Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXVI, July 1852, Vol. V

A hungry jackdaw once took a fancy to a young chicken which had only recently been hatched. He pounced upon it accordingly, and was carrying it off, when the hen rushed upon him, and beat him with her wings, and held him in her beak, until the cock came up, who immediately attacked the jackdaw, and struck him so repeatedly that he was scarcely able to effect his escape by flight. But the best hen-story is one in Mr. Jenyns' "Observations." A hen was sitting on a number of eggs to hatch them. An egg was missing every night; yet nobody could conjecture who had stolen it. One morning, after several had been lost in this way, the hen was discovered with ruffled feathers, a bleeding breast, and an inflamed countenance. By the side of the nest was seen the dead body of a large rat, whose skull had been fractured – evidently by blows from the beak of the valiant hen, who could endure the vile act of piracy no longer.

Mr. Jenyns relates a good owl-story. He knew a tame owl, who was so fond of music that he would enter the drawing-room of an evening, and, perching on the shoulder of one of the children, listen with great attention to the tones of the piano-forte: holding his head first on one side, then on the other, after the manner of connoisseurs. One night, suddenly, spreading his wings, as if unable to endure his rapture any longer, he alighted on the keys, and, driving away the fingers of the performer with his beak, began to hop about upon the keys himself, apparently in great delight with his own execution. This pianist's name was Keevie. He was born in the woods of Northumberland, and belonged to a friend of the Reverend Mr. Jenyns.

Good bear-stories are numerous. One of the best we take from the "Zoological Anecdotes." At a hunt in Sweden, an old soldier was charged by a bear. His musket missed fire, and the animal being close upon him, he made a thrust, in the hope of driving the muzzle of his piece down the bear's throat. But the thrust was parried by one of huge paws with all the skill of a fencer, and the musket wrested from the soldier's hand, who was forthwith laid prostrate. He lay quiet, and the bear, after smelling, thought he was dead, and then left him to examine the musket. This he seized by the stock, and began to knock about, as though to discover wherein its virtue consisted, when the soldier could not forbear putting forth one hand to recover his weapon. The bear immediately seized him by the back of the head, and tore his scalp over his crown, so that it fell over the soldier's face. Notwithstanding his agony, the poor fellow restrained his cries, and again pretended death. The bear laid himself upon his body, and thus remained, until some hunters coming up relieved him from this frightful situation. As the poor fellow rose, he threw back his scalp with his hand, as though it had been a peruke, and ran frantically toward them, exclaiming – "The bear! the bear!" So intense was his apprehension of his enemy, that it made him oblivious of his bodily anguish. He eventually recovered, and received his discharge in consequence of his loss of hair. There is another bear-story in this work, which savors – just a little – of romance. A powerful bull was attacked by a bear in a forest, when the bull succeeded in striking both horns into his assailant, and pinning him to a tree. In this situation they were both found dead – the bear, of his wounds; the bull (either fearing, or, from obstinate self-will, refusing, to relinquish his position of advantage) of starvation!

The beat cat-and-mouse story (designated "Melancholy Accident – a Cat killed by a Mouse") is to be found in "The Poor Artist," the author of which seems to have derived the story from a somewhat questionable source, though we must admit the possibility. "A cat had caught a mouse on a lawn, and let it go again, in her cruel way, in order to play with it; when the mouse, inspired by despair, and seeing only one hole possible to escape into – namely, the round red throat of the cat, very visible through her open mouth – took a bold spring into her jaws, just escaping between her teeth, and into her throat he struggled and stuffed himself; and so the cat was suffocated." It reads plausibly; let us imagine it was true.

The best spider-and-fly story we also take from the last-named book. "A very strong, loud, blustering fellow of a blue-bottle fly bounced accidentally into a spider's web. Down ran the old spider, and threw her long arms round his neck; but he fought, and struggled, and blew his drone, and fuzzed, and sung sharp, and beat, and battered, and tore the web in holes – and so got loose. The spider would not let go her hold round him – and the fly flew away with the spider!" This is related on the authority of Mr. Thomas Bell, the naturalist, who witnessed the heroic act.

A MISER'S LIFE AND DEATH

This is Harrow Weal Common; and a lovely spot it is. Time was when the whole extent lay waste, or rather covered with soft herbage and wild flowers, where the bee sought her pasture, and the lark loved to hide her nest. But since then, cultivation has trenched on much of Harrow Weal. Cottages have risen, and small homesteads tell of security and abundance. It is pleasant to look upon them from this rising ground; to follow the windings of the broad stream, with pastures on either side, where sheep and cattle graze. Look narrowly toward yonder group of trees, and that slight elevation of the ground covered with wild chamomile; if the narrator who told concerning the miser of Harrow Weal Common has marked the spot aright, that mound and flowers are associated with the history of one whose profitless life affords a striking instance of the withering effects of avarice.

On that spot stood the house of Daniel Dancer; miserable in the fullest conception of the word: desolate and friendless, for no bright fire gleamed in winter on the old man's hearthstone; nor yet in spring, when all nature is redolent of bliss, did the confiding sparrow build her nest beside his thatch. The walls of his solitary dwelling were old and lichen-dotted; ferns sprung from out their fissures, and creeping ivy twined through the shattered window-panes. A sapling, no one knew how, had vegetated in the kitchen; its broken pavement afforded a free passage, and, as time went on, the sapling acquired strength, pushing its tall head through the damp and mouldering ceiling; then, catching more of air and light, it went upward to the roof, and, finding that the tiles were off and part of the rafters broken, that same tree looked forth in its youth and vigor, throwing its branches wide, and serving, as years passed on, to shelter the inmates of the hut.

Other trees grew round; unpruned and thickly-tangled rank grass sprang up wherever the warm sunbeams found an entrance; and as far as the eye could reach, appeared a wilderness of docks and brambles, with huge plantains and giant thistles, inclosed with a boundary hedge of such amazing height as wholly to exclude all further prospect.

Eighty acres of good land belonged to Dancer's farm. An ample stream once held its winding course among them, but becoming choked at the further end with weeds and fallen leaves, and branches broken by the wind, it spread into a marsh, tenanted alike by the slow, creeping blind-worm, and water-newt, the black slug, and frogs of portentous size. The soil was rich, and would have yielded abundantly; the timber, too, was valuable, for some of the finest oaks, perhaps, in the kingdom grew upon the farm; but the cultivation of the one, and the culling of the other, was attended with expense, and both were consequently left uncared for.

In the centre of this lone and wretched spot, dwelt the miserable Dancer and his sister, alike in their habits and penuriousness. The sister never went from home; the brother rarely, except to sell his hay. He had some acres of fine meadow-land, upon which the brambles had not trenched, and his attention was exclusively devoted to keeping them clear of weeds. Having no other occupation, the time of hay-harvest seems to have been the only period at which his mind was engrossed with business, and this too was rendered remarkable by the miser's laying aside his habits of penuriousness – scarcely any gentleman in the neighborhood gave his mowers better beer, or in greater quantity; but at no other time was the beverage of our Saxon ancestors found within his walls.

Some people thought that the old man was crazed; but those who knew him spoke well of his intelligence. As his father had been before him, so was he; his mantle had descended in darkness and in fullness on all who bore his name, and while that of Daniel Dancer was perhaps the most familiar, his three brothers were equally penurious. One sordid passion absorbed their every faculty; they loved money solely and exclusively for its own sake, not for the pleasures it could procure, nor yet because of the power it bestowed, but for the love of hoarding.

When the father of Daniel Dancer breathed his last, there was reason to believe that a large sum, amounting to some thousands, was concealed on the premises. This conjecture occasioned his son no small uneasiness, not so much from the fear of loss, as from the apprehension lest his brothers should find the treasure and divide it among themselves. Dancer, therefore, kept the matter as much as possible to himself. He warily and secretly sought out every hole and corner, thrusting his skinny hand into many a deserted mouse-hole, and examining every part of the chimney. Vain were all his efforts, till at length, on removing an old grate, he discovered about two hundred pounds, in gold and bank-notes, between two pewter dishes. Much more undoubtedly there was, but the rest remained concealed.

Strange beings were Dancer and his sister to look upon. The person of the old man was generally girt with a hay-band, in order to keep together his tattered garments; his stockings were so darned and patched that nothing of the original texture remained; they were girt about in cold and wet weather with strong bands of hay, which served instead of boots, and his hat having been worn for at least thirteen years, scarcely retained a vestige of its former shape. Perhaps the most wretched vagabond and mendicant that ever crossed Harrow Weal Common was more decently attired than this miserable representative of an ancient and honorable house.

The sister possessed an excellent wardrobe, consisting not only of wearing apparel, but table linen, and twenty-four pair of good sheets; she had also clothes of various kinds, and abundance of plate belonging to the family, but every thing was stowed away in chests. Neither the brother nor the sister had the disposition or the heart to enjoy the blessings that were liberally given them; and hence it happened that Dancer was rarely seen, and that his sister scarcely ever quitted her obscure abode.

The interior of the dwelling well befitted its occupants. Furniture, and that of a good description, had formerly occupied a place within the walls, but every article had long since been carefully secluded from the light, all excepting two antique bedsteads which could not readily be removed. These, however, neither Dancer nor his sister could be prevailed to occupy; they preferred sleeping on sacks stuffed with hay, and covered with horse-rugs. Nor less miserable was their daily fare. Though possessed of at least ten thousand pounds, they lived on cold dumplings, hard as stone, and made of the coarsest meal; their only beverage was water; their sole fire a few sticks gathered on the common, although they had abundance of wood, and noble trees that required lopping.

Thus they lived, isolated from mankind, while around them the desolation of their paternal acres, and the rank luxuriance of weeds and brambles, presented a mournful emblem of their condition. Talents, undoubtedly they had; kindly tempers in early life, which might have conduced to the well-being of society. Daniel especially possessed many admirable qualities, with good sense and native integrity; his manners, too, though unpolished by intercourse with the world, were at one time both frank and courteous, but all and each were absorbed by one master passion – sordid avarice took possession of his soul, and rendered him the most despicable of men.

At length Dancer's sister died. They had lived together for many years, similar in their penuriousness, though little, perhaps, of natural affection subsisted between them. The sister was possessed of considerable wealth, which she left to her brother. The old man greatly rejoiced at its acquisition; he resolved, in consequence, that her funeral should not disgrace the family, and accordingly contracted with an undertaker to receive timber in exchange for a coffin, rather than to part with gold.

Lady Tempest, who resided in the neighborhood, compassionating the wretched condition of an aged woman, sick, and destitute of even pauper comforts, had the poor creature conveyed to her house. Every possible alleviation was afforded, and medical assistance immediately obtained; but they came too late. The disease, which proceeded originally from want, proved mortal, and the victim of sordid avarice was borne unlamented to her grave.

There was crowding on the funeral day beside the road that led to Lady Tempest's. People came trooping from far and near, with a company of boys belonging to Harrow School, thoughtless, and amused with the strangeness of a spectacle which might rather have excited feelings of sorrow and commiseration. First came a coffin of the humblest kind, containing the emaciated corpse of one who had possessed ample wealth – a woman to whom had been committed the magnificent gift of life, fair talents, and health, with faculties for appropriating each to the glory of Him who gave them, but who, on dying, had no soothing retrospect of life, no thankfulness for having been the instrument of good to others, no hope beyond the grave. Behind that coffin, as chief-mourner, followed the brother, unbeloved, and heedless of all duties either to God or man – a miserable being; the possessor of many thousands, yet too sordid to purchase even decent mourning. It was only by the importunate entreaties of his relatives that he consented to unbind the hay-bands with which his legs were covered, and to put on a second-hand pair of black worsted stockings. His coat was of a whitish brown color, his waistcoat had been black about the middle of the last century, and the covering of his head was a nondescript kind of wig, which had descended to him as an heirloom. Thus attired, and followed and attended by a crowd whom curiosity had drawn together, went on old Daniel and the coffin of his sister toward the place of its sojourn. When there, the horse's girth gave way, for they were past all service, and the brother was suddenly precipitated into his sister's grave; but the old man escaped unhurt. The service proceeded; and slowly into darkness and forgetfulness went down the remains of his miserable counterpart.

One friend, however, remained to the miser – and this was Lady Tempest. That noble-minded woman had given a home to the sister, and sought by every possible means to alleviate her sufferings; now also, when the object of her solicitude was gone, she endeavored to inspire the brother with better feelings, and to ameliorate his miserable condition. This kindly notice by Lady Tempest, while it soothed his pride, served also to lessen the sufferings and sorrows of his declining age; and so far did her representations prevail, that, having given him a comfortable bed, she actually induced him to throw away the sack on which he slept for years. Nay, more, he took into his service a man of the name of Griffith, and allowed him an ample supply of food, but neither cat nor dog purred or watched beneath his roof; he had no kindliness of heart to bestow upon them, nor occasion for their services, for he still continued to live on crusts and fragments; even when Lady Tempest sent him better fare, he could hardly be prevailed to partake of it.

In his boyish days, he possessed, it might be, some natural feelings of affection toward his kind; but as years passed on, and his sordid avarice increased, he manifested the utmost aversion for his brother, who rivaled himself in penury and wealth, and still continued to pasture sheep on the same common. To his niece, however, he once presented a guinea, on the birth of a daughter, but this he made conditional, she was either to name the child Nancy, after his mother, or forfeit the whole sum.

Still, with that strange contrariety which even the most penurious occasionally present, gleams of kindness broke forth at intervals, as sunbeams on a stony waste. He was known secretly to have assisted persons whose modes of life and appearance were infinitely superior to his own; and though parsimonious in the extreme, he was never guilty of injustice, or accused of attempting to overreach his neighbors. He was also a second Hampden in defending the rights and privileges of those who were connected with his locality. While old Daniel lived, no infringements were permitted on Harrow Weal Common; he heeded neither the rank nor wealth of those who attempted to act unjustly, but, putting himself at the head of the villagers, he resisted such aggressions with uniform success. On one occasion, also, having been reluctantly obliged to prosecute a horse-stealer at Aylesbury, he set forth with one of his neighbors on an unshod steed, with a mane and tail of no ordinary growth, a halter for a bridle, a sack instead of a saddle. Thus equipped, he went on, till, having reached the principal inn at Aylesbury, the miser addressed his companion, saying,

"Pray, sir, go into the house and order what you please, and live like a gentleman, I will settle for it readily; but as regards myself, I must go on in my old way."

His friend entreated him to take a comfortable repast, but this he steadily refused. A penny-worth of bread sufficed for his meal, and at night he slept under his horse's manger; but when the business that brought him to Aylesbury was ended, he paid fifteen shillings, the amount of his companion's bill, with the utmost cheerfulness.

Grateful too, he was, as years went on, to Lady Tempest for her unwearied kindness, and he resolved to leave her the wealth which he had accumulated. His sister, too, expressed the same wish; and when, after six months of continued attention from that lady, Miss Dancer found her end approach, she instructed her brother to give their benefactress an acknowledgment from the one thousand six hundred pounds which she had concealed in an old tattered petticoat.

"Not a penny of that money," said old Dancer, unceremoniously to his sister. "Not a penny as yet. The good lady shall have the whole when I am gone."

At length the time came when the old man must be gone; when his desolate abode and neglected fields should bear witness no longer against him. Few particulars are known concerning his death. The fact alone is certain, that the evening before his departure, he dispatched a messenger to Lady Tempest requesting to see her ladyship, and that, being gratified by her arrival, he expressed great satisfaction. Finding himself somewhat better, his attachment to the hoarded pelf, which he valued even more than the only friend he had on earth, overcame the resolution he had formed of giving her his will; and though his hand was scarcely able to perform its functions, he took hold of the precious document and replaced it in his bosom.

The next morning he became worse, and again did the same kind lady attend the old man's summons; when, having confided to her keeping the title-deeds of wealth which he valued more than life, his hand suddenly became convulsed, his head sunk upon the pillow, and the miser breathed his last.

The house in which he died, and where he first drew breath, exhibited a picture of utter desolation. Those who crossed the threshold stood silent, as if awe-struck. Yet that miserable haunt contained the hoarded wealth of years. Gold and silver coins were dug up on the ground-floor; plate and table-linen, with clothes of every description, were found locked up in chests; large bowls, filled with guineas and half-guineas came to light, with parcels of bank-notes stuffed under the covers of old chairs. Some hundred-weights of waste-paper, the accumulation of half a century, were also discovered; and two or three tons of old iron, consisting of nails and horse-shoes, which the miser had picked up.

Strange communings had passed within the walls – sordid, yet bitter thoughts, the crushing of all kindly yearnings toward a better state of mind. The outer conduct of the man was known, but the internal conflict between good and evil remains untold.

Nearly sixty-four years have elapsed since the miser and his sister passed from among the living. Perchance some lichen-dotted stone, if carefully sought for and narrowly examined, may give the exact period of their death, but, as yet, no record of the kind has been discovered. Collateral testimonies, however, go far to prove that the death of the miser took place about the year 1775, and that his sister died a few months previous.

RESULTS OF AN ACCIDENT. – THE GUM SECRET

In journeying from Dublin westward, by the banks of the Liffey, we pass the village of Chapelizod, and hamlet of Palmerstown. The water-power of the Liffey has attracted manufacturers at different times, who with less or greater success, but, unfortunately, with a general ill-success, have established works there. Paper-making, starch-making, cotton-spinning and weaving, bleaching and printing of calicoes, have been attempted. But all have been in turn abandoned, though occasionally renewed by some new firm or private adventurer. Into the supposed causes of failure it is not here necessary to inquire. The manufacture of starch has survived several disasters.

The article British gum, which is now so extensively used by calico-printers, by makers-up of stationery, by the Government in postage-stamp making, and in various industrial arts, was first made at Chapelizod. Its origin and history are somewhat curious.

The use of potatoes in the starch factories excited the vehement opposition of the people, whose chief article of food was thus consumed and enhanced in price. These factories were several times assailed by angry multitudes, and on more than one occasion set on fire by means never discovered. The fires were not believed to have been always accidental.

On the fifth of September, 1821, George the Fourth, on his return to England from visiting Ireland, embarked at Dunleary harbor, near Dublin. On that occasion the ancient Irish name of Dunleary was blotted out, and in honor of the royal visit that of Kingston was substituted. In the evening the citizens of Dublin sat late in taverns and at supper parties. Loyalty and punch abounded. In the midst of their revelry a cry of "fire" was heard. They ran to the streets, and some, following the glare and the cries, found the fire at a starch manufactory near Chapelizod. The stores not being of a nature to burn rapidly, were in great part saved from the fire, but they were so freely deluged with water, that the starch was washed away in streams ankle-deep over the roadways and lanes into the Liffey.

Next morning one of the journeymen block-printers – whose employment was at the Palmerstown print-works, but who lodged at Chapelizod – woke with a parched throat and headache. He asked himself where he had been. He had been seeing the King away; drinking, with thousands more, Dunleary out of, and Kingston into, the map of Ireland. Presently, his confused memory brought him a vision of a fire: he had a thirsty sense of having been carrying buckets of water; of hearing the hissing of water on hot iron floors; of the clanking of engines, and shouts of people working the pumps, and of himself tumbling about with the rest of the mob, and rolling over one another in streams of liquefied wreck, running from the burning starch stores.

He would rise, dress, go out, inquire about the fire, find his shopmates, and see if it was to be a working day, or once again a drinking day. He tried to dress; but – a – hoo! – his clothes were gummed together. His coat had no entrance for his arms until the sleeves were picked open, bit by bit; what money he had left was glued into his pockets; his waistcoat was tightly buttoned up with – what? Had he been bathing with his clothes on, in a sea of gum-arabic – that costly article used in the print-works?