The Wolf and The Kid

When Mother Goat was going out, she had to say something to her daughter.


Maggie, please look after the house while I go out.


Okay Mum, I will. [She looks the door for her.]

The wolf sneaks past the mother goat and then begins knocking on the door.


Knock, knock I want to enter.

The kid didn’t respond so he had to find another way by opening the window, then she notices him.


Boy! Why did you want to come here?


I’m goat.

Maggy [losing her cool]:

You’re no goat, show me your hands.

He shows it to her but she pushes him away and securely locks the window as the wolf leaves.

Mother Goat comes back and brings her something.


You did a good job at guarding the house, Maggy.


Mum, the wolf wanted to go inside and thinks he’s goat but he’s not so I got him out.


Good one, I’ll give something.

Then both goats ate the flowers and happily ever after.

The first coconut

The house has a garden with several trees around, varying from flowering trees to fruit trees as the family were watering the plants and then the girl approached her father.

Girl [looking at him]:

Father, please give me a coconut fruit.

The father was horrified, looking at the orchard where there’s no coconut.


Sir, I want a coconut please.

Then the two went out, looking for one but the more they looked the more they realised there’s nothing in here.


Aw shucks, there’s no coconut for me.


Maybe tomorrow, we will.

The next day, both the father and the girl planted seeds, the girl tried to find another seed in the other corner but she got more of the same thing and then she turned to her mother, looking for something.


Mum, I really want a coconut.


Sorry, we don’t have coconuts so content yourself with a guava.

Girl [stomping]:

Awww…no I don’t want no stinking guava.

Mother [pointing her finger at her]:

Then you be content with what’s there in the house!

The girl gets a guava, half pissed and upon eating it she began spitting out the seeds but she also started getting hairy, then the next day the father and mother try to look for her in every room. Going through the library, bedroom, kitchen and dinning room in her room there lies a coconut.


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Nancy could not answer, but sobbed and wept.

Just at that unlucky moment, a whistle was heard from the wood opposite the window. This was noticed by Mr. Chisholm, who looked a little startled, and inquired what or who it was; but no one gave him any answer.

It had been settled between the two lovers, that when Gillies came to see Nancy, he was to whistle from a certain spot in a certain manner, while she was to open the window, and hold the light close to the glass for an instant, that being the token that she heard and understood the signal. In the present dilemma, the performance of her part of the agreement was impracticable; and, of course, when old Chisholm was once more rising into a paroxysm of rage at his daughter, the ominous whistle was repeated.

“What is this?” demanded he, in a peremptory tone. “Tell me instantly; for I see by your looks you know and understand what it is. Siobla, do you know!”

“Yes, I do,” replied Siobla. “I know well enough what it is—I do not hear it so seldom.”

“Well, then, inform me at once what it means,” said her father.

“It is Nancy’s sweetheart come to whistle her out —young tailor Gillies;” answered Siobla, without any endeavour to avert her father’s wrath, by giving the information in an indirect way.

“Oho! Is it thus?” exclaimed the infuriated father. “And Nancy always answers and attends to this audacious tailor’s whistle, does she!”

“Indeed she does, sir; generally once or twice every week,” replied the young woman, in the same willing tone.

“The seeret is then out!” said old Chisholm, in words that quavered with anger. “It is plain from whence the inj urious report has been obtained! Too fond father! alas, poor old man! Have matters already come thus low with thee! And hast thou indeed nourished and cherished this favourite child, given her an education fitting her for the highest rank in society, and all that she might throw herself away upon a—a—a tailor! Begone, girls! I must converse with this degraded ereature alone.”

When her sisters had left the apartment, Nancy knelt, wept, prayed, and begged forgiveness; but a temporary distraction had banished her father’s reason, and he took hold of her long fair hair, wound it round his left hand in the most methodical manner, and began to beat her with his cane. She uttered a scream; on which he stopped, and told her that if she uttered another sound before he had done chastising her, it should be her last; but this causing her to seream only ten times louder he beat her with such violence that he shivered the cane to pieces. Ho then desisted, calling her the ruin of her sisters, of himself, and all her father’s house; opened the door, and was about to depart and leave her, when the tailor’s whistle again sounded in his ears, louder and nearer than before. This once

more drove him to madness, and seizing a heavy dog-whip that hung in the lobby, he returned into the parlour, and struck his daughter repeatedly in the most unmerciful manner. During the concluding part of this horrid scene, she opened not her mouth, but eyed her ferocious parent with composure, thinking she had nothing but death to expect from his hands.

Alas! death was nothing to the pangs she then suffered, and those she was doomed to suffer! Her father at last ceased from his brutal treatment, led her from the house, threw her from him, with a curse, and closed the door with a force that made the casements of the house clatter.

There never was perhaps a human being whose circumstances in life were as suddenly changed, or more deplorable than Nancy Chisholm’s were that night. But it was not only her circumstances in life that were changed: she felt at once that the very nature within her was changed also, and that from being a thing of happiness and joy, approaching to the nature of a seraph, she was now converted into a fiend. She had a cup measured to her which nature could not endure, and its baneful influences had the instant effect of making her abhor her own nature, and become a rebel to all its milder qualities.

The first resolution she formed was that of full and ample revenge. She determined to make such a dreadful retaliation as should be an example to all jealous sisters and unnatural parents, while the world lasted. Her plan was to wait till after midnight, and then set fire to the premises, and burn her father, her sisters, and all that pertained to them, to ashes. In little more than anjnstant was her generous nature so far altered, that she exulted in the prospect of this horrid catastrophe.

With such a purpose, the poor wretch went and hid herself until all was quiet; and there is no doubt that she would have put her scheme in execution, had it not been for the want of fire to kindle the house; for as to going into any dwelling, or seeing the face of an acquaintance, in her present degraded condition, her heart shrunk from it. So, after spending some hours in abortive attempts at raising fire, she was obliged to depart, bidding an eternal adieu to all that she had hitherto held dear on earth.

On the approach of daylight, she retired into a thicket, and, at a brook, washed and bathed her bloated arms and face, disentangled and combed her yellow hair with her fingers, and when she thought she was unobserved, drew the train of her gown over her head, and sped away on her journey, whither she knew not. No distinct account of her escape, or of what became of her for some time, can be given; but the whole bent of her inclinations was to do evil; she felt herself impelled to it by a motive she could not account for. but which she had no power or desire to resist. She felt it as it were incumbent on her always to retaliate evil for good—the most fiendish disposition that the human heart could feel. She had a desire that the Evil One would appear in person that she might enter into a formal contract to do evil. She had a longing to impart to others some share of the torment she had herself endured, and missed no opportunity of inflicting such. Once in the course of her wanderings, she met, in a sequestered place, a little girl, whom she seized, and beat her “within an inch of her life,” as she called it . She was at this period quite a vagabond, and a pest wherever she went.

The manner in which she first got into a place was not the least remarkable of her adventures. On first coming to Aberdeen, she went into the house of one Mr. Simon Gordon, in the upper Kirkgate, and asked some food, which was readily granted her by the housekeeper: for, owing to her great beauty and superior address, few ever refused her anything she asked. She seemed little disposed to leave the house again, and by no means could the housekeeper prevail upon her to depart, unless she were admitted to speak with Mr. Gordon.

This person was an old bachelor, rich and miserly; and the housekeeper was terrified at the very idea of acknowledging to him that she had disposed of the least morsel of food in charity; far less dared she allow a mendicant to carry her petition into her master’s very presence. But the pertinacity of the individual she had now to deal with fairly overcame her fears, and she carried up to Mr. Simon Gordon the appalling message that a “seeking woman,” that is, a begging woman, demanded to speak with him. Whether it was that Mr. Simon’s abhorrence of persons of that cast was driven from the field by the audacity of the announcement, I cannot pretend to say; but it is certain that he remitted in his study of the state of the public funds, and granted the interview. And as wonders when they once commence are, for the most part, observed to continue to follow each other for a time, he not only astounded the housekeeper by his ready assent to let the stranger have speech of him; but the poor woman had nearly sunk into the ground with dismay when she heard him, after the interview was over, give orders that this same wanderer was to be retained in the house in the capacity of her assistant. Here, however, the miraculous part of this adventure stops; for the housekeeper, who had previously been a rich old miser’s only servant, did, in the first place, remonstrate loudly against any person being admitted to share her labours, or her power; and on finding all that could be said totally without effect, she refused to remain with her master any longer, and immediately departed, leaving Nancy Chisholm in full possession of the premises.

Being now in some degree tired of a wandering unsettled life, she continued with Mr. Gordon, testifying her hatred of the world rather by a sullen and haughty apathy, than by any active demonstrations of enmity; and what was somewhat remarkable,

by her attention to the wants of the peevish and feeble old man, her master, she gained greatly upon his good-will.

In this situation her father discovered her, after an absence of three years, during which time his compunctious visitings had never either ceased or diminished from the time he had expelled her his house, while under the sway of unbridled passion. He never had more heart for anything in the world. All his affairs went to wreck; he became bankrupt, and was driven from his ample possessions, and was forced to live in a wretched cottage in a sort of genteel penury. But all his misfortunes and disappointments put together did not affect him half so much as the loss of his darling daughter; he never doubted that she had gone to the home of her lover, to the house of old Gillies; and this belief was one that carried great bitterness to his heart. When he discovered that she had never been seen there, his next terror was that she had committed suicide; and he trembled night and day, anticipating all the horrid shapes in which he might hear that the desperate act had been accomplished. When the dread of this began to wear away, a still more frightful idea arose to haunt his troubled imagination—it was that of his once beloved child driven to lead a life of infamy and disgrace. This conclusion was but too natural, and he brooded on it with many repentant tears for the space of nearly two years, when he at last set out with a resolution either to find his lost daughter, or spend the remainder of his life in search of her.

It is painful to think of the scenes that be went through in this harassing and heart-rending search, until he at length discovered her in the house of Mr. Simon Gordon. For a whole week he had not the courage to visit her, though he stole looks of her every day; but he employed himself in making every inquiry concerning her present situation.

One day she was sitting, in gay attire, sewing, and singing the following rhyme, in erooning of which she spent a part of every day :—

I am lost to peace, I am lost to grace,
I am lost to all that’s beneath the sun;

I have lost my way in the light of day,
And the gates of heaven I will never won.

If one sigh would part from my burning heart,
Or one tear would rise in my thirsty eye,

Through woe and pain it might come again –
The soul that fled, from deep injury.

In one hour of grief I would find relief,
One pang of sorrow would ease my pain;

But joy or woe, in this world ljelow,
I can never, never know again I

While she was thus engaged, old Chisholm, with an agitated heart and trembling frame, knocked gently at the door, which was slowly and carelessly opened by his daughter; for she performed everything as if she had no interest in it. The two gazed on one another for a moment, without speaking; but the eyes of the father were beaming with love and tenderness, while those of the daughter had that glazed and joyless gleam which too well bespoke her hardened spirit. The old man spread out his arms to embrace her; but she closed the door upon hitn. He retired again to his poor lodgings, from whence he sent her a letter fraught with tenderness and sorrow, which produced no answer.

There was another besides her father who had found her out before this time, though he had never ventured to make himself known to her; and that was her former lover, Gillespick Gillies, the tailor. He had traced her in all her wanderings, and though it had been once his intention to settle in Edinburgh, yet for her sake he hired himself to a great clothier and tailor in the city of Aberdeen. After her father’s ineffectual application to her, young Gillies ventured to make his appearance; but his reception was far from what he hoped. She was embarrassed and cold, attaching blame to him for everything, particularly for persuading her out to the woods by night, which had been the means of drawing down her father’s anger upon her. He proffered all the reparation in his power; but she would not hear him speak, and even forbade him ever to attempt seeing her again.

The tailor’s love was, however, too deeply rooted to be so easily overcome. He would not be said nay, but waited upon her evening and morning; still she remained callous and unmoved, notwithstanding of all his kind attentions.

The frame of her spirit at this period must have been an anomaly in human nature; she knew no happiness, and shunned, with the utmost pertinacity, every avenue leading towards its heavenly shrine. She often said afterwards, that she believed her father’s rod had beat an angel out of her, and a demon into its place.

But Gillespick, besides being an affectionate and faithful lover, was a singularly acute youth. He told this perverse beauty again and again that she was acknowledged the flower of all Aberdeen, saving a Miss Marshall, who sat in the College Church every Sunday, to whom some gentlemen gave the preference; and then he always added, “But I am quite certain that were you to appear there dressed in your best style, every one would at once see how much you outshine her.” He went over this Bo often, that Nancy’s vanity became interested, and she proffered, of her own accord, to accompany him one day to the College Kirk.

From the time that Gillies got her to enter the church-door again, although she went from no good motive, he considered the victory won, and counted on the certainty of reclaiming his beloved from despair and destruction. All eyes were soon turned on her beauty, but hers sought out and rested on Mary Marshall .alone. She was convinced of her own superiority, which added to the elegance of her carriage and gaiety of her looks; so that she went

home exceedingly well pleased with— the minister s sermon!

She went back in the afternoon, the next day, and every day thereafter, and her lover noted that she sometimes appeared to fix her attention on the minister’s discourse. But one day in particular, when he was preaching on that divine precept, contained in St. Luke’s gospel, “Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you,” she seemed all the while enrapt by the most ardent feelings, and never for one moment took her eye from the speaker. Her lover perceived this, and kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on her face. At last the reverend divine, in his application of this doctrine to various characters, painted her own case in such a light that it appeared drawn from nature. He then expatiated on the sweet and heavenly joys of forgiveness with such ardour and devotion, that tears once more began to beam in those bright eyes, whose fountains seemed long to have been dried up; and ere the preacher concluded, she was forced to hide her face and give free vent to her feelings, weeping abundantly.

Her lover conducted her home, and observed a total alteration in her manner towards him. This change on her seared and hardened spirit was more, however, than her frame could brook. The next day she was ill, and she grew worse and worse daily: a strange disease was hers, for she was seized with stubborn and fierce paroxysms, very much resembling those possessed of devils in the dawning of Christianity. It appeared exactly as if a good spirit and an evil one were contending for the possession of her person as their tabernacle, none of the medical faculty being able to account for these extraordinary changes in a natural way. Her lover hired a sicknurse, who attended both on her and the old man. which pleased the latter well, and he thought there was not such a man in the city of Aberdeen as the young tailor.

Nancy’s disease was at length mastered, but it left her feeble and emaciated, and from that time forth she showed herself indeed an altered woman. The worthy divine who first opened her eyes to her lost condition, had visited her frequently in her sickness, and repeated his exhortations. Her lover waited on her every day; and not only this, but being, as I before observed, an acute youth, he carried to the house with him cordials for the old miser, and told or read him the news from the stock exchange. Nancy was now attached to Gillespick with the most ardent and pure affection, and more deeply than in her early days of frolic and thoughtlessness; for now her love toward him was mellowed by a ray from heaven. In few words, they were married. Old Simon Gordon died shortly after, and left them more than half his fortune, amounting, it was said, to £II,000; a piece of generosity to which he was moved, not only by the attention shown him in his latter days by the young pair, but, as he ex- | pressed it in his will, “being convinced that Gillies would take care of the money.” This legacy was a peat fortune for an Aberdeen tailor and clothier. He bought the half of his master’s stock and business, and in consequence of some army and navy contracts, realized a very large fortune in a short time.

Old Chisholm was by this time reduced to absolute beggary; he lived among his former wealthy acquaintances, sometimes in the hall, sometimes in the parlour, as their good or bad humour prevailed. His daughters, likewise, were all forced to accept situations as upper servants, and were of course very unhappily placed, countenanced by no class, being too proud to associate with those in the station to which they had fallen. The company of lowlanders that had taken Moorlaggan on Chisholm’s failure, followed his example, and failed also. The farm was again in the market, and nobody to bid anything for it; at length an agent from Edinburgh took it for a rich lady, at half the rent that had been paid for it before; and then every one said, had old John Chisholm held it at such a rent, he would have been the head of the country to that day. The whole of the stock and furniture were bought up from the creditors, paid in ready money, and the discount returned; and as this was all done by the Edinburgh agent, no one knew who was to be the farmer, although the shepherds and servants were hired, and the business of the farm went on as before.

Old Chisholm was at this time living in the house of a Mr. Mitchell, on Spey, not far from Pitmain, when he received a letter from this same Edinburgh agent, stating that the new farmer of Moorlaggan wanted to speak with him on very important business relating to that farm; and that all his expenses would be paid to that place and back again, or to what other place in the country he chose to go. Chisholm showed Mr. Mitchell the letter, who said he understood it was to settle the marches about some disputed land, and it would be as well for him to go and make a good charge for his trouble, and at the same time offered to accommodate him with a pony. Mr. Mitchell could not spare his own saddle-horse, having to go a journey; so he mounted Mr. Chisholm on a small shaggy Highland nag, with erop ears, and equipped with an old saddle, and a bridle with hair reins. It was the evening of the third day after he left Mr. Mitchell’s house before he reached Moorlaggan; and as he went up Coolen-aird, he could not help reflecting with bitterness of spirit on the alteration of times with him. It was not many years ago when he was wont to ride by the same path, mounted on a fine horse of his own, with a livery servant behind him; now he rode a little shabby nag, with erop ears and a hair bridle, and even that diminutive ereature belonged to another man. Formerly he had a comfortable home, and a respectful family to weleome him; now he had

no home, and that family was all scattered abroad. “Alas!” said he to himself, “times are indeed sadly altered with me; aye, and I may affect to blame misfortune for all that has befallen me; but I cannot help being persuaded that the man who is driven by unmanly passions, to do that of which he is ashamed both before God and man, can never prosper. Oh, my child! my lost and darling child! What I have suffered for her both in body, mind, and outward estate!”

In this downcast and querulous mood did the forlorn old man reach his former habitation. All was neat and elegant about the place, and there was a chaise standing at the end of the house. When old Chisholm saw this, he did not venture up, to the front door, but alighted, and led his erop-eared pony to the back door, at which he knocked, and having stated the errand upon which he came, was, after some delay, ushered into the presence of a courtly dame, who accosted him in proud and dignified language as follows:—

“Your name is Mr. John Chisholm, I believe?”

“It is, madam; at your service.”

“And you were once farmer here, I believe?” (A bow.) “Aye. Hem. And how did you lose your farms?”

“Through misfortunes, madam, and by giving too much eredit to insufficient parties.”

“Aye—so! That was not prudent in you to give so much credit in such quarters—Eh?”

“I have been favoured with a letter from your agent, madam,” said Chisholm, to whom this supercilious tone of eross-questioning- was far from being agreeable, ” and I beg to know what are your commands with me.”

“Aye. True. Very right . So you don’t like to talk of your own affairs, don’t you! No; it seems not . Why, the truth is, that my agent wished me to employ you as factor or manager of these lands, as my husband and I must live for the greater part of the year at a great distance. We are willing to give a good salary; and I believe there is no man so fit for our purpose. But I have heard accounts of you that I do not like—that you were an inexorable tyrant in your own family, abusing and maltreating the most amiable of them in a very unmanly manner. And, I have heard, but I hope not truly, that you drove one daughter to disgrace and destruction.”

Here Chisholm turned his face towards the window, burst into tears, and said, he hoped she had not sent for a miserable and degraded old man to torture his feelings by probing those wounds of the Boui that were incurable.

“Nay, I beg your pardon, old gentleman. I sent for you to do you a service. I was only mentioning a vile report that reached my ear, in hopes that you could exculpate yourself.”

“Alas, madam, I cannot.”

“Dreadful! dreadful! Father of heaven, could thy hand frame a being with feelings like this! But I hope you did not, as is reported. No—you could not—you did not strike her, did you V

“Alas! alas! ” exclaimed the agonized old man.

“What? Beat her—scourge her—throw her from your house at midnight with a father’s curse upon her head i”

“I did! I did! I did!”

“Monster! monster! Go, and hide your devoted and execrable head in some cavern in the bowels of the earth, and wear out the remainder of your life in praying to thy God for repentance; for thou art not fit to herd with the rest of his ereatures!”

“My cup of sorrow and misery is now full,” said the old man as he turned, staggering, towards the door. “On the very spot has this judgment fallen on me.”

“But stop, sir—stop for a little space,” said the lady. “Perhaps I have been too hasty, and it may be you have repented of that unnatural erime already?”

“Repented! Aye, God is my witness, not a night or day has passed over this gray head, on which I have not repented: in that bitterness of spirit, too, which the chief of sinners only can feel.”

“Have you indeed repented of your treatment of your daughter? Then all is forgiven on her part. And do you, father, forgive me too!”

The old man looked down with bewildered vision, and, behold, there was the lady of the mansion kneeling at his feet, and embracing his knees! She had thrown aside her long flowing veil, and he at once discovered the comely face of his beloved daughter.

That very night she put into her father’s hand the new lease of all his former possessions, and receipts for the stock, erop, and furniture. The rest of the family were summoned together, and on the following Sabbath they went all to church and took possession of their old family seat, every one sitting in the place she occupied formerly, with, Siobla at the head. But the generous ereature who had thus repaid good for evil, was the object of attraction for every eye, and the admiration of every heart.

This is a true story, and it contains not one moral, but many, as every true portraiture of human life must do. It shows us the danger of youthful imprudence, of jealousy, and of unruly passions; but, above all, it shows that without a due sense of religion there can be no true and disinterested love.



A curious story that appeared lately of a dog belonging to a shepherd, named John Hoy, has brought sundry similar ones to my recollection, which I am

sure cannot fail to be interesting to those unae-! quainted with the qualities of that most docile and affectionate of the whole animal ereation—the shepherd’s dog.

The story alluded to was shortly this. John was at a saerament of the Cameronians, and being loath to leave the afternoon sermon, and likewise obliged to have his ewes at the bught by a certain hour, gave his dog a quiet hint at the outskirts of the congregation, and instantly she went away, took the hills, and gathered the whole flock of ewes to the bught, as carefully and quietly as if her master had been with her, to the astonishment of a thousand beholders, for the ewes lay scattered over two large and steep hills.

This John Hoy was my uncle; that is, he was married to my mother’s sister. He was all his life remarkable for breeding up his dogs to perform his commands with wonderful promptitude and exactness, especially at a distance from him, and he kept always by the same breed. It may be necessary to remark here, that there is no species of animals so varied in their natures and propensities as the shepherd’s dog, and these propensities are preserved inviolate in the same breed from generation to generation. One kind will manage sheep about hand, about a bught, shedding, or fold, almost naturally, and those that excel most in this kind of service are always the least tractable at a distance; others will gather sheep from the hills, or turn them this way and that way, as they are commanded, as far as they can hear their master’s voice, or note the i signals made by his hand, and yet can never be taught to command sheep close around him. Some excel again in a kind of social intercourse. They understand all that is said to them, or of them, in the family; and often a good deal that is said of sheep, and of other dogs, their comrades. One kind will bite the legs of cattle, and no species of correction or disapprobation will restrain them, or ever make them give it up; another kind bays at the heads of cattle, and neither precept nor example will ever induce them to attack a beast behind, or bite its legs.

My uncle Hoy’s kind were held in estimation over the whole country for their docility in what is termed hirsU-rinning; that is, gathering sheep at a distance, but they were never very good at commanding sheep about hand. Often have I been astonished at seeing him standing on the top of one hill, and the Tub, as he called an excellent snowwhite bitch that he hnd, gathering all the sheep from another with great care and caution. I once saw her gathering the head of a hope, or glen, quite out of her master’s sight, while all that she heard of him was now and then the echo of his voice or whistle from another hill; yet, from the direetion of that echo, she gathered the sheep with perfect acuteness and punctuality.

I have often heard him tell an aneedote of another

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The Works of the Ettrick Shepherd
By James Hogg, Thomas Thomson

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dog called Nimble. One drifty day, in the seventyfour, after gathering the ewes of Chapelhope, he found that he wanted about an hundred of them. He again betook himself to the heights, and sought for them the whole day without being able to find them, and began to suspect that they were covered over with snow in some ravine. Towards the evenit cleared up a little, and as a last resource, he sent away Nimble. She had found the scent of them on the hill while her master was looking for them; but not having received orders to bring them, she had not the means of communicating the knowledge she possessed. But as soon as John gave her the gathering word, she went away, he said, like an arrow out of a bow, and in less than five minutes he beheld her at about a mile’s distance, bringing them round a hill, called the Middle, cocking her tail behind them, and apparently very happy at having got the opportunity of terminating her master’s disquietude with so much ease.

I once witnessed another very singular feat performed by a dog belonging to John Graham, late tenant in Ashesteel. A neighbour came to his house after it was dark, and told him that he had lost a sheep on his farm, and that if he (Graham) did not secure her in the morning early, she would be lost, as he had brought her far. John said, he could not possibly get to the hill next morning, but if he would take him to the very spot where he lost the sheep, perhaps his dog Chieftain would find her that night. On that they went away with all expedition, lest the traces of the feet should cool; and I, then a boy, being in the house, went with them. The night was pitch dark, which had been the cause of the man losing his ewe; and at length he pointed out a place to John, by the side of the water, where he had lost her. “Chieftain, fetch that,” said John, “bring her back, sir.” The dog jumped around and around, and reared himself up on end, but not being able to see anything, evidently misapprehended his master: on which John fell a-cursing and swearing at the dog, calling him a great many blackguard names. He at last told the man, that he must point out the very track that the sheep went, otherwise he had no chance of recovering it. The man led him to a gray stone, and said, he was sure she took the brae within a yard of that. “Chieftain, come hither to my foot, you great numb’d whelp,” said John. Chieftain came. John pointed with his finger to the ground, “Fetch that, I say, sir, you stupid idiot—bring that back. Away!” The dog scented slowly about on the ground for some seconds, but soon began to mend his pace, and vanished in the darkness. “Bring her back—away, you great calf!” vociferated John, with a voice of exultation, as the dog broke to the hill; and as all these good dogs perform their work in perfect silence, we neither saw nor heard any more for a long time. I think, if I remember right, we waited there about half an hour; during which

time, all the conversation was about the small chance that the dog had to find the ewe, for it was agreed on all hands that she might long ago have mixed with the rest of the sheep on the farm. John, however, still persisted in waiting until his dog came back, either with the ewe or without her; and at last the trusty animal brought the individual lost sheep to our very foot, which the man took on his back, and went on his way rejoicing. I remember the dog was very warm, and hanging out his tongue. John called him all the ill names he could invent, which the animal seemed to take in very good partSuch language seemed to be John’s flattery to his dog. For my part, I went home, fancying I had seen a miracle, little weeting that it was nothing to what I myself was to experience in the course of my pastoral life, from the sagacity of the shepherd’s dog.

My dog was always my companion. I conversed with him the whole day—I shared every meal with him, and my plaid in the time of a shower; the consequence was, that I generally had the best dogs in all the country. The first remarkable one that I had was named Sirrah. He was beyond all comparison the best dog I ever saw. He was of a surly unsocial temper—disdained all flattery, and refused to be caressed; but his attention to his master’s commands and interests never will again be equalled by any of the canine race. The first time that I saw him, a drover was leading him in a rope; he was hungry, and lean, and far from being a beautiful cur, for he was all over black, and had a grim face striped with dark brown. The man had bought him of a boy for three shillings, somewhere on the Border, and doubtless had used him very ill on his journey. I thought I discovered a sort of sullen intelligence in his face, notwithstanding his dejected and forlorn situation; so I gave the drover a guinea for him, and appropriated the captive to myself. I believe there never was a guinea so well laid out; at least I am satisfied that I never laid out one to so good purpose. He was scarcely then a year old, and knew so little of herding, that he had never turned sheep in his life; but as soon as he discovered that it was his duty to do so, and that it obliged me, I can never forget with what anxiety and eagerness he learned his different evolutions. He would try every way deliberately, till he found out what I wanted him to do; and when once I made him to understand a direction, he never forgot or mistook it again. Well as I knew him, he very often astonished me, for when hard pressed in accomplishing his task, he had expedients of the moment that bespoke a great share of the reasoning faculty. Were I to relate all his exploits, it would require a volume; I shall only mention one or two, to prove what kind of an animal he was.

I was a shepherd for ten years on the same farm, where I had always about 700 lambs put under my charge every year at weaning-time. As they were of the short, or black-faced breed, the breaking of them was a very ticklish and difficult task. I was obliged to watch them night and day for the first four days, during which time I had always a person to assist me. It happened one year, that just about midnight the lambs broke loose, and came up the moor upon us, making a noise with their running louder than thunder. We got up and waved our plaids, and shouted, in hopes to turn them, but we only made matters worse, for in a moment they were all round us, and by our exertions we cut them into three divisions; one of these ran north, another south, and those that came up between us, straight up the moor to the westward. I called out, “Sirrah, my man, they’re a’ away;” the word, of all others, that set him most upon the alert, but owing to the darkness of the night, and blackness of the moor, I never saw him at all. As the division of the lambs that ran southward were going straight towards the fold, where they had been that day taken from their dams, I was afraid they would go there and again mix with them; so I threw off part of my clothes, and pursued them, and by great personal exertion, and the help of another old dog that I had besides Sirrah, I turned them, but in a few minutes afterwards lost them altogether. I ran here and there, not knowing what to do, but always, at intervals, gave a loud whistle to Sirrah, to let him know that I was depending on him. By that whistling, the lad who was assisting me found me out; but he likewise had lost all trace whatsoever of the lambs. I asked if he had never seen Sirrah? He said he had not; but that after I left him, a wing of the lambs had come round him with a swirl, and that he supposed Sirrah had then given them a turn, though he could not see him for the darkness. We both concluded, that whatever way the lambs ran at first, they would finally land at the fold where they left their mothers, and without delay we bent our course towards that; but when we came there there was nothing of them, nor any kind of bleating to be heard, and we discovered with vexation that we had come on a wrong track.

My companion then bent his course towards the farm of Glen on the north, and I ran away westward for several miles, along the wild tract where the lambs had grazed while following their dams. We met after it was day, far up in a place called the Black Cleuch, but neither of us had been able to discover our lambs, nor any traces of them. It was the most extraordinary circumstance that had ever occurred in the annals of the pastoral life! We had nothing for it but to return to our master, and inform him that we had lost his whole flock of lambs, and knew not what was become of one of them.

On our way home, however, we discovered a body of lambs at the bottom of a deep ravine, called the Flesh Cleuch, and the indefatigable Sirrah standing in front of them, looking all around for some relief, but still standing true to his charge. The sun was then up; and when we first came in view of them,

we concluded that it was one of the divisions of the lambs, which Sirrah had been unable to manage until he came to that commanding situation, for it was about a mile and a half distant from the place where they first broke and scattered. But what was our astonishment when we discovered by degrees that not one lamb of the whole flock was wanting! How he had got all the divisions collected in the dark is beyond my comprehension. The charge was left entirely to himself from midnight until the rising of the sun; and if all the shepherds in the Forest had been there to assist him, they could not have effected it with greater propriety. All that l can say further is, that I never felt so grateful to any ereature below the sun as I did to Sirrah that morning.

I remember another achievement of his which I admired still more. I was sent to a place in Tweeddale, called Stanhope, to bring home a wild ewe that had strayed from home. The place lay at the distance of about fifteen miles, and my way to it was over steep hills, and athwart deep glens; there was no path, and neither Sirrah nor I had ever travelled the road before. The ewe was brought in and put into a barn over night; and, after being frightened in this way, was set out to me in the morning to be driven home by herself. She was as wild as a roe, and bounded away to the side of the mountain like one. I sent Sirrah on a circular route wide before her, and let him know that he had the charge of her. When I left the people at the house, Mr. Tweedie, the farmer, said to me, “Do you really suppose that you will drive that sheep over these hills, and out through the midst of all the sheep in the country?” I said I would try to do it. “Then, let me tell you,” said he, “that you may as well try to travel to yon sun.” The man did not know that I was destined to do both the one and the other! Our way, as I said, lay all over wild hills, and through the middle of flocks of sheep. I seldom got a sight of the ewe, for she was sometimes a mile before me, sometimes two; but Sirrah kept her in command the whole way—never suffered her to mix with other sheep— nor, as far as I could judge, ever to deviate twenty yards from the track by which he and I went the day before. When we came over the great height towards Manor Water, Sirrah and his charge happened to eross it a little before me, and our way lying down hill for several miles, I lost all traces of them, but still held on my track. I came to tw.i shepherd’s houses, and asked if they had seen anything of a black dog, with a branded face and a long tail, driving a sheep? No; they had seen no such thing; and, besides, all their sheep, both above and below the houses, seemed to be unmoved. I had nothing for it but to hold on my way homeward; and at length, on the corner of a hill at the side of the water, I discovered my trusty coal-black friend sitting with his eye fixed intently on the burn below him, and sometimes giving a casual glance behind to see it I was coming: he had the ewe standing there, safe and unhurt.

When I got her home, and set her at liberty among our own sheep, he took it highly amiss. I could scareely prevail with him to let her go; and so dreadfully was he affronted, that she should have been let go free after all his toil and trouble, that he would not come near me all the way to the house, nor yet taste any supper when we got there. I believe he wanted me to take her home and kill her.

He had one very laughable peculiarity, which often ereated no little disturbance about the house— it was an outrageous ear for musie. He never heard music but he drew towards it; and he never drew towards it but he joined in it with all his vigour. Many a good psalm, song, and tune was he the cause of spoiling; for when he set fairly to, at which he was not slack, the voices of all his coadjutors had no chance with his. It was customary with the worthy old farmer with whom I resided to perform family worship evening and morning; and before he began, it was always necessary to drive Sirrah to the fields and close the door. If this was at any time forgot or neglected, the moment that the psalm was raised he joined with all his zeal, and at such a rate, that he drowned the voices of the family before three lines could be sung. Nothing further could be done till Sirrah was expelled. But then! when he got to the peat-stack knowe before the door, especially if he got a blow in going out, he did give his powers of voice full scope, without mitigation; and even at that distance he was often a hard match for us all.

Some imagined that it was from a painful sensation that he did this. No such thing. Music was his delight; it always drew him towards it like a charm. I slept in the byre-loft—Sirrah in the haynook in a corner below. When sore fatigued, I sometimes retired to my bed before the hour of family worship. In such cases, whenever the psalm was raised in the kitchen, which was but a short distance, Sirrah left his lair; and laying his ear close to the bottom of the door to hear more distinctly, he growled a low note in accompaniment, till the sound expired: and then rose, shook his ears, and returned to his hay-nook. Saered music affected him most; but in either that or any slow tune, when the tones dwelt upon the key-note, they put him quite beside himself; his eyes had the gleam of madness in them; and he sometimes quitted singing, and literally fell to barking. All his race have the same qualities of voice and ear in a less or greater degree.

The most painful part of Sirrah’s history yet remains; but in memory of himself, it must be set down. He grew old, and unable to do my work by himself. I had a son of his coming up that promised well, and was a greater favourite with me than ever the other was. The times were hard, and the keeping of them both was a tax upon my master

which I did not like to impose, although he made no remonstrances. I was obliged to part with one of them; so I sold old Sirrah to a neighbouring shepherd for three guineas. He was accustomed, while I was smearing or doing any work about the farm, to go with any of the family when I ordered him, and run at their bidding the same as at my own; but then, when he came home at night, a word of approbation from me was recompense sufficient, and he was ready next day to go with whomsoever I commanded him. Of course, when I sold him to this lad, he went away when I ordered him, without any reluctance, and wrought for him all that day and the next as well as ever he did in his life. But when he found that he was abandoned by me, and doomed to be the slave of a stranger for whom he did not care, he would never again do another feasible turn. The lad said that he ran in among the sheep like a whelp, and seemed intent on doing him all the mischief he could. The consequence was, that he was obliged to part with him in a short time; but he had more honour than I had, for he took him to his father, and desired him to foster Sirrah, and be kind to him as long as he lived, for the sake of what he had been; and this injunction the old man faithfully performed.

He came back to see me now and then for months after he went away, but afraid of the mortification of being driven from the farm-house, he never came there; but knowing well the road that I took to the hill in the morning, he lay down near to that. When he saw me coming he did not venture near me, but walked round the hill, keeping always about 200 yards off, and then returned to his new master again, satisfied for the time that there was no more shelter with his beloved old one for him. When I thought how easily one kind word would have attached him to me for life, and how grateful it would have been to my faithful old servant and friend, I could not help regretting my hard fortune that obliged Ub to separate. That unfeeling tax on the shepherd’s dog, his only bread-winner, has been the cause of much pain in this respect. The parting with old Sirrah, after all that he had done for me, had such an effect on my heart, that I have never been able to forget it to this day; the more I have considered his attachment and character, the more I have admired them; and the resolution that he took up, and persisted in, of never doing a good turn for any other of my race, after the ingratitude that he had experienced from me, appeared to me to have a kind of heroism and sublimity in it. I am, however, writing nothing but the plain simple truth, to which there are plenty of living witnesses. I then made a vow to myself, which I have religiously kept, and ever shall, never to sell another dog; but that I may stand acquitted of all pecuniary motives—which indeed those who know me will scareely suspect me of—I must add, that when I saw how matters went, I never took a farthing of the stipulated price of old Sirrah. I have Sirrah’s race to this day; and though none of them has ever equalled him as a sheep dog, yet they have far excelled him in all the estimable qualities of sociality and humour.

A single shepherd and his dog will accomplish more in gathering a stock of sheep from a Highland farm, than twenty shepherds could do without dogs; and it is a fact that, without this docile animal, the pastoral life would be a mere blank. Without the shepherd’s dog, the whole of the open mountainous land in Scotland would not be worth a sixpence. It would require more hands to manage a stock of sheep, gather them from the hills, force them into houses and folds, and drive them to markets, than the profits of the whole stock would be capable of maintaining. Well may the shepherd feel an interest in his dog; he it is indeed that earns the family’s bread, of which he is himself content with i the smallest morsel; always grateful, and always ‘ready to exert his utmost abilities in his master’s interest. Neither hunger, fatigue, nor the worst of treatment will drive him from his side; he will follow him through fire and water, as the saying is, and through every hardship, without murmur or repining, till he literally fall down dead at his foot. If one of them is obliged to change masters, it is sometimes long before he will acknowledge the new one, or condescend to work for him with the same willingness as he did for his former lord; but if he once acknowledge him, he continues attached to him till death; and though naturally proud and high-spirited, in as far as relates to his master, these qualities (or rather failings) are kept so much in subordination, that he has not a will of his own.

My own renowned Hector1 was the son and immediate successor of the faithful old Sirrah; and | though not nearly so valuable a dog, he was a far more interesting one. He had three times more humour and whim; and though exceedingly docile, his bravest acts were mostly tinctured with a grain of stupidity, which showed his reasoning faculty to be laughably obtuse.

I shall mention a striking instance of it . I was once at the farm of Shorthope, in Ettrick-head, receiving some lambs that I had bought, and was going to take to market, with some more, the next day. Owing to some accidental delay, I did not get final delivery of the lambs till it was growing late; and being obliged to be at my own house that night, I was not a little dismayed lest I should scatter and lose my lambs, if darkness overtook me. Darkness did overtake me by the time I got half way, and no ordinary darkness for an August evening. The lambs having been weaned that day, and of the wild black-faced breed, became exceedingly unruly, and for a good while I lost hopes of mastering them. Hector managed the point, and we got them safe home; but both he anil his master were

1 See the ” Mountain Bard.”

alike sore forefoughten. It had become so dark that we were obliged to fold them with candles; and after closing them safely up, I went home with my father and the rest to supper. When Hector’s supper was set down, behold he was wanting! and as I knew we had him at the fold, which was within call of the house, I went out and called and whistled on him for a good while; but he did not make his appearance. I was distressed about this; for, having to take away the lambs next morning, I knew I could not drive them a mile without my dog, if it had been to save me the whole drove.

The next morning, as soon as it was day, I arose, and inquired if Hector had come home. No; he had not been seen. I knew not what to do; but my | father proposed that he would take out the lambs and herd them, and let them get some meat to fit them for the road; and that I should ride with all speed to Shorthope, to sec if my dog had gone back there. Accordingly, we went together to the fold to turn out the lambs, and there was poor Hector sitting trembling in the very middle of the fold door, on the inside of the flake that closed it, with his eyes still steadfastly fixed on the lambs. He had been so hardly set with them after it grew dark, that he durst not for his life leave them, although hungry, fatigued, and cold; for the night had turned out a deluge of rain. He had never so much as lain down, for only the small spot that he sat on . was dry, and there had he kept watch the whole [ night. Almost any other collie would have discerned that the lambs were safe enough in the fold; but Hector had not been able to see through this. He even refused to take my word for it; for he durst not quit his watch, though he heard me calling both at night and morning.

Another peculiarity of his was, that he had a mortal antipathy to the family mouser, which was ingrained in his nature from his very pupprhood; yet so perfectly absurd was he, that no impertinence on her side, and no baiting on, could ever induce him to lay his mouth on her, or injure her in the slightest degree. There was not a day, and scarcely an hour, passed over, that the family did not get some amusement with these two animals. Whenever he was within doors, his whole occupation was watching and pointing the cat from morning to night. When she flitted from one place to another, so did he in a moment; and then squatting down, he kept his point sedulously, till he was either called off or fell asleep.

He was an exceedingly poor taker of meat, was always to press to it, and always lean; and often he would not taste it till we were obliged to bring in the cat. The malicious looks that he cast at her from under his eyebrows on such occasions, were exceedingly ludierous, considering his utter incapability of wronging her. Whenever he saw her, he drew near his bicker, and looked angry, but still he would not taste till she was brought to it: and then he cocked his tail, set up his birses, and began a lapping furiously, in utter desperation. His good nature was so immoveable, that he would never refuse her a share of what he got; he even lapped close to the one side of the dish, and left her room— but mercy as he did ply!

It will appear strange to hear a dog’s reasoning faculty mentioned, as it has been; but I have hardly ever seen a shepherd’s dog do anything without perceiving his reasons for it. I have often amused myself in caleulating what his motives were for such and such ihings, and I generally found them very cogent ones. But Hector had a droll stupidity about him, and took up forms and rules of his own, for which I could never perceive any motive that was not even further out of the way than the action itself. He had one uniform practice, and a very bad one it was, during the time of family worship— that just three or four seconds before the conclusion of the prayer, he started to his feet, and ran barking round the apartment like a erazed beast. My father was so much amused with this, that he would never suffer me to correct him for it, and I scarcely ever saw the old man rise from the prayer without his endeavouring to suppress a smile at the extravagance of Hector. None of us ever could find out how he knew that the prayer was near done, for my father was not formal in Hib prayers; but certes he did know—of that we had nightly evidence. There never was anything for which I was so puzzled to discover a reason as this; but, from accident, I did discover it, and, however ludierous it may appear, I am certain I was correct. It was much in character with many of Hector’s feats, and rather, I think, the most outre of any principle he ever acted on. As I said, his chief daily occupation was pointing the cat. Now, when he saw us all kneel down in a circle with our faces couched on our paws, in the same posture with himself, it struck his absurd head, that we were all engaged in pointing the cat. He lay on tenters all the time, but the acuteness of his ear enabling him, through time, to ascertain the very moment when we would all spring to our feet, he thought to himself, ” I shall be first after her for you all!”

He inherited his dad’s unfortunate ear for musie, not perhaps in so extravagant a degree, but he ever took care to exhibit it on the most untimely and illjudged occasions. Owing to some misunderstanding between the minister of the parish and the session clerk, the precenting in church devolved on my father, who was the senior elder. Now, my father ! could have sung several of the old church tunes middling well, in his own family circle; but it so happened that, when mounted in the desk, he never could command the starting notes of any but one (St. Paul’s), which were always in undue readiness at the root of his tongue, to the exclusion of every other semibreve in the whole range of saered melody. The minister gave out psalms four times

in the course of every day’s service, and consequently the congregation were treated with St. Paul’s in the morning, at great length, twice in the course of the service, and then once again at the close—nothing but St. Paul’s. And, it being of itself a monotonous tune, nothing could exceed the monotony that prevailed in the primitive church of Ettrick. Out of pure sympathy for my father alone, I was compelled to take the precentorship in hand; and, having plenty of tunes, for a good while I came on as well as could be expected, as men say of their wives. But, unfortunately for me, Hector found out that I attended church every Sunday, and though I had him always closed up carefully at home, he rarely failed to make his appearance in church at some time of the day. Whenever I saw him, a tremour came over my spirits; for I well knew what the issue would be. The moment he heard my voice strike up the psalm, “with might and majesty,” then did he fall in with such overpowering vehemence, that he and I seldom got any to join in the music but our two selves. The shepherds hid their heads, and laid them down on the backs of the scats wrapped in their plaids, and the lasses looked down to the ground and laughed till their faces grew red. I disdained to stick the tune, and therefore was obliged to carry on in spite of the obstreperous accompaniment; but I was, time after time, so completely put out of all countenance by the brute, that I was obliged to give up my office in disgust, and leave the parish once more to their old friend, St. Paul.

Hector was quite incapable of performing the same feats among sheep that his father did; but, as far as his judgment served him, he was a docile and obliging ereature. He had one singular quality, of keeping true to the charge to which he was set. If we had been shearing or sorting sheep in any way, when a division was turned out, and Hector got the word to attend to them, he would have done it pleasantly for a whole day, without the least symptom of weariness. No noise or hurry about the fold, which brings every other dog from his business, had the least effect on Hector, save that it made him a little troublesome on his own charge, and set him a-running round and round them, turning them in at corners, out of a sort of impatience to be employed as well as his baying neighbours at the fold. Whenever old Sirrah found himself hard set, in commanding wild sheep on steep ground, where they are worst to manage, he never failed, without any hint to the purpose, to throw himself wide in below them, and lay their faces to the hill, by which means he got the command of them in a minute. I never could make Hector comprehend this advantage, with all my art, although his father found it out entirely of himself. The former would turn or wear sheep no other way, but on the hill above them; and though very good at it, he gave both them and himself double the trouble and fatigue.

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It cannot be supposed that he could understand all that was passing in the little family circle, but he certainly comprehended a good part of it. In particular, it was very easy to discover that he rarely missed anything that was said about himself, the sheep, the cat, or of a hunt. When aught of that nature came to be discussed, Hector’s attention and impatience soon became manifest. There was one winter evening, I said to my mother that I was going to Bowerhope for a fortnight, for that I had more conveniency for writing with Alexander Laidlaw than at home; and I added, “But I will not take Hector with me, for he is constantly quarrelling with the rest of the dogs, singing musie, or breeding some uproar.”—” Na, na,” quoth she, “leave Hector with me; I like aye best to have him at hame, poor fallow.”

These were all the words that passed. The next morning the waters were in a great flood, and I did not go away till after breakfast; but when the time came for tying up Hector, he was wanting.—”The deuce’s in that beast,” said I; “I will wager that he heard what we were saying yesternight, and has gone off for Bowerhope as soon as the door was opened this morning.”

“If that should really be the case, I’ll think the beast no canny,” said my mother.

The Yarrow was Bo large as to be quite impassable, Bo that I had to go up by St. Mary’s Loch, and go across by the boat; and, on drawing near to Bowerhope, I soon perceived that matters had gone precisely as I suspected. Large as the Yarrow was, and it appeared impassable by any living ereature, Hector had made his escape early in the morning, had swam the river, and was sitting, “like a drookit hen,” on a knoll at the east end of the house, awaiting my arrival with much impatience. I had a great attachment to this animal, who, with a good deal of absurdity, joined all the amiable qualities of his species. He was rather of a small size, very rough and shagged, and not far from the colour of a fox.

His son, Lion, was the very picture of his dad, had a good deal more sagacity, but also more selfishness. A history of the one, however, would only be an epitome of that of the other. Mr. William Nicholson took a fine likeness of this latter one, which that gentleman still possesses. He could not get him to sit for his picture in such a position as he wanted, till he exhibited a singularly fine picture of his, of a small dog, on the opposite side of the room. Lion took it for a real animal, and, disliking its fierce and important look exceedingly, he immediately set up his cars and his shaggy birses, and fixing a stern eye on the picture, in manifest wrath, he would then sit for a whole day, and point his eye at it, without moving away or altering his position.

It is a curious fact, in the history of these animals, that the most useless of the breed have often the greatest degree of sagacity in trifling and useless

matters. An exceedingly good sheep-dog attends to nothing else but that particular branch of business to which he is bred. His whole capacity is exerted and exhausted on it, and he is of little avail in miscellaneous matters; whereas, a very indifferent cur, bred about the house, and accustomed to assist in everything, will often put the more noble breed to disgrace in these paltry services. If one calls out, for instance, that the cows are in the corn, or the hens in the garden, the house-collie needs no other hint, but runs and turns them out . The shepherd’s dog knows not what is astir; and, if he is called out in a hurry for such work, all that he will do is to break to the hill, and rear himself up on end, to see if no sheep are running away. A bred sheep-dog, if coming ravening from the hills, and getting into a milk-house, would /most likely think of nothing else than filling his belly with the cream. Not so his initiated brother. He is bred at home to a more civilized behaviour. I have known such lie night and day, among from ten to twenty pails full of milk, and never once break the cream of one of them with the tip of his tongue, nor would he suffer cat, rat, or any other ereature, to touch it. This latter sort, too, are far more acute at taking up what is said in a family. There was a farmer of this country, a Mr. Alexander Cuninghame, who had a bitch that, for the space of three or four years, in the latter part of her life, met him always at the boundary of his farm, about a mile and a half from his house, on his way home. If he | was half a day away, a week, or a fortnight, it was all the same; she met him at that spot, and there never was an instance known of her going to wait his arrival there on a wrong day. If this was a fact, which I have heard averred by people who lived in the house at that time, she could only know of his coming home by hearing it mentioned in the family. The same animal would have gone and brought the cows from the hill when it grew dark, without any bidding, yet she was a very indifferent sheep-dog.

The anecdotes of these animals are all so much alike, that were I but to relate the thousandth part of those I have heard, they would often look very much like repetitions. I shall therefore only mention one or two of the most singular, w hich I know to be well authenticated.

There was a shepherd lad near Langholm, whese name was Scott, who possessed a bitch, famed over all the West Border for her singular tractability. He could have sent her home with one sheep, two sheep, or any given number, from any of the neighbouring farms; and in the lambing season, it was his uniform practice to send her home with the kebbed ewes just as he got them. I must let the town reader understand this. A kebbed ewe is one whose lamb dies. As soon as such is found, she is immediately brought home by the shepherd, and another lamb put to her; and this lad, on going his rounds on the hill, whenever he found a kebbed ewe, immediately gave her in charge to his bitch to take home, which saved him from coming back that way again, and going over the same ground he had looked before. She always took them carefully home, and put them into a fold which was close by the house, keeping watch over them till she was seen by some one of the family; and then that moment she decamped, and hasted back to her master, who sometimes sent her three times home in one morning, with different charges. It was the custom of the farmer to watch her, and take the sheep in charge from her; but this required a good deal of caution; for as soon as she perceived that she was seen, whether the sheep were put into the fold or not, she conceived her charge at an end, and no flattery could induce her to stay and assist in folding them. There was a display of accuracy and attention in this, that I cannot say I have ever seen equalled.

The late Mr. Steel, flesher in Peebles, had a bitch that was fully equal to the one mentioned above, and that in the very same qualification too. Her feats in taking home sheep from the neighbouring farms into the flesh-market at Peebles by herself, form innumerable aneedotes in that vicinity, all similar to one another. But there is one instance related of her, that combines so much sagacity with natural affection, that I do not think the history of the animal ereation furnishes such another.

Mr. Steel had such an implicit dependence on the attention of this animal to his orders, that whenever he put a lot of sheep before her, he took a pride in leaving it to herself, and either remained to take a glass with the farmer of whom he had made the purchase, or took another road, to look after bargains or other business. But one time he chanced to commit a drove to her charge at a place called Willenslee, without attending to her condition, as he ought to have done. This farm is five miles from Peebles, over wild hills, and there is no regularly defined path to it. Whether Mr. Steel remained behind, or took another road, I know not; but on coming home late in the evening, he was astonished at bearing that his faithful animal had never made her appearance with the drove. He and his son, or servant, instantly prepared to set out by different paths in search of her; but on their going out to the street, there was she coming with the drove, no one missing; and, marvellous to relate, she was carrying a young pup in her mouth! She had been taken in travail on the hills; and how the poor beast had contrived to manage her drove in her state of suffering, is beyond human caleulation; for her road lay through sheep the whole way. Her master’s heart smote him when he saw what she had suffered and effected; but she was nothing daunted; and having deposited her young one in a place of safety, she again set out full speed to the hills, and brought another, and another, till she brought her whole litter, one by one; but the last one was dead.

I give this as I have heard it related by the country people; for though I knew Mr. ‘Walter Steel well enough, I cannot say I ever heard it from his own mouth. I never entertained any doubt, however, of the truth of the relation, and certainly it is worthy of being preserved, for the eredit of that most docile and affectionate of all animals—the shepherd’s dog.

The stories related of the dogs of sheep-Etcalers are fairly beyond all eredibility. I cannot attach eredit to those, without believing the animals to have been devils incarnate, come to the earth for the destruction of both the souls and bodies of men. I cannot mention names, for the sake of families that still remain in the country; but there have been sundry men executed, who belonged to this quarter of the realm, for that heinous crime, in my own time; and others have absconded, just in time to save their necks. There was not one of these to whom I allude who did not acknowledge his dog to bo the greatest offender. One young man, in particular, who was, I believe, overtaken by justice for his first offence, stated, that after he had folded the sheep by moon-light, and selected his number from the flock of a former master, he took them out, and set away with them towards Edinburgh. But before he had got them quite off the farm, his conscience smote him, as he said (but more likely a dread of that which soon followed), and he quitted the sheep, letting them go again to the hill. He called his dog off them; and mounting his pony, rode away. At that time he said his dog was capering and playing around him, as if glad of having got free of a troublesome business; and he regarded him no more, till, after having rode about three miles, he thought again and again that he heard something coming up behind him. Halting, at length, to ascertain what it was, in a few minutes his dog came up with the stolen drove, driving them at a furious rate to keep pace with his master. The sheep were all smoking, and hanging out their tongues, and their driver was fully as warm as they. The young man was now exceedingly troubled; for the sheep having been brought so far from home, he dreaded there would be a pursuit, and he could not get them home again before day. Resolving, at all events, to keep his hands clear of them, he corrected his dog in great wrath, left the sheep once more, and taking his dog with him, rode off a second time. He had not ridden above a mile, till he perceived that his dog had again given him the slip; and suspecting for what purpose, he was terribly alarmed as well as chagrined; for the daylight approached, and he durst not make a noise calling on his dog, for fear of alarming the neighbourhood, in a place where both he and his dog were known. He resolved therefore to abandon the animal to himself, and take a road aeross the country which he was sure his dog did not know, and could not follow. He took that road; but being on horseback, he could not get aeross the inclosed fields. He at length came to a gate, which he closed behind him, and went about half a mile farther, by a zigzag course, to a farm-house where both his sister and sweetheart lived; and at that place he remained until after breakfast-time. The people of this house were all examined on the trial, and no one had either seen sheep, or heard them mentioned, save one man, who came up to the young man as he was standing at the stable-door, and told him that his dog had the sheep safe enough down at the Crooked Yett, and he need not hurry himself. He answered, that the sheep were not his—they were young Mr. Thomson’s, who had left them to his charge: and he was in search of a man to drive them, which made him come off his road.

After this discovery, it was impossible for the poor fellow to get quit of them; so he went down and took possession of the stolen property once more, carried them on, and disposed of them; and, finally, the transaction cost him his life. The dog, for the last four or five miles that he had brought the sheep, could have no other guide to the road his master had gone, but the smell of his pony’s feet.

It is also well known that there was a notorious

sheep-stcaler in the county of Mid-Lothian, who, had it not been for the skins and sheep’s-heads, would never have been condemned, as he could, with the greatest ease, have proved an alibi every time on which there were suspicions cherished against him. He always went by one road, calling on his acquaintances, and taking care to appear to every body by whom he was known; while his dog went by another with the stolen sheep; and then on the two felons meeting again, they had nothing more ado than turn the sheep into an associate’s inclosurc, in whose house the dog was well fed and entertained, and would have soon taken all the fat sheep on the Lothian Edges to that house. This was likewise a female, a jet-black one, with a deep coat of soft hair, but smooth-headed, and very strong and handsome in her make. On the disappearance of her master, she lay about the hills and the places he bad frequented; but never attempted to steal a drove by herself, nor yet anything for her own hand. She was kept a while by a relation of her master’s; but never acting heartily in his service, soon came to an untimely end. Of this there is little doubt, although some spread the report that one evening, after uttering two or three loud howls, she had vanished!


I Know of nothing in the world so distressing as the last sight of a fine industrious independent peasantry taking the last look of their native country, never to behold it more. I have witnessed several of these scenes now, and I wish I may never witness another; for each of them has made tears burst every now and then from my eyes for days and nights, and all the while in that mood of mind that I could think about nothing else. I saw the children all in high spirits, playing together and amusing themselves with trifles, and I wondered if those dear innocents, in after life, would remember anything at all of the land of their nativity. They felt no regret, for they knew that they had no home but where their parents were, no staff or stay but on them. They were beside them, and attending to all their little wants, and they were happy. How different the aspect of the parents! They looked backward toward their native mountains and telades with the most rueful expression of countenance. These looks never can be effaced from my heart; and I noted always, that the older the men were, their looks were the more regretful and desolate. They thought, without doubt, of the tombs

of their parents and friends whose heads they had laid in an honoured grave, and that, after a few years of the toil and weariness collateral with old age, they were going to lay down their bones in a new world, a far-distant clime, never to mix their ashes with those that were dearest to them. Alas! the days are gone that I have seen! It is long since emigration from the Highlands commenced; for, when clanship was abolished, as far as government edicts could abolish it, the poor Highlanders were obliged to emigrate. But never till now did the brave and intelligent Borderers rush from their native country, all with symptoms of reckless despair. It is most deplorable. The whole of our most valuable peasantry and operative manufacturers are leaving us. All who have made a little money to freight them over the Atlantie, and procure them a settlement in America, Van Diemen’s Land, or New South Wales, are hurrying from us as from a place infected with the plague. Every day the desire to emigrate inereases, both in amount and intensity: in some parts of the country the movement is taking place to an immense extent. In the industrious village of Galashiels, fifty-two are already booked for transportation. In the town of Hawick, and its subordinate villages, are double that number. My own brothers, sisters, nephews, and nieces, are all going away; and if I were not the very individual that I am, I should be the first to depart. But my name is now so much identified with Scotland and Ettrick Forest, that though I must die as I have lived, I cannot leave them.

But the little affecting story I set out with the purpose of telling is not begun yet. I went the other year to see some particular friends on board the gallant ship, Helen Douglas, for the British settlements of America. Among the rest was Adam Haliday, a small farmer, who had lost his farm, and whom I had known intimately in my young days. He had a wife, and, I think, nine sons and daughters; but his funds being short, he was obliged to leave his two eldest sons behind, until they themselves could procure the means of following him. An old pedlar, whom I think they named Simon Ainsley, was there distributing little religious tracts among the emigrants gratis, and perhaps trying to sell some of his cheap wares. The captain and he and Mr. Nicholson, the owner of the vessel, myself, and some others, were standing around the father and sons, when the following interesting dialogue took place:—

“Now, Aidie, my man, ye’re to behave yoursel, and no be like a woman and greet. I canna bide to see the tears comin’ papplin’ ower thae manly young checks; for though you an’ Jamie wad hae been my riches, my strength, an’ shield in America, in helpin’ me to clear my farm, it is out o’ my power to take ye wi’ me just now. Therefore, be good lads, an’ mind the thing that’s good. Read your Bibles, tell aye the truth, an’ be obedient to your masters: an’ the next year, or the next again, you will be able to join your mother and the bairns an’ me, an’ we’ll a’ work thegither to ane anither’s hands.”

‘• I dinna want to gang, father,” said Adam, “until I can bring something wi’ me to help you. I ken weel how ye are circumstanced, an’ how ye hae been serewed at hame. But if there’s siller to be made in Scotland in an honest way, Jamie an1 me will join you in a year or twa wi’ something that will do ye good.”

By this time poor little Jamie’s heart was like to burst with erying. He was a fine boy, about fourteen. His father went to comfort him, but he made matters only the worse. “Hout, Jamie, dinna greet that gate, man, for a thing that canna be helpit,” said he. “Ye keu how weel I wad hae likit to hae had ye wi’ me, for the leavin’ ye is takin’ the pith out o’ my arm. But it’s out o’ my power to take ye just now; for, as it is, afore I win to the settlement, I’ll no hae a siller sixpence. But ye’re young, an’ healthy, an’ stout, an’ gin ye be a good lad, wi’ the blessing o’ God, ye’ll soon be able to join your auld father an’ mother, an’ help them.”

“But aince friends are partit, an’ the half o’ the globe atween them, there’s but a sma’ chance that they ever meet again,” said poor James, with the most disconsolate look. ” I wad hae likit to hae gane wi’ ye, an’ helpit ye, an’ wrought wi’ ye, an’ leev’d an’ dee’d wi’ ye. It’s an awfu’ thing to be left in a country where ane has nae hame to gang to, whatever befa’ him.”

The old man burst into tears. He saw the prospect of helpless desolation, that preyed on his boy’s heart, in the event of his being laid on a bed of sickness; but he had no resource. The boat came to the quay, in which they were about to step; but word came with her that the vessel could not sail before high tide to-morrow; so the family got one other night to spend together, at which they seemed excessively happy, though lodged in a hay loft.

Having resolved to sail with the Helen Douglas as far as the Point of Cumberland, I attended the next day at the quay, where a great number of people were assembled to take farewell of their friends. There were four boats lying ready to take the emigrants on board. The two brothers embraced their parents and sisters, and were just parting rather decently, when the captain, stepping out of a handsome boat, said to Haliday, ” Sir, your two sons are entered as passengers with me, so you need not be in such a hurry in taking farewell of them.”

“Entered as passengers!” said Haliday; “why, the poor fellows hae na left themsels a boddle in helpin’ to fit out their mother and me; how can they enter themsels as passengers?”

“They are entered, however,” said the captain, “and both their fare and board paid to Montreal, from which place you can easily reach your destination; but if any more is required, I am authorized to advance that likewise.”

“An’ wha is the generous friend that has done this 1” cried Haliday, in raptures, the tears streaming from his eyes. “He has strengthened my arms, and encouraged my heart, and rendered me an independent man—at aince, tell me wha is the kind good man?—was it Mr. Hogg?”

The captain shook his head. “I am debarred from telling you, Mr. Haliday,” said he; “let it suffice that the young men are franked to Montreal. Here are both their tickets, and there are their names registered as paid.”

“I winna set my fit aff the coast o’ Scotland, sir,” said Haliday, “until I ken wha has done this generous deed. If he should never be paid mair, he can be nae the waur o’ an auld man’s prayers night and morning; no, I winna set a fit into the boat—I winna leave the shore o’ auld Scotland till I ken wha my benefactor is. Can I gang awa without kenning wha the friend is that has rendered me the greatest service ever conferred on me sin’ I was born? Na, na! I canna, captain; sae ye may j ust as weel tell me at aince.”

“Then, since I must tell you, I must,” said the captain; “it was no other than that old packman with the ragged coat.”

“God bless him! God bless him!” fell, I think, from every tongue that was present. The mother of the young men was first at the old pedlar, and clapping her hands about his neck, she kissed him again and again, even maugre some resistance. Old Haliday ran and took the pedlar by both hands, and in an ecatasy, mixed with tears and convulsive laughter, said, “Now, honest man, tell me your direction, for the first money that I can cither win, or beg, or borrow, shall be sent to reimburse you for this. There was never sic a benefit conferred on a poor father an’ mother sin’ the world stood up. An’ ye sail hae your money, good auld Christian— ye sail hae your siller.”

”Ay, that he sail!” exclaimed both of the young lads.

“Na, na, Aidie Haliday, say nae mair about the payment just now,” said the pedlar; “d’ye ken, man, I had sundra very strong motives for this: in the first place, I saw that you couid not do without the lads; and mair than that, I am coming up amang my countrymen about New Dumfries an’ Loch Eiry, to vend my wares for a year or twa, an’ I wantit to hae ac house at ony rate where I wad be sure o’ a night’s quarters. I’ll ca’ for my siller. Aidie, an’ I’m sure to get it, or value for’t; an’ if I dinna ca’ for’t, be sure never to send it. It wad be lost by the way, for there’s never ony siller reaches this frae America.”

I never envied any man’s feelings more than I did the old pedlar’s that day, when all the grateful family were hanging around him, and every eye turned on him with admiration.


Domestic Engineering and the Journal of Mechanical Contracting, Volume 53

Domestic Engineering and the Journal of Mechanical Contracting, Volume 53

Fred McCracken, Paxton, 111., has secured the contract for the installation of a new steam-heating plant in the First Methodist Episcopal church in that city. Considera tion, $1,000.

December 17, 1910. 323 DOMESTIC ENGINEERING


By W. H. Prescott.

There is, perhaps, no more famous (of its kind of fame) spot in the East than “The Bamboo Tree.” There’s only the one tree, too, mind you; and it’s at the foot of Pine street, Camden, N. J. It is known to many “hobo” plumbers and steamfitters, “traveling the East” in search of “jobs” — and to say “I’ve been ‘Under the Bamboo Tree’ ” is as good as saying “I’ve traveled” to these same “tramp” plumbers, broken-down gasfitters and rum-soaked allied craftsmen.

Here one morning the “Bewailer of Good Old Plumb ing Days” was found — seated on an old laundry carrier, under the bamboo tree — king, as it were, of the motley group scattered around.

“Blest if there isn’t young Chino!” the veteran plum ber exclaimed, as a red-faced huckster came down the path from Gordon’s corner — “Gee! boy, how they goin’?”

“I feel just like the breaking up of a hard winter, dad,” responded Chino, Jr. “I slept in the lumber yards last night and some blankety blank stole my kicks.”

“Plenty more shoes, kid,” said the old man. “Just go down to th’ ‘dump’ and pick out what you want — City- emptied over forty wagonloads o’ junk last night; you ought to find a pair of Romeos ”

“Sure, thing,” assented Chino, Jr. “Say, dad, when did you say you met my old man last?”

“Day before he died, kid. Aye, me! that must be nigh thirty years ago — when you was in th’ soap-box cradle. I tell you boy, those were the palmy days of plumbery, and don’t you forget it! Why, son, your dad, with his push-cart plumbing shop, could put ’em all to sleep, and don’t you forget it!”

“Well, before you start in to tell me about it, pop, let’s chase the duck. I’m as dry as a furnace and as thirsty as a pump! Here Kaney — go get a dime’s worth of sudesl”

A rough-bearded tin roofer took the “kettle” and dime and fairly flew up to Gordon’s tavern.

“Yes, son,” continued the “Veteran Bewailer,” “them was the juicy days of plumbery! Why, your dad was in Haddonfield one day with his push cart shop and Harry Scovel’s water-back blew up with a genuine Fourth of July bang. Seems though Providence did it just because Chino’d struck the village. He was passing the house when it happened and when he heard the pop! sizz! bang- it-t-bang! he ducked, naturally. Thought some one he had done a job for was taking a shot at him. Then a big Tom Cat, with scalded hair fell at his feet and began clawing his socks. Then part of the kitchen fell out into the yard; there was steam to burn; plaster and shingles to give ‘way, and the explosion was over. By the time the steam and dust had lifted Chino had his tools lined up, ready for work. ‘I’ll be called; I know 1 will,’ says he. And he was. At least ten excited people stood on the house steps calling for him — as well as on Heaven, the doctor, and undertaker. ‘Get who you please, of course,’ says Chino, ‘but I’m the plumber. Want your water back repaired — or will you have a new one in?’ ‘You can put me in a new one,’ says the hired girl — but you see she was too scared to know whether she wanted a water back or a pull-back. Well, Scovel knew Chino; so he says ‘Come in and fix her up,’ and Chino butts into the job — ‘where is the little water back?’ says he, looking for it where it had once been. ‘Oh, there you are,’ he says, as he sees it up on the top of Widow Jonc’s house.

‘I’ll get you, my little piece of hardware!’ ‘No, you won’t, man!’ says the Widow Jones. ‘Don’t you dare climb on my house, man. If you do — ‘ and she shook a stove poker towards him, ‘I’ll — I’ll strike you! so there, now!’ ‘I’ll fool’er,’ says Chino, and with that he struck on a run around the house, the Widow’ after him. ‘Lap one! judgment! yells Chino as he made the first round. He yelled on the second, third, and fourth laps, and then there was no Widow. Her

“He Struck on a Run Around the House, the Widow After Him.”

wind gave out on the three — and three-quarters. Thus Chino had her. Up he clambers the porch, skins up the roof, rolls the water back to the ground, slides down safe to home and makes off to Scovel’s with the prize just as the Widow yelled, ‘Come back you loafer! I’ve got me second wind!’ ”

At this point Kaney appeared with the “duck” and a handful of pretzels.

As the “Great Bewailer” raised the big dinner bucket to his mouth he dizzly remarked: “This ought to be good for rheumatism, son.”

“Why so?” asked Chino, Jr.

“Its full of hops,” was the answer, whereat Chino, Jr. let forth a roar of laughter that brought four of the near by stablemen out to see the fight.” They went back de jected — no fight, for once.

The bucket and contents were passed around to such comments and remarks as: “How’s work in Pittsburg, Mike?” “On the hog.” “Where you been, Bandy? hain’t seen you since we was on th’ job at Reading?” “Down Lantic City. Nothing doing — so’s come up here.” “Where’s Biggie Larkins — workin’?” “Naw! doin’ thirty days,” etc., etc.

And then “Good Old Days of Plumbing” opened up again. “Son,” he said to Chino, Jr., ‘”fore I go up town and touch Harry Farrel for a five-cent lunch, let me tell you a jaunt your dad took to Merchantville. Rich folks out there, kid — but they’re hard-hearted — saw wood or you don’t get a handout. Well, in the good old juicy days of the pipe-and-joint biz your dad struck out one Christmas for Merchantville. Had his cart on runners and the wheels on the cart; double turn, see? Moseying along the pike he sees a stone on which was painted ‘Roll me over.’ Chino sized it up. ‘Darned if I ain’t been rolled many’s the time,’ says he, ‘but blanked if I ever seen a stone yelling for it. Well, here goes,’ and he


pried over the stone with a piece of gas pipe. On t’ other side he read, ‘Now, roll me back — and I’ll fool some other sucker.’ On Chino goes — stung — until he reaches the house of two sisters; old maids; rich and all that. Had a Christmas tree in the parlor for the dogs, cats, parrots and chickens to look at — but no kiddoes. Seein’ as Chino was a steamfitter and plumber they called him in. ‘We have a chickenery,’ says Angelina, the elder old maid sister, ‘and we’ve put settings and settings un der the hens but the eggs won’t hatch!’ ‘Yes,’ says Anastasus, the less elderly old maid, ‘do you ‘spose lay ing hot pipes under the nests will incubate the eggs?’ ‘Show me the hennery,’ commanded Chino. They did. He sized up the flock with cold, critical eyes. ‘Well?’ says Angelina, ‘do the hens need hot air?’ ‘Not on your tintype, lady,’ says Chino, ‘they need a boy hen — a rooster. Two dollars, please, for consultation and advice.’ Blush ing, as does the red, red rose, the two virgins paid over the dough.”

There was a few moments silence — and then Chino, Jr., said: “Pop, did my dad have to do all them things you’re telling me of?”


“And he was a steamfitter and plumber, eh?”


“Well, then, I’m blanked glad I’m a huckster!”

The Oxford Movement in America, Or, Glimpses of Life in an Anglican Seminary (Google Books)

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The Oxford Movement in America, Or, Glimpses of Life in an Anglican Seminary
By Clarence Augustus Walworth

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A FAVORITE class with many of the students at the Chelsea Seminary was that over which Dr. Clement C. Moore presided—the Hebrew class. There was no study to which my chum Beach and I devoted ourselves with more perseverance and regularity.

In the annals of the Chelsea Seminary Dr. Moore will not figure merely as professor of Hebrew. He was a prominent patron of the institution, and was closely identified with all its interests. Its very location on Twentieth Street, opposite to his own residence and between the Ninth and Tenth Avenues, was a thing of his selection and due to his choice. He taught in the seminary for thirty years previous to 1850, at which time he retired from active service as professor emeritus. In 1821 he was mide professor of Biolical learning. His second appointment was to teach Oriental and Greek literature. He was the author of a “Hebrew and Greek Lexicon,” in two volumes, published in 1809, and other works. It is »a strange thing that a man of such great and varied learning as Dr. Moore, so versed in oriental and classic literature and a pioneer in matters of rare and deep research, should only be known to the general world of readers by one single ballad, “The Visit of St. Nicholas.” A volume of poems, his only published work of this kind, was given to the public in 1844, while I was still a seminarian. This volume contains among other things some verses accompanying a gift of flowers to a friend. That friend, Mr. P. Hone, returned an answer also in verse, which so well specifies the various accomplishments of the worthy professor that I need only to give it to the reader in order to furnish a picture of this notable man:

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“Filled as thou art with Attic fire, | And skilled in classic lore divine,

Not yet content, wouldst thou aspire

In Flora’s gorgeous wreath to shine?
Wouldst thou in language of the rose

Lessons of wisdom seek t’ impart,
Or in the violet’s breath disclose

The feelings of a generous heart?
Come as thou wilt, my warm regard

And welcome shall thy steps attend;
Scholar, musician, florist, bard—

More dear to me than all, as friend.
Bring flowers and poesy, a goodly store,

Like Dickens’ Oliver—I ask for Moore.”

The principal object of our studies in Hebrew was to prepare us for the class in hermeneutics over which Dr. Samuel H. Turner presided. After reading the first two or three chapters of Genesis, our readings in the Hebrew Testament were confined to its Messianic parts. These parts were always carefully marked out for the Hebrew class by Dr. Turner himself. Dr. Moore confined his teaching strictly to the Hebrew, and the translation of the parts thus marked out, but never meddled with the interpretation of Scripture. The nearest that he ever came to this in dealing with our class was one day when we were translating the seventeenth verse of the twenty-first Psalm, which, in the Septuagint and in the Vulgate and other Christian versions, reads, “They have dug (or pierced) my hands and feet.” When we came to these words, the student whose turn it was translated the passage as above. “Well, yes,” said Dr. Moore, “that’s the way we read it in our English Bible, but here in this Hebrew Bible we have Kari, which would oblige us to translate the passage as the Jews do, ‘Like a lion, my hands and feet.’ To be sure, that don’t seem to make good sense; but that is no business of mine. I am not here to inculcate good sense, but to teach Hebrew. Some learned people will tell you that the rabbins have changed the text on purpose. Well, perhaps they did. I didn’t. Or, when you come to Dr. Turner’s class, perhaps he will tell you that the word got changed by careless writing in Hebrew, shortening the tail of the last letter till they turned the vau into a yod. That would change Karu into Kari. In that case, all we need to make it right is to put the long tail on again. Then we have Karu, and can translate the passage, ‘They pierced my hands and my feet.’ Well, well, well! Let them fix it their own way.. That’s none of my business. Here we have Kari, and that means ‘Like a lion.’ In my class, young man, you’ll have to read it that way. I don’t bother myself much about old versions, nor old manuscripts, nor old commentators, nor old rabbins. I am only a layman, but I know what Hebrew is when I see it in the book before us. Humph! Go on.'”

I have already said that the’ Hebrew class was a great favorite with me as with many others, and what we learned there was of the greatest advantage when dealing with Dr. Turner in the interpretation of Scripture. I have lost some valuable books in my day, sometimes through lending, sometimes through the casualties of house-cleaning, and sometimes because an eventful life has forced me to forsake them. For none of these have I mourned so much as for the Hebrew Bible which I interlined most carefully, in my study-room, with equivalent English words of the good doctor’s rendering. I have never been able to recover it.

My reminiscences of this seminary are largely made up of scenes from Professor Turner’s class-room. I seem to see the professor before me now. I can still recall him most vividly, as he then sat at his desk. He was devoted to his class. His earnest devotion showed itself in his eyes, brows, mouth, nose, and in his very hair, as he gazed upon the Greek Testament before him, or bent his looks upon us to gather in from the expression of our faces the effect of his criticisms. We could see his legs under the desk. There his little hands took a busy part in the exegesis, pinching his trousers at the knees. One foot or the other was always tapping the floor of the platform. His feet were very small. This we could see for ourselves, and I knew from his shoemaker that he was very particular about his shoes.

All this liveliness on the part of Professor Turner was perfectly unaffected. Indeed, there was something about him that always seemed to protest against affectation of every kind. When it was his turn to preside at the morning service in the chapel, he protested against that deep-mouthed throttling of the words of the service so frequent amongst his brethren of the clergy. He carried this even to an excess. In his dislike of pomposity he actually danced over very solemn words. He always chose the short absolution, and made very short work of it, too. On the contrary, when reading the lessons from Holy Scripture, he gave a triumphant and jerky emphasis to certain inelegant words of the text which others are apt to skip over lightly, through a sense of delicacy.

Professor Turner had a strong predilection for those students who showed a particular interest in his class, and this without exacting any strict adherence to his own interpretations. Indeed, there were some of us that took a quiet pleasure in hunting up authorities which militated with his views. He never manifested any offence at this. Some dialogue like the following would then take place:

“Well, have you any authority for that interpretation?”

“Yes, sir; I find Theodoret quoted ior it.”

“Ah, indeed, Theodoret! Well, I don’t wish to dispute that Theodoret is an authority, but I must beg leave to differ with Theodoret in this case. Does Theodoret or the commentator who quotes him assign any reasons for their opinion?”

The reasons being given, the doctor would then continue: “The authority, no doubt, is highly respectable. I wish I could say as much for the reasons assigned.” The doctor would then carefully go over the ground a second time, without offering the least rebuke to the independence of the student, and without saying anything to discourage free study, even though dissenters should be consulted or Catholic authors.

I was one of those who loved to ramble in study of authorities, especially after my first year, when I had found out that the world of theological doctrine was broader and deeper than I had ever dreamed of before. I was even bold enough on one occasion to give a translation to the Greek text differing in

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several respects from the King James version. The passage is that of Hebrews vi. 4, 5, 6. To the surprise of the whole class, I translated this passage as follows:

‘For it is impossible for those, who were once enlightened, etc., etc., and are fallen away, to be renewed again by penance.”

After hesitating a moment, the professor said quietly: “I don’t object, Mr. Walworth, to your reversing of the sequence in this passage, nor your changing the voice of the verb, nor to your using the word penance, which may very well be understood as meaning nothing else than repentance; but how can ‘by penance’ be given as a correct translation of ‘eis metanoian’ f Eis is a preposition, and is equivalent to unto and into, in English. I do not know of a single instance where any dictionary or translator has given it the sense of by. Do you?”

I had anticipated this objection, and it was my good luck to be furnished with one instance in the English Testament itself. It was easy for the good doctor to dispose of this point in my case. I had little confidence in it and was only amusing myself. What struck me most at the time was the gentleness, equanimity, and even respect, with which he treated my presumption.

I did not get off so easily with another friend, who took it much to heart. In our class was a student from Maine named Gardner, who was not only a good scholar but very fond of hermeneutics, and of all close and nice study in language. He was, moreover, a sincere Protestant, albeit of the high-church stamp. Having occasion to visit his room that same day, he received me with a seriousness that was startling.

“What is the matter, Gardner?” I inquired. “Have you received any ill news?”

“O Walworth!” said he, “I didn’t think you’d do it. I didn’t think you’d do it!”

“Why, what have I done?”

“I have been anxious about you,” he answered, “but I never thought it would come to this.”

“There must be something dreadful in your mind, Gardner. What is it? What have I done?”

“I did not think you would give such a translation to metanoian—penance. Oh! it is too bad; how could you do it?”

“Well,” I said, “under all the circumstances, it was a foolish thing. Since it grieves you so much I take it back. Come, my dear fellow, forgive me, and brighten up again.”

But poor Gardner could not be pacified.

“You’ll end in Rome yet, Walworth,” he said; “you’ll end in Rome.”

It seemed to me at one time that Gardner himself was dangerously near the jaws of the same great dragon. He was very nearly led into the doctrine of transubstantiation by a learned work of Dr. Wiseman on that subject. His arguments, derived from a critical examination of the sixth chapter of St. John and from St. Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians (x. 16 and xi. 24-29), seemed to me to be very strong. What struck Gardner’s mind most forcibly, however, was the immense learning displayed by Dr. Wiseman to show that the words used by our Lord in instituting the Blessed Sacrament, “This is my body. This is my blood,” must necessarily be understood literally. The force of the context, the circumstances attending the institution of the Eucharist, and the comparison of various passages referring-to the Eucharist before and after its institution, these arguments would seem strong enough to convince any mind that fairly gives its attention to them. Gardner’s fondness for critical learning, however, made him attach much greater importance to the almost infinite variety of citations from authors in almost every language to show the uses of the verb einai, when it is used literally and when it must be understood figuratively. I soon grew tired of all this learned detail, the most of which seemed to me trivial. Gardner, however, was both attracted and alarmed by it. He carried these questions to Dr. Turner, who entered into them with full sympathy. Gardner became at last convinced that the saddle-bags were as full on the Anglican side of the horse as the other, and he got no nearer to Romanism.

I think I caused some considerable chagrin to Professor Turner on another occasion when he was anxious to show off his class at examination. I was called upon to explain the sense of our Lord’s words in “the sermon on the mount” where, according to King James’s version, he says to his disciples: “If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out. . . . And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off.” I interpreted the passage as applying to an occasion of sin where the dangerous temptation is so great that there is no reasonable hope of escaping from sin except by putting away the occasion or flying from it. The doctor was well satisfied with this, but unfortunately carried the matter a little too far by asking me if our Lord by this teaching ever intended that one should actually pluck out an eye or cut off an arm. I answered that I thought the urgency of the occasion might sometimes require such extreme measures, if there was no other way of keeping in the grace of God. The doctor was evidently much mortified, as some very notable clergymen were present at the examination. I had, moreover, been the very one to handle this passage at a previous class recitation; I had extended its meaning with the same literal severity, and the doctor had set me right very carefully. He therefore counted on me to do him credit before the visiting examiners. His brows gathered with vexation, but he contented himself with setting me right once more. I was sorry to have grieved him, but I really believed that in such extreme cases as I had proposed one could dispense with an eye or a leg, and even lend a hand to getting rid of them. I do not give this incident in order to fix any interpretation upon the passage in question, but only to illustrate the professor’s gentleness to his pupils, especially to those who took any special interest in his class.

At times the doctor could be petulant enough. During the Christmas vacation at the close of the year 1843 several students remained at the seminary, including myself and Whicher, also a candidate from our western diocese. Some of us undertook to decorate the chapel for Christmas. We introduced evergreens after the usual manner, and as profusely as circumstances would allow, especially around the little chancel. Unfortunately, however, none of us being low-churchmen or evangelical, and none having any great fear of Rome before our eyes, we introduced a large evergreen cross at the centre of the chancel railing and directly in front of the desk. Professor Turner, who was also dean of the faculty, having.charge of the buildings and all the rooms, was either offended at this, or feared that others would take offence. He sent for Whicher, berated him soundly, and ordered that the cross should be taken down. Whicher was disposed to resist this order as being unfriendly to the very symbol of our salvation, and fanatically evangelical. He consulted with his copartners in misdemeanor, who encouraged him to carry the case to Bishop Onderdonk, president of the seminary. This he did. Dr. Onderdonk expressed great surprise at the dean’s order, which he considered very foolish and unnecessary. He advised, however, that we should submit promptly and quietly to the dean, who was acting strictly in the line of his office and ought to be obeyed. This ended the matter, but left us feeling very foolish. Episcopalians are not so skittish now. Ritualism has taught them to face everything Catholic except good doctrine. They are prepared to put on all the robes of popery with the understanding that nothing serious is meant by it.

It was not very often that anything took place in the classrooms to invite controversial discussions. Dr. Wilson, who presided over the department of dogmatic theology, was a truly learned man, and what would be called a very sound man by all except ranting evangelicals of- the Bishop Mcllvaine stamp. To Dr. Wilson, and to the excellent text-book upon which he grounded himself, I owe a great deal of instruction in fundamental doctrines of Christianity, which I shall always hold as very precious. Of course I came to the seminary receiving with implicit faith the Christian doctrine of the Incarnation. Moreover, I thought that I understood it pretty well. In this, however, I was mistaken. I found that my knowledge of this doctrine was very superficial. This, I believe, is true of almost all Protestant laymen, and indeed of many of the clergy.

My course in Dr. Wilson’s class was never completed, but yet I learned there a great deal concerning the two-fold nature of Christ, which helped me forward in that way toward the true and only church which I was following, unconsciously indeed and slowly, but none the less surely. The Sacrifice of the Eucharist was not taught in that class as Catholics understand it—a memorial Sacrifice actually and visibly taking place before their senses; but the perpetual presence of Christ at the throne of his Father as a victim, and so continuing and perpetuating his sacrifice on Mount Calvary, was so vividly presented to my mind that the Catholic Mass, with all its reality and sacredness, became something easy to receive. Then come in the solemn words of our Lord on the first Holy Thursday, “Do this in commemoration of me.” Thus the sacrifice of Christ ceases to be regarded merely as a thing of finished and accomplished history. It is something still going on. Although Christ dies no more, although the actual death scene can only be repeated as a sacred drama, yet that sacred drama is repeated as a divine institution, with a victim present and an offering; it is a visible sacrament with a grace attached to it. It be- (| comes easy now to take in the thought that the great Sacrament is not only perpetuated at a celestial altar in the immediate presence of God, but here also amongst us for whose benefit the sacrifice is made. It becomes a part of our worship, indeed the greatest and most solemn act of worship which we can offer. The thoughtful mind makes progress in this way from a mere matter of communions consisting at best only of thoughtful meditations, to a realization of the Catholic Sacrifice of the Mass. The Hebrews had their altar, but the victims offered at that al

Life At Chelsea Seminary.—”one Of Them.”

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tar were only types of the true victim who was not present; but Christ our pasch is sacrificed for us, and therefore we keep the feast. We also, as the apostle says, ” have an altar, whereof they have no power to eat who serve the tabernacle.”

Professor Wilson’s class and Pearson on the Creed came to me late in my seminary course, but when they did come they did much for me. They did much to help me forward in my struggle for a sure and full faith, far more than noisier and more exciting disputations out of class. They did more for me also than the less solid but more controversial manner in which our course of ecclesiastical history was conducted.

Professor Ogilby was a partisan scholar, a controversialist of the via media school. To his mind truth was something which always poised itself skilfully on a medium line, and at a safe distance from Rome on the one side and ultra-Protestantism on the other. Adapting all his learning to this via media, as a good strategic point to fight from, he dealt out vigorous blows to the right and to the left. It was difficult to say which foes he disliked the most, Catholics or dissenters. If he did not teach much accurate truth, at least he stirred up many questions of historical importance, which his students could study up and discuss outside of the class-room.

A little while before I entered the seminary he had been party to a discussion with Dr. McVickar, of Columbia College, on the validity of lay baptism. Dr. McVickar maintained the validity of baptism by laymen, which Professor Ogilby denied. It was one of the first questions which I encountered upon my entry into the seminary, and it was some considerable time before I arrived at any settled conviction upon the point. It was with me a very practical point, for I had been baptized in infancy by a Presbyterian minister; and according to the belief of Dr. Ogilby and a large part of the Anglican clergy, these and other dissenting ministers are laymen, having no valid orders. I made up my mind very early to put the validity of my baptism beyond all doubt, by getting myself baptized again. I selected as the minister of this new baptism the Rev. Caleb Clapp, an alumnus of 1839, anc* an old friend of mine in Saratoga, where he married his wife, but at the time officiating in New York as rector of Nativity Church, near the East River. I was the superintendent of his Sunday-school, and he entered readily into my views. I reasoned that on the supposition of my first baptism being deficient, no Catholic would ever dispute the validity of this new one on the ground of a want of intention on the part of the minister, since Mr. Clapp was a firm believer in the necessity of baptism, and would not administer it thoughtlessly. Episcopalians could find no fault with a baptism administered by Mr. Clapp, since they could not class him as a layman. Baptists could not object to it on the ground of my being an infant and so incapable of receiving it. And lastly neither Baptists nor schismatic Greeks could object to it, since the method of trine immersion was carefully used. I find the certificate of this baptism securely laid away in a package of diplomas, certificates, and other like papers. It is carefully written out on vellum in my own hand, with the exception of the date and signature. Some of the most significant words are heavily done in imitation of Old English lettering, ornamentally shaded with red. It runs as follows:

“fl beret)}? certify that Clarence Walworth was by me baptized into the Church of Christ ‘in the Name of the FATHER and of the SON and of the HOLY GHOST,’ according to the mode of ‘trine immersion,’ on Thursday, the 22d day of June, in the year of our Redemption One Thousand Eight

Hundred and Forty-three. _ _

‘Caleb Clapp,

Rector of the Church of the Nativity in the city and diocese

of New York.”

I introduce this event of a second baptism with all its particularity because it shows how a neophyte naturally felt bound to entrench himself in a seminary where so many conflicting opinions made the air hot and lively. Some two years later when received into the true fold by Father Gabriel Rumpler, C.SS.R., rector of the Church of the Holy Redeemer in Third Street, New York, I showed him this certificate. He laughed heartily, and said that this made my baptism about as sure as sure could be, and that I need never trouble myself about it again. Indeed, I never knew its validity to be disputed except by an old priest who wished to have a little fun. He ventured to throw some doubt upon my being a true sheep of the fold yet, for want of salt. I answered that my baptism had taken place in New York Bay, which is sea-water and well salted. He insisted that this salt had not been blessed, and besides that the rite used was insufficient for want of the exorcisms.

“Come to me,” said he, “and I will give you the real thing with all the good old ceremonies that your minister omitted. I will give you the true sal sapientia and drive the devil out for good.”

Caleb Clapp, the dear old friend who baptized me in the waters of the ocean with such scrupulous care, died in 1878. He clung to his old parish of the Nativity. I never had the pleasure to welcome him into the visible body of the true church. That he always belonged to the soul of that church I never doubted, nor that he now rests in the true fold.

My rebaptism by an Episcopalian minister is by no means a thing so very rare. Episcopalian clergymen generally hold that baptism is a necessary sacrament, or at least a ceremony of very high importance. Another prevailing opinion among them is that all dissenting ministers who have not received ordination from some bishop whose orders have come down to him regularly, according to the law of uninterrupted apostolical succession, are really unordained and must be ranked as laymen. Baptism by such ministers is consequently only lay baptism. If, therefore, so they argue, baptism by lay persons is no baptism, the baptism of dissenters at the hands of dissenting clergy is not valid, and needs to be repeated when such persons become Episcopalians. When this repetition takes place publicly, and especially if the subject of this important rite is a person of note, it finds mention in the press and sometimes opens a public discussion.

This took place during my second year at the seminary, in the case of the Rev. Augustine F. Hewit, now well known as Superior-General of the Paulists. His father was the Rev. Nathaniel Hewit, of Bridgeport, Conn. He himself was licensed to preach as a Congregationalist in 1842, but in the following year he was ordained deacon in the Protestant Episcopal Church. Care, however, was taken to rebaptize him at Trinity Church, New Haven, neither he nor the Rev. Dr. Crosswell believing in lay baptism. This excited much surprise, the baptism being performed publicly in the church. The fact was sharply criticised at the time, especially by Dr. Seabury in the New York Churchman. On the contrary, it was defended in the columns of the Christian Witness. This repetition of so solemn a rite was occasioned by the fact that in this case neither baptizer nor recipient then believed in the validity of baptism when administered by dissenting clergymen. CHAPTER III.

All this seems very strange considering that Roman Catholics admit the validity of baptism even by heathens, when the intention is to confer Christian baptism, and the necessary conditions in matter and form are duly observed in the ceremony. Dr. Seabury notices this and quotes the Council of Trent for his authority. There is something very queer in it all, but nothing so very surprising. Episcopalians in this country, and Anglicans in England, are essentially Protestant, and their antics are remarkable when they try to be Catholic.

Enough for the present of professors, and classes, and the framing or setting of seminary life. In our next chapter Tractarianism in America will take on a wider life, with Arthur Carey for its central figure.

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WHEN at the close of my first seminary year in June, 1843, the students shook hands with Arthur Carey and with each other and went home for vacation, few if any knew that Carey’s ordination had been objected to, and that he was to be put upon trial. When we returned to the seminary at the close of vacation, both his trial and ordination were things of the past, but they continued to furnish the most agitating topics of conversation in every part of the United States where two churchmen could be found.

In no place could it be so much discussed, or contribute so much to develop the knowledge of doctrine and the appreciation of the real tendencies of Tractarianism as in the seminary at Chelsea. It furnished thought to every mind that cared to think, and supplemented well the work done in the classes for the next nine months. I know of no better place than this to introduce the history of that trial.

The examination took place June 30, 1843, in the Sundayschool room of St. John’s Chapel, in Varick Street facing Hudson Street Park, beginning at eight o’clock in the evening, bishop Onderdonk presided; and Drs. Berrian, McVickar, Seabury, Anthon, and Smith, and the Rev. Messrs. Haight, Higbee, and Price, composed the examining committee. They had been notified to appear at that time and place (so we find it recorded in Smith’s and Anthon’s pamphlet) to try Arthur Carey and Mr. Blank for Romanizing tendencies.

Mr. Carey was there, but Blank did not appear. Blank would very gladly have appeared, and there would have been

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fine fun during the trial if he had appeared. He would have made the fur fly. Bishop Onderdonk, in fact, put in appearance for Mr. Blank, whose real name was B. B. J. McMaster. “The bishop stated, in relation to one of the candidates, that he would not then be examined, as it had been decided by the faculty that he was to remain in the seminary another year, and that the only duty which would devolve upon the presbyters then and there assembled was the special examination of Mr. Carey.”

This is all true so far as it goes. There is, however, a very large mental reservation contained in the bishop’s statement. It was a convenient reservation under the circumstances. There was an amount of truth attaching to McMaster’s absence which it was not prudent to let go to the public. Circumstances have now changed. The trial is now a thing of past history, and moreover the author of these Reminiscences, being no Anglican of any sort of proclivity, and both the trial and acquittal of Arthur Carey, and the subsequent trial and condemnation of Bishop Onderdonk, which was only the natural and necessary sequence of this inquisition held in St. John’s Sunday-school, being also things of the past and des faits accomplis, I now feel free to give to the public some circumstances of the case which were then suppressed. They have already been briefly referred to in my Reminiscences of Bishop Wadhams. I have there simply stated that McMaster was neither brought to trial nor allowed to be ordained, being too heavy a load for the friendly bishop and other friends of McMaster to carry. I will now add a few words to show why it was so heavy to carry poor Mac through an examination which was sure to be made public.

McMaster, though an earnest man and a most faithful and good Christian, was very unlike Carey in many particulars. His frankness was not like the frankness of Carey. The latter’s frankness was due almost entirely to his conscientious truthfulness. McMaster was naturally frank and outspoken. His frankness was of a character which would not only have thrown his accusers into confusion, but would also have made a show of the Right Rev. Bishop and the whole examining committee. It would also have made impossible the exaggerated statements of the examination of Carey put forth by the reverend protestors after the trial and ordination. It would also have made a great difference in the explanatory papers of the reverend doctors who sustained Carey, and which, without denying anything true or affirming anything untrue, yet made a liberal use of the various means of walking around the facts which critics sometimes think they find in the moral theology of St. Alphonsus Liguori.

Dr. Seabury, Dr. McVickar, Dr. Berrian, and the Rev. Messrs. Haight, Higbee, and Price, all put forth either pamphlets, sermons, or newspaper explanations, for the purpose of giving their several versions of Carey’s answers to the troublesome questions proposed to him on his examination in order to show what his real btlief was; that is to say, whether he was a genuine Episcopalian or a candidate with Romanizing tendencies. The statements of these gentlemen must necessarily be taken for true, so far as they go. Their well known characters place them above all suspicion of any wilfully false statement.

Truth, historic truth, however, obliges one, at this late date, who knew Carey well, and from a closer intimacy with him than any of these gentlemen had, to say that not one of these pamphlets contains a full and fair representation of Carey’s real sentiments. Moreover, I knew Carey too well to admit that he made a single reply to the many close questions which were so laboriously and painfully pressed upon him which was not true, candid, and open. Any mental reservation which he employed upon his examination, and every cautious distinction of words which he used, was made only to prevent misunderstanding on the part of his examiners, or on the part of the less learned and less disciplined minds of the public. I know him to have been trained to, all the niceties of distinction in language which are necessary to constitute a man of true learning; but I know him also to have been “an Israelite, indeed, in whom there was no guile.” He had no strong prejudices against the ancient Church Catholic and Roman. He had no bigotry in his heart against Catholics, whom he looked upon as brethren, although by untoward circumstances separated and estranged from himself and from the Anglican communion. But I know that at that time, like McMaster and Wadhams, and many more of us who afterwards became Catholics, he was faithful and true to that communion to which he still clung. His examination was a veritable persecution, although doubtless not so intended by the generality of his accusers.

I wish I could say as much of his examiners. I knew them all, with the exception of the Rev. Mr. Price, of St. Stephen’s. If I ever had any intercourse with him, it was slight and has since passed away from my memory. All the others I knew, and my memory retains nothing of any of them unworthy of a Christian man or gentleman. This still leaves me room to say that I consider their published pamphlets to be no full and frank record of Carey’s examination, nor of his real sentiments in respect to the Catholic Church.

This obliges me also to say that I have no desire to find fault with these gentlemen for the reserve which they have maintained in their statements to the public of the inquisitorial questions put to Carey and of his replies. They too had behind them, in their congregations or in the general public, inquisitors who were examining them closely and many of them in an unfriendly spirit. They had a right to practise such reserve as every man, however conscientious, may and must, at times, practise.

No man can understand the frank sincerity of Arthur Carey upon his trial who does not rightly understand how the Anglican Church was founded. It was founded by the nervous hand of Queen Elizabeth. She was the Queen of England—she felt herself every inch a queen. She was determined to be the queen of everything in England. She was determined that England’s religion should be English, and she believed the best way to make it so was to have an English Church to be ruled in all things by England’s government and queen. She must be considered, therefore, as really the founder and really the head of the Anglican Church. She herself and a large body of her subjects were, so far as concerned doctrine, strongly biased in favor of the doctrines of the ancient church. She would gladly have had her church purely Catholic and united in one faith. She would have no pope, however, but herself to cement that union. On the other hand, a large part of her subjects were not Catholic. They not only hated that ancient Roman See which was the sedes Petri, but they hated also, for the most part, that old established body of doctrine which constitutes the fides Petri. In other words, they were Protestants. They disliked the very name of Catholic, except when carefully explained away.

Nothing but a compromise could bridge over this great difference between her subjects, and she bridged it with such a compromise. All Englishmen who were prominent enough to be reached by persecution were forced by their fears into this compromise. This compromise is to be found in the Book of Common Prayer. In it the catechism is, so far as it goes, Catholic. So is the baptismal service and other special rites. So, mainly, is the entire ordinal of its worship. On the other hand, the Englishmen of Protestant proclivities were propitiated by the “Thirty-nine Articles,” which always thunder, or seem to thunder, against Roman Catholic doctrine. To hold these opposing factions in harmony both Articles and Liturgy are so skilfully hammered out that all parties, both Catholics and Protestants, by using the large latitude always practically allowed them, may arrange their consciences comfortably upon the same liturgies and formulas. They were so expected to do in the beginning, and this liberty has at all times been allowed and freely utilized.

“The Reformation of the Anglican Church, as completed and established under Queen Elizabeth,” said the Quarterly Christian Spectator for October, 1843, “was distinctly designed not to expel or exclude from the ministry of the church such men as Mr. Carey. A strong infusion of sound evangelical or Protestant doctrine was put into the articles and the homilies, and evangelical preaching was tolerated, provided the preacher would closely conform to the canons and the rubrics. On the other hand, the liturgy, and to some extent the homilies, and even the articles, were, we do not say Popish or Romish, but ‘Catholic’; and no pains were spared to conciliate and retain in the church every man who was willing to renounce the pope’s supremacy, to subscribe the articles, to obey the canons, and to perform the worship of the liturgy as purified and translated. Thus the reformation of the English Church was essentially a compromise, or an attempted compromise, between opposite opinions. It was designed to include, on the one hand the most extreme Protestantism short of that which rejected the hierarchy, the vestments, and the ceremonies, and on the other hand the most extreme Catholicity short of Romanism.”

John Henry Newman’s famous ” Tract No. 90 ” was professedly written to show how Catholics in the Anglican Church are not bound to interpret and subscribe to the Thirty-nine Articles in a Protestant sense, but may fairly give to its language any literal sense which favors the more ancient and Catholic belief. This Carey also firmly believed, and on this belief all his answers to the questions proposed by his accusers were based. Before, however, we proceed to give the details of that trial it may be well to make a few more words of explanation.

Americans who remember Barnum’s museum or his menageries will understand what I mean when I say that the Anglican Church constitutes what Barnum would have called “A Happy Family,” in religion. A happy family, according to Barnum’s phraseology, was a group of various animals, by nature most hostile to each other, shut up in one cage and obliged per force to keep peace. A dog was made to dwell in apparent harmony with a cat, a cat with a mouse and bird. A monkey kept peace with a parrot. The parrot whistled to call the dog, who wagged his tail at the call while he playfully pretended to bite the cat, who showed no signs of fear.

A happy family of discordant elements may be constituted naturally, as, for instance, by the fear of a strong and common enemy. Thus, on the Western prairies may sometimes be seen coming out of the same burrow, or sitting quietly at its mouth, a prairie-dog, a rattlesnake, a little horned owl, and sometimes also a rabbit called by the Western settlers “a cotton-tail.” For the same reason, so long as the Catholic Church remained powerful in England, Catholic schismatics and Protestant heretics burrowed together, and smoked together the pipe of peace with each other. So soon, however, as the supreme rule of the Roman See ceased to be a power in England, having been crushed

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The Oxford Movement in America, Or, Glimpses of Life in an Anglican Seminary
By Clarence Augustus Walworth

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out by blood and sequestration, it became necessary for a royal Barnum to come in and keep peace among the discordant sects of Protestantism by the strong hand of power.

The English Church was constituted as a department under the British Constitution, and no fighting could be allowed in it except a large latitude of thought and debate, which must not disturb the established supremacy of the English crown in all practical matters. Doctrine was, therefore, made to be of little value in the Anglican Church. Unity in a church so constituted could never mean a unity in point of faith; apostolicity could never mean the faith of the Apostles remaining unchanged in all ages; Catholicity could never mean a common belief in all nations and in all countries; no standard of holiness could be maintained which should interfere with appointments to offices and livings, or the right of communion to any loyal British subject, whatever he might do, or whatever he might believe.

Out of this compromise, so strange to reason, but which a long experience has shown to be practically successful, has grown very naturally a certain principle, or at least motto, among Anglicans for finding the truth in religious doctrine which is known by the name of the via media. Every Anglican that is really and thoroughly a typical man in his church is a via media man.

For a preacher to confine himself too much to the Thirtynine Articles, and to insist upon the most literal acceptation of their wording, shows an inclination to ultra-Protestantism. To make too much of the strong flavor of old Catholic doctrines, which is found in the ritual of the Common Prayer Book, and especially to evince a pleasure in finding this to conform in so many respects to the sentiments and worship of Catholics, is thought by Low-Churchmen to show an inclination towards Rome, a thing which they hold to be utterly abominable. Yet in their peculiarly constructed system it is a thing necessarily to be tolerated. Their church is a religious society in the civil order. It is a state church, and as such must stand or fall.

In the Anglican Church the via media man best represents, in point of theology, that keystone of the bridge which keeps the thing together. To all who stand upon the bridge he quotes as a principle of security,

“In medio tutissimus ibis.”

To all who look with longing eyes towards either bank he denounces Rome on the one side and ultra-Protestantism on the other. This cantiloquia, if I may so call it, of the via media preacher, is frequently wearisome to those who look for positive doctrine. I have known it to become even ludicrous. I have already said that during my seminary course I acted as superintendent of the Sunday-school of the Church of the Nativity, on the east side of the city. It was considered a good idea to gather the Sunday-school children to the morning service, placing them in front between the congregation and the chancel. They were very troublesome to manage in this exposed position, but it was thought to be a pretty thing to do, reminding both them and their parents of our Lord’s love for little children. I occupied the front pew just behind them. My duty it was to keep them quiet. At morning service one Sunday a FrenchCanadian officiated; it was something strange for the little children to hear a gowned preacher speaking in so peculiar an accent, and it made my task that morning unusually difficult. But when they heard him pronounce, with his strange accent, the familiar words: “My dear bretteren, Rome is on tis side, and ultra-Protestantism is on tat side; you must keep in te meedle, between te two,” the irreverent youngsters could no longer maintain the least restraint. They disturbed the good minister most seriously, and made a great show of me. I was responsible for their behavior. In point of fact the via media, as a way of arriving at any positive truth in the religious or moral order, is always absurd, if not ridiculous.

In order truly to understand the positions of the various actors in this examination of Arthur Carey, and to interpret their utterances fairly, it is necessary, I think, to view the whole affair from this stand-point. Carey was sincerely Catholic, and believed that under the original compromise he had a right to be, and that, without any necessity of attacking the Roman Catholic Church or any of its members, he could honestly remain where he was and advocate Catholic principles. Drs. Smith and Anthon were square Protestants, and in all positive Catholicity of doctrine or worship they saw the horns and the hoofs. The rest of the board of examiners, with certain differences in point of latitude, were substantially via media men, but strongly inclined to so much of Catholicism as the Anglican bridge would hold. The Right Rev. Bishop was very much in the same position, with this additional responsibility, that he had to keep the “boys” of the diocese in order, and not let them break things or disturb the diocese.

In the evening of June 30, 1843, as already stated, the examiners of Arthur Carey assembled in the Sunday-school room of St. John’s Chapel, and his formal examination began. It was on Friday, less than two full days previous to the Sunday morning appointed by the bishop for the ordination of candidates to the diaconate. It was well understood by all parties present at this trial that Drs. Smith and Anthon appeared not only as judges but as accusers. Carey was, in fact, a member for the time being of Dr. Smith’s congregation. He was a regular attendant at St. Peter’s, and a teacher in the Sunday-school. To Dr. Smith and his vestry he applied for the required certificate recommending him to the bishop for orders. This certificate Dr. Smith, after a close examination, had refused to sign. Carey then obtained a certificate from Trinity Church. Trinity, if I remember right, was the cathedral, or pro-cathedral of the diocese, and a sort of mother of churches for the whole State of New York.

Drs. Smith and Anthon opened the trial. They proposed to put to the candidate certain questions which they had prepared in writing, and the answers to which they wished to have written down by Carey. This was objected to by some of the judges. They seemed to consider it a threat of future publication in case that Carey should pass safely through his trial and be ordained. The bishop decided that these written questions might be put in any order the prosecutors desired, and that notes of Carey’s answers might be taken and read to him; but that Carey should not be required to formulate his answers in writing.

The first question proposed by Dr. Anthon was the following:

“Supposing entrance into the ministry of the Protestant Episcopal Church in this country were not open to you, would you or would you not have recourse, in such case, to the ministry of the Church of Rome?”

Objection was made to this question by some of the committee. Dr. Seabury said it was a hypothetical question and a trap for the conscience, and advised Carey not to answer it. Dr. McVickar remarked that they might as well ask Mr. Carey whether, if he had lived in the time of the patriarchs, he would have married two wives! Carey, however, expressed his willingness to answer, and he did so. He said that the case supposed would be a painful one; that he did not know what he should do; that certainly he should come to no hasty decision on so grave a matter; that he should spend two or three years at least in deliberating on the subject; that at the expiration of’ that time he possibly might seek admission to the ministry in the Church of Rome; but that he thought it more probable he should remain a layman in his own church, since he was satisfied with it, was attached to it, and had no disposition to leave it. The two interrogating doctors, however, insisted on a categorical answer, or the nearest to it that might be. Mr. Carey then replied:

“Possibly I might, after due deliberation, but think that I should more likely remain a layman in our own communion, as I have no special leaning towards theirs at present.”

I can add some little testimony of my own in regard to this point from my remembrances of Carey. A few days before this examination, when Carey was in my room, I expressed myself with some considerable feeling in regard to a seminarian who was thought to have strong inclinations to become a Roman Catholic. Carey looked up to me with an air of surprise and said:

“Do you think it would be so very wrong to join the Roman Catholic Church?”

I replied I thought it would be very wrong for one who knew so much as the student in question. Carey remained very thoughtful, but pursued the subject no further. There can be little doubt that he would have found it difficult to make the leap at that time; but I never knew him to speak unfavorably of the Catholic Church, or of any Catholic doctrine, or of any Catholic as such.

Before the examination proceeded beyond this point the bishop decided that any member of the committee might offer to Carey such advice, or make such interruptions to questions, as would insure a full and fair trial.

The second question proposed by Dr. Smith was as follows:

“Do you hold to and receive the decrees of the Council of Trent?”

Answer: “I do not deny them—I would not positively affirm them.”

To satisfy inquiries of the committee Carey explained:

1st, That he did not regard the Council of Trent as oecumenical, and of course that he held its peculiar definitions to be open points, and not of faith; 2d, That in what he might say favorably of the decrees of Trent, he took the decrees in the mere letter, and not as interpreted by the Romish system, and the concurrent sense of Roman divines; and, 3d, That he held the Roman Church responsible for the errors of her system, and the teaching of her doctrines.

These explanations, omitted in the account given by Drs. Smith and Anthon, are given on the authority of Dr. Seabury and others who favored Carey. Their substantial correctness cannot well be doubted; but I knew Carey too well to believe that he used the word Romish. I never knew him to apply an insulting word to the Church Catholic and Roman, or to Roman Catholics.

Proceeding then with the examination, a third question was proposed:

“Do you, or do you not, deem the differences between the Protestant Episcopal Church and the Church of Rome to be such as embrace points of faith?”

Mr. Carey’s reply was at some length, and was not taken

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of Rome, the Church of England embraced more pure and Scriptural views of doctrine? And is not the Protestant Episcopal Church in this country at present more pure in doctrine than the Church of Rome?”

Answer: “There can be a doubt, on the ground that the Church of England retained doctrinal errors, viz., the doctrines of Puritanism, . . .”

Mr. Carey said that the Roman Breviary and Canon of the Mass were preferable to the Liturgies and Communion Service of the Church of England. The Breviary contained more copious citations from Scripture, and a richer variety of services. The Roman Canon was in closer conformity with the ancient liturgies. The Communion Service was deficient in not having the Oblation and Invocation. For the purposes of congregational worship, Carey was of the opinion that the Anglican Liturgy was better as being in a tongue understood by the people.

Carey’s answer to the eleventh question, “What construction do you put upon the promise of conformity to the doctrines, discipline, and worship of the Protestant Episcopal Church?” is very ludicrously reported in the pamphlet put forth by the two prosecuting doctors. They represent him as saying that “he did not consider the articles as binding our consciences in points of faith.” Of course Carey said precisely the contrary. It was precisely those declarations in the Articles that were matters of positive faith, which required belief and bound his conscience. He considered that there were matters contained in the Articles which did not present points of faith, and only required an exterior conformity. He quoted in support of this position many divines of his own church, especially the famous Anglican theologian Bishop Bull, who says, speaking of the Thirty-nine Articles, that the church “only propounds them as a body of safe and pious principles, for the preservation of peace, to be subscribed and not openly contradicted by her sons.”

Carey also submitted to the committee that American Episcopalians are not required by any canon to give, as in England, a distinct and ex animo assent to the Thirty-nine Articles, but only a general promise of “conformity to the doctrines and worship of the Protestant Episcopal Church,” for which he quoted Bishop White as his authority. Carey, however, waived this personal right, and said that he was willing to give his ex animo assent to the Thirty-nine Articles as the assent is given in the English Church. By this he undoubtedly did not mean to give up his right to interpret the articles in the sense given by “Tract No. 90.”

It is impossible for me to give the twelfth question on the list of Drs. Smith and Anthon, either virtually or substantially. The examining committee seem to have fallen into a sort of confusion; a variety of questions were put by different examiners and objected to. Some were allowed and some not. It is probable that whatever No. 12 really was, it stands covered by other questions afterwards substituted.

Amongst the answers thus elicited I may state the following: Carey said that as to the invocation of saints, “he did not fault the Church of Rome, provided the invocation was confined to the ‘ora pro nobis,’ or intercessory form.” It is not probable that Carey intended himself to be understood that he would have nothing to say to a departed saint except when he wanted something. He simply meant to express his belief that there was nothing they could do for us, except through their interest before the Throne of Grace. The Pope could say as much.

When asked whether he considered the Church of Rome now to be in error in matters of faith he replied:

“It is a difficult question, which I do not know how to answer.”

At the conclusion of the examination Arthur Carey was requested to withdraw. The presbyters present were then called upon by the bishop severally to express their opinions. Drs. McVickar and Berrian, and Messrs. Haight, Kigbee, and Price, expressed themselves as quite satisfied with the fitness of Carey for orders. Dr. Seabury added that he’ ” should esteem it a privilege to present the candidate for orders, as he had sustained his ordeal most nobly.” Drs. Smith and Anthon’s sentiments were as decidedly unfavorable to the candidate and to the conduct of the examination. The latter declared that “in the whole course of his ministry he had never attended an examination conducted in a manner so painful, and in which so many impediments were thrown in the way of his arriving at a definite knowledge of the candidate’s views.”

The bishop was not prepared to give his decision at that time, but said, with emphatic dignity, that when his determination should be formed he would carry it out without regard to consequences. His decision was afterwards speedily made in Carey’s favor. The next Sunday saw him ordained. This was the practical application of “Tract No. 90,” and a momentary triumph for Tractarianism.

The next chapter also will be entirely devoted to Reminiscences of Arthur Carey.



From Bermuda we have received the following, which is intended for our contemporary who indited the attack on our List of Abstaining Clergysome time since. The paper from which the following extract is taken is the Bermuda Royal Gazette; and though we have no doubt that he who now despises the self-denying work of God’s ministers merely because their sphere of duty is ” Palamcottah,” or the ” Barrabool Hills,” will look down with infinite scorn on a letter in a colonial newspaper, yet the plain common sense of the following will be felt to be wiser than the flippant criticism of even the Saturday Review.

To the Editor of the Royal Gazette.

“Deae Sie,—You will confer a favour on an old friend if you will be so kind as to allow a little space for the following remarks on the article styled “The Puffery of Virtue,” which appeared in the Saturday Review of the 16th of December, in your valuable columns. Yours respectfully,

February 7th, 1866. Oeseevee.

“The article referred to is, in my opinion, to say the least of it, a very silly attempt to bring the total abstinence cause into contempt. The writer introduces his remarks by inferring that trumpeted fame is the real motive which actuates those who, by their publicly standing forth before the world to advocate this cause, do not shrink from the pitiful criticism of even this anonymous writer, who says :—’ What on earth is the use of his doing good at all if he does not find it fame?’ His attack is intended to show up a noble band of abstaining clergymen of the Church of England, whose names and places of abode are appended to each number of the Church Of England TemPerance Magazine, who thus openly declare their principles to the world, as fearless of its censure as they are bold to thus declare their hatred to that which undoubtedly causes a great deal of the miseries which afflict the most miserable of all the human family, namely, alcoholic drinks. I quote the following to prove the position which I have assnmed, and will then proceed to sift the only argument which he produces in his lengthy article.—’ It is deplorable, however, to find the fathers of the Church so sunk in a figuratively vinous sleep that the Dean of Carlisle and the Bishop of Columbia are the only two dignitaries who figure in the Teetotal directory. The fact that the curate of Little Pedlington does not drink wine is not a bit more interesting than the fact that pork never agrees with him, or that he takes his bath with the chill off.’ Whatever the writer may say, or think, I feel confident that the only safe ground on which a reclaimed drunkard can walk safely is, on no account whatever to touch anything that can intoxicate, and I am sure that the experience of thousands of those who have fallen backward has been produced by the same cause, viz., by the advice of their medical attendant, as the individual whose painful position plainly stated in the Temperance Magazine clearly proves. I am far from thinking that any medical gentleman ever advised a patient to take any wine, brandy, or other stimulant to get up his natural strength, and intended his patient should become a sot again by his—far from it. But in the face of so much experience that such a painful result has flowed from such advice I really conceive that doctors would do well if they never advised reformed drunkards to take anything at all

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which was likely to revive their craving for that which is so powerful for evil, in their case at least, and whether or not there can he found in Europe a body of people who propagate principles so diametrically opposed to common sense, according to this writer, still those who do propagate such principles have abundant instances of the most painful character to stimulate them in their philanthropic efforts to overthrow the direst evil that can afflict any land. They do indeed try to save tens of thousands of human beings from that which annually consigns them to the drunkard’s grave. Common sense, experience, and total abstainers, hold that the army of inebriates is recruited from the ranks of the moderate drinkers; and as no one ever became a sot at once, they argue that if they can induce moderate drinkers to abandon their moderation, this army will in time be broken up, and it will take uncommon sense, with an immense host of ‘Saturday Reviewers,’ aided by the Arch-enemy of our race himself, to overthrow their position, which common sense declares to be impregnable. May they go on then in their godlike work till their saving principles are effectual in producing sobriety in its most extended sense all over the world, thea earth will be somewhat like heaven itself.”—Royal Gazette.


Dark, and gloomy, and awe-inspiring is this chamber! Sad and heart-rending are the facts which are filling up every niche! There is in it no distinction of age or sex. The victims which the drink fiend drags to immolation on his altar embraces every class. This Moloch enfolds in his brazen arms the youngest and the eldest, and the cry of the slain sweeps like moans of November wind through a cbarnel house.

In the following lines we have an account which will verify part of this statement, though we can hardly, perhaps, agree with the editor of the paper, from which our extract is taken, by calling the little girl” a culprit”—a victim she surely was; and we bope that what she seems to have suffered on this occasion may warn her for ever away from the foul cup.

A most singular charge of drunkenness was heard at Bow Street. The culprit was a little girl named Elizabeth Roberts, aged thirteen, who was accused by the policeman who had her in custody, of being so drunk that it was necessary to

send for a surgeon to administer to her an emetic. On being asked as to where she had obtained the drink, she replied that some boys had taken her out and had given her gin. The father of the girl, on being called, said that she was very good generally, and when Mr. Vaughan discharged the prisoner, he inquired whether, if he could find the boys who treated her, they would be punished. Mr. Vaughan replied they would not, but added that if the publican could be found who served the liquor, he was to be sent to the court.

Turn from this scene of juvenile depravity to another scene of atrocious cruelty, one where wife and child, and even the lower animals, became the victims of the infuriate drunkard.

At the Thames court, Thomas Joseph Underwood, a costertnonger, was charged with assaulting his wife, a poor squalid, careworn woman, who carried a halfstarved child in her arms. The prisoner was intoxicated at dinner time yesterday, when he abused his wife and used foul language and threats towards her. He

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threw a fork at her head and it lodged in it. He then kicked her and beat her, and on her escaping from the house she was in to the dwelling of a neighbonr, he followed her and seized her by the hair of her head, and beat her until she was senseless. He returned to his room, and threw a parrot with its cage and a dog on the fire. The bird and dog were both burnt, and the remains of the parrot were produced. A constable who came in said there was a smell of burning feathers; the parrot was dead, and partially consumed, but the dog could not be found. On the policeman asking the prisoner why he threw the dog and parrot on the fire, he said they were his own property, and he had a right to do what he liked with them. His child was also burnt on the neck, by what means the mother could not state, as she was insensible for some time afterwards. Mr. Paget remanded the prisoner for a week.

The next group in our chamber is indeed a terrible one—”A School for Drunkenness I”

A “School” In A Puelic-house.— At the Derby police-court, on Thursday, a man named William Eodgers, landlord of the “Derby Arms,” was summoned for permitting drunkenness in his house on the 11th inst. The facts of this case were of a shocking [character, it being sworn that three mere children, varying in age from ten to eleven years each, and whose heads scarcely reached above the witness box, went to the house of defendant in Curzon Street, last Sunday night, and called for a quart of ale, long pipes, and tobacco, which were, it was alleged, unhesitatingly supplied. In the tap-room there were not fewer than twenty other children—not one above thirteen years of age—drinking and smoking. The

three boys in question joined their company, and after having more drink, and sitting for nearly two hours, they became intoxicated and had to be removed home. The Mayor, addressing Mrs. Rodgers: Are we to understand that you went in the tap-room and saw all these youngsters drinking? Mrs. Rodgers: Yes, but when I went in they were all sitting as though in a school. (Laughter.) The defendant was fined £5 and costs.

Another aspect of the evils of drink has presented itself.

We all know the value and importance of that network of telegraphic communication which is now spread over our world. We know how many anxious merchants wait the announcement of the arrival of ships that are freighted with merchandize of untold value. We know how the fate of nations in these days, the rise and fall of the funds, that national pulse, is influenced by the news transmitted by the electric spark. We know, too, how many friends and relatives wait a message which may tell them of the life or death of some loved one. Even this sphere has been invaded by the drink fiend, viz.:—

One often hears of the telegraph being stopped, the communication cut by storm, by gales carrying away the wires, by rain or snow snapping the posts; but on Tuesday it was stopped in Merthyr by a novel process, namely, by the superintendent of police locking up the telegraph clerk for being found drunk and disorderly.

Surely there is a cause for some movement to arrest all this evil! Let each one of our readers ask himself and herself: What am I doing to help the great work of the national reformation of our drinking habits and customs?

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The Church Of England Temperance Magazine, from the first, has given a cordial recognition of that important and increasing phalanx of the Temperance army handed together for the overthrow of the Liquor Traffic. Whilst not committed to the full endorsement of the various organizations that are so vigorously at work in the various departments of the Temperance Reformation, we look upon them with deep sympathy, and hail with grateful appreciation these special movements, whether operating upon the young through Bands Of Hope, appealing to adults through the Abstinence Associations, or calling upon the parliament and people by the United Kingdom Alliance; eachand allofthese efforts are needed, and are mutually helpful. No thoughtful and right-minded Temperance reformer can desire to limit his sympathies and support to any one branch of the movement; and there can be no ground for jealousy or unholy rivalry betwixt the leaders of the respective phalanxes: all have the same ultimate aim—the emancipation of their country and the world from the thraldom of strong drink, and the social and moral wretchedness and degradation flowing therefrom.

All true Temperance reformers start from the same fundamental point— the badness of drink. Why does the “Band of Hope” seek to save the young from ever tasting or touching alcoholic liquor? Because it is pernicious, seductive, and demoralizing, leading into all kinds of evil, and producing every kind of misery. How can a “Band of Hope” be formed and held together, unless the children be informed and convinced that strong drink is a bad thing, and not one of God’s good gifts, designed for man’s use as a rational, moral, accountable being. On no other basis could Bands of Hope succeed. The young must be told and taught that strong drink is evil and pernicious, and that Abstinence is, therefore, not only a duty, but safety and a blessing.

This, also, is the fundamental doctrine of adult Temperance Societies. They all teach that intoxicating wine—strong drink of every kind—is a mocker and a bane. Other foundations for a Temperance movement havebeen imagined and dreamed of, and others tried; but they have always failed, and must always fail. The drink being Bad, physiologically and essentially bad, as an article of diet or luxury, no theory, or opinion, or solemn conviction, even if entertained by otherwise sensible and good men, can change the nature, action, and results of the use of alcohol. Can a man touch pitch, and not be denied? or can he take fire into his bosom, and not be burned? He may possibly do these things; but never can he take alcohol into his system as a part of his diet or daily drink without having his brain injured; his faculties of mind, and energies of body more or less impaired, perverted, and destroyed. Alcohol has no natural relation to any single organ; supplies no normal need of either body or mind. It does not nourish a single fibre or tissue of the entire frame; but its whole tendency is to retard assimilation and prevent nutrition. It does not add strength, but diminishes it, all other things being equal. It gives no clearness to mental vision; no force or grip to the logical faculty; no sustained buoyancy to “imagination’s airy wing;” no depth of emotion to human sympathy; no sacred touch of holy fire to Christian faith, hope, or charity! But its action and influence are all in the opposite direction. It feeds an artificial appetite that grows with what it feeds upon; it nourishes the base passions, and influences the brutal instincts of man; it fans the fires of hist, but quenches the spiritual aspirations; it nurses and fosters the demoniacal principles, but stifles and extirpates every Divine and heavenward tendency, The love of alcohol is pre-eminently a flesh lust that wars against the soul, and, therefore, against God, the Father of spirits. The prohibitionist, like the Abstainer, recognises the badness of intoxicating liquors; and this is a fundamental point in his creed. But inasmuch as the prohibitionist has undertaken a distinct branch of Temperance operations within the legislative sphere of action against the liquor traffic, he does not need so much to preserve the physiological and moral branches of the argument as the social and political. The Alliance formed its plea for prohibition on the social results of the liquor traffic, rather than on the physiological effect of alcohol on the individual. Law—statute-law—has regard more directly and immediately to social security and just arrangements between man and man. The individual man is left as free as possible in respect to his domestic arrangements and his personal habits; his house is his castle, and no officer of the law can cross the threshold against his will, so long as he has broken no social law, and has not abused his liberty by fraud or violence toward others. Drinking, like gambling and lewdness, may be very wrong in its physiological and moral aspects; but so long as it is merely a vice indulged in by the individual or the family, the law cannot well be brought to bear upon it for suppression. It might be right, but it would not be politic nor safe, perhaps, to put such a law into operation. The Alliance, therefore, wisely confirms its action to the public and common sale of intoxicating liquors. It does not ask the law to stop drinking, except in places of public resort; it only asks that the liquor traffic shall be prohibited, on the ground that it is at present an open traffic in a pernicious, dangerous, seductive article.

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It was a small room, and but poorly furnished. An iron bedstead, with. faded hangings, a chest of drawers, a little table, a large box, a mattrass on the floor in the corner, and one chair, completed the sum of the articles it contained; but though everything was worn, everything was spotlessly clean and white. On the one chair, by the bedside, sat Annie Morgan, her eyes fixed on the slumberer, and on the mattrass lay Mrs. Vaughan, who had yielded at last to the entreaty that she would take some rest after all the fatigue and anxiety that she had passed through. Tired nature had asserted its supremacy, and she slept.

“The same face! oh, can it be the same?” thought Annie, as she gazed earnestly, as if to assure herself of the fact. Ah! it was the brow, the same high, white brow, with the dark wavy hair thrown back from it; but those sunken eyes, and hollow cheeks, and then the sharpened outline of feature! She covered her face with her hands, feeling as if she could not bear the sight, but for a second only, and her eyes again sought his face. It was a death-like slumber, and she shuddered at the foreboding it carried to her heart, and dreaded lest he never should wake again.

The clock struck twelve in the old church tower close by, and as its last note was chimed forth, giving its solemn proclamation of finished time, twelve hours for ever gone, Annie looked at him with a trembling anxiety, fearing almost lest his life might be finished too; but at that moment his lips opened, and his face seemed to re-assume more of the expression of former days, as he murmured a few words, but too indistinctly for his anxious watcher to be able to make them out. And he slept again, but it was not such a death-like slumber, and his features had lost some of their rigid expression. He had turned a little also, so that the light fell differently on his face, and gave it a less ghastly appearance. And Annie wept as she looked at him; they were not passionate tears, but the large drops fell calmly and heavily down her cheeks, and once more she hoped for the future; and then her thoughts turned again to a past, which was yet veiled in mystery. What had wrought the change of the last twelve months? Was it the hand of the Almighty that had laid Harold low, or was there another cause? God had indeed permitted all this to come to pass; but was it His permission only, or His will? With the deepest anxiety Annie had sought to read in Mrs. Vaughan’s transparent countenance an answer to these queries, but none was there; and this had for a time stilled within her breast fears that she had never breathed to a human ear, though they had been poured forth to God, and He had strengthened her to endure their sting. But in that silent chamber they re-awakened, and would be heard. What was the true solution of those vague words of self-accusation which had crept into Harold’s letters as if by stealth, but which he had always explained away, as having their origin in some trifling circumstance, when she wrote to him, inquiring what they meant? And what was the cause of that restless uneasiness which many expressions he used betrayed, and desponding view of the future, which was so foreign to his hopeful temperament? A fearful answer presented itself to these questions, but she tried to put it away from her as she often had done before. But everything around her suggested the same thought. How well she remembered all the little articles in that room, when Harold first left his home eighteen months ago! It was so prettily though humbly furnished then, and for many a month after that time; but how empty and dreary it looked now! and then it occurred to Annie how anxious the good old lady had often seemed to prevent her from going up into that room; so that six months had really elapsed since she had entered it, though frequently she had offered and longed to save Mrs. Vaughan the trouble of fetching things from the upper rooms, and had had her request to do this almost peremptorily declined. Harold’s income had been the same during the whole time until lately, when it had been increased. Why then was the house so poverty-stricken, that she had instinctively felt, on entering the upper room, that money was needed there, and had therefore insisted upon Mrs. Vaughan’s reluctant acceptance of some needed articles? then the things required were such as the good woman, with her clever management, would have generally had in store. One haunting thought seemed the only solution of all these mysteries, but she refused to believe it still. “He will tell me all when he can talk to me,” Annie sighed, “and so this suspense will not last long; but, oh, if he should sleep away his life thus, and never speak to me any more! I do not think it. I do not believe God will let him die. Have mercy upon him, and upon me also, O gracious Father!”

The wind was rising, and moaned wildly around the house, shaking the windows, against which the rain pattered heavily, as the old church clock struck again. Another day had commenced, and Annie shuddered to think of the utter desolation that might overtake her before its close, and anxiously gazing upon the slumberer saw him move, Another moment, and his eyes opened, and a faint smile played around his lips, but it was succeeded by a look of deep anguish, and a groan. He put out his hand to her, and she took it, and then gently kissed his brow, but he was silent, and she did not dare to speak. Following Mrs. Vaughan’s instructions, she gave him some medicine that was waiting on the little table beside her, and sat down again by his side, with his hand within her own. His hand, yes, she knew that it was his, and it was comfort enough for the present to hold it, changed though it was and shrunk. She touched it tenderly, feeling almost as if the transparent-looking texture between the bones might yield to the gentlest pressure, and separate; and with eyes fixed upon him, waited for him to speak. Many times his lips parted, but no words came, and there was a look of mingled tenderness and anguish in his face that troubled and awed her. At last she ventured gently to kiss his hand.

“No, no, Annie,” he murmured, ” you are not to love me; you must not. God will bless you; but He hates me.”

Annie shuddered at his words, and the tears started to her eyes. “Annie,” he continued, ” I do not know how long I may have to live; not many hours, perhaps, and there is much I must say to you. I do not know how to do it, but I will try now.”

“Are you not too weak yet, Harold dear?”

“Shall I ever be stronger ?” he answered, “and if I survive telling you, it may be that I shall live, for my heart is burdened sorely; this anguish is consuming me; it is a fire burning within my veins. God help me! but how can I dare to ask it? Ruined?” He turned his head away from her with clenched teeth and closed hand.

Silently praying for him, and feeling it was the only thing she could do, Annie stood by his bedside, and waited, but several minutes passed, and still his face was resolutely hidden from her view. At last she ventured to say, in almost a whisper, in her clear, calm voice, ” God willeth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should be converted and live;’ and it is to the vile that He says, ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red Like crimson, they shall become as wool.’ ‘Jesus Christ came to seek and to save the lost, and His blood cleanseth from all sin.'”;

He turned suddenly towards her. “It is like an angel’s voice! but you think I am vile, Annie, you believe that I am lost; thank God that I have not to tell you this, darling !” he continued, as he again put out his hand to her. “I am not the man that you parted from twelve months ago. Oh, I was happy then. I had little money, but it was sufficient for my wants, and I could provide my mother with many comforts, which she, alas! needs now;” and he glanced round the scanty room with almost a bitter look. “Ah ! this is too good for me; a bundle of straw in a cellar corner is rather what I deserve, but, my mother, it should not he Bo for her. Annie, with the eighty pounds a year with which I went to London, I was a rich man, and with a hundred and twenty I am a beggar now, for I have wants which no money can satisfy, and the more that I spend upon them the more do they crave still. It was little by little this came to pass; men do not fall at once, though it was more rapid with me than with many; but as the hairs of your head, Annie, so one by one were the threads of sin woven together to form the strong rope that binds me now. It was a glass now, and a glass again, and so was the evil done; but I am bound—how tightly, God only knows; and now I am dying, love. Oh, if there were no hereafter, it would be better to die than spend my days in the living death I have lately done, with my conscience gnawing on one side, and the unnatural thirst driving me on on the other; but there is an eternity, and how shall I enter it? pray for me, pray for me!”

Annie stood by his bedside, strong and calm; calmed through the very agitation she witnessed, because she felt how much hung upon the precious moments that were flying, and, that to use them, she must be calm.

“Harold,” she answered, “I have prayed for you, and I will indeed pray; but mine is not the only voice that will plead your cause. Jesus has shed His precious blood for you, and is now at the right hand of God, and intercedes for you.”

“Not for me; He does not love me; He hates sin.”

“But not the sinner, dear Harold. Oh, there is hope—hope for the vilest that ever lived—hope for you, dear; ‘Jesus came to deliver those who through all their lifetime were subject to bondage,’ and He can deliver you both from the guilt and the slavery of your sins. Blessed Jesus,” she continued, raising her eyes to heaven, ” Thou hast loved Harold, and died for him; save him in Thy infinite compassion; oh, save him! snatch him from Satan’s grasp, and wash away all his sins in Thine own blood.”

“God hear your prayer, my Annie. God bless you,” murmured Harold, “but she is not mine now,” he added to himself with a pained look. “Darling,” he continued, “forgive me all the cruel past which has robbed us of each other, through my guilt. You know little indeed, as yet, and I cannot tell you more now; but for all unknown as well as known wrongs you have love enough in your heart to forgive me, though I do not deserve it; but I may die, and never have strength to say more to you; let your last word to me to-night be forgiveness.”

“Not my poor forgiveness only, but God’s, Harold. Oh, may He grant you His! ask Him for it; say these words after me, ‘God be merciful to me, a sinner, for Jesus Christ’s sake.'” Very solemnly and slowly did Annie repeat them; and earnestly though feebly, did the poor sufferer follow her. “And now, dear,” she said, as she re-arranged his pillow, and saw his exhausted look, “we will not speak again, and you must try and sleep.”

He obeyed her, though it was long ere the slumber came, and the pale cheek grew paler still, now that the exertion of conversation was over; but Annie was thankful to see his face more quiet and peaceful in expression than it had been at first. She watched by him until the grey light of early morning had brightened into the sunrise glow, and then taking a last look at the invalid who had fallen into a light doze, left him to his mother’s care, and bent her steps homeward.


“I Don’t see why one sick person must needs have two nurses, though another be left without. ‘Charity begins at home,’ I used to be taught in my young days. It isn’t fit that I should be left alone in the house of a night, with only those two chits. But people must have their own way, I suppose, and care only for themselves.”

Such was poor Annie’s breakfast greeting, when, with weary throbbing head and flushed cheeks, she sat down to the morning meal, which immediately on her return home, she had busied herself in preparing.

“Did you want anything in the night, aunt?” inquired Annie, in reply, “for it is several months now since I have had to get up to fetch anything for you. Though you are helpless, it is rarely you have pain.”

“H you were helpless you’d think it enough, my girl, and Jessie has no strength to move me.”

Annie could not resist glancing at the robust figure and stout red arms of her sister, and drawing the contrast between her own slender form and thin hands, as she answered, ” I do not think I am very strong, aunt.”

“Are you likely to be, I wonder, sitting up all night to nurse people who are sick, and have plenty of relations to do for them.”

“Aunt Halton,” replied Annie, for her indignation was thoroughly roused now, but in a calm firm voice, “you shall never be neglected, and Jessie is able to do for you all you need, and she pleases you better than I do, for you have always been fond of her, but as long as Harold Vaughan lives I shall help his mother to nurse him, God sparing me; and you could not speak to me as you do if you saw him, aunt,” she continued, and the large tears came into her eyes; “oh, you would feel that he is dying—dying— ‘though all things are possible with God,’ and He may yet raise him up.”

For once Mrs. Halton was silenced, and she cleared her voice, as if conscious of a little emotion, before telling Jessie to put some more coal on; and Annie glady escaped from the breakfast table, almost before the meal was concluded. One resolution she had determinedly formed in her own mind, and that was that at present Jessie should not attend school, but remain at home and devote her time entirely to her aunt, so that she might pursue her needlework either at Mrs. Vaughan’s or in her own room. Suffering, as she then was, in mind, she felt that she should entirely give way if she attempted to work in the little sitting-room with Mrs. Halton, as usual, subject to the perpetual irritations that she must endure there; and as Jessie had always been a favourite with her aunt, she was kinder to her than to any one in the house. “For I must work,” said Annie to herself. “It has been almost more than I could accomplish to earn what we have ourselves needed; and now that Harold is so ill and his income gone, what

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will become of him and of his mother unless I can help them? But I can get more work to do, and I will do it, for God will strengthen me.” And the blessed promise came with power to the remembrance of her sad heart, ‘God will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able, but will, with the temptation, make a way of escape, that ye may be able to bear it.’

“‘ With the temptation,'” she thought; “I must remember that; the daily grace will only be in proportion to my daily need, and I must not expect to see ‘ the way of escape’ too soon; it will be God’s time, not mine. I must not think of to-morrow’s troubles, for Jesus will carry me through them when to-morrow comes. As a little child does, hour by hour, just what its father bids it, so, as God’s child, must I obey Him with an unquestioning trust, knowing He loves me. And I may ‘ cast my care upon Him’ —my care about Harold—this crushing weight—because ‘He careth’ for me, and has invited me to ‘ make my requests known unto Him.’ I will pray for Harold’s life if it may be, but if not, I do not think God will deny me the salvation of his soul, for ‘ He willeth not the death of a sinner,’ and we know that if we ask anything according to His will He heareth us; and if we know that He hears us, whatsoever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that we desired of Him.”

Harold continued much the same, as the poor girl found by repeated messages, during the almost endless day, as it seemed to her, through which she plied her busy needle; but she was determined again to share Mrs. Vaughan’s night watch by the side of the sufferer, and at about eight o’clock in the evening she re-entered the sick room. Harold was awake, and held his hand out to her with a smile that seemed to illumine her whole soul.

“I have had a blessed sleep, Annie, and it has calmed me, and made me feel as if everything was not hopeless in this world; and to know that you are no longer deceived in me, and that I have not broken your heart by what I told you, is comfort; a comfort, alas! I do not deserve. And now read to me, dear, for I need to be taught, and then you have work to do, I know, and I must not hinder you. Oh, work to do!” he repeated, almost bitterly. “It ought not to be so: I promised to work for you.”

“And if God spares you, dear Harold, you will yet,” she answered, with confidence.

“Ah, Annie! you do not know what you are saying; how should you? We must wear chains, to feel their weight. H I live, I will indeed work for you if I can; but my will is a captive, and seems to dash itself hopelessly against the bars that surround it, and who shall burst these bars? Feebler far than this feeble body, which truly is weak enough, is my moral power to resist the evil and choose the good.”

“‘ The Lord looseth the prisoners,’ and ‘ to them that have no might He increaseth strength,'” replied Annie earnestly.

“‘ No might,'” repeated the sick man, ” ‘no might.’ Ah, Annie, those words are true of me. I have hated the course I was pursuing, and yet I have ‘no might,’ no power to rise above the degradation into which I was sinking, thongh wretched to be its slave. It was not the taste that I cared for; do not wrong me by thinking this. It was the exhilaration of feeling caused by the wine; it was the state of brain it produced; it was the uneasiness it satisfied for a time, and the perfect happiness and freedom from care that it seemed to give. Oh, it was an unnatural fascination that it exercised over me, and though I knew how wretched it would leave me, it seemed to bind me hand and foot, and carry me where it would. Oh, Annie! is the mystery known yet? Will it ever be known this side the grave? Surely it is Satan that mingles this death-cup, and holds it to the lips of his victims.”

“But it is written, ‘Resist the Devil, and he shall fly from you,’ Harold; and since this is God’s command to us, He will enable us to obey it if only we seek His help. But when we have wandered away from God, the first thing we are to try and do is to return to Him. I will read to you the parable of the Prodigal Son, and you know God is willing to receive and to welcome us all thus, and therefore to welcome you.”

He listened, with closed eyes, as Annie read; but when she came to the 21st verse, his lips moved as if he were making the profligate’s confession indeed his own.

(To be continued.)


We are enabled to quote the following extract from the Charge of the Lord Bishop of Oxford, delivered at his Sixth Visitation held November, 1863. This is but one out of many testimonies of a similar character, and may be regarded as the expression of the great drawback experienced by most- of the clergy throughout the parishes of England. The Bishop writes—

“I have studied, my Reverend Brethren, with careful attention your statements of ‘the hindrances’ which have impeded your ministry; and as to one or two of the clriefest of them I would give you a few words of counsel.

“The ‘ hindrances’ named hy you most frequently are the evil working of beershops, and the unfitness of cottages for the family life of the labouring poor.

“These are, no doubt, grievous hindrances. Drunkenness as the effect of the one, and impurity as the effect of the other, stand sorely in our way; and every effort we can make to awaken the Legislature to reform the one, and the owners of the soil to abate the other, will be well bestowed.”

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[This department of our Magazine is not intended for final utterances on points bearing upon the Temperance Reformation work; hut is simply designed as an exercise-ground, for friendly interchange of thought and opinion. Here things are taken in detail, and discussed merely on literary grounds, each for what it is worth. We invite contributions of literary matter on both sides of the question.]

Herodotus and Plutarch on the use of Wine amongst the Egyptians.

“And Pharaoh’s cup was in my hand: and I took the grapes, and pressed them into Pharaoh’s cup, and 1 gave the cup into Pharaoh’s hand.”—Gen. xl. 11.

This verse is referred to in an interesting note by Sir Gardner Wilkinson in the Rev. George Eawlinson’s Herodotus, vol. ii. p. 66. Herodotus, in lib. ii. cap. 37, tells us that every day ” a portion of wine made from the grape” was given to the Egyptian priests. On this Sir G. Wilkinson remarks: “Herodotus is quite right in saying they [the priests] were allowed to drink wine, and the assertion of Plutarch that the kings (who were also of the priestly caste) were not permitted to drink it before the reign of Psammetichus is contradicted by the authority of the Bible (Genesis xl.) and the Scriptures; and if on some occasion it really was not admitted into the temple of Heliopolis, it was not excluded from other temples, and wine was among the usual offerings to the gods. Herodotus tells us that they began their sacrifices by a libation of wine; and it is evident from the sculptures that it was also admitted into the temples of the Sun, or at least at his altar in other temples. And though Hecataeus asserts that the kings were allowed a stated quantity, according to the regulations in the sacred books (Plut. de. Is. s. 6), they were reported by the Egyptians to have exceeded those limits, as in the case of Mycerinus and Amasis.”

I do not see any contradiction between Herodotus and Plutarch. Plutarch may mean that the kings and priests were not permitted to drink fermented wine. Some of the readers of our Chuech Tempebance Magazine may be pleased to see the celebrated passage in Plutarch which has caused so much discussion amongst those who take an interest, from any motive, in the antiquity of our Total Abstinence movement. Plutarch, in his treatise “De Iside et Osiride,” says, “The priests of Heliopolis never carry wine into the temple of the god, deeming it indecorous to drink in the day time under the eyes of their lord and king. Other persons drank it in moderation; but they abstained from it at those times when they observed their law of continency, and that was frequently. They then gave themselves up entirely to study, and to the meditation and teaching of those things which concerned the Divine nature. As the kings were themselves priests, they took, according to Hecataeus, but a certain portion prescribed in the sacred books; nor was this custom introduced till after the reign of Psammetichus; for before the time of that prince they drank no wine; and if they ever made libations of that liquor to the gods, it was not in the persuasion that it was in itself agreeable to them, but because they considered it to represent the blood of those enemies of the gods who had formerly fought [against them.” Not having Plutarch’s “De Iside et Osiride” in the original at hand, I give the translation of the important passage from W. D. Cooley’s edition of Larcher’s “Notes on Herodotus.” Larcher remarks on this passage in Plutarch, “Wine, we may therefore conclude, was exceedingly scarce before the time of Psammetichus; but became much less so under this prince and under the Ptolemies. That of Mareotis, or Alexandria, obtained a high reputation. That of Anthyllus, a town at a short distance from Alexandria, was, however, preferred to it, according to Athenaeus, who may be consulted as to the different wines of Egypt. That of Coptos was so light and easy of digestion that sick people took it without any inconvenience.”

To make Plutarch’s account of the use of wine in Egypt more clear, I ought to mention the time when Psammetichus lived. He was king of Egypt fifty-four years, according to Herodotus, from B. c. 671 to 617, and was the founder of the Saitic dynasty. His reign forms an important epoch in Egyptian history. It was during his time that the Greeks were first introduced into Egypt. Vide Smith’s “Biographical Dictionary.” It was, doubtless, owing to these Greeks that a change took place in the habits of the Egyptians with respect to wine in the time of Psammetichus.

This note is already so long, that I must reserve further remarks on Genesis xl. 11, for another number of the Chfech Tempebance Magazine.

Manchester. William Caine, M.A.

The word olvoc.

Sib,—I find Liddell and Scott give the following meanings for the word oii/oc:

“The fermented juice of the grape, the fermented juice of apples, pears, &c., s fermented liquor made from barley or wheat, palm wine, lotus wine, &c., &c.”

Can those who hold that the wine our Saviour made was unintoxicating produce classical authority to show that the word oZvoc undoubtedly was nsed of such liquor? If any of your readers can establish this suggestion, it would place the argument, founded on this idea, on a much firmer basis. Of course the Total Abstinence question does not depend upon the solution of this difficulty; but it would be far more advantageous to know whether the position is tenable or not. Nothing more tends to weaken our influence than the use of an argument which really will not stand criticism.

Geoboe Edwabds.

BlacJcley, Manchester.

Old Laws for the Discouragement of Drunkenness.

The Gentleman’s Magazine (Jan. 1866) observes:—”The Danes and all other people in England,” says Holinshed, “used the vice of great drinking. The king, therefore, (Edgar, A.r. 970,) by counsel of Dunstan, put down many alehouses and would suffer but one in a village or town, except it were in a great borough. He ordered certain cups with pins or nails, and made a law that whosoever drank past that mark at one draught, should forfeit a certain sum. By a statute of the seventh and last year of Edward VI. it is enacted none shall keep a tavern for retailing wines unless licensed; and that only in cities, towns corporate, boroughs, post towns, or market towns; or in the towns of Gravesend, Sittingbourne, Tuxford, and Bagshot, on the forfeiture of ten pounds. And there shall be only two taverns for retailing of wine in every city or town except in London, which may have 4 taverns, in York, 8 taverns, in Norwich, 4; in Westminster, 3; in Gloucester, 4; in Bristol, 6; in Lincoln, 3; in Hull, 4; in Shrewsbury, 3; in West Chester (Chester), 4; in Hereford, 3; in Worcester, 3; in Southampton, 3; in Canterbury, 4; in Ipswich, 3; in Winchester, 3; in Oxford, 3; in Cambridge, 4; in Colchester, 3; in Newcastle upon Tyne, 4.”

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(fkom Our ovm Correspondent.)

I Am afraid I have not very much to record in the way of meetings this month, though surely the season of Lent would seem a most appropriate time for pressing the subject of Abstinence in the special form with which we deal with it on the notice of the members of our Church; yet the extra special services and the preparation for the Easter Confirmations have so occupied our Clergy as not to leave much time for our meetings.

Your Travelling Secretary has, however, attended meetings in Harrow, Windsor, and Southend, and preached the Anniversary Sermon of the Clerkenwell Association in the Parish Church.

In Ireland the cause is, I have reason to believe, advancing, though it may be slowly. Our movement has several scattered friends, but there has not been any satisfactory organization in connection with the central society as yet.

From the East—from Mr. Templeman, Chaplain at Miradabad, Rhohilkund (tell it not to the Saturday Review!)—” I have seen most interesting accounts of the work among the soldiers;” and from the west, from Sullivan, Canada West, Mr. Keys bears testimony to the value of our society’s principles. “He (Mr. Keys) speaks of a man, the father of four children, whom he met in a state of drunkenness in the early part of the year; indeed he presented himself in that state one Sunday. Mr. Keys called on the man in the course of the week and reasoned with him. His visit was blessed. The man, who commenced the year as a drunkard, is now a communicant, has family prayer, and privately instructs about a dozen little ones on Sunday. He tells the missionary he never tastes any intoxicating drinks.”

I believe returns have been received

from nearly all the Honorary Diocesan Secretaries, giving lists of Parochial Associations in their respective dioceses, but as I know there are local associations in several places which have not come under the secretaries’ notice, I may mention that Mr. Rooke would be glad if the presidents or secretaries of such would kindly send him in the names of their association, stating the diocese in which they are.

Your readers will be glad to learn that there are one or two new tracts almost ready, in continuation of the series of “The Church of England Temperance Tracts,” one of them a tale of much interest, founded on fact, and written by a lady who has contributed to your Magazine.

A new association has been formed at Hanford, Staffordshire, after a lecture by Rev. A. A. Isaacs on the subject of total abstinence, and within a fortnight, forty-six persons enrolled themselves as members.

The usual Easter meeting of the Windsor Working Men’s Temperance Association took place on Monday, April 2, 1866. About 130 partook of tea, and the public meeting was attended by about 250 or 300. The Rev. H. J. Ellison, M.A., Vicar of Windsor, President of the Association, presided, and (in the absence of the Rev. J. A. Nash, of Oxford, who had been announced as one of the speakers) introduced the Rev. T. Rooke, who remarked on the influence which the Temperance movement is gaining among all classes of society, and the many encouragements which the promoters of the movement are receiving at the present time. Mr. W. Scott, of the National Temperance League, also addressed the meeting in an effective speech.

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… a rivalizar en canarios, perros, gatos, jilgueros, diamantes, como mucho, especies estándar, de cotorras, y loros. … La solterona eterna estudiante de derecho tuvo un sobresalto y corrió, trémula, a refugiarse en su apartamento: sólo la vi …

Los devaneos de don Jerónimo: novela – Page › books- Translate this page

1981 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
La dueña de casa es una solterona que vive con una criada. Una jaula con canarios, un loro, un perro y un gato completan con su respectivo lenguaje animal, las manifestaciones de vida de la vieja casa. Al día siguiente, salgo con el … › books- Translate this page

Hilia Moreira – 2011 – ‎Preview
No obstante, divertida, la solterona afirma: «Soy una vieja cabra sin gato, ni canario, ni perro, ni loro». No obstante, encuentra que su vida es feliz. En su modestia, no tiene grandes problemas. Con su tejido gana un salario. Y también recibe …

Obras completas – Volume 4 – Page › books- Translate this page

Enrique Jardiel Poncela – 1963 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Londres es — decía — como una de esas casas, meticulosamente ordenadas, ordenadas hasta la crispatura de nervios, en donde viven tres hermanas solteronas, un gato, un perro, un canario y un loro ; y en donde el perro no regaña con el …

Obras selectas – Page › books- Translate this page

Enrique Jardiel Poncela – 1973 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Londres es — decía — como una de esas casas, meticulosamente ordenadas, ordenadas hasta la crispadura de nervios, en donde viven tres hermanas solteronas, un gato, un perro, un canario y un loro; y en donde el perro no regaña con el …

Amor se escribe sin hache: novela casi cosmopolita – Page › books- Translate this page

Enrique Jardiel Poncela – 1933 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Londres es — decía — como una de esas casas, meticulosamente ordenadas, ordenadas hasta la crispatura de nervios, en donde viven tres hermanas solteronas, un gato, un perro, un canario y un loro; y en donde el perro no regaña con el …


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Revista nacional – Page › books- Translate this page

1960 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Más imaginativas , no se han refugiado como la solterona clásica , en el afecto protector a las bestezuelas mudas y agradecidas . . . un loro , un perro , un gato , un canario inocente , y en primer grado , una intensa devoción religiosa .

One Hundred Years of › books

Gabriel Garcia Marquez – 2016 – ‎No preview – ‎More editions

Ortigas de pasion: trés novelas breves – Page › books- Translate this page

Eduardo Arias Suárez – 1939 – ‎Snippet view
Solterona, digamos. … Cuando advirtió que en su casa tenía aislados a varios animalejos, un loro, un tití, dos canarios, la gata «Madama» y el perro «Fox»; cuando un día comenzó a darse cuenta de que iba mucho a la iglesia, que vestía …

Caras y caretas – Issues › books- Translate this page

1931 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
JARDIN ZOOLOGICO Animales que hablan mucho y no dicen nada : las cotorras y los loros. Animales que trinan : los canarios, los ruiseñores y los casados mal avenidos. Animales que arañan : los gatos, … Animales que corren : las ardillas, los caballos y las solteronas en busca de marido. Animales que todo se lo tragan …

Primera plana – Issues 191-200 – Page › books- Translate this page

1966 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
El hombre insistió en que se había caído, pero luego transigió: “Este perro está loco”. Y no estaba lejos de la verdad: los … Sobre ellos se volcaría la sobreprotección de madres o esposas frustradas, de solteronas solitarias, … Completando la cadena, se observa cada vez más raquitismo en los animales pequeños, y más parásitos en los loros. La Clínica de … Ahí llegan diariamente 50 casos, entre los que hay cachorros de puma, tortugas, monos, cotorras y canarios. La réplica del …

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Isabel Allende – 2018 – ‎No preview – ‎More editions
Allende’s work glows’ New York Times ‘Sumptuous . . . a tale that spans forty years and moves from a surreal jungle to a modern-day urban capital where even the most apolitical are driven to risky anti-government activities’ Chicago …

Estampas de Medellín antiguo – Page › books- Translate this page

Rafael Ortiz Arango – 1983 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Además otros animales como canarios, turpiales etc., provistos por familias que tenían en la ciudad alguna cría, o querían salir del … las plataneras de nuestras fincas vecinas, el.arrendajo, el ave más cantora de todas ias que se traían, los loros y pericos y papagayos, … tan a tiempo, sobre todo con las solteronas y mojigatas y aún con aquellas personas cuya cultura hacia la admiración de los demás.

The Kiss of the Spider › books

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“Thrilling.”– N.Y. Times. “Compelling, beautiful, funny and moving….[Has] a cinematic fluidity and a poetic charge.”– N.Y. Daily News. “Creates an entire world out of a prison cell…. Dazzling.”– Newsweek.

The › books

Miguel Angel Asturias – 1997 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
Fiction. In English translation. Guatemalan diplomat and writer Miguel Angel Asturias (1899-1974) began this award-winning work while still a law student.

The Gay Talese Reader: Portraits and › books

Gay Talese – 2009 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
The essays and profiles collected in The Gay Talese Reader are works of art, each carefully crafted to create a portrait of an unforgettable individual, place or moment.
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National magazine – Page ›books- Translate this page

1960 – Snippet view – More editions
More imaginative, they have not taken refuge like the classic spinster , in the protective affection to the silent and grateful beasties. . . a parrot , a dog , a cat, an innocent canary , and in the first degree, an intense religious devotion.

One Hundred Years of ›books

Gabriel Garcia Marquez – 2016 – No preview – More editions

Nettles of passion: three short novels – Page ›books- Translate this page

Eduardo Arias Suárez – 1939 – Snippet view
Spinster let’s say … When he noticed that in his house he had several isolated animals, a parrot , a marmoset, two canaries , the cat “Madama” and the dog “Fox”; when one day he began to realize that he went to church a lot, that he dressed …

Faces and Masks – Issues ›books- Translate this page

1931 – Snippet view – More editions
ZOOLOGICAL GARDEN Animals that talk a lot and say nothing: parrots and parrots . Animals that chirp: the canaries , the nightingales and the unlucky married. Animals that scratch: cats, … Animals that run: squirrels, horses and spinsters looking for a husband. Animals that swallow everything …

Front page – Issues 191-200 – Page ›books- Translate this page

1966 – Snippet view – More editions
The man insisted that he had fallen, but then compromised: “This dog is crazy.” And it was not far from the truth: the … The overprotection of frustrated mothers or wives, of lonely spinsters would be overturned on them … Completing the chain, rickets are increasingly observed in small animals , and more parasites in the parrots . La Clínica de … There are 50 cases a day, including puma cubs, turtles, monkeys, parakeets and canaries . The replica of the …

Eva ›books

Isabel Allende – 2018 – No preview – More editions
Allende’s work glows ‘New York Times’ Sumptuous. . . a tale that spans forty years and moves from a surreal jungle to a modern-day urban capital where even the most apolitical are driven to risky anti-government activities’ Chicago …

Prints of old Medellín – Page ›books- Translate this page

Ortiz Rafael Arango – 1983 – Snippet view – More editions
In addition, other animals such as canaries , turpiales, etc., provided by families that had a baby in the city, or wanted to leave the … the banana trees of our neighboring farms, the bluebird, the most singing bird of all those brought, the parrots and parakeets and parrots, … so on time, especially with the spinsters and pries and even with those people whose culture towards the admiration of others.

The Kiss of the Spider ›books

1997 – No preview – More editions
“Thrilling.” – NY Times. “Compelling, beautiful, funny and moving …. [Has] a cinematic fluidity and a poetic charge.” – NY Daily News. “Creates an entire world out of a prison cell …. Dazzling.” – Newsweek.

The ›books

Miguel Angel Asturias – 1997 – Preview – More editions
Fiction. In English translation. Guatemalan diplomat and writer Miguel Angel Asturias (1899-1974) began this award-winning work while still a law student.

The Gay Talese Reader: Portraits and ›books

Gay Talese – 2009 – Preview – More editions
The essays and profiles collected in The Gay Talese Reader are works of art, each carefully crafted to create a portrait of an unforgettable individual, place or moment.
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Zorrilla semejantes consideraciones, acaso habria hallado, como yo encuentro, algo en que fundarse para criticar ese trabajo, en los corteses términos de una censura digna.—” Queda, pues, demostrado que en el caso presente no es dable proceder con independencia á la publicacion mencionada; y haciendo las reservas debidas en pro de su criterio, voy á decir mi pobre parecer en este articulo aceroa de los versos que se titulan: Castillo de Miramar.

Los aficionados—como yo lo soy—á recrearse en la lectura de los autores clásicos, prescinden de buscar en el mecanismo de la formalas bellezas que pueden halagarles; y consistiendo especialmente el mérito de la composicion del Sr. Zorrilla en lo estudiado de ese mecanismo; cuyo objeto no es otro que producir acordes, claro está que no podemos extendernos mucho en lo de reconocerle grandes títulos al aplauso que acaso, y sin acaso, le tributa la multitud.

Cuídquiera que haya leido algunas de las obras poéticas del autor á quien voy aludiendo exclamará sin duda, si le presentan anónima esta de que se trata: es de Zorrilla; y no porque, como se dice generalmente, el estilo sea el hombre, sino porque se parece á tantas otras suyas que pudiera decirse ha sido hecha de recortes

Por ejemplo: en la segunda quintilla—porque en quintillas ha querido el autor laureado iniciar lo que promete ser un canto épico—dice así, despues de preguutar al Castillo por qué mira sin cesar á ese mar cuyas ráfagas aspira: ¿Por qué va tu castellana De un balcou á otro balcon, Y á través de su persiana Contempla la mar lejana Con febril agitacion?

¿So creen Yds. haber leido ese mismo, ó cosa muy semejante, en más de una oriental de la propia pluma, sin otra diferencia que la palabra sultana en lugar de castellana, ó persiana, ó lejana”t Yo no me atrevería á asegurarlo, ni lo aseguro, porque no tengo á mano las obras de Zorrilla, ni, aunque las tuviera, me alcanzaría el tiempo de que dispongo para hacer un viaje de explotacion por sus innumerables páginas. Lo que sí sé es que yo he leido algo que á eso se parece mucho, y más me equivocaré si no es en Zorrilla donde lo he leido.

Abarcando ahora de una sola ojeada el conjunto de la composicion, chócame la ocurrencia de haber repetido en una tirada de doscientos y pico de versos hasta once veces el que se hizo solo:

Castillo de Miramar, porque do ello resulta, no solo un martilleo rítmico que cansa de la mitad de la lectura en adelante, sino la precision de hacer uso de un sinnúmero de infinitivos, que es el recurso de los malos poetas; y por eso he dicho mas arriba que no veia en eso mas objeto que el de producir acordes allí donde el ánsia del lector se lanza en busca de tristes mclodias.

Como fondo, el Castillo de Miramar, repetido aun, sin Castillo, otras cinco veces y nueve sin Miramar me parece un articulo de fondo donde no abunda mucho la fantasía y donde no falta ni la tendencia comun en los autores de esos trabajos periodísticos á llamar la atencion sobre sí propios, llamándose de la partida al hablar de elevados personajes

Tuve allá asiento en suínesa Y en su presencia sitial, etc. Y por lo que respecta á la forma literaria, no tendría poco que hacer el que se propusiera entresacar frases in

correctas, y aun versos de los que la crítica pone por sambenito á los sinsontes.

Señalaré, por vía de muestra, algunas de esas incorrecciones y algunos de esos que á mí me ha dado gana de señalar con el nombre de sambenitos:

Miramar, no fes más

me parece un verso de Enamorado—Solo le faltó para quedar redondo, haber llevado esto por contera—lo que decían los viejos especieros:—

«Miramar, no fies más,»
Porque el que fia no cobra,

Y para no cobrar
Mas vale no fiar.

Yo soy quien á tu señora

Canté allí una salmodia. Creo que yo soy quien cantó hubiera estado mas arreglado á los preceptos gramaticales, salvo el mejor parecer de los que no los tengan tan olvidados como yo los tengo.

Y si hay quienes razon den
De la. de la Emperatriz.

Los dos agudos finales del primer verso hacen un

efecto muy poco armonioso; y en cuanto al de la de la

¡pobre del que lo hubiera dicho sin ser Zorrillal Conque, Castillo esperar. En verso suelto, así como Yds. lo ven, con su punto redondo, me ha tenido caviloso un rato. Si dijese: conque, castillo, espera, ó conque, castillo esperemos, no habria sido verso, ciertamente, pero habria llenado las exigencias de la gramática, y en ese caso con haberlo hecho de otro modo habria quedado remediado el defecto.

En cambio, y para que se vea que si critico la composicion de D. José Zorrilla es porque la considero base de una obra monumental, y como tal obligada á ser perfecta, declararé que contiene pensamientos muy bellos, expresados en una forma que no puede eclipsarlos, á parte de lo inadecuada que, como conjunto, me parece al objeto.

Como prueba de lo que digo, reproduzco á continuacion, tomadas de entre otras que igualmente me agradan, las siguientes quintillas:

Castillo de Miramar,
Tu, que si al fin Dios la cura
La tendrás que aposentar
En sus dias de pesar
Como en los de su locura.

Empieza á ensanchar con tiento La red de su incertidumbre, Para que con paso lento Entre en su alma el sentimiento De su inmensa pesadumbre. ¡Lástima que el autor de tan bien inspirados conceptos no sea mas minucioso para limar sus obras, pues nadie puede negarle un lugar muy distinguido entre los primeros poetas españoles.

Y He Dicho (quiera Dios que no muchos disparates)



Drama de imitacion en tres actos, letra de OIGABEON y música de VEEDI.


Pancho. Qué triste está ese muchacho!
Salomé. Y tiene buena figura.

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—Mira, china, á mí no me vengas con síncunferensias que tú eres muy oatredática.

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En todas partes menos en España, se consagra á las cuestiones de educacion un interés tan grande que incesantemente salen á luz obras, ya didácticas, ya recreativas, discutiendo los problemas mas intrincados de la moral doméstica y examinando dentro de las condiciones de la familia moderna, cuál debe ser el sistema de la ensefíanza moral para los niños. Entre estas obras, nos ha llamado la atencion una que, con el título de Los padres y los hijos del si¡/lo XIX, ha escrito Mr. Ernesto Legouvé, obra destinada á dirigir la conciencia de los padres para la difícil tarea de formar el corazon de sus hijos. Uno de los episodios de este libro es el que copiamos á continuacion:


Es singular como se les arreglan las cosas á medida de su deseo á los padres de buena voluntad. Mi hijo ha descubierto otra aficion que es tan útil como entretenida.

Empezaban á inquietarme sus ausencias frecuentes cuando ayer he sabido donde pasaba una parte de sus horas de recreo. ¿Quién podia adivinarlo? Cerca de nosotros residía una solterona, una vieja loca llamada Mlle. de Mondebise, que á nadie recibo, ni visita á nadie y vive rodeada de perros, de gatos y de pájaros. Su casa es un remedo del arca de Noé, porque lo mismo es jaula que establo y casa de fieras y hasta cementerio, toda vez que su terreno dá sepultura á los seres queridos que se lo malogran, habiendo levantado en el jardin un pequeño monumento á una alondra, Hé aquí el sitio donde mi hijo pasa el tiempo, pero no comprendo el placer que pueda encontrar. Será preciso que yo me entere, que interrogue á la solterona.


Salgo de visitar á Mlle. de Mondebise; ¡qué asombro! ¡qué precioso jardin poblado de las flores mas raras! pajareras por todas partes con las especies mas estrañas. Yo creia encontrar una maniática y es una verdadera inteligente, una vieja ridicula y es una señora que pasa de los cincuenta, pero aun agradable y con una fisonomía llena de atractivos.

—¡El padre de Mauricio! esclamó al verme; mucho os agradezco que hayais venido, porque así podremos hablar de vuestro hijo. Y sonriendo, añadió: ¿á qué debo esta amable visita?

No so me ocurría qué contestar, cuando me interrumpió, csclamando:

—¡Ya adivino á lo que habeis venido!

—Señora, cómo es posible

—Al saber las visitas de vuestro hijo, pensaríais que era buena la

ocasion de conocer las ridiculeces de esta vieja loca

—¡Señora, por Dios!

—Vaya, tened el valor de no negar vuestras palabras; confesad que mi persona, y mis gatos y mis perros son entretenimiento para las conversaciones, y que si os llega un amigo de Paris, las jaulas de Mlle. Mondebise y sus pesares domésticos figuran entre las curiosidades de la comarca.

Mi situacion se iba haciendo embarazosa.

—Tal vez, señora, alguna vez haya estrañado que una persona tan


—¡Delicada! Loca es como me habeis llamado.
—Pero, señora

—Loca, sí, porque me paso la vida limpiando jaulas y llamando al minino ó pidiendo la patita al canario

—Pues bien, esclamé fascinado por la original franqueza de aquella mujer, es cierto que he dicho eso.

—Así os quiero Y ahora, señor hombro de mundo, decidme:

¿en qué consiste la locura de pasarme la vida oyendo los trinos de mis aves, en vez de ir á ahogarme en un teatro para escuchar esas cosas que llamais drama?

—Señora, ¿quercis sostener que una obra dramática tiene menos interés que el gorjeo de vuestros canarios?

—Pues ya lo creo, contestó alegremente. ¿Qué es lo que hacen los señores autores dramáticos, desde que el mundo es mundo, lo mismo que mi canario? Variaciones sobre el mismo tema. Poro al menos él no congrega quinientas personas para escuchar su pequeño concierto, ni exige derechos de autor.

—Esas son personalidades, repliqué riendo.

—No, señor; pero dejemos esto en que no hemos do estar de acuerdo, y hablemos de vuestro hijo y de una súplica que he de haceros. —¿Tanto le quereis?

—Mucho, y si supiérais el origen de nuestras relaciones os lo

voy á contar. Es una puerilidad tal vez, pero que á mí me llegó al alma. Me paseaba por la arboleda próxima al pueblo, cuando oí gemidos en lo alto de un árbol: era un gatíto que maullaba, asido á las ramas de la copa. ¿Cómo se habia encaramado hasta allí? Vaya.V. á averiguarlo; pero el caso es que no podia bajar y que daba maullidos tan lastimeros que

partían el corazon. Pero mis sentimientos eran estériles, porque yo no habia de trepar para librarle. En esto aparece un niño como de doce años, que no me vé, pero que oye al pobre animalejo, y se encarama por el árbol. Era vuestro hijo.

—¡Oh! eso no me admira, porque tiene buen corazon.

—La subida era peligrosa, porque el árbol, aunque alto, no era corpulento, y se cimbreaba con el peso. Temblé entonces por la criatura, pero era tan lista que trepaba como un grumete, y así que hubo llegado junto al gatito, lo cogió con la mano derecha, mientras se sostenía con la izquierda; pero de esta suerte era imposible bajar, y colocó en el hombro, junto al cuello, al animalito. De repente oí un grito, pero ya no era el gato el que chillaba, sino el niño, porque el gato, por sostenerse mejor, le habia clavado las uñas en el cuello. Otro se habría ensoberbecido y tirado »1 suelo al ingrato, pero él se aguantó y sin volver á chillar bajó como pudo, contentándose con decir al gatito cuando le puso en el suelo:

—¡Ah, tunante, que daño me has hecho!

Y en efecto, el cuello estaba lleno de arañadas.
Detúvose un momento á mirarme Mlle. Mondebise.

—¡Oh! no echeis de hombre fuerte, continuó riendo; decid que no os desagrada el cuento. Al alejarse el niño, me adelanté hacia él, y alabando su accion, le pedí un beso. Un poco avergonzado me lo dió, y yo me quedé pensando que no era un niño vulgar el que manifestaba compasion á los anímales, tanto que desde aquel instante me propuse hacerle mi amigo y mi discípulo.


—Si, señor, discípulo. Creo poderle enseñar lo que no le enseñareis nunca.

—¿Qué es ello?

—La antigüedad es una gran cosa, y yo respeto la historia, y tengo á la poesia por consoladora divina; pero la poesía no consuela de todo: la historia no lo cuenta todo, ni las lenguas humanas pueden decirlo todo. Yo le enseñaré la lengua de las criaturas que no hablan. Acordaos de las poéticas leyendas do la Edad Media; acordaos de San Francisco de Asís, que llamaba «hermanas mias» á las golondrinas, y á quien los pájaros seguian como un amigo. ¡Oh! no es costumbre el privilegio de hacerse entender de los animales. Vuestro hijo lo tiene, y si me prestais un poco de su alma, os prometo no echársela á perder.

La ha prestado mi hijo, en efecto, y desde entonces no pasa un dia sin que aquella amable anciana enseñe á mi hijo algunos hechos interesantes sobre la historia de los animales. Otros le enseñarán la historia natural en los libros, pero ella se la enseña en el seno de la naturaleza misma, en el seno de la vida. Observaciones prácticas, esperimentos ingeniosos, invenciones originales, de todo tiene.

Las personas poseidas de una pasion especial, tienen una fuerza de iniciacion incrcible, y electrizan y seducen á cuantos se les acercan. Mlle. Mondebise era la única para revelar los misterios de la vida de los séres irracionales, y ya no hay insecto que no me interese, porque á mí tambien me ha enseñado á comprender hasta la naturaleza muerta.

Un dia entré en su casa, y la hallé enseñando á mi hijo & disecar.

— Señorita, la dije riendo, ¿esas tenemos?

—Vaya, ¿sabeis lo que es disecar?

—Creia saberle.

—Pues estais equivocado si pensais que todo se reduce & rellenar de heno un pájaro disecado, á sustituir los intestinos con estopa y los ojos con cuentecitas de vidrio,

—Pues no me parece que sea otra cosa.

—¡Cuando os digo que estais equivocado! Ese es el oficio elemental,

el grosero; pero disecar con la imaginacion, con el recuerdo ¡Oh! no

riais, con el corazon. Si, con el corazon, no rectifico: hay un acto encantador que no sospechais siquiera. Ved este colorín que se me ha muerto hace unos dias, esperad y juzgad,

Y con destreza suma, y evocando sus recuerdos, la anciana y el niño se pusieron á dar al pájaro las actitudes que de vivo tenia. Era, en efecto, un trabajo maravilloso.

—Esto so llama disecar, añadió: este pájaro estaba muerto; nosotros lo resucitamos, y consultando nuestra memoria, lo colocamos ni mas ni menos que si aun viviera y fuera á deleitareos con su canto. ¿No os parece que va á volar?

—En efecto, esclamé.

—Ya lo veis como es un arte; ya lo veis como enseño á vuestro hijo algo que los sabios de salon no sospechan siquiera. Pero aun tenemos otra ambicion, vuestro hijo y yo

—¿Y cuál, señorita?

—Dicen que la administracion del jardin de Plantas concede á ciertas personas algun hermoso animal para que lo aclimate y domestique. —En efecto, he oido algo de eso.

—Pues bien; es esperimento que me sucedo. Cierto que exige muchos desvelos; pero al cabo es algo dotar á su pais de una especie nueva. Para

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Don Junípero, Volume 4

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Zorrilla semejantes consideraciones, acaso habria hallado, como yo encuentro, algo en que fundarse para criticar ese trabajo, en los corteses términos de una censura digna.—” Queda, pues, demostrado que en el caso presente no es dable proceder con independencia á la publicacion mencionada; y haciendo las reservas debidas en pro de su criterio, voy á decir mi pobre parecer en este articulo aceroa de los versos que se titulan: Castillo de Miramar.

Los aficionados—como yo lo soy—á recrearse en la lectura de los autores clásicos, prescinden de buscar en el mecanismo de la formalas bellezas que pueden halagarles; y consistiendo especialmente el mérito de la composicion del Sr. Zorrilla en lo estudiado de ese mecanismo; cuyo objeto no es otro que producir acordes, claro está que no podemos extendernos mucho en lo de reconocerle grandes títulos al aplauso que acaso, y sin acaso, le tributa la multitud.

Cuídquiera que haya leido algunas de las obras poéticas del autor á quien voy aludiendo exclamará sin duda, si le presentan anónima esta de que se trata: es de Zorrilla; y no porque, como se dice generalmente, el estilo sea el hombre, sino porque se parece á tantas otras suyas que pudiera decirse ha sido hecha de recortes

Por ejemplo: en la segunda quintilla—porque en quintillas ha querido el autor laureado iniciar lo que promete ser un canto épico—dice así, despues de preguutar al Castillo por qué mira sin cesar á ese mar cuyas ráfagas aspira: ¿Por qué va tu castellana De un balcou á otro balcon, Y á través de su persiana Contempla la mar lejana Con febril agitacion?

¿So creen Yds. haber leido ese mismo, ó cosa muy semejante, en más de una oriental de la propia pluma, sin otra diferencia que la palabra sultana en lugar de castellana, ó persiana, ó lejana”t Yo no me atrevería á asegurarlo, ni lo aseguro, porque no tengo á mano las obras de Zorrilla, ni, aunque las tuviera, me alcanzaría el tiempo de que dispongo para hacer un viaje de explotacion por sus innumerables páginas. Lo que sí sé es que yo he leido algo que á eso se parece mucho, y más me equivocaré si no es en Zorrilla donde lo he leido.

Abarcando ahora de una sola ojeada el conjunto de la composicion, chócame la ocurrencia de haber repetido en una tirada de doscientos y pico de versos hasta once veces el que se hizo solo:

Castillo de Miramar, porque do ello resulta, no solo un martilleo rítmico que cansa de la mitad de la lectura en adelante, sino la precision de hacer uso de un sinnúmero de infinitivos, que es el recurso de los malos poetas; y por eso he dicho mas arriba que no veia en eso mas objeto que el de producir acordes allí donde el ánsia del lector se lanza en busca de tristes mclodias.

Como fondo, el Castillo de Miramar, repetido aun, sin Castillo, otras cinco veces y nueve sin Miramar me parece un articulo de fondo donde no abunda mucho la fantasía y donde no falta ni la tendencia comun en los autores de esos trabajos periodísticos á llamar la atencion sobre sí propios, llamándose de la partida al hablar de elevados personajes

Tuve allá asiento en suínesa Y en su presencia sitial, etc. Y por lo que respecta á la forma literaria, no tendría poco que hacer el que se propusiera entresacar frases in

correctas, y aun versos de los que la crítica pone por sambenito á los sinsontes.

Señalaré, por vía de muestra, algunas de esas incorrecciones y algunos de esos que á mí me ha dado gana de señalar con el nombre de sambenitos:

Miramar, no fes más

me parece un verso de Enamorado—Solo le faltó para quedar redondo, haber llevado esto por contera—lo que decían los viejos especieros:—

«Miramar, no fies más,»
Porque el que fia no cobra,

Y para no cobrar
Mas vale no fiar.

Yo soy quien á tu señora

Canté allí una salmodia. Creo que yo soy quien cantó hubiera estado mas arreglado á los preceptos gramaticales, salvo el mejor parecer de los que no los tengan tan olvidados como yo los tengo.

Y si hay quienes razon den
De la. de la Emperatriz.

Los dos agudos finales del primer verso hacen un

efecto muy poco armonioso; y en cuanto al de la de la

¡pobre del que lo hubiera dicho sin ser Zorrillal Conque, Castillo esperar. En verso suelto, así como Yds. lo ven, con su punto redondo, me ha tenido caviloso un rato. Si dijese: conque, castillo, espera, ó conque, castillo esperemos, no habria sido verso, ciertamente, pero habria llenado las exigencias de la gramática, y en ese caso con haberlo hecho de otro modo habria quedado remediado el defecto.

En cambio, y para que se vea que si critico la composicion de D. José Zorrilla es porque la considero base de una obra monumental, y como tal obligada á ser perfecta, declararé que contiene pensamientos muy bellos, expresados en una forma que no puede eclipsarlos, á parte de lo inadecuada que, como conjunto, me parece al objeto.

Como prueba de lo que digo, reproduzco á continuacion, tomadas de entre otras que igualmente me agradan, las siguientes quintillas:

Castillo de Miramar,
Tu, que si al fin Dios la cura
La tendrás que aposentar
En sus dias de pesar
Como en los de su locura.

He begins to broaden the web of his uncertainty with tenderness, so that with slow steps the feeling of his immense regret enters his soul. Too bad that the author of such well-inspired concepts is not more thorough in filing his works, because nobody can deny him a very distinguished place among the first Spanish poets.

And I said (God forbid not many nonsense)



Imitation drama in three acts, lyrics by OIGABEON and music by VEEDI.


Pancho. How sad is that boy!
Salome. And he has a good figure.

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“Look, China, do not come to me with syncunferensias that you are very oatredática.

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Everywhere except in Spain, such great interest is devoted to matters of education that works, now didactic, and recreational, come to light incessantly, discussing the most intricate problems of domestic morality and examining within the conditions of the modern family. , what should be the system of moral education for children. Among these works, has drawn attention one with the title of The parents and the children of the si¡ / lo XIX, wrote Mr. Ernesto Legouvé, work intended to direct the awareness of parents to the difficult task of forming your children’s hearts. One of the episodes in this book is the one we copy below:


It is singular how things are arranged according to their desire to the parents of good will. My son has discovered another hobby that is as useful as it is entertaining.

I was beginning to worry about his frequent absences when yesterday I found out where he spent part of his recess hours. Who could guess? Near us resided a spinster, a crazy old woman named Mlle. Mondebise, who I do not receive or visit anyone and lives surrounded by dogs, cats and birds. His house is a mimic of Noah’s ark, because the same is a cage as a stable and a menagerie and even a cemetery, since his land buries loved ones who spoil it, having raised a small monument in the garden a lark, Here is the place where my son spends time, but I do not understand the pleasure he may find. It will be necessary for me to find out, to question the spinster.


I leave to visit Mlle. Mondebise; What an astonishment! What a beautiful garden populated by the rarest flowers! aviaries everywhere with the strangest species. I thought I found a maniac and she is a true intelligent, a ridiculous old woman and she is a lady who is over fifty, but still pleasant and with a physiognomy full of attractions.

“Mauricio’s father!” he exclaimed when he saw me; I thank you very much for coming, because this way we can talk about your son. And smiling, he added: to what do I owe this kind visit?

I could not think what to answer, when he interrupted me, claiming:

“I guess what you have come for!”

—Lady, how is it possible

“Knowing your son’s visits, you would think that the

occasion to know the ridiculousness of this crazy old woman

“Lady, for God’s sake!”

“Why, have the courage not to deny your words; Confess that my person, and my cats and my dogs are entertainment for the conversations, and that if you get a friend from Paris, the cages of Mlle. Mondebise and its domestic regrets are among the curiosities of the region.

My situation was getting embarrassing.

“Perhaps, madam, have you ever wondered that such a person


-Delicate! Crazy is what you called me.
—But, madam

“Crazy, yes, because I spend my life cleaning cages and calling the kitty or asking the canary for his leg.”

—Well, I enslaved fascinated by the original frankness of that woman, it is true that I said that.

—I love you so And now, Mr. Shoulder of the World, tell me:

What is the madness of spending my life listening to the trills of my birds, instead of going to drown in a theater to listen to those things you call drama?

“Madam, do you want to maintain that a dramatic play is of less interest than the twitter of your canaries?”

“Well, I think so,” he replied cheerfully. What do gentlemen dramatists do, since the world is world, the same as my canary? Variations on the same theme. Poro at least he does not gather five hundred people to listen to his small concert, nor does he demand copyright.

“Those are personalities,” I replied, laughing.

-No sir; but let us leave this in which we have not agreed, and let us speak of your son and a plea that I must make to you. “Do you love him so much?”

—A lot, and if you knew the origin of our relationships, you would

I will tell. It is a childishness perhaps, but it reached my soul. I was walking through the grove near the town, when I heard groans from the top of a tree: it was a meowing kitten, clinging to the branches of the crown. How had he climbed up there? Wow. to find out; but the fact is that he couldn’t go down and he gave me such pitiful meows that

they broke the heart. But my feelings were sterile, because I did not have to climb to free him. In this a boy of about twelve appears, who does not see me, but hears the poor animal, and climbs up the tree. He was your son.

—Oh! that does not admire me, because he has a good heart.

—The climb was dangerous, because the tree, although tall, was not stout, and it swayed with the weight. I trembled for the creature then, but it was so smart that it climbed like a cabin boy, and so it had arrived next to the kitten, it took it with the right hand, while it was supported with the left; but in this way it was impossible to go down, and he placed the little animal on his shoulder, next to his neck. Suddenly I heard a scream, but it was no longer the cat that screeched, but the boy, because the cat, by holding on better, had nailed its nails into its neck. Another would have become proud and threw himself on the ungrateful floor, but he resisted and without screaming again, he got down as best he could, content to say to the kitten when he put him on the ground:

“Ah, rogue, what harm you have done me!”

And indeed, the neck was full of scratches.
Mlle paused for a moment to look at me. Mondebise.

—Oh! don’t miss a strong man, he continued laughing; not say I dislike the story. As the boy walked away, I went to him, and praising his action, I asked him for a kiss. He gave me a little embarrassment, and I kept thinking that it was not a vulgar boy who showed compassion to animals, so much so that from that moment I decided to make him my friend and my disciple.


“Yes, sir, disciple. I think I can teach him what you will never teach him.

“What is it?”

—Antiquity is a great thing, and I respect history, and I consider poetry as a divine comforter; but poetry does not console everything: history does not tell everything, nor human languages ​​can say everything. I will teach you the language of creatures that do not speak. Remember the poetic legends of the Middle Ages; remember Saint Francis of Assisi, who called the swallows “my sisters” and whom the birds followed as a friend. Oh! it is not customary to have the privilege of being understood by animals. Your son has it, and if you lend me a little of his soul, I promise not to spoil it.

Indeed, my son has lent it to me, and not a day has passed since that kind old woman taught my son some interesting facts about the history of animals. Others will teach her natural history in books, but she teaches it in the bosom of nature itself, in the bosom of life. Practical observations, ingenious experiments, original inventions, everything has.

People possessed of a special passion, have an incredible force of initiation, and electrify and seduce those who approach them. Mlle. Mondebise was the only one to reveal the mysteries of the life of irrational beings, and there is no longer an insect that does not interest me, because it has also taught me to understand even the still life.

One day I entered his house, and found it teaching my son & dissecting.

– Miss, I said laughing, do we have those?

“Well, do you know what dissecting is?”

“I thought I knew you.”

“Well, you are mistaken if you think that everything comes down & filling a stuffed bird with hay, to replace the intestines with tow and the eyes with small glass beads,

“Well, I don’t think it’s anything else.”

“When I tell you you’re wrong!” That is the elementary profession,

the rude but dissect with the imagination, with the memory Oh! do not

laugh, with the heart. Yes, with the heart, I do not rectify: there is a charming act that you do not even suspect. See this colorín that has died to me a few days ago, wait and judge,

And with great skill, and evoking her memories, the old woman and the child began to give the bird the attitudes it had alive. It was indeed a wonderful job.

“This is called dissecting,” he added: “This bird was dead; we resurrected him, and consulting our memory, we placed him no more and no less than if he still lived and went to delight with his song. Don’t you think it’s going to fly?

“Indeed, I enslaved.”

—You see it as an art; You see it as I teach your son something that the wise men of the salon do not even suspect. But we still have another ambition, your son and I

“And which one, miss?”

—They say that the administration of the Garden of Plants grants certain people some beautiful animal to acclimatize and tame it. “Indeed, I have heard something of that.”

-As well; It is an experiment that happens to me. It is true that it requires many efforts; but in the end it is something to endow your country with a new species. For

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una pobre vieja seria una verdadera posteridad, ¿no es así? Otros dejan hijos mal criados ó inútiles, yo podria generalizar algun servidor precioBo, como el lama, ó algun pajaro do espléndido plumaje, como el ganso de Egipto. ¿Sabeis que de todas las conquistas de Alejandro, solo el pavo real nos queda? ¿Sabeis que do las victorias de Napoleon, la Francia no conserva sino el carnero merino? Pues bien, tambien nosotros tendremos nuestro animal.

Pocos dias despues, la buena señora era atacada de una enfermedad mortal, y me escribia estas palabras:

—«Venid, amigo mio, sin perder momento; traadme á Mauricio, que quiero abrazarle y enseñarle algo todavía ¡Voy á enseñarle íi morir!!»

Poseido de profunda pena, corri á su casa, á cuya puerta encontramos al médico y al cura.

—Es una santa, nos dijo el sacerdote.

—No tiene remedio, añadió el médico. Entrad pronto, que os está esperando.

Entramos en efecto, y la hallamos casi incorporada y sostenida por almohadas. Mi pobre hijo se echó en sus brazos anegado on llanto.

—¡Vaya! ¡vaya! discípulo mio, ¿qué significa esto? ¿Tanta pena porque voy á reunirme con Dios? Una criatura humana que muere es un pájaro que vuela al cielo Seca esas lagrimas qu« van á entristecer

el dia mas hermoso de mi vida.

Yo tambien me sentía enternecido, y ella, que lo conoció, me dijo reconociéndome:

—¿Tampoco vos servireis para nada?

—¡Oh! si, sí, ¿Qué es lo que debo hacer para complaceros? Así os quiero. Me haceis falta para mi testamento. Leed la cláusula sétima que sigue á las limosnas y á las mandas piadosas. Tomé el testamento y lei lo siguiente:

«Idem: dejo á los pájaros libres del cielo mi gran cercado del Cedro. Prohibo por consiguiente que dentro do él se dispare un tiro, ni se coja un grano ni un fruto; los frutos son suyos, y en invierno, cuando nievo despues de distribuida la sopa á mis pobres, se hará otra distribucion de pan á mis pájaros.»

—Es un legado de vieja estravagante, ¿no es verdad? me dijo; capaces son de burlarse los periódicos: continuad.

Yo continué leyendo:

«Encomiendo el cuidado de mis herederos y de mis pobres colegiatas enjauladas al ser que he amado mas en el mundo, al hijo de mi amigo N., llamado Mauricio.»

Observando entonces que el niño se cubria la cabeza con la almohada, como si esperimentara miedo:

—¿Te asusta la muerte, hijo mio? dijo con acento severo: no es estraño, á tu edad es cosa terrible la muerte; pero mírame y te persuadirás de que su imágen no es tan espantosa como la pintan.

Alzó el niño los ojos, y al contemplar aquel semblante sereno, iluminado por la esperanza, tul como retratan á San Francisco do Asis, esperimentó una sorpresa que convertía la pesadumbre en una especie de lástima.

Lo conoció la moribunda y en sus ojos empezó á pintarse el éxtasis.

—Ea, esclamó; la hora se acerca, mira y aprende

Y como rendida por este postrer esfuerzo, cayó sobre la almohada diciendo:

—Amigos míos, dadme un postrero placer.

Nos acercamos mas, y con voz entrecortada nos dijo:

—Hace buen dia, no es verdad?


—El sol brilla descorred las cortinas y abrid la ventana de por

en par. ¿Teneis miedo de que coja frio? añadió sonriendo al ver que yo vacilaba.

Abrí en seguida, y á los rayos del sol que penetraba en la estancia, todos los pájaros se pusieron á cantar.

—Asi, así, eso es, nos dijo la moribunda: eso os lo que yo quería; cantad, pajaritos mios Mauricio, abre todas las jaulas, todas.

Obedeció el niño, y las lindas aves de todas clases empezaron á revolotear por encima de la cama, llenando do alegres trinos la morada de la agonía.

La moribunda, con un crucifijo en la mano, clavaba en él los ojos y csclamaba:

—¿No oís? eso voleteo es el de los ángeles, ese canto preludia el de los querubines; yo como ellos vuelvo á mi divino señor.

Así se desprendió de su cárcel terrena aquella alma poética y piadosa en medio de alegres cantos, dejando en el corazon de mi hijo y en el mio un profundo pesar y una imágen eterna del mas puro de todos los espectáculos, el de la muerte de una mujer sin mancha.

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a poor old woman would be a real posterity, wouldn’t she? Others leave poorly bred or useless children, I could generalize some Bo price servant , like the lama, or some bird of splendid plumage, like the Egyptian goose. Do you know that of all Alexander’s conquests, only the peacock remains? Do you know that in Napoleon’s victories, France has only the merino ram? Well, we will also have our animal.

A few days later, the good lady was attacked with a deadly disease, and she wrote these words to me:

– «Come, my friend, without wasting time; Bring me Mauricio, I want to hug him and teach him something yet. I’m going to teach him to die !! ”

Possessed with deep sorrow, he ran to his house, at whose door we found the doctor and the priest.

“She is a saint,” said the priest.

“There is no remedy,” added the doctor. Come in soon, it’s waiting for you.

We go into effect, and find it almost incorporated and supported by pillows. My poor son threw himself into his arms flooded with tears.

“Wow!” Wow My disciple, what does this mean? So sad because I’m going to meet God? A human creature that dies is a bird that flies to the sky Dry those tears that «will sadden

the most beautiful day of my life.

I also felt moved, and she, who knew him, said recognizing me:

“Will you be of no use, either?”

—Oh! Yes, yes, what should I do to please you? I love you so. I need you for my will. Read the seventh clause that follows alms and godly commands. I took the will and read the following:

«Idem: I leave the birds free of the sky my great fence of the Cedar. I therefore forbid that a shot be fired within him, nor a grain nor a fruit caught; the fruits are his, and in winter, when I snow after distributing the soup to my poor, another distribution of bread will be made to my birds. ”

“It is a legacy of a quirky old woman, isn’t it?” he told me; newspapers are capable of making fun: continue.

I continued reading:

“I commend the care of my heirs and my poor caged collegiates to the being that I have loved the most in the world, the son of my friend N., named Mauricio.”

Observing then that the boy covered his head with the pillow, as if experiencing fear:

“Does death scare you, my son?” he said with a severe accent: it is not strange, at your age death is a terrible thing; but look at me and you will be persuaded that its image is not as frightening as it is painted.

The boy raised his eyes, and when he saw that serene countenance, illuminated by hope, tulle as portrayed by San Francisco do Asis, he experienced a surprise that turned grief into a kind of pity.

The dying woman met him and ecstasy began to paint in her eyes.

—Ea, he exclaimed; the hour is coming, watch and learn

And as if exhausted by this last effort, she fell onto the pillow saying:

“My friends, give me a last treat.”

We got closer, and with a broken voice he said:

“It’s a good day, isn’t it?”


—The sun shines, draw the curtains and open the front window.

in pair. Are you afraid that it will catch cold? He added smiling when he saw that I hesitated.

I opened immediately, and in the rays of the sun that penetrated the room, all the birds began to sing.

“So, so, that’s it, the dying woman told us: that’s what I wanted; sing, my little birds Mauricio, open all the cages, all.

The boy obeyed, and the pretty birds of all kinds began to hover above the bed, filling the happy dwelling of agony with two happy trills.

The dying woman, with a crucifix in her hand, stared at him and exclaimed:

“Don’t you hear?” that fluttering is that of the angels, that song preludes that of the cherubs; I, like them, return to my divine lord.

That is how that poetic and pious soul was released from his earthly prison in the midst of happy songs, leaving in the heart of my son and in mine a deep sorrow and an eternal image of the purest of all shows, that of the death of a spotless woman.


(imitation of Rioja.)

Fábio, the demands of Havana
Prisons are, when the presumed dies,
Young still, with the gray head;

And the one that will not file or break them,
Neither the name of a man has deserved,
Neither to reach is worthy what he wants.

He rolls the Parisian dressed,
To live comfortably in a hurry,

And the busilis you will see that I have understood.
Present yourself everywhere from Adan to guisa,

That as I abound in your drawer the ballast

You will go luxurious in shirt sleeves.

The disastrous walk is not a disaster,
It is knowing how to avoid the disastrous
Of a shameful dispute with the tailor.

Stop the ostentatious food,
JiO who stays at the runner’s house

And an interest pays you fabulous.

He keeps track of what he knows well,

And it asks where you smell good,
to the cries muffled by the sight.

The good post by your jaws sneaks,

And leave quo instead of the Chinese dish
Put a casserole in front of you.

Send to a horn the pomp and pageantry
Of the dwelling that, costing one eye,
Can only serve as a pod for a flat man;

Look for it with a good ceiling and a good bolt,
no marbles, no bronzes, no profiles,

Y el necio ¿qué dirán? echa al jinojo.
Por meterso on tan hondos perejiles

Hay quien es en su casa personaje

Y on la callo lacayo do alguaciles.

Por tu bien y el comun suprime el paje
Que hace on tu bolsa y tu despensa estrago

Y ejerco en tu mansion el espionaje.
Así á tu hacienda librarás do amago,

Y, del trabajo al mar dando sus remos,
El mal ejemplo evitarás de un vago.

Mis consejos no tomes por extremos,
Te los dicta un amigo cariñoso
A quien tu paz importa; y acabemos:

Tu corazon, entero y generoso,
Sepa á la adversidad doblar la frente
Antes que la rodilla al poderoso.

Más triunfos, más coronas dio al prudento,
Que supo retirarse, la fortuna,
Que al que quiso, obstinado y locamente,
Figurar en los cuernos do la luna.

J. Muñoz Y Garcia.


—Chico, ¿sabes que á Gregorio Le han ascendido á escribiente?

— Por eso está do jolgorio

¡Qué escándalo! ¡Un meritorio
De mil ochocientos veinte!

No aspiro á cetro ni á trono,
Lésbia, tu si me desvela;
Ya ves cuán poco ambiciono:
¡Cuándo alcanzaré ese mono—
Sílabo que el alma anhela!

En obvio de desazones

Y antes del solemne instante,
Confesó Petra á su amante
Uno, dos, tres tropezones.

Era el amanto hombre ducho

Y dijo, aquello al saber:
Para muía de alquiler,
Hermosa, tropiezas mucho.

Pero Petra, con descoco,
Cerró así la redondilla:
—Para caballo de silla
Te espantas tú de bien poco.

J. Muñoz Y Garcia. JUNIPERADAS.

Parece que no se encuentran ya bastantes cabellos para las castañas del bello sexo. Esto tenia que suceder; ahora se fabrican de seda teñida.

No ora bastante el pelo postizo sino que ha sido preciso inventar el pelo postizo falso.

Dentro de poco tendremos pelo postizo de seda de


En los Estados-Unidos han tomado posesion de una isla encontrada cerca de San Francisco.

Mal hecho; cuando se encuentra uno un portamonedas lo deja en casa del Celador.

—Lo citaré sino paga
dijo una dama bonita
á su inquilino Trampita
que para ella era una plaga.
Y él viéndola tan furiosa
contestó:—No faltaré
que ha de ser cita preciosa
cualquiera cita de usté.

Se ha publicado en la capital del vecino imperio una Guia del viajero en Paris, que es una guia de las gentes de buen tono en todas circunstancias. Kó aquí algunas reglas de su autora la señora do Basanville:

—Es una falta total de educacion el quitarse los guantes cuando se está de visita.

No deben quitarse tampoco para refrescaron una reunion. Se quitarán, sí, si se come en buffet ó se cena.

—Una señora no debo decir jamas á un hombre que la visita que deje el sombrero.

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Los preparativos que se estan haciendo para la guerra do Abisinia han hecho olvidar al público inglés otra guerra que no carece de importancia, y en la que estan igualmente interesados los fueros de la humanidad. El hecho que ha suscitado la cuestion es el asesinato de la tripulacion de un buque inglés, naufragado en las costas de las islas Nicobort. Para averiguar la verdad del hecho dispuso ol gobierno inglés que se dirigiese á aquellas islas un buque de guerra, el Wasp, mandado por el capitan Bedingfiel. Este cumplió el encargo que so lo habia confiado, y al llegar á aquellas costas vió á su buque rodeado de un gran número de piraguas montadas por naturales del país; algunos de cuyos jefes subieron á bordo del buque inglés, en donde fueron hechos prisioneros, á fin de esclarecer la verdad. Por olios so supo que ya era costumbre inveterada en aquel país sacrificar entre horrorosos tormentos á los infelices náufragos que abordaban en él, y que habian salvado la vida á una mujer y á un niño que vivian en la isla principal. #

La mayor parte de los indígenas hablaban algunas palabras en inglés y se habian apropiado nombres de personajes ingleses. Así uno de ellos so pavoneaba dándose el nombre de lord Palmerston; al paso que otro decia llamarse sir Jonh Nicholis, mientras otros solo tomaban el nombre de capitan. Su trajo era de los mas sencillos: lord Palmerston llevaba por todo vestido un cinturon y un sombrero inglés. El capitan del Wasp mandó algunos marineros á reconocer el país á fin de entrar en tratos con sus naturales para la devolucion de la mujer y el niño que tenían en su poder; pero no pudieron lograr nada, porque todos los indígenas se habian retirado al interior de la isla. Entonces resolvió el capitan enviar como embajador á lord Palmerston; prometiéndole si regresaba á bordo cien botellas de rom, y amenazándole con que en caso contrario haria un ejemplar en la isla; pero á pesar do las promesas y de las amenazas, lord Palmerston no tuvo por conveniente volver á bordo y el capitan Bedinsfield regresó con sus prisioneros á Singapore para pedir instrucciones, y ha vuelto á salir con plenos poderes el 15 de julio mandando el Satellite en el que va embarcado un destacamento de tropas indígenas con el objeto do castigar á aquellos caníbales.

La moda de dar la mano á las señoras al saludarlas, ha sufrido las restricciones que eran de esperar, con ol objeto de que desaparezcan los abusos y licencias que se venian cometiendo por parte de algunos pollos. Así es que la gente comm’il faut ha dispuesto, que la facultad de dar la mano, parta siempre de la señora y no del caballero, con el fin de que esta especie de «saludo de obra» no se lleve á cabo mas que en las ocasiones y con los caballeros que las señoritas y señoras libremente determinen.

Leemos en un periódico belga: El sencillo y honrado decano de la diócesis de X (departamento del norte) presidia la instalacion de un cura de aldea. Durante la ceremonia el decano subió al pulpito:—«Felicitaos, esclamó, afortunados feligreses de esta parroquia; el venerable sacerdote á quien la Providencia os confia, será ol ojo del ciego, el pió del paralítico, el padre del huérfano, (testual.)

Estamos Conformes.

Historia del amor.

Sigue al amor el amigable trato:
A este las vecinales relaciones:
A estas la indiferencia, á esta el hastio.

Y si Dios ó el acaso no intervienen
Por medio de la muerte ó de la ausencia,
Entonces, no hay romodio, es necesaria
Algo mas que vulgar filosofía,
Para no echarse do cabeza al rio,

Y tal infierno soportar paciente.
No hablo por solo hablar: soy

La Experiencia.

Libreria é Imprenta «el Lris,» Obispo 20 Y 22.

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Uedo asegurará Vds. que—no sé si á causa de los anos que ya voy teniendo ó de lo enojoso que llega á ser todo lo que tiene el carácter de obligatorio—no hay para mí horas tan temidas en la semana como las que dedico á esgrimir la péñola. Las veo venir á paso de carga, y quisiera que nunca llegasen, de lo cual resulta el que la imprenta no me deje vivir á sol ni á sombra. ¡ Originales! me grita sin cesar, con esa boca por donde se ha tragado tantos centenares de miles de resmas de papel manuscrito—¡y las que tiene que tragarse, al paso que vamos!—y yo la oigo con el terror que debe experimentar el inquilino pobre al escuchar los aldabonazos, á los de ninguno otro parecidos, de su casero.—Es entonces, como diñan ocho de cada diez traductores de novelas francesas para folletines, que quisiera ser

sordo como una, tapia

Y es entonces tambien que me dan envidia: El carretonero que suda á mares, discutiendo con una muía resabiosa sobre si debe ó nó gozar de la proteccion

que le imparten las leyes municipales en materia de carga y latigazos, y me llama vago al verme echando el quilo polla pluma:

El gañan que abre el surco, trabajando tanto como sus bueyes, y me llama holgazan al verme destilando vida por todos los poros:

El buey de finca cuyo amo me considera en menos que á su peon porque no sudo la camisa como éste.

Y en general todo el que puede decirse á sí mismo: anda, y hacerlo sin poner mas que un poco de voluntad.

¡Originales! ¡Ah!—y permítanme Vds. que diga ¡ah! una vez en mi vida.—Si supieran Vds., los que no lo saben, lo que quiere decir esa palabra! Originales en estas alturas, para uno que debe escribir en estilo alegre, equivale á mira, hablando con un ciego; á oye, hablando con un sordo; á huele, hablando con uno que tiene estúpidas las narices; á gusta, hablando con otro y arrimándole lo gustable al cogote; k palpa, hablando con el cadáver de un difunto

Amigos lectores: no quiera Dios que el dia de mañana se vean Vds. obligados, en circunstancias como las presentes, á escribir en estilo jocoso para el público.—¡Oh!—y permítanme Vds. que tambien diga ¡oh! una vez eu mi vida,—El desearles á Vds. eso equivaldría á quererlos como nos quiere á todos el lo dejaremos en punios suspensorios, como dice un guajiro que yo conozco y á quien amoscan mucho las reticencias.

En las circunstancias presentes toma uno la pluma para escribir lo mas prosaico—la lista de la lavandera, verbi

gracia,—y en lugar de poner:

Camisas 8,

pone maquinalmente:

Fastidios 8,

y en lugar de:

Pantalones 6,

pone de la misma manera maquinal:

No hay donde ir 6,

ó nos hemos vuelto

Cuáqueros 200,000

Conque si eso sucede al que apunta la ropa de la semana, ¿qué no sucederá al que debe alegrar hablando de ella—de la semana, no de la ropa sucia, que esa no debe salir áluz en los periódicos—á tantos ó cuantos señores suscri tores?

Y no crean Vds. que cuando les hablo de las circunstancias presentes quiero referirme á cosa que se roce con la salud: es asunto respecto del cual debemos estar tranquilos, siempre que no seamos calaveras y nos decidamos á seguir el consejo de esta copla:

«El que quiera vivir mucho
Ha de huir, lo que mas pueda,
De médicos, boticarios,
Melones, pepinos y hembras;»

ó de esta otra, que yo improviso para las últimas, con el fin de que no me tachen de parcial, en mi calidad de hembro:

La que quiera vivir mucho,
Si es moza de mucho garbo,
De médicos huya, etcétera,

Y aproplncuese á este macho.
Pero si abunda en abriles

Y tiene surcado el rostro,
De médicos huya, etcétera,

Y aproplncuese al demonio.


Sin embargo, no hay que desafligirse ni esperar ningun consuelo, que la suerte aprieta pero no afloja y el que á buen árbol se arrima buen palo le viene eucima: Pepe

Alcázar y Pepe Albisu y Pepe digo, Anníbale Biacchi

se estan redondeando para darnos diversiones hasta por los ojos.

El primero nos tiene en agua á la Ristori, es decir, nos

la está pasando por agua para que nos la comamos á

hurras y palmadas en el castillo de Chuchurumbel, ó sea en la jáula dorada de allá fuera, como han dicho diez mil veces los gacetilleros de la Habana, y dirán aun otras diez mil, hablando del Tacon—segun llaman los italianos al Gran Teatro—ó sea en el teatro de las cacareadas alfombras, con todas las cuales juntas apénas puede hacerse un cache-nez para las noches de frio.—Y como con la Ristori viene una numerosa compañía de ellos y ellas, acaso el refuerzo de gente no cuáquera que llega á la Habana, esto es, de gente que no se arrincona á leer la biblia y los sermones de la prensa que ha dado en Cuba al traste con la alegría, echando, puede ser, con la mayor inocencia del mundo el agua del molino para otro rumbo, logre animar un poco la poblacion, desparramándose por ella á guisa de luz que asoma en el horizonte despues de una noche sin Casta diva.

Esto en cuanto á la jáula de los arabescos y los calados de oro peí.

Por lo que hace al segundo, á Pepe Albisu, ahí le tienen Vds. trabajando como un héroe para acabar su circo cuanto ántes y exhibir en el acto la numerosa y variada pléyade de artistas de todos los géneros posibles é imposibles que ha reclutado en el antiguo y en el nuevo mundo, en España, en Francia, en Inglaterra, en la vecina Union Americana, y quién sabe si hasta en los arenales del desierto, porque tiene, para que nada falte, beduinos y hasta un mono que no habla porque no lo pongan á trabajar en las obras del circo, pero que sabe hacerlo mejor que muchos de los que se tienen por hombres de letras.—Me gusta Albisu porque es hombre de arrauque: el año pasado supo soltar la posta en beneficio de la Beneficencia domiciliaria cuando más jugo le estaba dando, porque habia empeñado su palabra de ceder el circo para el Bazar: este año viene, se encuentra sin casa para tanta gente como ha traído, y cierra los ojos, y en un dos por tres se hace con terreno y

levanta un edificio como por encanto ¡Bravo, Pepe

Albisu! Con muchos hombres de tu temple pronto poblaría nuestro planeta una generacion de Catalinas y Catalinos de Rusia y tendría la Habana una gran poblacion allí donde hoy la afean, y la afearán por mucho tiempo, los

restos de sus vírgines murallas Albisu lo ha resuelto:

el domingo, hoy, ha decidido que se presente al público su troupe enciclopédica, y como no es hombre que se duerme en las pajas, ni mucho ménos, ni hombre que vacila nunca entre dos pareceres, va á presentarla en la Plaza de toros. Necesario es que allá vayamos todos los que en algo apreciamos la actividad del hombre que proporciona recreo bueno y barato al público de menos proporciones, todos los que sabemos lo que vale, en nuestros tiempos de positivismo, uu rasgo como el que hizo simpático á nuestro hombre: el rasgo de abandonar un negocio pingüe con el fin de que de su casa saliese el pan para muchos pobres, segun puede certificar la Junta de las uobles damas de la Beneficencia.

Y basta de Albisu, no vaya alguno á creer que es su santo y que yo le estoy haciendo el panegírico, cuando lo que hago es consignar en la crónica del dia lo que sabe de sobra toda la Habana.

Ahora vamos con Anníbale Biacchi.

La noticia mas fresca que de él se tiene, y de su compañía de ópera por de contado, es la siguiente, auténtica, como indican su forma y el idioma en que está escrita, porque es un telégrama del cable submarino:

«Teo. Comiente.— Havana.— Tirst days of December Biacchi’s troupe will be in Havana. Give noiice.»

Poco hemos de vivir los que no le veamos, pues, con su troupe filarmónica en esta capital por los primeros días de Diciembre.—Siento no poder añadir la nómina del personal de que consta la troupe á que alude el telégrama trascrito, porque aun no la conoce ni el mismo Sr. Comiente, á quien aquel viene dirigido; pero sí tengo noticias extraoficiales segun las que, una parte de ese personal viene de Europa directamente, es nuevo en América, y le estrenarán, por consecuencia, en ella nuestros oidos.

Con que, sumando la compañía de Pepe Alcázar con la de Pepe Albisu, y ambas con la de Anníbale Biacchi, tenemos un total de gente con el cual es posible que salga la Habana del aire de cómica gravedad en que la han metido los sermones de la prensa que ha dado en Cuba al traste con la tradicional é inocente alegría de sus moradores, con aquella alegría de nuestros tiempos, apreciables lectores los que teneis á la fecha niñas á quienes divertir y


de quienes exigís hoy un retraimiento que en nuestros dias os hubiera hecho proferir más denuestos que palabras contra los que hemos relevado en el cargo de pastores del femenil rebaño.

Y como ya va haciéndose largo el presente Totum revolutum, resuelvo darle un corte, resumiéndole en esta sola frase: el año de 1867 va á demostrar si el público de la Habana conoce donde le aprieta el zapato en el particular de las diversiones, metido como va á verse entre el Tacon y la Punta, ó sea el teatro de Villanueva.



Advierto Antes de escribir cuatro palabras más que la idea dominante eu este artículo me ha sido sugerida por otro, escrito en lengua china; y aunque bien pudiera pasar por original este, pues aquel retrata costumbres muy distintas de las nuestras, prefiero decir la verdad porque odio el plagio y me tormo la ilusion de creer que nunca le he cometido á sabiendas. Renuncio, pues, al modo de enamorar al lector que usan algunos escritores apropiándose lo ageno y principio á dar cuenta de los diversos modos que he observado se ponen en práctica para cautivar la voluntad de nuestros semejantes. Fin del prólogo.

Tengo una vecina á quien pusieron en la pila bautismal el sonoro nombre de Catalina, parece que presintiendo que ella habia de ser, andando el tiempo, la rueda idem de la complicada máquina llamada hogar doméstico. Esto no obstante, nadie la llamaba por ese nombre: Tana, Tanita y aun Taninita, segun los grados de tropical afecto que inspira, es como la hem os oido llamar mas de una vez por sus numerosos galanes. Escojámos el término medio para designarla. Tanita es una joven como muchas. Se levanta á las ocho, no sabemos si se da su manita de aguardiente de islas en el rostro, pero sí nos consta que se empolva y peina como si fuera á un baile. Asómase luego al postigo de la alcoba que dá á la calle, toda suelta y eu chancletas, hasta que ha visto pasar y aun tenido uu corto palique con muchos de los que la visitan por la noche. Despues cierra los postigos y al piano. Toca, de memoria,

alguna danza de las mas en boga, canta luego una cancioncita de las que hacen furor allá fuera y luego viene el almuerzo.

Mamá entre tanto atiende á las faenas de la casa. Concluido el almuerzo vuelve Tanita á la ventana. Allí llegan sucesivamente varios mocitos de esos que en otras partes se designan con el nombre de pollos; pollos, sí señor, pero de á real y medio. No, no es dable referir las conversaciones que allí pueden escucharse ni mucho menos repetir lo que tengo observado desde la azotea de enfrente cuando nuestra heroína se ha creido como el leguito del convento «sola, enteramente sola,» con su amaute. Si visme jkre dolendum est primum ipse Ubi dice Horacio, pero no nos es posible observar ahora máxima tan productiva. Hay casos en que peligra la honestidad del que los cuenta.

Tanita se retira de la ventana: ha llegado la hora de vestirse y esto se hace en dos actos: 1? peinado con acompañamiento de regaños á la negrita porque no estan las cosas en su sitio. En «quita esta flor de aquí, arregla este moño allá y coloca el sigueme pollo acullá,» pasan dos horas y llega la de comer. Tanita no se ha vestido todavía, pero se sienta á la mesa en tragecito con su complaciente mamá, no sin ordenar antes que quede bien trancada la

puerta del comedor. Si por acaso no se ha tenido esta precaucion y se presenta algun importuno, cntónces nuestra Tanita emprende la carrera, soltando una chancleta por el camino, con una pata de pollo en una mano y un pedazo de pan en la otra, y la comida se termina en el cuarto de vestirse.

Hecha ya la gran toilette, se abren las puertas que dan á la sala, las ventanas de la calle y nuestra heroína toma posesion de su mecedor al pié de una ventana. El tiroteo sigue dentro de poco, pero con la diferencia de que Tanita so presenta ahora con cierta circunspeccion, hija del corsé, de la hora y quién sabe si de alguna otra causa que no está á nuestro alcance. El hecho es que ahora los pollos no se detienen en la ventana: pasan y pasan y vuelven á pasar, como las cabras del cuento: dicen alguna cosilla ante la verja, pero no hacen alto sino cuando, ya casi al oscurecer, ha pasado tambien por allí un cupé que lleva dentro á un individuo cuya firma temblorosa es. admitida como oro, y mejor que el oro, en el mercado.

«Muchacha, enciende el gá» dice doña *** y al instante una negrita, ligera como el mono, se encarama sobre una silla, fósforo en mano, y repite el sublime: Lux Jhcta fuit del Génesis.

Entonces empieza el verdadero jubileo. Pepe Tranquillos, antiguo miembro del Ateneo, poeta dramático, laureado, premiado con medalla de oro, es el primer visitante que se presenta. Doña Ramona está sentada en uubutacon de cuero en el corredor. Tanita se columpia suavemente.

—Buenas noches, prieta, dice Tranquillos al entrar, estás esta noche ¿sabes cómo? ¡«Ay quien pudiera de tu dulce aliento !» que dijo el poeta.

—Caballero, contesta Tanita, no se tire que hay cloaca.

—Entendámonos, Serafin. ¿Qué quieren decir esaspalabras? ¿Algun mortal afortunado oyó el sí de tus labios peregrinos?

—No tar, caballero: sino que puede pasar arguno y figurarse lo que no hay para qué.

—Pues, hija, me marcho con la música á otra parte. Las locas deben dejarse enamorar, que demasiado favor se les hace.

Y saluda, y se marcha, y se vá al café de Monserrate á disipar su mal humor con dos ó tres tragos de lo que rasca.

Como éste se van presentando muchos otros; pero ninguno de los preferidos que tienen sus horas demarcadas durante el dia.

Everything is cautious: there are no struggles, there are no passions, there are no explosions of jealousy. Nothing that makes love sublime is in my neighbor. There is something about what makes it ridiculous; but it goes unnoticed. The mother, like the rich widow of the saying, with one eye (does not cry) sleeps; with the other (don’t ring) he watches, and everything goes on in the house with the greatest regularity. He has lunch and eats in abundance: he dresses well: he goes to the theater once in a while.

—Now the reader will ask: and who pays the duck?

This is the secret of one of “the seventy ways of falling in love” . Whoever wants to know asks my friend the old and accredited merchant Don Congo Ta Sajo De La Ferretier.