The Sun.
London, England, 1851-06-27 00:00:00

VENING,

valant, a draft on the Bank of England. We hou1:1
have refoscd this rlreft in its original state if pail in to

the nee: atilt of the Ileeountmlt-General.
Cross-examined—l know of no custom which prvents
a cheque crossed with one hanker's name from bring
paid to any other. The only effect of cro3sing a cleque is
to prevent its being paid to any ordinary individu I. The
custom of crossing «rose from the desire to irti,vent
the mere finder of a cheque from getting it cashed
in fraud of the drav,-sr. It insures paymenit rough
some banker—that is all. I know no custom which
restains the holder of a crossed cheque from putting
out the original banker's name and putting in an-
other and receiving the money. All:: know is Oat the
bankers pause when calkd on to pay d::,ublecrossed
cheques; but there is no custom not to pay. I believe
the caution has grown up upon the comparatively recent
practice of crossing which is connected with the institu-
tion of the clearing house. Though a special first cross-
ing would require more caution, yet when the name of
the payee is a respectable one we should not hesitate to

pay it.
Re-examined—Taking into consideration bat this
cheque could not been received at all at tEe Bank,
and that it was presented by Messrs. Gosling:, one of
the most respectable firms, if they stated their customer
was in their belief a respectable man, this chcqae would
have been referred to the Governor. _

Hoary Bryant Reynolds—l am principal in the town
office of Glyn's bank. I have known their business for
20 years. Our general rule is to refuse payment to
double crossed cheques, but they are very often paid
when we get a satisfactory explanation of the case. I
almost invariably refer to one of the principals. Such a
cheque as this would certainly not be paid, but would be
referred to one of the partners, who would give directions.
Cross-examined—l have paid double crossed cheques
myself. I should do se when the second bankers are the
bankers of the payee.
Mr. Taylor, cashier of Sir Claude Scott and Co.—Our
custom is not to pay double crossed cheques. We refer
to the principal in all cases. Sometimes they are paid.
It all depends on the partners.
' Mr. Rushton, cashier in Cox and Biddulph's—Oar
general practice is to refuse double crossed cheques. I
have always refused them. I never referred any to the
partners.
Cross-examined—Ours is a small house, and I can't
refer to five instances. .

Mr. Oliver Vile—l ain the resident manager of the
London and Westminster Bank at Wesminster. Our
custom is generally to refuse double crossed cheques.
The form of this crossing would have led me to exercise
:special caution.
This being the close of the plaintiff's case a discussion
arose whether the custom alleged had been proved,
which resulted in the Learned Attorney-General recall-
ing most of the witnesses for the purpose of eliciting
from them a fact which the Learned Judge thought had
net been clearly proved—that fact being the custom not
to pay crossed cheques except to the bankers whose
names were crossed.

This evidence having been given,
Sir F. THESIGER submitted that there was no case to
go to the jury, but
Mr. Baron MARTIN being of opinion that there was
now evidence in support of the first count,
Sir F. THESIGER addressed the jury for the defen-
dants, and at some length contended that his clients
were justified in the defence to this claim, which had
been prefered so long after the account had been closed
with the plaintiffs. He then proceeded to observe on
the evidence adduced by the plaintiff, and concluded
by intimating his intention to call several witnesses
who could establish the custom to be completely at va-
riance with that relied on by the plaintiffs.
The following witnesses were then called :
Mr. Stanley, cashier of the defendants—l remember
the fact of Mr. Straughan presenting the cheques, but
cannot speak to the circumstances positively. I think I
referred the matter to one of the firm before payment.
I have known banking sixteen years, and have known
cases where crossed cheques have been paid to other
bankers under certain circumstances. I paid both
cheques at the same time. Goslings were Gary's
bankers then.
Cross-examined—l can't say whether the smaller
cheque was crossed. In the case of a cheque crossed to
a banker and presented by another I should not pay un-
less I was satisfied by the representation of the clerk
presenting it that it was correct. The first crossing is
invalidated by the circumstance of the cheque beiog
made payable to the Accountant-General's account.
Mr. Penny, a clerk in the house of Williams, Deacon,
and Co., since 1803.—The custom is to pay cheques
crossed to the bank and not to an individual over the
counter. There is no custom preventing payment to other
bankers. I have known multitudes of such cases. We
generally pay cheques when a new crossing is put and
the first has been erased. There is no custom to prevent
the payee of a crossed cheque from erasing the first bank
and putting in another.
Cross-examined--Formerly such payments were made
without inquiry; latterly inquiry is - generally made.
That greater strictness has been introduced with the last
three or four years. We are satisfied if the cheque comes
to the said banker through a respectable house. We
have had frequent cases of an erased creasing. If it
came through a respectable house I should say the first
crossing was a mistake, and I should pay it.
Mr. Hughes, cashier of Willis and Co., Lombard-
street—There is a custom to pay crossed cheques to any
banker presenting them. We require them to put their
names to them. We pay doubly crossed cheques, when
the first cross is erased, to the banker presenting. I
should pay them to either, the object of crossing being
to secure payment to some banker merely. There is no
custom to prevent a holder of a cheque striking out a
banker's name, and putting another in the cross.
Cross-examined—l should make the banker put his
name for my own satisfaction. I don't recollect any
such instance occurring. If this cheque had been pre-
sented by a West-end banker I should have paid it, be-
cause they do not go to the clearing house.
Mr. Drewitt, of the firm of Drewitt and Bowler—The
payment of a crossed cheque presented by another banker
depends very much on circumstances. I do not think
there is any invariable custom. I know of none to pre-
vent its payment to the banker presenting. Where there
are two crossings I should pay the cheque if presented
by the payee's banker.
Cross-examined—l should not pay as a matter of
course, but would snake inquiry, as I know the Bank of
England will not take a cheque for the Accountant-
General. I should pay this to the payee's banker, for I
should suppose he wanted notes to pay to the Bank.
Mr. G. 11. Barnett, for fifty-four years connected with
Barnett, Hoare, and Co., Lombard-street—lf a cheque
crossed is presented by an individual, inquiry would be
made, and if it be satisfactorily answered he should pay
it to him. If presented by a banker different from the
crossed name it would still be a subject for inquiry, and
it would be paid in the same manner. I know of no
custom to prevent our paying such a cheque under such
circumstances. Where a cross is erased and another
bank added I should inquire. I have always found the
banker presenting capable of giving satisfactory expla-
nation. I know of no custom to prevent payment. I
should certainly have paid this cheque.
Cross-examined—A very slight inquiry would have
sufficed, for the cross shows it was drawn for a purpose
which the cross defeated. I should have seen at once
that the drawer had acted in ignorance of the practice of
the bank. I have often paid cheques " and Co."
to parties presenting them, on inquiry, which satisfied
me of their respectability. I have never found reason to
regret such a practice.
At this stage of the case the court was adjourned,

being six o'clock and there yet remaining several w
nesses to be called for tho defendants.

BALLOON ASCENT OF MADAME GAR
HERON FROM CREMORNE GARDENS.
Madame Palmyre Garneron made a second balloon
ascent from Cremorne Gardens yesterday evening. The
whole was managed so carefully, and with such evident
judgment, so fine was the weather, so unruffled was the
fair aeronaut, that' the spectators lost every feeling of
even the slightest anxiety.
The balloon went up almost perpendicularly, and
hovered over the gardens for nearly half an hour, when
it slowly departed, travelling over Kensington Gardens,
Hyde Park, Paddington, and the Regent's Park, steadily
and almost deliberately in a north-westerly direction.
The air was so remarkably tranquil that at one time it
was expected that the spectators at Cremorne would
Lava witnessed the phenomenon of a descent as well as
an ascent. So agreeable and pleasant was the whole
spectacle, so charming the aeronaut, and so great the
nerve and spirit cliipla) ed by her, that the evening may
be considered as almost unique in the annals of public
amusement, the more especially as it was crowned by
the arrival of Madame Palmyro Garneron herself in the
gardens at the early hour of ten, where she was received
with loud acclamations of pleasure by upwards of 10,000
persons—the dance—the sports of the new Franconi's
Circus—the very suppers themselves being suspended to
afford her a hearty greeting. The lady it appears, after
following the coutao we have mentioned above, descended
in a field at West-end. Madame Palmyre Garneron
gives the following account of her descent:-
1 " After leaving the gardens I !sceaded almost perpen-
dicularly, keeping the gardens in sight and passing over
them more than once or twice, distinctly perceiving the
people. I then passed over towards Ily de-park, and
could distinguish Mr. Batty's Hippodrome, and hear the
band play in my transit. I crossed Hyde-park within
300 yards of the Crystal Palace, and about 600 yards
shave it. The evening being so serene, I kept the bal-
loon at a low elevation that I might enjoy the sight of
the excitement of the people, wha thought that I was
momentarily about to descend, and were running, riding,
and ivngdowner direeti.on, and even calling out to
me to cons° From time to time I threw out a
little ballast, and went up again, leaving my numerous
admirers and followers at fault. In this manner I drifted
onwards over to Bayswater! across Lord Holland's park;
over the Great Western Railway,
and, atter passing
reached the Abbey Fields.
,near Kilburn. where I de-
scended gently in a field el new mown hay, about four
fields' distance from the eel
Cottage. About 5,000
people, of all classes, rushecito any assistance immedi-
ately; my balloon was speedily emptied, but the packing
was a work of more trouble, and I am infinitely indebted
to the police for the kindness 19 well as activity they
displayed in controlling the too great and overpowering
eagerness of the thousands present to assist me. I was
borne in the car, almost in an ovation, towards the Swiss
Cottage,whero I found waiting the carriage of Captain
Smith, of, Cwoins-hill, Greenwich, who, being in the
neighbourhood, had, with great feeling, directed his
coachman to follow and convey me back to Cremorne
Gardens."

LITERATURE. f the herbage between the broken stops of some marble
a biirld drawn back for an instant by th© bare
THE WANDERER AND HIS ROME. By :PaNce;
A.de Lanzartine.—Parlour Librczry,Vol. LV. Simms I arm 'A some invisible woman, rhea closed again as ra-
and 111nty
pidly and silently upon emptiness or sleep; long cords
1 re.
stretching from window to window, on which the lams-
Occe ;lied as ha is continually in watching the pro- dresses hang their clothes, or the poor their rags, to dry
gross of' political events in his fatherland, M. de in the sun; at the extremity the long shadows east byLamartine is still not alto:ether inattentive to those the colonnade of St. Peter's, like the obkcure recesses cf
faculties which empower him to adorn the records of a mysterious fore-4 of stone; and above, in the sky it-
European literature. Another work from his hand self, the mighty dome defined clearly against the blue
lie.i, before us, and in it we recognise an additional firmament, with its globe, its aerial galleries, and its top-
chapter of his Autobigraphy. Never to our know- most balustrade beneath the cross, like the balcony to
ledge has there been witnessed a more brilliant illus- the palace of a God—such is the sombre physiognomy
tration, than is di:c3verable in these memorials, of the of Rome in this quarter of the city.
undying enthusiasm and eternal adolecence cf
If a door should open by chance, and give a view of
‘
the interior of the dwellings, you sea large courts where
poetic temperament. But that the author is one
flags, the marble b • of
sun is glaring upon the ags,
whose celebrity is as wids ly extended as that of any the fountains, and the marble statues in the niches; and
individual in Christendom, it might have been the
beyond a flight of marble steps leading down t) a gar-
conjectured by a chance peruser that the volume den, planted regularly with tall cypress trees, and ex-
was the effusion of a writer young in years tending like the pontifical garden of the Vatican, to the
as inexhaustible in earnestness. Every page is old, broken, ivy-wreathed brick walls of the ramparts of
radiant with the passion of a nature untarnished Rome. Such was La Longara.
by sufferings and unvanquished by disapnointment. "
The close of the love story above alluded to, is but
Every sentence is the utterance of a hev.rt burning a melancholy peroration to our present instalment of
with the ardour of boyhood, though filled with the autobiography. M.de Lamartine, however, in so
the wisdom of experience. Every word throbs arranging his narrative, has contrived to whet the cu-
with fervour and reveals withal the gentleness riosity of his readers as to his other revelations, reve
of the sympathies and the sweetness of the disposi- lations which cannot fail to be always interesting,
tion from which they have all alike emanated. Those coming from a pen so eloquent and a heart so im-
who have already devoured the first fragments of the passioned.
Autobiography of Lamartine • those who remember
the love of Graziella, the goodness of the Abbe Du-
mont, the affectionate faithfulness of Martha, the
simple story he has since then told of her, under the
name of " Genevieve ;" those especially who have;
found their sensibilities stirred up their very depThs
by the mingled agonies and raptures of " RapY..ael,"
as he beholds the object of his devotion sinki•Jg into
a grave strangely, and even, under the circurnstances,
awfully premature, will require no indu cement to
enter upon the examination of the present, book,which
is but a continuation of the same enthralling nar-
rative. In the " Wanderer and his Home" Lamar-

tine depicts the aspect of his tranquil life, on his re-
turn to his family immediately after the youthful
calamities which had befallen him in France and
Italy, calamities which, it will be remembered,
have already been recounted. Aided by the luminous
pencil with which the whole of these chapters have
been traced, we can to the full appreciate the fascina-
ti▪
ons which surrounded his footsteps even in the
monotonous routine of life, as it was about the com-
mencement of the present century, at Macon. As-
st▪
ated by the tender recollections of his filial and fra-
ternal love, he has sketched in vivid colours the ap-
pearance as well as the character of the principal
members of the patriarchal household. His saintlike
mother, whose every breath was an orison, and whose
nature united the purity of the recluse with the dis-
charge of all the worldly duties devolving upon her
as a wife and as guardian of her children. His
father, of whom he says, " his years seemed to balance
him upright and firm upon the strong stem of life
which God had given him," so stalwart was
the old soldier and the country gentleman
in the progress of his career to its conclusion.
His five sisters, Cecilia, the one whose beauty was the
most popular ; Eugenie, handsome but not admired ;
Susanna, the pious and lovely, whose face was like
a Madonna of Raphael, and whose form was like a
Psyche of Phidias ; Cesarine, with that voice of rich and
deep vibrations which seemed as though it breathed
the language of Dante with the accent of Sienna ar
Florence ; and last of all the little Sophie, with eyes
of blue, and hair soft and light, and features radiant
with the innocence of childhood. Then there was
the uncle, elder brother to the father, and the only
one then bearing the family name as M. de Lamartine,
together with his sisters Mdlle. de Lamartine and La
Comtesse de Villars. In recounting, the quiet and
plodding existence which he had to endure among
these relations and their ecquaintancee, the author
contrives to throw an interest over matters which re-
counted by others might be contemptible as the
veriest puerilities. Among these little revelations of
feeling there are some that would be inexplicable in a
peet,if unaccompanied by acme explanatory statement,
as where, describing the bold and flaunting mistresses
of the barracks near Macon, who used to meet him on
afternoons in the meadows, pulling as they sauntered
on, the blossoms of the violet and the hawthorn, he
observes—" since that time I have held violets and
hawthorns in abhorrence." Pleasant society was to
be encountered early in the nineteenth century even
amidst the monotony of Macon, and therefore it is
that we rejoice in the account here given by the auto-
biographer of such visitors in the drawing-room of his
uncle as the Abbe Sigorgne, and the Abbe Bourdon,
and the mysterious and dilapidated M. deValmont, and
the colossal and loud-voiced M. de Lamella, whose
sympathies went with the Girondins, seeing that they
were devoured by the Revolution because they dared
to denounce its crimes ; and with them, too,
were the Marquis Doria, and M. de Saint
(his name being suppressed because he
is still living), and M. de Davoy6, and M. de
Seveigny. Who can pass over unremarked, moreover
the old bedridden Chevelier de Sennecey, who wiled
away the evening of his life by making watches and
other nicknackeries; or yet more, have no thought of
fondness for the memory of Blondel ? There is an
interest likewise in the youthful friendship of La-
martine for M. Ronot, a young advocate of the Jura,
then settled at Macon. Notwithstanding the plea-
sure derived by the former from the particulars just
enumerated, we cannot feel any surprise whatever to
find the passionate delight with which he records the
return of his family from the town of Macon to the
village of Mills, holding as he does so heartily with
Cowper, that
" God made the country, but man made the town!"
A visit paid by the future poet and statesman
to his other uncle, the Abbe de Lamartine, then
resident in the Chateau d'Urcy, in Upper Bur-
gundy, closes the first portion of the pre-
sent volume, being adorned, moreover, by some
graceful verses addressed to " The Fountain of the
Forest," a favourite retreat often haunted by his
footsteps. The second division of the production
before us recounts the tender and beautiful story of the
love of Saluce and Regina.—Saluce, the friend of La-
martine, and Regina, a Roman Princess. The inci-
dents comprised in this narrative are as picturesque
and enthralling as any romance born entirely of the
imagination. As strikingly contrasted examples
of the power with which these pages of his auto-
biography have been penned by Lamartine, we sub-
join the following quotations: the first depicting the
young poet's life in the bosom of a landscape of Bur-
gundy :
" To watch the sun rising above the summit of the
great oaks in the park, to open the window for the swal-
lows to circle round my ceiling, to porn over the old
books of the castle library in my bed to the music of
tinkling sheep-bells and the busy murmurs of an
awakening household; to rise and breakfast with my
uncle on the delicious cream of his cows and the liquid
gold of his bee-hives ; to wander with him from the
parlour to the library, from tho stables to the garden;
to return to shelter and quietness during the burning
hours of noon; then when the sun declined a little, to
wander forth again with my gun, or a book under my
arm, or to spring upon my wild mountain horse, with
his long, thick, silky mane flowing down his shoulders
and nearly veiling the eyes; to plunge him at a gallop
through the flowery meads, or rush down the gorges of
the hills, through woods where I had to fling myself
prostrate upon his neck to pass beneath the branches;
to wander wildly and recklessly wherever fancy or
chance led me, discovering some new glade, some
hitherto unknown spring, disturbing the leverets, or
startling the dear from their lair ; to lose myself thus
for whole hours till I found that I had wandered many
leagues from the castle; to return listlessly homeward in
the'aeol of the evening; to dine, talk, read, listen to the)
adventures of an abbe of the old regime at Paris or Ver-
sailles; to gently doze over the recital, and when sleep
had fairly mastered me, to ascend the grand staircase,
traverse the long echoing corridors that led to my apart-
ment, fall asleep over the pages of some philosopher or
poet, and rise again next day to commence the same
life of liberty, idleness, and dreamy reverie—such was
my existence at the chateau, and no days of my youth
flew more rapidly than those passed in this wild solitude,
this monastery of freedom and friendship. The shadows
of the trees, which are still flourishing, have carpeted the
garden for my footsteps; the music of the fountains have
lulled me to repose ; but yet I was forced by circum-
stances after the death of my uncle to sell the trees that
had shadowed me and the streams that bad lulled me
to rest. May their influence bo as beneficent and soothing
to other generations us they have been to me!"
The following passage describes, after a very different
fashion, the aspect of the Roman street in which
stood the religious edifice that sheltered the heads of
Clotilda, the sister cf Saluce, and of Regina, long af-
terwards his beloved :
" The convent was situated in the vast deserted quarter
of La Longara, which extends from Transtevera along
the back of the colonnade of St. Peter's. It is a long,
interminable street, presenting every variety of building,
alternating with each other, or side by
.side—palaces,
monasteries, and mean, wretched habitations, formerly
occupied by the numerous poor families attached by
their functions to the altars, the sacristies, or the ser-
vic,e,
At
thethe gtriemaet Befaswilhicieah, thle
sCpeaapkit,atlhoefs
0 Catholicism.hous sw e re
either entirely deserted or inhabited only by a few inch-,
gent old men and women. But the antique splendour of
the street was still visible in the architectural remains of
some of the grand palaces, and the sculptured porticoes
of the churches. An irresistible feeling of melancholy,
unknown to the north, seizes hold of the imaginatina at
the aspect of such a street in Italy. An oriental sad-
ness, a gloom within the light, a coruscation of mourn-
ful surprise oppresses the heart, one knows not why.
Perhaps from the contrast between the clear bright azure
heaven,blue as the lapis lazali, pouring down its streams
of light upon the burning payethents and deserted pa-
laces, and the silence and solitude that gives to noon
something of the vague immensity and terror of mid-
night. I have often passed from one extremity to the
other of this long avenue of burning walls, in the mid-
dle of the day, without meeting a single being through-
out its whole extent, or hearing a single footstep re-echo
on the pavement.
" A solitary cat crossing the leads, and gliding
through
a dormer window; an ass loaded with ranters cropping

THAT'S WHERE IT IS!
(From Eliza Cook's Journal.)
"What's all this outcry about the taxes?" said my
uncle Dick one day, layiug
"We talk down the Times, and taking
up his pipe.
a deal about taxes—a very deal."
" Why, uncle," said I, " there's that odious tax on
light—the window-tax, and the carriage-tax, and the
soap-tax, and the paper-tax, and the attorneys'-tax."
"Hold there," said my
uncle, " and stop a bit till I
have got this pipe lit."
My, uncle deliberately and seriously put the match to
his pipe, as if he was about to fire a mine; then he took
a few strong puffs, until he had made a dense thick
cloud about him ; then he threw aside the match,
and set himself back in his elbow chair, with a
" P—oh—h.
" Now, then, about that lawyer's-tax" said he.
Bat first let me paint ray uncle's portrait. Beard could
do it better with his daguerreotype; but I will try my
hand nevertheleeal Fixate a solid body, well set into his
chair, which was covered with red damask, furnishing a
warm background to his portly figure, and he fitted into
it as if he were a fixture. His nether man was clothed
in kerseymere breeches, buckled at the knee, and hi s
white stockings showed a wonderfully plump calf, for so
old a man. He was about seventy, but looked ten years
younger—thanks to his equable good-humour. He wore
raffles on his shirt-front; round his neck a white neck-
cloth; and a bunch of gold seals dangled at his fob. In
short, he was a gentleman of the old school, a class fast
growing out of date now-a-days.
But I have not mentioned his face yet. It was the
index of the man, and his inner light shone through it.
Broad and massive, a large square chin, with a deep
angle under his ear—usually the sign of strength
in men—a full, prominent nose, slightly rubicund—some
would call it " jolly," and a bright, clear, grey eye,
twinkling with humour and shrewdness; a broad, but
not very high forehead, strongly marked, surmounted
these penetrating eyes, and the whole was covered by an
abundant crop of silver-white hair. Ido not know whe-
ther I have succeeded in placing my uncle before the
reader's eye, as he is before my own; but I cannot do
better: you must learn more of him from his talk.
" Now, then, about that lawyers'-tax," said he.
" Well, uncle, it is very hard, indeed. Here have I,
for instance, had a long professional education to un-
dergo; then, before I can practise, I have an immense
sum to pay in stamps; then a large annual tax to pay
by way of license to practise."
" Well," said my unce, "and why not ? You have
your run of the public, and you must pay for it. That's
whore it is!"
" What do you mean, uncle?"
" Why this; that one can turn no way in life, can'i
be married, or die, or buy a bit of land, or enter into a
partnership, or make a bargain, without a lawyer
springing up and crying, stand and deliver.' I would
tax em all, and no mistake; if I did not do as Czar
Peter did."
" And what did he do, uncle?"
" Why, when he was walking throueh Westminster
Hall, he saw a lot of fellows in horse-hair wigs, pow-
dered with flour, strutting about in long black gowns,
and he asked, ' Who's them fellows?' Lawyers,' was
the answer. Lawyers!' said Peter; ' why, I've only
two in all my dominions, and immediately on my return,
I intend to hang one of them!' "
" Ay, that's where it is, sir, (to use your own phrase).
Peter was a despot, and could not brook lawyers. No
lawyers no freedom—no rights, sir!"
" Rights, sir! The right of being waylaid by every
pettifogger, and robbed. That's what it is! Freedom,
sir? I know them,—from the petty justices up to Chan-
cery,—and the higher you go the worse you fare. I
was a ward for a girl, whose property was all swallowed
up by the lawyers, in the quarrel they got up among
themselves, and she never fingered a penny to this day.
Look at that newspaper, and see what a solicitor says of
our highest court. The Court of Chancery, I hesitate
not to say, is a disgrace to a civilised country, causing in
many sasses an absolute denial of justice, and in all much
hardship, anxiety, vexation, and. delay.' But they don't
speak of the cost, sir; it is ruinous to all who aro so
foolish or so infatuated as to sue for 'justice.' There is
no other way of dealing with these courts than to do as
Noll Cromwell did,—abolish them at once. I'd blow
them up forthwith!"
" You are too hard upon us, sir!"
"Not a bit, sir! My experience of law is this,—if a
lawyer threatens you, lie down at once and ho robbed
quietly; but don't go to law."
" But you can be defended, sir!"
" The cure's worse than the disease. The justice'
costs more than the injustice. I have myself spent five-
and thirty pounds in recovering five; and I won my
cause! And the beauty of it was, that while the one
lawyer was stripping me, there were always a dozen look-
ing on laughing. While one robbed, the others quietly
looked over the hedge. That's where it is, sir!"
The loud squeaking of a pig here interrupted our con-
versation, and, looking out of the low parlour window,
we saw across the street a butcher and his two lads trying
to drive a pig into the passage leading to his slaughter-
house.
" The lawyers are on him," said my uncle.
The pig was a well-fed brute, and as comely as a pig
can be. There are indeed pig-fanciers now-a-days, who
can point out to you features of beauty in these animals;
and there are judges of the animals at the Smithfield
Shows, who award prizes accordingly. This pig in
question came forward quite critically, with its nose
down and its ears cocked, slowly picking every footstep,
seeming to be intent only on the firmness of the ground
under it, but with a cunning, sidelong look turned upon
the butcher and his two lads. They were very cautions,
and set about their work like persons experienced. in the
art of pig-driving. They gently insinuated the pig on-
wards, encouraging him, hovering about him, and keeping
his head pointed towards the way he was to go in. The
pig grunted querulously, as if making objections, and
now that he is close upon the entrance to the slaughter-
house, and when the butcher and his lads are putting
forth their energies in a grand shout, and strive to force
him within the narrow way,—now, on a sudden, he
smells something in the wind that he does not like—for,
all pigs have some instinctive horror of slaughter-houses,
—and setting his ears back, and making a sudden wheel,
he bolts, dashes between the legs of the heavy butcher
who is on his back in an instant.
" There's where it is!" I exclaimed, sympathizing
cordially with the pig.
" It's of no use," said my uncle, " they'll have him
yet."
A terrific squeal here arose up the narrow street, and,
though we could not see the source, we knew it must
be the caught pig. The butcher was up, and on his way
to the scene of action.
"The Philistines are on him," said my uncle.
The squealing became more appalling, and drew
nearer. It was one, long, loud screech, with a short
emphatic grunt at intervals. Tho butcher and his two
lads approached, carrying the struggling pig among
them. As they approached the narrow entry, the pig's
struggles became desperate, and his squealing incessant.
He made one desperate effort; a foot escaped; the two
lads are down; but the butcher holds on firmly by the
two hind legs.
"It is all over with him," said my uncle, turning to-
wards the fire; "why couldn't he have spared himself
all this trouble, and laid down to be killed quietly, like
an obedient pig, at once?"
Ho set hi:nself again into his elbow-chair, and knocked
the ashes out of his pipe into the grate. "It's just the
way of the world," said he, " once let ill-luck catch a
man, and woe for him; once he's fairly down, there's no
getting him right on end again. He may struggle away,
but it's of no use; he's cure to be made mince-meat of
at last. We were talking of taxes, sir. What does a
man care about taxes, if the world's against him?"
"But that isn't the case with the majority, sir; and
the public will think of taxes, and ought to think of
taxes. What do you think about the window-tax, sir?"
"Oh! take all your taxes off, if you can do without
them, but don't give up taxing the lawyers, that's all,—
don't let 'em off! Soap? surely! You insult the
unwashed' by calling them so, and refusing to untax
their soap." a
fewse
My uncle blew a long cloud, and was silent 'great
conds.
"A thought strikes mc," said he, "I holey we tax
ourselves daily, to a greater extent than any
durst tax us," Government
" How do you me :n, uncle?"
" Why, look at this; pipe here! It costs me a shilling
a week, at least. Now, think of the Government laying
drink! upon us a smoking-tax of fifty shillings a year,
an outcry it would cause. But look at our in.k Whatl
sec,
it said, that the working folks of this country spend, of
their own free-will, some fifty millions a year on drink.
t
Just fancy the Government puttin gth'isa directamount! what
ah
t"
these classes of one•tenth part of
it!" wa a
terrible agitation would come of
"Why, there swhat sir;
some truth in you say, but
then you will remember that this self-taxation is all
VOLUNTARY!"
"that's where it is," answered my uncle; "it is
our vices and our appetites that we are voluntarily feed-
ing, and never count the cost of them. But when there
is a tax on lawyers licences, or on house-windows, or
on soap, or on paper, though it does not touch un to a
thousandth part of the extent, we call it oppression,
and so on. The taxes must be raised."
" But how?" I asked.
"Tax wealth—tax property—tax land; that is what
always gets the chief share of Government attention,
and it ought fairly to pay its own costs. Why ask a
poor man to pay, out of the wages of his daily labour,
the cost of protecting the rich men's propost)? but I

My uncle always tried to get at the gist of a matter,
and when he did, his eyes lit up, es they did now, and,
with his pipe-tube extended, he triumphantly wound up
with his "that's where it is It was the Q. E. D.—the
thing to be demonstrated—the crowning summary of his
argument.
I could furnish some further illustrations of my
uncls's mode of clenching his arguments, and may pro-
bably , do so on some other occasion.