Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Volume 2, No. 12, May, 1851.

This morn, to quiet ye payn brought on by too busie application, Mr. Gunnell would have me close my book and ramble forth with Cecy into ye fields. We strolled towards Walham Greene; and she was seeking for shepherd's purses and shepherd's needles, when she came running back to me, looking rather pale. I askt what had scared her, and she made answer that Gammer Gurney was coming along ye hedge. I bade her set aside her fears; and anon we come up with Gammer, who was puling at ye purple blossoms of ye deadly night-shade. I sayd, "Gammer, to what purpose gather that weed? knowest not 'tis evill?"

She sayth, mumbling, "What God hath created, that call not thou evill."

"Well, but," quo' I, "'tis poison."

"Aye, and medicine, too," returns Gammer, "I wonder what we poor souls might come to, if we tooke nowt for our ails and aches but what we could buy o' the potticary. We've got noe Dr. Clement, we poor folks, to be our leech o' the household."

"But hast no feare," quo' I, "of an overdose?"

"There's manie a doctor," sayth she, with an unpleasant leer, "that hath given that at first. In time he gets his hand in; and I've had a plenty o' practice – thanks to self and sister."

"I knew not," quoth I, "that thou hadst a sister."

"How should ye, mistress," returns she, shortlie, "when ye never comes nigh us? We've grubbed on together this many a year."

"'Tis soe far," I returned, half ashamed.

"Why, soe it be," answers Gammer; "far from neighbours, far from church, and far from priest; howbeit, my old legs carries me to your house o' Fridays; but I know not whether I shall e'er come agayn – the rye bread was soe hard last time; it may serve for young teeth, and for them as has got none; but mine, you see, are onlie on the goe;" and she opened her mouth with a ghastly smile. "'Tis not," she added, "that I'm ungratefulle; but thou sees, mistress, I really can't eat crusts."

After a moment, I asked, "Where lies your dwelling?"

"Out by yonder," quoth she, pointing to a shapeless mass like a huge bird's nest in ye corner of the field. "There bides poor Joan and I. Wilt come and looke within, mistress, and see how a Christian can die?"

I mutelie complyed, in spite of Cecy's pulling at my skirts. Arrived at ye wretched abode, which had a hole for its chimney, and another for door at once and window, I found, sitting in a corner, propped on a heap of rushes, dried leaves, and olde rags, an aged sick woman, who seemed to have but a little while to live. A mug of water stoode within her reach; I saw none other sustenance; but, in her visage, oh, such peace!.. Whispers Gammer with an awfulle look, "She sees 'em now!"

"Sees who?" quoth I.

"Why, angels in two long rows, afore ye throne of God, a bending of themselves, this way, with theire faces to th' earth, and arms stretched out afore 'em."

"Hath she seen a priest?" quoth I.

"Lord love ye," returns Gammer, "what coulde a priest doe for her? She's is in heaven alreadie. I doubte if she can heare me." And then, in a loud, distinct voyce, quite free from her usuall mumping, she beganne to recite in English, "Blessed is every one that feareth y^e Lord, and walketh in his ways," etc.; which ye dying woman hearde, although alreadie speechlesse; and reaching out her feeble arm unto her sister's neck, she dragged it down till their faces touched; and then, looking up, pointed at somewhat she aimed to make her see … and we alle looked up, but saw noughte. Howbeit, she pointed up three severall times, and lay, as it were, transfigured before us, a gazing at some transporting sighte, and ever and anon turning on her sister looks of love; and, the while we stoode thus agaze, her spiritt passed away without even a thrill or a shudder. Cecy and I beganne to weepe; and, after a while, soe did Gammer; then, putting us forthe, she sayd, "Goe, children, goe; 'tis noe goode crying; and yet I'm thankfulle to ye for your teares."

I sayd, "Is there aught we can doe for thee?"

She made answer, "Perhaps you can give me tuppence, mistress, to lay on her poor eyelids and keep 'em down. Bless 'ee, bless 'ee! You're like ye good Samaritan – he pulled out two-pence. And maybe, if I come to 'ee to-morrow, you'll give me a lapfulle of rosemarie, to lay on her poor corpse… I know you've plenty. God be with 'ee, children; and be sure ye mind how a Christian can die."

Soe we left, and came home sober enow. Cecy sayth, "To die is not soe fearfulle, Meg, as I thoughte, but shoulde you fancy dying without a priest? I shoulde not; and yet Gammer sayd she wanted not one. Howbeit, for certayn, Gammer Gurney is noe witch, or she woulde not so prayse God."

To conclude, father, on hearing alle, hath given Gammer more than enow for her present needes; and Cecy and I are ye almoners of his mercy.

June 24.

Yesternighte, being St. John's Eve, we went into town to see ye mustering of ye watch. Mr. Rastall had secured us a window opposite ye King's Head, in Chepe, where theire Mys. went in state to see the show. The streets were a marvell to see, being like unto a continuation of fayr bowres or arbours, garlanded acrosse and over ye doors with greene birch, long fennel, orpin, St. John's wort, white lilies, and such like; with innumerable candles intersperst, the which, being lit up as soon as 'twas dusk, made the whole look like enchanted land; while at ye same time, the leaping over bon-fires commenced, and produced shouts of laughter. The youths woulde have father goe downe and joyn 'em; Rupert, speciallie, begged him hard, but he put him off with, "Sirrah, you goosecap, dost think 'twoulde befitt ye Judge of the Sheriffs' Court?"

At length, to ye sound of trumpets, came marching up Cheapside two thousand of the watch, in white fustian, with the City badge; and seven hundred cressett bearers, eache with his fellow to supplie him with oyl, and making, with theire flaring lights, the night as cleare as daye. After 'em, the morris-dancers and City waites; the Lord Mayor on horseback, very fine, with his giants and pageants: and the Sheriff and his watch, and his giants and pageants. The streets very uproarious on our way back to the barge, but the homeward passage delicious; the nighte ayre cool; and the stars shining brightly. Father and Erasmus had some astronomick talk; howbeit, methoughte Erasmus less familiar with ye heavenlie bodies than father is. Afterwards, they spake of ye King, but not over-freelie, by reason of ye bargemen overhearing. Thence, to ye ever-vext question of Martin Luther, of whome Erasmus spake in terms of earneste, yet qualifyde prayse.

"If Luther be innocent," quoth he, "I woulde not run him down by a wicked faction; if he be in error, I woulde rather have him reclaymed than destroyed; for this is most agreeable to the doctrine of our deare Lord and Master, who woulde not bruise ye broken reede, nor quenche ye smoaking flax." And much more to same purpose.

We younger folks felle to choosing our favourite mottoes and devices, in which ye elders at length joyned us. Mother's was loyal – "Cleave to ye crown though it hang on a bush." Erasmus's pithie – "Festina lente." William sayd he was indebted for his to St. Paul – "I seeke not yours, but you." For me, I quoted one I had seene in an olde countrie church, "Mieux être que paroitre," which pleased father and Erasmus much.

Poor Erasmus caughte colde on ye water last nighte, and keeps house to-daye, taking warm possets. 'Tis my week of housekeeping under mother's guidance, and I never had more pleasure in it: delighting to suit his taste in sweete things, which, methinks, all men like. I have enow of time left for studdy, when alle's done.

He hathe beene the best part of the morning in our academia, looking over books and manuscripts, taking notes of some, discoursing with Mr. Gunnell and others; and, in some sorte, interrupting our morning's work; but how pleasantlie! Besides, as father sayth, "varietie is not always interruption. That which occasionallie lets and hinders our accustomed studdies, may prove to ye ingenious noe less profitable than theire studdies themselves."

They beganne with discussing ye pronunciation of Latin and Greek, on which Erasmus differeth much from us, though he holds to our pronunciation of ye theta. Thence, to ye absurde partie of the Ciceronians now in Italie, who will admit noe author save Tully to be read nor quoted, nor anie word not in his writings to be used. Thence, to ye Latinitie of ye Fathers, of whose style he spake slightlie enow, but rated Jerome above Augustine. At length, to his Greek and Latin Testament, of late issued from ye presse, and ye incredible labour it hath cost him to make it as perfect as possible: on this subject he soe warmed, that Bess and I listened with suspended breath. "May it please God," sayth he, knitting ferventlie his hands, "to make it a blessing to all Christendom! I look for noe other reward. Scholars and believers yet unborn, may have reason to thank, and yet may forget Erasmus." He then went on to explain to Gunnell what he had much felt in want of, and hoped some scholar might yet undertake; to wit, a sort of Index Bibliorum, showing in how manie passages of holy writ occurreth anie given word, etc.; and he e'en proposed it to Gunnell, saying 'twas onlie ye work of patience and industry, and mighte be layd aside, and resumed as occasion offered, and completed at leisure, to ye great thankfullenesse of scholars. But Gunnell onlie smiled and shooke his head. Howbeit, Erasmus set forth his scheme soe playnlie, that I, having a pen in hand, did privilie note down alle ye heads of ye same, thinking, if none else wd undertake it, why sd not I? since leisure and industrie were alone required, and since 'twoulde be soe acceptable to manie, 'speciallie to Erasmus.

THE STOLEN FRUIT. – A STORY OF NAPOLEON'S CHILDHOOD

On the 15th of August, 1777, two little girls of seven or eight years old were playing in a garden near Ajaccio in Corsica. After running up and down among the trees and flowers, one of them stopped the other at the entrance to a dark grotto under a rock.

"Eliza," she said, "don't go any further: it frightens me to look into that black cave."

"Nonsense! 'Tis only Napoleon's Grotto."

"This garden belongs to your uncle Fesch: has he given this dark hole to Napoleon?"

"No, Panoria; my great-uncle has not given him this grotto. But as he often comes and spends hours in it by himself, we all call it Napoleon's Grotto."

"And what can he be doing there?"

"Talking to himself."

"What about?"

"Oh, I don't know: a variety of things. But come, help me to gather a large bunch of flowers."

"Just now, when we were on the lower walk, you told me not to pull any, although there was abundance of sweet ones."

"Yes; but that was in my uncle the canon's garden.

"And are his flowers more sacred than those of uncle Fesch?"

"They are indeed, Panoria."

"And why?"

"I'm sure I don't know, but when any one wants to prevent our playing, they say, 'That will give your uncle the canon a headache!' When we are not to touch something, 'tis always, 'That belongs to the canon!' If we want to eat some fine fruit, 'Don't touch that; 'tis for your uncle the canon!' And even when we are praised or rewarded, 'tis always because the canon is pleased with us!"

"Is it because he is archdeacon of Ajaccio that people are so much afraid of him?"

"Oh, no, Panoria; but because he is our tutor. Papa is not rich enough to pay for masters to teach us, and he has not time to look after our education himself; so our uncle the canon teaches us every thing. He is not unkind, but he is very strict. If we don't know our lessons, he slaps us smartly."

"And don't you call that unkind, Eliza?"

"Not exactly. Do you never get a whipping yourself, Panoria?"

"No, indeed, Eliza. It is the Corsican fashion to beat children; but our family is Greek, and mamma says Greeks must not be beaten."

"Then I'm sure, Panoria, I wish I were a Greek; for 'tis very unpleasant to be slapped!"

"I dare say your brother Napoleon does not like it either."

"He is the only one of my brothers who does not cry or complain when he is punished. If you heard what a noise Joseph and Lucien make, you would fancy that uncle was flaying them alive!"

"But about Napoleon. What can he be talking about alone in the grotto?"

"Hush! Here he is! Let us hide ourselves behind this lilac-tree, and you'll hear."

"I see Severia coming to call us."

"Ah! it will take her an hour to gather ripe fruit for uncle the canon. We shall have time enough. Come!"

And the little girls, gliding between the rock and the overhanging shrubs, took up their position in perfect concealment.

The boy who advanced toward the grotto differed from the generality of children of his age in the size of his head, the massive form of his noble brow, and the fixed examining expression of his eyes. He walked slowly – looking at the bright blue sea – and unconscious that his proceedings were closely watched by two pair of little bright black eyes.

"Here I am my own master!" he said as he entered the grotto. "No one commands me here!" And seating himself royally on a bench within the dark entrance, he continued, "This is my birthday. I am eight years old to-day. I wish I lived among the Spartans, then I should be beyond the control of women; but now I have to obey such a number of people – old Severia among the rest. Ah, if I were the master!"

"Well, and if you were the master, what would you do?" cried Eliza, thrusting forward her pretty little head.

"First of all, I'd teach you not to come listening at doors," replied Napoleon, disconcerted at being overheard.

"But, brother, there's no door that I can see."

"No matter, you have been eaves-dropping all the same."

"Eliza! – Panoria!" cried a loud voice. "Where can these children have gone to?"

The young ladies came out of their leafy lurking-place in time to meet the little Bonapartes' nurse, Severia – a tall old woman, who carried on her arm a basket filled with the most luscious tempting pears, grapes, and figs.

"A pear, Severia!" cried Napoleon, darting forward, and thrusting his hand into the basket.

"The saints forbid, child!" exclaimed Severia. "They are for your uncle the canon!"

"Ah!" said Napoleon, drawing back his hand as quickly as if a wasp had stung him.

Panoria burst out laughing.

"I never saw such people!" she said, as soon as her mirth allowed her to speak. "My uncle the canon seems the bugbear of the whole family. Is Severia afraid of him, too?"

"Not more than I am," said Napoleon, boldly.

"And yet you were afraid to take a pear?"

"Because I did not wish to do it, Panoria."

"Did not dare do it, Napoleon!"

"Did not wish to do it, Panoria."

"And if you wished it, would you do it?"

"Certainly I would."

"I think you are a boaster, Napoleon; and in your uncle's presence would be just as great a coward as Eliza or Pauline?"

"Come, children, follow me," said Severia, walking on.

"You think I am a coward?" whispered Eliza to her little friend. "Come into the house, and see if I don't eat as much of uncle's fruit as I please. Mamma is gone out to pay a visit, and will not be home until to-morrow."

"Then I'll help you," said Panoria. And the little girls, fixing their wistful eyes on the tempting fruit, followed Severia to the house.

Napoleon remained some time longer in his grotto; and when supper-time approached, he went into the house. Feeling very thirsty, he entered the dining-room, in which was a large cupboard, where fresh water was usually kept. Just as he was going in, he heard a noise: the cupboard doors were quickly shut, and he caught a glimpse of a white frock disappearing through the open window. Instead, however, of looking after the fugitive, he went quietly to get a glass of water in the cupboard. Then, to his dismay, he saw his uncle's basket of fruit half empty! While, forgetting his thirst, he looked with astonishment at the fruit, considering who could have been the hardy thief, a voice behind him roused him from his reverie.

"What are you doing there, Napoleon? You know you are not permitted to help yourself to supper."

This was uncle the canon himself – a short, stout old man with a bald head, whose otherwise ordinary features were lighted up with the eagle glance which afterward distinguished his grand-nephew.

"I was not taking any thing, uncle," replied Napoleon. And then suddenly the idea occurring to him that he might be accused of having taken the fruit, the blood rushed hotly to his cheeks.

His confusion was so evident, that the canon said, "I hope you are not telling a falsehood, Napoleon?"

"I never tell falsehoods," said the boy, proudly.

"What were you doing?"

"I was thirsty; I came to get some water."

"No harm in that – and then, my boy?"

"That was all, uncle."

"Have you drunk the water?"

"No, uncle; not yet."

The archdeacon shook his head. "You came to drink, and you did not drink; that does not hang well together. Napoleon, take care. If you frankly confess your fault, whatever it may be, you shall be forgiven; but if you tell a lie, and persist in it, I warn you that I shall punish you severely."

The entrance of M. Bonaparte, M. Fesch, and Joseph, Napoleon's eldest brother, interrupted the conversation; and for some minutes the elder gentlemen spoke to each other on political subjects; when a sudden exclamation from Severia, as she opened the cupboard, attracted the attention of all.

"Santa Madona! who has taken the fruit?"

"This is the mystery discovered!" said the canon, turning toward Napoleon. "So you stole the fruit?"

"I never touched it," replied the boy.

"Call in the other children," said the archdeacon.

In a few minutes five beautiful children, three boys and two girls, formed a group round their father, who, looking at each one in turn, asked, "Which of you has taken the fruit that was gathered in your uncle the canon's garden?"

"I did not!" "Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried they all. But Eliza's voice was lower and less assured than those of the others.

"And you, Napoleon?"

"I have said, papa, that I did not do it."

"That's a falsehood!" exclaimed Severia, who, being an old domestic, took great liberties.

"If you were not a woman!" said Napoleon, shaking his small clenched hand at her.

"Silence! Napoleon," said his father, sternly.

"It must have been you, Napoleon," said Severia; "for after putting the fruit into the cupboard, I never left the ante-room, and not a soul passed through except the archdeacon and yourself. If he has not taken them – "

"I wish truly I had," said the old gentleman, "and then I should not have the grief of seeing one of my children persist in a lie."

"Uncle, I am not guilty," repeated Napoleon firmly.

"Do not be obstinate, but confess," said his father.

"Yes," added the canon; "'tis the only way to escape punishment."

"But I never touched the fruit – indeed, I did not."

"Napoleon," said his uncle, "I can not believe you. I shall give you five minutes; and if, at the end of that time, you do not confess, and ask for pardon, I shall whip you."

"A whip is for horses and dogs, not for children!" said the boy.

"A whip is for disobedient, lying children," replied his father.

"Then 'tis unjust to give it me, for I am neither a liar nor disobedient." So saying, Napoleon crossed his arms on his chest, and settled himself in a firm attitude.

Meantime his brothers and his sister Pauline came close to him, and whispered good-natured entreaties that he would confess.

"But how can I, when I have not done wrong?"

"So you are still obstinate?" said his uncle. And taking him by the arm, he led him into the next room. Presently the sound of sharp repeated blows was heard, but not a cry or complaint from the little sufferer.

Madame Bonaparte was away from home, and in the evening her husband went to meet her, accompanied by Joseph, Lucien, and Eliza. M. Fesch and the canon were also about to depart, and in passing through the ante-room, they saw Napoleon standing, pale and grave, but proud, and firm-looking as before.

"Well, my child," said his father, "I hope you will now ask your uncle's pardon?"

"I did not touch the fruit, papa."

"Still obstinate! As the rod will not do, I shall try another method. Your mother, brothers, Eliza, and I, will be away for three days, and during that time you shall have nothing but bread and water, unless you ask your uncle's forgiveness."

"But, papa, won't you let him have some cheese with his bread?" whispered little Pauline.

"Yes, but not broccio."

"Ah do, papa, please let him have broccio 'tis the nicest cheese in Corsica!"

"That's the reason he does not deserve it," said his father, looking at the boy with an anxious expression, as if he hoped to see some sign of penitence on his face. But none such appearing, he proceeded toward the carriage.

Joseph and Lucien took a kind leave of their brother, but Eliza seemed unwilling and afraid to go near or look at him.

The three days passed on, heavily enough for poor Napoleon, who was in disgrace, and living on bread, water, and cheese, which was not broccio. At length the party returned, and little Panoria, who was watching for her friend Eliza, came with them into the house.

"Good-morning, uncle," said Madame Bonaparte to the archdeacon, "how are you? And where are Napoleon and Pauline?"

"Here I am, mamma," said the latter throwing her arms around her mother's neck.

"And Napoleon?"

"He is here," said the canon.

"Has he confessed?" asked his father.

"No," replied the uncle. "I never before witnessed such obstinacy."

"What has he done?" asked his mother.

The canon, in reply, related the story of the fruit; but before he could finish it, Panoria exclaimed —

"Of course, poor fellow, he would not confess what he never did!"

"And who did take the fruit?" asked the canon.

"I and Eliza," replied the little girl without hesitation.

There was a universal exclamation.

"My poor child," said the archdeacon, embracing Napoleon tenderly, "why did you not undeceive us?"

"I suspected it was Eliza," replied Napoleon; "but I was not sure. At all events, I would not have told, for Panoria's sake, who is not a liar."

The reader may imagine how Napoleon was caressed and rewarded to make him amends for the pain he had unjustly suffered. As to Eliza, she was severely and rightly punished: first for her gluttony; and then for what was much worse – her cowardice and deceit in allowing her innocent brother to suffer for her fault.

WILBERFORCE AND CHALMERS

I have seldom observed a more amusing and pleasing contrast between two great men than between Wilberforce and Chalmers. Chalmers is stout and erect, with a broad countenance – Wilberforce minute, and singularly twisted: Chalmers, both in body and mind, moves with, a deliberate step – Wilberforce, infirm as he is in his advanced years, flies about with astonishing activity, and while, with nimble finger, he seizes on every thing that adorns or diversifies his path, his mind flits from object to object with unceasing versatility. I often think that particular men bear about with them an analogy to particular animals: Chalmers is like a good-tempered lion – Wilberforce is like a bee: Chalmers can say a pleasant thing now and then, and laugh when he has said it, and he has a strong touch of humor in his countenance, but in general he is grave, his thoughts grow to a great size before they are uttered – Wilberforce sparkles with life and wit, and the characteristic of his mind is "rapid productiveness." A man might be in Chalmers's company for an hour, especially in a party, without knowing who or what he was – though in the end he would be sure to be detected by some unexpected display of powerful originality. Wilberforce, except when fairly asleep, is never latent. Chalmers knows how to vail himself in a decent cloud – Wilberforce is always in sunshine. Seldom, I believe, has any mind been more strung to a perpetual tune of love and praise. Yet these persons, distinguished as they are from the world at large, and from each other, present some admirable points of resemblance. Both of them are broad thinkers, and liberal feelers; both of them are arrayed in humility, meekness, and charity: both appear to hold self in little reputation: above all, both love the Lord Jesus Christ, and reverently acknowledge him to be their only Saviour. —Hanna's Memoirs of Chalmers.