and yet remained unslaughtered. His better nature felt satisfaction at the thought of the pigeon being still alive, though his superstitious ambition led him to experience a deep shade of regret that he had not had hardihood of spirit sufficient to enable him to grasp the grand ideal prize which was so nearly within his reach. Regrets were useless, however, he reflected; and so he quenched his blazing fire, and lay down to rest.

In the morning, a new temptation awaited the fanatical witch-finder. Forgetting that Tabby could easily pounce upon the pigeon while left on the cottage-floor, though she could not get at it in the cupboard,—Toby had gone to bed without concerning himself about the safety of the bird, being so much absorbed with the feeling of satisfaction that he had spared its life. No sooner had her master fallen asleep, however, and the bird placed its bill under its wing for taking rest, than Tabby slily seized her prize and butchered it for a secret banquet. Her bloody mouth and glistening eyes, together with the scattered feathers, proclaimed her deed, most unmistakeably, as soon almost as Toby had opened his eyes and looked round his humble dwelling.

A new conviction sprang into his capricious brain: Tabby was a witch, self-transfigured into a cat! There could be no doubt of it—not the shadow of a doubt. How strange that he had not marked her particular habits before!—and yet, it was a fact, now he came to think of it,—that she purred and squinted, just like the transfigured cat-witches he had lately read of in his profound, mystical books. As for the pigeon, she hated it, of course, knowing the purpose for which it had been brought thither. It was as clear as the sun at noon,—though all cats liked pigeon flesh if they could get it,—that Tabby devoured this pigeon because she was a witch, and it had been secreted as a forthcoming sacrificial charm for overthrowing witch-power!

What, then, was the discerning Lackpenny to do, under this astounding discovery? He resolved to put an end to Tabby's life, by the peculiar and effectual mode in which alone a cat-witch could be destroyed: she must be hung up by the heels over his cottage-door to die a prolonged but irredeemable death! Toby shuddered; but he was convinced it was the only righteous and wise way to be taken,—and so he set about carrying it into effect. Tabby inflicted some vengeful wounds on her old master while he was in course of tying the cord round her hind feet, and then hoisting her up over the door,—but Toby fulfilled his office of executioner—thrust on him by fate and duty, he believed—very stoutly this time—in spite of the aversion he felt at taking away the life of a dumb creature which had sung "three-thrum" on his hearth so often, and borne him company through so many days of poverty, although days of content. He hung up his cat; but how was he to stop her cries?

A crowd again gathered round his house, and demanded that he should release his cat. But Toby was more resolute that he would not, the more they insisted on it. Dame Deborah, at length, stepped from her dwelling, and, cutting the poor animal loose, broke Toby's counter-enchantment at a stroke. Then throwing open the tailor's door, and fixing her eyes upon him very threateningly, she told him she would certainly help to hang him by the heels,—if ever he attempted again to treat his poor harmless cat in so barbarous a manner.

Toby spake not one word. His recollection of the fearful shake the aged dame had lately given him, rendered him apprehensive that she might renew it, and so he kept prudent silence.

The crowd gradually departed, and left the baffled philosopher-visionary, once more, to solitary reflection—but it was now hungry reflection,—and proved to be most effectual in dispelling his wild fancies. Shame under the keen reproofs of his neighbours, and failure of his cupboard, contributed to weary him of his witch notions,—so that on the following morning he was fain to receive a little present from Dame Deborah, with thanks for her kindness.

Gradually, he became so entirely ashamed of his recent eccentricities that he made earnest apologies to all whom he had treated with rudeness,—and all were so ready to forgive, and so happy to see him restored to a neighbourly temper,—that Toby found it easy to recover his former ease of mind and habitual good humour.

The longer Toby lived the less likely was it for one so ardently imaginative by constitution, to sink into the mere matter-of-fact quietude of thought that characterised the majority of his neighbours. On the contrary, as he grew older, his brain became more and more prolific of imaginations; but, happily, they were increasingly of a more pleasing nature as he increased in years. In spite of all his life-long dreams and fancies, and in spite of straitness in his means of living, Toby was a happy old man; for, with all the startling activity of his imagination, Toby had never corrupted his bodily vigour by a single act of intemperance. When Joe returned to bury his aged foster-mother, Toby walked, by the help of two sticks, to the grave-side, declaring that he saw two lovely angels walking before the coffin, all the way from the dame's door, and he knew they would come for him next. Whether the yearning of his desire and imagination, or the great effort he made to attend the funeral, most assisted to hasten his end, cannot be said,—but he died the very next day,—with a heaven of smiles on his aged face,—and with the words "heaven" and "angels" on his tongue.

THE END.

London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street Square.

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Table of Contents

- WISE SAWS

- AND

- MODERN INSTANCES.

- VOL. II.

- WISE SAWS

- AND

- MODERN INSTANCES.

- THOMAS COOPER,

- CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

- THE OLD CORPORATION.

- NED WILCOM;

- LONDON 'VENTURE;

- THE LAD WHO FELT LIKE A FISH OUT OF WATER.

- THE INTELLECTUAL LEVER THAT LACKED A FULCRUM.

- NICHOLAS NIXON, "GENTLEMAN,"
- SIGNS OF THE TIMES;
- DAME DEBORAH THRUMPKINSON,
- TOBY LACKPENNY THE PHILOSOPHICAL:
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE