Chapter II: Part 2

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

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

The Youthful Nelson.

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

“I hope you don’t include me, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Who is for a sky-lark?”

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

“It is bright moonlight,” said Nelson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘So, let the wind blow;
Our ship rocks so.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Betray their companions?” said Nelson.

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

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

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

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

“I instigated myself,” said Nelson.

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

“Try it,” said Nelson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something about the Turkish Provinces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something about the Old Abbeys and Castles of England.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

“Toll! Toll!
When a wandering soul
Forsaketh the truthful and fair:
Its days are unblest,
Its nights are unrest,
In the bud of its hope is a worm of Despair.
Toll! Toll!”

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

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

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