The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1842-06-28 00:00:00

C 11.4 PTEIt IV

see me

I had run up from Cambridge to London," he resumed,
to spend a few days, and was—why should I
round of dissipation and folly, when
my only remaining sister. I
letter reached me, written by
had three once, you know, George, but that scourge of our
;—consumption—had already taken away two; and the
last is now at rest beneath the quiet so d of our village church-
yard. That letter told me of the bereavevmoenntn
;whthicaht
ihnada
m
befallen me ;—that IVlaria was no longer
few short days she would be, irrevocably,
.the bride of
another. It enclosed, too, a brief and hurried note from
that beloved object—not blaming me for my guilt'-"not
app-re-
proaching me, but breathing an earnest prayer for my b
ness, whilst she bade me a firm and yet a tender farewell.
' You will not be happy, Harry,'—she told me, and oh, how
prophetic has been the assurance !—` you will not be happy
in the course of life which you have chosen. Yet humble
though the pretensions of your Maria may be to share the
lot of one to whom such prospects are within reach, if you
use rightly the opportunities and the talents which you pos-
sess, she dares not incur the risk of building up her future
happiness upon the love of one so unstable—so utterly reck-
less—even if that love was hers. They tell me, however,
that you love another ; and I do not complain. You deserve
a brighter—a fairer—a better than I could ever be to you.

after a pause,

deny it

'—itnnlersed in

You n;uil love

for I know that, but fur Notts@ ;Wog IA

you could not, be unkind to your early playrnale ; and your
poor Maria shall therefore not be a hindrance to your future
peace. Your sister will have told you of the step which
am about to take—that in a few days you will be freed from
our foolish and childish engagement. I have nothing there-
fore to do more than to wish you happy—happier than I can
ever be—and to bid you, eternally, farewell !'

"George—that cutting, cruel, though kindly intended
letter is impressed, and will ever be impressed, as if in letters
of fire, upon my heart. Yet, at the moment when received,
it only seemed to plunge me into more reckless abandon-
ment. For some days—for above a week, I flew madly from
crime to crime. I drank until my senses reeled in delirium.
I did worse—l gamed, and I only awoke to consciousness
when prostrated upon a bed of sickness ; and my heart
knawed, and my brain on fire with the knowledge that, in my
madness, I bad wrecked my fortune irrecoverably, and that
I was now, at the outset of life, with all the fond hopes
which were built upon me—with a doting father looking up

to me as the stay of his declining years—with a sister who
loved me as her own soul—with one, too, whom, lost as she
was to me, I loved still, better than the world, or, I fear,
than eternity itself ;—in that hour I felt that I was become
that wretched, outcast thing—a beggared gamester!"
His features writhed in unutterable agony, whilst he al-
most shrieked from betwixt his clenched teeth this climax of
his misery. With a strong effort, at length he mastered his

emotion and proceeded.
" The first hour of consciousness however, wretched though
it found me, was not one of inaction. I started from my bed
of sickness ; and fevered as I was, (and at this distance of
time I can fancy no other than that I was delirious too,) I
threw myself into the mail, and on the following evening I was
seated in the hotel at Greta Bridge, within a few miles of the
little village of G-, pale and haggard, and wondering
almost upon what errand I had come, or by what instrumen-
tality I had been borne, to that well remembered, once loved,
but now loathed and distressful scene.

" How I passed that fearful night to this hour, I never
knew. It was not, however, in sleep ; for the dawn found
me seated upon a mossy stone, in the park at Rokeby, by
the confluence of the Tees and Greta, where, lulled, perhaps,
by the silver sound of the meeting waters, or by the busy
memories of the past, which it called u? within me, I had
Upon that very spot, George,—how

remained for hours

—were spoken the first words of love
which this tongue ever uttered—the last too ! Upon that
very spot, mingled with the gliding of those sweet waters,
was whispered the chaste acknowledgment of a happy heart,
which bore bliss alike to her by whom it was uttered, and to
him whose ears drunk in its soft music.

well I remember it !

" That dawning morn—would that I could recal it ! The
cool air never since played upon this faded forehead so grate-
fully as then. Peace never rushed upon me with such a tranced
suddenness as when I bathed my fevered face in those trans-
lucent waters. My steps absolutely bounded as I passed
along the shaded walks, beneath the chesnut trees and
spreading oaks. And yet, if it be true that
The coming events cast their shadows before,'

my feet should on that bright morning have been glued to
the green sod. But why prolong my wretched tale? In a
few hours I had breakfasted, and was careering along
towards the quiet village, in which, the past blotted from my
memory, and a bright dream before me, I pictured the fair
form of her I loved, advancing to greet me, with the smile
' of olden time' upon her cheek; and joy and grace meet-
ing in the wavy motion of ' her form most infantine.'
" I had passed the village green ; I had passed the village
church, and was approaching that spot within which all that
this heart ever loved was nurtured, when the bells rung out
a merry peal, and I observed that every living being whom I
met wore a face of something akin to gladness, and that eyes
familiar to my youth gazed at me as I passed with a com-
miserating look. Yet even these awakened me not from the
dream into which I had fallen. On, on, in a stupid, stony
trance of fancied bliss, I passed ; and not a flitting thought
of ill—not a throb of the startled heart—not a flutter of the
pulse—checked my blindly confiding hopes. I had neared
the little winding path which led across the daised lawn ; my
eye was already fixed upon the latticed windows of that sweet
dwelling place ; my senses already drunk in the soft perfumes
of the clustering honeysuckle which hid its porch, when a
sound of approaching wheels and a buzz of voices--happy
voices I thought them—compelled me to turn aside for a
moment. A post-chaise swept past me, its windows down,
and the postillion wearing bridal favors ; and as I looked
around, standing almost at the very gate which had so often
yielded to my hand—at which I had exchanged so many
parting words of love,—my eyes were blasted by the sight of
her upon whose sweet image my fevered and delirious
thoughts had wandered through the lone night, seated in
bridal array, side by side, with the chosen being who was
from henceforth to be her all—the partner of her future
pilgrimage on earth—her husband!
" I sprung forward with the energies of a madman. I
clung to the carriage until it whirled up to the door; and
when Maria stepped out, blushing and seeming happy, I
sunk down with a wild shriek at her feet, and knew no more,
until I found myself, weeks afterwards, at home,—ill, very
111,—with my, beloved sister watching by my pillow. From
that hour, George, I have been the wrecked, lost thing you

He ceased. The feverish, forced energy which had sup-
ported him through his painful narrative was gone ; and it
was not until nearly an hour had passed that he became
sufficiently composed to enable me to take my leave.

JENNY CARELESS;
OR, ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE

(For the Liverpool Standard.)
How frequently in our sojourn through life do we meet
with characters which, if we saw delineated in a book, we
should conclude were overdrawn and exaggerated. Not long
since our own town furnished an instance of a man who spent
thirty years of his life, and tens of thousands of his money,
in undermining, in every direction, the earth, that infinite
wisdom had made solid, and this for no other reason than
the satisfaction of his own ill-directed mind ; and who that
has ever bad a peep at the noisome and innumerable tunnels,
thousand arches, unsightly mounds, and deep holes that dis-
figure one part of Edge-hill, is not struck with amazement at
the magnitude of the mischief, and grief that so large a por-
tion of the time of an immortal and accountable being should
have been so mis-spent, in marring the fair work of creation.
But the opening remark of this paper was suggested to the
mind of the writer more forcibly than ever during a recent
brief visit to a little village near Chester, in the outskirts of
which resides a complete " female outlaw," who is the terror
of the surrounding farmers and landowners. She does not
certainly possess the redeeming traits that some of the males
of outlaw notoriety have credit for, (for instance, Sir Hum-
phrey Kinaston, who stole from the rich to give to thepoor,)
unless, indeed, she considers herself the most needy of that
class. The constant risks this strange individual has run has
earned for her the appellation of Jenny Careless ; and
throughout the neighbourhood she is scarcely known by
any other name. Jenny is an unmarried woman, now
about thirty-six years of age, and inhabits a cottage,
in a secluded spot, about a mile from the high road. She
does not possess one perch of land, although she is the pro-
prietess of two cows, three donkeys, and a number of pigs,
&c. ; and in the keep of these quadrupeds the craft of our
spinster is chiefly displayed, for it requires little ingenuity to
feed cattle when you have plenty of land ; but to graze with-
out a field, and fodder without a farm, and•that most abun-
dantly, has been left to the subject of the present sketch to
discover. Jenny has reversed the order of things, and the
time for her cattle to regale themselves is during the silent
and dingy hours of midnight, while the proprietors of the
adjacent fields, weary with their honest toils, are fast locked
in the arms of Morpheus. Then it is that Jenny, without
shoes and stockings, creeps along a lane, and dislodges a
hedge-stake for her cattle to get over and luxuriate in the
well cultivated pastures of her richer neighbours ; but should
some vigilant farmer surprise her, and prevent their return
by the gap, her magic hand struck sharply on the flank of
her well instructed kine, and her more magic voice with
" Now, Betty, for thy life," " Now, Sally, for thy life," is
the signal for a leap from the unwieldy creatures that would
not disgrace a steeple-chase. Occasionally, even Jenny
Careless is outwitted, and her unlucky cattle found in the
Pound. Then she bewails her unhappy fate, and if tears will
not avail for their release, she pays the money, declaring the
obdurate farmer shall be none the richer, as she will have it
out of him before many days are over. Once lately, poor
" Betty" could not resist the odoriferous perfume of a clover
field ; and as ill luck would have it, was found there by the
owner, who straightway marched her into the Pound : release
was refused without the payment of 17s. In vain did Jenny
cry, and plead she had not a shilling in the world; at last,
when nothing else would do, she proposed to give, as a re-
muneration, a heap of manure that stood in front of her cot,
which offer was accepted, and the cow delivered to its mis-
tress, the innocent farmer little calculating that she would
spend the ensuing hours, which he devoted to needful rest,
in removing the manure into her cabin; and that the next
morning, when he took his cart to fetch it, he would be ex-
ultingly told he dared not touch a spadefull.
During this summer there were some bricks to betmade
t
in the neighbourhood, and as it was necessary to burn the
bricks, it was also necessary to provide coals. Well; o
it quite out of Jenny's power to purloin them, a man was
duly ensconced as watchman, but alas the Roman law is not
in force in happy England, and sleeping at his post is not
here punishable with death ; consequently, this poor fellow
was not proof against the attacks of the drowsy god
when did Jenny Careless lose aught by sleeping ; and
though the poor man to his own fancy had " only a wink,"
she contrived to lay in a winter's stock of coal. In fact,
Jenny is the pest of the village ; not a hen can batch her
brood in peace for Jenny's pigs—not a duck can swim the
pit in quiet for Jenny's ducks—not a lady walk the lanes
without being menaced by Jenny's cows—not a youth pur-
sue his angling without the chance of being kicked into the
water by Jenny's donkeys. Reader, this is no tale of
romance ; but how frequently do we meet with characters
which, if we saw faithfully drawn in a book, we should con-
sider exaggerated. VT

Law is like
therein risk theirF
should roll away a pocket with a hole in it ; and those who
money are very like to lose it.
can, lest in his struggle HOW TO
FROM A HORSE.—In all falls, the horse-
manlegs or head. It from his horse as soon as he possibly
frequently
to rise again he strike him with his
has
sre him.
difflii:iii.anothtleidirection in which his rider lies,
happens that the horse himself
aisftearpthetofacliraiishandant,
any. hard rider who
again self-possession often stands been thus served ; but here
Indeed, there is scarcely
the body of his horse approaching
his friend. When he sees
i feet, and, by obtaining
himself by meeting it with ononi him, he frequently saves
a fulcrum, shoves his own bodyaalong. the. ground out of his
reach. Coolness in this hour of
Instead of
likewise serves the
falls
them
sportsman in another way.r
reins, and abandoning his horse to his oawrolosiPg hold of his
, as the man
who is flurried at this time invariably does,wlll,l
and thus secures his horse. It was the remark
in his hand, if not always, perhaps in nine
:font of ten,
man to whom we have before alluded, and who (aia gentle-
ante) was, from his desperate system of riding,
an/Tpin
his fine horsemanship, known to have more falls thatospliat:
other man during the time he hunted Leicestershire, an
'
nothing had so low an appearance as that of a man runnin t
on foot over a field calling ---7, out, " Stop my horse."
. hge
Horse and the Hound, by Nimrod.