53 10 639 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/90601bf638b8fcd11fd68c368c090f7f.pdf 317c468756be4ce7cefcbdbab8901855 PDF Text Text BLUE BEARD; OR, THE EFFECTS OF FEMALE CURIOSITY. T0 WHICH IS ADDED THE MURDER HOLE AN ANCIENT LEGEND. GLASGOW. P I T DFORT E BOOKSELLERS. RN E H 20 ��THE STORY OF BLUE BEARD. THERE was, some time ago, a gentleman who was extremely rich: he had elegant town and country-houses; his dishes and plates were of gold or silver; his rooms were hung with damask; his chairs and sofas were covered with the richest silks : and his carriages were all magnificently gilt with gold. But, unfortunately, this gentleman had a blue beard, which made him so very frightful and ugly, that none of the ladies in the neighbourhood would venture to go into his company. It happened that a lady of quality, who lived very near him, had two daughters, who were both extremely beautiful. Blue Beard asked her to bestow one of them upon him in marriage, leaving to herself the choice which of the two it should be. They both, however, again and again refused to marry Blue Beard; but to be as civil as possible, they each pretended that they refused because she would not deprive �4 her sister of the opportunity of marrying so much to her advantage. But the truth was, they could not bear the thoughts of having a husband with a blue beard: and, besides, they had heard of his having already been married to several wives, and nobody could tell what had afterwards become of them. A s Blue Beard wished very much to gain their favour, he invited the lady and her daughters, and some ladies who were on a visit at their house, to accompany him to one of his country seats, where they spent a whole week; during which nothing was thought of but parties for hunting and fishing, music, dancing, collations, and the most delightful entertainments. No one thought of going to bed, and the nights were passed in merriment of every kind. In short, the time had passed so agreeably, began to think that the beard which had so much terrified her was not so very blue; and that the gentleman to whom it belonged was vastly civil and pleasing. Soon after they returned home, she told her mother that she had no longer any were married. About a month after the marriage had objection that th to �5 taken place. Blue Beard told his wife that he should be obliged to leave her for a few weeks, as he had some business to do in the country. He desired her to be sure to procure herself every kind of amusement; to invite as many of her friends as she liked, and to treat them with all sorts o f delicacies, that the time might pass agreeably during his absence, " H e r e , " said he, " a r e the keys of the two large wardrobes. This is the key of the great box that contains the best plate, which we use for company: this belongs to my strong box, where I keep my money; and this to the casket in which are all my jewels. Here also is a master key to all the apartments in my house: but this small key belongs to the closet at the end of the long gallery on the ground floor. I give you leave," continued he, " to open or do what you like with all the rest excepting enter, nor even put the key into the lock, for all the world. Should you disobey me, expect the most dreadful of punishments." She promised to obey his orders in the most faithful manner; and Blue Beard, after tenderly embracing her, stepped into his carriage and drove away. The friends of the bridle did not, on this occasion, wait to be invited, so impatient were they to see all the riches and magni this closet: this, �6 -icence had been prevented from paying their of the bridegroom. she had gained by m wedding visit by t No sooner were they arrived than they impatiently ran from room to room, from cabinet to cabinet, and then from wardrobe to wardrobe, examining each with the utmost curiosity, and declaring that the last was still richer and more beautiful than what, they had seen the moment before. A t length they came to the drawing rooms, admiration and astonishment were still increased by the c g i r a n d o l e s , a n d l o o k i n g - g l a s s e s , the frames o f w h i c h were s i l v e r g i l t , mostr i c h l yornamented,a n d in w h from head to foot. In short, nothing could exceed the magnificence o f wha did not cease to extol and envy the g o o d fortune o f their friend, who all this time was far from being amused b y thefinecomplimentsthey paid desire to see what was in the closet her husband had forbidden her to open. So great indeed was her curiosity, that, withoutrecollectin her guests, she descended a private staircase that led to it, and in such a hurry, that she �7 as two or three times in danger of breaking her neck. When she reached the door of the closet she stopped for a few moments to think of the charge her husband had given her, and that he would not fail to keep his punishing her very severely, should she disobey know what was in the inside, that she determined to venture in spite of every thing. She accordingly, with a trembling hand, put the key into the lock, and the door immediately opened. The window-shutters being closed, she at first saw nothing; but in a short time she perceived that the floor was covered with clotted blood, on which the bodies of several dead women were lying, These were all the wives whom Blue Beard had married and murdered, one after another. She was ready to sink with fear, and the key of the closet door, which she held in her hand, fell on the floor. When she had somewhat recovered from her fright, she took it up, locked the door, and hastened to her own room, that she might have a little time to get into humour for amusing her visitors; but this she found impossible, so greatly was she terrified by what she had seen. As she observed that the key of the closet had got stained with blood in falling on the floor, she wiped it two or three times over to him. But she w �8 clean it; still, however, the blood remained the same as before, she next washed it,but the blood did not stir at all; she then scoured it with brickdust, and afterwards with sand, but notwithstanding all she could do, the, blood was still there; for the key was a fairy, who was Blue Beard's friend, so that as fast as she got it off on one side, it appeared again on the other. Early in the evening Blue Beard returned home, saying, he had not proceeded far his journey before he was met by a messenger w business was happily concluded without him being present: upon which his wife said every thing she could think of, to make him believe she was transported with joy at his unexpected return. The next morning he asked her for the keys: she gave them to him; but as she could not help showing her fright, Blue Beard easily guessed what had happened, "'How is it," said he, "that the key of the closet upon the ground-floor is not here? " I s it not? then I must have left it on. my dressing-table," said she, and left the room in tears. " B e sure you give it me by and by," cried Blue Beard. After going several times backwards and ] forwards, pretending to look for the key,she was at last obliged to give it to Blue Beard. �9 He looked at it attentively , and then said . " How came the blood upon the k e y ? " " I am sure I do not know," replied the lady turning at the same time as pale as death, " You do not know," said Blue Beard sternly: " but I know well enough. You have been in the closet on the ground-floor : Vastly well, madam; since you are so mightily fond of this closet, you shall certainly take your place among the ladies you saw there." His wife, almost dead with fear, fell upon her knees; asked his pardon a thousand times for her disobedience, and entreated him to any heart that was not harder than a rock. forgive her; lookin But Blue Beard answered; " No, no, madam; you shall die this very minute !" " A l a s !" said the poor trembling creature, " i f I must die, allow me, at least, a little time to say my prayers." " I give you," replied " h a l f a quarter of an hour; not one moment longer." When Blue Beard had left her to herself, she called her sister; and after telling her, as well as she could for sobbing, that she had but half a quarter of an hour to live; " Pr'ythee," said she, "sister A n n , " (this was her sister's name,) " r u n up to the top of the tower, and see if my brothers �10 in sight; for they promised to come and visit me to-day; and if you see them make a sign for them to gallop as fast as possible." Her sister instantly did as she was desired, and the terrified lady every minute called out to her, " Ann ! sister Ann ! do you see any one coming ? " and her sister answered, " 1 see nothing but the sun, which makes a dust, and the grass which looks green. In the meanwhile, Blue Beard, with a great scimetar in his hand, bawled as loud as he could to his wife " Come down instantly; " One moment longer, I beseech you," replied she; and again called softly to her sister: " Sister Ann, do you see any one coining?" To which she answered, " I see nothing but the sun, which makes a dust, and the grass which looks green," Blue Beard now again bawled out, " C o m e down, I say, this very moment, or I shall come and fetch you." " I am coming: indeed I will come in one minute;" sobbed his unhappy wife. Then she once more cried out, " A n n ! sister Ann ! do you see any one coming?" " I see," said her sister, " a cloud of dust a little to the left." " Do you think it is my brothers?" continued the wife. " A l a s ! no, dear sister," replied she; " i t is only a flock of sheep," or I w �11 Will you come down or not, madam ? " said Blue Beard, in the greatest rage imaginable, "Only one single moment more," answered she. And then she called out for the last time, " Sister Ann ! do you see any one coming ?" " 1 see," repli horseback coming to the house ; but they are still at a great distance." "Godbepraised!" cried she ; it is my brothers : give them a sign to make what haste they can. At the same moment Blue Beard cried out so loud for her to come down, that his voice shook the whole house. The poor lady with her hair loose, and her eyes swimming in tears, instantly came down, and fell on her knees to Blue Beard, and was going to beg him to spare her life ; but he interrupted her saying, " All this is of no use at all, for you shall die then seizing her with one raising the scimetar beheld in the other, was going with one blow to strike off her head. The unfortunate creature turning towards him, desired to have a single moment alllowed her to recollect herself. 4 No, no," said Blue Beard, "1 will give you no more time, 1 am determined you have had too much already and again �12 raising his arm Just at this Instant a loud knocking was heard at the gates, which made Blue Beard wait for a moment to see who it was. The gates were opened, and two officers, dressed in their regimentals,entere instantly to Blue Beard; who seeing they were his wife's brothers, endeavoured to escape from their presence; but they pursued and seized him before he had gone twenty steps; and, plunging their swords into his body, he immediately fell down dead at their feet. The poor wife who was almost as dead as her husband, was unable at first to rise and embrace her brothers. She soon, however, recovered; and as Blue Beard had no heirs, she found herself the lawful possessor of his great riches. She employed a portion of her vast fortune in giving a marriage dowry to her sister Ann, who soon after became the wife of a young gentleman by whom she had long been beloved. Another part she employed in buying captains' commissions for her two brothers; and the rest she presented to a most worthy gentleman, whom she married soon after, and whose kind treatment soon made her forget Blue Beard's cruelty. THE END, �THE MURDER HOLE. AN ANCIENT LEGEND. In a remote district of country belonging to Lord Cassillis, between Ayrshire and Galloway, about three hundred years ago, a moor of apparently boundless extentstretchedsev the eye of the traveller by the sameness and desolation of its appearance; not a tree varied the prospect not a shrub enlivened the eye . by its freshness nor a native flower bloomed to adorn this ungenial soil. One 'lonesome desert' reached the horizon on every side, with nothing to mark that any mortal had ever visited the scene before, except a few rude huts that were scattered near its centre; and a road, or rather pathway, for those whom business or necessity obliged to pass in that direction. A t length, deserted as this wild region had always been, it became still more gloomy. Strange rumours arose, that the path of unwary travellers had been beset on this ' blasted heath,' and that treachery and murder had intercepted the solitary stranger as be traversed its dreary �14 extent. When several persons, who were known to have passed that way, mysteriously disappeared, the enquiries of their relatives led to a strict and anxious investigation • but though the officers of justice were sent to scour the country, and examine the inhabitants, not a t persons in question, nor of any place of concealment which cou lawless or desperate to horde in. Yet, as inquiry became stricter, and the disappearance of individuals inhabitants of the neighbouring hamlet were agitated by the most fearful apprehensions. Some declared that the death-like stillness of the night was often interrupted by the sudden and preternatural cries of more than mortal anguish, which seemed to arise in the distance; and a shepherd, one evening, who had lost his way on the moor, declared he had approached three mysterious figures, who seemed struggling against each other with supernatural energy, till at length one of them, with a frightful scream, suddenly sunk into the earth. Gradually the inhabitants deserted their dwellings on the heath, and settled in distant quarters, till at length but one of thecottag woman and her two sons, who loudly lamented that poverty �15 solitary spot. Travellers who frequented this' road now generally did so in groups, to protect each other: and if night overtook them, they usually stopped at the humble cottage of the old woman and her sons, where cleanliness compensated for the want of luxury, and where, over a blazing fire of peat, the bolder spirits smiled at the imaginary terrors of the road, and the more timid trembled as they listened to the tales of terror and affright with which their hosts entertained them. One gloomy and tempestuous night in November, a pedlar boy hastily traversed the moor. Terrified to find himself involved in darkness amidst its boundless wastes, a thousand frightful traditions connected with this dreary scene, darted across his mind every blast, as it swept in hollow gusts over the heath, seemed to teem with the sighs of departed spirits and the birds, as they winged their way above his head, appeared, with loud and shrill cries, to warn him of approaching danger. The whistle with which he usually beguiled his weary pilgrimage, died away in silence, and he groped with trembling and uncertain steps, which sounded too loudly in his ears. The promise of Scripture occurred to his memory, and he revived his courage. I will be unto thee as a rock in the desert, and as a �16 place of safety.' This heart-consoling promise inspired him with confidence, and he continued for a time to make, with renewed vigour his way a A t length, however, wearied and faint through fatigue, he was compelled to cast his pack on the ground, and in the midst of the pitiless storm rested himself thereon. Thus situated, he frequently, and with much anxiety looked, to see, that if perchance, some place of shelter might be near, but nothing met his eye but darkness, and that occas ever anon struck through the gloom. Resigning himself to his unhappy fate, the poor benighted pedlar boy, anticipated nothing but perishing ere the cheering light of day should again lighten the earth. Despair had a second time nearly taken possession of his soul, when he suddenly started to his feet, and turning round, to his great astonishment and joy, the light of a taper appeared to come from a pot not far distant; a few minutes' walk brought him to he window whence the light issued, he looked in and sawseveral round a cheerful fire. He now made for the door, which when he came at was firm �17 ly locked. The boy in a frolicsome mood, thoughtlessly tapped at the window, when they all instantly started up withconsternationst with an undefined feeling of apprehension ; but before he had time to reflect a moment longer, one of the men suddenly darted out of the door, and seizing the boy roughly by the shoulder, dragged him violently into the cottage. "1 am not what you take me for,' said the boy, attempting to laugh, 'but only the poor pedlar who visited you last year.' c Are you alone ?' enquired the old woman in a harsh deep tone, which made his heart thrill with apprehension. ' Yes, said the boy, 6 I am alone here; and alas !' he added with a burst of uncontrollable feeling, ' I am alone in the wide world also ! Not a person exists who would assist me in distress, or shed a single tear if I died this very night.' ' Then you are welcome!' said one of the men with a sneer, while he cast a glance of peculiar expression at the other inhabitants of the cottage. It was with a shiver of apprehension, rather than of cold, that the boy drew towards the fire, and the looks which the old woman and her sons exchanged, made him wish that he had preferred the shelter of any one of the roofless cottages which were scat- �18 tered persons of such dubious aspect. Dreadful surmises flitted across his brain ; and terrors which he could neither combat nor examine imperceptibly stole into his mind; but alone, and beyond the reach of assistance, he not increase the danger by revealing them. The room to which he retired for the night had a confused and desolate aspect; the curtains seemed to have been violently torn down from the bed, and still hung in tatters around it the table seemed to have been broken by some violent concussion, and the fragments of various pieces of furniture lay scattered upon the floor. The boy begged that a light might burn in his apartment till he was asleep, and anxiously examined the fastenings of the door; but they seemed to have been wrenched asunder on some former occasion, and were still left rusty and broken. near, rathe resolved It was long ere the pedlar attempted to compose his agitated nerves to rest; but at length his senses began to/steep themselves in forget fulness,' though his imagination remained painfully active, and presented new scenes of terror to his mind, with all the vividness of reality. He fancied himself again wandering on the heath, which appeared beckoned to him not to enter the cottage, to to be people �19 and as he approached it, they vanished with a hollow and despairing cry. The scene then changed, and he found himself again seated by the fire, where the countenances of the men scowled upon him with the most terrifying malignity, and he thought the old woman suddenly seized him by the arms, and pinioned them to his side. Suddenly the boy was startled from these agitated slumbers, by what sounded to him like a cry of distress; he was broad awake in a moment, and sat up in bed, but the noise was not repeated, and he endeavoured to persuade himself it had only been a continuation door, he observed underneath it, a broad red stream of blood silently stealing its course along the floor. Frantic with alarm, it was but the work of a moment to spring from his bed, and rush to the door, through a chink of which, his eye nearly dimmed with affright, he could watch unsuspected, whatever might be done in the adjoining room. of the fearful His fear vanished instantly when he perceived that it was only a goat that they had been slaughtering; and he was about to steal into his bed again, ashamed of hisgroundlessapprehe by a conversation which transfixed him hast with terror to the spot �20 This is an easier job than youhadyesterdays ' I wish all the throats "we've cut were as easily and quietly done. Did you ever hear such a noise as the old gentleman made last night! It was well we had no neighbour within a dozen of miles, or they must have heard his cries for help and mercy.' ' Don't speak of it,' replied the other; 6 1 was never fond of bloodshed.' ' H a ! h a ! ' said the other with a sneer, ' you say so, do you ?' ' I do,' answered the first gloomily; ' the Murder Hole is the thing for me that tells no tales a single scuffle a single plunge and the fellow is dead and buried to your hand in a moment. I would defy all the officers in Christendom to discover any mischief ' A y , Nature did us a good turn when she contrived such a place as that. W h o that saw a hole in the heath, filled with clear water, and so small that the long grass meets over the top o f it, would suppose that the depth is unfathomable, and that it conceals more than forty people who have met their deaths there ? it sucks them in like a leech! ' How do you mean to dispatch the lad in the next room ?' asked the old woman in an nuder tone. The elder son made her a sign there.' �21 to be silent, and pointed 'towards the door where their trembling auditor was concealed, while the other, with an expression of brutal ferocity, passed the blood knife across his throat. The pedlar boy possessed a bold and daring spirit, which was were so completely against him, that flight seemed his best resource. He gently stole to the window, and haying by one desperate effort broke the rusty bolt by which the casement had been fast without noise or difficulty. This betokens good, thought he, pausing an instant in dreadful hesitation what direction to take. This momentary deliberation was fearfully interrupted by the hoarse voice of the men calling aloud, 'The boy has fled let loose the blood-hound! These words sunk like a death-knell on his heart, for escape appeared now impossible, and his nerves seemed to melt away like wax in a furnace. Shall I perish without a struggle! thought he, rousing himself to exertion, and, helpless and terrified as a hare pu hunters, he fled across the heath. Soon the baying of the blood-hound broke the stillness of the night, and the voice of its masters sounded through the moor, as they endeavoured to accelerate its spe �22 breathlesstheboy pursued his hopeless career, but every moment his pursuers seemed to gain upon his failing steps. The hound was unimpeded by the darkness, which was to him so impenetrable, and its noise rung louder and deeper on his ear while the lanterns which were carried by the men gleamed near and distinct upon his vision. A t his fullest speed, the terrified boy fell with violence over a heap of stones, and having nothing on but his shirt, he was severely cut in every limb. With one wild cry to heaven for assistance, he continued prostrate on the earth, bleeding, and nearly insensible. The hoarse voices of the men, and the still louder baying of the dog, were now so near, that instant destruction seemed inevitable, already he felt himself in their fangs, and the bloody knife of the assassin appeared to gleam before his eyes, despair renewed his energy, and once more, in an agony of affright that seemed verging towards madness, he rushed forward so rapidly that terror seemed to have given wings to his feet. A loud cry near the spot he had left arose on his ears withoutsuspending at the place where the Pedlar's wounds bled so profusely, and deeming the chase now over, it lay down there, and could not be induced to proceed ; in vain the men beat it �23 with frantic violence, and tried again to put the hound on the scent, the sight of blood had satisfied the animal that its work was done, and with dogged resolution it resisted every inducement to pursue the same scent a second time. The pedlar boy in the meantime paused not in hi dawned and still as he fled, the noise of steps seemed to pursue him, and the cry of his assassins still sounded in the distance. Ten miles off he reached a village, and spread instant alarm throughout theneighbourhoodthe inh one accord into a tumult of indignation several of them had friends on the heath, and all united inproceeding her sons, who were nearly torn to pieces by their violence. Three gibbets wereimmediatelyrais culprits confessed before their execution to the destruction of nearly fifty victims in the Murder Hole which they pointed out, and near which they suffered the penalty of their crimes. The bones of several murderedperson the abyss into which they had been thrust; but so narrow is the aperture, and so extraordinary the depth, are inclined to coincide in the tradition of the country people that it is unfathomable. �24 The scene of these events still continues nearly as it was 300 of the old cottage, with its blackened walls, (haunted of course by a thousand evil spirits,) and the extensive moor, on which a more modern inn (if it can be dignified with an epithet) resembles its predecessor in every thing but the character of its inhabitants; the landlord is deformed, but possessesextraordinar untaught skill, and if any discord be heard in the house, or any murder committed in it, this is his only instrument. His daughter has inherited her father's talent, and learnt all his tales of terror and superstition, which she relates with infinite spirit; when she describes, with all the animation of an eyewitness, the str and trying to drag in their assassin as an expiring effort of vengeance, when you are told that for three hundred years the clear waters in this diamond of the desert have remained untasted by mortal lips, and that the solitary traveller is still pursued at night by the howling of the blood hound, it is then only that it is possible fully to appreciate the terrors of THE MURDER HOLE, FINIS. � https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/52b9732cdcf40751859a5a32f471bf9b.jpg 9a7df6dd6b30edb976a1af143ed31750 Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. 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For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Woodcut 104: Title-page illustration in single-ruled circular border of a portrait of a king in full regalia with a long pike. Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Story of Blue Beard; or, The Effects of Female Curiosity. To which is added The Murder Hole An Ancient Legend. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9935682543505154">s0587b40</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. The Effects of Female Curiosity. The Murder Hole An Ancient Legend. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [1850?] per National Library of Scotland Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages 16 cm Description An account of the resource 20 printed at the bottom of the title-page. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/">National Library of Scotland</a> <a title="University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks" href="http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/">University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks&nbsp;</a> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource 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 An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Type The nature or genre of the resource fairytale/folk lore Subject The topic of the resource Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow Courtship and Marriage Crime Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario # of Woodcuts: 1 Bib Context: title-page Chapbook Date: 1851-1860 Chapbook Genre: fairytale/folk tale Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Fashion (Clothing): regalia Monarch: king Portrait: Blue Beard Portrait: king weapons: long pike https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/4ca1b1567f6d1fcb6612ef4222238568.jpg ace25f0bcfdba887347a1f8d6a99d567 Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3190 Width 1830 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/a19c5124c264862125e3a021be67b8ba.pdf c656d4fdb303e9d1df1aa60659a8e374 PDF Text Text NEW AND IMPROVED SERIES No. 9. A SELECTION OP RECEIPTS, ADVICES, AND DIRECTIONS, RELATIVE TO H O U S E K E E P I N G , C L E A N I N G , &c, FROM T H E MOST A P P R O V E D SOURCES. GLASGOW: P R I N T E D FOR THE 1850. BOOKSELLERS �C O NT E NTS. rAGE, T H E CHOICE OF A HOUSE,.... 3 Finishings, ,.. Tables,; Chairs, &c., Earthenware and China,... Plate^.;.:/...................... Grates, Gilding, 3 4 4 4 5 5 HOUSEKEEPING & CLEANING, 5 Servants, 6 Wooden Floors, 6 Carpets, 7 Oilcloths, 7 Marble Hearths and Chimney-pieces, 7 Walls of Houses, . 7 Walls of Rooms, 8 Paper-hanging, 8 Picture-frames, ....*... 8 IvoVv, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Brass Initi al Work, 8 Windows and LookingGlasses,.......... . . ........... 9 Brass and Copper,............ 9 Grates and Stoves,..., 9 Kitchen Vessels, 10 J Knives, 10 Lamp Glasses, 10 10 t Furniture, Varnishing, 12 Bottles, 12 Plate, 12 Flannel or Woollen Articles, 13 Silks, ... ,.13 Bed Feathers, 13 Lace, Scarlet Cloth, Clear Starching,.. *.. 13 13 14 Stains, ...........1.14 VERMIN, 20 Ink Marks or Iron Moulds, 14 Paint or Grease Spots, 14 To Extract Grease from Silk, 14 To Remove a Tight Stopper, 15 Economical Fuel, 15 To Light a Fire, ....15 Smoky Chimneys, 16 To Purify Water, 19 To Filter Water, 191? Rats and Mice, 20 Bugs, 20 Fleas,..: ...21 • Lice,.:..;.:..:::.;;..*;..:..:.....2i ; Beetles, Cockroaches, &c., 21 Flies, 21 Moths, 21 ' Slugs, ..:............... 22, DOMESTIC MANUFACTURES, ..22 Blacking for Shoes, Blacking-Balls, Blacking for Harness, Cement, Paste, Waterproof Shoes,.. Ink, Bottle Wax, Potato Starch,.^,. Potash. 22" 22: 22: 23' 23l| 23 24 24 24 24 �Tilh XAMTLY RECEIPT BOOK. T H E CHOICE OF A HOUSE. Inhere are several important matters to be taken into con* sideration in making choice of a liouse. In tlie first place, take care that it is not damp. Dampness may arise from -many, causes, but imperfect drainage, and close contact of tha floors with the grqnpd, are the principal. When a house is damp in any part, by all means avoid it, for it may produce the most pernicious effects on the health of your family. Secondly, see that the house has a free open exposure for fresh air, and, if all other ^circumstances suit, prefer that which has an exposure to the south, for you will then have the beneficial influence of the sun's rays. Thirdly, ascertain if there be a plentiful supply of. good water in the premises, and if there be proper means at hand for drying and bleaching clothes. Fourthly, learn whether the vents go well, and do not smoke. There are other inquiries you should also make, such as freedom from vermin, &c., but these are left to your own judgment. FURNISHINGS. When about to furnish a house, "take care to set out on a right principle in the selection of articles, Neatness, and a pleasing effect to the eye, require that there should be a harmony of colours, and a similarity of style in the main articles pf furniture. Therefore, you must exercise a little taste and judgment in your first selections, if you wish to avoid committing a blunder which will cost you much subsequent annoyance. For example, let the tints of the carpet, of the paper or pamt of the walls, and of the window curtains, be •all in harmony in each room—that is, either possess a general resemblance of colour, or various colours in pleasing contrast with each other., Carpets being the most expensive articles, it is safest to buy them first,.and. then to let their colour lead the tone and style of hearthrugs, curtains, paper-hangings, &c. It is also an economical plan to buy carpets of the same pattern �4 for several rooms, because, in the CTf-nt 9 f ai to a house with different sized apartments, a piece of one carpet may be taken to eke out another. T A B L E S , C H A I R S , &C. When ordering tables, chair* V - " f wooden articles of a fine quality, tike - - " / P e c t f r that they mnst he of a 110 v e n e e r e ^ « solid fabric v eneermg is only tolerable i n „ jk>vv articles which are not to be subjected to much tear and wear; nevertheless, a practice has begun of veneering articles in daily use, such as chairs and tables, and consequently they are soon destroyed. Examine closely the back and seat-frames of every mahogany chair, and reject it if it be veneered. In ordering sofas, you should also take care to bargain for genuine hair stuffing, for in many instances the stuffing is composed of what is technically called pob, or a composition of tow, wool, and other kinds of rubbish. E A R T H E N W A R E AND C H I N A . In purchasing your china and earthenware articles for the table, take care to select sets which, in case of breakage, can at all times and in all places be easily matched. If you buy table ware of a peculiar or rare pattern, and afterwards break several pieces, you may find it impossible to replace them. Thus a particular set of earthenware or china, however beautiful and cheap, may ultimately prove a source of great annoyance and no little expense. PLATE. Whatever silver articles you buy, let them be of a genuine kind, or of sterling silver plate, which always keeps its value, however old and worn it may become. Avoid all plated goods, for the plating soon wears off, and then the article is valueless. If you cannot afford to purchase sterling silver plate, your most economical plan, consistent with elegance of appearance, will be to get a few articles of German silver. This is properly the metal called nickel, and closely resembles sterling silver in texture and colour. In hardness and durability, it is superior to sterling silver, and its price is only about a tenth of what genuine plate would cost. German silver is now manufactured to a large extent in England, and is made into spoons, forks, ladles, tea-pots, salvers, dish-covers, and all other articles for the table. The articles in Britannia metal, such as tea-pots, coffee-pots, &c. should be of a durable fabric, and always kept well scoured. �5 GRATES. In choosing grates for your rooms, do not buy those which have burnished steel fronts, as they require more care in cleaning, and are liable to rust during summer when not in use. The best and neatest, as well as the cheapest, grates, are those which are made of cast iron, and of an ornamental pattern. Let the grates which you select be small or of moderate size in the fire-place. Wide, open grates, by admitting cold air into the chimney, are exceedingly liable to smoke. GILDING. Order all the gilding of your picture frames and other articles to be done in oil: it is infinitely more durable, and will wash when soiled. HOUSEKEEPING A N D CLEANING. Every good housewife should keep a regular and continuous account of her income and expenditure. This is a very essential part of domestic duty, and should not be neglected. When properly set about, there is little or no trouble in keeping the household accounts; and for the guidance of young housewives, with whom frugality should be an object, we beg to suggest the following simple plan of keeping them:—Procure a small slate-book—that is, a little book composed of three slates, bound in a plain cover. This, which you write upon with a slate pencil, is your day-booh; it is always at hand for you to scroll down any note of outlay, and will keep several days' or a week's accounts at a time. A t any leisure moment, you carry the entries of outlay from the slates to a small ruled paper book, which is your ledger. One page of this is devoted to money received, and the opposite page to money paid out. By doing this regularly, and comparing the entries of sums received with the entries of sums expended, so as to see that they square with each other, you will find that you possess a complete record of family expenses, satisfactory alike to yourself and to your husband, should he make any inquiry into the subject. The keeping of an account of receipts and disbursements, in this or any other convenient manner, is calculated to check the tendency to over-expenditure, or living beyond the means. Guard against the practice of buying on credit, and running up bills with tradesmen. If you can at all avoid taking credit, do so; for by paying for every article with ready money, you possess two decided advantages—you get every thing cheaper as you want it, and you can go anywhere to seek out the best markets. �6 SERVANTS. The practice of hiring domestic servants for six months at once has partly given place to engagements of one month. It is better that the term hired for at the first should be short, and if both parties- are pleased, a re-engagement can easily be made afterwards. In this manner there is no vexatious obligations to keep together, and a separation can always take place amicably. Many servants remain years in a place, though hired on the understanding that it is only from month to month, or, what is the same thing, hirecl for no fixed period, but just so long as both parties agree; and that, in the event of any dissatisfaction, there shall be a week or a month's warning given to leave. A good mistress generally makes a good servant. She endeavours to. seek out and attach a good servant to herself. She effects this attachment and good-will by simply laying before the servant her line of duties, or what is expected of her, and then leaving her to execute these duties in a regular methodic manner. No servant likes to be interfered with in her work, or to be called away from one thing to do another; nevertheless, some mistresses are not happy "unless they are going in and out of the kitchen, or bustling up and down the house, ordering and counter-ordering or in some other way worrying the servant out of all patience. W e advise the young housewife to prescribe to her servants, in plain terms, the duties which she expects they will daily and regularly execute ; and if the servants are unfit to perform them, it is better for both that there should be a separation. Where two or more servants are engaged, the precise duties of each should be expressly defined, in order to prevent disputes between them, and that the work of the house may be duly and properly performed. ; W O O D E N FLOORS, If kept in order by daily, sweeping and other small attentions, may be effectually cleaned by washing them with warm water and soap; but if spots of grease are to be removed, the spots must be previously taken out by fuller's earth. Ink spots may be discharged with spirits of salt. The floors of bedrooms should be washed as seldom as possible. It is most dangerous to the health of the person who occupies the bedroom to wash or scour it, unless the weather be fine, to allow the window to be opened for thoroughly drying the room before night. A damp mop may, when necessary, be passed lightly over the floor. �7 CARPETS. Ordinary Kidderminster carpets can only be cleaned by shaking and beating; if cleaned by means of washing, they become so soft as to be speedily dirtied again, and their appearance is spoiled. Brussels carpets may be cleaned as follows:—Take them np and shake and beat them, so as to render them perfectly free from dust. Have the floor thoroughly scoured and tlry, and nail the carpet firmly down upon it. Take a pailful of clean cold spring water, and put into it about three gills of oxgall. Take another pair with clean cold water only. Now, rub with a soft scrubbing brush some of the Oxgall water on the carpet, which will raise a lather. "When a convenient sized portion is done, wash the lather off with a clean linen cloth dipped in the clean water. Let this water be changed frequently. When all the lather has disappeared, rub the part with a clean dry cloth. After all is done, open the window to allow the carpet to dry. A carpet treated in this manner will be greatly refreshed in colour, particularly the greens. In laying carpets, cover the floor beneath them with large sheets of paper, to prevent dust from rising between the boards. A carpet lasts longer by adopting this precaution. OIL-CLOTIIS. Oil or painted cloths should be laid only on dry floors; if the floor be damp, the cloth will soon mildew and rot. Such cloths, laid even in the driest situation, should be wetted as little as possible. When to be cleaned, they should be wiped with a wet cloth, and rubbed gently till dry. M A R B L E H E A R T H S AND C H I M N E Y P I E C E S May be cleaned as f o l l o w s M i x a gill of soap lees, half a gill of turpentine, and a bullock's gall, and make them into a paste with pipe-clay, which lay upon the marble, and let it remain a day or two, then rub it off, and the stains will have disappeared, unless they are of long standing, when the paste must be again applied. Polished marble requires careful treatment, as any acid will destroy the polish. In general, warm water and soap will be found the safest thing for cleaning chimney pieces. W A L L S OF H O U S E S . The outer surfaces of walls, formed of brick or sandstone, sometimes imbibe moisture from the atmosphere, and this gives a dampness to the interior. If it be found unsuitable to plaster and white-wash the outside, the damp may be greatly �8 prevented by painting the walls with a single coat of oil-paini;, which, by being light in colour, will give a neat and clean effect. W A L L S OF ROOMS. When walls of rooms or staircases are to be painted in oil, let the paint be of the best description. It is not unusual for inferior tradesmen to use whiting, instead of white lead, as a pigment; by this deception, the paint will afterwards scarcely endure washing. Supposing, however, that the paint has been of the best kind, considerable care will be required in cleaning it. The safest and most simple plan is to take a pail of hot water and put into it as much common yellow or soft soap as will raise a lather or froth. Now wash the walls well with a flannel cloth dipped in this water ; then wash this soapy water off with clean flannel and clean warm water. Dry with a clean linen cloth. Do all this equally, so as not to leave smears or parts better washed or wiped than others. P A P E R HANGING. Paper hanging should be first dusted and then cleaned by a stale loaf of bread, with the crumb surface cut smoothly, and gently rubbed, the dirty face of the bread being cut away from time to time. The imitative marble-paper, highly varnished, may be washed with cold water and soap. PAPIER MACHE, now much used for mouldings and ornaments in rooms, may be cleaned with soap and water. PICTURE FRAMES. Picture frames of varnished or French-polished wood may be washed with soap and warm v/ater, and sponge or flannel. Frames which are gilt in the ordinary manner, or " watergilt," cannot endure washing or rubbing; but if "oil-gilt," they may be washed with cold water and a soft brush. IVORY. Ivory may be restored to its original whiteness by cleaning it with a paste of burnt pumice-stone and water, and then placing it under glasses in the sun's rays. B R A S S INITIAL W O R K . This is best cleaned as follows :—Mix tripoli and linseed Oil, and dip into it a rubber of hat, with which polish the work. If the wood be ebony or rosewood, polish it with a little finely-powdered elder-ashes; or make a paste of rottenStone, a little starch, sweet oil, and oxalic acid, mixed with �9 % water. The ornaments of a French clock are, however, best cleaned with bread -crumb, carefully rubbed, so as not to spoil the wood work. Ormolu candlesticks, lamps, and branches, may be cleaned with soap and water. They will bear more cleaning than lacquered articles, which are spoiled by frequent rubbing, or by acids, or strong alkalies. W I N D O W S AND LOOKING-GLASSES. Dip a moistened rag or flannel into indigo, fuller's earth, ashes, or rotten-stone, in impalpable powder, with which smear the glass, and wipe off with a dry soft cloth. Powderblue or whiting, tied up in muslin, and dusted upon the glass, and cleaned off with chamois leather, also gives glass a fine polish. The spots in the silvering of old looking-glasses are caused by damp at the back. Window-panes may be made to resemble ground glass by daubing them with putty, or a brush with a little thin paste. B R A S S AND C O P P E R . Brass and copper are best cleaned with sweet oil and tripoli, powdered bath-brick, rotten-stone, or red brickdust, rubbed on with flannel and polished with leather. A strong solution of oxalic acid in water gives brass a fine colour. Vitriol and spirits of salts soon make brass and copper very bright, but they very soon tarnish, and consequently require more frequent cleaning. A strong ley of roche-alum and water will also improve brass. G R A T E S A N D STOVES. Grates and stoves are cleaned with black lead mixed with turpentine, or with stale beer and yellow soap, and polished off. The finer lead is used dry in lump or powder. The bronzed work of stoves should be only lightly brushed. Rottenstone, or fine emery and sweet oil, is used for the bright work of stoves and polished fire-irons ; the higher the latter are polished, the less likely are they to rust. To prevent rust in articles not often used, rub them with sweet oil, and dust over them fine lime ; or with the following mixture :—To a quart of cold water, add half a pound of quicklime; let it stand until the top is clear, when pour off the liquid and stir up with it some olive oil, until it becomes of a pasty consistence, when it should be rubbed on the metal articles to be preserved. T o fill cracks in stove backs, make a paste of wood ashes, salt, and water. To remove rust, mix tripoli, sulphur, and sweet oil, and clean the articles with it; or mix boiled soft soap with emery No. 3, which will also discharge the fire marks �10 from bright bars. Steel work may also be kept from rust by varnishing it with turpentine in which is dissolved a small proportion of India rubber. Polished* fire-irons may.'be best preserved from rust by being closely wrapped up in strong brown paper. KITCHEN V E S S E L S . The crust on boilers and kettles, arising from the hard water boiled in them, may be prevented by keeping in the vessel a marble, or a potato tied in a piece of linen. Tin plate vessels are cleanly and convenient, but unless dried after washing, will soon rust in holes. Iron coal-scoops are liable to rust from the damp of t W coals. The tinning of copper saucepans must be kept perfectly clean and dry, in which case they may be used with safety. Copper pans, if put away damp, or a boiling-copper, if left wet, will become coated with poisonous crust, or verdigris. Untinned copper or brass vessels, even if scoured bright and clean, are always dangerous. If made dishes be allowed to cool and stand in copper vessels, the articles will become poisonous. In the year 1837, a lady and her family, residing in Paris, were poisoned by partaking of a stew which had been allowed to stand and get cold in a copper pan. A German saucepan is best for boiling milk in. This is an iron saucepan, glazed with white earthenware instead of being tinned, the glaze preventing its tendency to burn. A stewpan made like it is also preferable to d copper pan, since simple washing keeps it sweet and clean. A method of glazing saucepans with earthenware has lately been the obj ect of a patent in England. Zinc sieves are more easily kept clean than those made of hair, will last longer, and not rust. KNIVES. Knives are best cleaned by rubbing on a flat board covered with leather, on which is put finely powdered brick-dust. Never put knives in hot water, for that loosens the handles and spoils the temper of the steel. For simple cleaning after use, wipe them only with a damp and then with a dry cloth. L A M P GLASSES. If the lamp glasses be ground, burnt spots upon them cannot be removed, but they may be cleaned from the effects of smoke by washing with soap and water, and then rubbed with a dry cloth. The glasses should always be ground on the outside. FURNITURE. Mahogany furniture is always best cleaned by continual rubbing; and no ordinary stuff that may be applied will com- �11 perisate the want of this requisite. Some furniture is what is called "French polished;" but this French polish is an unguent possessed and applied only by cabinet-makers, and readily to be had by housekeepers. In ordinary circumstances, therefore, the furniture must be well rubbed, and with some easily procurable material. The following are, the materials we suggest:—Take a gill and a half of unboiled linseed oil, one gill of turpentine, and a tea-spoonful of pounded loaf sugar. Shake all well together, and rub a portion on the furniture with a piece of flannel, and polish with a linen cloth. An oil for darkening furniture may be made as follows;— Mix in one pint of linseed oil an ounce of powdered rose-pink, to which add one ounce of alkanet root, beaten in a metal mortar ; let the mixture stand in a warm place for a few days, when the substances will have settled, and the oil, of a deep rich colour, may be poured off for use : or mix one ounce of alkanet root, four ounces of shell-lac varnish, two ounces of turpentine, and the same quantity of scraped bees' wax, with a pint of linseed o i l ; and when they have stood a week, the mixture will be ready for use. Furniture paste is made by scraping a quarter of a pound of bees'-wax into half a pint of turpentine, and letting it stand to dissolve. This will keep the wood light. If, however, a quarter of a pint of linseed oil be added to the above, the composition will darken the wood. Another paste, useful for very light wood, is made as follows:—In a quart of hot water dissolve six ounces of pearl-ash, add a quarter of a pound of white wax, and simmer the whole for half an hour in a pipkin ; take it off the fire, and when it has cooled, the wax will float upon the surface, and should be worked in a mortar, with a little hot water, into a soft paste. With this, furniture maybe highly polished, as may also marble chimneypieces. It is necessary to mention, that furniture cleaned with paste has the disadvantage of receiving heat-marks more readily than if polished with linseed-oil, which, however, requires more time and labour. In any case, the furniture should be cleansed from grease and stains before polishing is attempted; and this may be done by washing the wood with hot beer, or with soap and water. The safest way to heat furniture paste or oil is to place the vessel containing it in another holding boiling water upon the fire. A fine varnish for mahogany or other furniture may be thus m a d e P u t into a bottle two ounces of gum-sandrac, one ounce of shell-lac, half an ounce of mastic, half an ounce of gum-benjamin, one ounce of Venice turpentine, anda pint of spirits of wine. Colour red with dragon's blood, or yellow ) \ �12 with saffron. Let it stand in a warm place until the gums are dissolved, when strain it for use. VAUNISHING. Before new furniture is varnished, it should have a coat of boiled oil, (if wished to be darkened,) or linseed oil, and be left a day or two to harden; or a thin size, made from isingglass or gum-tragacanth, dissolved in water, or very thin glue, is used; so that the pores of the wood be filled up, and both varnish and time be thus saved. A good varnish may be made by dissolving eight ounces of white wax and half an ounce of yellow rosin in a pint of spirits of turpentine. BOTTLES. Cut a raw potato into small pieces, and put them in the bottle along with a table-spoonful of salt, and two tablespoonfuls of water. Shake all well together in the bottle till every mark is removed, and rinse with clean water. This will remove stains of wine, green marks of vegetation, and other discolourations. Hard crust in bottles may be cleaned off by rinsing with water and small shot. Take care to wash out all the shot before putting the bottles aside. PLATE. Articles of plate, after being used, should be washed in hot water, or, if stained, they should be boiled, and rinsed and dried before you attempt to clean them. They should be carefully handled, else they may receive deep scratches, which are very difficult to remove. Besides, the object is not merely to clean the plate, but to polish it, so that it may appear almost as brilliant as when it was received new from the silversmith. For this purpose quicksilver was formerly much used in plate-powder, and it gave the silver great lustre, which soon, however, disappeared, and the article became tarnished and blackened. The best plate-powder consists of dried and finely-sifted whiting or chalk. The greater part of the whiting sold in the shops is coarse trash, unfit for rubbing upon plate, and great care must be taken to procure the finest London whiting, which will not scratch. Brushes, hard and soft, sponge, and wash leather, are requisites for cleaning plate; if the powder be mixed with spirits of wine laid on with a sponge, and rubbed off with wash-leather, all tarnish will be removed. Salt stains (blackish spots) and sulphur marks from eggs are more difficult to remove. It is a good plan to boil a soft fine old cloth in water with some prepared chalk dissolved in it, and to drv �13 the cloth, and use it for polishing. The soft brush is for the same purpose, the hard brush being for chased work, edges, and crests, so that not a portion of dry powder may remain in them. Plate should in all cases be finished with a fine dry vvash-leather. Plated articles should be carefully wiped dry after washing them, else they will rust or canker at the edges, where the silver first wears off; and on this account, also, they should be cleaned as rarely as possible. German silver may be cleaned in the same manner as plate. F L A N N E L OK W O O L L E N A R T I C L E S . Wash them quickly with warm water, with soap. Wring and shake them well, and hang them up to dry. Do not let them lie wet. The more quickly they are dried, the less likely are they to shrink. SILKS. No silks look well after washing, however carefully it be done, and should therefore never be resorted to but from absolute necessity. W e have seen it recommended to sponge faded silks with warm water and soap, then to rub them with a dry cloth on a flat board, after which to iron them on the inside with a smoothing iron. Sponging with spirits will also improve old black silks. The ironing may be done on the right side, with thin paper spread over them to prevent glazing. B E D FEATHERS. Put a manageable quantity into a pillow case or bag, which wash with warm water and soap. Wring out the lather, and rinse them in clean water. Wring them as dry as possible, and hang them up to dry. Shake them frequently while drying. When quite dry, beat them to free them from any dust. They may be now taken from the bag, and are ready for use. LACE. When lace has lost its colour, soap it well and put it in cold water, just enough to cover it. If much discoloured, change the water at the end of twenty-four hours. When steeped sufficiently, rinse it out; starch it a little; pick it out as evenly as possible; roll it in a towel, and when nearly dry, iron it. All kinds of lace veils may be treated in a similar manner. * SCARLET CLOTH. Pour boiling water upon bran, strain it, and, while hot, wash the cloth in it, and rinse with hot water. Soap should �u not be used. Purple cloth may be washed in hot water and pure' ley. Saxony or dark print dresses should be washed in two lathers, and in the second should be poured a little oxgall, which will freshen reds, blacks, and greens; and a handful of salt added to the last rinsing-water will prevent the colours running; . - , , C L E A R STARCHING. Clear starching is practised as follows:—llinse the articles in three waters, dry them, and clip them in a thick starch, previously strained through muslin; squeeze them, shake them gently, and again hang them up to dry; and when dry, dip them twice or thrice in clear water, squeeze them, spread them on a linen cloth, roll tjiem up in it, and let them lie an hour before ironing them. Some persons put sugar into the starch, to prevent it sticking while ironing, and others stir the starch with a candle to effect the same end; we object to these practices as injurious to the article starched, or as very nauseous. The best plan to prevent sticking is to make the starch well, and to have the irons' quite clean and highly polished. , ... STAINS. . , Stains of fruit or wine may be generally removed from linen or cotton cloth by placing the articles over the top of a pail, and pouring boiling water through them till the marks disappear. I N K M A R K S OR I R O N M O U L D S . Ink marks or iron moulds may be removed by placing a plate (a pewter One is the best) on the top of a basinful of boiling water; then spread the articles on the plate; wet the spot, and rub it with a small quantity of the salts of lemon; as the article dries, the stain will disappear. If this fail, repeat the operation. A small box of salts of lemon will be found very useful in a household. P A I N T OR G R E A S E SPOTS. Paint or grease spots may be removed from woollen cloth by turpentine. Smith's scouring drops is a liquid sold in small bottles, which will also be found efficacious in removing oil or grease marks ; it is more expensive than turpentine, but has a less offensive odour. T o E X T R A C T G R E A S E EROM S I L K . As soon after the discovery of the injury as possible, hold the part firmly, and with a clean soft white cloth, or an old �15 cambric handkerchief, rub the spot briskly, changing the portions of the handkerchief frequently and in a minute or two the spot will disappear. On silks which fray easily, this plan will be unsuitable. T o R E M O T E A T I G H T STOPPER. It frequently happens that the stopper of a glass bottle or decanter, becomes fixed in its place so firmly, that the exertion of force sufficient, to withdraw it would endanger the vessel. In this case, if a cloth be wetted with hot water, and applied to the neck of the bottle, the glass will expand, and the neck will be enlarged, so as to allow1 the stopper to be easily withdrawn. . ECONOMICAL F U E L . . , In places where coal is scarce and dear, a tolerably good fuel may be made by mixing the culm or refuse dross of coal with clay, and moistening the whole with water—masses in the form of bricks or balls • may be made, which, when dry, will, burn with an intense heat. Where peat'prevails, that article may be easily charred by burning in a covered pit or stove ; and this charred peat will be found to give a great heat when used in an open fire. The Dutch make much use of their turf in this manner. Another economical fuel, easily procurable where there are woods of Scotch firs, consists of fir cones or tops, which contain a great quantity of solid woody matter in addition to the resinous, and are excellently adapted for domestic fires. T o LIGHT A FIRE. To light a fire, clear the ashes from the grate, leaving a few cinders for a foundation, upon which put a piece of dry crumpled brown paper, and lay on a few small sticks crosswise, then some of larger size, and on them a few pieces of coal, and next the large cinders; and when the flames have caught the coal, add a backing of small coal and cinders. When the fire has become low, stir it together, but do not turn the large cinders; clear the front of the lower bar to admit air, and pass the poker into the bottom of the fire, to clear it of ashes; and then with tongs put on a few large pieces of coal towards the front of the fire, but not on the upper, else the fire will smoke. Coals should not be thrown on, but put on gently with a scoop or shovel ; and even the smallest ashes may be burnt at the back of the fire, if they be covered with small coal. The best and quickest mode of restoring a neglected fire is to stir out the ashes, and. with the tongs to fill up the spaces between the bars with cinders. If �16 carefully done, it is surprising how soon this process will produce a glowing fire. Ashes and small cinders mixed with water into a mass, and put on the back of a fire with a few coals, burn well, so that ashes may thus be entirely burnt up. In stoves under boilers, this mixture is very useful, as it lasts long, with little addition. SMOKY CHIMNEYS. The cause of smokiness in chimneys are various; but all .re connected with the properties of air and heat, for the smoke is only particles of culm ascending through the agency of heated air. To make a chimney vent well, the column of heated air from the fire must not be entangled with cold air from beneath nor retarded by cold air coming down the chimney. To effect these objects, the fire-place must not be much larger than the grate, and the chimney must be of a certain length and bent. The great leading cause of smokiness is cold air somehow or other mixing with the warm air about the mouth or throat of the chinmey, and so causing a sluggishness in the ascent, or no ascent at all. Therefore, the nearer the air is made to pass the fire on all sides, the more rarefied it will be; and the less vacancy there is in the chimney-place, it will ascend with the greater rapidity. A proper contraction of the mouth of the chimney, at the same time allowing the fire to be fed freely with air, will be found in most instances to cure smoke. Of late, certain contrivances called dampers, by which the chimney throat can be narrowed, have been the means of effecting draughts, and so curing smoke. It should be noted, that in contracting chimneythroats, the contraction should not be all at once, but at first gradual, and then straight upward, so as not to allow a volume of cold air to lurk in a hollow above. A chimney being wide at bottom, and gradually narrowing towards the next storey, allows the coldish air to hang about the lower parts, by which, when a gust of wind comes, the smoke is driven back into the room. This kind of smokiness is the most teasing of all the forms of chimney diseases. Every little puff of wind sends a smaller or larger quantity of smoke into the apartment, and often when it is least expected. Perhaps this kind of smokiness is not in all cases caused by wrong construction, but arises from the situation of the house; and of this we shall immediately say a few words. If a funnel of a chimney be made too narrow to afford an easy passage to the top, the smoke will then naturally be forced into the room to find some other passage; this defect % �17 is very common, and the remedy troublesome and difficult. The most effectual cure, if the situation will admit, is to build a small additional flue, and open a hole into it from the back of the chimney, near the level of the mantel-piece, slanting upwards in an easy direction ; this supplemental flue must be carried to the top of the building to receive the surplus of the smoke, and will prove a certain cure. If the situation will not allow of this expedient, the fire-place may be contracted both in breadth and height, a smaller grate used, and the chimney heightened at the top ; which will oblige the air to pass close over the fire, and carry up the smoke with greater rapidity, for the quicker the current, the less room it requires. Should the chimney still smoke, a blower, or front plate, to put on and take off at pleasure, will be of use. But it none of these prescriptions answer, then something must be done to improve the current of air towards the fire. This brings us to a consideration of the want of ventilation in the room. If the chimney and fire-place be faultless, and yet smoke, it is almost certain that there is a want of ventilation. In ordinary circumstances, as much air is admitted by chinks in windows and doors as will feed a fire; but if the room be rendered very close by closing as many chinks as possible, how is the fire to receive air ? According to the plan on which houses are generally built, ventilation is left to be a matter of chance. To ventilate an old house is therefore no easy task. The following plans are worth considering, for they have been found to answer:—Contrive to bring a small tube from the external air, or from a staircase or lobby, to a point beneath the grate, so as to cause a free current of air to reach the fire. If the mouth of the tube below the grate be topped with a cowl, the ashes will be prevented from falling into it. Some years ago, the rooms of a public office in Edinburgh were completely cured of smoke by this simple contrivance, after all other means had failed. Another plan consists in perforating small holes in the cornice or roof, for the air to gain admission ; but, unfortunately, unless care be taken to prevent colds, the cure is apt to be worse than the disease. Cases are by no means uncommon of fire-places giving out a puff of smoke every time the door of the room is shut. The cause of this kind of smokiness is the want of ventilation in the room. In shutting the door, it pulls out a certain quantity of air, which cannot be afforded to be lost, or it causes such distraction of the current towards the fire, that the equilibrium that carries up the smoke is destroyed, and a puff downwards—in other words, a rush of air loaded with smoke �18 from the chimney—is the consequence. It will be remarked, that this smokiness occurs most frequently when the door is on the same side of the room as the fire-place. W e should therefore advise house-planners to avoid this bad arrangement. If possible, let the door be on a different side from that in which the fire is placed. Most houses in which the chimneys go up the middle walls instead of the gables, have the fault we mention. A remedy for this smokiness is to contract the mouth of the chimney, and, if possible, heighten the stalk; for if the chimney be pretty long, the heated air ascending it goes with such a force that the outer heavy air cannot get down, at least not to so great an extent as to cause a puff when the door is shutting. In some cases, the cause of the disease will be found to be air rushing up behind the grate, if a register, and then coming down to supply the fire, the action of the door disturbing the current. This is therefore an argument for always taking care to build register stoves quite close behind, not leaving the smallest crevice for air to steal up the chimney without first going through the fire. In erecting chimneys, it should be a rule to carry them up a good way in a perpendicular direction, before making a turn, by which means the heated air gains a force in its primary vertical ascent, which carries it,over future difficulties. In walls in which the fire-place of one storey is immediately below the fire-place^,above, it is impossible to get a perfect straight for any great length; therefore this must be left to the judgment of the builder. It is also advantageous for ail chimneys to have a bend in them before reaching the top, and a garret chimney should have two bends. For want of attention to this top bending, many cottage and small villa chimneys smoke. The use of bends is obvious. Strong, sudden, and accidental gusts of wind sometimes enter, and beat into the top of the chimney; a turning or bend, therefore, will break the force of the wind, and prevent it repelling the heated air downwards. But if the chimney is straight, and the gust meet with no interruption, it will stop the passage of the smoke for a while, and of course force what rises from the fire immediately into the chamber. It is to be observed that the farther the wind gets down the funnel the greater strength will be required to repel i t ; therefore the nearer to the top the bend or winding is, the better. Also, if there is a storm of wind, with heavy showers of hail, snow, or rain, falling perpendicularly in great drops, the first bend or turning will, in part, stop their progress ; but if the funnel is perpendicular all the way down, the great drops of hail, show, and rain, will fall freely to the bottom, repelling the smoke into the room; and if the funnel is �19 foul, great quantities of soot will be driven down. These reasons recommend a bend in some part of the funnel as absolutely necessary. Garret chimneys are more liable to smoke than any other in the house, owing to the shortness of the funnel : for when the composition of rarified air and smoke has made its way up a high funnel, it forms a strong column, and to repel it requires a proportionably great force; but in a garret chimney this strong column cannot be obtained; therefore, what cannot be had from nature must be aimed at by art. The fault in most garret chimneys is being carried up in a straight direction from bottom to top in a slovenly manner, and with funnels as large as any in the house; whereby the little internal rarefied air has the whole immediate pressure of the atmosphere to resist, which, in general, is too powerful for it. But a garret or cottage chimney carried up and executed in a proper manner, with due proportion in every part, according to the size of the room, and the funnel in an easy crooked direction, will draw and be as clear from smoke as any other. T o PURIFY WATER. To purify water, put into a hogshead of it a large tablespoonful of powdered alum, stir it, and in a few hours the impurities will be sent to the bottom. A pailful of four gallons may be purified by a single tea-spoonful of alum. Freshlyburnt charcoal is also an excellent sweetener of water. T O FILTER WATER. Put into an earthen vessel (such as sugar-bakers use to form the loaves in, with a small hole at the bottom or pointed end) some pieces of sponge, and on them a sufficient number of small clean peebles to quarter-fill the vessel. Hang this filter end downward, in a barrel with the head out, leaving a space of about two or three inches between the end of the filter and the bottom of the barrel* The upper part of the filter should be kept a little above the top of the barrel, which must always be kept full of water. The sediment of tho water Will remain at the bottom of the barrel, and the pure water will rise through the sponge and pebbles to the vacant part of the filter. It may be hung in a cistern, or water-butt if more convenient. The pebbles and sponge should be cleansed occasionally. Another economical filter may be made by taking out the head of a cask, setting it upright, and at a distance of about one-third from the bottom putting in a shelf or partition pierced with small holes ; this shelf being covered with �20 pebbles, upon which is a layer of fresh charcoal made front bones; and over this lay fine sand, to the depth of an inch, covered with another layer of pebbles ; and upon this should be placed another shelf, pierced with holes, to prevent the pebbles, sand, and charcoal being disturbed by the water which is poured or runs in at the top of the cask; and after passing through the filter, is drawn t>ff by a crane placed a* the bottom of the cask. VERMIN. The best plan for preventing the attacks of vermin in houses is to keep the house scrupulously clean; for where there is cleanliness and ordinary precautions, no vermin will generate or exist. R A T S AND M I C E . These might in some instances be completely prevented from encroaching in dwellings by giving a solid foundation to the house, cutting off the approach by grating the drains, but especially by filling up all open spaces beneath pavements and in walls and partitions. Mice might be effectually kept out by only filling up the spaces behind skirting boards in rooms. These vacant spaces are invariably the habitations of mice, and the first thing any person should do in entering into possession of a domicile, is to cause all the spaces behind the skirting-boards and wainscoats to be filled with plaster. Where mice and rats have gained a footing in a house, they should be taken off by a cat or trap, and when one kind of trap fails, another may be tried. All schemes for poisoning them with arsenic or other ingredients are dangerous, and cannot be recommended. BUGS. These pests exist only in dirty houses. A carefui housewife or servant will soon completely destroy them. The surest method of destruction is to catch them individually when they attack the person in bed. When their bite is felt, instantly rise and light a candle and capture them. This may be troublesome, but if there be not a great number, a few nights will finish them. When there is a large number, and they have gained a lodgment in the timbers, take the bed in pieces, and fill in all the apertures and joints with a mixture of soft soap and Scotch snuff. A piece of wicker-work, called a bug- �21 placed bed, forms a receptacle for i . ' , and then they may be daily caught till no more are left. Fumigations are very dangerous, and rarely effectual, therefore attempt no such project. Oil-painting a wall is a means of excluding and destroying them. t clie FLEAS. There is no way of ridding a bed or house of these vermin but excessive cleanliness. Keep the floors well swept and washed, and if you have a dog, comb and wash it frequently. Fleas are bred on the ground, or among dust. LICE. Lice are now almost unknown in England. Wherever they are found, there certainly also is found dirtiness. Ignorant people imagine that these nauseous vermin breed spontaneously; this is a gross error. By cleanliness they are completely prevented;.. and the more warm the climate, so is the necessity for cleanliness greater. B E E T L E S , COCKROACHES, AND C R I C K E T S . These may be caught in traps. A simple trap for them is a glazed basin or pie-dish half-filled with sweetened beer or milk, and to the edge of which a piece of wood is laid from the floor as a gangway. Do not attempt poisoning or fumigation. FLIES. It is difficult to rid a house of flies by any other plan than by poisoning, and that is too dangerous to be recommended. A composition of milk, sugar, and pepper, will attract and kill them, and so will a decoction ofquasia; but both cause them to make offensive marks on the walls and furniture before they die. Gilt frames and chandeliers should be shrouded in thin yellow gauze or paper, in situations where the flies are likely to spoil them. Trees about a house form a harbour for flies, as well as dirt of all kinds. Cleanliness and airiness are the best preventives. MOTHS. The best way to preserve furs or worsteds from mothg is to sew them closely up in a bag of new unwashed linen; if this is not done, the next best is to take the articles frequently out and brush and air them. The odour of camphor, shavings of Russia leather, lavender, &c., are much less efficacious than they are supposed to be. Kill every flying moth which you see. �; . '.SLUGS. . . Take .1 quantity of cabbage leaves, and either put them into a warm oven, or hold them before a fire till they are quite soft; then rub them with unsalted butter, or any kind of fresh dripping, and lay them in the places infested with slugs. In a few hours the leaves will ,be found covered with snails and slugs, which may then be destroyed in any way you think fit. DOMESTIC MANUFACTURES. The attempt to make all sorts of articles for domestic use is now far from economical, as the time and expense bestowed upon them are often of greater amount than what would buy the things ready from shops. W e therefore confine our directions to articles which may require to be manufactured in families at a great distance from towns, or for the families of emigrants in remote settlements. B L A C K I N G FOR SHOES. There arc many ways of making this article, the chief ingredients ; employed being ivory black, vinegar or sour beer, sugar, a little sweet oil, and oil of vitriol. A good blacking may be made as follows:—Mix three ounces of ivory-black, two ounces of treacle, a table-spoonful of sweet oil, one ounce of vitriol, one ounce of gum-arabic dissolved in water, and a pint of vinegar. BLACKING-BALLS. For blacking-balls mix one pound of ivory-black, one pound of lamp-back, a quarter of a pound of gum-arabic dissolved in water, six Ounces of brown sugar, half an ounce., of melted glue, and a quart of water; and make into balls. A fine blacking for dress-shoes may be made by well beating two eggs, and adding a table-spoonful of spirits of wine, a lump of sugar, and ivory-black to thicken. This blacking may also be used for restoring the black leather seats and backs of chairs, etc. In should be laid on and polished as other blacking, and then left a day to harden. B L A C K I N G FOR H A R N E S S . Melt two ounces of ; mutton suet with six ounces of befes'wax ; add six ounces of sugar-candy, and two ounces of soft soap dissolved in water, and one ounce of indigo finely pow- �23 dered; and when melted and well mixed, add a gill of turpentine. Lay it on the harness with a sponge, and polish oft with a brush. - "' i vv CEMENT. Various preparations are used for mending broken china, earthenware, and glass. The most successful are as follows:— Beat the white of an egg with quicklime, in impalpable powder, into a paste; to which is sometimes added a little whey, made by mixing vinegar and milk. A little isinglass, dissolved in mastic varnish, is another cement. Nature supplies some cements ready to our hands—as the juice of garlic, and the white slime of large snails; and it lias been stated in a respectable scientific journal, that a broken flint has been joined so effectually with this snail cement, that when dashed npon a stone pavement, the flint broke elsewhere than at the cemented parts. In their anxiety to unite broken articles, persons generally defeat themselves by spreading the cement too thickly upon the edges of the article, whereas the least possible quantity should be Used, so as to bring the edges almost close together; and this may be aided by heating the fragments to be joined.. • ' " • • ~ ' PASTE. 7 Paste is useful m a house for preparing walls, cupboards, boxes, labelling, &c. Dr. M'Culloch, of Edinburgh, employs " paste made of flour in the usual way, but rather thick, with a proportion of brown sugar, and a small quantity of corrosive sublimate. The use of the sugar is to keep it flexible, so as to prevent it scaling off from smooth surfaces; and that of the corrosive sublimate—independent of preserving it from insects —is an effectual check against its fermentation. This salt does not, however, prevent the formation of mouldiness ; but a drop or two of oil of lavender, peppermint, or anise-seed, is a complete security againgst this. W A T E R P R O O F STWTI: TOR SHOES. In winter, or during wet weather, shoes may be rendered durable by applying to the soles and seams a composition made of the following materials:—Half a pint of boiled linseed Oil, two table-spoonfuls of turpentine, one ounce of bees'-wax, and a quarter of an ounce of Burgundy pitch. Melt the whole together, and apply with a Brush-before the fire. • Repeat the application till the soles will absorb no more. Neats'-foot oil, alone, will be found an excellent preservation of shoes in wet weather. �24 INK. An excellent ink suitable for writing with steel pens, which it does not corrode, may be made of the following articles:— Sixty grains of caustic soda, a pint of water, and as much Indian ink as you think fit for making a proper blackness. BOTTLE W A X . A good kind of bottle wax or cement may be cheaply made as f o l l o w s P u t into an iron ladle half a pound of rosin, two ounces of bees'-wax, and when melted over the fire, stir in Venetian red, lamp-black, or other colouring; and apply while hot. If kept for after use, melt with a candle as usual when applied. POTATO-STARCH. Wash and peel a gallon of good potatoes, grate them into a pail of water, stir frequently, and then let them settle. On the following day the starch will be found at the bottom of the pail; when pour off the water, add fresh, stir as before, and let it subside a second time; when pour off the water, and dry the sediment in the sun or a slow oven. An excellent starch may also be made by setting in a cool place the water in which rice has been boiled (though not in a cloth,) which will in twenty-four hours become a strong starch. POTASHES. Settlers in the backwoods of America, or other woody regions, have an opportunity of manufacturing potash, an article of great use and considerable value. A vast quantity of this substance is annually made in Canada, and exported to Great Britain. Potashes are made from the ashes of burnt trees. In burning timber to clear the land, the ashes are carefully preserved, and put in barrels, or other vessels with holes in the bottom; and water being poured over them, a liquid or alkali is run off; this ley being boiled in large boilers, the watery particles evaporate, and leave what is called black salts, a sort of residuum, which, when heated to a high degree, becomes fused, and finally, when cool, assumes the character of potash. By these potashes the Canadians make their own soap; the ley of a barrel of ashes, boiled along with ten pounds of tallow, till it is of a proper consistence, produces about forty )ounds of very good soft soap. It is related, that when the and has been covered with heavy timber of a hard nature, there is such a quantity of ashes produced that their value will pay for clearing the land. f � Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Family Receipt Book; A selection of receipts, advices, and directions, relative to Housekeeping, Cleaning, &amp;c, from the most approved sources. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1850 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9935661153505154">s0587b46</a> Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages 16 cm Description An account of the resource New and Improved Series No. 9. Price One Penny. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/">National Library of Scotland</a> <a title="niversity of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks" href="http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/">University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks&nbsp;</a> Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource 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 An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Type The nature or genre of the resource domestic manual Subject The topic of the resource Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow Food Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario # of Woodcuts: 0 Chapbook Date: 1841-1850 Chapbook Genre: domestic manual Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/a25c49f0a4bdd987493999de659a95f2.pdf 1fa707fa35be8233266db9b4ea486b17 PDF Text Text STORY OF THE BITTER WEDDING. GLASGOW: PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS. ��THE BITTER WEDDING. O ne fine summer morning—it was many hundred years ago—young Berthold set out with a very heavy heart from his Alpine hut, with a view of reaching in the evening the beautiful valley o f Siebenthal, where stood his native village, and where he designed to be an unknown and silent guest at the dancig n and festivity o f certain merry maker’s. ' Ah, heavens,’ sighed he, ' it will be a bitter wedding! Had I died last spring it had been better with me now.’ ' Fiddle faddle!’ exclaimed a snarling voice from the road side. ' Fiddle faddle ! Where master Almerich touches his strings, there goes it merrily— there is the hurly burly, dirling the bottoms out of the tubs and pitchers ! Good morning, my child ! Come, cheer up my hearty, and let us trudge on together in good neighbourship.’ The young herdsman had stopped when he heard such a frog-croak of a voice, and now he could not speak for laughing. A n odd-looking dwarfish figure mounted upon �4 one leg and a half, and propped upon a crutch, with a nose as long as one’s thumb, came hobbling up quite out of breath, and making half-a-dozen wry faces, from a foot path on the left side of the road. Behind him he trailed an enormous fiddle, on which lay a large wallet— appurtenances which s eemed to be attached - to such a little odd figure by way of ballast, lest the rush of the wind down the valley should sweep it away. ‘ Good, morning !’ Berthold at last roared out, you are a merry fellow, Maste ' fiddler, and will prove heart’s ease to me d o t ay. In spite o f my misfortunes I could not help laughing a t the sight of you and your hugeous fiddle. Pray take it not am iss; a laugh has been a rare thing with me for many a day.’ ' H as it indeed,’ rejoined the dwarf ; ' and yet so y ou n g! Perhaps you are heart-sick, my son ?’ ' Y es, i f you choose to call it so,’ replied the herdsman, ‘ H ere in our mountains and valleys, you will find a great many clouts of fellows, who will be fanc ying themselves in love, while they are all the time eating, drinking, and sleeping, as sound as any marmot, and in one year s time can as easily pass from M argaret to Rosomund, as I from this town to the other. That is all a mocke; r y I would much rather die than forget �5 Siegeland,—though for me all rest and joy are for ever vanished.’ ‘ Aye, aye,’ replied Master Almerich, ‘ I thought you were going to the dance, my hearty,— I heard you crying out a bitter wedding, and I thought to myself, ‘ Aha, he does not get the right one,’ ‘ And that’s true enough,’ replied t r ehold; ‘ he does not get the right one,— that B Hildebrand! I will tell you the whole matter, Master Almerich, as you seem to be going the same way, if I guess right,’ ‘ Ah, yes, good heavens!’ sighed the dwarf: ‘ surely, surely, I would be going to the wedding, if I had only got a pair of stout legs, but look you here, my dear child, what a miserable stump is this for crawling down the mountain !— I am asthmatic too, and my goitre has been enlarging these last fifty years,—and that wallet has galled my back sore all yesterday in climbing over the rough hills— Heaven knows when I shall get to . the wedding! There was such a talking about it on the other side of the mountain, that, thought I to myself, I will away to the wedding also and make some money ; so I took my fiddle and began to crawl up the ascent,:—yesterday I became quite h x e austed—and now I must lay me down here by the side of the road and submit to fate. Tell me all about the wedding when you �6 eurn, child—if the wolves have not swallowed t r or hunger killed me before that time.’ With these words the dwarf, apparently exhausted, sunk down with a deep and a l encholy sigh on the nearest stone, threw his m bundle on the grass, and stretched out his bony hand as if to take a last farewell o f young Berthold, who stood leaning upon his staff, and gazin g upon the fiddler, quite nble to comprehend what ailed him. a u ' M aster,’ began the herdsman, ' how drooping! You have left all your g ay spirits at home! Although it is a weary journey for me as well as you, I will yet endeavour to carry your wallet and fiddle, so I may enjoy your company on the road. You must really hear what presses upon my soul,—perhaps I may obtain some relief in speaking it out, and you will have some pithy word of comfort for me. The dwarf accepted the kind offer and quickly transferred his wallet and fiddle to the stout shoulders of the herdsman; then taking his crutch, he whistled a merry tune, and trudged gaily on by the side of Berthold. I ‘ t is a long story, this wedding,’ begun the herdsman; b ‘ ut I will be as b possible, for it still grieves me to the heart when I think about it, and whoever can understand it at all, understands it soon; as for me my sufferings will never be at an �7 end, though I should talk the whole day about it. ' In the village there, below us, old Bernhard has a pretty sweet girl of a daughter, Siegelind ; he has lived for many years, and his wife Gertrude with him, in a nice little Cottage by the stream, where the road strikes off into the wood. Their trade is to make wooden spoons for the herdsmen, by which, and the help of a goat and a couple of sheep, they gain their livelihood.’ ' L ast winter, having got some ashen spoons and cups nicely cut, I thought with myself, now, as my father is getting old, and sends me with the cattle to the mountains in spring, if I only behave there as becomes a herdsman, what is there to prevent me coming down in autumn and marrying Siegelind ? ' Ah, Master Almerich, my words do poor justice to my heart; my feelings always get the start of them , and reason comes limping after! ' I beheld Siegelind, you see, moving actively about,— wearing a merry face late and early,— -all goodness and discretion froth top to toe, and pretty too,— overflowing with g a y spirits and merry songs without number: all this my eye, my ear, and my heart drun in smoothly,— -she was satisfied, and the people too,— in summer I was to g o to so �8 mountains, and at harvest-home to the d e wing, and in the meantime she gave me this waistcoat to wear on the hills in b m e r rance of her. , ‘ Old Bernhard went to the forest in spring to choose the finest stems, and to provide us with nice furniture against the wedding. ' So one morning as he was ascending the mountains through those ravines where there are some marvellously fine trees, a little man, in an odd sort of dress, hastened to meet him, screaming violently and beckoning and callig n him so earnestly that he could not but go with him. They soon reached a barn, where he found the stranger’s wife lying sick and in extremity. Her he relieved and cured; but for me—bride, peace, and happin e s , were lost from that hour.’ A ' h, good heavens!’ exclaimed Almerich; ' you are talking bravely, whilst I am almost starving—hop, hop, hop— we are trudging on, and my stomach is as empty as a bag-pipe ! Yesterday evening— t ohing ; this morning-— n nothing ! Oh that brave wedding-dance; the fiddle runs off, and Master Almerich is starving here!’ ' Now, now, the deuce, then,’ bawled the herdsman, ' what have you got in this cursed wallet ? Here am I toiling on with this plagued bag , rubbing the very skin off my shoulders, —if there is not at least a little ham �9 and cheese and fresh bread in it,w h y should I be smothered under such a bundle of rags.' ' Softly, softly, my son, ’ replied t h e fiddler, ' there are treasures in that wallet, an old barret cap of Siegefried, and an old sword belt of Dieterich, and a couple of old leathern soles o f Ylsan, child!— These are no every-day concerns, my hearty ! They are all estimable jewels to him who s r e d n utands the thing ; they are worth a whole mountain of sweet wine; and seven acres of thick golden wheat, to him who knows their value.’ ' It may he so,’ said the herdsman, ' I only wish we had a few cups of milk in the place of your treasures; but if it is so with your stomach, my good master, look you, here is a mouthful of g oatmilk cheese, I meant to serve me for the night, but never mind, I am little disposed to eat.’ Berthold now produced his provisions, and Almerich devoured them as greedily as if he meant to swallow the herdsman after them by way of dessert. He then wiped his mouth, leaped briskly up, was again in good spirits, and stamped away before th e herdsman as freshly as if nothing had ailed him. All this, however, seemed very odd to Berthold, and when he again felt the annoyance of the wallet, he drew a sigh so deep that it echoed back from the neighbouring rocks. �10 ‘ L ack a d a y !’ cried Almerich again, ' the poor lad has lost his bride and his peace o f heart; I have been so concerned about him that I could not eat a bit ?' ' T hat fellow could devour the Stackhorn ! thought Berthold with some indignation. ' The club foot is not in his right senses, I believe!’ ' It was really to bad,’ began he, resumig n his story. ' The dwarf in the barn returned a profusion of thanks to old h n ard, and said, ' I am a foreign miner, r e B and have lost the road with my good wife ; so I have nothing to reward you for your kind services, save a little bit of cheese and a few draughts of wine, take that, and m e ember the poor fellow who gave you what r he could, and will pray that Heaven may reward you farther,’ ' Old Bernhard accepted the little bottle and a piece o f cheese only to get rid of the importunity of the dwarf, who would take no refusal. Towards noon, he was proceeding to his village; the road was long, and feeling fatigued, he laydown in the shade o f a tree, took out the gift of the dwarf, and began to eat and drink. Meanwhile, who should my evil stars bring in his way but young Hildebrand, the most miserly fellow in the v illage! ' God bless you, father Bernhard!’ �11 — ' Thank you ray son.’ Thus the v n o c ersation proceeded, The niggard sees the old man comfortably enjoying his repast; so he sets himself down beside him and takes a share. There they eat and eat for about an hour,— but the wine never gets less, and the cheese is never done, and both behold the miracle till their hair stands on end. ‘ All was now over, Master fiddler, and poor Berthold was undone! H ' ildebrand chose words which went down with Bernhard as smoothly as honey, and the long and the short of the matter was, my dear sweet Siegelind was promised to the rich miser, with the marvellous cheese for her dowry. The old man was now quite beside himself,—the young man talked finely --they were to outdo the whole village, and keep their secret to themselves; I was called a miserable wretch, and the spirit of mischief just brought me into their way in time to hear the whole sad story.’ ‘ Ah, good heavens,’ exclaimed Almerich again, ' I am undone with cold; it is turnig n a chill rainy day, and my bones are so naked!— Hew, hew, how the storm blows into my very soul! This day will be the death of me.— I thought so before. Take your way, my son, I give you my fiddle in a present,—leave me the wallet here, I will stretch myself out to die upon it.’ �12 ' The mischief is in i t !’ grumbled B erthold. ' I f matters are to go on in this way, we shall be a year and a day hence still travelling this cursed road? H ark ye, old boy, you are an odd fellow! what tempted you to think of wandering through our rough country, without meat or drink or even a coat, but with a fiddle as large as a ton, and an empty wallet as heavy as seven three stone cheeses ! ’Tis a perfect tempting of Providence! W hy the deuce do you drag after you that ass’s burden of old rubbish, without so much as the convenience of a cloak in your bundle!’ ' It is all very true,’ sighed Almerich. ' I am not yet accustomed to be the lame, feeble man you now see me. Thirty years ago I could skip like a leveret over hills and dales; but now, farewell to friend Almerich, I shall never leave this place! However it is all one,—perish here, or die there, a dying bed is ever a hard one, even though it should be o f down and silk ?’ ' Now really,’ replied Berthold, ' you are too whimsical, fiddler ! The cold blast never hurts a tough fellow who is accustomed to run about the mountains,— there, slip into my coat, and walk smartly on, for a shower is approaching, and that rascally wallet is weighing me down to the ground.’ ‘ Patience, child, patience!’ said Almerich --- ' This coat is quite warm from your �13 shoulders,— I feel very comfortable in it,— slowly, gently, your story of the marvellous cheese and wine has restored me to warmth —how did the matter go on ?’ ‘ You rogue and rascal! ’ thought Berthold to himself, and thus continued his lamentable tale. ' How did it go on !— Gertrude sang to the same tune as her husband; Siegelind grew sad, and lost her bloom and strength; the old boy urged the matter, and Hildebrand too,— Bernhard was anxious to get the rich and proud son-in-law, and was in great fear lest the enchanted wine should soon dry up, —the young fellow had money in his eye, and wished to turn the bewitched cheese to usury,— thus the wedding was determined on, and I was left in sadness upon my mountn a i. I tried to forget it; I thought Siegelind could not have borne me in her heart, otherwise she would not, even to escape death and martyrdom, have married the red haired Hildebrand. L ast night, however, I could find neither rest nor sleep upon my straw, I must go and see her with my own eyes take that miser for her husband. Near the village I will wrap up my head and dye my hands and cheeks with berries, so that nobody will know me,—nor in the bustle of the wedding, when every thing is turning topsy turvy, will a living soul ,care for poor �14 Berthold. When all is over, I shall, so it please Heaven, become wise a g a in ; or if not, my poor brain will be turned altogether, and that will be a blessing too.’ ‘ M y good child,’ said the dwarf, ‘ you will get over all this. I perceive very well that it is a hard journey, and a bitter wedding too for y ou : but it is your good luck, my child, that you have me for a companion— I will fiddle till your heart leaps again ,— your sorrow grieves me as much as if it were my own.’ Whilst talking thus, a few drops of rain fell, which proved the prelude to a heavy shower; and although the travellers had r l aeady gone a considerable way, they were still far from the end of their journey, and gush after gush, the rain poured upon their heads till the water run down from their hats as from a spout. Berthold trudged silently on, sighing frequently and heavily under his burden,—he could have sworn that it increased a pound’s weight every step, nevertheless it was m i ossible for his good nature to think o f p i gng it back to the poor cripple in such a v pest. The rain soon began to trickle through m e t his waistcoat, and run in a cold stream down his back, he wished himself, the dwarf, and the wedding all far enough, but stalked sullenly on through the mud as if he had �15 been wading through the highest Alpine grass. The fiddler limped close behind him, croaking occasionally through his raven throat, an old spring song, which told of sunshine, and singing birds, and pleasure, and love. A t times he drew himself snugly together, and expatiated on the excellencies of the herdsman’s coat, which he declared was quite waterproof,— and then he would exhort Berthold to step leisurely, to pay particular attention to the wallet and fiddle, and above all not to overheat himself. The herdsman would have lost all patience and courage a thousand times over in draggin g his hundred weight of a load and playing the fool to the crazy fiddler, if he had not been ashamed to throw away the burden which he had volunteered to carry, and forsake the person whose company he had himself invited. But in his heart he vowed deeply and solemnly never again to lend his coat to a fiddler, nor give away his cheese, nor to carry a fiddle and wallet, and after all be mocked and laughed at by such an odd quiz of a fellow. ‘ I f ,’ thought he at last, ‘ the upshot of all this is a fever in the evening which carries me quickly off-— be it so,-— remains a bitter wedding!’ it After a few hours rain, the two pedestrians reached the valley, where a swollen and �16 rapid torrent, which had swept away every vestige of the little bridge that led to the village, with the exception of a single small plank, rushed across the path; the herdsm a n heeded not the narro footing, and was w stepping boldly across, when his companion began to roar out lustily about the dangers of the path : ' Fo r my life and soul I will not move from the spot! N either cat nor rah could pass over there,— I would be a dead man if I ventured on that cursed plank ! Let them fiddle yonder who can swim,— I wish I was in a feather bed with my fiddle for a pillow!’ ' Don’t make such a noise about i t !’ cried Berthold. ' I f we have got thus far, we will surely go on a little, farther,-— I have if brought the fiddler this length to the bitter dance, I will also bring him to the wedding house,—though I am a fool, I am neverthels e a good-natured one.’ With these words the herdsman took off the fiddle and wallet from his back , and supplied the place with the dwarf, whom he carried over as easily as a bundle of straw. He then returned for the fiddle, wallet, and crutch, which lay as heavy as so many stones upon his shoulders. ' Well, the best of it now is,’ said he, that we shall soon reach the village,— but either my head is turned, or that wallet is filled �17 with f esh and blood, ,and master Almerich’s l body is stuffed with chaff! ’ ' Nonsense! ' replied the fiddler with a broad grin, ' You have behaved well, child; it would be a great pity i f :the bride yonder would not g e t you ; you have the genuine patience of the lamb in you, yet I perceive you have also strength enough, with your heart in the right place, and as much wisdom as there is any need of in the country. Come, let us paint your cheeks, and put on the old cap you will find in my wallet, and the green waistcoat and get that belt about you; d o t ay you will be the fiddler’s boy, and not a liv in g creature know you.’ The fiddler opened his wallet and threw out its contents to Berthold, whose face he painted with cranberries, and beard and b y e rows with a bit of coal, and then they walked gaily on towards the village. Evening was just coming on, and the sun broke out all at once from under the clouds, — the birds -began to sing cheerfully,—the flowers, opened their leaves as if to listen, and Berthold felt his clothes sooner dried than if he had been sitting close to a large fire. In a few minutes our wanderers mingled with the merry wedding-guests; noises and merriment were echoing all around, and no one looked sad but Siegelind, who kept her �18 tearful eyes fixed upon the ground. The old fiddler was welcomed with shouts of applause ; for the rain had prevented the arrival of the band o f fiddlers and pipers who had been invited on the occasion, and every body thought it a piece o f marvellous good luck for the wedding that master Almerich should have got through. ' Now, children,’ exclaimed the old boy, ‘ fetch us something to drink, and some cheese and bread, and do not forget that youth who has dragged myself as well as my fiddle here to-day.’ The guests hastened to execute the old fiddler’s commands, and even Gertrude and Bernhard bustled about to serve him. Poor Berthold’s heart was bleeding, but he kept eating and drinking, that he might not be obliged to speak. Mean while the old fiddler put dry strings on his instrument, and began to tune it so stoutly that it thrilled through marrow and bone, and quickly drew the attention of all upon the musician.’ ‘ Bless me,’ whispered Bernhard to t r erude,’ ‘ upon my faith it is the very dwarf G who g a ve me the bewitched wine and cheese! Be gentle to him wife, and say not a single word.’ A ll at once the fiddle struck up so briskly that the very house shook with blow upon blow,—he commenced such a furious strain �19 that the whole company leaped up from their benches and began dancing as if they were mad. ‘ Heigh, heigh!’ shouted the people. ‘ There is a fiddle!’ and every one capered and whirled through the wedding chamber as if they danced for a wager. The young people led out the dance, and the old ones hobbled as fast after them as they could; and nobody stood idle but Siegelind:—who wished herself ten thousand miles away from the merriment—and Berthold, who gazed stedfastly and sorrowfully upon his beloved. In the midst of his fiddling, Master Almerich beckoned to the beautiful bride to step near him ; ‘ There stands a little bottle yonder where your bridegroom has been seated, and some old cheese with it,— I dare say it will not be the worst in the house,— I would taste a little of it,—this playing makes me a little nice in the palate.’ The good natured bride brought the bottle and cheese, and placed them on a chair beside him, knowing no reasonable objection to the old man’s taking as much as he could eat. The dwarf quickly laid his fiddle aside, raised the bewitched bottle in his right hand, and the cheese in his left, and exclaimed with a loud voice, W ' ell, my good peo well, here’s the health of that beautiful bride there and her sweetheart; may she live long and joyfully!’ �20 ' L o n g and joyfully!’ resounded through the room, while fifty bonnets and hats were tossed up into the air. But horror struck and deadly pale did Hildebrand and Bernhard a n d Gertrude become when they saw the wondrous wine and enchanted cheese in Almerich’s uplifted fist. ' Dares he—can he—will h e !’ darted through their hearts. But, woe and alas ! in one turn of his hand, the glutton with his large ox-mouth, had swallowed the bewitche d draught and marvellous cheese without leaving a morsel! A roar of passion from the red haired Hildebrand, and a gush of tears from Gertrude, now terrified the people: while old Bernhard stood like one petrified. But a cheerful smile lightened upon the counte­ nance of Siegelind, and Berthold rose boldly from his bench, and stood ready to use his fists upon Hildebrand if he should dare to touch the fiddler. Y ‘ ou rogu e! you b e g g a r!’ at last c x elaimed Hildebrand. Who told you to give that old fool of a fiddler that gift of heaven ? You may now toss your house and your bride too to the moon ; I no longer care a straw for you or all that l eongs to you !’ b With words o f venom and execration, Hildebrand rushed out of the room, whilst �21 the enraged Bernhard and his crowd of guests looked terrified after him. ' I am an undone man ! at last exclaimed Bernhard. ‘ M y child and we are all ruined! The wedding feast and the adornments are all unpaid! Oh cursed, horrid miser ! bring me a knife—a knife !’ A ' fig for a knife!’ exclaimed the fiddler. S ‘ ee here is the bridegroom just come, who has brought with him a whole wallet full of gold,—and the bride loves him with all her heart, and the guests are all together—and my fiddle is in glorious tune!’ With these words Almerich crippled w r o f ard to the half bewildered and yet joyful Berthold, and drew him into the circle: he then wiped the paint off his face with the skirts of his coat, and showed to the delighted bride and the astonished guests their well known neighbour, who was dear and c l eome to all. He then ordered the wallet to w be dragged forward, and having opened the lock, behold a prodigious quantity of pure red gold tumbled out from it, dazzling the eyes of all with its splendour! Old Bernhard and Gertrude embraced Berthold with tears of repentance, and Berthold by turns b m e raced the lovely Siegelind and the ugly dwarf. Almerich took his fiddle and struck up a tune which bewitched them all, and they danced till midnight in joy and glory. The �22 musician then escaped, and le ft a whole house fu ll o f m erry-m akers around the two happy! lovers, who, till their last d a y, a thousand times blessed the bitter w edding in which they had been so w onderfully united by the benevolent lam e dwarf. �23 H IP P S L E Y ’ S D R U N K E N M A N . H ere Betty you jade ! bring me a pint of half-and-half— sure you mix them— and -be put them in separate ju gs. B e tty ! hang that girl—she goes up stairs twenty times a-day, and never comes down again. f n oound the back of this chair, it is always C behind. Well, I have given my wife the slip at la s t : A h ! she is quite a domestic christian— she knocks off the heels of her shoes on a saturday-night to prevent her i o gng to church on the Sunday.— She’s quite a pious woman— whenever I conceal my money, I always put it in the bible, I am sure my wife will never go there to look for it. I have the finest set o f children a man would wish to stick a knife into. There’s my son Jam es—he will be a counsel or a bishop, I am certain, he is so wise :— His mother sent him on an errand; turning the corner of a street, he met a lawyer full plump, which knocked him down—the poor boy has never spoke a word of truth ever since. There’s my daughter P e g —she certainly will be a queen one day or other-—she’s so cute:— The other day her mother was ironing the clothes; the iron was red hot; she, like a wise child took hold of it to help her mother—and what do you think ? she let it drop in a moment. �24 There’s my daughter Sukey, she beyo doubt will be an empress some day I ’m sure, she’s so wonderfully wise :— The Parson or the parish sent a pair of black stocking's to be darned; and to show the child’s wisdom —she darned them with white worsted, and sent the Parson hopping- to church like a magpie. [Takes upa _— Constantinople— One thousand seven hundred— and fast asleep. This evening the Pope was brought to-bed of a pair of twins: what was wonderful, they were booted and spurred, with whips in their hands. This evening, an empty chaise passed this town with a lawyer fast asleep in it. Thursd a y morning at three o’clock in the afternoon, a fire broke out in an empty house and quite consumed the furniture. A poor man fell from a garret window into the street— -very fortunately he had a flannel nightcap on, which saved his brains from being, knocked out. Here B etty! tell my wife to go to a joiner and purchase a wooden grate— I know she is a sensible -woman and very careful— for I think, when the fire is in it, it will be all in a blaze. Here Betty, Betty ! � https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/323191b78cbd667518312e4ff03c1099.jpg f8edeef316f68a96122eca35fcf02b9d Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3251 Width 1814 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Story of the Bitter Wedding. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9934220843505154">s0598b11</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Hippsley's drunken man. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [1840-1850?] per National Library of Scotland Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages 16 cm Description An account of the resource Woodcut image of three people outside with a table on the title-page, and a woodcut image of two people at the base of a tree and a man hanging by his arms from a branch on page 22. Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/">National Library of Scotland&nbsp;</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource 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 An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers # of Woodcuts: 2 Bib Context: title-page Chapbook Date: 1841-1850 Chapbook Genre: fairytale/folk tale Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Furniture: table(s) Gender: man/men Gender: woman/women Nature: tree(s) https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/dd6f25f83d8951063cd599299a859b15.pdf c2f9a96adbeae9a7871ce2bc594dbe98 PDF Text Text N E W A N D I M P E O Y E D SERIES. A SELECTION OF THE MOST INTERESTING STORIES, INCIDENTS, A N D N A R R A T I V E S , FROM THE OLD AND NEW TESTAMENT, G L A S G O W : PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS. 1851. ��HISTORY OF THE BIBLE, THE CREATION.' IN the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void ; and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the -Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light, and there Was light. THE DIVISION OF T H E WATERS. And God said, Let there be a firmament in tlie midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters. And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament ; and it was so. THE CREATURES NAMED—MAN AND WOMAN FORMED. And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life ; and man became a living soul. And the Lord God planted a garden, and �4 there he put the man whom he had formed. And out of the ground the Lord formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air, and brought them unto Adam, to see what he would call them : and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof. And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field. And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam; and he took one of his ribs, and closed up tht flesh instead thereof. And the rib which the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man. And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of ray flesh ; she shall be called woman, because she was taken out of man. And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed. THE SERPENT'S T E M P T A T I O N — F A L L OF OUR FIRST PARENTS. Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden ? And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden : but of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die. And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die. And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof and did eat; and gave also unto her husband with her, and he did eat. ADAM AND EVE DRIVEN OUT OF P A R A D I S E . And the Lord God said unto the woman, What is this that thou hast done ? And the woman said, The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat. And the Lord God said unto the serpent, Upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life. Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; and in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children. To Adam he said, Cursed is the ground for thy sake, in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life. So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life. CAIN A N D ABEL. Abel was a keeper of sheep, but Cain was a tiller of the ground. And in process of time it came to pass, that Cain Brought of the fruit of the ground an offering unto the Lord. �5 And Abel, he also brought of the firstlings of his flock and of the fat thereof. And the Lord had respect unto Abel and to his offering. But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell. And Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him. CAIN'S PUNISHMENT. The Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother ? And he said, I know not: am I my brother's keeper? And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground. And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand; when thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength ; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth. And Cain said unto the Lord, My punishment is greater than I can bear. Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth ; and from thy face shall I be hid ; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me. THE ARK AND FLOOD. God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth. And the Lord said, I will destroy man whom I have created. But Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord. And God said, Make thee an ark of gopher-wood.—Of every living thing of all flesh; two of every sort shalt thou bring into the ark, to keep them alive with thee; they shall be male and female. The �waters of that moved upon the earth. flesh died THE ARK AND FLOOD dEASES-^-NOAH GOES OtJT OF THE SACRIFICES J GOD'S PROMISE TO HIM. The waters returned from off the earth.—And the ark rested upon the mountains of Ararat. And Noah went forth, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons' wives with him. Every beast, every creeping thing, and every fowl, and whatsoever creepeth upon the earth, after their kinds, went forth out of the ark. And Noah builded an altar unto the Lord ; and took of every clean beast, and of every clean fowl, and offered burnt-offerings r on the altar. GOD RENEWS HIS COVENANT WITH N O A H — F O R B I D S THE RAINBOW. MURDER. Arid God blessed Noah and his sons, and said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth. And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon every beast of the earth, and upon every fowl of the air, upon all that moveth upon the earth, and upon all the fishes of the sea; into your hand are they delivered. Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed : for in the image of God made he man. And God said, This is the token of the covenant which I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for perpetual generations : I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth. �7 TOWER OF B A B E L — C O N F U S I O N OF LANGUAGES. The whole earth was of one language, and of one speech. And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven ; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth. And the Lord came down to see the city and the .tower, which the children of men builded. And the Lord said, Go to, let us go down and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech. So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth : and they left off to build the city. THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM—LOT IS PRESERVED. The men said unto Lot, Hast thou here any besides? son-inlaw, and thy sons, and thy daughters, and whatsoever thou hast in the city, bring them out of this place: for we will destroy this place,* because the cry of them is waxen great before the face of the Lord, and the Lord hath sent us to destroy it. And when the morning arose, then the angels hastened Lot, saying, Arise, take thy wife and thy two daughters, lest thou be consumed. Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire out of heaven. And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground. But his wife looked back from behind him • and she became a pillar of salt. ABRAHAM COMMANDED TO OFFER ISAAC—AN ANGEL STAYS HIS HAND. And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife �8 to slay his son. And the angel of the Lord called unto Abra* ham out of heaven, and said, Abraham, Abraham. And he said, here am I. And he said, Lay not thine hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him ; for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son, from me. THE FINDING OF MOSES. When his mother could no longer hide him, she took for him an ark of bulrushes, and daubed it with slime and with pitch, and put the child therein; and she laid it in the flags by the river's brink. And his sister stood afar off, to wit what would be done to him. And the daughter of Pharaoh came down to wash herself at the river ; and her maidens walked along by the river's side; and when she saw the ark among the flags, she sent her maid to fetch it. And when she had opened it, she saw the child ; and, behold, the babe wept. And she had compassion on him, and said, This is one of the Hebrew's children. T H E ISRAELITES PASS THE RED SEA ON DRY G R O U N D — A R E PURSUED EY THE E G Y P T I A N S , WHO ARE DROWNED. And the Lord said unto Moses, Speak to the Israelites, that they go forward; and lift thou thy rod, and stretch thy hand over the red sea, to divide it, and the children of Israel shall go over on dry land. And the Lord made the sea to go back by a strong east wind, and the waters were divided, so that the children of Israel went over on dry ground,—the waters being a wall to them on the right hand and on the left. And the Egyptians pursued them into the midst of the sea. In the mommg-wa.ch, the Lord troubled the host of the Egyptians, �9 and took off their chariot-wheels; and they said, Let us flee from the face of Israel, for the Lord fighteth for them. Then the Lord said to Moses, Stretch now thy hand over the sea, that the waters may come again; and as the morning appeared, the sea returned, and covered the chariots and all the host of Pharaoh: there remained not one of them. Thus the Lord saved Israel; and they saw the Egyptians dead on the sea-shore ; and they feared the Lord and his servant Moses. MOSES SMITETII THE ROCK. And the Lord said unto Moses, Go on before the people, and take with thee of the elders of Israel; and thy rod, wherewith thou smotest the river, take in thy hand, and go. Behold, I will stand before thee there upon the rock in Horeb ; and thou shalt smite the rock, and there shall come water out of it, that the people may drink. And Moses did so in the sight of the elders of Israel. MOSES RECEIVETH THE TABLES. And the Lord said unto Moses, Hew thee two tables of stone like unto the first; and I will write upon these tables the words that were in the first tables, which thou brakest. And he hewed two tables of stone like unto the first: and Moses rose up early in the morning, and went up into Mount Sinai, as the Lord had commanded him, and took in his hand the two tables of stone. THE WALLS OF JERICHO F A L L — T H E CITY TAKEN. The people shouted when the priests blew with the trumpets : and it came to pass, when the people heard the sound of the �trumpet, and the people shouted with a great shout, that the wall fell down flat, so that the people went up into the city, every man straight before him, and they took the city, and they utterly destroyed all that was in the city, both man. and woman, young and old, and ox, and sheep, and ass, with the edge of the sword. SAMSON'S DEATH. And Samson took hold of the two middle pillars upon which the house stood, and on which it was borne up, of the one with his right hand, and of the other with his left. And Samson said, Let me die with the Philistines. And he bowed himself with all his might; and the house fell upon the lords, and upon all the people that were within. DAVID KILLS GOLIATH—THE PHILISTINES ROUTED. David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone, and smote the Philistine, and slew him ; but there was no sword in the hand of David. Therefore David ran, and stood upon the Philistine, and took his sword, and drew it out of the sheath thereof, and slew Goliath, and cut off liis head therewith. And when $xe Philistines saw their champion was dead, they fled. ABSALOM CAUGHT UP IN THE OAK. And Absalom rode upon a mule, and the mule went under tne thick branches of a great oak, and his head caught hold of the oak, and he was taken up between the heaven and the earth; and the mule that was under him went away. �11 TIIE TEMPLE BUILT. And it came to pass in the four hundred and eightieth year after the children of Israel were come out of the land of Egypt, in the fourth year of Solomon's reign, that he began to build the house of the Lord. And the word of the Lord came to Solomon, saying, Concerning this house which thou art building; If thou wilt walk in my statutes, and execute my judgments, and keep all my commandments, then will I perform the promise made to David thy father—that I will dwell with thee, and not forsake thee, So Solomon built the house, and finished it according to the plan which God himself had given to Dayid. ELIJAH DIVIDES JORDAN. And Elijah said unto Elisha, Tarry, I pray thee, here, for the Lord hath sent me to Jordan. And he said, As the Lord liveth, and as thy soul liveth, I will not leave thee. And they two went . on. And fifty men of the sons of the prophets went, and stood to view afar 01T; and they two stood by Jordan. And Elijah took his mantle, and wrapped it together, and smote the waters, and they were divided hither and thither, so that they two went over on dry ground. E L I J A H IS C A R R I E D TO H E A Y E N IN A CHARIOT O F F I R E . And it came to pass, as they still went on, and talked, that, behold there appeared a chariot of fire, and horses of fire, and parted them both asunder; and Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven, �12 SATAN A F F L I C T S J O B — H I S WIFE R E V I L E S HIM. Satan smote Job with sore boils from the sole of his foot unto his crown. And he took him a potsherd to scrape himself withal; and he sat down among the ashes. Then said his wife unto him, Dost thou still retain thine integrity? curse God, and die. But he said unto her, Thou speakest as one of the foolish women speaketh. What? shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil ? B E L S H A Z Z A R ' S FEAST. The king and his princes, his wives and his concubines, drank wine, and praised the gods of gold, and of silver, of brass, of iron, of wood, and of stone. In the same hour came forth fingers of a man's hand, and wrote over against the candlestick upon the plaster of the wall of the king's palace; and the king saw the part of the hand that wrote. Then the king's countenance was changed, and his thoughts troubled him, and he said, Whosoever shall read this writing, and show me the interpretation thereof, shall be clothed with scarlet, and have a chain of gold about his neck, and shall be the third ruler of the kingdom. Then was Daniel brought in, and said, This is the interpretation. God hath numbered thy kingdom, and finished it. Thou art weighed in the balances and art found wanting; thy kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persians. In that night was Belshazzar the king of the Chaldeans slain. D A N I E L CAST INTO THE DEN OF LIONS. Then said Daniel unto the king, O king, live for ever. My God hath sent his angel, and hath shut the lions' mouths, that they have not hurt me : forasmuch as before him innocence was found in me; and also before thee, O king, have I done no hurt. Then was the king exceeding glad for him, and commanded that they should take Daniel up out of the den. JONAH COMMANDED TO GO TO N I N E V E H — H E F L E E S FROM THE PRESENCE OF THE L O R D — I S SWALLOWED B Y A W H A L E . The word of the Lord came unto Jonah the son of Amittai, saying, Arise, go to Nineveh, that great city, and cry against i t ; for their wickedness is come up before me. But Jonah rose up to flee unto Tarshish from the presence of the Lord, and went down to Joppa; and he found a ship going to Tarshish : so he paid the fare thereof, and went down into it, to go with them unto Tarshish from the presence of the Lord. Now the Lord had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah. And Jonah �13 was in the belly of the fish three days and three nights. And the Lord spake unto the fish, and it vomited out Jonah upon the dry land. And the word of the Lord came unto Jonah the second time, saying, Arise, go unto Nineveh, that great city, and preach unto it the preaching that I bid thee. So Jonah arose, and went unto Nineveh, according to the word of the Lord. Now Nineveh was an exceeding great city of three days' journey. And Jonah began to enter into the city a day's journey, and he cried, and said, Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown. So the people of Nineveh believed God, and proclaimed a fast, and put*on sackcloth, from the greatest of them even to the least of them. And God saw their works, that they turned from their evil way; and God repented of the evil that he had said that he would do unto them; and he did it not. THE SALUTATION. And the angel said unto her, Fear not, Mary; for thou hast found favour with God. And, behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name Jesus. He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Highest; and the Lord God shall give unto him the throne of his father David. THE GENEALOGY OF CHRIST FROM ABRAHAM TO JOSEPH. The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham. Abraham begat Isaac, and Isaac begat Jacob, and Jacob begat Judas and his brethren. And Jacob begat Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom was born Jesus who is called CHRIST. SO all the generations from Abraham to David, are fourteen generations; and frem David until the carrying away into Babylon are fourteen generations; and from the carrying away into Babylon unto Christ are fourteen generations. THE BIRTH OF CHRIST JOSEPH SATISFIED BY AN ANGEL, WHO INTERPRETS THE NAME OF CHRIST. Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise; when, as his mother Mary was espoused to Joseph, before they came together she was found with child of the Holy Ghost. Then Joseph her husband being a just man, and not willing to make her a public example, was minded to put her away privily; but while he thought 011 these things, behold the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife; for that �u which is conceived in her, is of the Holy Ghost. And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name J E S U S : for he shall save his people from their sins. WISE MEN INQUIRE AFTER CIIRIST. Behold there came wise mien from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born king of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy. And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down and worshipped him; and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And being warned of God in a dream that they should not return to Herod, they departed into their own country another way. Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, was exceeding wroth; and sent forth, and slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under, according to the time which he had diligently inquired of the wise men. Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremy the prophet, saying, In Rama there was a voice heard, lamentation and weeping, and great mourning ; Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not. THE BAPTISM OF JESUS. Now, when all the people were baptized, it came to pass, that Jesus also being baptized, and praying, the heaven was opened. And the Holy Ghost descended in a bodily shape, like a dove upon him ; and a voice came from heaven, which said, Thou art my beloved Son ; in thee I am well pleased. JESUS TEMPTED EY THE DEVIL. Then was Jesus led up of the spirit, into the wilderness, to be tempted of the devil. And when he had fasted forty days and forty nights, he was afterwards an hungered. And when the tempter came to him, he said, If thou be the S N of GOD, O command that these stones be made bread. But he answered and said, It is written, Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of GOD. S I M O N P E T E R , A N D R E W , J A M E S , A N D J O H N , C A L L E D TO B E DISCIPLES. And Jesus walking by the sea of Galilee, saw two brethren; Simon called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into �15 the sea: for they were fishers. And he said unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men. -And they straightway left their nets, and followed him. And going on from thence he saw other two brethren. And they immediately left the ship and their father, and followed him. CHRIST'S SERMON ON THE MOUNT. Blessed are the poor in spirit: for -theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn : for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. BLESSING- ON SUCH AS SUFFER IN THE CAUSE OF RELIGION. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you; and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad : for great is your reward in heaven : for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you. BROTHERLY LOYE AND FORGIVENESS ENJOINED AND DIRECTED. If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee ; leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift. THE STRAIT AND NARROW, WITH TIIE BROAD A N D W I D E WAY. Enter ye in at the strait gate; for wide is the gate, and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction, ar.d many there be that go in thereat: because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life ; and few there be that find it. CHRIST CLEANSETH THE LEPER. There came a leper and worshipped him, saying, LORD, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean. And Jesus put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will; be thou clean. And immediately his leprosy was cleansed. And Jesus saith unto �16 him, See thou tell no man, but go thy way, show thyself to the priest, and offer the gift that Moses commanded for a testimony unto them. THE CENTURION'S S E R V A N T H E A L E D O F T H E P A L S Y . And when Jesus was entered into Capernaum, there came unto him a centurion, beseeching him, and saying, Lord, my servant lieth at home sick of the palsy, grievously tormented. And Jesus saith unto him, I will come and heal him. The centurion answered and said, Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldest come under my roof: but speak the word only, and my servant shall be healed. And Jesus said unto the centurion, Go thy way; and as thou hast believed, so be it done unto thee. And his servant was healed in the selfsame hour. THE WIDOW'S SON RAISED FROM THE DEAD. When he came nigh to the gate of the city of Nain, behold there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother; and she was a widow; and much people of the city were with her. And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not. And he came and touched the bier; and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, arise. And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak. And he delivered him to his mother. JAJRUS'S DAUGHTER R A I S E D T O L I F E . And there came a certain ruler, and worshipped him, saying, My daughter is even now dead; but come and lay thy hand upon her, and she shall live. And Jesus arose and followed him, ancl so did his disciples. And when Jesus came into the ruler's house, and saw the minstrels and the people making a noise, he said unto them, Give place; for the maid is not dead, but sleepeth. And they laughed him to scorn. But when the people were put forth, he went in, and took her by the hand, and the maid arose. T H E W O M A N W I T H THE I S S U E OF B L O O D H E A L E D . And a woman having an issue of blood twelve years, who had spent all her living upon physicians, neither could be healed of any, came behind him, and touched the hem of his garment; for, she said within herself, if I may but touch his garment, I shall be whole. And Jesus turned about, and when he saw her, he said, Daughter, be of good comfort, thy faith hath made thee whole, go in peace. And the woman was made whole from �IT SIGHT R E S T O R E D TO TWO B L I N D MEN. And two blind men followed him crying, Thou Son of David, have mercy 011 us. And when he was come into the house, the blind men came to him; and Jesus saith unto them, Believe ye that I am able to do this ? They said unto him, Yea, Lord. Then touched he their eyes, saying, According to your faith be it unto you. And their eyes were opened. F I V E THOUSAND F E D . And when it was evening, his disciples came to him, saying, This is a desert place, and the time is now past; send the multitude away, that they may go into the villages and buy themselves victuals. But Jesus said unto them, They need not depart, give ye them to eat. And they said unto him, we have here but five loaves and two fishes. He said, Bring them hither to me. And he commanded the multitude to sit down on the grass, and took the five loaves and the two fishes, and, looking up to heaven, he blessed and brake, and gave the loaves to the disciples, and the disciples to the multitude. And they did all eat and were filled, and they took up of the fragments that remained twelve baskets full. F O U R THOUSAND F E D . Then Jesus called his disciples unto him, and said, I have compassion on the multitude, because they continue with me now three days, and have nothing to eat; and I will not send them away fasting, lest they faint on the way. And his disciples say unto him, Whence should we have so much bread in the wilderness, as to fill so great a multitude? And Jesus saith unto them, How many loaves have ye ? And they said, Seven, and a few little fishes. And he commanded the multitude to sit down on the ground, and he took the seven loaves and the fishes, and gave thanks, and brake them, and gave to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude. And they did all eat, and were filled; and they took up of the broken meat that was left seven baskets full. And they that did eat were four thousand men, besides women and children. A N U N C L E A N SPIRIT CAST OUT. And there was in their synagogue a man with an unclean spirit; and he cried out, saying, Let us alone ; what have we to do with thee, thou Jesus of Nazareth? art thou come to destroy us ? I know thee who thou art, the Holy One of God. And Jesus rebuked him, saying, Hold thy peace, and come out �18 of him. And when the unclean spirit had torn him, and cried with a loud voice, he came out of him. v A WOMAN OF EIGHTEEN Y E A R S ' INFIRMITY CURED. And, behold, there was a woman who had a spirit of infirmity eighteen years, and was bowed together, and could in no wise lift up herself. And when Jesus saw her, he called her, to him, and said unto her, Woman, thou art loosed from thine infirmity. And he laid his hands on her; and immediately she was made straight, and glorified God. TEN L E P E R S CLEANSED. And as lie entered into a certain yillage, there met him ten men that were lepers, who stood afar off. And they lifted up their voices, and said, Jesus, Master, haye mercy on us. And when he saw them, he said unto them, Go show yourselves unto the priests. And it came to pass that as they went, they were cleansed. CHRIST R E B U K E S THE TEMPEST. And, behold, there arose a great tempest in the sea, insomuch that the ship was covered with the waves : but he was asleep. And his disciples came to him, and awoke him, saying, Lord, save us: we perish. And he saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith ? Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm. ST. MATTHEW C A L L E D TO THE APOSTLESHIP. And as Jesus passed forth from thence, he saw a man, named Matthew, sitting at the receipt of custom : and he saith unto him, Follow me. And he arose, and followed him. THE MISSION OF THE T W E L V E APOSTLES J TO TEACH AND TO DO MIRACLES. These twelve Jesus sent forth, and commanded them, saying, Go not into the way of the Gentiles, and into any city of the Samaritans enter ye not: but go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. And as ye go, preach, saying, The kingdom of heaven is at hand. Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raiso the dead, cast out devils; freely ye have received, freely give. CHRIST, W A L K I N G ON THE S E A , SAVES ST. PETER. . And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus. But when he saw the wind �19 boisterous, lie was afraid : and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me. And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt t LAZARUS RAISED FROM THE GRAVE TO LIFE. Jesus said unto them, Take away the stone. Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And Jesus lifted up his eyes, and said, Father, I thank thee that thou hast heard me. And I know that thou hearest me always : but because of the people who stand by I said it, that they may believe that thou hast sent me. And when he had thus spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. And he that was dead came forth. T H E T R A N S F I G U R A T I O N OF OUR SAVIOUR. Jesus taketh Peter, James, and John his brother, and bring* eth them up into an high mountain apart, and was transfigured before them : and his face did shine as the sun, and his raiment was white as the light. And, behold, there appeared unto them Moses and Elias, talking with him. THE PASSOVER EATEN, AND THE BETRAYER FORETOLD. When the even was come, he sat down with the twelve. And as they did eat, he said, . Verily I say unto you, That ono of you shall betray me. And they were exceeding sorrowful, and began every one of them to say unto him, Lord, is it I ? And he answered and said, He that dippeth his hand with me in the dish, the same shall betray me. J U D A S B E T R A Y S CHRIST TO T H E PRIESTS. Judas that betrayed him gave them a sign, saying, Whomsoever I shall kiss, that same is he: hold him fast. And forthwith he came to Jesus, and said, Hail, master; and kissed him. And Jesus said unto him, Friend, wherefore art thou come? Then came they, and laid hands on Jesus, and took him. And, behold, one of them which were with Jesus, stretched out his hand, and drew his sword, and struck a servant of the high priest, and smote off his ear. JESUS IS ACCUSED BEFORE PILATE. And the whole multitude of them arose, and led him unto Pilate. And they began to accuse him, saying, We found this �20 fellow perverting the nation, and forbidding to give tribute to Caesar, saying that he himself is Christ a King. And Pilate asked him, saying, Art tliou the King of the Jews ? And he answered him and said, Thou sayest it. Then said Pilate to the chief priests, and to the people, I find no fault in this man. No, nor yet Herod : for I sent you to him; and, lo, nothing worthy of death is done by him. But they cried, saying, Crucify him, crucify him. And Pilate gave sentence, that it should be as they required. CHRIST LED A W A Y T O BE CRUCIFIED ON MOUNT CALVARY. As they led him away, they laid hold upon one Simon, a Cyrenian, coming out of the country, and on him they laid the cross, that he might bear it after Jesus. And there followed him a great company of people, and of women, which also bewailed and lamented him. But Jesus turning unto them; said, Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and for your children. THE CRUCIFIXION. When they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors ; one on the right hand, and the other on the left. Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. And the sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was rent in the midst. And when Jesus had cried with a loud voice, he said, Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit: and having said thus, he gave up the ghost. CHRIST T A K E N DOWN FROM T H E CROSS AND BURIED. Joseph, a counsellor; and he was a good man, and a just: (the same had not consented to the counsel and deed of them;) he was of Arimathea, a city of the Jews; who also himself waited for the kingdom of God. This man went unto Pilate, and begged the body of Jesus. And he took it down, and wrapped it in linen, and laid it in a sepulchre that was hewn in stone, wherein never man before was laid. T H E RESURRECTION DECLARED TO THE WOMEN. Two men stood by them in shining garments. And as they were afraid, and bowed down their faces to the earth, they said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead ? He i3 not here, but is risen. �21 JESUS W A L K E T H A N D DISCOURSETH WITH TWO DISCIPLES. Two of them went that same day to a village called Emmaus, which was from Jerusalem about threescore furlongs, And they talked together of all these things which had happened. And it came to pass, that, while they communed together and reasoned, Jesus himself drew near, and went with them. But their eyes were holden that they should not know him. HE A P P E A R S A G A I N TO T H E E L E V E N , A N D CONVINCES T H E M . Jesus saith, Behold my hands and my feet, that it is I myself : handle me, and see; for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as ye see me have. And when he had thus spoken, he showed them his hands and his feet. And while they yet believed not for joy, and wondered, he said unto them, Have ye here any meat ? And they gave him a piece of a broiled fish, and of an honeycomb. And he took it, and did eat before them. HE BLESSES HIS DISCIPLES AND ASCENDS INTO HEAVEN. He led them out as far as to Bethany, and he lifted up his hands, and blessed them. And it came to pass, while he blesssed them, he was parted from them, and carried up into heaven. And they worshipped him, and returned to Jerusalem with great joy : And were continually in the temple, praising and blessing God. THE FEAST OF PENTECOST AND DESCENT OF THE HOLY GHOST. And when the day of Pentecost was fully come, they were all with one accord in one place. And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting. And there appeared unto them cloven tongues, like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance. THE CONVERSION OF SAUL. As he journeyed, he came near Damascus: and suddenly there shined round about him a light from heaven : and he fell to the earth, and heard a voice saying unto him, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? And he said, Who art thou, Lord? �22 And the* Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest: it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. And he, trembling and astonished, said, Lord, \yhat wilt thou have me to do ? And the Lord said unto him, Arise and go into the city, and it shall be told thee what thou must do. VISION OF . A N A N I A S — I I E RESTORES SAUL TO SIGHT AND BAPTIZES HIM. And Were was a certain disciple at Damascus, named Ananias ; and to him said the Lord in a vision, Ananias. And^ he said, Behold, I am here, Lord. And the Lord said unto him, Arise and go into the street which is called Straight, and inquire in the house of Judas for ones called Saul of Tarsus ; for, behold, he prayeth. And Ananias went his way, and entered into the house; and putting his hands on him, said, Brother Saul, the Lord, even Jesus, that appeared unto thee in the way as thou earnest, hath sent me, that thou miglitest receive thy sight, and be filled with the Holy Ghost. And immediately there fell from his eyes as it had been scales; and he received sight forthwith, and aroseand was baptized. SAUL PREACHES CHRIST IN THE SYNAGOGUES OF D A M A S C U S — HE E S C A P E S A PLOT B Y BEING L E T DOWN OVER THE CITY W A L L IN A B A S K E T . And straightway he preached Christ in the synagogues, that he is the Son of God. But all that heard him were amazed, and said, Is not this he that destroyed them which called on this name in Jerusalem, and came hither for that intent, that he might bring them bound unto the Chief priests? But Saul increased the more in strength, and confounded the Jews which dwelt at Damascus, proving that this is very Christ. And after that many days were fulfilled, the Jews took counsel to kill him; but their lying in wait was known of Saul: and they watched the gates day and night to kill him. Then the disciples took him by niglit, and let him down by the wall in a basket. SAUL (ALSO C A L L E D P A U L , ) CURES A CRIPPLE AT LYSTRA. And there sat a certain man at Lystra, impotent in his feet, being a cripple from his mother's womb, who never had walked. The same heard Paul speak; who stedfastly beholding him, and perceiving that he had faith to be healed, said with a loud voice, Stand upright on thy feet. And he leaped and walked. �23 P A U L A N D SILAS SCOURGED A N D IMPRISONED—.CONVERSION OF THE J A I L E R A N D HIS HOUSE. And when they had laid many stripes upon them, they cast them into prison, charging the jailer to keep them safely: who hating received such a charge, thrust them into the inner prison, and made their feet fast in the stocks. And at midnight, Paul and Silas prayed and sung praises unto God; and the prisoners heard them. And suddenly there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken, and immediately all the doors were opened, and every one's hands were loosed. Then the jailer came trembling, and fell down before Paul and Silas, and said, Sirs, what must I do to be saved? And they said, Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved, and thy house. And he was baptized, he and all his straightway, and rejoiced, believing in God with all his house. EUTYCHUS P A L L I N G DOWN D E A D , IS R A I S E D TO LIFE. And there sat in a window of the upper chamber where they were gathered together, a young man named Eutychus, who had fallen into a deep sleep: and as Paul was long preaching, he sank down with sleep, and fell down from the third loft and was taken up dead. And Paul went down and fell on him, and embracing him, said. Trouble not yourselves; for his life is in him. And they brought the young man alive, and were not a little comforted. PAUL BEFORE FELIX. And after certain days, when Felix came with his wife Brasilia, which was a Jewess, he sent for Paul, and heard him concerning the faith in Christ. And as he reasoned of righteousness, temperance and judgment to come, Felix trembled, and answered, Go thy way for this time ; when I have a convenient season, I will call for thee. P U B L I U S ' S F A T H E R A N D OTHERS CURED. And it came to pass, that the father of Publius lay sick of a fever, and of a bloody flux: to whom Paul entered in, and prayed, and laid his hands on him; and healed him. So when this was done, others also, which had disease^ in the island came, and were healed. CHRIST'S SECOND COMING. For the Lord himself shall descend from heayen with a shout, �24 with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God : and the dead in Christ shall rise first. Then we which are alive and remain, shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air : and so shall we ever be with the Lord. But the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night; in the which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also, and the works that are therein, shall be burnt up. G E N E R A L RESURRECTION A N D JUDGMENT. And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God : and the books were opened; and another book was opened, which is the book of life ; and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books according to their words. And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire. A NEW HEAVEN AND A NEW EARTH. And I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away, and there was no more sin. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven. And I heard a great voice, saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God. THOSE ADMITTED INTO THE CELESTIAL CITY. Blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city. A W F U L PUNISHMENT OF THOSE WHO A D D TO, OR DIMINISH THE R E V E L A T I O N O F G O D . For I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book, If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book: and if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and from the things which are written in this book. � https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/427c8d40febedf61ed0463d97d1b1b8e.jpg ff4b67f7c12ce47cf303c20597190466 Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3190 Width 1944 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The History of the Bible, A Selection of the most interesting stories, incidents, and narratives, from the Old and New Testament. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1851 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9935682183505154">s0598b21</a> Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages 16 cm Description An account of the resource Woodcut images found on the title-page, page 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, and 11 <p>New and Improved Series, No. 89.</p> Price One Penny. Subject The topic of the resource Christianity Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/">National Library of Scotland</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource 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 An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario # of Woodcuts: 9 Architecture: hill(s) Architecture: tower(s) Bib Context: title-page Chapbook Date: 1851-1860 Chapbook Genre: religion & morals Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Gender: man/men Nature: cloud(s) Outdoor Scene https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/5191868118a204d494a9c043827614bb.jpg 562985b96db73b2437a2684ab2df9d9e Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3780 Width 2127 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/49d7d7831fceca9bc88cf1ffb7f2d245.pdf 10aa6f91d85305a8b073d5572dddf418 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Chronicle of Charles, The Young man. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9936632793505154">s0604b34</a> Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1745 per ESTC Extent The size or duration of the resource. 11 pages 19 cm Subject The topic of the resource Jacobites War Charles Edward, Prince, grandson of James II, King of England, 1720-1788 Chapbooks - Scotland - Edinburgh Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. ESTC#:&nbsp;<span>T55713</span> ESTC#: T116754 <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/">National Library of Scotland</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource 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 An entity responsible for making the resource available [Edinburgh?: s.n.] Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario Type The nature or genre of the resource biography Abstract A summary of the resource. A Jacobite tract in support of Prince Charles Edward after the battle of Prestonpans. # of Woodcuts: 0 Chapbook Date: 1741-1750 Chapbook Genre: biography Chapbook Publisher: [Edinburgh: s.n.] https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/0e631436f8c2499d055596996cb9e753.jpg 20e46804c68574c5ab22a1a91e074fa8 Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3116 Width 1766 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/c551a8ced8bffe64cf917803870c4764.pdf b6b6328237eba1390a628ba9d0ca7c7c PDF Text Text N E W AND IMPKOYED SEBXES. I IRISH STORIES A COLLECTION OP THE MOST INTERESTING TALES AND LEGENDS OF IRELAND COMPILED FROM THE BEST AUTHORS. GLASGOW: PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS. 1850. �CONTENTS. PASS The Hermit turned Pilgrim, 3 The Farmer and his Servant, 5 The Three Advices, 7 The Spaeman, 9 The Priest and the Robber, 11 Mac Turkhill, ™ Anne Boney, the Pemale Pirate,.. — James Butler........... Jack Withers, 16 ... 18 The Generous Irishman, 20 Paddy and the Priest, 24 Ready Wit,..,. 24 �POPULAR IRISH STORIES, THE HERMIT TURNED PILGRIM. In a solitary cave near the banks of Killarney, there lived an ancient hermit; far retired from the bustle and pleasures of the city, he spent his days in the praise of his divine Creator. But here we may observe the power of sin in man. A suggestion arose in his heart, that vice should triumph over virtue. Pondering on the various accounts he received, he began to doubt the power of Divine Providence; he therefore resolved to travel as a pilgrim, and setting out one morning, travelled the pathless grass until mid-day alone; he at length fell in with a young man who saluted him, and though far different in years, they were delighted with each other's company. The sun had sunk below the horizon when our travellers began to think of resting their weary limbs. They stopped at a large house, and were welcomed by the generous owner, who was ever happy in making his house the traveller's home, not from charity or any good, but from the love of praise. After partaking of an elegant repast, they were conducted to beds of down. In the morning, before they recommenced their journey, each drank a golden goblet full of wine. When a good distance from the house, the youth produced the golden cup which he had taken from the kind nobleman, and showed it to the hermit, which greatly surprised him, and he could not help thinking it hard that such generous actions should be so basely rewarded. While thus they journeyed, on a sudden the skies were covered with heavy black clouds, which presaged an approaching storm. Our travellers sought repose in a large well-built house. The owner was a great miser, whose door was ever shut against those in distress:—Long did they knock in a piteous condition, battered with the wind and rain: at length the old miser opens the door, and by a half welcome, admits the shivering pair; he brought them a morsel of bread of the coarsest sort, with a glass of wine, which he �4 had ill will to grant, and as soon as he saw the tempest cease, lie warned them to depart. The hermit wondered greatly that one so rich should live so miserably, denying himself even the necessaries of life. But his surprise was greater when his young companion took the cup he stole from his generous landlord, and gave it to this miserable wretch. The sun's bright rays once more invite the pair to their journey. He could not understand his companion's conduct, a vice in the one place, and madness in the other. Night coming on, they were again in want of lodging. They again applied at a house convenient, which the kind master readily granted, saying, to him that gives us all, we should yield a part. In the morning the pilgrims arose; but as they were ready to depart, the youth stole up to a cradle wherein slept a child, the landlord's only pride, and taking hold of it by the neck, choked it dead. But Oh! horror of horrors! how looked our pilgrim when he saw what was done. On leaving the house, a servant followed to show the way, and as they reached the river, the youth, as if watching a time to sin, approached him, and threw him in, where he was instantly drowned. Wild rage inflamed the old hermit's eyes. At last he burst the bands of fear, and was beginning to thunder out invective speech and imprecations on the detested wretch, when lo! this strange partner appeared no longer man, but was changed into all the grandeur and majesty of an angel, and addressing himself to the hermit, told him that his praise and prayer was heard at the throne of justice; and being so acceptable, said he, I, an angel, was sent down to calm thy mind, and let you know the truth of divine government, that you might have no scruples in your mind for the future, Those events which appeared so surprising to you on your journey, I will unriddle to you, that you may confess the Almighty just in all his ways. The great vain man who, for the love of praise, forced his guests to morning draughts of wine, has, by losing the cup, lost a great part of his vanity, and will for the future give nothing away but where he sees there is need. The miser who never gave any thing to the poor, with him I left the cup ; he will for the future become a new man, and never refuse relieving those whom he sees in distress. The pious man who ended the day in prayer, was beginning to lose his piety and virtue; that child whom ye saw me kill was weaning his heart from God; to save him God took the child; and already the aged parent owns his blind fondness deserved no less punishment. The servant whom I threw into the river was this night to kill and rob that good and charitable man. Now I have shown you the nature and cause �of the wonderful rule of Providence: depart in peace, resign yourself to the will of your Creator, and sin no more. With that the angel disappeared, and the hermit sought his ancient place, where he spent the remainder of his life in piety and contentment. THE F A R M E R A N D HIS SERVANT. A POOR man had three sons who was under the necessity of sending the eldest from home, to provide for himself in the best manner he could. He left his father's house early one morning, and after travelling all day, he came to a rich farmer's house, where he inquired if he could employ him. What can you do, said he ? Sir, said the boy, I can do any thing I am put to, but I will not engage myself longer than to the cuckoo sings. I will, said the farmer, give you ten guineas a year, if you do every thing faithfully, and refuse nothing you are commanded to do, but remember, the first that is angry, either you or me, is to be flogged on the bare back as long as the other pleases, and then the bargain is at an end; so if you think proper, you are welcome to stay. I hope, Sir, said the boy, there will be no occasion for either of us to be angry during my time here, so I believe on these terms I will stay. In the morning the boy was sent out to the field, and his master told him he must plough all the land his dog would run over before eating or drinking. The dog being taught for the purpose, ran over the whole field before he stopped, which would be a good day's work. Before he had finished his task, it was near sunset, and the poor fellow had not tasted any thing the whole day, but instead of getting his dinner as he expected, he was compelled by his master to begin work again in the barn. He complained of this treatment, and said no one would submit to such usage. Are you angry, said the farmer: I cannot help being angry, said the boy. Well, your time is expired, said he, and getting two or three persons to hold him, he most unmercifully flogged him. The next morning he got up and went home, and sorely grieved that he had had the bad luck to fall in with such a rogue: he told his brother all that happened him, and showing him his wounds, said, all he wanted was revenge. Well, said his brother, I will go in the morning and see what I can make of him. Accordingly he set off pretty early, came to the same farmer's house before sunset, and inquired if he knew any one wanting a boy in the neighbourhood. What is your name, said he? John, Sir ; I would �6 serve any person faithfully that will hire me till the cuckoo sings, for I intend after that to go to England. The farmer said he would engage him, at the same time telling him his terms, adding, I will give you a couple of shirts and a pair of shoes, because you are a good looking fellow, and I have a liking for you. John having agreed to the bargain, was desired to rise early. Accordingly in the morning he was first up, and got a stout stick for a paddle to the plough -. having proceeded to the field, his master told him he must plough whatever his dog would go over. The dog was at this time two or three rigs beyond him, and taking the paddle in his hand, he struck him on the head and killed him. What made you kill my dog ? I am only to plough what he has gone over, and that is not much. I hope you are not angry with me. O no, said he, I am not ; so John began to his work, and in a short time he had ploughed all the dog ran over, and then came home. Well John, said the farmer, you haye soon done your work this day, go and take your dinner, I have nothing more for you to do, you may play yourself to bedtime. All that night the farmer and his wife were plotting how to be revenged of John, for they saw it would not be easy to make him say he was angry, and they would willingly part with him if the bargain could be broke. The next morning when the farmer called John to him, and told him he had six cows beyond the river; there is a good ford, said he, but you must bring them over without wetting their feet. That is a hard task, master, but I will do what I can: so he went to the next house, and borrowing a hatchet, crossed the river and cut the feet off the cows, putting them into a sack which he carried home to his master. What is this you have got in the sack, said he ? Faith, said John, I was plotting all morning how to get the cows over the river dry shod, and I could not think of a better way than cutting the feet off them. You scoundrel, said the farmer, is that the way you have used my cattle? Indeed, said John, you may blame yourself, for how was it possible I could get them over a large river without wetting their feet, but by the method I have taken, and I hope you are not angry. No, I am not, said he, but you must look to yourself better than you are doing, or you will ruin me. The farmer and his wife were more spited than ever. I do not know what will be done with this fellow, if we do not find some way to break the bargain, he will ruin us. I will tell you what we will do, said she,—I see we must try some plan to get him away. You must put him on the house to-morrow to fasten the slates, and I will go up into the ivy bush and cry cuckoo three times, and then his time will be expired. I �believe, said he, it will be the best way, and accordingly he put him on the house the next morning, and his wife went into the bush. As John was busy working, his mistress called cuckoo three times; and he, having a good guess what it was, ran down with his arms full of slates, and throwing them into the bush almost killed her before the farmer knew any thing about it. At length hearing what was going on, he ran to the bush, where he found his wife much hurt. After administering some wine and other cordials to her, she recovered, and John coming in his master flew at him in a great rage: you rogue, said he, what is this you have done ? Why, are you angry, master, said John ? To be sure I am angry, I will not suffer you about my house any longer. Well, said John to some of the neighbours, you must hold my master until I flog him, for that is our bargain. Do not, said the mistress, and I will fill your hat with crown pieces. Well, says John, on that condition I will spare him. John then bade farwell, and went home with his hat full of crown pieces, and told his brother all that had happened, at the same time showing him what money he took off them. T H E THREE ADVICES. THERE, was a time when a great many people had to leave Ireland for want of employment, and the high price of provisions. John Carson, the subject of the following story, was under the necessity of going to England, and leaving his family behind him; he was engaged by a gentleman at twelve guineas a year, and was greatly esteemed by his master. The term of his engagement being expired, he determined to return home. The gentleman pressed him to remain, but John was eager to visit his wife and children. In place of giving him his wages, the gentleman insisted on him taking the following advice:—Never take a bye-road, when you have a high way;—never lodge in the house where an old man is married to a young woman;—never take what belongs to another. It was with reluctance that John was persuaded to accept of the advices instead of his wages, but the gentleman told him they might be the means of saving his life. Before setting out on his journey, his master presented him with three loaves of bread, one for his wife, and one for each of his children, enjoined him not to break them until he got home, at the same time giving him a guinea to defray his expenses. He had not proceeded far, until he met with two pedlars who were travelling the same way. He kept company with them until they �came to a wood, through which there was a road two miles nearer the town they were going to. The pedlars advised John to accompany them that way, but he refused to go off the high way, telling them, however, he would meet them at a certain house in town. John arrived in safety, and took up his lodging at the appointed place. While he was taking his supper, an old man came hobbling into the kitchen; and on asking the servant who it was, she told him it was the landlord. John thought on his master's advice, and was coming out, when he met the pedlars, all cut and bleeding, having been robbed and almost murdered in the wood; he advised them not to lodge in that house, for that all was not well, but they disregarded his advice. John, rather than remain in the house, retired to the stable and laid himself down upon some straw, where he slept soundly for some time. About the middle of the night, he heard two persons coming into the stable, and on listening to their conversation, he discovered that it was the landlady and a man laying a plan to murder the husband. In the morning, John renewed his journey, but he had not proceeded far when he was informed that his former landlord had been murdered, and the two pedlars had been taken up for the crime. John did not mention what -he heard to any person, but determined to save the poor men if it was in his°power. On arriving at home he found his wife and family in good health, and anxiously expecting his arrival. Having related all his adventures from the time of his departure, together with his master's advices, he produced the loaves of bread; but what was their astonishment when they found the whole wages enclosed in one of the loaves, which his generous master had put there unknown to him. After remaining at home some time, he determined to return to England, in order to attend the trial of the pedlars. On going into the court, he saw the two men at the bar, and the woman, and the man he had heard in the stable, as prosecutors. Having been permitted to give his evidence, he told the affair so correctly that the man and the woman confessed their guilt, and the poor pedlars were instantly acquitted; they offered to give him any thing he pleased, but John kindly refused accepting any recompense but a few shillings to defray his expenses, alleging at the same time, that he considered it nothing more than his duty. John, before leaving England, resolved to visit his kind old master, and return him thanks for his generosity. As soon as the gentleman heard the object of his journey, he was so highly pleased at so praiseworthy an action, that he offered him a small farm of land, and promised �9 him every encouragement if he would remain; John gladly embraced the offer, and having sent for his family, took possession of his new property, and lived respectably all his days. THE SPAEMAN. A POOR man in the north of Ireland was under the necessity of selling his cow, to help to support his family. Having sold the cow, he went into an inn, and called for some liquor. Having drank pretty heartily, lie fell asleep, and when he awoke, he found he had been robbed of his money. Poor Roger was at a loss to know how to act; and, as is often the case, when the landlord found that his money was gone, he turned him out of doors. The night was extremely dark, and the poor man was compelled to take up his lodgings in an old uninhabited house at the end of the town. Roger had not remained long here until he was surprised by the noise of three men, whom he observed making a hole, and depositing something therein, closed it carefully up again and then went away. The next morning, as Roger was walking towards the town, he heard that a cloth shop had been robbed to a great amount, and that a reward of thirty pounds was offered to any person who could discover the thieves. This was joyful news to Roger, who recollected what he had been witness to the night before; he accordingly went to the shop, and told the gentleman that for the reward, he would recover the goods, and secure the robbers, provided he got six stout men to attend him, all which was thankfully granted him. At night Roger and his men concealed themselves in the old house, and in a short time after the robbers came to the spot, for the purpose of removing their booty, but they were instantly seized and carried into the town, prisoners, with the goods. Roger received the reward and returned home, well satisfied with his good luck. Not many days after, it was noised over the country that this robbery was discovered by the help of one of the best spaemen to be found, insomuch that it reached the ears of a worthy gentleman of the county of Derry, who made strict inquiry to find him out. Having at length discovered his abode, he sent for Roger, and told him he was every day losing some valuable article, and as he was famed for discovering lost things, if he could find out the same, he should be handsomely rewarded. Poor Roger was put to a stand, not knowing what answer to make, as he had not the smallest knowledge of the like. But recovering him- �self a little, he resolved to humour the joke, and thinking he would make a good dinner and some drink of it, told the gentleman he would try what he could do, but that he must have the room to himself for three hours, during which time he must have three bottles of strong ale and his dinner, all which the gentleman told him he should have. No sooner was it made known that the Spseman was in the house, than the servants were all in confusion, wishing to know what would be said. As soon as Roger had taken his dinner, he was shown into an elegant room, where the gentleman sent him a quart of ale by the butler. No sooner had he set down the ale, than Roger said, there comes one of them, intimating thQ bargain he had made with the gentleman for the three quarts, which the butler took in a wrong light, and imagined it was himself. He went away in great confusion, and told his wife. u Poor fool," said she, " the fear makes you think it is you he means, but I will attend in your place, and hear what he will say to me." Accordingly, she carried the second quart, but no sooner had she opened the door than Roger cried, there comes two of them. The woman, no less surprised than her husband, told him the Spasman knew her too. " A n d what will we do,'' said she, " we will be hanged.' * " I will tell you what we must do," said she, " we must send the groom the next time, and if he is known, we must offer him a good sum not to discover on us." The butler went to William, and told him the whole story, and that he must go next to see what he would say to him, telling him, at the same time, what to do, in case he was known also. When the hour was expired, William was sent with the third quart of ale, which, when Roger observed, he cried out, there is the third and last of them, at which William changed colour, and told him if he would not discover on them, they would show him where they were all concealed, and give him five pounds besides, Roger, not a little surprised at the discovery he had made, told him if he recovered the goods, he would follow them no further. By this time the gentleman called Roger to know how he had succeeded. He told him he could find the goods* but that the thief was gone. " I will be well satisfied," said he, "with the goods, for some of them are very valuable." Let the butler come along with me, and the whole shall be recovered. He accordingly conducted Roger to the back of the stable where the articles were concealed, such as silver cups, spoons, bowls, knives, forks, and a variety of other articles of great value. �11 When the supposed Spasman brought back the stolen goods, the gentleman was so highly pleased with Roger, that he insisted on his remaining with him always, as he supposed he would be perfectly safe as long as he was about his house. Roger gladly embraced the offer, and in a few days took possession of a piece of land, which the gentleman had given to him in consideration of his great abilities. Some time after this, the gentleman was relating to a large company the discovery Roger had made, and that he could tell any thing; one of the gentlemen said he would dress a dish of meat, and bet for fifty pounds, that he could not tell what was in it, and he would allow him to taste it. The bet being taken, and the dish dressed, the gentleman sent for Roger, and told the bet was depending on him. Poor Roger did not know What to do; at last he consented to the trial. The dish being produced, he tasted it, but could not tell what it was; at last, seeing lie was fairly beat, he said, gentlemen, it is a folly to talk, the fox may run a while, but he is caught at last, allowing within himself that he was found out. The gentleman that had made the bet, then confessed that it was a fox that he had dressed in the dish, at which they all shouted out in favour of the Spaeman, particularly his master, who was more confident in hi#m than ever. Roger then went home, and so famous did he become, thatno one dared take any thing but what belonged to them, fearing that the Sp&man would discover on them. THE PRIEST A N D THE ROBBER. IN the province of Ulster, about fifty years ago, there lived a priest whose life was spent in administering relief to those in distress; so that by the amiableness of his character, he had gained the respect and esteem of all the country round. He was sent for to a robber to prepare him for death, and was, shut up in a small chapel along with him. While endeavouring by the most pious persuasions to excite him to repentance, he observed him apparently absorbed in thought, and paying no attention to his discourse. " A r e you aware," said the priest, " that you must soon appear before your great C r e a t o r ? " — " I know that," returned the robber; "but I also know that you can save my life."—"How can that b e ? " said the priest. " You have only," rejoined the poor wretch, " t o set your chair on the altar, and by your getting on it, I can reach the top by the help of your shoulders."—"And," said the priest, " do you think I shall be accessary to your �12 escape, which may be the means of your committing new crimes?"—"Indeed," said the robber, " y o u need not be afraid of that, I have seen the gibbet too near me to expose myself to such danger again." The priest, actuated by the impulse of a feeling heart, and strengthened by the earnest protestations of repentance in the unhappy criminal who was about to suffer, at length consented to favour his escape, and in a few minutes the robber was clear of the prison. Shortly after, the executioner came to warn the unfortunate man of his hour being come; but what was his surprise when he opened the door, and found the priest sitting alone in the chapel. He immediately alarmed the judges, and brought them to the spot. " W h a t is become of the prisoner," said they, "that was left with y o u ? " — " H e must be an angel," returned the priest coolly, " for, upon the faith of a christian, he flew out of the window," pointing to the window in the . roof of the chapel; " and I am going to recommend myself to his protection." The judges could not preserve their gravity at what they heard the good man relate, but wishing the supposed angel a pleasant journey, went away. Some years after this, as the priest was travelling in the county of Wicklow, he lost his way, just as the sun had sunk beneath the horizon. He was accosted by a sort of peasant, who, after examining him attentively, told him the road he was travelling was a very dangerous one, and as the night had set in, if he would accompany him, he would conduct him to a house convenient, where he might pass the night in safety. The priest was at a loss how to act; the curiosity visible in the peasant's conduct excited his suspicion, but considering if he had a bad design in view, that it was impossible for him to escape, he with a trembling heart followed. They had not walked far until they reached a farm-house, which the poor priest beheld with j o y ; but the suspicion which the peasant's curiosity had first raised in his breast, was entirely removed when he found he was the proprietor, and heard him tell his wife to kill a capon, with some of her chickens, and to welcome his guest with the best cheer. Whilst the good woman was preparing supper, the countryman came into the room followed by a group of beautiful children. " Pour forth your grateful thanks, my little children," said he, as the tear of gratitude started from his eye, " for to this worthy man your father owes his existence.'' The priest immediately recognized the features of the robber, whose escape he had favoured some years before; he inquired how he came to be so well provided for; on which he related to him as follows :— �13 " I told you if you assisted me in escaping I would lead a new life. I begged my way to this part of the country, which is my native place, and engaged in the service of the owner of this farm. By strict fidelity and attachment to the interest of my master, in a short time I gained his entire confidence and esteem, and such was his regard for me, that he gave me his only daughter in marriage. God has blessed my endeavours ever since, and I have amassed a little money, and I entreat you to accept of it. I shall now die content, since I have had it in my power, by this small tribute, to testify my gratitude towards the man who saved my life." " I am well repaid," replied the priest, " f o r the service I have rendered you, and prize your repentance more than all the riches you can bestow. Continue in your present upright course of life, and you will be rewarded hereafter." The peasant pressed him to accept of some recompense, but he would not; he consented, however, to remain a few days in the house, during all which time he entertained him with the greatest hospitality. The time of the priest's departure at last arrived. It was with the greatest reluctance that the countryman could persuade him to make use at least of one of his horses to finish his journey. The priest set out, and the peasant would not quit him until he had traversed the dangerous roads that abound in those parts. MAC TURKHILL. MAC TURKHILT,, who from his earliest days was initiated in all the vices of raparee, and the known violator of female chastity, met in his walks with Miss O'Melaghlin, whose father was the richest man in the country. Her charms immediately excited his desires ; being a man of some property himself, he had recourse to her father for the honour of receiving from him the hand of his fair daughter. The answer he received was, that the happiness of a female in a married state depended on the temper, the morals, or character of the husband—that till he was convinced that the suitor's conduct would bear such a scrutiny, he would withhold his consent—and therefore concluded that if his daughter's inclinations were not pre-engaged, and his character should appear amiable, he should be no hindrance to their mutual happiness. Mac Turkhill had no reason to thank O'Melaghlin for the prudence of his conduct—he knew that his reputation would not bear inquiry, but he determined to wait some days, in �14 the interval of which he made his arrangements for carrying Miss O'Melaghlin off by force. The banditti of white-boys, with whom he was in esteem, on account of the congeniality of his morals, promised to assist him, and to run all hazards in promoting his success. Now ripe for mischief, and provided with the means to ensure him the possession of Miss O'Melaghlin, he applies to her father for an answer. The reception he met with was such as he expected. O'Melaghlin told him that he could not sacrifice the happiof his daughter by consenting to an alliance which lie could not approve of, and which every tie of honour and honesty forced him to decline. Mac Turkhill heard him with a frown, and went off muttering revenge. The father being no stranger to the extravagance of the pretended suitor, had every thing to fear from him. He therefore determined to remove his daughter to a place of greater security, and placing her in his carriage, acquainted her with his motives, to which she gave a voluntary and eager consent. Mac Turkhill, who watched over his motions, overtook him near the Gautty Mountains, in the county of Tipperary. His faithful band shot the horses of the carriage, whilst Mac Turkhill pistoled O'Melaghlin, and seized on his daughter, whom he hurried to his horse, and mounted her upon it after a long struggle with her. Her cries, her shrieks, her swoons, had no effect upon the monster; but mounting, he rode off with her at full gallop. Providentially a corps of free volunteers met him in his flight, and melted with the shrieks of beauty in distress, determined on a rescue. Companions in guilt are seldom faithful to each other-—his own company fled and left him alone to engage with his enemies. Grown desperate with danger, he shot the first that approached him, but as he was drawing out the second pistol, he received a shot in his head, and dropped down dead from the saddle. Miss O'Melaghlin tumbled likewise on the ground in a swoon, but recovering, thanked her deliverers on her knees, and was escorted to her place of residence by the generous corps of free volunteers. ANNE BONEY, T H E F E M A L E PIRATE. THIS woman was a native of the city of Cork. Her father was an attorney, and by his activity in business rose to a considerable respectability in that place. Anne was the fruit of an unlawful connection with his own servant-maid, with �15 >vhom he afterwards eloped to America, leaving his wife in this country. He, settled in Carolina, and followed his own profession, but soon commenced merchant, and amassed a considerable property. There he lived with his servant in the character of a wife, but she dying, her daughter superintended the domestic affairs. N During her residence with her father, she was supposed to have a considerable fortune, and was accordingly addressed by young men of respectable situations in life. It happened, however, with her, as with many others of her sex, that her feelings and not interest determined her in the choice of a husband;—she married a young seaman without a single shilling. The avaricious father was so enraged, that, deaf to the feelings of a parent, he turned his own child out of his house. Upon this cruel usage of her father, and the disappointment of her fortune, Anne and her husband sailed for the Island of Providence, in hopes of gaining employment. She, however, acted a very different part from the character of a virtuous woman. She left her husband, and fixed her affections on Captain Rackham, with whom she eloped. She had disguised herself in man's clothes, to prevent discovery ; but proving with child, the captain put her on shore, and intrusted her to the care of some friends until she recovered, when she again accompanied him, disguised as formerly, in all his piratical expeditions. Upon the king's proclamation, offering a pardon to all pirates who would surrender themselves, he amongst others surrendered himself, and went into the privateering business. He soon, however, embraced an opportunity of returning to his favourite employment. In all his favourite exploits Anne accompanied him, and displayed the greatest courage and intrepidity.-' When their ship was taken, Anne, another woman, and a seaman, were the last three that remained on board, Captain Rackham having previously found means to escape on shore, but he was apprehended and sent to prison. Anne was known to many of the planters in the Island of Jamaica, to which place she was conveyed, who remembered to have seen her in her father's house, and they were disposed to intercede in her behalf. Her unprincipled conduct in leaving her own husband, and forming an illicit connection with Captain Rackham, tended to render them less active in her favour. By a special favour, Rackham was permitted to visit her �16 the day before he was executed, but Instead of condoling him on account of his hard fate, as might have been expected, she only observed that she was sorry to see him there, but if he had fought like a man, he need not have been hanged like a dog. Being with child, she remained in prison until her recovery, was reprieved, and set at liberty. She was by the interest ot some friends reconciled to her father, and lived a good life ever after. JAMES BUTLER. JAMES BUTLER was bred and born in Kilkenny, and in his pupilage was kept pretty much at school, but his learning did him little service, though he spoke Latin very fluently. When he arrived at man's estate, he enlisted himself a soldier in Lord Galway's regiment, and went with the army to Spain, where he had not been long before he departed to the Spaniards as his favourite party; but meeting with some usage among them he did not relish, he soon grew tired of a military life, and gave the Spaniards the go-by also. Thinking himself in danger in Spain, and not finding a convenient opportunity of returning home, his fancy led him to Andalusia, where he set up as a mountebank, and had wonderful success in raising his reputation and performing cures. At length he undertook the method of easing men of troublesome wives, who were taken to him by wholesale, and this brought more grist to his mill than any other part of his practice. So great was his fame at last, that he outvied the famous Dr. Thornhill, who offered to be his Merry-Andrew, upon condition that he would teach him his Irish assurance; but whether Thornhill did it to get rid of his competitor, or not, I can't tell, however it happened that he was discovered, and to prevent danger, made the best of his way to Venice, where he set up for conjuror, and not managing this business so well as the former, success failed him, and he joined with a company of banditti. While he was in this company, they had the good fortune to meet with a lusty fat mendicant friar, whom they robbed, taking from him the amount of £20,000, which he was going to carry to Modena, for the late widow of King James II. Queen Dowager of England. The captain of the gang divided the booty, ordering Butler but a very small part, not half his portion, which stomached him so much that he left them and went to Florence; and by this time he had learned to speak both Spanish and Italian. �17 While he was at Florence, his curiosity led him to go to see a man executed, where he singled out a young gentleman with whom he had some confabulation, and among the rest of his discourse, he said, " T h e man was a fool for suffering himself to be taken." At these words, the gentleman taking him for a man of resolution, took him to a tavern, and having sounded him pretty well, offered him five hundred pieces of gold to murder an uncle of his that he might enjoy his estate. Butler consented to the proposal, and went immediately to one of the banditti, with whom he agreed concerning the manner of the murder, and taking him along with him about eleven o'clock at night, to the old man's house, they made a quick dispatch of his life. This being done, and the reward paid them, as soon as Butler got a convenient opportunity he likewise put an end to the young man's life, to prevent him from discovering; and, for the same reason, in a little time afterwards he murdered his comrade. But, having thus committed three murders, the rumour whereof spread far and near, he grew a little afraid of his mother's calf's skin, and fled directly to Paris, where he soon found means to introduce himself into Cartouch's gang, with whom he often went in quest of prey; but not always distributing the booty equally, as he thought, he ventured to go out one fine morning alone, and taking notice of a young gentleman of Campaigne, who came to Paris on purpose to study, he met him and accosted him, pretending to be a scholar also, and then taking him to the college of Navarre, he led him through the walks, on pretence of entertaining him with new discourses, till they came to a remote corner, and then robbed him. But beginning to get too notorious in France, and not overwell liked by his comrades, he packed up his awls and went to Holland, and on his travels overtaking a genteel young woman, near Rotterdam, he began to make love, and grew very sweet upon her. She seemed coy at first, but after some discourse had passed, and upon further application, she agreed to pass for his wife. Not being able to reach the Hague, they stopped short at an inn on the road, and after supper they retired to rest. As soon as his supposed wife saw daylight, and perceiving how soundly he slept, she rose, and, calling for her husband's portmanteau, under pretence of getting out some linen, took out of it two hundred and ninety pieces of gold, and ordered the hostler to saddle her husband's horse for her to go and pay a friend a visit, but took care to ride off, and let none of them hear any more of her afterwards. �18 When Butler awoke he threw his arms about, expecting to grasp his dear*mistress, but finding himself disappointed, in order to make inquiry about her, and to know the time of the day, he called for his landlord, who told him his lady was a very early woman, having risen three or four hours before. Surprised at this news, he started up and ran to his portmanteau, which, when he searched, he immediately found how nicely he was tricked, yet he could not find in his heart to asperse her, or much to blame her for herself, because he lived by tricking. However, thus outwitted as he was, he sold his lady's horse, and having paid the reckoning with the remainder of the money, he made the best of his way to England, where dame fortune forsaking him, the lady poverty came to pay him a visit, and would not be persuaded to abandon him till she had brought him to a very low ebb. Being reduced to this condition, he happened one day to pick up a fresh acquaintance with Mrs. Impudence, who accompanied him and two others to King's Gate, in Grey's Inn Lane, where they attacked and stopped a coach, but finding a vigorous resistance, were obliged to return in a hurry, and ride off as fast as they could. However, Butler was pursued, taken, and committed to Newgate, but being only found guilty of an assault, he was fined £100 and confined twelve months. At length procuring his liberty, he fell to his old courses on the highway, in conjunction with one Nodes, an upholsterer's son, at Fleetditch, where they continued their depredations for a length of time, and amassed a great deal of money. Being warned in a dream, after a night of dreadful debauch and sensuality, of what his present wicked course would bring him. to, and happening to hear a most impressive sermon on the suffering of the damned in hell, he at length determined to quit his sinful courses of life. He therefore relinquished his iniquitous gain, dispensing it in charity, and returned to his friends in Ireland, where he passed the remainder of his life in penance and mortification. J A C K WITHERS. JACK'S father was a poor labourer in Athlone. Poverty and want of employment obliged his father to set off for Dublin, and Jack accompanied him. In that seminary of vice he became acquainted with some young pickpockets, and, imitating their conduct, he was detected and sent to Flanders as a soldier. �19 One day he went into the church at Ghent, during the time of high mass, and observing them casting money into a box that stood under the image of the Virgin Mary, he watched the favourable opportunity, picked the lock, filled his pockets with the money and got off unobserved. But, afraid to repeat his depredations in the same quarter, and unable to supply his extravagancies, he deserted his colours and returned to Ireland. Commencing robber on the highway, he encountered a neighbour of his father's whom he knew to be a great miser, and accosted him with, " Stand and deliver, or by the holy Saint Denis you are a dead man." The miser began to plead poverty, which was evident from his appearance and clothes, his breeches, in which he retained his money, being as large as the hooped petticoat of a full dressed lady. Jack, however, knew him well, and was not to be imposed upon with sham pretences. The old miser was then compounding, and offered one half to save the other. Jack enraged at this delay, threatened him with instant death; on which the miser pulled out his purse and spectacles, and putting them on, began to stare at Withers. " W h y , d n your eyes, you old fool," said Jack, " is your sight so bad that you cannot see to deliver your purse ?" " I may at least see to whom I give it." " A y e , aye, old boy; and when you look at me again, you must supply me with such another sum." Jack, and two of his companions, one morning returning from their depredations, espied a gentleman walking alone, and exhibiting all the gestures of passion, distraction, and fury; meanwhile casting his eyes towards heaven, stretching forth his arms and folding them again. They imagined he was about to plunge into the water from disappointed love or ruined fortune. Jack went up to him and said, "Pray, sir, consider what you are going to d o ! What a sad thing will it be for you to drown yourself here ? Be advised, and have better thoughts with you." " W h a t is all this for?" said the gentleman, " I have no intention of drowning myself. I am only a player getting my part." " If I had known that, you might have hanged or drowned yourself for me ; but to make amends for the trouble, you can do no less than give us your money." They robbed him of all he had. Some time after this, Jack and his companion, Patrick Murphy, attacked the postman carrying the south mail, whom they not only robbed, but, to prevent discovery, cut his throat, ripped him. up, filled his belly with stones, and threw him into a pond. The body, however, was found next day, in a shocking state. �I 20 Jack and his associates now once more returned to the city, but it may be well imagined that their guilty conscience would not let them rest. Having committed a robbery in the country, he and his companions were both apprehended, tried and condemned.* Jack was only twenty-four years of age when he suffered the punishment due to his crimes. He confessed the horrid murder he had committed some weeks before. THE GENEROUS IRISHMAN. LIEUTENANT FLEMING was the youngest son o f a respectable gentleman in the county of Louth, and was sent at an early age on board a British man-of-war in the situation of midshipman. He had a fine open manly countenance, an easy air, and a heart that diffused the irresistible charm of good humour over a tolerable set of features, setting at defiance both ill-temper and ill-breeding. After an absence of twelve years, spent with honour to himself and advantage to his country, having by his bravery and good conduct been promoted to the rank of lieutenant, he obtained permission to visit his native place. He had not been long seated on the top of the coach, before he perceived that his next neighbour was either very ill, or in great trouble, by several deep sighs which seemed reluctantly to force their way from an overcharged bosom. His heart beat responsive to the sound ; it was too dark to distinguish faces, nor did he recollect to have observed, on his getting up, whether it was a male or a female next to him, nor was that a consideration: he chewed his quid sometime in silence, till a sudden violent jolt of the coach drew forth a faint shriek from a female voice, and threw her in contact with the lieutenant's shoulder. "Avast," cried he, "take care how you steer, or we may all roll over, d'ye see; besides here seems to be one longside not able to stem the upsetting. Take courage, my good lass, lean against me and welcome; we shall soon come into some port." " You are very kind, good sir," answered a feeble voice; " I am, indeed but little able to bear the motion of the carriage, much less the sudden shakes, but I will be better by and by." " I hope so, I hope so," rejoined the lieutenat, " w e shall get into smooth water immediately, when we are off the stones." �21 No answer was returned, and a dead silence ensued until they came to the first stage of changing horses. Fleming, on the appearance of the light, turned to look at his neighbour, and beheld the pale skeleton of a young woman, who seemed fast sinking into the grave, and scarcely able to sit upright. " Odds, my life, poor soul," said he, " y o u seem to want ballast, it will never do to steer this course—why did you not steer into the cabin? " "Because, because," replied she tremulously, "it was not convenient — - I have more air here." " Yes, yes ; but a few such squalls as we had some time ago, may turn you overboard: you are not steady enough, my good lass, to keep your course here." He then called for some grog and biscuits, and jumped off to look in at the windows of the coach. " A y , ay, here's plenty of room; here, you steersman, open the coach door, and let us help that poor young woman into this berth." " W h y , I have no objection, master," answered the coachman, " but you know outside and inside passengers are different things—who's to pay the difference of the fare?" " Why, I will," cried Fleming. " No, no," exclaimed the invalid, " I entreat you, Sir, I am very well here: indeed I am—I will not get inside—pray leave me as I am." " Look ye, young woman," returned the lieutenant, " you are upon a slippery forecastle, you may be hove overship in the dark, and founder before help can come to ye. So no more words, my conscience wont let me see you in danger, for I shant sit easy with you at my stern; so do, my good soul, let me put you safe under hatches, out of the way of the squalls and foul weather." The poor young woman saw it was in vain to contend with her humane neighbour, and however repulsive to her own feelings to accept the obligation, she was as little calculated to support the fatigues of her situation as unable to pay the additional expense. She, therefore, with tears dropping on her cheeks, silently permitted herself to be placed in the coach, nor did she reject the biscuit, though she declined the grog. " Mayhap," said he, " a gill of warm wine will do you more good; and, without waiting a reply, he dashed off, and presently returned with it, entreating her to drink of it. Not to disappoint him, she sipped a small quantity, and pressing his hand said, " God bless you." The manner and the words shot through the heart of the poor lieutenant; but a summons from the coachman to resume �22 his place, cut short all further conversation, and he jumped up into his berth, after tossing off his glass of grog, which he found very necessary to recruit his spirits. When they stopped at the inn to dine, Fleming handed out his sick friend, with equal respect and tenderness; nor did he neglect offering his hand to three other females in the coach, one of which only accepted of it; the other two threw up their heads, and coldly declined his assistance,. Fleming was not a man of observation, he knew nothing of the world or the human heart; he had no idea that he could have given any offence by showing humanity to a fellow-creature, or Committed an unpardonable insult, by " stowing a sick outside passenger in the cabin." He gave his arm to the young woman, and conveyed her into a room, where she was scarcely seated, before, to his great dismay, she fainted, and he loudly vociferated for assistance. By the endeavours of the landlady, and the smelling-bottle of the lady who had deigned to accept Fleming's offered hand, the poor invalid soon recovered, and he left her to their care, whilst he " examined into the state of the locker." A fine piece of roast beef and a giblet pie were just going smoking hot to the table ; but though the scent was perfectly agreeable to him, he had consideration enough to think it might be too powerful for a sick stomach. He, therefore, asked if they had any new laid eggs, with a tart or two for the poor young woman in the other room, "Yes, sir," replied the landlady, " w e can give her a couple of eggs and a nice custard in a trice; but—a—as these eggs are not provided for the coach passengers, we shall expect them to be paid extra for.'' " V e r y well," returned he, "carry them in, and I will pay you for them." He went back and told the invalid she should have an egg brought to her, and as soon as he had swallowed a few mouthfuls of beef, he would come to her again. Tears were her only answer, and he darted away, followed by the lady. " I admire your humanity, sir," said she, " f o r I find you are, an. entire stranger to the young woman.'' " I don't know what she may be," answered he, stopping and bowing to the speaker, "but what of that? you see she is very sick, poor soul, and it is our duty to help forward a fellow-creature. She is bad enough, and I fear will soon be in that port, from whence there is no return." "I,fear so, too," rejoined the lady, "and it is from thence I feel so much to admire in your kindness. Young men in �23 this age rarely bestow favours on females without a view of self-gratification of some kind or other.'' Before he could reply, they were summoned to dinner. Fleming, much pleased with the lady's kindness to the sick giiij and attention to himself, was particularly assiduous for her accommodation, without intending any slight to the others, or observing their haughty or indignant looks. And here it is impossible to refrain from observing how much our own comforts in life depend upon our attention to those of others. The two ladies whose humanity was not proof against the affront of having an outside passenger, whose dress was as humble as her pretensions, obtruded on them so unceremoniously by a lieutenant, whose wrapping great coat demonstrated that he was no great things, and equally low bred and impertinent, had sat in disdainful silence till they arrived at the inn, when their anger burst forth into scornful observations, and a reprimand to the coachman for admitting such a low creature into their society, who had taken inside places. " A s to low or high," answered the man, " so they pay me the full fare, it is one and the same thing to me. Besides the poor young woman was mortal bad, and he was a goodhearted fejlow that offered to pay the fare, and all passengers are alike to me." " Then you ought never to have people of consequence in your coach, fellow, if you don't know how to behave yourself." " I know very well how to behave myself, I don't want to affront nobody," returned coachy, "the young woman was a clean decent body, and as good as others, for the matter of that, seeing her fare will be paid." "Don't be impertinent, fellow, it is plain you care not how you insult the ladies, so you can be paid. You would not have taken her into the coach without being sure of your -money, though you presume to force her upon us." " That's another sort of a thing. I pities the poor thing, :and would serve her with all my heart, but the coach is master's property, and musn't chouse him of his fare. But what signifies words about it, she is an inside passenger now, and by St. Patrick he's an honest lad that lent her a hand." The insulted ladies found it in vain to contend, they encouraged each other in the idea of affronted consequence, and displeased that their companion had followed the two low creatures, they determined to send her to Coventry, and preserve an indignant silence in the coach. �24 These wise resolutions accompanied them to the dinner table, when, to their great surprise, they beheld the lieutenant's uniform, and a figure, now disencumbered of an old wrapping coat, that he did not blush to exhibit in the most fashionable circles in the kingdom, though it wanted the polish of high life. P A D D Y A N D THE PRIEST. A PRIEST in the neighbourhood of Cork, fancying that the "dues" at confession were insufficient remuneration for the pardons he granted, told his congregation that in future he would not hear confessions, unless the "compliment" was increased. This, of course, created a great sensation in his parish ; some murmured, a few remonstrated, and others absented themselves from the confessional altogether. Amongst the latter was Darby Donovan. " Hilloa, Darby," said the priest, one morning, spying Darby sneaking along the side of a ditch to avoid a meeting. "Hilloa, Darby! is that you." 1'Oh! thin, is it yer reverrence? I hope yer reverrence, and all belonging to yer reverrence is well. It's a good step to Blarney, and my sister's child's sick in it, so as its contrary to yer reverrence I'm going, I'll wish you a plasant day." "Stay, Darby," called the priest—"What's the reason you have not been to confession lately ? " " Plaze yer reverrence," said Darby, scratching his head, "I've never been able to affoord it since the grace of God viz." R E A D Y WIT. A TRAVELLER, fond of a joke—a corpulent, jolly-looking fellow—taking a walk in company with one of his customers, met a "rough, rude, x'eady-witted" Hibernian driving a small cart, drawn by a jackass, when the following dialogue ensued: — " W e l l , Pat, what kind of an animal is this you have got!" " Arrah, now, don't be after denying your friends when you meet with them. Sure you have not forgot your cousin, Mr. Jack Ass." " Oh ho ! so you deal among asses." "Well, in troth I do, Sir." " And what is the price of a good one.just now?" " I n troth, Sir, that greatly depends on their appearance; a little jacky like this un might be got for a pound; but, by japers, a big fat cuddy like yourself would cost thurty shillans!" � Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Popular Irish Stories; A collection of the most interesting tales and legends of Ireland compiled from the best authors. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1850 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9936352143505154">s0604b35</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. The Hermit Turned Pilgrim The Farmer and His Servant The Three Advices The Spaeman The Priest and the Robber Mac Turkhill Anne Boney, The Female Pirate James Butler Jack Withers The Generous Irishman Paddy and the Priest Ready Wit Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages 15 cm Description An account of the resource New and Improved Series. No. 23. Price One Penny. Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. <a title="University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks" href="http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/">University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks&nbsp;</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource 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 An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Type The nature or genre of the resource fiction Subject The topic of the resource Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow Religion and Morals Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario # of Woodcuts: 1 Architecture: fence Architecture: house Bib Context: title-page Chapbook Date: 1821-1830 Chapbook Genre: fiction Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Nature: hill(s) Nature: sun Nature: tree(s) Outdoor Scene https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/f14dbee7e0dd574739bfa175564349b6.jpg 86dcc833513660c3c58e15ee6a750f7f Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 2776 Width 1773 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Illustration in double ruled rectangular border on title-page of a hen with baby chicks around her. https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/1e28f1efe3c55ac8dcb5299da1829c76.pdf b62064da4b8e0895fcf0e7ef2c84e1ad PDF Text Text Lilies of the Valley. T o wh'ch are added, Hills of Gallowa. The Birks o' Aberfeldy. The Banks o Clyde. How sweet the rose blaws. STIRLING; Printed by W. Macule. �L I L I E S OF T H E V A L L E Y . O'er barren hills and flowery dak s, 0*er teas and distant shores, With merry songs and jocund tales* I've passed somo pleasant hours, Tfeo* wandering thus, I jae'er could fioi A gki like blithesome Sally ; W h o picks and culls and cries aloud, " Sweet lilies of the valley." From whistling o'er the harrowed turf, From nestling; of each trea. I chose a soldier's life to wed, So social gay and free. Yet tho* the las es love me well, And often try to rally, None pleases me like her who cries, " Sweet lilies o f the valley.** I'm now return'd, of late discharged, T o see my native soil; From fightirg in my country's cause. T o plough my country^ « e i l ; �3 I care aot which with either pleased* So I posses* my Sally, That little merry nymph, who cries, " Sweet lilies o f the valley ,yf H I L L S OE 6 A L L O W - A . Arnaag the birks sae blytha and gay, I met my Julia hameward gaua ; The linties chantit on the spray, The lammies lowpit on the lawn; 0 a ilka swaird the hay was nuwn, The braei wi' gowaas buskit braw ; And gloaming plaid os grey w^s thrawa Cut o'er the hills of Galiowa. Wi* music wild the woodlands rangi And fragrance winged aiaag the lee* When down we sat, the fbwers amang, Upon the banks of stately Dee. M y Julia's arms e circled me ; Then sweetly sla ie ifne hours awa, Till dawnm* coost a glimmerm* ee, Upon the hiils o9 Galiowa. It is aae owsen, sheep and kye, It if nae gowd, it is nae gear, �4 Let fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, Supremely'ble*t wi love asd thee la ike birks of Aberftldy. T H E B A N K S O' C'^YDE. Aira awa my Jamie'i ga^e, Out owre th& se*s» far far fr«e hame Hevs gane,.ar>d cro^sM the ocean wide, And left the bon y banks o' Clyde* i w a he's gnne to fight his foe, And left me hare in grief and woe ; M y love who led me by his side, Alasg the bonny banks o' Clyde. On Govan banks, whar ClyJe doth flo^. There ilka laddie arms his joe ; While landiy I maun mourn a*d chide, Upon the bonny banks ©' Ciyie. 0 , in the rosy month o* May, The lav'rock rais d its cheerfu' lay, The mavis sang, the blackbird vied, Around the bonny banks o Ciyde. �5 The gowaas ipread ilk flower spring, M y love as sweet'* the day w w lang, M y heart he gain'd to be his bride* When walking on the banks o9 Clyde. © woe be to th^se wars in Spain, They've t^en f a e me my darling gwaia, And crossed him owre the c cean wide, Far frae the bonny banks o Clyde. © ! if the high and heavnly Pow'r Would shield my live in danger's hoyr, Aad owre the seas r im safely guide, Back to t&e bonny banks ox Clyde; Our parting day would ne'er be seen* Until that death struck in between, Then ax our joya we'd lay aside, &nd leave the bonny banks o* Clyde. H O W SWEET THE ROSE BLAWS, How sweet the rose blaws, it fades and it fa Red is the rose and bonnie O: It brings to my mind what my dear laddie was £e blecm'd, so cut off? was my Johnnie, O. �6 Let fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, iupremely ble»l wi love a&d thee la the birks o f Aberftldy. T H E B A N K S O' C L Y D E . A \ra awa mv Jamie** g-ane," Out owre ihs se^sj far far fr*e hame Ht x s gane, ar>d crocsM the ocean wide, And left the bon y banks o' Clyde* Awa he's gine to fight his foe, And left me hare in grief and woe ; M y love who led me by his side, A h a g the bonny banks o* Clyde. On Govan banks, whar Clyde doth flov* There ilka laddie arms his joe ; While lansly J maun mourn and chide, Upon the bonny banks ©' Ciyie. O , in the rosy month oy May, The lav rock rais d its cheerfu' lay, The mavis sang, the blackbird vied, Arouad the bonny banks o Clyde. �7 The gowans ipread ilk flower sprang, M y love as sweet's the day wag lang, M y heart he gain'd to be his brtde$ When walking on the banks o^ Clyde. © woe be to ih^se wars in Spain, They've ft »e me my darling gw&ta. And crossed him owre the rcean wule, Far frae the bonny b*nks o ClyJe. © ! if the high and heavenly Pow f r Wofcld shield my lave in danger's hour, owre the seas r im safely iuide, Back to t&c bonny banks g* Clyde; Our parting day would ne'er be seen. Until fhtt de^tli struck in between, Then ax our joys we'd iay aside, &nd leave the bonsy banks o* Clyde. H O W SWEET THE ROSE BLAWS, How sweet the rose blaws, it fades and it fa r ; Red is the rose and bonnie O: It brings to my mind what my dear laddie was So blecm'd, so cut off? was my Johnnie, O. �3 N >w peace is returned, but nae joy briogi t# x e : Ked is the rose and boonie O : Far c&utld ii bis check, aud blameless his c'e A&l r>ae mair beats the heart o' » j Johaaie^ Q. A h ! why did he love me, and leave these sweetplains ; lied is the rose and bomiie, O : Where smiling contentment and peacs ever reigas, Bat they'll ne'er bloom again for my Johnnie, Q, Nor ta me will their beauties e'er pleasure impart, Eed is the rose and boa&ie, O ; For sunk if my spirits aid broken my heari, I'll meet ne'er to part frae my Johnnie, � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Woodcut 100: Title-page illustration in double ruled rectangular border portraying a hen with baby chicks around her. Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Lilies of the Valley. To which are added, Hills of Gallowa. The Birks o' Aberfeldy. The Banks o'Clyde. How sweet the rose blaws. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1825 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9943905633505154">s0615b32</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Hills of Gallowa. The Birks o' Aberfeldy. The Banks o'Clyde. How sweet the rose blaws. Extent The size or duration of the resource. 8 pages 16 cm Subject The topic of the resource Chapbooks - Scotland - Stirling Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. <a title="University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks" href="http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/">University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks&nbsp;</a> <a title="National LIbrary of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/">National Library of Scotland</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Accrual Method The method by which items are added to a collection. Purchased through the Jane Grier Family Trust. 2012. Language A language of the resource English Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource 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 An entity responsible for making the resource available Stirling: W. Macnie Type The nature or genre of the resource ballads & songs Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario # of Woodcuts: 1 Animal: chicken(s) Bib Context: title-page Chapbook Date: 1821-1830 Chapbook Genre: ballads & songs Chapbook Publisher - Stirling: Printed by William Macnie https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/da4bb9a24e934b39d7a34cc2b03e6a50.jpg 735e53e80182dc223c01351e59e4c267 Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3072 Width 1826 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Woodcut on title-page portraying a man wearing a hat, kilt, and plaid socks holding an upright rifle. To his left is a door marked with the letter V https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/96f91e7a65bfefe63f2e9c5b8c2e001f.pdf 83b9e29026991cb9aa5e0cab2bba1b83 PDF Text Text FOUR Excellent Songs JACK ROBINSON. T H E G I R L I L E F T B E H I N D ME. LORD LOVEL. T H E H A U G H S OF C R O M D A L K GLASGOW: PRINTED FOR TIIE 32. BOOKSELLERS. �BO R & S. JACK ROBINSON. THE perils and dangers of the voyage past, And the ship to Porti^outh aiYivfed at? last, The sails all furl'd and* the anchor cast; The happiest of the crew was Jack Robinson: For his Poll he had trinkets and gold* g&lofe; Besides prize-money quite a store, And along with the crew he went ashore, As cockswain to the boat, Jack Robinson. Tol de rol, &c. He met with a man, and said, I say, Mayhap you know one Polly Gray, She lives somewhere hereabout—the man said, nay, I do not, indeed, to Jack Robinson. Says Jack to him, I've left my ship, And all my messmates gave the slip, Mayhap you'll partake of a* good can of flip, For you're a civil fellow, says* Jack Robinson. In a public-house, tlien^ they both sat down, And talkVI of Admirals of high renown, And drank as much grog as came to half-a-crown, This here strange man and Jack Robinson. Then Jack call'd out the reck'ning to pay, The landlady came in, in line array, My eyes and limbs! why here's Polly Gray, Who'd thought of meetinghere, says Jack Robinson, �3 The landlady stagger'd against ithe wall, And said at first she didn't know him at all, Shiver me,,.«ays Jack, why here's a pretty squall, D—n me, don't you know me?—'I'm Jack Robinson Don't you know this handkerchief you gave to me, Twas three years ago, before I *werat *to sea, Every day I look'dat, and then I thought of thee, Upon my soul I have, says .Jack iRctbinson. Says the lady, says she, I've chang'd,my state, Why, you don't mean, says Jack, ..that you've got a mate You know you promis'd—-says she, 1 could not .wait, For 110 tidings could I gain of you, Jack Robinson ; And somebody, one day, came to me and said, That^omebody else had somewhere read, In some newspaper, as how you were dead— I've not been dead at all, says Jack Robinson. Then he turned his quid, and finish'd his glass, Hitch'd up his trowsers, alas! alas! That ever I should live to be made such an ass, To be biik'd by a woman, says Jack Robinson. But to fret and stew about it much is all in vain, I'll get a ship and go to Holland, France, and Spain. No matter where, to Portsmouth I'll never<come again, And he was olf before they could say Jack (Robinson. T H E G I R L I L E F T BE FUND ME. I'M lonesome since I cross'd the hills, And over the moors that Aire me, With heavy thoughts my heart doth fill. Since I parted from my Betty, �In search of some one fine and gay, But none could ever bind me, And I think of the hours I pass'd away With the girl I left behind me. The hours I do remember well, When recollections move me ; A pain within my breast I feel, Since first she own'd to love m e : But now I'm going to Brighton camp, I pray kind heav'n now guide me, And send me safely back again To the girl 1 left behind me. But when I'm standing on parade, Either asleep or waking, I long to see my love again, For her my heart is breaking ; When I think of the vows of love, The tears do fall and blind me, When I think upon the form and grace Of the girl I left behind me. The falling waters I do see, The dove become a ranger— Such heavy thoughts run in my mind, The hour 1 mesnt to change her; Ye powers above, protect I pray, The cautious fair that binds me, And send me safely home again To the girl 1 left behind me. �* T H E H A U G H S OF C R O M D A L E . As I came in by Auchindoun, A little wee bit frae the town, When to the Highlands I was boun\ To view the haughs of Cromdale. I met a man in tartan trews, I speir'd at him what was the news ; Quo' he, 44 The Highland army rues, That e'er we came to Cromdale, We were in bed, sir, every man, When the English host upon us came; A bloody battle then began, Upon the haughs of Cromdale. The English horse they were so rude, They bathed their hoofs in Highland blood, But, our brave clans, they boldly stood Upon the haughs of Cromdale. 44 But, alas! we could no longer stay, For o'er the hills we came away, And sore we do lament the day That e'er we came to Cromdale." 44 Thus the great Montrose did say, 44 Can you direct the nearest way, For I will o'er the hills this day, And view the haughs of Cromdale. * Alas, my lord, you're not so strong, You scarcely have two thousand men, There's twenty thousand on the plain, Stand rank and file on Cromdale. 44 �G Thus Jhe ..great Moutvose did .say, " I say, direct the nearest way, For I will o'er the hills -ebis day, And see the haughs of Oromdale." They were at dinner, every »mm, When great Montrose upon them c a m ; A second battle then began, Upon the haughs of Gromdale. The Grant, Mackenzie, and M'Kay, Soon as Montrose they did espy, 0 then, they fought most valiantly! Upon the haughs of Gromdale. The M'Donalds they returri'd again, The Camerons did their standard join, Mcintosh play'd a bloody game Upon the haughs of Gromdale. The M'Gregors fought like lions bold, M'Phersons, none could them controul, M'Lauchlans fought like loyal souls, Upon the haughs of Cromdale. M'Leans, M'Dougals, and M'Neils, So boldly as they took the field, And made their enemies to yield, Upon the haughs of Cromdale. The Gordons boldly did advance The Frasers fought with sword and lance, The Grahams'they made the heads to danoe, Upon the ha i hs of'Cromdak. �The loyal Stewarts, with Montrose, So boldly set upon their foes, And brought them down with Highland1 blows, Upon the haughs of Cromdale, Of twenty thousand, Cromwell's men, Five hundred fled to Aberdeen, The rest of them lie 011 the plaiii, Upon the haughs of Cromdale. LORD L O V E L . stands at his stable door, Mounted upon a grey steed ; And bye came Ladie Nanciebel, And wish'd Lord Lovel much speed. LORD LOVF.L " 0 wh'ar are you going, Lord LoVel, 9 My dearest tell to me V <{ O I am going a far journey, Some far countrie to see ; But I'll return in seven long years, Lady Nanciebel to see." " 0 ! seven, seven, seven long years, They are much too long for me," 44 He has gane a year away, A year but barely ane, When a strange fancy came into his head, That fair Nanciebel was gane. �8 It's then he rade, and better rade, Until he cam to the toun, And there he heard a dismal noise, For the church bells a* did soun' He asked what the bells rang for, T h e j said, " Its for Nanciebel: She died for a discourteous squire, And his name is Lord LoveL" The lid o' the coffin he opened up, The linens he faulded doun ; And aye he kiss'd her pale, pale lips, And the tears cam trickling doun. " Weel may I kiss those pale pale lips, For they will never kiss me ;— I'll mak a vow, and keep it true, That they'll ne'er kiss ane but thee." Lady Nancie died on Tuesday nicht, Lord Lovel upon the neist day ; Lady Nancie died for pure pure love, Lord Lovel, for deep sorray. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Woodcut 026: Title-page illustration of a Highland soldier in a kilt and plaid socks holding an upright rifle in a outdoor scene. A door in background is imprinted with the letter "V". Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Four Excellent Songs. Jack Robinson. The girl I left behind me. Lord Lovel. The Haughs of Cromdale. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9943830893505154">s0615b33</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Jack Robinson. The girl I left behind me. Lord Lovel. The Haughs of Cromdale. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [1840-1850?] per University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks Extent The size or duration of the resource. 8 pages 14 cm Description An account of the resource 32 printed at the bottom of the title-page. Subject The topic of the resource Ballads and songs Jacobites War Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow Courtship and Marriage Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. <a title="University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks" href="http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/">University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks&nbsp;</a> <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/">National Library of Scotland&nbsp;</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Accrual Method The method by which items are added to a collection. Purchased through the Jane Grier Family Trust. 2012. Language A language of the resource English Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource 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 An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario Type The nature or genre of the resource ballads & songs # of Woodcuts: 1 Bib Context: title-page Chapbook Date: 1841-1850 Chapbook Genre: ballads & songs Fashion (Clothing): feather bonnet Fashion (Clothing): Highland attire Fashion (Clothing): kilt Fashion (Clothing): military Fashion (Clothing): sporran Gender: man/men Occupation: soldier Outdoor Scene Weapons: gun(s) https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/99417d3fb39b9e076a7d1bef7713f8da.jpg 1493b294d51281f5257e2ffea24a2acd Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3308 Width 1890 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Woodcut on title-page portraying a man wearing a hat, kilt, and plaid socks holding an upright rifle. To his left is a door marked with the letter V https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/2d135d415d4ee14736badbfab42f7034.pdf dbe096b4429bd3b1427f595c3acdc397 PDF Text Text �r THE UlSI'QRIc i* 4 ,; WILL % , i % AN® .so v s J J E A N . j * • $ TO B T p a i a a . d A B &HT like Willie $ WHA wasinanceb o u r i n g tow^iGairlace, Wha la B eap t ^ s* plow n: \v afe in 1 i 3 fair "face, 1 C > % Deadly strength was in iiis arm. f | f * ^^ . Wlia wi* Will could riii or wrastle, Throw the sledge d#t!>ssf tgie bar, 4> C Hap what would* he stood a castle, Or for safety or for Wa?. # % % v^ll C W a r m his he ait/ and mild as tnarifu, ^ W i ' the hauld he bauld could be 5 \ But to friends wha had {ftfjjjjbhldfii} % f, Purse ^tid service aye-war free* W h a n he first saw JedhJfe Miller, W h a wi* leaftie could compare ? * Tliousands had.maiE braws and siller, B u t was ony half so Talr ? Kind and gentle wWiiQf naiitfe ; & A t jlk |}lace she kjre the bell, 1 Vi if Sic a bloom, and shape, and stature ! B u t her look nae tongue can tell J S F\ <|| 1 S •f 1 :m M M <$.; ^ i �Sic was Jean, { whan \\ r ill first Flawing Spied her 16ri a 'piillwartl Inwig^ Flew like fire, and, just when fa'irig. Kept her on his manly breast. Light he fe^Wpf,' ^ a l ^ a ^ a ^ ^ ^ i ^ Q Cross the meadow fragrant, green, t ; Placed her on the new mowai rashgs*Watching sad Her opening eert. ( ! Sic was Will, >vheit poor .Teanf |§}$iij»g* Drap into a lover's arms; ,, ' , . Wakened to his £aft lamenting, -f, > Sighed and Unshed a thousand charms. Soon they loo'd, and soon was hucldeA Nane took tirne to think and rue; Ytm^l and wqrth, and beaufcy> coupled, had titter l e s s \ o do. r r r„ hellevin) yeib nO. Thre^^Hcirt yfcahf flew by fu' cautf^ ; Jeaif* arid Will 'thought then! biit ane;; Hkh day brought joy and pleijLty, ,t , | Ilka year a daitity wean. Will wrought sair, but aye wi? pleasure ; Jean the hale day span and sang * ; Will atid weans her constant treasure, Blest wi' them, nae day seemed lang. • , .. , z'sJv/ # otwod B fll Trig her house, and 0I11 to busk. aye; Hk sweet bairri was A?fyerpride* ^ But at this time N E W S and W H l § K Y Sprang iiafc tip at ilk road side. �4 Luckless was the hour whan Willie. Hame returning frae the fair, O'ertook Tam, a neebour billie, Sax miles frae their hame and mair Simmer's heat had lost its fury; Calmly smiled the sober e'en, Lasses on the bleachfield hurry, Skelping barefit owre the green : Labour rang wi* laugh and clatter, Canty hairst was just begun, And on mountain, tree, and water, Gljnted saft the setting sun. 1 •&nru.i/•'• ' ' Will and Tam, wi' hearts a' louping, Mark't the hale, but could nae bide; F a r frae hame, nae time for sioppiiig,—Baith wished for their ain R e side, On they travelled, warm and drouthy, Cracking owre the npws in town ; The mair they crack't, the mair ilk youth aye Prayed for drink to >V£sJti. news do Wit. Fortune, wha but seldom listens , XtPftdcte M&x:ft?'s modest prayer^ And on foofe pofirs needless blessings, Hearkened to our drouthy pair. In a howm, wha's bonny burmg. | 10X[ <oWf Whimpering rQwed its crystal flood^f]] Near the road wliW travellers turn aye, Neat and biejd a cot-house stood j ^ v �5 White the wa's wi' roof new theekit, Window broads just painted red ; Lown 'mang trees and braes it reekit, Haflins seen and haflins hid. Down below a flowery meadow Joined the burnie's winding line Here it was that H O W E the widow That same day set up her sign.^ Brattling down the brae, and near its Bo t to in, Will first marvelling sees, " PORTER, A L E , & BRITISH S P I R I T S , " Painted bright between twa treesi Huzza, Taii}iI here's walth for drinking: W h a can this new comer be ? Hout, quo Tam, there's drouth in: thinking, Let's in, Will, and syne we'll see. Nae mair time they tool? to speak or Think of ought but reaming jugs, Till three times in humming liquor, Ilk lad deeply laid his lugs. Slockened now, refreshed and talking, In cam Meg (weel skilled to please), Sirs, ye're surely tired wi"' walking, Ye maun taste my bread and cheese. Thanks, quo Will, I canna tarry, Pick-mirk night is setting in ; Jean, p'uir thing's her lane and eery— I maun to the road and riu. �6 Haat, quo Tam, what's a* the huttfyK Hame's npw scarce a mile of gate— Come, sit down, Jean winna wearier Hout, I'm sura it's no sae late Will owrecjtfiafc wif Tairi's oration Baith fell ibo and ate their fill; Tam,vq.uO Will, in mere discreti^ii^ W e inan® Hae th&. widfew'g giBi ^ After ae gill cam aiiither— fil 1 ^ Meg sati cracking 'tween th^fl Cwa; Bang- cam; m Mat Smith arfd's Mihe^,^ Geqrdie Brawn and Sandib ^Sti&w. :N^ebt>urs whs ne'er thotighfrni&Im^hfere, Now skt dawn wi' ckuMe flee, Hfc gUL aye grehv • s week and sweeter, f 0 5 i Will gat hame 'tweeft W a tferee. Jean, piiir fhing/ Wd lang^ Been greeting; Will, niest morning blathed Tan* Lowes, 1 But ere langan owkly Meeting 0 W a s set ap at M%gle f 5SbWe^. Maist things hae a sma "beginning, B u t wfia kens how things ^ill end ? Owkly cliiJis are nae great sinning, a Giu folk' hae enough to spend. But nae man of sober thinking E'er will say that things' can thrive, If there's spent in owkly drinking W h a t keeps wife and weans alive. �Drir& maun, aye hae conversation, ' v ffia social r«»-:l allocs; V ' ., M t to this reforming nation" , 5 " ^ W f f i r a i P p a i r without; M W l f r s ? MaggV£ te^fe! bouji1 M iial i i p f Potind ere Jang the fault," and ae night .awe CMli l <f a n d g a t the W ^ M i M r 1 S # f t 1'iy N o u g h t s spring up like plants i r i ^ l i o u s e iLtety time tne news are read. Ilk a n ^ H f BVin "Jn.'! Things are no gaun riglit, quo Tain, > Let lis aitener meet thegither,. Twice % owk's iio worth ilie gauri ri . i •: .. sift raid wu3 t bee jthenVnow in grave convenfjvn,^ To make a'" things Square and t ven, Or r 4t least wi' firm intpntiqn V .ryf To drint sii1 nights out o' seven. " 'Mid this sitting up and dxinking. Gathering a' the news:that fell, ^Till, wlia ^Tasna yet 5 H a d some Battles w t hirn sel. y 4 Oti ae liandi Jnnk's: deadly poison". Bare ilk firm resolve awa ; j * j ~;., On the ither, Jean's condition ' Rave his very heart in twa. �8 W e e l he saw her smothered sorrow ; Weel he saw her bleaching cheek l Marked the smile he strave to borrow, W h a n , puir thing, she couldna speak. Jean, at first took little head o* Owkly clubs 'mang three or four, Thought, kind soul, that Will had need o* Heartsome hours when wark was owre. B u t whan now that nightly meetings* Sat and drank frae sax till twa, ; W h e n she found that hard earned gettings Now on drink war thrown awa; Saw her Will,'wha ance sae cheery Raise ilk morning wi' the lark, Now grown mauchless, dowf, and swear aye To look near his farm or wark; Saw him tyne his manly spirit, Healthy bloom and sprightly e'e ; And of love and hairie grown wearit, Nightly frap his family flee; W h a could blame her heart's complaining ; W h a condemn her sorrows meek, Or the tears that now ilk evening Bleached her lately, crimsoned cheek ? W i l l , wha lang had rued and swithered* ( A y e ashamed of past disgrace) ; Marked the roses as they withered Fast on J eanie's lovely face. �Marked, and felt wi1 inward racking A ' the wyte lay wi' himsel, Swore neist night he'd mak a breaking—• D—d the club and news to hell I But alas ! when habit's rooted Few hae pitli the root to p u ' ; Will's resolves were aye nonsuited,-— Promised aye—but aye gat f u \ Aye at first at the convening Moralized on what was right; Yet on clavers entertaining D m d and drank till broad day-light. • Things at length drew near an ending C*sh rins out—Jean quite unhappy, Sees that Will is now past mending Tynes a* heart, and taks a drappy. Jean, wha lately bare affliction W i ' sae meek and mild an air, Schooled by whisky, learns new tricks soon, Flytes, and storms, and rugs Will's hair, Jean, sae late the tenderest mither, Forid of ilk dear dauted wean ; Now heart-hardened athegither, Skelps them round frae morn till e'en. Jean, wha, vogie, locked to busk aye In her hame-spun, thrifty wark, Now sells a her braws for whisky, To her last gown, coat, and sark* �10 B a i t y Bam^j in mony a ditty* toudly sings in whisky's prain $ jSyeet his sang—the mair's die pity "©er on it he wared sic lays. Of a' the ills poor Caledonia Ever preed or e'er will taste, Brewed in hell's black Pan demon ia, Whisky's ill will skaith her maist. See them now ! how changed wi' drinMng A' their youthful beauty gane I Davered, doited, daized, and blinking, Worn to perfect skin and bane I In the cauld month of IvT«vember, " ( C i a ^ , ^ili cash, jind credit'put,) Cowering owre a dying ember, Wi* ilk face as white's a clouti ? I Bond, and bill, and debts a' stoppit, Ilka sheaf selt on the tent, (]^ttle, |ieds, and hlankits roupit Now, to pay the laird his rent. No anitlier night to lodge here, N o a friend their cause to plead J • l i e taen on to be a sodger, - ^ wo'M 0fis yn w a n s to beg h©r br*i& �Gil THE # £ I I O T OF THE • t Sandbar!- ? • •• ' •> • <• HISTORY . >YN; i OH ! t h a t folk wad weel consider W f i a t it is to tyne a riaine? W h a t - t h i s warrs^athegither, If bereft of honest fame! Poortith ne'er can bring dishonour . ^Hardships ne'er breed; sorrows sinart, ' I f bright conscience taks upon Jter T o shed sunshiny round the heart. B u t wi' a' that walth can borro w5 Guilty gliarae will look dpvyn ; W h a t maun then shame, want, ami sorrow Wandering sad frae town to town! Jeani^ Miller, ance sae cjieerie, i^nce sae happy, gnid, audjVir, Lpft by Will, neist morning djrourie T a k s the road of black despair; Cauld the blast, the day was sleeting, . Pouch and purse without a plaek, In ilk hand a bairnie greeting, And, the third tied on her back W a n hei;faq§i~ and lean apd haggard J Anpe §ae aonsiej ance gae ^weetl/ W h | t ix change !—unhpi^ed beggared ^ I r r y i n g ^ v i t l i q i i t : claise or �12 F a r frae ilk kent spot she wandered, Skulking llVe a guilty thief; Here and there uncertain daundered, Stupified wi' shame and grief. B u t soon shame for bygane errors, Fled owre fast for e'e to trace, "Whan grim death, wi' a his terrors, Cam owre ilk sweet bairnie's face. Spent wi' toil, and cauld, and hunger, Baith down drapt, and down Jean s a t ! Daized and doited now nae langer Thought and felt, hut bursting grafc. Gloaming fast wiVmirky shadow Crap owre distant hill and plain; Darkened wood, and glen, and meadow, Adding fearful thoughts to pain. Round and round, in wild distraction, Jeanie turned her tearful e'e Round and round for some protection ! Face nor house she couldna see. Dark and darker grew the night aye, Loud and sair the cauld winds thud $ Jean now spied a sma bit lightie Blinking through a distant wood. Up wi frantic haste she started, Cauld nor fear she felt nae mair $ Hope, for ae bright moment, darted Through the gloom of dark despair. �13 Fast owre fallowed lea she brattled,; Deep she wade through bog and burn, Sair wi' steep and craig she battled, Till she reached the hoped sojourn Proud 'mang scenes of Simple Nature, Stately, auld, a mansion stood On a bank, whase sylvan feature,''1 Smiled out ower the roaring flood. Simmer here, in varied beauty, Late her flowery man tie spread, W h a r auld chesnut, ake and yew tree Mingling, lent their friendly shade. Blasted now wi' W i n t e r s ravage, A' their gaudy livery cast, Wood and glen in' waitings'"savage. Sung and howled to ilka blast. Darkness stalked wi' fancy terror, Mountains moved and castle rocked, Jean, half dead wi' toil and horror/ Reached the door and loudly knocked W h a thus rudely waks the sleeping? Cried a voice wi' angry grane; Help I oh help ! quo Jeanie, weeping, Help my infants or they're garie. Nipt wi' cauld, wi' hunger fainting, Baith lay speechless on the lea ! Help ! quo Jeanie, loud lamenting, Help my lammies, or they'll die. �14 travels cauld and hungry, - W*' JOIMS faints sae late at jB'ew ? Beggars, cried the voice niair angry, l^eggeirs wi' their brats I ween. Beggars.np.w^.alasJ. wji^ lM^y-, ' Helpt the beggar and the poor; Fye, gu(Jem,an, cried ane discreetly, Tauiit, na poorti th at the door, Sic a night and tale thegither Plead for mair than anger's din; Rise Jock, cried the pitying mither, Rise and let the wretched in. Beggar now, alas ! wha lately Helpt the beggar and the poor i Enter, ^uo the yonth^discreetly, While up i flew the open dao£f Beggar, or what else, sad mourner. Enter without fear or dread ; Here, thank, God, there's aye a cornep r Tp defend the houseless head. For your bairnies cease repining ; v fX:\'/f I f fti life ye'11 see, them soon ; A ff he flew ; and brightly shin ing Through (fie da^k clouds, brak the moon. Here, for ae night's kind protection, t Leave Sye Jean and weans awhUe, Tracing Will iri| ilk direction, F a r fnie Britain's fostering isle.. , �Ip Far frae scenes of fastening,pleasure, LtiVe's delights and beauty's jcHarj^ p* Far frae^ friendship's social leisure, ^T^lunged in murdering W A l l ' s alarms. Is it nature, vice, or folly, Or ambition's feverish brain, That sae aft, wi' melancholy, Turns, sweet P E A C E ! thy joys tip fain. That wi! a' thy charms enticing rf • ^To the e'e and to the heart, (Ilk Endearing bliss despising), TMn^ts weak man frae .tMetopart.• flfiJi-J Or'! ti • -J no. Willie Gairlace, without siller, Credit, clase, or ought beside, ^eaves lift ance loved Jeanie "Millejr, [ bairns to warld wide.,' ; Leaves his native cozy dwelling, Sheltered haughs and birken braes, Grreeniwaird howes and dainty mailing Ance his prdflt/ pride, and praife§.: 4 Decked wi' ,scarlet, sword, and musket, D r u n ^ y ? dreams ft s fause its vkiii^"' Fleeclied "and flittered, roosed anfl biislnt, W\5W but T Will was \vondrous fain, JI T M'PPL V U ?•/ >!ooi ,00-/1 Rattling, roaring, swearing, drinking, How cotdd Thought her stMdn keep;** Drams and '^rufoiifihg' (fees to'thinkihjbr))rv Dnied Reflection fast asleep. �16 Bmt when shipt to toils and dangers, W i ' the cauld grund for his b e d Compassed round wi'faes and stranger% Soon Will's dreams of fancy fled. Led to battle's blood-dyed banners Waving to the widow's moan, W i l l saw Glory's boasted honours End in life's expiring groan. Round Valenciennes' strong walled City* Thick owre Dunkirk's fatal plain. W i l l (though dauntless) saw wi' pity, Britain's valiant sons lie slain. Fired by freedom's burning fever, Gallia's rack Death's slaughtering knell, Frae the Scheldt to Rhine's deep, river, Britons fought—but Britons fell. Fell unaided, though cemented By the faith of friendship's laws j Fell unpitied ! unlamented I Bluiding in a thankless cause. In the thrang of comrades deeing, Fighting foremost of them a', Swith ! Fate's winged ball cam fleeing, And took Willie's leg in twa. Thrice frae aff the grund he started, Thrice to stand he strave in vain, Thrice, as fainting strength departed, Sighed—and sank 'mid heaps of slain, �17 Erskine, wha ne'er slighted merit, Marked him 'mid the bloody fray ; Save that gallant daring spirit, 1 Twice he saved my life the day, * fast on battle raging,. T ed our stalwart youths awa, Day by day new faes engaging, Forced the weary back to fa'. Driven at last frae post to pillar, Left by friends wha ne'er proved true. Tricked by knaves wha poucliecl our siller, .J^fJiat could worn-out valour do ? Myriads 4ark, Jike gathering thunder,Bursting, spread owre land and sea ; Left alane> alas ! nae wonder Britain's sons were forced to flee. * V C. ' °" ' ' '• • Cross the W a r e and (Yssel frozen, .Deqp through bogs and drifted snaw, Wounded, weak, and spent, our chosen Gallant men now faint and fa. On, a cart wi5 comrades bluiding, . j Stiff wi' gore, and cauJd as clay, Without cover, bed, or bedding, • Five lang nights W i l l Gairlace lay. In a sick-house, damp and rianuw, (Left behind, wi' hundred mair,) See W i l l neist, in pain and sorrow, Wasting on a bed of care. �Ite Wounds, arid paiii^ and; til; Doctors curo«I wi' healing art Cured, alas ! but never, never, Cooled the fever at his hearts For, whan a' war sound and sleopihgV' Still and on, baith ear and lafc, Will in briny grief lay steeping, 'U Mourning owre liS hapless" M e . * A ' liis gowden prospects vanished, A fek'U^a^a / l ^ ^ d ^ A ^ t ^ i Jiewl . liio g!Aii/i/Oii-iit? jjiianLum^ uaxiioiiuu, h T Will^btild 1 tlifrik of ndi^Kt btWWme. ' Kural labour, rural ploys ; F a r frae carnage, bluid, and riot, ; n W a r , arid m 2 i i a Back to Britain's fertile garden, ' • Will's returned (exchanged for fires), Wi 5 ae leg, and no a farden, Friend or creffit; nieat cHr claiseV U f ' Lang through country, burgh, and city Crippling on a wooden leg, Gathering alms frae melting pity, See poor'Gairkce forced to beg.J Placed at length on Chelsea's bounty, Now" to lariger beg Uiinfcs sh^iji^, } . Dreams' anee mair of smiling plenty, Dreams of former joys, and liifeffe/ * �W H a m e r a h d & its fond attractions, Fast to Will's warm ljo^om fleer f Wliild; the though is of deflr eonpeetio^ ^ Swell "his feart and' Wmd his t ^ M ^ Monste¥-P wha cMd ] ike ne?p&£eif Tkree stoa' infants and & Wffe/\ ; ? n a J Naked, starving, unprotected, "iko'l 8VS Them too 'dearer airee than <2 Villain! w h k ^ P g r a c e s 11 Changed1 hek*'FFIFFTCR^elailcholy^ M 1 Reggar y^ ^ - ^ j f e M i $ $ $ JB Starting; flikrdti&ftj'1 Crushed w i ' " g r i e F ^ e r t t ^ l b a y p Up h e B a n g e d / d ^ ^ ^ m ^ t e S ^ 7 ^ Sad and siletft Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin ' Sometimes helpit/ Will gat-forth, - \ On a carl' 6r iii a Waggon / ^ ' hsfmno^/ Hirplin^ ayfet$#ards th& - ii cMli. Tired at ^eniri^/ ifefprping h M y , ; i r ; G s ' Pondering oh Ms thra^ard fate, ' : In the boiiiiy : month-rf July, 1 ; : ^ <; "Willie, ' Aft the southland b r e e z e W a w i i i g , *7 SwTeetly si ghecHhe green ake'Vood, Loud the din of streams fast fd'ifig, Strack the ear wi* thundering thud; �20 Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleating, Linties sang on ilka tree, Frae the west the sun, near setting, Flamed on Roslin's towers sae hie. Roslin's toners and braes sae bonny, Craigs and water, woods and glen, Roslin's Ibanks ! unpeered by ony, Save the muse's Hawthorn den. Ilka sound and charm delighting, Will (though hardly fit to gang,), Wandered onfthrough scenes inviting, Listening to the mavis' sang. Faint at length, the day fast closing, On- a fragrant strawberry steep, Esk s sweet strea.ni to rest composing, Wearied ^ f a t u r e drapt asleep. Soldier, rise ! the dews of e'ening Gathering, fa' wi' deadly skaith I Wounded soldier ! if complaining Sleep nae here to catch your death. Traveller, waken !-—night advancing, - Cleeds wi' gray the neebouring hill; Lambs nae mair on knowes are dancing A ' the woods are mute and still. W h a t hae cried Willie, waking, W h a t hae I frae night to dree P Morn, through clouds in splendour breaking Light's nae brightning hope to me. �21 House nor hame, nor farm nor steading, Wife nor bairns hae I to see, House nor hame, nor bed nor bedding, ) W h a t hae I frae night to dree ? Sair, alas ! and sad arid pianyv Are the ills poor mortals share, Yet, though hame nor bed ye hae nae, Yield nae, Soldier, to despair. What's this If Hope's See, though Yon sma- life, sae vvae and weatie, brightning beams should fail night comes, dark and'eerie, cot-light cheers the dale. There, though walth and waste ne'er tiot, Humbler joys their comforts shed, Labour—health—content and quiet-— Mourner ! there ye'se get a, bed. Wife 'tis true, wi' bairnies smiling, There, alas ! ye need nae seek~ T . Yet their Bairns* ilk care beguiling', ml" > Paint wi' smiles a mither's cheek. A' her earthly pride and plga^ure Left to cheer her widow'd lot, . A ' her warldly walth and treasure To adorn her lanely cot {. Cheer, then, Soldier, midst affliction Brightning joys will aften shine ; Vttttae aye claims Heaven's protection Trust to providence divine I r y: : �22 Sweet as RosebarikVwoods and rivet Cool, wheii simmerV sunbeams dart, Cam ilk word, and cooled the fever That lang'burned at Willies heart. Silent stept he on, poor fallow, Listening to his guide before, Owre green know and gowany hallow, Till they reached the cot-houge door. Laigh it was; yet sweet, though fumble; Decked wi' hinnysuckle rdund; Clear below Esk's waters ru mble, v Deep glens murmuring back tlie sound. MelvilTs towers, <&e" white and stately, Dim by gldaming glint to view; Thro' Lasstoade's dark woods keek sweetly, Skies fei y tiri$ : BR %ae 1>lu6f Entering now in trarispoft mingle, Mither fMd } and \^eanl . XFJ C • I. round aTLIJ ' mgle. I • >I capty omiling Blessing on a cleah heartli stane.' Soldier, welc&ne !-Tcome, be cheery-?—i Here yese rest, and take your bed-, , Faint, \vae£ fne! ye seem, and weary, Pale's your cnt&k, sae lately red. Changed l a m , sighed Willie till her; Changed, nae doubt, as changed can.be5 Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller Nought of Willie Gairiace see ? JO 1 �23 Hae ye marked th#. dews of morning 7/ " Kjrlitleripg. in the sunny Say4 , ,I( > Quickly fa, , vrhan, without warning. Rough blastsJcam and shook the spray, ,Hae ye seep the. hi j$$fast. fleeing • • > v tl I * . Drap when pierced by Death mair fleet ? Then see Jean, wi1 colour deeing, ;it Senseless drap at Willie's feet* 1- i'ivl V~ After t^uffja lang y^s'japUetfen i i ( A ' tjieif ways now hushed t o u : Jeari ance fond aiF0§jtipn C l a s p s , W i l l i e to, her breast. » TellsjJjim a1 ^er/fa^^i^jiifferifegpoq sdgid Mow she wandered, starving pooi-V ' 1 ; Gleaming Pity's scanty, offerings ; "A 1 Wi tol •- * bairns,- frae * "• to door] three *' J •• door .ill * ' * How sh$? s^ved^-and; jftoiled^-artd ievered/ Lost her health andqsyne her bread ; How that grief, when scarce recovered* t>ibl Took her brain and turned her head/ How she wandered round the country Mony a live-lang night her lane; ? Till at last an angel'§ bounty Brought her senses back again, > i3 • Gae her meat—and claise—and siller; Gae her bairnie?s wark and lear 5 Lastly, gae this cot-house till her, W i ' four sterling pounds a year. �24 Willi e9 heark'ning, wiped his e'en aye 5— 'Oh I what sins hae I to rue ! 6 But say, wha's this angel, Jeanie ! / W h a , quo Jeanie, 4 hut Buccleugh ! 4 Here, supported—cheered—-and cherished Nine blessed months I've lived and mair; Seen these infants clad and nourished, Dried my tears and tint despair/ Sometimes serving, sometimes spinning., Light the lanesome hours gae round; Lightly, too, ilk quarter rinning. Brings yon angels helping pound ! Eight pounds mair, cried Willie, fondly, Eight pounds mair, will do nae harm, And, O Jean, gin friends war kindly, Eight pounds soon might stoclt a farm. There ance mair to thrive by ploughing, Freed frae a' that peace destroys, Idle waste and drueken ruin, W a r , and a its murdering joys ! T Thrice he kissed his lang lbs£ treasure; Thrice ilka bairn—but could nae speak; Tears of love, and hope* and pleasure, Streamed in silence down his cheek. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Woodcut 026: Title-page illustration of a Highland soldier in a kilt and plaid socks holding an upright rifle in a outdoor scene. A door in background is imprinted with the letter "V". Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The History of Will and Jean: or, The sad effects of Drunkenness. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9943831143505154">s0615b41</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. The sad effects of drunkeness Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [1850?] per University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages 15 cm Description An account of the resource 36 printed at the bottom of the title-page. Subject The topic of the resource Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow Alcohol Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. <a title="University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks" href="http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/">University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks&nbsp;</a> <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/">National Library of Scotland&nbsp;</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Accrual Method The method by which items are added to a collection. Purchased through the Jane Grier Family Trust. 2012 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource 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 An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario # of Woodcuts: 1 Bib Context: title-page Chapbook Date: 1841-1850 Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Fashion (Clothing): feather bonnet Fashion (Clothing): Highland attire Fashion (Clothing): kilt Fashion (Clothing): military Fashion (Clothing): sporran Gender: man/men Occupation: soldier Outdoor Scene Weapons: gun(s) https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/ccddcd6238aa600b316b7cbbc1f29221.pdf 55d43066f9838a506d16837028aa7dbb PDF Text Text The wealth of the Cottage is love. Behave yourseU afore folk. My Henry is gone. Hey the bonny breast-knots. Say, my heart, why wildly beating. Ye shall walk in silk attire. The kiss, dear Maid. KILMARNOCK: PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS. �2 THE W E A L T H OF T H E IS LOVE. COTTAGE A BLESSING unknown to ambition and pride. That fortune can never abate, T o wealth and to splendour tho* often denied^ Yet on poverty deigns to await. That blessing, ye powers! O be it my lot! The choicest, best gift from above, Deep fix'd in my heart, shall be never forgot— The wealth of the cottage is love. Whate'er my condition, why should I repine, By poverty never distressed ? Exulting I felt what a treasure was mine— A treasure enshrin'd in my breast. That blessing , ye powers ! still be it my lot The choicest, best gift from above, Still fix'd in my heart, shall be never forgot— That the wealth of the cottage is love. B E H A V E Y O U R S E L ' AFORE F O L I C BEHAVE yoursel* afore folk, Behave yourseP afore folk, And dirma be sae rude to me, And kiss me sae afore folk. IT wadna gi'e me muckle p<\ia, Gin we were seen and heard by naue^ �s To tak a kiss, or grant you ane; Eut gudesake no afore folk. Behave yourseP afore folk, Behave yourseP afore folk, Wliate'er ye 4o when out o* view, Be cautious aye afore folk. Consider, lad, how folk will crack, And what a great affair they'll rnak9 0 ' m e t h i n g but a simple smack, Thai's gi'en, or ta'en before folk. Behave yourseP afore folk, Behave yourseP aiore folk, Nor gPe the tongue o' auld or young Occasion to come o'er folk. It's no thro' hatred o' a kiss, That I sae plainly tell you this, But, losh, I tak? k sair amiss J o be sae ie?zed afore folk. Behave yourseP afore folk, Behave yourseP afore folk, When we're our line ye may tak* ane. But feint a ane afore folk. Fm sure to you Fve been as free As ony modest lass can be* But yet it does na do to see, Sic freedom os?d afore folk, Behave yourseP afore felk, Behave yourseP afore folk ; I'll ne'er submit again to it* So mind you that afore folk. �4 Y o u tell me that my face is f a i r It may be sae, I dinna care, But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair5 Af> ye ha'e done afore folk. Behave yourseP afore folk 5 Behave yourseP afore f o l k ; N o r heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks^ But aye be douce afore folk. Y e tell me that my lips are sweet, Sic tales I doubt are deceit; A t ony rate it's haridy meet, T o pree these sweets afore folk, . Behave yourseP afore folk, Behave yourself afore folk ; Gin that's the case, there's time and place, But surely no afore folk, But gin ye really do insist, T h a t I should suffer to be kiss'd, Gae get a licence frae the priest, A n d mak' me yours afore folk. Behave yourseP afore folk, Behave ycursei' afore f o l k ; A n d when we're ane baith flesh and bane, Y e may tak* t e n — a f o r e folk. M Y H E N R Y IS G O N E . G green, are the groves where with Henry I stray'd! i And bright are the hills all around* 11 �5 The fields and the vallies are gaily array:M, And fresh -flowrets enamel the ground. CHORUS. But my Henry is gone, and left me forlorn, T o deplore the most faithless of m e n ; T h e flowers of hope from my bosom are torn, And they never shall blossom again, They never shall blossom again. The birds sing as sweetly on ev'ry green thorn* i h e brook steals as soft through the grove, The son shines as bright^ and as sweet smiles the mom, As they did when I roam'd with my love. But my Henry is gone, &c» H E Y T H E BONNIE BREAST-KNOTS* Hey the bonnie* ho the bonnie. Hey the bonnie breast-knots; Blythe and merry were they a' When they put on their breast-knots. There was a bridle in this town, And till't the lasses a' were boun', Wi* mankie facings on thsir gown, And some of them had breast-knots. Singing, hey the bonnie, &c. �6 A t nine o'clock the lads convene, Some clad in blue some clad in green, W r shinin' buckles in their sheen, And flowers upon their waistcoats* Out cam the wives a* wi* a phrase, And wish'*! the lasses happy days, And muckle thought they o' their claise/ Especially the breast-knots. Singing, hey the bonnie, See. SAY, MY HEART, WHY BEATING ? WILDLY Say, my heart, why wildly beating ? Dost thou such emotion prove ? Canst thou, when thy lover meeting, Fear his truth or doubt his love? No, fondly no, my bosom sighs. No, gently no, my heart replies. T h e n fond heart be silent ever— Be thy wild emotion o ' e r ; For with doubt and fearing, never bhali thou throb—no, no* no, never more. Light of life and life's b^st blessing, Is the love that meets return. Shall I, that rich boon possessing, E'er the matchless blessing spurn i �No, fondly no, my bosom sighs* No, gently no, my heart replies. Then be joy my inmate ever. Since each anxious dread is o'er ; For with fear and doubting, never Shall it throb—no* no* no, never more. AND YE SHALL W A L K ATTIRE. IN SILK AND ye shall walk in silk attire* And siller hae to spare, Gin ye'l! consent to be my bride, Nor think on Donald nvair. 0 wha would buy a silken gowm WY a poor broken heart ? Or what's to me a siller crown, Gin frae my love I part ? And ye shall walk, &c. 1 wadna walk in silk attire, Nor braid wi* gems my hair, Gin he whose faith is pledg'd wi* mine* Were wrang'd and grieving sair. From infancy he lov'd me stil!, And still my heart shall prove How weel it can those vows fulfil* Which first repaid his love* I wadna walk, �T H E KISS, D E A R MAID, T h e kiss» dear maid, thy lip has left Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours rest on the gift, Untainted back to thine. T h e parting glance which fondly beams* An equal love may s e e ; T h e tear that from thy eyelid streams Can weep no change in me. I ask no pledge to make me blest, In gazing when alone ; Nor one memorial for a breast, W h o s e thoughts are all thine own. By day or night, in weal or woe. That heart no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show. And silent ache for thee. UN IS. � https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/9047cc4914f23cc96685c46ee6457b74.jpg 93edc2a179824d932c6bcf4bd09aef89 Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 4212 Width 2412 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Woodcut on title-page portraying a man wearing a hat and coat with walking stick in front of a small house Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Woodcut 035:Title-page illustration of a man with a walking stick standing in front of a cottage. Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Seven Songs. The wealth of the Cottage is love. Behave yoursel' afore folk. My Henry is gone. Hey the bonny breast-knots. Say, my heart, why wildly beating. Ye shall walk in silk attire. The Kiss, dear Maid. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953133903505154">s0499b33</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. The wealth of the Cottage is love. Behave yoursel' afore folk. Hey the bonny breast-knots. Say, my heart, why wildly beating. Ye shall walk in silk attire. The Kiss, dear Maid. My Henry is gone. Extent The size or duration of the resource. 8 pages Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chapbook #32 in a bound collection of 40 chapbooks Subject The topic of the resource Chapbooks--Scotland--Kilmarnock Courtship and Marriage Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource ballads & songs Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource 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 An entity responsible for making the resource available Kilmarnock: Printed for the Booksellers Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource c. 1811-1820 based on similar woodcut illustrations in chapbooks by same publisher in NLS collections. Description An account of the resource Woodcut #35: Illustration on title-page of a man wearing a hat and coat with walking stick standing in front of a small house