Chapter I: Part 1

“_Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS._”—SHAKESPEARE.

HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
A WEEKLY JOURNAL.

CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.

N^{o.} 16.] SATURDAY, JULY 13, 1850. [PRICE 2_d._

A DAY IN A PAUPER PALACE.

In some states of English existence Ruin is the road to Fortune. Falstaff threatened to make a commodity of his wounds; the well attested disaster of a begging letter writer confers upon him an income; the misfortune of a thief—that of being captured—occasionally ends in a colonial estate, and a carriage and pair; both the better assured if he can tell a good story of misfortunes, and is hypocrite enough to commence as a Pentonville “model.” In Manchester the high road to fortune is to be born a pauper; should especially orphanhood, either by death or desertion, ensue.

At the easy distance of five miles from the great Cotton Capital, on the road to the great Cotton Port, through shady lanes and across verdant meadows, is the village of Swinton. At its entrance, on a pleasing elevation, stands a building which is generally mistaken for a wealthy nobleman’s residence. The structure is not only elegant but extensive; it is in the Tudor style of architecture, with a frontage of four hundred and fifty feet. It is studded with more than a hundred windows, each tier so differing in shape and size from the others as to prevent monotonous uniformity. Two winding flights of steps in the centre lead to a handsome entrance hall, above which rise two lofty turrets to break the outline of the extensive roof. The depth of the edifice is great—its whole proportions massive. Pleasure-gardens and play-grounds surround it. In front an acre and a half of flower-beds and grass-plots are intersected by broad gravel-walks and a carriage-drive. Some more of the land is laid out for vegetables. Beyond is a meadow, and the whole domain is about twenty-two acres in extent; all in good, some in picturesque, cultivation.

The stranger gazing upon the splendid brick edifice, with its surrounding territory, is surprised when he is told that it is not the seat of an ancient Dukedom; but that it is a modern palace for pauper children. He is _not_ surprised when he heard that it cost 60,000_l._

The contemplation of sumptuous arrangements of this nature for the benefit of helpless penury, naturally engenders an argument:—is it quite fair to the industrious poor that the offspring of paupers should be placed in a better position than that of his own?—that these should have better instruction, be better fed, and better clothed?—that a premium should thus be put upon the neglect of their children by vicious parents; while, there is no helping hand held out to the industrious and virtuous for the proper training of _their_ children: so that the care of their offspring by the latter is, by comparison, a misfortune; while desertion or neglect by the former is a blessing to theirs, to whom Garrick’s paradox can be justly applied, that Their Ruin is the Making of them.

That is one side of the argument. The other stands thus; ought the misdeeds of parents to be visited on their innocent children? should pauper and outcast infants be neglected so as to become pests to Society, or shall they be so trained as to escape the pauper-spirit, and make amends to Society for the bad citizenship of their parents, by their own persevering industry, economy, and prudence in mature life? Common sense asks, does the State desire good citizens or bad? If good ones, let her manufacture them; and if she can do so by the agency of such establishments as that of Swinton, at not too great a cost, let us not be too critical as to her choice of the raw material.

In order to see whether the Swinton establishment fulfils this mission we solicited a gentleman qualified for the task to visit it; and from his information we have drawn up the following account:—

Having, he says, passed through the entrance hall, we chatted for a time with the chaplain, who is at the head of the establishment. From him we learnt that there are in the institution six hundred and thirty children, of whom three hundred and five are orphans, and one hundred and twenty-four deserted by their parents. Besides the chaplain there is a head master, a medical officer, a Roman Catholic priest, a governor and matron, six schoolmasters and four schoolmistresses, with a numerous staff of subordinate officials, male and female, including six nurses, and teachers of divers trades. The salaries and wages of the various officers and servants amount to about 1800_l._ a year, exclusive of the cost of their board which the greater number enjoy also.

We went into the play-ground of the junior department, where more than a hundred and fifty children were assembled. Some were enjoying themselves in the sunshine, some were playing at marbles, others were frisking cheerfully. These children ranged from four to seven years of age. There are some as young as a year and a half in the school. The greater number were congregated at one end of the yard, earnestly watching the proceedings of the master who was giving fresh water to three starlings in cages that stood on the ground. One very young bird was enjoying an airing on the gravel. Two others were perched on a cask. The master informed us it was a part of his system to instruct his charges in kindness to animals by example. He found that the interest which the children took in the animals and in his proceedings towards them, was of service in impressing lessons of benevolence among them towards each other. The practical lessons taught by the master’s personal attention to his feathered favourites, outweighed, he thought, the theoretic inconsistency of confining birds in cages.

The play-ground is a training school in another particular. On two sides grew several currant trees, on which the fruit is allowed to ripen without any protection. Though some of the scholars are very young, there do not occur above two or three cases of unlawful plucking per annum. The appropriate punishment of delinquents is for them to sit and see the rest of their school-fellows enjoy, on a day appointed, a treat of fresh ripe fruit, whilst they are debarred from all participation.

The personal appearance of the pupils was not prepossessing. Close cropping the hair may be necessary at the first admission of a boy, but surely is not needed after children have been for some time trained in the establishment, in habits of cleanliness. The tailors of the establishment (its elder inmates), are evidently no respecters of persons. Measuring is utterly repudiated, and the style in vogue is the comic or incongruous. The backs of the boys seemed to be Dutch-built; their legs seemed cased after Turkish patterns; while the front view was of Falstaffian proportions, some of the trousers are too short for the legs, and some of the legs too short for the trousers. The girls are better dressed. Amongst them are some of prepossessing faces, intelligent appearance, and pleasing manners. Here and there may be discerned, however, vacancy of look, and inaptness to learn. Among the boys, sometimes, occurs a face not quite clean enough, and a shirt collar that seems to have suffered too long a divorce from the wash-tub.

During the time we spent in the play-ground, sundry chubby urchins came up to the master with small articles which they had found; it being the practice to impress on each, that nothing found belongs to the finder unless, after due inquiry, no owner can be discovered. One brought something looking like liquorice; another produced a halfpenny, which the master appropriated. Perhaps, the master had dropped the halfpenny to test the honesty of some of his pupils. One little fellow was made happy by permission to keep a marble which he had picked up.

The children obeyed the summons to school with pleasing alacrity. This is owing partly to the agreeable mode of tuition adopted, and in some measure to the fact that the lessons are not allowed to become tedious and oppressive. As soon as any parties give unequivocal signs of weariness, either there is some playful relaxation introduced, or such children are sent into the play-ground. On the present occasion, as soon as the master applied his mouth to a whistle, away trooped the children in glad groups to an ante-room. Here, arranged in five or six rows, boys and girls intermixed stood with eyes fixed on the master, awaiting his signals. At the word of command, each alternate row faced to the right, the others to the left, and filed off, accompanying their march with a suitable tune; their young voices blending in cheerful harmony, while they kept time by clapping their hands, and by an occasional emphatic stamp of the foot.

To enliven the routine of school duties, the master’s cur takes part in them. He is a humorous dog, with an expressive countenance, and a significant wag of the tail. In the intervals of lessons, his duty—which is also his pleasure—consists in jumping over the benches or threading the labyrinths of little legs under them. Now he darts with wild glee into a spelling class; now he rushes among an alphabet group, and snarls a playful “r-r-r-r,” as if to teach the true pronunciation of the canine letter; now he climbs up behind a seated urchin, puts his forepaws on the favourite’s shoulders, and, with a knowing look towards the master, recommends his friend for promotion to a monitorship.

It was surprising to find that the pupils took not the slightest notice of the antics of the master’s dog. They heeded nothing but their lessons; but we learned that the dog was a part of the discipline. He accustomed the children to startling eccentricities and unexpected sounds: he presented a small, extraneous, but wholesome difficulty in the pursuit of Knowledge. He, and the currant bush, the pretty treasure-troves, and other contrivances, were intentional temptations which the children were trained to resist. We beg very pointedly to recommend the study of these facts to the attention of the inventors and advocates of the Pentonville Model system. They involve an important principle,—and a principle equally applicable to adults as to children. The morals of the young, or the penitence of the criminal, which result from a system depriving the pupil of every possible temptation to do otherwise than right, will assuredly lapse into vice when incentives to it are presented. Evil exists very plentifully in this world, and it must be recognised and dealt with; it is not by concealing it from the young but by teaching him to resist it that we do wise. It must at the same time be admitted that the principle can be carried too far; and if the master _did_ intentionally drop the halfpenny, it was exactly there that he pushed his excellent principle too far.

The teaching of the juniors is conducted mainly _vivâ voce_; for the mass of them are under six years of age. The class was opened thus:

“What day is this?”

“Monday.”

“What sort of a day is it?”

“Very fine.”

“Why is it a fine day?”

“Because the sun shines, and it does not rain.”

“Is rain a bad thing, then?”

“No.”

“What is it useful for?”

“To make the flowers and the fruit grow.”

“Who sends rain and sunshine?”

“God.”

“What ought we to do in return for his goodness?”

“Praise him!”

“Let us praise him, then,” added the master. And the children, all together, repeated and then sung a part of the 149th Psalm.—A lesson on morals succeeded, which evidently interested the children. It was partly in the form of a tale told by the master. A gentleman who was kind to the poor, went to visit in gaol a boy imprisoned for crime. The restraint of the gaol, and the shame of the boy, were so described, as to impress the children with strong interest. Then the boy’s crime was traced to disobedience, and the excellence of obedience to teachers and parents was shown. The fact that punishment comes out of, and follows our own actions was enforced by another little story.

By this time some of the very young children showed symptoms of lassitude. One fat little mortal had fallen asleep; and this class was consequently marshalled for dismissal, and as usual marched out singing, to play for a quarter of an hour.

A lesson in reading was now administered to a class of older children. For facilitating this achievement, generally so difficult, the master has introduced the phonic system, in some degree according to a mode of his own, by which means even the youngest children make remarkable progress. We need not discuss it here.

The scene the schoolroom, during the reading lesson, presented, was remarkable. Groups of four or five little fellows were gathered in various parts of the room before a reading-card, one acting as monitor; who was sometimes a girl. It was a pleasing sight to see half-a-dozen children seated or kneeling in a circle round the same book, their heads almost meeting in the centre, in their earnestness to see and hear, while the monitor pointed quickly with the finger to the word which each in succession was to pronounce. All seemed alert, and the eyes of the monitors kindled with intelligence. Meanwhile the master was busied in passing from one class to another, listening to the manner in which the pronunciation was caught, or the correctness with which the rapid combination of letters and syllables was made. Sometimes he stayed a few minutes with a class to give aid, then proceeded to another; and occasionally, on finding by a few trials, that a boy was quite familiar with the work of his class, he would remove him to another more advanced. These transfers were frequent.

In an adjoining room were assembled, under the care of the schoolmaster’s wife, some of the more advanced scholars. One class in this room was particularly interesting—a class composed of the monitors who receive extra instruction in order to fit them for their duties.

After an interval the whole attended a class for general knowledge: in this the mutual instruction system was adopted. A pupil stood out on a platform—the observed of all observers—to be questioned and cross-questioned by his or her schoolfellow, like a witness in a difficult law case, until supplanted by a pupil who could answer better. A degree of piquancy was thus imparted to the proceeding, which caused the attention of the pupils not to flag for a moment. One girl, with red hair and bright eyes, weathered a storm of questions bravely. A sample of the queries put by these young inquisitors, will show the range of subjects necessary to be known about. What are the months of spring? What animal cuts down a tree, and where does it live? Which are the Cinque Ports? What planet is nearest the sun? What is the distance from Manchester to Lancaster? How high is St. Paul’s Cathedral? What are the names of the common metals? What causes water to rise and become clouds?

One urchin who could scarcely be seen over the head of another, and who was evidently of a meteorological turn of mind, bawled out in a peculiarly sedate and measured manner,

“What does the wind do?”

To have answered the question fully would have taken a day, but a single answer satisfied the querist, and was of a sanitary character.

“The wind,” replied the female Rufus, “cools us in summer and blows away the bad air.” An agreeable enough answer as we sat in the middle of the schoolroom on a hot day, when the thermometer was seventy-one degrees in the shade, and a pleasant breeze stealing through the open windows occasionally fanned our warm cheeks. This concluded our visit to the junior department.

Meanwhile, the education of the elder children was proceeding in other parts of the building. The lessons of the senior sections are conducted in a much quieter manner than those of the junior classes; even in a way which some persons would consider tame and uninteresting. This quietude was, however, more than balanced by another department. As we passed to the elder boys’ court-yard, the chaplain threw open the door of a room, where a small music class was practising the fife and the drum. The class consisted of eight youths, who had not learnt long, but performed the “Troubadour” in creditable style. When they marched out, they headed about two hundred boys, who were drawn up in line; the music-master acting as drill-sergeant and commander-in-chief. After passing through some drill-exercises, they marched off, drums beating and colours flying, to dinner.

We need say no more of this pleasing ceremony than that it was heartily performed. The viands were relished in strong illustration of Dr. Johnson’s emphatic remark, “Sir, I like to dine.”

After dinner, we visited the workshops—a very active scene. The living tableaux were formed chiefly by young tailors and cobblers. A strict account is kept of all manufactured articles and of their cost; and we learnt that a boy’s suit of fustian (labour included) costs 4_s._ 10½_d._; a girl’s petticoat 12¾_d._; and that the average weekly cost of clothing worn by the children was estimated at 3½_d._ per head—making 15_s._ 2_d._ for the wearing apparel of each child per year. This may be taken as a commentary on the “slop work” prices to which public attention has been so forcibly drawn of late.

In all the industrial sections, the children are occupied alternately at their work and in school—labouring for one afternoon and next morning, and then attending their classes in school for the next afternoon and morning. This is a decided improvement on the Mettray system. In that agricultural colony, the boys only attend school once a week, and work at handicrafts, or on the farm, during the other five. There is, however, something defective in the Swinton plan, as applicable to advanced pupils; perhaps they are not stimulated sufficiently; but it happens that no pupil-teacher had ever passed a government examination; although last year the grant of money, by the Committee of Privy Council for the educational departments of the Swinton school, amounted to 531_l._ Those among the scholars who have gone into other lines of life, have generally conducted themselves well; and when absorbed into the masses of society, have become a help and a credit instead of a bane to it. Indeed, having been brought up at the Pauper Palace appears a safe certificate with the public, who are eager for the girls of this school as domestic servants. Both boys and girls, on leaving the institution, are furnished with two complete sets of clothes, and their subsequent behaviour is repeatedly inquired into.

As we descended the steps of the school we scanned the prospect seen from it. The foreground of the landscape was dotted with rural dwellings, interspersed with trees. In the distance rose the spires and tall chimneys of Manchester, brightened by the rays of the evening sun, while a sea of smoke hung like a pall over the great centre of manufacturing activity, and shut out the view beyond. It typified the dark cloud of pauperism which covers so large a portion of the land, and which it is hoped such institutions as the Swinton Industrial Schools is destined to dispel. The centre of manufacturing activity is also the centre of practical and comprehensive education. Why does this activity continue to revolve so near its centre? Why has it not radiated over the length and breadth of the land? The Swinton Institution is a practical illustration of what can be done with even the humblest section of the community; and if it have a disadvantage, that is precisely because it succeeds too well. It places the child-pauper above the child of the industrious. Narrow minds advocate the levelling of the two, by withdrawing the advantage from the former. Let us, however, hope that no effort will relax to bring out, in addition to Pauper Palaces, Educational Palaces for all classes and denominations.

Thus ended our visit to the “Pauper Palace.” As we issued from the iron gate into the open road we met a long line of the elder girls, accompanied by a master, returning from a walk which they had taken, after school hours and before supper, for the benefit of their health. The glad smile of recognition, and the cheerful salutation with which they greeted us as we bade them good evening, were a touch of that gentle nature which “makes the whole world kin.” It refreshed us like a parting blessing from well-known friends.

HOW WE WENT HUNTING IN CANADA.

After his disasters in New Ireland, our friend Blungle could not be prevailed upon to go fishing again.[1] The sport was conducted under circumstances which deprived it of all attraction to him. He could understand fishing in the Thames,—sitting all day in a comfortable arm-chair in a punt, moored off Ditton, with a stock of brandy and water and mild Havannahs. This was true sport; but digging holes in the ice to catch fish was neither sportsman-like nor exciting. Under the circumstances, he was not to be reasoned with; so we only laughed at him,—Perroque advising him, on his return to St. Pancras, to try his luck in a parlour fishbowl. This put him on his mettle,—and to show that he was ready to “rough it” with any man, he challenged us to go hunting with him. Perroque, who was as great an adept on snow-shoes as on skates, gave him no time to retract, and a hunt after Moose was at once determined upon.

Footnote 1:

See page 243.

Our accoutrements consisted of snow-shoes (which, when slung over the shoulders, looked not unlike a pair of large wings), a rifle, an “Arkansas toothpick,” and a flask. We started without delay, and on the afternoon of the second day were once more in the township of Leeds, which we had fixed upon as the scene of our operations.

Archibald McQuaigh was an old Highlander who had emigrated from Strathtoddy, and who prided himself greatly on his ancestry, and on having been the man who “felled the first tree in Leeds,” in 1817; since which time the township had made marvellous strides in advancement and prosperity, and McQuaigh was fond of saying that the crash of the first victim to the axe was still ringing in his ears. He had pushed his way boldly into the woods, with nothing but an axe, a set of bagpipes, a peck of oatmeal, and a bottle of whiskey,—the last two being the remains of the stock of provisions which he had taken on board with him at Glasgow. With this scanty outfit he began the hardy life of a settler,—borrowing flour and pork from his neighbours, the nearest of whom was fifteen miles off, until the gathering of his first crop, when he became an independent man. Years, although not without a fight for it, had produced their effect even on McQuaigh. He had shrunk somewhat in all his proportions, but his skin and flesh looked like plastic horn, which seemed to bid defiance to decay. Blungle felt qualmish, when first presented to him, for he had still a very fiery look, calculated to affect the nervous,—his hair, which was becoming grey at the tips, now looking like so many red-hot wires elevated to a white heat at the points. His manly activity had not yet forsaken him, his frame being still well knit and compact, and there were few in the township who would even then venture to wrestle with him. He had been originally a deer-keeper to the Marquis of Glen-Fuddle, and his early vocation gave him a taste for the chase which never forsook him, and it was in the double capacity of an enthusiastic sportsman and a hospitable man, that we carried letters of introduction to him.

We were received with true Highland hospitality, after the old style. After dinner McQuaigh repeated half of “Ossian” in the original to us, giving us incidentally to understand that the poet belonged to a younger branch of his family. He spoke English as a convenience, but had great contempt for it as a language. Indeed, he used to call it, sneeringly, “a tongue,” and maintained that Gaelic was the only real language on earth.

The next morning at breakfast, McQuaigh announced that in five minutes after that meal was disposed of, we should be on our way for the part of the forest which was to be the scene of our operations. A Moose deer is a great prize, which is not often secured, and the appearance of one makes quite a noise in a neighbourhood. For some days back a rumour had been rife throughout the township that one had been seen at a point about three miles distant from McQuaigh’s residence; and it was only on the evening before our arrival, that that worthy had been himself informed by a man who had come from a neighbouring settlement that he had crossed its track on the way. This accounted for a somewhat high state of fever in which we found him on arrival; and our appearance gave him great relief, by furnishing him at once with an excuse for a hunt, and companions in his sport.

Having plentifully provided ourselves with creature comforts from McQuaigh’s larder and whiskey-cask, we started in a common farm sleigh, in which we had all to stand upright, for the point at which we were to push into the forest. McQuaigh had secured the attendance of a French Canadian named Jean Baptiste, who was a servant on an adjoining farm, and who was as expert a Moosehunter as any man in the province.

Having gained the summit of a steep hill, the gillie was sent back with the sleigh, and we prepared to diverge into the bush. The snow lay fully five feet deep around us; and before leaving the beaten track, our first care was to adjust our snow-shoes, which are indispensable to Canadian winter sport. Each shoe is about the size of a large kite, which it also resembles in shape. The outer frame is made of light cedar, bent and bound together by two slender bars, placed about equidistant from both ends. The thin spaces contained between the outer frame and the bars, are filled up with a network composed of a substance resembling cat-gut. The toe is attached to the snow-shoe close to the front bar, the heel being left at liberty: so that when it is raised in the act of dragging the foot forward, the snow-shoe is not raised with it, being dragged horizontally upon the surface. The object of the snow-shoe is to prevent the pedestrian from sinking in the soft snow, which it effects by giving him a far broader basis to rest upon than Nature has provided him. Thus accoutred, a man will pass rapidly, and in safety over the deepest deposits—having to take much longer strides than usual, in order that the snow-shoes may clear one another. The exercise is somewhat fatiguing, and requires some practice to be perfect in it. Blungle was not an adept, and before he had proceeded ten paces, he was prostrate on his face, and fully three feet beneath the surface. His plight in somewhat resembled that of the boy who had let the inflated bladders—with the aid of which he attempted to swim—slip down to his feet, which they elevated to the surface, keeping his head, however, under water. The only thing discernible for the moment, of our fellow-companion, was his snow-shoes, which were moving convulsively to and fro, near the surface. Encumbered by them, he would never have risen again but for our aid; and it was some time ere he succeeded in getting his mouth, ears, and nose, emptied of the snow; he was more cautious afterwards in the management of his feet, although his inexperience somewhat retarded our progress.

We were soon in the very depths of the forest, and lonely indeed are these Canadian woods in the dreary winter time. All under foot was enveloped in snow, from which as from a white sea, rose like so many colossal columns, the stately trunks of the trees, through the leafless boughs of which, as through an extended trellis-work, the blue sky was discernible over head. The undulations of the surface pleasantly diversified a scene which would otherwise have been monotonous; and we made our way merrily over hill and valley, but ever through the unbroken forest, in the deep dells of which we now and then crossed a streamlet, whose course had been arrested, and whose voice had been hushed for months by the relentless frost.

We had been thus occupied for about three hours, when we at length came upon the track of the game:—a deep furrow had been made in the snow; bespeaking the labour which the animal must have had in ploughing his way through it. We stopped; and McQuaigh, giving vent to a long expiration, half between a whistle and a sigh, exclaimed, wiping the perspiration from his horny features, “We have him as sure as a gun, if nobody else has got scent of him; and you see,” he added, pointing to the untrodden snow around, “there’s not the track of a living soul after him.”

“But what chance have we?” I asked, “seeing that it must be more than two days at least since the Moose passed this spot?”

“Give a deer any reasonable start in the winter time,” replied McQuaigh, “and a man on his snow-shoes will run him down. We have only to follow his track, and depend on’t we’ll go over more ground than he will in a day.” So saying, he led off in the direction which our prey had evidently taken. Blungle did not like the possibility of being for a week on the track of one deer; but he put the best face on it, and laboured to keep up with us.

We had not gone far, ere, like the confluence of a small with a larger stream, we found the track of an ordinary deer converge upon that of the Moose. From the point of junction, the follower, as affording him an easier passage through the snow, had kept to the track of his more powerful leader.

“Let’s hurry, and we’ll have the two of them,” said McQuaigh, and he doubled the length of his strides. Blungle groaned, but laboured on.

We thus pursued the now double track, until the shades of evening stole over the forest, and imparted a mysterious solemnity to the lonely solitudes, which we had invaded. After a hard day’s work, we looked out for a spot in which to rest for the night. We resolved to bivouac by a huge elm, whose hollow trunk rose without branch or twig to break its symmetry, for nearly sixty feet from the ground. We dug a hole in the snow, more than four feet deep, spreading our blankets on the bottom of it. On one side we were sheltered by the elm; on the other three by our snowy circumvallation. Our next care was to light a blazing fire, which we did in the hollow of the tree; after which we laid ourselves down to sleep, Jean Baptiste having orders to keep the first watch, and to awake any of us, whom he might find getting stiff. In five minutes Blungle was snoring as comfortably as if he were reposing on his own pillow in Bloomsbury.

I was about turning the corner of consciousness, when McQuaigh, who was stretched beside me, and who never seemed to shut more than one eye at a time, started suddenly to his feet, and seizing the axe which was resting against the tree, raised it to his shoulder, and stood intently watching the hollow in which the fire was burning. He was quite a picture, standing out, as he did, in fine relief from the surrounding darkness, as the crackling flames threw their ruddy glare on his brawny frame and furrowed visage. But his sudden movement indisposing me for the artistic mood, I was at once on my feet beside him, and it was not till then that I heard sounds proceed from the hollow trunk, which gave me some clue to what had so suddenly called him into action. I had but brief time for consideration, for, in a moment or two afterwards, down came a heavy body into the fire, scattering the faggots about in all directions. Blungle, who was still asleep, was aroused by one of the blazing embers grazing his nose, and on jumping up precipitated himself into the embrace of a shaggy bear, which was about to treat him to a fatal hug, when McQuaigh’s axe descended with terrific force upon its skull, which it cleft in twain. The slaughtered brute fell on its side carrying Blungle along with it, who, when he was removed, was nearly as insensible as the bear.

“There’s never two of them in a tree,” said McQuaigh, “so we may go to sleep now.” We did so, and I slept soundly for two or three hours, Jean Baptiste kept watch as before, employing himself, until his turn came for sleeping, in dressing the carcass of the bear, from which, in the morning, we were supplied with hot chops for breakfast. If we did not consider them unsavory, it was perhaps because our appetites were too good to be very discriminating. We could not persuade Blungle to touch them. He was possessed of an abstract idea that it was unchristian to eat a bear. At first he positively refused to accompany us any further, but on McQuaigh expressing a friendly hope that he would get safe out of the woods if he attempted to return alone, he made up his mind that the lesser of two evils was to stick to the party. He made a solemn vow, however, that should he ever live to see the Zoological Gardens again, he would carefully avoid even a glance at the bears.

After breakfast, we resumed our course, keeping close to the track as on the preceding day. We had not gone far when, on descending a steep bank, we heard a rustling sound proceed from a thicket on the margin of a tolerably sized stream which lay across our path.

“It’s but the little one,” said McQuaigh, whose keen eye caught a momentary sight of a deer, which was immediately lost again to him in the thicket. “Make ready for action.”

We were, of course, all excitement, and Blungle obeyed the injunction by deliberately levelling his rifle at Jean Baptiste, who was a little in advance of us, with a view to driving the deer from his hiding place. McQuaigh, observing this movement, with a sudden wave of his arm elevated the muzzle into the air, just as Blungle drew the trigger, and the ball went whistling through the trees, cutting off several twigs in its course.

“To take a man when there’s venison in the way,” said McQuaigh, who seemed to impute Blungle’s aim solely to a want of taste, “who ever heard of such a thing?” Blungle could not have been more frightened, had he pointed his rifle against himself, and, for some time afterwards, he apostrophised the adverse character of his fate, in terms not the most suited for delicate ears. The discharge of the rifle startled the deer, which bounded at once in full sight from the thicket. A ball from Perroque wounded him in the flank, McQuaigh’s trigger was drawn in an instant, but his piece missed fire, much to his annoyance, and as he said himself, “for the first time in its life.” I fired too—but to this day I have not the slightest idea what became of the ball—the wounded animal plunged wildly towards the stream, which he endeavoured to cross. But it was rapid at that particular point, and the ice which was but imperfectly formed gave way with him. He struggled hard to keep himself on the surface, until a ball from McQuaigh’s rifle took effect on his head, and he was at once dragged under by the impetuous current. A little further on, the stream plunged down several rocky ledges in foaming rapids, which bade defiance to the frost. We gained this point just in time to see the body of the deer emerge from beneath the ice; it was immediately afterwards carried over a cataract and precipitated amongst masses of ice, which rose from the chasm like a cluster of basaltic columns and inverted stalactites.

As it would have taken too much time to recover it, we left the mangled body of the deer in the icy crevice into which it had fallen, and ascending to a point above the rapids, crossed the river, where the ice was strong. We then recovered the track, which we followed for the rest of the day, passing several small settlements in the woods, all of which had been carefully avoided by the Moose. In the evening we bivouacked as before, but this time in the neighbourhood of a solid tree. Blungle struck it all round with the axe to assure himself that it was not hollow, and expressed his satisfaction that it rung sound. Next morning we plunged deeper and deeper into the forest wilds. About mid-day, Blungle, whose patience was well nigh exhausted, began to be seriously offended at the non-appearance of our prey, and confidentially hinted to Perroque and myself that wild goose rhymed to wild Moose. But, at that moment, Baptiste who was in advance, was observed to fling his arms into the air, and then to direct our attention to a point a little to the right of us, where we caught the first sight of the object of pursuit. The Moose was at some distance from us, buried to the belly in snow, and scraping the green bark from a young tree. Being too far off to fire with effect, we glided silently towards him over the snow, concealing ourselves as much as possible by going from tree to tree. He was a full-grown animal, and, for some time, was not aware of our approach; but, as we came within doubtful shot of him, he looked anxiously around, exhibiting symptoms of agitation and alarm.

“Bang at him,” said McQuaigh, “or we may lose our chance.” He had scarcely uttered the words, when our four rifles were simultaneously discharged. The Moose gave a tremendous bound and plunged through the snow, endeavouring to escape us. We made after him at once, reloading our rifles as we proceeded. When we came up to the spot occupied by him, it was evident that he had been seriously wounded, from the extent to which the snow was stained with blood. We soon observed that his efforts to escape became fainter and fainter, and, as he was staggering and about to fall, a ball from McQuaigh’s rifle took effect in his heart, and he sank in the snow.

The Moose deer’s nose is considered a great dainty by both civilised man and savage. Blungle, although well provided in that facial department himself, was almost petrified at its size. “It looked,” he said, “as if the animal carried a small carpet-bag in front in which to keep his provender.” Having cut the nose off, we confided it to the care of Jean Baptiste.

“Look out for blazes,” said McQuaigh, as we prepared to return.

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Blungle, raising his rifle to his shoulder as if he expected an attack from another bear. But there was nothing the matter, “blazes” being the term applied to the marks left by the surveyors on certain trees, to denote the lines of the different townships, as they are cleared from the woods. By means of these marks the woodsman can readily direct himself to a settlement—to find which was now McQuaigh’s object. Dragging the body of the deer after us, we proceeded for about two hours guided by the blazes, and, at last, came to a small settlement, where we procured a couple of sleighs, one for Jean Baptiste and the slaughtered Moose, and the other for ourselves. At a late hour of the night we gained McQuaigh’s residence, considerably fatigued after our exertions.

We spent two days more with our eccentric but warm-hearted host, after which he let us depart reluctantly. We reached Quebec on the following day, and soon regaled a party of friends on our valuable trophy, the Moose deer’s nose.

THE MODERN SCIENCE OF THIEF-TAKING.

If thieving be an Art (and who denies that its more subtle and delicate branches deserve to be ranked as one of the Fine Arts?), thief-taking is a Science. All the thief’s ingenuity; all his knowledge of human nature; all his courage; all his coolness; all his imperturbable powers of face; all his nice discrimination in reading the countenances of other people; all his manual and digital dexterity; all his fertility in expedients, and promptitude in acting upon them; all his Protean cleverness of disguise and capability of counterfeiting every sort and condition of distress; together with a great deal more patience, and the additional qualification, integrity, are demanded for the higher branches of thief-taking.

If an urchin picks your pocket, or a bungling “artist” steals your watch so that you find it out in an instant, it is easy enough for any private in any of the seventeen divisions of London Police to obey your panting demand to “Stop thief!” But the tricks and contrivances of those who wheedle money out of your pocket rather than steal it; who cheat you with your eyes open; who clear every vestige of plate out of your pantry while your servant is on the stairs; who set up imposing warehouses, and ease respectable firms of large parcels of goods; who steal the acceptances of needy or dissipated young men;—for the detection and punishment of such impostors a superior order of police is requisite.

To each division of the Force is attached two officers, who are denominated “detectives.” The staff, or head-quarters, consists of six sergeants and two inspectors. Thus the Detective Police, of which we hear so much, consists of only forty-two individuals, whose duty it is to wear no uniform, and to perform the most difficult operations of their craft. They have not only to counteract the machinations of every sort of rascal whose only means of existence is avowed rascality, but to clear up family mysteries, the investigation of which demands the utmost delicacy and tact.

One instance will show the difference between a regular and a detective policeman. Your wife discovers on retiring for the night, that her toilette has been plundered; her drawers are void; except the ornaments she now wears, her beauty is as unadorned as that of a quakeress: not a thing is left; all the fond tokens you gave her when her prenuptial lover, are gone; your own miniature, with its setting of gold and brilliants; her late mother’s diamonds; the bracelets “dear papa” presented on her last birth-day; the top of every bottle in the dressing-case brought from Paris by Uncle John, at the risk of his life, in February 1848, are off—but the glasses remain. Every valuable is swept away with the most discriminating villainy; for no other thing in the chamber has been touched; not a chair has been moved; the costly pendule on the chimney-piece still ticks; the entire apartment is as neat and trim as when it had received the last finishing sweep of the housemaid’s duster. The entire establishment runs frantically up stairs and down stairs; and finally congregates in my Lady’s Chamber. Nobody knows anything whatever about it; yet everybody offers a suggestion, although they have not an idea “who ever did it.” The housemaid bursts into tears; the cook declares she thinks she is going into hysterics; and at last you suggest sending for the Police; which is taken as a suspicion of, and insult on the whole assembled household, and they descend into the lower regions of the house in the sulks.

X 49 arrives. His face betrays sheepishness, combined with mystery. He turns his bull’s-eye into every corner, and upon every countenance (including that of the cat), on the premises. He examines all the locks, bolts, and bars, bestowing extra diligence on those which enclosed the stolen treasures. These he declares have been “Wiolated;” by which he means that there has been more than one “Rape of the Lock.” He then mentions about the non-disturbance of other valuables; takes you solemnly aside, darkens his lantern, and asks if you suspect any of your servants, in a mysterious whisper, which implies that _he_ does. He then examines the upper bedrooms, and in that of the female servants he discovers the least valuable of the rings, and a cast-off silver toothpick between the mattresses. You have every confidence in your maids; but what _can_ you think? You suggest their safe custody; but your wife intercedes, and the policeman would prefer speaking to his inspector before he locks anybody up.

Had the whole matter remained in the hands of X 49, it is possible that your troubles would have lasted you till now. A train of legal proceedings—actions for defamation of character and suits for damages—would have followed, which would have cost more than the value of the jewels, and the entire execration of all your neighbours and every private friend of your domestics. But, happily, the Inspector promptly sends a plain, earnest-looking man, who announces himself as one of the two Detectives of the X division. He settles the whole matter in ten minutes. His examination is ended in five. As a connoisseur can determine the painter of a picture at the first glance, or a wine-taster the precise vintage of a sherry by the merest sip; so the Detective at once pounces upon the authors of the work of art under consideration, by the style of performance; if not upon the precise executant, upon the “school” to which he belongs. Having finished the toilette branch of the inquiry, he takes a short view of the parapet of your house, and makes an equally cursory investigation of the attic window fastenings. His mind is made up, and most likely he will address you in these words:—

“All right, Sir. This is done by one of ‘The Dancing School!’”

“Good Heavens!” exclaims your plundered partner. “Impossible, why _our_ children go to Monsieur Pettitoes, of No. 81, and I assure you he is a highly respectable professor. As to his pupils, I—”

The Detective smiles and interrupts. “Dancers,” he tells her, “is a name given to the sort of burglar by whom she had been robbed; and every branch of the thieving profession is divided into gangs, which are termed ‘Schools.’ From No. 82 to the end of the street the houses are unfinished. The thief made his way to the top of one of these, and crawled to your garret—”

“But we are forty houses distant, and why did he not favour one of my neighbours with his visit?” you ask.

“Either their uppermost stories are not so practicable, or the ladies have not such valuable jewels.”

“But how do they know that?”

“By watching and inquiry. This affair may have been in action for more than a month. Your house has been watched; your habits ascertained; they have found out when you dine—how long you remain in the dining-room. A day is selected; while you are busy dining, and your servants busy waiting on you, the thing is done. Previously, many journeys have been made over the roofs, to find out the best means of entering your house. The attic is chosen; the robber gets in, and creeps noiselessly, or ‘dances’ into the place to be robbed.”

“Is there _any_ chance of recovering our property?” you ask anxiously, seeing the whole matter at a glance.

“I hope so. I have sent some brother officers to watch the Fences’ houses.”

“Fences?”

“Fences,” explains the Detective, in reply to your innocent wife’s inquiry, “are purchasers of stolen goods. Your jewels will be forced out of their settings, and the gold melted.”

The lady tries, ineffectually, to suppress a slight scream.

“We shall see, if, at this unusual hour of the night, there is any bustle in or near any of these places; if any smoke is coming out of any one of their furnaces, where the melting takes place. _I_ shall go and seek out the precise ‘garretter’—that’s another name these plunderers give themselves—whom I suspect. By his trying to ‘sell’ your domestics by placing the ring and toothpick in their bed, I think I know the man. It is just in his style.”

The next morning, you find all these suppositions verified. The Detective calls, and obliges you at breakfast—after a sleepless night—with a complete list of the stolen articles, and produces some of them for identification. In three months, your wife gets nearly every article back; her damsels’ innocence is fully established; and the thief is taken from his “school” to spend a long holiday in a penal colony.

This is a mere common-place transaction, compared with the achievements of the staff of the little army of Detective policemen at head-quarters. Sometimes they are called upon to investigate robberies; so executed, that no human ingenuity appears to ordinary observers capable of finding the thief. He leaves not a trail or a trace. Every clue seems cut off; but the experience of a Detective guides him into tracks quite invisible to other eyes. Not long since, a trunk was rifled at a fashionable hotel. The theft was so managed, that no suspicion could rest on any one. The Detective sergeant who had been sent for, fairly owned, after making a minute examination of the case, that he could afford no hope of elucidating the mystery. As he was leaving the bed-room, however, in which the plundered portmanteau stood, he picked up an ordinary shirt-button from the carpet. He silently compared it with those on the shirts in the trunk. It did not match them. He said nothing, but hung about the hotel for the rest of the day. Had he been narrowly watched, he would have been set down for an eccentric critic of linen. He was looking out for a shirt-front or wristband without a button. His search was long and patient; but at length it was rewarded. One of the inmates of the house showed a deficiency in his dress, which no one but a Detective would have noticed. He looked as narrowly as he dared at the pattern of the remaining fasteners. It corresponded with that of the little tell-tale he had picked up. He went deeper into the subject, got a trace of some of the stolen property, ascertained a connexion between it and the suspected person, confronted him with the owner of the trunk, and finally succeeded in convicting him of the theft.—At another hotel-robbery, the blade of a knife, broken in the lock of a portmanteau, formed the clue. The Detective employed in that case was for some time indefatigable in seeking out knives with broken blades. At length he found one belonging to an under-waiter, who proved to have been the thief.

The swell mob—the London branch of which is said to consist of from one hundred and fifty to two hundred members—demand the greatest amount of vigilance to detect. They hold the first place in the “profession.”

Their cleverness consists in evading the law; the most expert are seldom taken. One “swell,” named Mo. Clark, had an iniquitous career of a quarter of a century, and never was captured during that time. He died a “prosperous gentleman” at Boulogne, whither he had retired to live on his “savings,” which he had invested in house property. An old hand named White lived unharmed to the age of eighty; but he had not been prudent, and existed on the contributions of the “mob,” till his old acquaintances were taken away, either by transportation or death, and the new race did not recognise his claims to their bounty. Hence he died in a workhouse. The average run of liberty which one of this class counts upon is four years.