The Sun.
London, England, 1852-07-30 00:00:00

THE SUN,

THE IRISH ELECTIONS.
The most painful feature connected with the recent
elections is the aspect that Ireland has presented
throughout the whole contest. Whenever great masses
of people are collected together, we are of course pae-
pared for a certain amount of riotous conduct and dts-
turbance. This is popularnaty we must pay for a free
exprersion of the ppl will. For the sake of the
advantage we accept the drawback. But ordinary tur-
bulence is one thing; it is quite another matter when we
find a country given up to systematic intimidation and
nocturnal brigandage, when peaceful citizens are com-
pence to barricade their dwellings in broad daylight, and
to fire in selt•detence upon a mob of ruffians who are
thirsting for their blood. It is not a legitimate exercise
of constitutional freedom that the inhabitants of three
Provhizes should be entangled in the meshes of a wide•
spread conspiracy which threatens destruction of pro-
perty and life to all who dare to disobey its behests.
Nor does the scope of the intimidation even stop on
this side the grave. The superstitious and ignorant
men who have been called upon to exercise the
electoral franchise are unfortunately persuaded that
the power of the leading election agents extends over
their souls as well as their bodied. many eases they
believe this to be so; in others they dare not evince the
slightest symptom of disbelief, lest they should be
doomed to instant and terrible destruction. The Irish
Roman Catholic priests, we grieve to say it, have not
hesitated before any abuse of the power with which the
superstition of their votaries has invested diem. It was
bat the other day in our Irish intelligence we had to re-
cord, that in the middle of the nineteenth century a Ro-
man Catholic priest declared to an open-air meeting that
he would never marry a man who voted for Hamilton or
Taylor—that he would never administer the rites of bap-
tism to his child, or impart to him the last consolation of
the Church upon his deathbed. Another, at the conclusion
of service, called out aloud from the altar the names of as
many of his congregation as had votes, and compelled
them to walk up in the face of the congregation to that
sacred spot, and receive from his hand the voting-
tickets on which were inscribed the names of the candi-
dates in whose favour they must register their votes.
Who would vote for Jocelyn Otway?"—writes the
author of a Tipperary election manifesto to which we
have already had occasion to advert. " The traitor who
will do so, never let him enter a chapel door. Let his
memory be to you like the memory of Judas. Keep
from him, for the devils of hell are his companions, and
no saint in heaven will pray for him in his dying hour."
Sch was the nature of teelectoral impulses brought
tou bear in favour of Messhrs. e
Scully and Sadleir in the
county of Tipperary.
It is only by enumerating instances that we can hope
to give even a faint idea of the Reign of Terror under
whicie the Roman Catholic peasantry have been held by
their pedests during the recent election. The subject is
one fraugtht with too much peril to the stability of our
representative institutions, or we should shrink from the
tusk of drawing into a focus the various blasphemies of
the Irish priests to their deluded flocks. The following
extract is from a speech delivered by the Rev. Mr. Maw,
at Tralee:—
" Electors of Tralee—you, the honest electors—who
have always upheld the independence of your town,. as-
semble in a body to-morrow; go to those unfcrtunate
wretches, and make them acquainted with the conse-
quences of their guilt. For my part, I'll confess to you
what my feelings are with respect to those wretched and
corrupt Catholics. Let me suppose one of those wretches
prostrated by sickness. Suppose the hand of death
heavy upon him, and that a messenger comes to me to
attend him in his dying moments. If there were no
other priest in the way I would be bound to go. I dare
not refits's, to attend him; but I confess to you that I
would be sorry from my heart to be called upon to at,
tend the deathbed of such a being.—(Great sensation.)
I would go to attend such a wretch with a heavy heart,
without much hope, because I would feel that I was
going to administer sacraments to one whose conscience
was so seared and whose heart was so rotten at
the core that I could not have much expectation of
effecting a i"onversion. Overpowered with the im-
pression that I was about to visit a perjured wretch,
who for a miserable bribe had betrayed the dearest in-
terests of his country and his religion, and borne down
with the hare wing reflection that God, in His just an-
ger, might leave such a wretch to die in his sins—
(Sensation)—I would fear that my mission would be
fruitless—that I could have no hope of converting a heart
so hardened, so lost to every sense of duty and religion,
as to vote in support of those who would trample on the
Lord of Hosts.—(Sensation.)"
Such was the method employed by the reverend touter
to canvass the borough of Tralee in favour of Mr.
Maurice O'Connell. During the contest of which we
have before spoken, in which Messrs. Hamilton and
Taylor were concerned, the poorer voters were not only
denoucced by the priests in the manner we have before
stated, but, when it was feared that even this degree of
intimidation might prove ineffectual, bodies of men were
dispatched through the country, who caught the voters
and tied them down in carte, in which situation they were
either brought to " reason" or kept out of the way. In
ParsollStOWll the parish priest paraded the town at
the head of a mob, succetsfully carried on a
raezia against the unfortunatevoters of Messrs.
them down to a
Bland and O'Brien, and draggedvo
building, in which they were lecked up under the cus-
tody of 'a
body of priests, who were also charged with
the duty of bringing them to " reason!" All the efforts
of the landlords, as we are informed by cur correspon-
dent from the spot, to protect their tenantry were un-
availing. We cannot bring our cases to a conclusion
without noticing once more that address of the Rev. Dr.
O'Brien to the " Young Men's Society" at Limerick,
which had so terrible an effect in inflaming the passions
of the people, and bringing on the subsequent tragedies.
The reverend orator took care to inform his audience
that Nero, and Henry, and Elizabeth, and Anne, and
the Georges, Russell, and Derby, were precisely the
same, and then went on to say—
"ln many places God's victory has been secured, or
at least His resources have been powerfully augmented;
the shrieks of the defenceless and the blood of the mur-
dered here at home proclaim that the battle is at our
doors.—(Sensation.) Heaven! this is in England,
a Catholic
a civiliz,d country, claiming the rule of
population and the allegiance of Catholic
hearts. -- (Cheers.) Up, brothers! (Here the
whole meeting rose to their feet, with deafening cheers.)
What occurred in England yesterday may be attempted
by other menus in Dublin to-morrow. We must be pre-
pared.—(Continued cheering.) Let not this Stockport
tragedy rest under the veil of English design and beastly
misrepresentation. Our kindred have been slaughtered
in this shamble of English butchery, and law and justice
have slept while the dark enmities of bigot hate have
dealt out ruin.—(Cries of Hear,' and sensation.) In a
place not much larger than Limerick scores of houses
have been sacked—churches pillaged and lives lost ;
while special and ordinary constables, to the sad sorrow
of weakness, could never overtake the perpetrators, or
stay ono uplifted hand.—(` Oh, oh!') They came to one
locality—havoc had made its dwelling upon ruins—but
the fiends had fled. They ran to another, and they were
just in time to be too late.—(' Oh, oh!') They flew,
with singular alertness and intrepidity, to a third; deso-
lation sent forth cries of atrony, but the wreckers nowhere
appeared.—(' Shame!') In fact, the officers of justice
were everywhere but where they were wanted, and the
blood of the Irishmen paid the forfeit of their delay."
The instances we have given may suffice. The out-
rages at Cork and Limerick, and the more recent
tragedy at Sixmile-bridge, aro the best comment upon
the success of tho orators, and the best evidence of their
talents as electioneering agents.
Now, is this system of intimidation and violence to
be tolerated either now or for the future? All the
efforts of Parliament are put forth to set a bound to the
unfair influence and corrals c ion which unhappily obtain
in the English counties and boroughs.
se We acknowledge
tlhne
tevil,
presentand we t
temper
poeurrobfesttheto et
an adequate remedy.
plague Parliament
of
the people
St.
tribcry and
we feel very confident that if the
corruption be not stayed on this side of
Channel a very wholesale disfranchisement, if notetiortKal
of her
remodelling of our electoral system, will be the result.
But, while
cursedmy with
we are battling with these puny evils, we
allow a neighbouring country to be given up from time
anst!ibireotsrd,
asandareso
to
the el
to
the electoral franchise to be periodically toe_
Lured in body and soul, in order that the Roman
Irilisreh
II
Catholic priesthood of Ireland may return their
nominees to Parliament. In a case of this kind we for-
get all distinctions of Conservative or
Liberal, Derbyite
or Ruesehite, o "its;" any other ' see nothing but a
we
flagrant violation of the British Constitution, and its
probable effects upon the deliberationat of Parliament
and the general temper of the nation. As usual with
our Celtic friends, they are singularly blind to cense-
quencea. They do not see that the blood which has
been so freely shed and the intimidation which has been
so unsparingly used may produce somethiog, like a re-
action on this side of the Channel. If fanaticism is to
he hounded on nuttiest fanaticism, God knows wo have
fanatics enough in Great Britain, and mere of them
than tie most temperate men can well keep in bounds,
even in ordinary times. But, with these accieunts of the
Irish Reign of Terror fresh before the Protestant public,
what can the friends of peace say or do which will place
a limit to the general indignation? Nay, as statesmen,
we cannot escape from the necestity of making some
attempt to restrain any further exhibition of these de-
mi.,etieing sad disgraceful scenes. We have had a Bill
for the prevention of bribery and corruption in England
—we must have another for the prevention of in • t"u "mda-
tion and violence in Ireland. Row many of the Roman
Catholic returns would t endure the test of a St. Alban's
"lenarnission?— Times.

rrn- ENIRSNEG7—TTENhCe wretchedßcpEATne
NVowoman,
NTVIIICuTp.sprJAsNDyEEI
Mary Robins, alias Richards, who was sentenced to death
the Assizes bare, last Wednesday., for the wilful at
her child, by throwing it into a coal-pit at Ofelswurder of
this county, where it is supposed to have lingered smomford, in
before death. put a period to its sufferings, has since her
time
demnation conducted herself in a becoming manner, tjaocoanh.
she does not appear to feel the full weight of the awful su"—
tence passed upon bcr. Active efforts are being madeento-
obtain a remi-siou ot the sentence, the chief ground being
an allegation that the woman is of weak mind ; but it
is
thought that in consequence of the frequency of child murder
of late, the full nentence oft he law will be carried out by
ready way
of example. It is said. tht the day of execution is al
fixed, though it has not been made public. It is a long
time since un execution took place here.
ELECTION OF SECRETARY TO THE REFORM CLUB.
Reform
-vaenticy having occurred in the secretaryship of the
Club, a ver • body of an date appeared
On the •• . ) numerous cLa 3. -, ,
invitationof the committee of the club,
for the
tion, the '
can-
didate has proved
connected vpvirtTaied
TEE ItEp, ,
being 4col. per annum. no successful can-
to be Mr. William Norway, a gentleman
periodical literature.
are informed,
out BENTATION OF PETERBOROUGII.---WC
lion. Richard Watsonf borough, in the, the authority of a private letter, that the
ro , the lately elected 141. P. for peter
day last At liemb om of Mr. W. Cavendish, died on Saf.ur-
-.. arn.la
Times. gi T after an illness of only four days.--

THOMAS ROOD.—" OUR FAMILY."
(From Eliza Cook's Journal.)
" Poor Hood!" Thus does everyone speak of the
lamented Thomas Hood, who died just as the world was
beginning to appreciate the true genius cf the wan, but
before he could reap any of its substantial rewards.
Hood's reputation through life was that of a humourist,
for he wrote for bread, and as the public would not have
Hood's deeper thoughts, he gave them his lighter ones;
ho spun them " comic annuals," and " laughter from
year to year;" and thus he managed to live on from day
to day. But just before he passed away, there rung
to
through our island those thrilling stanzas, appealing
the profoundest sympathies of the human heart, " The
Song of the Shirt," " The Lay of the Labourer," and
"The Bridge of Sighs;" and then it was the public de-
creed thet Hood was something more than a humourist;
that he was, in fact, a great tragic poet.
Thomas Hood sues of Scotch parentage, though born
in London, where his father wes a partner in the book-
ceiling firm of Vernon end Hood, Poultry. .Ho was first
apprenticed as a merchant's cletk, but his health being
from
delicate, it was found necessary to take him away
his desk, and he was sent to his father's relatives, in
Dundee, where he remained acme time, and made his
successful debut, as a writer, in the pages of the local
magazines and journals. Here, doubtless, ho acquired
his knowledge of the broad Scotch dialect, which we find
him re-producing in the old Scotch housekeeper in
" Tylney Hall,a novel, though not much known, of the
most powerful character, full of highly wrought incident,
and situations of the most tragic kind.
With his health somewhat restored, he returned to
London, and was apprenticed to his uncle, Robert Sands,
the engraver, and was afterwards transferred to ono of
the Le Keux. He was a good draughtsman, and might
have attained distinction in his profession, but that he
was soon attracted from it by the more agreeable pur-
suit of literature. Yet, we often afterwards find him at
work with the pencil and graver, in furnishing the
quaint and comical designs of his own works, his
" Bonnie Annuals," "Up the Rhine," " Magazine," &e.
We believe his first published book of poems was his
"Plea of the Midsummer Fairies," a little work full of
poetic beauty; tender, graceful, and exquisite. But the
book was not popular; indeed, it is not so yet. So, as
the public would not take his poetry, he met them on
their own ground, and gave Them jokes and facetice,
which they would read. Laughter, however, was not
Hood's only object in writing. He amused the multi-
tude to attract their attention; and he used his wit and
humour as the vehicles wherewith to convey his whole-
some and lasting lessons of morality. Though, as a
writer, who lived by his writings, he had to write that
which the public would buy, and thus suited his pro-
ductions to the general taste,he never wrote down to the
lowest taste. His wit was never sullied by impurity
nor coarseness; never indelicate nor profane. Nay, his
delicacy was extreme; he was as sensitive as a mimosa
leaf; and a sort of melancholy often dashed his merriest
writings, which made his jests to " scald like tears."
Many f his quaint and laughter-exciting conceits were
steeped in human feeling and passion. As he himself
has so touchingly said—
" All things are touch'd with melancholy,
Born of the secret soul's mistrust,
To feel her fair ethereal wings
Weigh'd down with vile degraded dust;
Even the bright extremes of joy
Bring on conclusions of disgust,
Like the sweet blossom of the May,
Whose fragrance ends in must.
Oh, give her, then, her tribute just,
Her sighs and tears, and musings holy!
There is no music in the life
That sounds with idiot laughter solely;
There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy."
Towards the close of Hood's life, while he was still
popularly known as a humourist, there appeared in the
column of Punch that wonderful poem which instantly
thrilled through the hearts of thousands, and produced
an effect such ac, we believe, no piece of writing within
the same small compass had ever before done—his
agonizing `°Song of the Shirt." Parliamentary reports
and sent
had exposed, in long detail, the hardships inflicted on a
large portion of the industrious community ; volumes
had been written about them, eloquent speeches de-
livered on the subject, the miseries of our female
appeals
artisansoporfp etthah
loes
—dressmakers and shirtmakers--had been deplored in
all forms, but Hood's little poem effected more than
ict them emhmommoaenl
at.
h enal
rtbt wentiow.
He
igh iotNot straight
the
es
less
aotiol itsuoc nhmi
ntahgre,k. mark; ioetta tdhlt,ehrsiesl I efad almost
penetrating truth, was his " Bridge of Sighs," one
most powerful expositions of a great social evil, a
down-trodden and
can-
cerous sore eating away the hearts of multitudes of
These
human beings, which has ever been
ro
apl
olTeenndhgneieyndg.
were the
pieces,sh sk s p
rishortsu thoughueonufiduso of Thomas
rtTho
happinessahe
groat heart,
mhwere,
hoeorovedev.
emancipationlast
suffering many. And thus floating away towards
,a n d the
e
to deephu
man waterssy
sympathy
f eternity,pathy p ou rd iodu lit eh
his
sn
soulthese
in piteoussong.
giterthareyglraebtiotugr eonfluvsaroifouHsokodinds which
largelo t t
amounthst a nodi nl
he performed, he died very poor; for the literary man has
no position in England; he may bo a groat genius, but
if his books do not sell very largely, and he cannot com-
mand high prices for his copyrights, he may soon starve.
The literary labours of twenty years enabled Hood to do
no more than subsist, and the only legacy he left to his
family was his fame. We cannot but lament, that the
close of the poet's career, hopeful and clear though it
was as regarded the beyond of this life, was clouded by
this rcflectioe, though the generous letter of Sir Robert
Peel, oororounino,ting the int-pi:junco, that a pension of
1001. a year had been granted to his wife, did much to
alleviate the pressure of this anxiety. The life of the
more literary man is one of great labour and of small
gains; it is precarious; and his genius, or literary stock
in trade, cannot be bequeathed, like a booksolling or
banking business, to his offspring. The literary labourer
must always be at the mill-wheel, grinding, whether
well or ill; and it is the nature of literary labour to wear
into the health, add to stimulate into unhealthy activity
the nervous system at the expense of the physical
powers. Hood was a victim to the "literary ailment."
For many years, towards the close of his life, he was
labouring under disease—habitually ill—dying slowly;
and yet he wrote on. In one of the last publications to
which he gave his name as editor, " Hood's Magazine,
he thus humorously pointed out the pains of the literary
life, ia an imaginary letter from t"
A Subscriber:"--
e sir,—By your not coming out on the Furst, I con-
clude you are lade up, being notorus for enjoyin bad
held). Pallmery, of course, like my poor Robert, for
I've had a litterry branch in my own &mmHg, a peri-
odical one like yourself, only every Sunday, jested of
once a math; and as such, well knew what it was to
write long-winded articles with Weekly lungs. Poor
fellow ! as I often said, so much head work, and nethin
but head work, will make a cherubbim of you; and so
it did. Nothing but write, write, write; and read, read,
read; and as our Doctor says, it's as bad to studdy till
al is brown, as to drink till all is blew. Mix Your eel.
lers. And werry •good advice it is, when it can be fol-
lord, witch is not always the case; for if necessity has
no Law, it has a good deal of Literature, and Authors
must rite what they must.
"As poor Robert used to say about seddontory habits,
it's very well, says ho, to tell me about, like Mr.
Words-
worth's single man as grew double, sticking to my chair;
but if there's no bitting, says be, then 11l be no hatching;
and if I do brood too much at my dosk, its because
there's a brood expected from me once a week. oh I its
very well, says he, to cry Up, up with you, and go fetch
a walk, and take a look at the daisies, when you're
sold
your mind to !jiffy Stofilis, and there's a devil waiting
for your last proofs, as he did for Doctor Forster's.
know its killin me, says he, but if I die of overwork its
in the way of my vocation. Poor boy! I did all I
could to nurridge him. Mock Turkey tamp and strong
slops, and wormy jelly, and island moss; but ho couldn't
eat. And no wonder; for mental labour, as the Doctor
said, wares out the stummack as well as the brines; and
so he'd been spinning out his inside, like a spider. And
a spider he did look at last, sure enuff; one of that Bort
with long spindle legs, and only a dot of a body in the
" Anuther bad thing is sittin up all nice, as my sun
did, but it's all agin natur. Not but what sum must,
and partickly the writers of politicks for the papers;
but they ruin the constitushun. And, besides,. even
poetry is apt to get prosy, after twelve or one; and some
late authors read very sleepy. But, as poor Robert said,
what is one to do, when no day is long enuff for one's
work, nor no munth either. And, to be sure, April,
June, and September, are all short muuths, but Fehber-
very ! However, one grate thing is, relaxing, if you
can, as the Doctor used to say, what made Jack a dull '
boy? why, being always in the
workhouse, and never at
the playhouse. So, get out of -
your gownd and slip
pera, says he, and pat on your best things, and unbend
yourself, like a beau. If you've been at your poe 'IA--
flights, go and look at the Toms tunnel; and it yotler-.-
tired of being witty, go and spend a hour with the you're
wink. The mind requires a change, as well w—
as the
merchants.
"So take my advice, Sir—a mother's advice—and 1,.
lax a little. You want brassing, a change of hair, t-n
--ti
more stummuck. And you ought to wear flannel,
"
take tonicks. no you ever drink Basses pail? It's
good as camomile tea. Bat above all, there's one thing!'s
I recommend to you, steal wine; its been a sayii:t
some invallids.
" Hoping you will excuse this liberty from a stranger,
but a well•meaning one, I am, Sir, A Sunseetennne, '
Thus could Hood play with a subject full of
Painful
import, and inculcate severe truths in quaint and htt..
morous guise. He made the eye dance with laughter,
at the same time that ho touched the heart to its depths,
It was Corms teaching sympathy and human kindness.
Ihe laugh passed away, but the stern truth remained.
While quoting from Hood's Magazine, we may shortly
refer to a tale, commenced by him in that periodical, en_
titled " Our Emily," which seems to be well worthy of
a reprint. It was cut short by the death of its author;
but it is full of humour, and is most interesting, CO far
as it goes. There is some admirable portraiture en
character in the tale. Uncle Reinhold is a thorough
original; but we can only give he re a specimen of Cate-
chism Jack, being his introduction as apprentice to the
village doctor:--
"My father was the parish doctor, and %dim h® one
tered the surgery Mr. Postle was Making up a preserip„
tion. A poor, shabbily-dressed woman was waiting for
the medicine, and a tall, foolish-looking lad was waiting
for the poor woman. She was a widow, as it is called,
without an encumbrance, and had a cottage and stn,
small means of her own, which she eked out with the
stipend allowed to her by the overseen, fcr taking
charge of some infirm The
witted boy was or imbecile pauper. half-
" It's fur s her present ward.
r Jacobs," said the woman, as my father
glanced over the shoulder of his assistant at the pre.
gets uses and wus."
He
Of course
be does," said my father, " and will
o
whilst be takes those ; pills."
.c So I tell him,"
geld
the woman" with his @P UP
and in a flat marshy country• ,
aboot to give any on like this, wills water enough
a the hydraulics."

" I wonder he sells it," said my father.
"And asking your pardon, Doctor," said the women,
"I wonder you don't. They say he makes a mini: of
money by it."

“Novt;r!” said my firther, with unusual emphasis;
"never, if I want a shilling."
The assistant maidenly checked the pestle with which
he was poundicg, and looked inquisitively at his pth tci-
pal, who fixed him eyes on the idiot boy.
" Well, my lad, and who are you?" inquired my
father; " what's ydue Lame?" • . •
ga‘v,::eANMilltoYylsguottild?af'tevt7hing, Sir," said the woman; "it
" M. or N." answered the boy, slowly dragging the
wet forefinger, whiCh he lead withdrawn from his mouth,
with a long snail-like trail along the counter.
charge a good shaking' by the shoulder; "you've
" Fiddles:ick," exclaimed the woman, giving 'her
got
another name beside that." . ,
" Yes," drawled the boy, " some call me Catech ism
Jack."
ethaenrs .oadndd .nlinl godmothers,et"ici iliallymiyatbhear:tism II,"
edit)
said Jack.
was the
idle boys of the village,. because he was always reps st-
ing en it! and, indeed, poor fellow, he can repeat no-
thing else." •
"Then how did he got that?"
"Why, you toe, Sir,"'said the woman, "between our-
selves it was all along of hie godmother."
" Ah; indeed l" exclaimed 'my father. " His god-
mother, eh?"
I' "Yes; Mrs. Foyer, at was, for she's dead now,
as rat 41
as his own mother; and that's how he came into lily
care. His mother `wont first, while he was in petticoats,
so Mrs. Foyer took charge of him, and sent him to
the infant day school. She was a very strict woman. in
her religious principles, and so was the schoolmistress;
and bsth made it a great point for the children to be
taught accordingly, which they was. Well, one easy
there they were all, in the schoolroom, up one pair, and
little Jack amongst the rest, the last of the row, a-s et-
Well, by-aad-bye the children were all called up
ting on the very end of a long form, close to the oven
catechism; so up. they all got at once, exctspt
Jack, who had been playing instead of getting his task
by rote, which made him haokwarder to rise than the
rest; when, 10, and behold! up tilts the form, like a
anti down the whole stone flight, where ho was
dtooosr. say
rtpheicaeltrdienodgo horse,
ur9p and pitches Jack, heels over head, through
at the bottom, quite unsensible."
“ Ahl with a concussion of the brain," said my
father.
a A contusion of the occiput," added Mr. Postle;
" the spinal vertebrae excoriated of course, and bruises
on both patellas,"
a I don't know about that," said the woman; but he
had a lump on the back of his head as big as an egg, the
two nubbles of his back• were rubbed quite raw, and his
two kneepans were as black as a coal. It was thought,
too, that his intellex Wag' shook up in a muddle."
" No doubt of it," said my father.
" Well, to go on with Jack. At long and at last he
came to, sore enough and smarting, as you may suppose,
for he had been carried home to his godmother, and she
bad rubbed his wounds with spirits of salts, which had
got into the cuts. And now Jack, says she, mark my
words, and let them be a warning. It's a judgment of
God upon you, says she, for not knowing your cate-
chism; for it so be you had got it by heart, you would
have ris with the rest, and this would never have hap-
pened. But its a judgment upon you, said she, and the
schoolmistress says it's the same thing; till between both
the poor thing was so scared, he set to work, he did,
at his chateehism, and never rested day or night till he
got it by heart, as he has now, so thoroughly, you may
dodge him any how, backward and forward, and he
wont miss a syllable. And that's how he came by it, sir,
as well as by his nickname; for except catechism, which
his head is too full of, I suppose, to hold anything else,
he dont know a thing else in the world."
" Poor :ellow," said my father, opening one of the
surgery drawers. " Here Jack, will you have a lozenge?"
"Yes,- verily, and by God's help, so I will. And I
heartily thank ----a"
" There, there, hush! go along with you," said the
woman, giving her protégé a push towards the outer
door, and then taking up the medicine, with a nod of
acknowledgment to Mr. rustle, and a curtsey to my
father, she &Darted, her forlorn charge clinging to her
garments, and muttering scraps of that formula which
had procured for him the sobriquet of Catechism Jack.

It was Cathechism Jack—who, after a prelim;:nary
peep or two from behind the door post, at last crept with
a sidling gait and a sheepish air, into the surgery, where
by eccentric approaches, like those of a sly bird, he
gradually placed himself at the counter.
" Well, Jack, said my father, " what do you want?"
Jack mace no reply, but dropping his head on his
right shoulder, with a look askance at my father, plucked
his sodden finger cat of his mouth, and pointed with it
to one of the drawers.
You see," said my father, in an aside to Postle,
" the fellow is not quite a fool. Ile remembers where
the lozenge camp from."

" Mere animal instinct," answered Postle, in the same
under tone, " a monkey would do as much, and remem-
ber the cannister where he got a lump of sugar."
"1 will try him further," said my father, putting his
hand in the drawer for a lozenge, which he held on; be-
tween his finger and thumb. " Well, Jack, what will
you do if I give you this?" Jack eyed the lozenge,
grinned, looked at my father, and drawled out his
answer.
"I'll say my catechism."
" No, no, Jack 1" cried my father, " we don't want that.
But will you be a good boy?"
" Yes said Jack, his head suddenly drooping down
again, While a cloud passed over his face. "Yes, I will,
and not tumble down stairs."
"Poor fellow!" seidcmy father, " they make a fault of
his misfortune. I have a great mind to take him. Should
you like, Jack, to get your own living?"
"Yes," answered Jack with alacrity, for my
father
had unconsciously given him a familiar cue, " to learn
and labour truly to get my own living, and to do my
deity in that state of life to which it m rey please God to
call me.'"
Catechism again!" whispered Mr. Postle.
" Yes, but aptly quoted and applied," answered my
father. "Do you know, Jack, what rhysio is?"
Jack nodded, and • pantomimically expressed his ac-
quaintance with medicine by making a horrible grimace.
" Well, but speak out, Jack," said my father, " use
your tongue, Let us hear what yot
What's physic?"
" Nasty stuff," said Jack, " in a apoen."
" Yes,". said my father, " or in a wile-glass, Jack, or
in a cup. Very good. And do you remember my foot;
boy, Je.li,e wholused to carry out the physic in a basket?
Jack nodded again.
" Should you like to take his place, and carry out the
medicine in the same way?"
~ I—don't—know," drawled Jack, sympathetically
sucking his finger, while he ogled the Tittle oval con
fee
d' en which my father still retained in its old position.
"Do you think you could do it?"
Jack was silent. know about it.
" Would you try to learn?" to-
" I learn two things," mumbled Jeuk " try dt;itY
wards God, and my duty towards my leighbour: I
(1•
" Not very appropriate that," muttered Mr-
post
he
" Not much either way," answered my father, and
resumed the examination.
- ser-.
" Well, Jack, suppose I was to take you like a sot*"ou into in)
„ee
vice, and feed and clothe you; should y
new livery?"
" Yes,'
" And a new hat?" •
" yes?,
would
" And if I were to giro YOU a pair of now shoes'
you take care of them?"
all the
" Yes," answered Jack," and walk in the sate°
days of my life."
dee with
" There;" said my father, giving Postle a int b'
his elbow, " what do you think of that?"
" A mere random shot," answered Mr. Pod°.
" Not at all," Laid my father, ; give his
Prety(l. " Well, Jack, I have a grem ell,udetodgyou in a
again tern'a you
a trial. If I take you into the house, and, of f clothes,
good bed, and comfortable meals, and a
"it p°romiso to
411 d provide for you altogether, would Y°ll -
behave yourself ?.,
in my velu,"
" They did promise and vow three thingso the devil
answered Jack, o first, that I should tenoune
and all his works--"
for pestle was
" Yes, yes" cried my father, hastily. id you take
care of the basket, 'Jack, and leaßved
grinning, "ewe know all that.
A attend to your
the
neighbours, at the right houses, and a
duty?'
e answered Jack,
" My duty
towards my neighbeur.
at do to all men
" is to love him as well as myself, 811.- -°
Give es the
as I weald they should do unto ins'
I
lozenges
111')
y father gave him the loaerege. w 1 :
Popped into his mouth, occasionuee, hoh the lad eageerly
tewe"modicines for
_II, eiag A out again
tan was gone,
to look edgeways at its thinness till a

Et little looking
cu I mind is made up,"
44 17 _ •
. . .
r_l4t,.e. the unfortunate creature shall have a chance. liir,.'
blunders Much of the after interest of they le turns ou the
career or
of Jack. But wo have not spe to follow his
after at first, he will do very well."
doctor, and h
" Moiber to kips hobbled into the surgery, with foul
well here
with as much courtesy
ttin-- —a zinger
i.
paupersdi
cwnasristatuheeie.r:(l7 theTi,in l:
arryi'
‘` I'm come to return the bottles.
Phial from the hankered woman,
"'Very good," said my father, receiving p`lial after
'"-nd humility o,s it h© had been honoured and obliged by
Erer''''"°. " I hope the medicine has done r.O good.
°w in your lameness?"
:` As bad Q 3 ever."
1.1 e
spot
spe
speedilyi:lop et. hirneelbele:tcrinheo ameml 1 lidepi
sidssasOduellrainldtepirsoinooeufptyeheudeelaroal:nwtrheli,ixptsehitalrer:tslahosce‘eweitrd.aer:otahianiehatihno ,
' I man sorry to hoar it," said my father. " But your
complaint is chronic, and requires time for its treatment.
BY'and•bye we shall see an sinendpent."
PbYslic."
though but Meta-
ar, ,WeBiiall see no such thing, said the shrew; 4i I
11, going to take any more
" Nee
" No• It's good for noteing, or you wouldn't gt,,,e it
7,147 Y gratis.'
face flushed slig,htly—as whose would n)t?
brocations he iitd
p"111
oi; i:,:ajlttl,
alit',
phtlyesiLd.,iabtrle:btnsielt,ol
eimt,
zuPPiled hex with for the last six months?