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Woodcut on title-page portraying two old men engaged in an animated conversation
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/
THE
TO WHICH IS ADDED,
G L A S G 0 W:
V
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
�THE
Babes In The Wood.
Now ponder well ye parents dear,
The words that I shall write,
A woeful story you shall hear,
By time brought forth to light.
A gentleman of good account,
In Norfolk dwelt oflate.
Whose means and riches did surmount,
Most men of his estate.
Sore sick he was, and like to die,
No help then could he have.
His wife with h m as sick did lie,
And both possessed one grave.
No love b' twixt these two was l.nst,
Each was to other kind,
In love thev lived, in love they died,
And l eft two babes behind.
The one a flue and pretty boy,
Not passing three years old ;
The other a girl more young than he,
And made in beauty's mou ci.
\\
(
�The father left his little son,
As plainly doth appear,
When he should come to be of age,
Three hundred pounds a year.
And to his little daughter Jean,
Two thousand pounds in gold,
To be paid down on marriage day,
Which might not be controuled.
But, if his children chanced to die,
Ere they to age did come,
Their Uncle should receive their wealth,
And thus the will did run.
Now, brother, said the dying man,
Look to my children dear,
Be good unto my boy and girl,
No friend else have I her*.
T o Hod and you I do commend
My children night and day ;
A little while we hav e ' t s ^ure,
Within this world to stay.
You must be father and mother both,
And Uncle all in one ;
God knows what will become of them,
When 1 am dead and gone.
With that then spoke the mother dear,
My brother kind quoth she,
Thou art the man must bring my babe*
T o wealth or misery.
�If you do keep it carefully,
Then God will you reward,
If otherwise you seem to deal,
God will your deeds regard.
With lips as cold as any stone.
She kissed her children small,"
God bless you both my children dear—
With that the tears did fall.
These ?peeches that the brother spoke
To the sick couple there
The keeping of your children dear
8weet sister do not fear.
God never prosper me nor mine,
Nor else aught that I have,
If I do wrong your children dear
When you're laid in the grave.
Their parents being dead and gone,
Their children home he takes,
He brings them home into his house
And much of them he makes.
, He had not kept these pretty 1 abes
A twelvemonth and a day,
But for th^ir wealth he did devise
To take their life away.
He bargained with two ruffiians rude
That were of furious mood, '
For them to take these children both
And slay them in the wood.
�Then told his wife and all he had
He did thfe children send
To be brought up in fair London
With one'that was a friend.
They prate and prattle pleasantly,
As they rode on the way,
To those that should their butchers be
Aud take their life away.
So that the pretty talk they had
Made the murderers heart relent,
For they who took the deed to do,
Full sore they did repent.
Yet one of them more hard of heart
Did vow to do his charge,
Because the wretch had hired him
To pay him very large.
The other would not agree thereto,
So there they fell to stiife ,
With one another they did fight
To take the childrens' life'.
•
But he that was of mildest mood
Did slay the other there,
W ithin an unfrequented wood
The babes did quake with fear.
He took the children by the hand,
The tears stood in their eye,
He bade them come along with him,
He told them not to cry.
�6
l ; or two long miles he led them thus,
They loud for bread did call,
Stay here says he I'll bring you bread
I'll soon be from the hall*
The pretty babes with hand in hand,
Gaed wand'ring up and down,
But never more they saw the man
Approaching from the town.
Their pretty lips with blackberries
Were all besmeared and dyed,
But when they saw the darksome night
They sat them down and cried.
Thus wandered these two pretty babes
Till grief did end their life,
In one another's arms they died
Like babes wanting relief.
No burial these two pretty babes
O f any man receives,
Till Robin Ucd-breast carefully
Did cover them with leaves.
But now the heavy wrath of God
Upon the uncle fell,
A fearful fiend did haunt his house —
His conscience felt a hell.
His barns were fired, his goods consumed,
His lands were qarren made,
His cattle died within the house,
Nothing with him had staid.
\
�For in a voyage to Portugal,
Two of his sons did die;
But to conclude, himself was brought
Unto great misery.
Hfc pawn'd and mortgaged all his land,
Ere seven years came about'
But now at length this wicked act
By this means did come out.
The fellow that dLi take in band
These children for to kill,
For a robbery he was judged to die,
This was God's blessed will.
He did confess this very truth,
The which is here exprest,
The uncle died while he for debt
In prison long did rest.
All you that executors be made,
And overseers eke,
O f children that be fatherless
And infants mild and meek.
Take all example by this sight
And yield to each his right,
Lest God with such like miseries
Your wicked deeds requite.
�i
\
,
8
. <*•
MY O W N BLUE
BELL.
My own blue bell, my pretty blue bell,
I never will rove where roses dwell;
My wings you view of your own bright hue,
And oh never doubt that my heart s true blue.
Though oft I own I've foolishly flown,
T o peep at each bud that was newly blown,
I now have done with folly and fun,
For there's nothing like constancy under tire sun.
M y own blue bell, &c.
Some Belles are Blues, invoking the muse,
And talking of vast intellectual views;
Their crow quills' tip in the ink they dip.
And they prate with the tongue of a learned lip.
Blue belies like these, may be wise as they please,
But I love my blue bell that bends in the breeze,
Pride passes her by, but she charms my eye
With a tint that resembles the cloudless sky.
M y own blue bell, &c.
FINIS.
~
�
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Woodcut 034: Title-page illustration of two old men engaged in an animated conversation.
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The Babes in the wood. To which is added, My own Blue Bell.
Alternative Title
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My own Blue Bell
Extent
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8 pages
17 cm
Identifier
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<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9923266733505154">s0451b08</a>
Contributor
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Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
Format
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
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In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
Date
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1840-1850
Publisher
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Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
Type
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fairytale/folk lore
Subject
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Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow
Description
An account of the resource
Woodcut #34: Illustration on title-page of two old men engaged in an animated conversation.
# of Woodcuts: 1
Bib Context: title-page
Chapbook Date: 1841-1850
Chapbook Genre: fairytale/folk tale
Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Fashion (Clothing): upper class
Gender: man/men
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Title
A name given to the resource
Woodcut on title-page portraying two old men engaged in an animated conversation
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i M ^ l i l i l l
i
THE
1
THE MURDER DISCOVERED.
THE WIDOW AND H E R SON.
ENCOUNTER W I T H A LION.
THE SOLDIER'S W I F E .
THE CONFLICT B E T W E E N G R A N T AND
M ' P H E R S O N , AT H E L L BRIDGE, A
DANGEROUS PASS IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND.
GLASGOW:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
ijwmwmwm^mw®»
80.
��THE MURDER DISCOVERED.
I accompanied tlie gentleman into the garden
and was shown the place where her own father
found his murdered daughter. The grass was red
with blood, and the marks of feet were quite visible
on the ground, which happened to be soft and wet.
In endeavouring to trace the footsteps, we observed
that they led over some ground which had been
newly dug with the spade, and that they had made
a remarkably distinct impression 011 the loose soil,
On examining that impression we saw that there
was something particular in the form of the shoe.
It was uncommonly broad and large, and roundtoed, and, from its shape, gave reason to suspect
that its wearer was what is called fiat-soled. It had
also been lately pieced at the heel and toe, and
armed with broad-lieaded tacks, the points of which
were distinctly marked. This was an important
discovery, and Mr Johnson, who was accustomed
to use his pencil, set himself, with the assistance of
the surgeon, to take a correct measurement and
drawing of it on paper. I11 the meantime, Mr Thomson and , I continued the search, and having traced
the footsteps to the garden wall, the good minister,
who happened to be before me, uttered an exclamation of horror, and directed my attention to a stone
011 the top of the wall which was stained with blood.
On looking more minutely, we saw the marks of
bloody fingers on the stone, and concluded that the
murderer had made his retreat out of the garden at
this place. A plowed field on the other side of the
wall favoured our further search, and we tracked
the villian to a small piece of water where he had
probably washed his hands, and through which he
appeared to have waded, as the prints of feet were
�seen on the opposite bank, I threw off my shoes
and stockings, and followed the course we supposed
the murderer had taken as accurately as I could;
but as the ground on the other side was covered
with wood, I could trace him 110 farther. On my
return, I observed something bright at the bottom
of the water, which I took up, and found to be a
largecl clasped knife, with the letters R. 8, scratched
rudely on the handle. I shuddered to think that
with this very instrument the fatal deed was probably committed, and we were confirmed in this opinion by discovering marks of blood on the handle,
which the water had not wholly washed away.
When the ceremony of interment was over, and
before any person began to retire, Mr Thomson,
standing on a grave-stone, informed the company,
that it was the wish of the sheriff that no person
should bq permitted to leave the church-yard till an
examination had taken place, which might serve to
throw some light on this dark and horrid business.
" H u z z a ! " cried Robert Stewart; " that's right! I'll
guard the yett, and let none out." " You are saved
that trouble, young man," replied Mr Thomson, "for
there are constables already posted at the gate, and
none need attempt to escape," " I must request every
person," continued he, " t o sit down on the grass in
the vacant space at the north side of the church, arranged as nearly in rows as possible. That you
may not think this request unnecessary, I will explain to you the reason of it. The murderer, whoever lie was, left the impression of his shoe 011 some
new dug ground near the spot where the crime was
committed. An accurate drawing of the form and
dimensions of that impression has been taken by my
friend Mr Johnson, and is /low in my hand. Our
intention is to examine the feet of all who are
present and compare their shoes with this draught,
in hopes that this measure may tend to detect tlip
�guiltj person." My eyes were steadily fixed on
Robert Stewart during tliis speech, and I observed
his face turn reel and pale by turns. The marks of
guilt were visible, I thought, on liis countenance ;
but when Mr Thomson ceased speaking, be had recovered himself sufficiently to exclaim, 44 What good
'ill that do ? D'ye think the man that, killed the lass
wg,d liae the face to come here? or, if he was .here,
how could you find him out by the sted o' his foot'(
A hunder folk may ha'e shoon o' the same size, and
if made by ae shoemaker, they may be a' the same
shape too. It may mak innocent folk suspected,
and will do mair ill than good; sae for my part 1
winna consent till't. Come, let us be off lads." As
lie spake, he pulled some of his companions by the
arm, and turned towards the gate, with the intention
of making his escape. " The first man that leaves
the church-yard before he is examined," cried Mr
Johnson from among the crowd, 44 will be taken up
as a suspected person, and committed to jail. 1
have the authority of the sheriff for saying so." A
murmur of approbation succeeded his speech, and
Stewart turned back intimidated, and seated himself on a grave-stone at a little distance, folding his
arms across his breast, and kicking his heels against
one of the feet of the stone, in order to appear very
much at his ease. As soon as silence was obtained,
Mr Thomson, in a few simple words, refuted Stewart's
objections, and at the same time held up to public view
Mr Johnson's drawing of the footstep, to convince
the people that there was something so remarkably
peculiar in its shape, there could be little doubt of
finding out the person to whom it belonged, by the
means proposed. Every one now seemed eager to
have his shoes 'examined, and hastened to seat himself on the grass. Two shoemakers were employed
to take the measurement, and Mr Johnson accompanied them with the drawing in his hand. Stewart
�6
had placed himself in the middle of the crowd, and
I sa# him make one or two unsuccessful attempts
to shift his seat, so as to escape examination. When
at last his turn came, his colour suddenly changed
to a deadly pale, and with a horrid groan, he fell
senseless on the ground. He was restored by the
application of some water, which was quickly procured, and looking wildly round him, he exclaimed,
" You caimot say that I did it ! it was dark—who
saw me f 9 " God Almighty saw you, unhappy young
man ! " said Mr Johnson, iu a tone which thrilled
through my heart; for he had now taken the dimensions of Stewart's shoe, and found it correspond in
every particular to the copy he had drawn. The
murderer, for I had now no doubt that this was he,
having recovered his strength, started up on his feet,
and drawing a sharp-pointed knife from his pocket,
threatened to stab to the heart the man that laid
hands on him. He then made a desperate spring,
and before any person had sufficient presence of
mind to prevent him, reached the chureli-yard wall,
which he cleared without difficulty, but losing his
balance when he reached the other side, lie stumbled
forward, and fell on the point of his knife. He was
now overtaken and secured, and as he was losing
much blood, he was conveyed to the manse, which
happened to be the nearest house ; the surgeon, who
was present, attended him for the purpose of dressing his wound. The knife had entered the bowels,
and made a dangerous wound, which the surgeon
immediately pronounced likely to prove fatal.
The unfortunate wretch overheard the opinion of
the surgeon, and cried out with a savage joy, which
filled every person present with horror, 44 Then I'll
disappoint the law yet. If I could na mak my
escape in ae way, Vlldo it in another. Sleep, sleep,
they say, it's a sleep." " Alas! young man," said
Mr Thomson, shuddering as he spake, " in that
�raw*
sleep there are awful dreams to the wicked—dreams
do I say ? they are horrible realities. God grant
that I may not find—" " I t ' s a lie!" interrupted
he with a dreadful oath, " I ' l l no believe it—sae ye
needna preach to me." Mr Thomson, finding he
could do no good by continuing the conversation,
left the room; and it was not long after this he
learned that the wretched murderer died, still hardened and impenitent,
THE WIDOW AND H E R SON.
DURING my residence in the country, I used frequently to attend at the old village church. Its
shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark
oaken pannelling, all reverend with the gloom of
departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of
solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country
is so holy in its repose—such a pensive quiet reigns
over the face of nature, that every restless passion
is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us:
" Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
The bridle of the earth and sky."
I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man;
but there are feelings that visit me in a country
church, and the beautiful serenity of nature, which
I experience 110 where else ; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday, than
on any other day of the seven.
But in this church I felt myself continually thrown
back upon the world, by the frigidity and pomp of
the poor worms around me. The only being that
seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate
�s
piety of a true christian, was a poor decrepit old
woman, bending under tlie weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better
than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride
were still visible in her appearance. Her dress,
though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously
clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded
her; for she did not take her seat among the village
poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She
seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all
society, and to have nothing left but the hopes of
heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer—habitually conning
her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing
eyes would scarce permit her to read, but which she
evidently knew by heart—I felt persuaded that tho
faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven
far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the
organ, or the chaunting of the choir.
I am fond of loitering about country churches,
and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round which
a small stream made a beautiful bend, and then
wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow
scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees,
which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall
gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with
rooks and' crows generally wheeling about it. I
was seated there one still sunny morning, watching
two labourers who were digging a grave. They had
chosen one of tlie most remote and neglected corners of the church-yard ; where from the number of
nameless graves around, it would appear that the
indigent poor and friendless were huddled into the
earth. I was told that the new-made grave was
for the only son of a poor widow. While I was
meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank,
Which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll
�jjiiiii
'
or
of the bell announced the approach of the funeral.
They were the obsequies of poverty, with which
pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest
materials, without pall or covering, was borne by
some of the villagers. The sexton walked before^
with an air of cold indifference. There were no
mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe ;
but there was one real mourner, who feebly tottered
after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the
deceased-—the poor old woman whom I had seen
seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported
by a humble friend, who was endeavouring to comfort her. A few of the neighbouring poor had joined
the train, and some of the children of the village
were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner.
As the funeral train approached the grave, the
parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the
surplice, with prayer book in hand, and attended by,
the clerk. The service, Jiowever, was a mere act of
charity. The deceased had been destitute, and th«
surviver pennyless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well
fed priest moved but a few steps from the churchdoor,; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave,
and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a
frigid mummery of words.
I approached the grave. The coffin was placed
on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and
age of the deceased—4 4 George Somers, aged 26,
years." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel
down at the head of it. Her withered hands were
clasped, as if in prayer; but I could perceive by a
feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion
of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of
her son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart.
�10
The service being ended, preparations were made
to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that
bustling noise which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection ; directions given in the
cold tones of business ; the striking of spades into
sand and gravel; which at the grave of those we
love, is, of all sounds the most withering. The
bustle around seemed to awaken the mother from a
wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and
looked about with a faint wildness. As the men
approached with cords to lower the coffin into the
grave, she rung her hands, and broke into an agony
of grief. The poor woman who attended her took
her by the arm, endeavouring to raise her from the
earth, and to whisper something like consolation—
" Nay, now—nay, now-—don't take it so sorely to
heart.'' She could only shake her head and wring
her hands, as one not to be comforted.
As they lowered the body into the earth, the
creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her j but
when 011 some accidental obstruction there was a
justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him
who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering.
I could see no more—my heart swelled into my
throat—my eyes filled with tears —I felt as if I were
acting a barbarous part, in standing by and gazing
idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church-yard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed.
When I saw the mother slowly and painfully
quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains
of all that was dear to her 011 earth, and returning
to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her.
What, thought I, are the distresses of the,rich? they
have friends to soothe—pleasures to beguile—-a world
to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the
sorrows of the young? their growing minds soo&
�11
close above the wound—their elastic spirits soon
rise beneath the pressure—their green and ductilo
affections soon twine round new objects. But tho
sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances
to soothe—the sorrows of the aged, with whom life
at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no
after-growth of joy—the sorrows of the widow, aged,
solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the
last solace of her years; these are indeed sorrows
which make us feel the impotency of consolation.
It was sometime before I left the church-yard.
On my way homeward I met with the woman who
had acted as comforter ; she was just returned from
accompanying the mother to her lonely habitation,
and I drew from her some particulars connected
with the affecting scene I had witnessed.
The parents of the deceased had resided in tho
village from childhood. They had inhabited one of
the neatest cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and
led a happy and blameless life. They had one son,
who had grown up to be the staff and pride of their
age.—44 Oh, Sir I" said the good woman, " he was
such a likely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every
one around him, so dutiful to his parents! It did
one's heart good to see him on a Sunday, dressed
6ut in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, sup.
porting his old mother to church—for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm, than on
her goodmaii's ; and poor soul £he might well bo
proud of him, for a filler lad there was not in all the
Country round."
Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year
Of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into
the Service of one of tire small craft that plied on a
neighbouring river. He had not been long in this
fefiipldy, wben lie Iras eiltrapped by k press-gang, and
�carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of
his seizure ; but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was tie loss of their main prop. The
father, who was already infirm, grew heartless and
melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The widow,
left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer
support herself, and came upon the parish. Still
there was a kind feeling towards her throughout the
village, and a certain respect, as being one of the
oldest inhabitants. As 110 one applied for the cottage in which she had passed so many happy clays,
she was permitted to remain in it, where she lived
solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her little garden, which the neighbours
would now and then cultivate for her. It was but
a few days before the time at which these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some,
vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage door which faced the garden suddenly open ;
a stranger came out, and seemed to be looking
eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in
seaman's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale,,
and bore the air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her and hastened towards her; but
his steps were faint and faultering ; he sunk on his.
knees before her, and sobbed like a. child. The
poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and
wandering eye. 44 Oh my dear, dear mother! don't
you know your son? your poor boy George!" It was
the wreck of her once noble lad, who, shattered by
wounds, by sickness, and by foreign imprisonment,
had at length dragged his wasted limbs homeward,
to repose among the scenes of his childhood.
I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such
a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely
blended; still he was alive ; he was come home ; he
might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age ;
...
W' •
• ' - - •:• M. -Ira
•
�13
Nature, however, was exhausted in him ; and if any
thing had been. wanting to finish the work of fate,
the desolation of his native cottage had been sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which
his widowed mother had passed many a sleepless
night, and he never rose from it again.
The villagers, when they heard that George
ISomers had returned, crowded to see him, offering
every comfort and assistance that their humble
means afforded. He was too weak, however, to
talk; he could only look his thanks. His mother
was his constant attendant; and he seemed unwill
ing to be helped by any other hand.
There is something in sickness, that breaks down
the pride of manhood, that softens the heart, and
brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that
has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness
and despondency; who that has pined 011 a weary
bed, in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land,
but has thought 011 the mother " tfcat looked on his
childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? Oh! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son, that
transcends all other affections of the heart. It is
neither chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by
ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his
convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to
his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and exult
in his prosperity: and if adversity overtake him, he
will be the dearer to her by misfortune : and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and
cherish him ; and if the world beside cast him off,
she will be all the world to him.
Poor George Somers had known well what it was
to be in sickness, and none to soothe—lonely, and in
prison, and none to visit him. He could not endure
his mother from his sight; if she moved away, his
�fcye would follow her. She would sit for hours by
his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he
would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously
up until he saw her venerable form bending over
him, when he would take her hand, lay it on his
bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child.
In this way he died.
My fkst impulse on hearing this humble tale of
affliction, was to visit the cottage of the mourner,
and administer pecuniary assistance, and, if possible
comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that the
good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to
do every thing that the case admitted; and as the
poor know best how to console each other's sorrows,
I did not venture to intrude.
The next, Sunday I was at the village church,
when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old woman
tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on
the steps of the altar.
She had made an effort to put on something like
mourning for her son ; and nothing could be more
touching than this struggle between pious affection
and utter poverty : a black ribband or so,—a faded
black handkerchief, and one or two more such
humble attempts to express by outward signs the
grief which passes show. When I looked round on
the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the
cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned
magnificently over departed pride, and turned to
this poor widow/ bowed down by age and sorrow, at
the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers
and praises of a pious, though Broken heart, I felt
that this living monument of real grief was worth
them all.
I related her story to some of the wealthy m e m bers of the congregation, aiid they were moved by it.
They exerted tlieinselves to render lifer situation
more comfortable, and to lighten her afflictions. It
�m
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15
was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the
grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after she
was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left the neighbourhood, I heard with a feeling
of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her
last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, 1 1 that
1
world where sorrow is never known, and friends aro
never parted.
ENCOUNTER W I T H A LION.
THE day was exceedingly pleasant, and not a cloud
was to be seen. For a mile or two we travelled
along the banks of the river, which in this part
abounded in tall mat-rushes, The dogs seemed
much to enjoy prowling about and examining every
bushy place, and at last met with some object among
the rushes, which caused them to set up a most
vehement and determined barking. We explored
the spot with caution, as we suspected, from the peculiar tone of the bark, that it was what it proved
to be, lions. Having encouraged the dogs to drive
them out, a task -which they performed with great
willingness, we had a full view of an enormous black
mained lion and lioness. The latter was seen only
for a minute, as she made her escape up the river,
under concealment of the rushes; but the lion came
steadily forward, and stood still to look at us. At
this moment we felt our situation not free from danger, as the animal seemed preparing to spring upon
us, and we were standing on the bant, at the distance of only a few yards from him, most of us toeing
on foot and unarmed, without any visible possibility
of escaping. I had given up my horse to the hunters,
�JLU
and was 011 foot myself; but there was no time for
fear, and it was useless to attempt avoiding' him.
I stood well on my guard, holding my pistols in my
hand, with my finger 011 the trigger, and those who
had muskets, kept themselves prepared in the same
manner. But at this instant the clogs boldly flew
in between us and the lion, and surrounding him,
kept him at bay by their violent and resolute barking. The courage of these faithful animals was most
admirable ; they advanced up to the side of the huge
beast, and stood making the greatest clamour in his
face, without the least appearance of fear. The
Hon, conscious of his strength, remained unmoved
at their noisy attempts, and kept his head towards
us. At one moment, the dogs, perceiving his eyes
thus engaged, had advanced close to his feet, and
seemed as if they would actually seize hold of him;
but they paid dearly for their imprudence, for, without discomposing the majestic and steady attitude
in which he stood fixed, he merely moved his paw,
and at the next instant I beheld two lying dead.
In doing this he made so little exertion, that it was
scarcely perceptible by what means they had been
killed. Of the time which we gained by the interference of the dogs, not a moment was lost; we
fired upon him; one of the balls went through his
side just between the short ribs, and the blood immediately began to flow; but the animal still remained standing in the same position. We had no
doubt that he would spring upon us ; every gun was
instantly re-loaded ; but happily we were mistaken,
and were not sorry to see him move quietly away,
though I had hoped in a few minutes to have been
enabled to take hold of his paw without danger.
- - ms
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�\%7
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.
IT is now many years since the first battalion of the
17th Regiment of Foot, under orders to embark for
India,—that far distant land, where so many of our
brave countrymen have fallen victims to the climate,
and where so few have slept in what soldiers call
44 the bed of glory,"—were assembled in the barrack
yard of Chatham, to be inspected previously to their
passing on board the transports, which lay moored
in the Downs.
It was scarcely day-break, when the merry drum
and fife were heard over all parts of the town, and
the soldiers were seen sallying forth from their
quarters, to join the ranks, with their bright firelocks on their shoulders, and the knapsacks and
canteens fastened to their backs by belts as white
as snow. Each soldier was accompanied by some
friend or acquaintance,—or by some individual, with
a dearer title to his regard than either; and there
was a strange and sometimes a whimsical mingling
of weeping and laughter among the assembled groups.
The second battalion was to remain in England,
and the greater portion of the division was present,
to bid farewell to their old companions in arms.
But among husbands and wives, uncertainty as to
their destiny prevailed—for the lots were yet to be
drawn—the lots that were to decide which of the
women should accompany the regiment, and which
should remain behind. Ten of each company were
to be taken, and chance was to be th© only arbiter.
Without noticing what passed elsewhere, I confined
my attention to that company which was commanded by my friend Captain Loden, a brave and excellent officer, who, I am sure, has no more than myself forgotten the scene to which I refer.
The women had gathered round the flag-serjeant,
�18
who held the lots in his cap, ten of them marked,
" to go," and all the others containing the fatal
words "to remain," It was a moment of dreadful
suspense, and never have I seen the extreme of
anxiety so powerfully depicted in the countenances
of human beings, as in the countenances of each of
the soldiers' wives who composed that group. One
advanced and drew her ticket; it was against her,
and she retreated sobbing. Another, she succeeded;
and giving a loud huzza, ran off to the distant ranks
to embrace her husband, A third came forward with
hesitating steps: tears were already chasing each
other down her cheek, and there was an unnatural
paleness on her interesting and youthful countenance!
She put her small hand into the serjeant's cap, and
I saw by the rise and fall of her bosom even more
than her looks revealed. She unrolled the paper,
looked upon it, and with a deep groan, fell back and
fainted. So intense was the anxiety of every person present, that she remained unnoticed/-until the
tickets had been drawn, and the greater number of
the women had left the spot. I then looked round
and beheld her supported by her husband, who was
kneeling upon the ground, gazing upon her face,
and drying her fast falling tears with his coarse
handkerchief, and now and then pressing it to his
own manly cheek.
Captain Loden advanced towards them.—" I am
sorry* Henry Jenkins," said he, " that fate has been
against you; but bear up and be stout-hearted,"
" I am so, Captain," said the soldier, as he looked up, and passed his rough hand across his face »
"but 'tis a hard thing to part from a wife, and she
so soon to be a mother."
" Oh! Captain," sobbed the young woman, "as you
are both a husband and a father, do not take him
from me. I have no friend in the wide world, but
one, and will you let him bide with me? Oh! take
�19
me with him,—take me with him,—for tlie lore bf
God take me with him, Captain." She fell oii her
knees, laid hold of the officer's sash, clasped it firmly between her hands, and looked up in his face, Exclaiming, " O h ! leave me my only hope, at least till1
God has given me another ;" and repeated in heartrending accents, " Oh [ take me with him, take me
with him!"
The gallant officer was himself in tears; he knew
that it was impossible to grant the poor wife's petition, without creating much discontent in his company, and he gazed upon them with that feeling
with which a good man always regards the sufferings he cannot alleviate. At this moment, a smart
young soldier stepped forward, and stood before the
Captain, with his hand to his cap.
" And what do you want, my good fellow?" said
the officer.
" My name's John Carty, plase yer lionour, and
I belong to the second battalion."
" And what do you want here ?"
Only, yer honour,'7 said Carty, scratching his
head, "that poor man and his wife there, is sorrowhearted at parting, I'm thinking."
" Well, and what then ?"
" W h y , yer honour, they say I am a likely lad,
and I know I'm fit for sarviee,—and if your honour
would only let that poor fellow take my place in
Captain Bond's company, and let me take his place
in yours,—why, yer honour would make two poor
things happy, and save the life of one of 'em, I'm
thinking."
Captain Loden considered for a few minutes, and
directing the young Irishman to remain where he
was, proceeded to his brother officer's quarters. He
soon made arrangements for the exchange of the
soldiers, and returned to the place where he had
left them,
�20
" Well, Jolin Carty," said he, " you go to Bengal
with me, and you, Henry Jenkins, remain at home
with your wife."
" Thank yer honour," said John Carty, again
touching his cap as he walked off.
Henry Jenkins and his wife both rose from the
ground, and rushed into each other's arms. 44 God
bless you, Captain," said the soldier, as he pressed
his wife closer to his bosom. " O h , bless him for
ever!" said the wife ; " bless him with prosperity,
and a happy heart!—bless his wife, and bless his
children ;•" and she again fainted.
The officer, wiping a tear from his eye, and exclaiming, " May you never want a friend when I
am far from you,—you, my good lad, and your
amiable and loving wife !" passed on to his company.
The happy couple went in search of John Carty.
*
*
*
*
*
*
About twelve months since, as two boys were
watching the sheep confided to their charge, upon
a wide heath, in the county of Somerset, their attention was attracted by a soldier, who walked along
apparently with much fatigue, and at length stopped
to rest his weary limbs beside the old finger-post,
which at one time pointed out the way to the neighbouring villages, which now afforded no information
to the traveller, for age had rendered it useless.
The boys were gazing upon him with much curiosity, when he beckoned them towards him, and enquired the way to the village of Eldenby.
The eldest, a fine intelligent lad of about twelve
years of age, pointed to the path, and asked if lio
was going to any particular house in the village,
" No, my little lad," said the soldier ; "but it is
on the high road to Frome, and I have friends there;
but, in truth, I am very wearied, and perhaps may
�21
find in yon village some person who will befriend a
poor fellow, and look to God for a reward.
" Sir," said tfie boy, " m y father was a soldier,
many years ago, and he dearly loves to look upon a
red coat; if you come with me, you may be sure of
a welcome."
" And you can tell us stories about foreign parts,''
said the younger lad, a fine chubby-cheeked fellow,
who, with his watch-cloak thrown carelessly over his
shoulder, and his crook in his right hand, had been
minutely examining every portion of the soldier's
dress.
The boys gave instructions to their intelligent
dog, who, they said, would take good care of the
sheep during their absence ; and in a few minutes
the soldier and his young companions reached the
gate of a flourishing farm house, which had all the
external tokens of prosperity and happiness. The
younger boy trotted on a few paces before, to give
his parents notice that they had invited a stranger
to rest beneath their hospitable roof; and the soldier
had just crossed the threshold of the door, when he
was received by a joyful cry of recognition from his
old friends, Henry Jenkins and his wife ; and he was
welcomed as a brother to the dwelling of those, who,
in all human probability, were indebted to him for
their present enviable station.
It is unnecessary to pursue this story further than
to add, that John Carty spent his forlough at Eldenby farm ; and that at the expiration of it, his discharge was purchased by his grateful friends. He
is now living in their happy dwelling ; and his care
and exertions have contributed greatly to increase
their prosperity. Nothing lias gone wrong with
them since John Carty was their steward.
" Cast thy bread upon the waters," said the wise
man, " and it shall be returned to thee after many
days."
�22
HELL BRIDGE,
THERE is a narrow pass between the mountains in
the neighbourhood of Bendearg, in the Highlands of
Scotland, which, at a little distance, has the appearance of an immense artificial bridge thrown over a
tremendous chasm; but on nearer approach, is seen
to be a wall of nature's own masonry, formed of vast
and rugged bodies of solid rock, piled on each other,
as if in the giant's sport of architecture. Its sides
are in some places covered with trees of a considerable size ; and the passenger wlio has a head steady
enough to look down, may see the eyrie of birds of
prey beneath his feet. The path across is so narrow,
that it cannot admit of two persons passing; and,
indeed, none but natives would attempt the dangerous route, though it saves a circuit of three miles:
yet it sometimes happens that two travellers meet,
owing to the curve formed by the pass preventing a
view across from either side ; and when this is the
case, one lies down, while the other crawls over his
body. One day, a Highlander, walking along the
pass, when he had gained the highest part of the
arch, observed another coming leisurely up, and being himself one of the patrician order, called him to
lie down ; the person, however, disregarded the command, and the Highlanders met on the summit.
They were Cairn and Bendearg, of two families in
enmity to each other. " I was first at the top," said
Bendearg, " and called out first, lie down, that I
might pass over in peace." 44 When the Grant prostrates himself before the M'Pherson," answered the
other, " it must be with a sword through his body."
" Turn back, then," said Bendearg, " and repass as
you came ;" " Go back yourself, if you like it," replied Grant; " I will not be the first of my name to
turn before the M'Pherson." They then threw
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28
their bonnets over the precipice, and advanced with
a slow and cautious pace closer to each other—they
were both unarmed. Stretching their limbs like
men preparing for a desperate struggle, they plant,
ed their feet firmly 011 the ground, compressed their
lips, knit their brows, and fixing fierce and watchful eyes on each other, stood prepared for an onset.
They both grappled at the same moment; but,
being of an equal strength, were unable to shift each
other's position—standing fixed on the rock, with
suppressed breath, and muscles strained to the top
of their bent, like statues carved out of the solid
stone. At length M'Plierson, suddenly removing
his right foot, so as to give him greater purchase,
stooped his body, and bent his enemy down with
him by main strength, till they both leaned over
the precipice, looking downward into the terrible
abyss. The contest was as yet doubtful, for Grant
had placed his foot firmly 011 an elevation at the
brink, and had equal command of his enemy, but at
this moment M'Plierson sunk slowly any firmly 011
his knee, and while Grant suddenly started back,
stooping to take the supposed advantage, whirled
him over his head into the gulf. M'Pherson fell
backwards, his body partly hanging over the rock,
a fragment gave way beneath him, and he sunk
farther, till catching with a desperate effort at the
solid stone above, he regained his footing. " There
was a pause of death-like stillness, and the bold
heart of M'Pherson felt sick and faint. At length,
as if compelled unwillingly by some mysterious
jps feeling, lie looked down over the precipice. Grant
J <• had caught with a death-like grip, by the rugged
';)
11 point of a rock—his enemy was almost within his
?J
reach. His face was turned upward, and there was
||j in it horror and despair ; but he uttered no word or
cry. The next moment he loosed his hold, and his
brains were dashed out before the eyes of his heredi-
�24
tai7 foe ; the mangled body disappeared among tlie
trees, and his last heavy and hollow sound arose
from the bottom. M'Pherson returned home an
altered man. He purchased a commission in the
army, and fell bravely in the wars of the Peninsula.
The Gaelic name of the place where this tragedj
was acted signifies HELL BRIDGE.
FINIS,
�
Dublin Core
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Title
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Woodcut 034: Title-page illustration of two old men engaged in an animated conversation.
Document
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Dublin Core
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Title
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The Story Teller. The Murder Discovered. The Widow and her son. Encounter with a Lion. The soldier's Wife. The Conflict between Grant and McPherson, At hell Bridge, A Dangerous Pass in the Highlands of Scotland.
Identifier
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<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953134493505154">s0231b06</a>
Alternative Title
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The Murder Discovered.
The Widow and her son.
Encounter with a Lion.
The soldier's Wife.
The Conflict between Grant and McPherson,
At hell Bridge,
A Dangerous Pass in the Highlands of Scotland
Extent
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24 pages
Is Part Of
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Chapbook #6 in a bound collection of 20 chapbooks
Description
An account of the resource
80 is printed at the bottom of the title-page.
Woodcut #34: Illustration on title-page of two old men engaged in an animated conversation.
Coverage
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Chatham, Kent, England
India
Subject
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Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow
Highlands
Crime
Highlands
Is Referenced By
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<a title="http://library.sc.edu/spcoll/britlit/roycol.html" href="http://library.sc.edu/spcoll/britlit/roycol.html">G. Ross Roy Collection, University of South Carolina Libraries </a>
Contributor
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Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
Rights
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In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
Date
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1840-1850
Format
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
Publisher
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Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
Type
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moral tales
Bib Context: title-page
Chapbook Date: 1841-1850
Chapbook Genre: religion & morals
Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Fashion (Clothing): upper class
Gender: man/men