Household Words, No. 17, July 20, 1850

That was a pleasant place where I was born, though ’twas only a thatched cabin by the side of a mountain stream, where the country was so lonely, that in summer time the wild ducks used to bring their young ones to feed on the bog, within a hundred yards of our door; and you could not stoop over the bank to raise a pitcher full of water, without frightening a shoal of beautiful speckled trout. Well, ’tis long ago since my brother Richard, that’s now grown a fine clever man, God bless him!—and myself, used to set off together up the mountain to pick bunches of the cotton plant and the bog myrtle, and to look for birds’ and wild bees’ nests. ’Tis long ago—and though I’m happy and well off now, living in the big house as own maid to the young ladies, who, on account of my being foster-sister to poor darling Miss Ellen, that died of decline, treat me more like their equal than their servant, and give me the means to improve myself; still at times, especially when James Sweeney, a dacent boy of the neighbours, and myself are taking a walk together through the fields in the cool and quiet of a summer’s evening, I can’t help thinking of the times that are passed, and talking about them to James with a sort of peaceful sadness, more happy maybe than if we were laughing aloud.

Every evening, before I say my prayers, I read a chapter in the Bible that Miss Ellen gave me; and last night I felt my tears dropping for ever so long over one verse,—“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away.” The words made me think of them that are gone—of my father, and his wife that was a true fond mother to me; and, above all, of my little sister Mary, the clureen bawn^[1] that nestled in her bosom.

I was a wild slip of a girl, ten years of age, and my brother Richard about two years older, when my father brought home his second wife. She was the daughter of a farmer up at Lackabawn, and was reared with care and dacency; but her father held his ground at a rack-rent, and the middleman that was between him and the head landlord did not pay his own rent, so the place was ejected, and the farmer collected every penny he had, and set off with his family to America. My father had a liking for the youngest daughter, and well become him to have it, for a sweeter creature never drew the breath of life; but while her father passed for a strong^[2] farmer, he was timorous-like about asking her to share his little cabin; however, when he found how matters stood, he didn’t lose much time in finding out that she was willing to be his wife, and a mother to his boy and girl. That she was, a patient loving one. Oh! it often sticks me like a knife, when I think how many times I fretted her with my foolishness and my idle ways, and how ’twas a long time before I’d call her “mother.” Often, when my father would be going to chastise Richard and myself for our provoking doings, especially the day that we took half-a-dozen eggs from under the hatching hen, to play “Blind Tom” with them, she’d interfere for us, and say,—“Tim, aleagh, don’t touch them this time; sure ’tis only arch they are: they’ll get more sense in time.” And then, after he was gone out, she’d advise us for our good so pleasantly, that a thundercloud itself couldn’t look black at her. She did wonders too about the house and garden. They were both dirty 393and neglected enough when she first came over them; for I was too young and foolish, and my father too busy with his out-door work, and the old woman that lived with us in service too feeble and too blind to keep the place either clean or decent; but my mother got the floor raised, and the green pool in front drained, and a parcel of roses and honeysuckles planted there instead. The neighbours’ wives used to say ’Twas all pride and upsetting folly, to keep the kitchen-floor swept clean, and to put the potatoes on a dish, instead of emptying them out of the pot into the middle of the table; and, besides, ’twas a cruel unnatural thing, they said, to take away the pool from the ducks, that they were always used to paddle in so handy. But my mother was always too busy and too happy to heed what they said; and, besides, she was always so ready to do a kind turn for any of them, that, out of pure shame, they had at last to leave off abusing her “fine English ways.”

West of our house there was a straggling, stony piece of ground, where, within the memory of man, nothing ever grew but nettles, docks, and thistles. One Monday, when Richard and myself came in from school, my mother told us to set about weeding it, and to bring in some basketsful of good clay from the banks of the river: she said that if we worked well at it until Saturday, she’d bring me a new frock, and Dick a jacket, from the next market-town; and encouraged by this, we set to work with right good will, and didn’t leave off till supper time. The next day we did the same; and by degrees, when we saw the heap of weeds and stones that we got out, growing big, and the ground looking nice and smooth and red and rich, we got quite anxious about it ourselves, and we built a nice little fence round it to keep out the pigs. When it was manured, my mother planted cabbages, parsnips, and onions in it; and, to be sure, she got a fine crop out of it, enough to make us many a nice supper of vegetables stewed with pepper, and a small taste of bacon or a red herring. Besides, she sold in the market as much as bought a Sunday coat for my father, a gown for herself, a fine pair of shoes for Dick, and as pretty a shawl for myself, as e’er a colleen in the country could show at mass. Through means of my father’s industry and my mother’s good management, we were, with the blessing of God, as snug and comfortable a poor family as any in Munster. We paid but a small rent, and we had always plenty of potatoes to eat, good clothes to wear, and cleanliness and decency in and about our little cabin.

Five years passed on in this way, and at last little Mary was born. She was a delicate fairy thing, with that look, even from the first, in her blue eyes, which is seldom seen, except where the shadow of the grave darkens the cradle. She was fond of her father, and of Richard, and of myself, and would laugh and crow when she saw us, but the love in the core of her heart was for her mother. No matter how tired, or sleepy, or cross the baby might be, one word from her would set the bright eyes dancing, and the little rosy mouth smiling, and the tiny limbs quivering, as if walking or running couldn’t content her, but she must fly to her mother’s arms. And how that mother doted on the very ground she trod! I often thought that the Queen in her state carriage, with her son, God bless him! alongside of her, dressed out in gold and jewels, was not one bit happier than my mother, when she sat under the shade of the mountain ash near the door, in the hush of the summer’s evening, singing and cronauning her only one to sleep in her arms. In the month of October, 1845, Mary was four years old. That was the bitter time, when first the food of the earth was turned to poison; when the gardens that used to be so bright and sweet, covered with the purple and white potato blossoms, became in one night black and offensive, as if fire had come down from heaven to burn them up. ’Twas a heart-breaking thing to see the labouring men, the crathurs! that had only the one half-acre to feed their little families, going out, after work, in the evenings to dig their suppers from under the black stalks. Spadeful after spadeful would be turned up, and a long piece of a ridge dug through, before they’d get a small kish full of such withered crohauneens,^[3] as other years would be hardly counted fit for the pigs.

It was some time before the distress reached us, for there was a trifle of money in the savings’ bank, that held us in meal, while the neighbours were next door to starvation. As long as my father and mother had it, they shared it freely with them that were worse off than themselves; but at last the little penny of money was all spent, the price of flour was raised; and, to make matters worse, the farmer that my father worked for, at a poor eight-pence a day, was forced to send him and three more of his labourers away, as he couldn’t afford to pay them even that any longer. Oh! ’twas a sorrowful night when my father brought home the news. I remember, as well as if I saw it yesterday, the desolate look in his face when he sat down by the ashes of the turf fire that had just baked a yellow meal cake for his supper. My mother was at the opposite side, giving little Mary a drink of sour milk out of her little wooden piggin, and the child didn’t like it, being delicate and always used to sweet milk, so she said:

“Mammy, won’t you give me some of the nice milk instead of that?”

“I haven’t it asthore, nor can’t get it,” said her mother, “so don’t ye fret.”

Not a word more out of the little one’s mouth, only she turned her little cheek in towards her mother, and stayed quite quiet, as if she was hearkening to what was going on.

394“Judy,” said my father, “God is good, and sure ’tis only in Him we must put our trust; for in the wide world I can see nothing but starvation before us.”

“God is good, Tim,” replied my mother; “He won’t forsake us.”

Just then Richard came in with a more joyful face than I had seen on him for many a day.

“Good news!” says he, “good news, father! there’s work for us both on the Droumcarra road. The government works are to begin there to-morrow; you’ll get eight-pence a day, and I’ll get six-pence.”

If you saw our delight when we heard this, you’d think ’twas the free present of a thousand pounds that came to us, falling through the roof, instead of an offer of small wages for hard work.

To be sure the potatoes were gone, and the yellow meal was dear and dry and chippy—it hadn’t the nature about it that a hot potato has for a poor man; but still ’twas a great thing to have the prospect of getting enough of even that same, and not to be obliged to follow the rest of the country into the poorhouse, which was crowded to that degree that the crathurs there—God help them!—hadn’t room even to die quietly in their beds, but were crowded together on the floor like so many dogs in a kennel. The next morning my father and Richard were off before daybreak, for they had a long way to walk to Droumcarra, and they should be there in time to begin work. They took an Indian meal cake with them to eat for their dinner, and poor dry food it was, with only a draught of cold water to wash it down. Still my father, who was knowledgeable about such things, always said it was mighty wholesome when it was well cooked; but some of the poor people took a great objection against it on account of the yellow colour, which they thought came from having sulphur mixed with it—and they said, Indeed it was putting a great affront on the decent Irish to mix up their food as if ’twas for mangy dogs. Glad enough, poor creatures, they were to get it afterwards, when sea-weed and nettles, and the very grass by the roadside, was all that many of them had to put into their mouths.

When my father and brother came home in the evening, faint and tired from the two long walks and the day’s work, my mother would always try to have something for them to eat with their porridge—a bit of butter, or a bowl of thick milk, or maybe a few eggs. She always gave me plenty as far as it would go; but ’twas little she took herself. She would often go entirely without a meal, and then she’d slip down to the huckster’s, and buy a little white bun for Mary; and I’m sure it used to do her more good to see the child eat it, than if she got a meat-dinner for herself. No matter how hungry the poor little thing might be, she’d always break off a bit to put into her mother’s mouth, and she would not be satisfied until she saw her swallow it; then the child would take a drink of cold water out of her little tin porringer, as contented as if it was new milk.

As the winter advanced, the weather became wet and bitterly cold, and the poor men working on the roads began to suffer dreadfully from being all day in wet clothes, and, what was worse, not having any change to put on when they went home at night without a dry thread about them. Fever soon got amongst them, and my father took it. My mother brought the doctor to see him, and by selling all our decent clothes, she got for him whatever was wanting, but all to no use: ’twas the will of the Lord to take him to himself, and he died after a few days’ illness.

It would be hard to tell the sorrow that his widow and orphans felt, when they saw the fresh sods planted on his grave. It was not grief altogether like the grand stately grief of the quality, although maybe the same sharp knife is sticking into the same sore bosom inside in both; but the outside differs in rich and poor. I saw the mistress a week after Miss Ellen died. She was in her drawing-room with the blinds pulled down, sitting in a low chair, with her elbow on the small work-table, and her cheek resting on her hand—not a speck of anything white about her but the cambric handkerchief, and the face that was paler than the marble chimney-piece.

When she saw me, (for the butler, being busy, sent me in with the luncheon-tray,) she covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and began to cry, but quietly, as if she did not want it to be noticed. As I was going out, I just heard her say to Miss Alice in a choking voice:—

“Keep Sally here always; our poor darling was fond of her.” And as I closed the door, I heard her give one deep sob. The next time I saw her, she was quite composed: only for the white cheek and the black dress, you would not know that the burning feel of a child’s last kiss had ever touched her lips.

My father’s wife mourned for him after another fashion. She could not sit quiet, she must work hard to keep the life in them to whom he gave it; and it was only in the evenings when she sat down before the fire with Mary in her arms, that she used to sob and rock herself to and fro, and sing a low wailing keen for the father of the little one, whose innocent tears were always ready to fall when she saw her mother cry. About this time my mother got an offer from some of the hucksters in the neighbourhood, who knew her honesty, to go three times a week to the next market-town, ten miles off, with their little money, and bring them back supplies of bread, groceries, soap, and candles. This she used to do, walking the twenty miles—ten of them with a heavy load on her back—for the sake of earning enough to keep us alive. ’Twas very seldom that Richard could get a stroke of work to do: the boy wasn’t 395strong in himself, for he had the sickness too; though he recovered from it, and always did his best to earn an honest penny wherever he could. I often wanted my mother to let me go in her stead and bring back the load; but she never would hear of it, and kept me at home to mind the house and little Mary. My poor pet lamb! ’twas little minding she wanted. She would go after breakfast and sit at the door, and stop there all day, watching for her mother, and never heeding the neighbours’ children that used to come wanting her to play. Through the live-long hours she would never stir, but just keep her eyes fixed on the lonesome boreen;^[4] and when the shadow of the mountain ash grew long, and she caught a glimpse of her mother ever so far off, coming towards home, the joy that would flush on the small patient face, was brighter than the sunbeam on the river. And faint and weary as the poor woman used to be, before ever she sat down, she’d have Mary nestling in her bosom. No matter how little she might have eaten herself that day, she would always bring home a little white bun for Mary; and the child, that had tasted nothing since morning, would eat it so happily, and then fall quietly asleep in her mother’s arms.

At the end of some months I got the sickness myself, but not so heavily as Richard did before. Any way, he and my mother tended me well through it. They sold almost every little stick of furniture that was left, to buy me drink and medicine. By degrees I recovered, and the first evening I was able to sit up, I noticed a strange wild brightness in my mother’s eyes, and a hot flush on her thin cheeks—she had taken the fever.

Before she lay down on the wisp of straw that served her for a bed, she brought little Mary over to me: “Take her, Sally,” she said—and between every word she gave the child a kiss—“Take her; she’s safer with you than she’d be with me, for you’re over the sickness, and ’tisn’t long any way I’ll be with you, my jewel,” she said, as she gave the little creature one long close hug, and put her into my arms.

’Twould take long to tell all about her sickness—how Richard and I, as good right we had, tended her night and day; and how, when every farthing and farthing’s worth we had in the world was gone, the mistress herself came down from the big house, the very day after the family returned home from France, and brought wine, food, medicine, linen, and everything we could want.

Shortly after the kind lady was gone, my mother took the change for death; her senses came back, she grew quite strong-like, and sat up straight in the bed.

“Bring me the child, Sally aleagh,” she said. And when I carried little Mary over to her, she looked into the tiny face, as if she was reading it like a book.

“You won’t be long away from me, my own one,” she said, while her tears fell down upon the child like summer-rain.

“Mother,” said I, as well as I could speak for crying, “sure you know I’ll do my best to tend her.”

“I know you will, acushla; you were always a true and dutiful daughter to me and to him that’s gone; but, Sally, there’s that in my weeney one that won’t let her thrive without the mother’s hand over her, and the mother’s heart for her’s to lean against. And now—.” It was all she could say: she just clasped the little child to her bosom, fell back on my arm, and in a few moments all was over. At first, Richard and I could not believe that she was dead; and it was very long before the orphan would loose her hold of the stiffening fingers; but when the neighbours came in to prepare for the wake, we contrived to flatter her away.

Days passed on; the child was very quiet; she used to go as usual to sit at the door, and watch hour after hour along the road that her mother always took coming home from market, waiting for her that could never come again. When the sun was near setting, her gaze used to be more fixed and eager; but when the darkness came on, her blue eyes used to droop like the flowers that shut up their leaves, and she would come in quietly without saying a word, and allow me to undress her and put her to bed.

It troubled us and the young ladies greatly that she would not eat. It was almost impossible to get her to taste a morsel; indeed the only thing she would let inside her lips was a bit of a little white bun, like those her poor mother used to bring her. There was nothing left untried to please her. I carried her up to the big house, thinking the change might do her good, and the ladies petted her, and talked to her, and gave her heaps of toys and cakes, and pretty frocks and coats; but she hardly noticed them, and was restless and uneasy until she got back to her own low sunny door-step.

Every day she grew paler and thinner, and her bright eyes had a sad fond look in them, so like her mother’s. One evening she sat at the door later than usual.

“Come in, alannah,” I said to her. “Won’t you come in for your own Sally?”

She never stirred. I went over to her; she was quite still, with her little hands crossed on her lap, and her head drooping on her chest. I touched her—she was cold. I gave a loud scream, and Richard came running—he stopped and looked, and then burst out crying like an infant. Our little sister was dead!

Well, my Mary, the sorrow was bitter, but it was short. You’re gone home to Him that comforts as a mother comforteth. Agra machree, your eyes are as blue, and your hair as golden, and your voice as sweet, as they were when you watched by the cabin-door; 396but your cheeks are not pale, acushla, nor your little hands thin, and the shade of sorrow has passed away from your forehead like a rain-cloud from the summer sky. She that loved you so on earth, has clasped you for ever to her bosom in heaven; and God himself has wiped away all tears from your eyes, and placed you both and our own dear father far beyond the touch of sorrow or the fear of death.

“Burn all the records of the realm! My mouth shall be the parliament.” Thus spoke Jack Cade; and it would appear from the manner in which the public records are at the present time “bestowed,” that those who have had the stowing of them, cordially echo the sentiment. The historical, legal, and territorial archives of this country—believed to be, when properly arranged and systematised, the most complete and valuable in existence—are spread and distributed over six depositories. Some little description of three of these only, will show the jeopardy in which such records of the Wisdom of our ancestors, as we yet possess, are placed, and the adventures which have befallen many of them.

Many of the most valuable documents of the past—including the Chancery Records from the reign of John to Edward I.—are kept in the Tower of London. Some in the White and some in the Wakefield Tower, close to which is an hydraulic steam-engine in daily operation. The basement of the former contains tons of gunpowder, the explosion of which would destroy all Tower Hill, and change even the course of the Thames; while the fate of paper and parchment thrown up by such a volcano, it is not even possible to imagine. The White Tower is also replenished with highly inflammable ordnance stores, tarpaulins carefully pitched, soldiers’ kits, and all kinds of wood-work, among which common labourers not imbued with extra-carefulness are constantly moving about. That no risk may be wanting, an eye-witness relates that he has seen boiling pitch actually in flames, quite close to this repository. When the fire of the Tower did take place, its flames leaped and darted their dangerous tongues within forty feet of it. So alarmed were the authorities on that occasion, that this tower underwent a constant nocturnal shower-bath during the time the small Armoury was burning. But when the danger was over, though fireproof barrack-houses were built for the soldiers, the records were still left to be lodged over the gunpowder.

Among the treasures in these ill-kept “keeps,” are the logs and other Admiralty documents, state papers, and royal letters, many of which have never been consulted; because the manner in which they are stowed away rendered consultation impossible. They are, no doubt, silently waiting to clear up many of the disputed points, and to set right many of the false impressions and unmitigated untruths of history. Inquisitions—the antiquity of which may be guessed when we state that those up to the 14th of Richard II. have only yet been arranged in books—are also massed together ready for explosion or ignition. These are amongst the most curious of our ancient documents, being the notes of the oldest of our legal rituals—the “Crowner’s quest.” The Chancery proceedings and privy seals piled in the White Tower, are endless.

In the Rolls’ House, in Chancery Lane—which, with its chapel, was annexed by Edward III., in 1377, to the office of Custos Rotulorum, or Keeper of the Rolls—are located the Records of the Court of Chancery from that year to the present time. That every public document, wherever situated, may be rendered in as great jeopardy as possible, a temporary shed, like a navvy’s hut, has been recently knocked up for the Treasury papers in the Rolls’ Garden; other of the Records are quietly accommodated in the pews and behind the communion-table in the Rolls’ Chapel—a 397building which is heated by hot-air flues, in a manner similar to that which originated the burning of the Houses of Parliament.

Perhaps, however, our most valuable muniments repose in the Chapter-House of Westminster Abbey, a building still surrounded by the same facilities for fire as those which the late Charles Buller detailed to the House of Commons fourteen years ago. “Ever since 1732,” he said, “it had been reported to the House of Commons that there was a brewhouse and a washhouse at the back of the Chapter-House, where the Records were kept, and by which the Chapter-House was endangered by fire. In 1800, this brewhouse and this washhouse were again reported as dangerous. In 1819, this brewhouse and washhouse again attracted the serious notice of the Commissioners. In 1831, it was thought expedient to send a deputation to the Dean and Chapter of Westminster, and to request His Majesty’s Surveyor General to report upon the perils of this brewhouse and washhouse, and endeavour to get the Dean and Chapter to pull them down. But the Dean and Chapter asserted the vested rights of the Church, and no redress was obtained against the brewhouse and washhouse. In 1833, another expedition, headed by the Right Honourable Sir R. Inglis, was made to the Chapter-House; but the right honourable baronet, desiring not to come into collision with the Church, omitted all mention of the brewhouse and washhouse. And thus the attention of the Commissioners had been constantly directed to this eternal brewhouse and this eternal washhouse, without any avail. There they still remain, as a monument of the inefficiency of the Commissioners, and of the great power and pertinacity of the Church of this country.” The newspaper reports of this speech end with “Loud laughter from all parts of the House.”

In the Chapter-House of Westminster Abbey, the Conqueror’s Domesday Book, an unequalled collection of treaties and state documents from the twelfth to the seventeenth centuries; others bearing upon the important events during the York and Lancastrian wars, and excambial returns belonging to the English Crown, of the most minute and precise character, are still at the mercy of the brewhouse and washhouse. There is a little adventure connected with the proceedings of the Courts of Star Chamber which we must here introduce:—Their registries and records were kept in an apartment of the Royal Palace of Westminster from the time of the dissolution of the Courts. They were shifted from room to room at the mercy of the Officers of the Palace. Committees of the House of Commons from time to time examined them, and reported equally as to their value, and the dirt, confusion, and neglect in which they were set apart for the public use. But it was not till the fire in the Cottonian Library, in 1731, frightened the custodian, that an order from the Privy Council was obtained for the removal of these documents to the Chapter-House. This house also possesses a unique collection of the disused dies for coining; and when the Nepaulese Minister and his suite visited the Office, they were particularly attracted by these primitive dies, which were at once recognised as being now used in the north-west of India. There are the washhouse and the brewhouse still.

But the most monstrous instance furnished to us of the disregard and contempt in which our civil, political, legal, or ecclesiastical authorities hold the very pedigrees of their professional avocations, is to be found in the ludicrously huge and unsuitable storehouse called Carlton Ride—a low, brick-slated roof, workhouse-looking building, at the east end of Carlton Terrace. Mr. Braidwood, the superintendent of the London Fire-Brigade, has pithily said, that “The Public Records in the Tower of London and Carlton Ride are exposed to risks of fire to which no merchant of ordinary prudence would subject his books of accounts.” The protective staff of this establishment, besides the clerks and workmen during the day, consists of two soldiers, two policemen, and two firemen, four thousand gallons of water—a sort of open air bath at the top of the building—three rows of buckets, ready-charged fire-mains, two tell-tale clocks, five dark lanthorns, and a cat.

Carlton Ride was, originally, the Riding-House of the Prince of Wales’s residence, Carlton House. Under it are arched storehouses for carriages and horse furniture; and these were used for the carriages and horses of the late good Queen Dowager. When a question was raised as to the capability of the structure to support the thousands of tons of records which were to be treasured therein, the district Clerk of the Works satisfied all enquiries by noticing the fact, that the strength of the building had been tested to the utmost during the Spa Fields riots, when it was occupied by the horses and ammunition-waggons of the Royal Artillery, packed together as close as they could stand.

To adapt the interior of this place for the public archives, the first process of building, and that only, was resorted to;—scaffolding was put up, so that, on entering this receptacle of the national records of Great Britain, the visitor finds himself in one of a series of gloomy, dimly-lighted, mouldy-smelling alleys, or stacks, of wooden scaffolding, the sides of which are faced with records, reaching to some thirty feet high. At first sight it reminds him of an immense mediæval timber-yard, in which no business has been done since the time of the Tudors. Here two-thirds of our country’s public and private history are huddled together; not with the systematic red tapery of a public office, but,—to 398use an expressive vulgarism—“anyhow.” Whichever way the eye turns, it meets reams of portfolios, piles of boxes, stacks of wills—rolls of every imaginable shape, like those of a baker—square, round, flat, oblong, short, and squat; some plaited like twopenny twists, others upright as rolls of tobacco; a few in thick convolutions, jammed together as if they were double Gloucester cheeses; there are heaps laid lengthwise, like mouldering coffins; some stacked up on end, like bundles of firewood, and others laid down, like the bottles in a wine-bin. The hay-loft which extends over the riding-school is similarly occupied, and all the racks, presses, shelves, boxes, beams, and scaffolding, being of wood, Mr. Braidwood has good right for estimating that a fire would burn it up “like matches” in less than twenty minutes. That, however, there should be no accidental deficiency of combustibles, the riding-school was partitioned into two divisions, one side for the records of the Courts of Common Pleas and Exchequer, and the other for the domestic furniture, china, paintings, weapons of warfare of all kinds, books, prints, &c., belonging to Carlton House. It is evident that in the estimation of the powers that were, the records were classed with the other lumber. But this store of second-hand furniture could not take fire of itself; and that no chance might be lost, the functionary in charge of it, finding his half of the “ride” a dreary, comfortless, and cold place, even for a lumber store, warmed it by means of a large stove with a chimney-flue which perforated one side of the building. On several occasions he was observed during the winter months—particularly after meal-time—to be somnolently reposing by the stove, while the flue was judiciously emulating his example, by acquiring all the heat possible from the fire—and, indeed, once or twice its face was illumined by a red glow of satisfaction rather alarming to those in charge of the records, who witnessed it. Some five or six years ago, by the instigation of Lord Lincoln, who was then Chief Commissioner of Woods and Forests, Prince Albert paid a visit to Carlton Ride, and after examining the furniture, &c., directed that it should be all removed, and that the remainder of the building should be given up for the records; consequently, a variety of important parchments were removed into it—chiefly ecclesiastical records, touching the property belonging to the religious houses dissolved in King Henry VIII.’s time, together with a most valuable and minute series of documents, relating to the receipt and expenditure of the royal revenue, from Henry II. down to Charles II. To these were added various Exchequer and Common Pleas records.

The water as well as the fire test of destruction has been also applied to our national muniments. The Common Pleas records previous to the coronation of George IV. were deposited in a long room, called “Queen Elizabeth’s Kitchen,” lying under the Old Court of Exchequer on the west side of Westminster Hall. This room was frequently flooded during the prevailing high tides of spring or autumn. Rats and vermin abounded, and neither candle nor soap could be kept in the rooms, although mere public documents were deemed quite safe there. The consequence was, that before these could be removed, the authorities had to engage in a little sporting. The rats had to be hunted out by means of dogs. We believe this was about the time that the celebrated dog “Billy” was in the height of fame; and we are not quite sure that his services were not secured for this great Exchequer Hunt. After several fine “bursts” the rats allowed the documents to be removed, and turned into a temporary wooden building, which was so intensely cold during winter time, that those wishing to make searches prepared themselves with clothing as if they were going on an Arctic expedition. Here mice abounded in spite of the temperature; and the candles, which the darkness of this den rendered necessary, were gradually consumed by them. But this light sort of food wanted a more consolidating diet, and they found a relishing piece de resistance in the prayer-book of the Court, a great portion of which they nibbled away. Ten years afterwards the records were packed off to the King’s Mews, Charing Cross, into stables and harness lofts; and on the demolition of this building in 1835, Carlton Ride was selected as their resting-place. The records of the Queen’s Remembrancer of the Exchequer (an officer who was presumed to preserve “memoranda or remembrances” of the condition of the royal exchequer) kept company with the Common Pleas muniments in their trials and journeyings.

At present, we repeat, the whole of the records of the three Courts, Queen’s Bench, Exchequer, and Common Pleas, are located under the same roof at Carlton Ride. Such of the records as are in this building are reasonably accessible to the public. Many of them are of intense interest. Fees only nominal in amount are imposed, to restrain inquisitive, troublesome, or merely idle inquirers; a restriction highly necessary against pedigree-hunters and lady-searchers. One poor deluded female, who fancied herself Duchess of Cornwall, and claimed the hereditary fee-simple of the counties of Devon and Cornwall, caused the employment of more clerks and messengers to procure the documents for her extravagant humours than any legion of lawyers’ clerks hot with the business of term time. She begged, she implored, she raved, she commanded, she threatened, she cried aloud for “all the fines,” for “all the recoveries,” for “all the indentures of lease and release” touching the landed property of these two counties.

Pedigree-hunters abound. One of these 399requested to be allowed to remain among these founts of antiquity day and night. In his unwearied and invincible zeal he brought his meals with him, and declared that rest was out of the question until he was satisfied which of his ancestors were “Roberts,” and which “Johns,” from the time of the Seventh Henry. A hair-brained quack doctor has seriously asserted his claim to a large quantity of these public documents.

On the other hand, persons really interested in these records take no heed of them. Messrs. Brown, Smith, and Tomkins buy and sell manors and advowsons, Waltons and Stokes, and Combes cum Tythings, without knowing or caring that there are records of the actual transfers of the same properties between the holders of them since the days of King John! There is no sympathy for these things, even with those who might fairly be presumed to have a direct interest in the preservation of them, or with the public at large. Out of many examples of this sort, we need only cite one from the “Westminster Review:”—The Duke of Bedford inherits the Abbey of Woburn, and its monastic rights, privileges, and hereditaments; and there are public records, detailing with the utmost minuteness the value of this and all the church property which “Old Harry” seized, and all the stages of its seizure; the preliminary surveys to learn its value; perhaps the very surrender of the monks of Woburn; the annual value and detail of the possessions of the monastery whilst the Crown held it; the very particulars of the grant on which the letters patent to Lord John Russell were founded; the inrolment of the letters patent themselves. But neither his Grace of Bedford, the duke and lay impropriator, nor his brother, the Prime Minister and the historian, have seemed to regard these important documents as worthy of safe keeping.

On public grounds, nothing was for a long time done, although, as Bishop Nicholson said in 1714, “Our stores of Public Records are justly reckoned to excel in age, beauty, correctness, and authority, whatever the choicest archives abroad can boast of the like sort.”

We are happy to perceive by the “Eleventh Report of the Deputy Keeper of the Public Records” that the work of arranging, repairing, cleaning, cataloguing, and rendering accessible these documents, proceeds diligently. But we are more happy to discover that the disastrous adventures of our Public Records are nearly at an end. The Deputy Keeper acknowledges “with extreme satisfaction the receipt of communications made to Lord Langdale from the Lords Commissioners of Your Majesty’s Treasury, intimating that their Lordships propose to commence the building of the Repository so emphatically urged by his Lordship the Master of the Rolls, and so long desired; the site thereof to be the Rolls Estate, and the Building to be comprehended within the boundaries of such Estate, the said site being in all respects the best and most convenient which the metropolis affords.”

A great deal has been said about the prowess of Nimrod, in connexion with the chase, from the days of him of Babylon to those of the late Mr. Apperley of Shropshire; but we question whether, amongst all the sporting characters mentioned in ancient or modern story, there ever was so mighty a hunter as the gentleman whose sporting calendar now lies before us.^[5] The annals of the chase, so far as we are acquainted with them, supply no such instances of familiar intimacy with Lions, Elephants, Hippopotami, Rhinoceroses, Serpents, Crocodiles, and other furious animals, with which the human species in general is not very forward in cultivating an acquaintance.

Mr. Cumming had exhausted the Deer forests of his native Scotland; he had sighed for the rolling prairies and rocky mountains of the Far West, and was tied down to military routine as a Mounted Rifleman in the Cape Colony, when he determined to resign his commission into the hands of Government, and himself to the delights of hunting amidst the untrodden plains and forests of Southern Africa. Having provided himself with waggons to travel and live in, with bullocks to draw them, and with a host of attendants; a sufficiency of arms, horses, dogs, and ammunition, he set out from Graham’s-Town, in October 1843. From that period his hunting adventures extended over five years, during which time he penetrated from various points and in various directions from his starting-place in lat. 33 down to lat. 20, and passed through districts upon which no European foot ever before trod; regions where the wildest of wild animals abound—nothing less serving Mr. Cumming’s ardent purpose.

A lion story in the early part of his book will introduce this fearless hunter-author to our readers better than the most elaborate dissection of his character. He is approaching Colesberg, the northernmost military station belonging to the Cape Colony. He is on a trusty steed, which he calls also “Colesberg.” Two of his attendants on horseback are with him. “Suddenly,” says the author, “I observed a number of vultures seated on the plain about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, and close beside them stood a huge lioness, consuming a blesblok which she had killed. She was assisted in her repast by about a dozen jackals, which were feasting along with her in the most friendly and confidential manner. Directing my followers’ attention to the spot, I remarked, ‘I see the lion;’ to which 400they replied, ‘Whar? whar? Yah! Almagtig! dat is he;’ and instantly reining in their steeds and wheeling about, they pressed their heels to their horses’ sides, and were preparing to betake themselves to flight. I asked them, what they were going to do? To which they answered, ‘We have not yet placed caps on our rifles.’ This was true; but while this short conversation was passing, the lioness had observed us. Raising her full round face, she overhauled us for a few seconds and then set off at a smart canter towards a range of mountains some miles to the northward; the whole troop of jackals also started off in another direction; there was, therefore, no time to think of caps. The first move was to bring her to bay, and not a second was to be lost. Spurring my good and lively steed, and shouting to my men to follow, I flew across the plain, and, being fortunately mounted on Colesberg, the flower of my stud, I gained upon her at every stride. This was to me a joyful moment, and I at once made up my mind that she or I must die.” The lioness soon after “suddenly pulled up, and sat on her haunches like a dog, with her back towards me, not even deigning to look round. She then appeared to say to herself, ‘Does this fellow know who he is after?’ Having thus sat for half a minute, as if involved in thought, she sprang to her feet, and facing about, stood looking at me for a few seconds, moving her tail slowly from side to side, showing her teeth, and growling fiercely. She next made a short run forwards, making a loud, rumbling noise like thunder. This she did to intimidate me; but, finding that I did not flinch an inch, nor seem to heed her hostile demonstrations, she quietly stretched out her massive arms, and lay down on the grass. My Hottentots now coming up, we all three dismounted, and drawing our rifles from their holsters, we looked to see if the powder was up in the nipples, and put on our caps. While this was doing, the lioness sat up, and showed evident symptoms of uneasiness. She looked first at us, and then behind her, as if to see if the coast were clear; after which she made a short run towards us, uttering her deep-drawn murderous growls. Having secured the three horses to one another by their reins, we led them on as if we intended to pass her, in the hope of obtaining a broadside; but this she carefully avoided to expose, presenting only her full front. I had given Stofolus my Moore rifle, with orders to shoot her if she should spring upon me, but on no account to fire before me. Kleinboy was to stand ready to hand me my Purdey rifle, in case the two-grooved Dixon should not prove sufficient. My men as yet had been steady, but they were in a precious stew, their faces having assumed a ghastly paleness; and I had a painful feeling that I could place no reliance on them. Now, then, for it, neck or nothing! She is within sixty yards of us, and she keeps advancing. We turned the horses’ tails to her. I knelt on one side, and, taking a steady aim at her breast, let fly. The ball cracked loudly on her tawny hide, and crippled her in the shoulder; upon which she charged with an appalling roar, and in the twinkling of an eye she was in the midst of us. At this moment Stofolus’s rifle exploded in his hand, and Kleinboy, whom I had ordered to stand ready by me, danced about like a duck in a gale of wind. The lioness sprang upon Colesberg, and fearfully lacerated his ribs and haunches with her horrid teeth and claws; the worst wound was on his haunch, which exhibited a sickening, yawning gash, more than twelve inches long, almost laying bare the very bone. I was very cool and steady, and did not feel in the least degree nervous, having fortunately great confidence in my own shooting; but I must confess, when the whole affair was over, I felt that it was a very awful situation, and attended with extreme peril, as I had no friend with me on whom I could rely. When the lioness sprang on Colesberg, I stood out from the horses, ready with my second barrel for the first chance she should give me of a clear shot. This she quickly did; for, seemingly satisfied with the revenge she had now taken, she quitted Colesberg, and, slewing her tail to one side, trotted sulkily past within a few paces of me, taking one step to the left. I pitched my rifle to my shoulder, and in another second the lioness was stretched on the plain a lifeless corpse.”

This is, however, but a harmless adventure compared with a subsequent escapade—not with one, but with six lions. It was the hunter’s habit to lay wait near the drinking-places of these animals, concealed in a hole dug for the purpose. In such a place on the occasion in question, Mr. Cumming—having left one of three rhinoceroses he had previously killed as a bait—ensconsed himself. Such a savage festival as that which introduced the adventure, has never before, we believe, been introduced through the medium of the softest English and the finest hot-pressed paper to the notice of the civilised public. “Soon after twilight,” the author relates, “I went down to my hole with Kleinboy and two natives, who lay concealed in another hole, with Wolf and Boxer ready to slip, in the event of wounding a lion. On reaching the water I looked towards the carcase of the rhinoceros, and, to my astonishment, I beheld the ground alive with large creatures, as though a troop of zebras were approaching the fountain to drink. Kleinboy remarked to me that a troop of zebras were standing on the height. I answered, ‘Yes;’ but I knew very well that zebras would not be capering around the carcase of a rhinoceros. I quickly arranged my blankets, pillow, and guns in the hole, and then lay down to feast my eyes on the interesting sight before me. It was bright moonlight, as clear as I need wish, and within one night of being full moon. There were six 401large lions, about twelve or fifteen hyænas, and from twenty to thirty jackals, feasting on and around the carcases of the three rhinoceroses. The lions feasted peacefully, but the hyænas and jackals fought over every mouthful, and chased one another round and round the carcases, growling, laughing, screeching, chattering, and howling without any intermission. The hyænas did not seem afraid of the lions, although they always gave way before them; for I observed that they followed them in the most disrespectful manner, and stood laughing, one or two on either side, when any lions came after their comrades to examine pieces of skin or bones which they were dragging away. I had lain watching this banquet for about three hours, in the strong hope that, when the lions had feasted, they would come and drink. Two black and two white rhinoceroses had made their appearance, but, scared by the smell of the blood, they had made off. At length the lions seemed satisfied. They all walked about with their heads up, and seemed to be thinking about the water; and in two minutes one of them turned his face towards me, and came on; he was immediately followed by a second lion, and in half a minute by the remaining four. It was a decided and general move, they were all coming to drink right bang in my face, within fifteen yards of me.”

The hunters were presently discovered. “An old lioness, who seemed to take the lead, had detected me, and, with her head high and her eyes fixed full upon me, she was coming slowly round the corner of the little vley to cultivate further my acquaintance! This unfortunate coincidence put a stop at once to all further contemplation. I thought, in my haste, that it was perhaps most prudent to shoot this lioness, especially as none of the others had noticed me. I accordingly moved my arm and covered her; she saw me move and halted, exposing a full broadside. I fired; the ball entered one shoulder, and passed out behind the other. She bounded forward with repeated growls, and was followed by her five comrades all enveloped in a cloud of dust; nor did they stop until they had reached the cover behind me, except one old gentleman, who halted and looked back for a few seconds, when I fired, but the ball went high. I listened anxiously for some sound to denote the approaching end of the lioness; nor listened in vain. I heard her growling and stationary, as if dying. In one minute her comrades crossed the vley a little below me, and made towards the rhinoceros. I then slipped Wolf and Boxer on her scent, and, following them into the cover, I found her lying dead.”

Mr. Cumming’s adventures with elephants are no less thrilling. He had selected for the aim of his murderous rifle two huge female elephants from a herd. “Two of the troop had walked slowly past at about sixty yards, and the one which I had selected was feeding with two others on a thorny tree before me. My hand was now as steady as the rock on which it rested, so, taking a deliberate aim, I let fly at her head, a little behind the eye. She got it hard and sharp, just where I aimed, but it did not seem to affect her much. Uttering a loud cry, she wheeled about, when I gave her the second ball, close behind the shoulder. All the elephants uttered a strange rumbling noise, and made off in a line to the northward at a brisk ambling pace, their huge fanlike ears flapping in the ratio of their speed. I did not wait to load, but ran back to the hillock to obtain a view. On gaining its summit, the guides pointed out the elephants; they were standing in a grove of shady trees, but the wounded one was some distance behind with another elephant, doubtless its particular friend, who was endeavouring to assist it. These elephants had probably never before heard the report of a gun; and having neither seen nor smelt me, they were unaware of the presence of man, and did not seem inclined to go any further. Presently my men hove in sight, bringing the dogs; and when these came up, I waited some time before commencing the attack, that the dogs and horses might recover their wind. We then rode slowly towards the elephants, and had advanced within two hundred yards of them, when, the ground being open, they observed us, and made off in an easterly direction; but the wounded one immediately dropped astern, and next moment she was surrounded by the dogs, which, barking angrily, seemed to engross her attention. Having placed myself between her and the retreating troop, I dismounted, to fire within forty yards of her, in open ground. Colesberg was extremely afraid of the elephants, and gave me much trouble, jerking my arm when I tried to fire. At length I let fly; but, on endeavouring to regain my saddle, Colesberg declined to allow me to mount; and when I tried to lead him, and run for it, he only backed towards the wounded elephant. At this moment I heard another elephant close behind; and on looking about I beheld the ‘friend,’ with uplifted trunk, charging down upon me at top speed, shrilly trumpeting, and following an old black pointer named Schwart, that was perfectly deaf, and trotted along before the enraged elephant quite unaware of what was behind him. I felt certain that she would have either me or my horse. I, however, determined not to relinquish my steed, but to hold on by the bridle. My men, who of course kept at a safe distance, stood aghast with their mouths open, and for a few seconds my position was certainly not an enviable one. Fortunately, however, the dogs took off the attention of the elephants; and just as they were upon me I managed to spring into the saddle, where I was safe. As I turned my back to mount, the elephants were so very near, that I really expected to feel one of their trunks lay hold of me. I rode 402up to Kleinboy for my double-barrelled two-grooved rifle: he and Isaac were pale and almost speechless with fright. Returning to the charge, I was soon once more alongside, and, firing from the saddle, I sent another brace of bullets into the wounded elephant. Colesberg was extremely unsteady, and destroyed the correctness of my aim. The ‘friend’ now seemed resolved to do some mischief, and charged me furiously, pursuing me to a distance of several hundred yards. I therefore deemed it proper to give her a gentle hint to act less officiously, and accordingly, having loaded, I approached within thirty yards, and gave it her sharp, right and left, behind the shoulder; upon which she at once made off with drooping trunk, evidently with a mortal wound. Two more shots finished her: on receiving them she tossed her trunk up and down two or three times, and falling on her broadside against a thorny tree, which yielded like grass before her enormous weight, she uttered a deep hoarse cry and expired.”

Mr. Cumming’s exploits in the water are no less exciting than his land adventures. Here is an account of his victory over a hippopotamus, on the banks of the Limpopo river, near the northernmost extremity of his journeyings.

“There were four of them, three cows and an old bull; they stood in the middle of the river, and, though alarmed, did not appear aware of the extent of the impending danger. I took the sea-cow next me, and with my first ball I gave her a mortal wound, knocking loose a great plate on the top of her skull. She at once commenced plunging round and round, and then occasionally remained still, sitting for a few minutes on the same spot. On hearing the report of my rifle two of the others took up stream, and the fourth dashed down the river; they trotted along, like oxen, at a smart pace as long as the water was shallow. I was now in a state of very great anxiety about my wounded sea-cow, for I feared that she would get down into deep water, and be lost like the last one; her struggles were still carrying her down stream, and the water was becoming deeper. To settle the matter I accordingly fired a second shot from the bank, which, entering the roof of her skull, passed out through her eye; she then kept continually splashing round and round in a circle in the middle of the river. I had great fears of the crocodiles, and I did not know that the sea-cow might not attack me. My anxiety to secure her, however, overcame all hesitation; so, divesting myself of my leathers, and armed with a sharp knife, I dashed into the water, which at first took me up to my arm-pits, but in the middle was shallower. As I approached Behemoth her eye looked very wicked. I halted for a moment, ready to dive under the water if she attacked me, but she was stunned, and did not know what she was doing; so, running in upon her, and seizing her short tail, I attempted to incline her course to land. It was extraordinary what enormous strength she still had in the water. I could not guide her in the slightest, and she continued to splash, and plunge, and blow, and make her circular course, carrying me along with her as if I was a fly on her tail. Finding her tail gave me but a poor hold, as the only means of securing my prey, I took out my knife, and cutting two deep parallel incisions through the skin on her rump, and lifting this skin from the flesh, so that I could get in my two hands, I made use of this as a handle, and after some desperate hard work, sometimes pushing and sometimes pulling, the sea-cow continuing her circular course all the time and I holding on at her rump like grim Death, eventually I succeeded in bringing this gigantic and most powerful animal to the bank. Here the Bushman quickly brought me a stout buffalo-rheim from my horse’s neck, which I passed through the opening in the thick skin, and moored Behemoth to a tree. I then took my rifle, and sent a ball through the centre of her head, and she was numbered with the dead.”

There is nothing in “Waterton’s Wanderings,” or in the “Adventures of Baron Munchausen” more startling than this “Waltz with a Hippopotamus!”

In the all-wise disposition of events, it is perhaps ordained that wild animals should be subdued by man to his use at the expense of such tortures as those described in the work before us. Mere amusement, therefore, is too light a motive for dealing such wounds and death Mr. Cumming owns to; but he had other motives,—besides a considerable profit he has reaped in trophies, ivory, fur, &c., he has made in his book some valuable contributions to the natural history of the animals he wounded and slew.

A fair Correspondent supplies us with the following “Chip” from St. Petersburg:—

In England we used to think the marriage ceremony, with all its solemn adjuncts, an impressive affair; but it is child’s play when compared with the elaborate formalities of a Russian wedding. In England, the bride, though a principal, is a passive object; but in Russia she has, before and at the ceremony, to undergo as much physical fatigue and exertion as a prima donna who has to tear through a violent opera, making every demonstration of the most passionate grief. But you shall hear how they manage on these occasions.

The housekeeper of Mons. A., who has been in his service for eighteen years, and consequently no very youthful bride, took it into her head to marry a shoemaker, who, 403like his intended, is not remarkable for his personal beauty. Friday was fixed for the happy day, and about two in the afternoon I caught sight of the bride, weeping and wailing in a most doleful manner. I saw or heard no more of her till six in the evening, when she appeared in Mad. A.’s room, attired for the ceremony. Her dress was of dark silk, (she not being allowed to wear white, in consequence of some early indiscretions,) with a wreath of white roses round her head, and a long white veil, which almost enveloped her. She sobbed, howled, went off into hysterics, and fainted; I felt excessively sorry for her, but did all my soothing in vain, for she refused to be comforted. As soon as she became calm, we all assembled in the drawing-room, and Mons. A.’s godson, a little fellow of five years old, entered the room first, bearing the patron saint, St. Nicholas, then came the bride, followed by her train of female friends. She knelt down before Mons. and Mad. A., and they each in turn held the image over her head, saying they blessed her, and hoped she would “go to her happiness.” She kissed their feet frantically; and they then assisted her up, kissed her, and she was conducted weeping to the carriage.

On arriving at the church about half-past seven we were met by friends of the bridegroom, who stood at one end of the church, surrounded by his family, and every now and then casting anxious and tender looks at the beloved one, who was again howling and sobbing like a mad woman. I thought how painful it must be for him, poor man, to witness such distress, and wondered why she should marry any one for whom she manifested so much dislike. After administering restoratives, she became calmer, and the priests appeared—when off she went again into a fit of hysterics more sudden, though not so violent as her previous performances; but, this time, was soon restored, and the ceremony commenced.

One priest stood at the altar, and two others at a kind of table or reading-desk at some distance. The un-happy couple were placed beside each other, behind the priests, who commenced chaunting the service in beautiful style. The bride and bridegroom held each a lighted wax taper in their hand; a little more chaunting, and rings were exchanged; more chaunting, and then a small piece of carpet was brought, upon which they both stood; two crowns were then presented to them, and after they had kissed the saint upon them, these were held over their heads by the bridesmen. More chaunting; then there was wine brought, which they were obliged to drink, first he and then she; they made three sups of it, though, at first, there appeared only about a wine-glassful; after this the Priest took hold of them and walked them round the church three times, the bridegroom’s man following holding the crowns over their heads to the best of his ability; but he fell short of his duty, for the bridegroom was rather tall and his man rather short: hence there was some difficulty and slight awkwardness in this part of the proceedings; then followed a kind of exhortation, delivered in a very impressive manner by the senior Priest. After this, they proceeded to the altar, prostrated themselves before it, kissing the ground with great apparent fervour; then all the saints on the wall were kissed, and lastly the whole of the party assembled. We then adjourned to the carriages, and after a quick ride soon found ourselves at home.

Here Monsieur and Madame A. performed the part of Père et Mère, met the bridal party, carrying the black bread and salt which is always given on such occasions. This was, with some words—a blessing, of course—waved over the heads of the newly married couple, who were on their knees kissing most vehemently the feet of their Père et Mère. After this ceremony, which means “May you never want the good here offered you,” they arose, and again the kissing mania came upon the whole party with greater vehemence than ever. Nothing was heard for some time but the sound of lips; at length a calm came, and with it champagne, in which every one of them drank “Long life and happiness to the newly-wed pair,” all striking their glasses till I thought there would be a universal smash, so violently were they carried away by their enthusiasm; then came chocolate, and lastly fruit.

As soon as the feasting was over, the dancing commenced with a Polonaise; the steward, a great man in the house, leading off the bride, who by this time had forgotten all her sorrows. About twenty couple followed, and away they went, through one room, out at another, until they had made the whole circuit of the apartments.

We left them at half-past eleven, but they kept up the fun till five in the morning, when they conducted the happy pair to their dwelling.

Upon my expressing pity for the bride, and also my astonishment why she married a man who appeared so very repugnant to her, I learnt that she would not be considered either a good wife or a good woman unless she was led to the altar in a shower-bath of tears; in fact, in Russia, the more tears a woman sheds, the better her husband likes her!

Gaming without risk, certainty in chance, Fortune showering her favours out of the dice-box, are promised by the promoters of a New Joint-Stock Company just set on foot in Paris, the prospectus of which now lies before us. This is nothing less than a society for the propagation of gambling in San Francisco; “capital, one hundred and fifty thousand francs, in three hundred shares of five 404hundred francs each, provisionally registered on May 10, 1850. Chief Office, No. 17, Rue Vivienne.”

The promoters of this precious Cercle de San Francisco declare that certainty will be the issue of this notable scheme, the essence of which is hazard. “There never was,” they say, “an enterprise more sure of gain. Three years, with twelve dividends, paid once a quarter, will produce enormous results. These have been accurately tested by the most conscientious (?) calculations, based on the produce of the German gaming-houses, and we have ascertained that each share of five hundred francs will yield an annual dividend of three thousand francs over and above interest at six per cent!”

The future House itself is thus painted in bright perspective:—“A fine house of wood, of two stories, with a magnificent coffee-room on the ground floor; a vast saloon on the first-floor for two roulette-tables; on the second, apartments for the manager, the servants; and the officers; the whole completely furnished, with all necessary appurtenances for warming and lighting. Tables, implements, counters, iron coffers for the specie, &c., are to be immediately exported by a sailing vessel. M. Mauduit, the manager, will accompany these immense munitions, together with subordinates of known probity. M. Charles, chief-of-the-play at Aix, in Savoy, is to follow, as director of the expedition, at the end of October, by steamer. It is expected that preparations will be complete, so as to open the Cercle in San Francisco on the 31st December of this year.”

Of all the bare-faced schemes that was ever presented to a French public, this is surely the most extravagant. There is nothing in Jerome Patûrot that equals it in impudence.

It is Summer. Day is now at its longest, the season at its brightest; and the heat comes down through the glowing heavens—broiling the sons of labour, but whitening the fields for the harvest. Like hapless Semele, consumed by the splendours of her divine lover, Earth seems about to perish beneath the ardent glances of the God of Day. The sun comes bowling from the Tropics to visit the Hyperboreans. The strange phenomenon of the Polar day—when for six months he keeps careering through the sky, without a single rising or setting, rolling like a fiery ball along the edge of the horizon, glittering like a thousand diamonds on the fields of ice—is now melting the snows that hide the lichens, the rein-deer’s food; and, quivering down through the azure shallows of the Greenland coast, infuses the fire of love and the lust for roaming into the “scaly myriads” of the herring tribe.

On ourselves, the Summer sun is shining, glowing—robing in gold the declining days of July, and taking her starry jewels from the crown of Night—nay, lifting the diadem from her sable brow, and invading the skies of midnight with his lingering beams. Oh, what a glory in those evening skies! The sun, just set, brings out the summits of the far-off hills sharp and black against his amber light: Nature is dreaming; yonder sea is calm as if it had never known a storm. It is the hour of Reverie: old memories, half-forgotten poetry, come floating like dreams into the soul. We wander in thought to the lonely Greek Isle, where Juan and Haidee are roaming with encircling arms upon the silvery sands, or gaze in love’s reverie from the deserted banquet-room upon the slumbering waters of the Ægean. We see the mariner resting on his oars within the shadow of Ætna, and hear the “Ave Sanctissima” rising in solemn cadence from the waveless sea. We stand beneath the lovely skies of Italy—we rest on the woody slopes of the Apennines, where the bell of some distant convent is proclaiming sundown, and the vesper hymn floats on the rosy stillness, a vocal prayer.

Study is impossible in the Summer evenings—those long, clear, mellow nights, when the Evening Star hangs like a diamond lamp in the amber skies of the West, and the hushed air seems waiting for serenades. The very charm of our Study is then our ruin. Whenever we lift our eyes from the page, we look clear away, as from a lofty turret, upon the ever-shifting glories of sunset, where far-off mountains form the magic horizon, and a wide arm of the sea sleeps calmly between, reflecting the skyey splendours. Our heart is not in our task. There is a vague yearning within us, for happiness more ethereal than any we have yet beheld, a happiness which the eye cannot figure, which only the soul can feel—it is the Spirit dreaming of its immortal home. Now and then we pause—the beauty without, half-unconsciously fixes upon itself our dreamy gaze.

That air, that lovely serenade of Donizetti’s, seems floating in the room. A sweet voice is singing it in my ear, in my heart. Ah, those old times! I think of the hour when first I heard that strain, and of the fair creature singing it—with the twilight shadows around us, and her lip, that might have tempted an Angel, curling, half-proudly, half-kindly, as “upon entreaty” she resumed the strain. I fall into deeper reverie as I recollect it 405all—those evenings of entrancement, those days of boyish pain and jealousy. And ever the melody comes floating in through my brain, yet without attracting my thoughts—a strain of sweetest sounds accompanying the dissolving views which are dreamily, perpetually, forming and changing, gathering and dispersing, before my mind’s eye, like the rose-clouds of sunset. Those shapes are too ethereal for the mind to grasp them. Is it a Juno-like form, beneath the skies and amid the flowers of Summer—with Zephyr playing among her golden curls, as she lifts from her neck a hair-chain to yield it to the suit of love! Or is it a zigzag path on a hill-side—a steed backing on a precipice—a lovely girl on the green bank, clinging to her preserver—sinking, swooning, quivering from that vision of sudden death! Who shall daguerreotype those airy shapes? We feel their presence rather than know their form, and the instant we try to see what we are seeing, they are gone!

We are no bad risers in the morning, but we never saw the sun rise on Midsummerday but once. It is many years ago, yet we remember it as vividly as if it had been this morning. It was from the summit of the Calton Hill, the unfinished Acropolis, the still-born ruin of Modern Athens. The whole sky in the south and west, opposite to where the sun was about to appear, was suffused from the horizon to the zenith with a deep pink or rose hue; and in the midst, spanning the heavens, stood a magnificent Rainbow! A symbol of peace in a sea of blood! There lay the palatial edifices of the New Town, white and still in the hush of early morning, and high above them and around them rose that strange emblem of mercy amid judgment. Such an apparition might fitly have filled the skies of the Cities of the Plain on that woeful morn, the last the blessed sun ever rose upon them;—ere amid mutterings in the earth and thunders in the clouds, the volcano awoke from its sleep, and the red lava poured from its sources of fire—when clouds of stones and ashes, falling, falling, falling, gathered deeper and deeper above the Plain, and the descending lightnings set fire to the thousand founts of naphtha bubbling up from their subterranean reservoirs—when a whirlwind of flame shot up against the face of the sky, like the last blasphemy of a godless world; and with a hollow groaning, the sinking, convulsed earth hid the scene of pollution and wrath beneath the ever mournful-looking waters of the Dead Sea. The skies of night and morning are familiar to me as those of day, but never but that once did that Heavenly Spectre meet my eye.

As I reached the northern brow of the hill, it wanted but a minute or two of sunrise; in a few seconds a new Day would dawn—a flake would separate itself from the infinite Future, and be born into the world. I stood awaiting the Incarnation of Time. A flapping wing broke on the solemn stillness. Two rooks rose slowly from the ground, where they had been preying upon the tenants of the turf. Below me, to the east and north, spread out the waters of the Firth of Forth—not a billow breaking against its rocky islets—its broad expanse of the colour of lead, sombre and waveless, like the lifeless waters of the Asphaltite Sea; while, toiling like an imp of darkness, a small steam-boat tore up its leaden-like surface, disappearing behind the house-tops of Leith. The spirits of night seemed hurrying to their dens, to escape the golden arrows of the God of Day. In the bowery gardens below me, the birds began an overture as the curtain of the Dawn was lifting. At length the sun shot up into the sky; then seemed to pause for some time, his lower limb resting on the dark sea, his upper almost touching a bank of overhanging cloud. Pale tremulous rays, like those of the aurora borealis, darted laterally from the orb, shooting quiveringly along the sky, and returning: the waves of light were ebbing and flowing on the sands of Night. The sea and the slopes of the Calton still lay in the dull hues of dawn; but a strange cold sun-gleam which one felt instinctively would be short-lived, glittered around me on the crest of the hill, and on the white stone monuments that crown it as with a diadem. Foremost and loftiest rose the noble columns of the National Monument, even in their imperfection the most Grecian of British edifices, standing aloft like the ruins of Minerva’s temple on the bluff Cape of Sunium, visible from afar to mariners entering the romantic Bay of the Forth. The glitter which now tinged them with gold was bright and brief as the national fervour which gave them birth. In a few minutes the sun passed up behind the bank of cloud, and nothing remained of his beams but a golden streak on the far edge of the waters.

Fair Summer has come, and the ocean wooes us. Breaking her ward, she has leapt like a lovely Bacchante to our arms; while men who have been “sighing like furnace” for her, and chiding the dull delay of her coming, now fly from her embraces into the sea—plunge into the haunts of the Nereids. In what “infernal machines” do they go a-wooing! And yet they appear to have every confidence in their natural powers of attraction; the Nereids run no danger of being deceived as to the physique of their human admirers. Queer fishes some of them are certainly! Only look at yon big fat old fellow, for all the world like a skinned porpoise, floundering and blowing in the shallows like a stranded whale! while another more modest animal, of like dimensions, floats like cork or blubber in deep water, thumping energetically with leg and arm, and hides obesity in a cataract of foam. Yonder, over 406the clear blue depths, breasting at his ease the flood, goes the long steady stroke of the practised swimmer—an animal half-amphibious, seen at times afar off, lifting on the crest of a wave a mile at sea. With laugh and splutter a band of juveniles rub their heads with water in the most approved manner, as if they were a set of old topers afraid of apoplexy; or with whoop and hollo engage in a water-combat, or in a race in bunting that reminds one of running in sacks; while a still younger member of the human family roars lustily as he clings to his pitiless nurse’s neck, or emerges half-suffocated from the prescriptive thrice-repeated dip. Yet there is something gladsome in the flash of the waters around the sportive bathers, and in the glancing glitter of the sun-beams on the ivory-like arms that are swaying to and fro upon the blue waters. It speaks of Summer; and that of itself awakens gladness.

As we look upon the earth in a glorious summer-day, we feel as if all nature loved us, and that a spirit within is answering to the loving call of the outer world. We feel as if caressed by the beauty floating around—as if the mission of nature were to delight us. And it is so. It was to be a joy for Man that this glorious world sprang out of Chaos, and it was to enjoy it that we were gifted with our many senses of beauty. How narrow the enjoyment of the body to the domain of the spirit! The possessions and enjoyments of man consist less in the acres we can win from our fellows, than in the wide universe around us. Creature-comforts are unequally divided, but the charm of existence, the joy that rays from all nature, are the property of all. Who can set a price upon the colours of the rose or the hues of sunset? Yet, would the Vernon Gallery be an adequate exchange? Water and air, prime necessaries of physical life, are not more free to all, than is its best and highest food everywhere accessible to the spirit. What we want is, to rub the dust of the earth off our souls, and let them mirror the beauty of the universe. What we want is, to open the nature within to the nature without—to clear the mind from ignorance, the heart from prejudice. We must learn to see things as they are—to find beauty in nature, love in man, good everywhere; not to shut our eyes or look through a distorting medium. We scramble for the crumbs of worldly success, and too often have neglected the higher delights that are free to our taking. Like the groveller in the Pilgrim’s Progress, we rake amid straws on the ground, when a crown of joy is ready to descend upon us if we will only look up. We turn aside the river from its bed, and toil in the sand for golden dust, destroying happiness in the search for its symbol, and forget that the world itself may be made golden, that the art of the Alchemist may be ours. The true sunshine of life is in the heart. It is there that the smile is born that makes the light of life, the rosy smile that makes the world of beauty, and keeps life sweet—the smile that “makes a summer where darkness else would be.”

We are in one of the pretty lanes of England. The smoke of a great city is beginning to curl up into the morning skies, but the sounds of that wakening Babylon cannot reach us in our green seclusion. As we step along lightly, cheerily, in the cool sunlight, hark to the glad voices of children; and lo! a cottage-home, sweeter-looking than any we have yet passed. Honeysuckles and jessamine wreathe the wooden trellis of the porch with verdure and flowers. In those flowers the early bee is hanging and humming, birds are chirping aloft, and cherubs are singing below. An urchin, with his yellow curls half-blinding his big blue eyes, sits on the sunny gravelwalk, playing with a frisky, red-collared kitten. On the steps of the door, beneath the shade of the trellis-work, sit two girls, a lapful of white roses before them, which they are gathering into a bouquet, or sticking into each other’s hair. What are they singing?

A wiseacre lately remarked, as a proof of the sober sense of the age, that no one now sang about the happiness of childhood! Sombre sense, he should have said,—if he misused the word “sense” at all. No happiness,—nay, no peculiar happiness in childhood! Does he mean to maintain that we get happier as we get older?—that life, at the age of Methuselah, is as joyous as at fifteen? Has novelty, which charms in all the details of existence, no charm in existence itself? Is suspicion—that infallible growth of years, that baneful result of knowledge of the world—no damper on happiness? Is innocence nothing? Is ennui known to the young? No, no!

Youth is the summer of life; it is the very heyday of joy,—the poetry of existence. Youth beholds everything through a golden medium,—through the prism of fancy, not in the glass of reason; in the rose hue of idealism, not the naked forms that we call reality.

We have but to look around us and within us to see the sad truth exemplified. Summer is fading with its roses—Youth vanishes with its dreams. “Passing away” is written 407on all things earthly. Yet “a thing of beauty is a joy for ever.” We have a compensating faculty, which gives immortality to the mortal in the cells of memory; the joys of which Time has robbed us still live on in perennial youth. Nay, more, they live unmarred by the sorrows that in actual life grow up along with them. As the colours of fancy fade from the Present, they gather in brighter radiance around the Past. We conserve the roses of Summer—let us embalm the memories of Youth.

A grim Lion obstructs the paths of ardent Benevolence in its desire to lessen the monster evils of society, and constantly roars “Impossible! Impossible!” Well-disposed Affluence surveys the encroaching waves of destitution and crime as they roll onwards, spreading their dark waters over the face of society, and folds its hands in powerless despair,—a despair created by a false notion of the inefficacy of individual or limited action. “Who can stem such a tide?” it exclaims; “we must have some great comprehensive system. Without that, single efforts are useless.”

Upon this untrue and timid premise many a purse is closed, many a generous impulse checked. It is never remembered that all great facts, for evil or for good, are an aggregate of small details, and must be grappled with in detail. Every one who hath and to spare, has it in his power to do some good and to check some evil; and if all those to whom the ability is given were to do their part, the great “Comprehensive System” which is so much prayed for would arrange itself. The hand of Charity is nowhere so open as in this country; but is often paralysed for the want of being well directed.

Of what individual energy can accomplish in a very limited sphere, we can now afford a practical instance. What a single individual in energetic earnest has effected in the “Devil’s Acre,” described in a former number,^[6] can be done by any other single individual in any other sink of vice and iniquity, in every other part of the globe.

In the spring of 1848 the attention of Mr. Walker, the Westminster Missionary of the City Mission, was called to the necessity of applying some remedy to the alarming vice and destitution that prevailed amongst a large section of a densely peopled community, whose future prospects seemed to be totally neglected. A vast mass of convicted felons, and vagrants, who had given themselves up as entirely lost to human society, and whose ambition was solely how they could attain the skill of being the most accomplished burglars, congregate upon the “Devil’s Acre.” Most of these degraded youths were strangers to all religious and moral impressions—destitute of any ostensible means of obtaining an honest livelihood, and having no provision made for them when sent from prison. They had no alternative but again resorting to begging or stealing for a miserable existence; and not only they themselves being exposed to all the contaminating influences of bad example, and literally perishing for lack of knowledge, but also leading others astray—such as boys from nine to twelve years of age, whom, in a short time, they would train as clever in vice as themselves, and make them useful in their daily avocations.

Nearly ten years’ experience in visiting their haunts of misery and crime, and entering into friendly conversation with them, taught Mr. Walker that punishment acted with but little effect as a check upon criminal offenders; and it was thought more worthy of the Christian philanthropists to set on foot a system of improvement, which should change the habits and elevate the character of this degraded part of our population,—a system which should rescue them from the haunts of infamy, instil into their minds the principles of religion and morality, and train them to honest and industrious occupations. With these great objects in view, a scheme of training was commenced which has since flourished. One lad was selected from the Ragged School, fed, and lodged, as an experiment. The boy had been a thief and vagrant for several years, was driven from his home through the ill-usage of a step-grandfather: the only clothing he possessed was an old tattered coat, and part of a pair of trousers, and these one complete mass of filth. After five months’ training, through the kindness of Lord Ashley, he was accepted as an emigrant to Australia. Finding he was successful, his joy and gratitude were unbounded. A short time before he embarked, he said, “If ever I should be possessed of a farm, it shall be called Lord Ashley’s Farm. I shall never forget the Ragged Schools; for if it had not been for it, instead of going to Australia with a good character, I should have been sent to some other colony loaded with chains.” He has since been heard of as being in a respectable situation, conducting himself with the strictest propriety.

Being successful in reclaiming one, Mr. Walker was encouraged to select six more from the same Ragged School, varying from the age of fifteen to nineteen years; although at the time it was not known where a shilling could be obtained towards their support, he was encouraged to persevere. A small room was taken at two shillings per week; a truss of straw was purchased, and a poor woman was kind enough to give two old rugs, which was the only covering for the six. They were content to live on a small portion of bread and dripping per day, and attend the Ragged School; at last an old sack was bought for the straw, and a piece of carpet, in addition to the two rugs, to cover them. One of them 408was heard to say one night, while absolutely enjoying this wretched accommodation, “Now, are we not comfortable?—should we not be thankful? How many poor families there are who have not such good beds to lie on!” One of those he addressed, aged nineteen years, had not known the comfort of such a bed for upwards of three years, having slept during that time in an empty cellar. Five of those lads are now in Australia, and the other—who had been the leader of a gang of thieves for several years—is now a consistent member and communicant in the Church, and fills a responsible situation in England.

When the experiment was in this condition, a benevolent lady not only contributed largely towards the support of the inmates, but also recommended her friends to follow her example. A larger room was taken; the lady ordered beds and bedding to be immediately purchased: the merits of the system became more publicly known; two additional rooms were taken, and ultimately the whole premises converted into a public institution, known as the Westminster Ragged Dormitory, and particularly alluded to in the article before mentioned.

Since its establishment, there have been one hundred and sixty-three applications. Seventy-six have been admitted from the streets; thirteen from various prisons, recommended by the Chaplains; twenty-three did not complete their probation; four were dismissed for misconduct; three absconded after completing their probation; five were dismissed for want of funds; two restored to their friends; two are filling situations in England; fifteen emigrated to Australia; five to the United States; and thirty are at present in the Institution.

The expense at which fifty-four young persons were thus, between April 1848 and May 1850, rescued from perdition, has been 376l. 16s. 3d., which took two years to collect and disburse. More than double the number of cases presented themselves than could be admitted, and five were obliged to be hurled back into crime and want after admission, for want of funds. We mention this to show what might have been done, had Mr. Walker’s efforts been seconded with anything like liberality.

As a specimen of the sort of stuff the promoters of this humble Institution had to work upon, we add the “case” of a couple of the inmates which was privately communicated to us. We shall call the boys Borley and Pole.

“R. Borley, 14 years of age, born in Kent Street, Borough; never knew his father; his mother died two years ago; she lived by hawking. Since her death he has lived by begging, sometimes got a parcel to carry at the Railway Station; also got jobs to carry baskets and hold horses at the Borough Market; when he had money, lodged in low lodging-houses, near the London Docks and in the Mint in the Borough. The most money he ever got in one day was 9d. He has been in the habit of attending the different markets in London. He has been weeks together without ever being in a bed; he generally slept about the markets, in passages, under arches, and in carts. He had no shirt for the last twelve months, no cap, no shoes; an old jacket and a pair of trousers were his only covering; sometimes two days without food, and when he had food, seldom anything but dry bread; sometimes in such a state of hunger, that he has been compelled to eat raw vegetables, this was the case when he took the fever; he had been lying out in the streets for some nights; he was in such a weak state that he dropped down in the streets. A gentleman lifted him up, took him to a shop and gave him some bread and cheese, afterwards took him to a magistrate, who sent him to the workhouse, where it was found the poor boy had fever, and was immediately sent to the fever hospital. When brought to Pear Street yesterday, he was not a little surprised to find the boy Pole in the school; he would not have known him but for his speech, so much had he improved in appearance. Pole had lived in the lodging-houses with him. He said he has cause to remember Pole. On one occasion he was Pole’s bedfellow, they were both in a most destitute state for want of clothing; neither of them had a shirt, but of the two, Borley had the best trousers; when he rose in the morning Pole was off and had put on Borley’s trousers, leaving behind him a pair that had but one leg, and that was in rags; although yesterday was their first meeting after this robbery, still it was a very happy one! They congratulated each other at the good fortune of being received into such an Institution. Borley tells me that Pole was a dreadful thief. He stole wherever he could; he brought the articles he stole to the lodging-house keepers, who bought them readily. So notorious did Pole become, that before morning he would have stolen the article he had sold or anything else, and sold it to another lodging-house keeper. Thus he went on until he could scarce get lodgings either in the Borough or Whitechapel. Since Pole has been in Pear Street, he has never shown anything but a desire to do what is right. Borley is an interesting lad, and will do well.”

One Mr. Walker, who would begin, as he did, with one wretched boy in each metropolitan district, and in each town throughout Great Britain, would do more to reduce poor’s rates, county rates, police rates—to supersede “great penal experiments,” and to diminish enormous judicial and penal expenditure, than all the political economists and “great system” doctors in the world. But the main thing is to begin at the cradle. It is many millions of times more hopeful to prevent, than to cure.