וי he mentioned as "likely lots" to his companion, I imagined him to be a timber merchant. But the very next day, encountering him in the train, bearing in his hand a shining wooden box, which looked as if it contained an accordion, and noticing that whenever the train stopped at a station mysterious-looking men with their fustian trousers strapped up round their knees, and with acres of red clay upon their heavy boots, came up and held whispered communication with him, I changed my idea, and finally discovered that he was a superior employé in the out-door service of the Telegraph Department, clear-headed, active, and intelligent, as that service demands. Let me try to recal one of those pleasant trips, undertaken in Mr. Cumberland's company, amongst the great barren moors, green headlands, red cliffs, and shining blue seas, in the lovely West of England. It is eight o'clock on a bright morning in the early days of May, and I am seated in the Cornwall train under the wretched shed which does duty for a terminal station at Plymouth. The engine has its steam up, the guards are rushing to and fro, slamming the doors, and I am becoming very anxious about Mr. Cumberland, when that worthy slips into the station and takes his seat beside me just as the wheels begin to revolve. Business enters but little into our projects for this day, at least so far as I am concerned, though I notice that throughout our progress, wherever a telegraph wire or post is to be seen, Mr. Cumberland's quick eye is roving in their direction, and from time to time he makes little entries in his note-book. We are bound for the little Cornish town of Helston, where, from time immemorial, high festival has been held on the 8th of May, and quaint old rites performed, at the celebration of which we have determined to be present. We have, however, rather a long journey to make, and our way lies through some of the most beautiful and interesting portions of the county. Past Devonport, where our third-class is boarded by a number of soldiers and sailors, some holiday-making, some changing their stations, and where we get a fine view of the Hamoaze, where lie, rotting and useless, and representing many hundreds of thousands of pounds, some fifty of the wooden walls of Old England, many of which were being built when the iron walls of Old England suddenly came into fashion, and consequently have never been finished, never rigged, manned, or officered, and have known no other water than that mixture of fresh Tamar and salt sea, which forms the Ha moaze anchorage. Now through the Saltash viaduct (which, cro ssing the Tamar, carries the railway, at a height of one hundred feet above the water, from the hills of Devon to the hills of Cornwall, which is three hundred feet longer than the far-famed Britannia Tube, and pleasanter, in the fact that its sides are open, giving one a view of the broad winding river, and the lovely scenery on its banks); past Saltash village, straggling up the cliff, with its irregular succession of fishermen's whitewashed cottages, reaching from the shore below to the railway above; now thundering over the dangerous-looking wooden viaducts, which are so numerous on this line, past St. Germans, erst the home of Sir John Eliot, Hampden's friend, and the subject of Mr. Forster's admirable biography, past Menheniot, where we get the first sound of a true Cornish name, and so on to Liskeard. We have no chance now for a divergence to Looe, prettiest and quaintest of unspoiled seaside villages, where the fishers dwell in their primitive simplicity, even though on the way we should be enabled to visit the Well of St. Keyne, the miraculous powers of whose waters in awarding supremacy in conjugal disputes are celebrated in Southey's wellknown ballad. No time to stop at Doublebois (a name which, pronounced by the porters "Double boys," brings pathetic reminiscences to the parents of male twins); no time to catch more than a fleeting glimpse of the lovely tower and spire of Lostwithiel Church-unique in its beauty, or of the broad sands and breaking waves just visible as we flit by Par; no time to visit the Fowey Consolidated Mines, whose enormous works rear their great crosstrees within our sight, and whose "ticketings" are quoted weekly in the London journals. Villa residences dotted here and there, so different in their smug gentility from the grand old country seats which we have occasionally seen in the distance on our route, proclaim our approach to the outskirts of a large town, and soon we see lying beneath us the church-tower and the handsome public buildings, and the hilly streets of Truro. Here we leave our carriage, which proceeds to Penzance, and enter another train bound for Falmouth. In it, however, we go no further than the next station, Penryn, where Mr. Cumberland bids me alight, disappearing himself immediately afterwards, as he mutters something relative to a "glass of bitter." 66 At the little Penryn station there are several conveyances, public and private, for the transport of passengers to Helston, which is some seven miles off; farmers' gigs, roomy, rumbling vehicles, never now seen in more civilized places, a smart dogcart, into which jump two well-dressed, good-looking young men, who have been the subjects of much salutation from the bystanders, and a stage-coach with three horses harnessed unicorn fashion, on which we take our seats. Davey's" coach is well known in these parts, and has always a fair complement of passengers, but today its load is excessive. I on the seat behind the driver and between Mr. Cumberland and a youth who has a day's holiday from his private tutor, and who takes care to let us know the fact, as though it gave him dignity and status. He is smoking a very nasty cigar, and delighting in the conversation of the passenger on the other side of him, a recruiting sergeant of dragoons, a bumptious, swaggering varlet, with his hair flattened with grease to his head, and his great coarse moustache waxed and lacquered. He is an Irishman, but tries desperately hard to disguise his brogue, and the stories of experiences in life which he pours into the ear of the silly boy so eagerly listening to them, were not of the " 'battles, sieges, fortunes, he had passed," but of the delights of dissipation in Knightsbridge Music Hall and Aldershot canteens, and Portsmouth dancing-houses. He has but a poor opinion of the service in which he is engaged, and speaks of it disparagingly, but he leers horribly as he mentions the fascination which the uniform has for women, and the vicious laziness of his life. He has, it appears, great hopes of ensnaring some of the bumpkins who will be present at the Helston festivities; probably his expectations are not ill-founded, as the country people, who are our fellowpassengers, are perpetually staring at this blustering hero with evident wonder and admiration. This military gasconade is not commenced until we have reached the foot of the steep and winding hill, in driving his horses down which the hard-featured coachman had to exercise no little skill and caution (indeed, during the descent I noticed the hero clinging very tightly to the iron rail against which he sat), and by the time we reached the opposite eminence, whence we have a long level stretch into the heart of the country, I am too much occupied with the lovely view of Falmouth harbour, lying as it were immediately below us, to pay any further attention to the ill-timed chatter. Mr. Cumberland, who, as he himself says, "has poled and wired every mile of the county," is an excellent guide, pointing out every interesting place, and being admirably stocked with local stories and traditions. From him I learn that, according to the popular legend, Helston owes its name to a huge block of granite, which was less than a century ago to be seen in the courtyard at the Angel Inn, but which about that time was broken up and used as part of the building material of the assemblyroom then erected. This stone the country folk believe originally lay at the mouth of hell, whence it was one day carried away by the devil, who intended to put it to some diabolical use. But as his satanic majesty was crossing the county of Cornwall, he was encountered by St. Michael, the guardian saint of the town. A fight ensued, in which the devil being defeated, took to his heels or wings, and dropped the hell- stone in his flight. In commemoration of this event the inhabitants instituted the festival at which we are about to assist, the Floral, or Furry Day, which, whatever its origin, has doubtedly, from time immemorial, been held on the 8th of May. With edifying gravity Mr. Cumberland requests me on no account to let it be known to any of the inhabitants that our visit has relation to business of any kind, inasmuch that, according to custom, any person who can be detected at work on Furry Day is instantly seized and carried astride upon a pole to the river, into which, if he does not buy his release at a pretty liberal price, he is forthwith flung. Indeed, according to Mr. Cumberland, the pleasure indulged in by the Helstonians is in itself quite enough labour for that day at least. The fun commences at nine o'clock, when they assemble at the grammar school and demand their prescriptive holiday. Then, a general subscription having been made to defray the expenses, they proceed into the fields and woods, whence they return laden with armfuls of flowers and branches of trees. "What do they do then ?” I ask, but Mr. Cumberland, laughingly declines to state. I must see that with my own eyes, he says, and he will not by any description anticipate my amusement. Besides, even un if he agrees to tell me, there is no time, as we are there. Garlands of flowers festooned across the road, flags flying from nearly every window, shops all closed, main street so crammed with folks in holiday clothes, that it is with great difficulty we can get up to the Angel door, bells ringing, general glee, happiness, and perspiration-these are what I find at Helston. The last item is, I notice, most profuse in a certain number of people of both sexes, and of all ages, who are the recipients of great attention from their fellow townspeople. I am about to inquire what these worthies may have been doing, but all I can see of Mr. Cumberland is the end of his coat-skirt vanishing into the Angel, where, following in hot pursuit, I find him perfectly at home. The hall and passages are crammed, the coffee-room and commercial-room are overflowing, thirsty men, clamorous for liquor, are wedged on the stairs, or clinging like bees to the balustrades; but Mr. Cumberland has calmly made his way to the inner bar, and there is seated, smiling and happy, with a "glass of bitter" by his side. He knows Mrs. Bennett, of course (what tourist wandering through the Lizard district does not know and respect that queen of old-fashioned landladies, in whose hotel the acme of cleanliness and comfort is to be found?); he knows the four or five bouncing, cherry-checked waitresses in their clean gowns and smart caps, who laugh and say "La, now!" as he addresses them each by their christian name; he knows a commercial who travels in cider and another who travels in hides; he has a pleasant word for every one, and makes himself so agreeable that he manages to find a place for me by his side without evoking any discontent. which are, to say the least of them, curious. Notably eccentric is the drummer, who, round his volunteer uniform cap, had twined an enormous wreath of flowers, which hangs gracefully over his face, thus rendering him a pleasing combination of Mars and Flora. As soon as the notes of the "Furry" tune (a well-known Cornish air heard constantly throughout the county, and to be found in Mr. Chappell's collection of Ancient English Melodies) are heard, the bystanders gravely take their partners, and commence dancing a step, which is half jig, half polka. In amazement I see grey-whiskered men in black broadcloth whirling round with girls in book-muslin, and stout matrons clinging desperately to tall, weedy boys. All sorts and conditions join the throng; the Cornish tarantula has bitten them, and they are off! Preceded by the band, the drunken drummer banging at his instrument with the heartiest goodwill, and having the way cleared for them by a fussy old policeman, the long procession dances down the passage of the Angel into the main street. Then in at the side door of the next house, through the back parlour, the furniture of which has been heaped up on one side to permit of their progress, down the centre of the shop, and out into the street again! This goes on through countless houses, and through whole streets. Whenever the head of the procession emerges it is received with roars of delight; whenever the tail of the procession disappears it is followed by numerous adherents, who join on, and begin dancing too. The "Furry" tune is quaint and provocative in its melody; its effects on Mr. Cumberland, coupled, perhaps. with those of the various "glasses of I am in the midst of my luncheon, when bitter," are such, that to my alarm and asI hear a few notes played by a band out- tonishment, he forthwith announces his side, and one of the extremely warm intention of "having a turn," and casts gentlemen whom I had previously noticed, his eyes round among the assembled a little man in spectacles, with damp maidens, in search of one with whom to whiskers and shirt-collar, rushes into the share the pleasures of the dance. It is bar, calling out, "Second round! Take only by pointing out to him the loss of your partners, we are starting for the official dignity which he must inevitably second round." At this invitation every-sustain, the impossibility of doing business body jumps up with alacrity, and rushes into the outer court, where, following them, I find the volunteer band, whose music I had previously heard. Looking at the band it strikes me that I am not the only person who has been lunching. There is a redness in the faces of its members, and a wild vigour in their style of playing, the next day with a man who, twenty-four hours previously had seen him capering to the music of an intoxicated band, that I can induce him to refrain, and even then he wags his head, and beats time with his feet, and follows the dancers, cheering them to the echo. There are three or four of these "rounds" during the day, during the course of which nearly all the houses in the town, freely thrown open, are steadily danced through. Nor does the terpsichorean mania there end; for, as I understand, about nine in the evening, the better classes of the townspeople meet in the ball-room of the Angel, and dance away until dawn. These rites, however, are not for me, nor, indeed, for Mr. Cumberland, who, in the midst of all his pleasure, is mindful of business, and remembers that he has to be up betimes the next day. So we once again climb on to Davey's coach, and through the sweet spring evening air are carried back to Penryn, taking with us into the rattling train a pleasant reminiscence of the quaint celebration at which we have assisted, and of the lovely appearance of Falmouth harbour, bathed in the moonlight, which we caught a glimpse of ere we were borne away by the steam dragon. THE PASSING BELL. THE mist creeps upward from the shadowy vale, The mist hangs thickly o'er the little town, The swollen river stirs its willows pale, The swollen rill foams murky from the down. The heavy drops upon the cold winds float, The long gray grasses rustle in the dell,' And from the minster towers, note by note, Booms the deep echo of the Passing Bell. The Passing Bell, it wont of old to say, Pray for the parting soul, ye Christians all." The eager traveller paused upon his way, The busy peasant let his mattock fall. The loiterer crossed his brow and hushed his jest, The laughing child laid by his latest toy, The solemn summons thrilling every breast, Waking to prayer, love, business, grief, and joy. Advancing years our ancient customs steal, We toll the bell when all is over now, When our stern truthful creed no late appeal, Against our God's great dictum can allow. But human agony, but human loss, For the tree fallen, for the darling gone, But nature's cry beneath the bitter cross, Wails in the Passing Bell's funereal tone. Thy wild wet dawn, oh year so newly born, Thy days by fever's lurid lustre lit, Thy nights of sobbing rain and winds forlorn, Well does the dirge thy gloomy mood befit! Pass thou-let winter hear the sad earth's prayers, Come to thy throne usurped, gay glittering frost; With pale blue skies, and keen health-giving airs, And crisp dead leaves on fresh north breezes tossed. CHRONICLES OF LONDON NEWGATE AND THE GORDON RIOTS. THERE is nothing that more strikingly proves the utter want of imagination in the ordinary run of people than the habit in cities of naming a street, terrace, or square "New" nor are Londoners more imaginative than others. Some recent to- | pographer counts up in the metropolis no fewer than one hundred and eighty streets which bear this appellation which has long ago become a misnomer. Newgate is not very new now, for it has been a prison since King John's time. The present building dates back to a year after the Gordon riots, and four of the allegorical figures that adorn its south front are as old as 1672. It was originally the fifth of the seven gates of London Wall, and was erected, according to Stow, in the reign of Henry the First, or Stephen, when St. Paul's was rebuilding, and the highway from Aldgate and Cheap to Ludgate was stopped up. It was repaired in 1422 by the executors of the famous Whittington, lord mayor, and on that account the figure of Liberty which used to adorn the building had a cat at its feet. It was large enough for its purpose in 1672, when it was rebuilt; but London vice and crime soon out-grew the prison, and the result was such a crowding of felons that at once produced disorder and immorality, and disease and death followed remorselessly as ever on their track. The ventilation was bad, the water insufficient, and the room altogether inadequate. In his evidence before the House of Commons, Mr. Akerman, one of the keepers of Newgate, stated that, independently of great mortality among the prisoners, nearly two sets of turnkeys had died of jail-fever since he had been in office; and that at the memorable spring sessions in 1750, two of the judges, the lord mayor, several of the jury, and others, to the number of sixty persons and upwards, had died of the Newgate jail-distemper. The result was, that a new building was proposed by George Dance, the architect of the Mansion House; and on the 31st of May, 1770, Alderman Beckford laid the first stone. The work evidently went on but slowly, for in 1780, when the old prison was burnt by the Gordon rioters, the new prison was not yet completed. The building was then pushed on; and in 1783, Tyburn was abandoned, and the first execution took place before the walls of Newgate. The jail-birds that have rubbed their hideous faces against Newgate bars, have not been remarkable for the milder virtues. The mere burglar shone a saint among such villanous murderers and highway. men as Jerry Abershaw and Blueskin, Galloping Dick and Sarah Malcolm; but still the prison has held good men with large hearts and pure hands, for Penn thought over Christian charity in Newgate, and De Foe wrote there brave words against tyranny and intolerance. The first great instance of prison-breaking from Newgate occurred in 1724, when the escapes of that nimble thief, Jack Sheppard, were for a time the talk of all London. On August the 30th, in that year, Sheppard and Blueskin were sentenced to death for stealing cloth from a Mr. Kneebone, a draper in the Strand, who had apprenticed Sheppard. Nimble Jack first broke off the spike from a hatch in the lodge at Newgate, leading from the condemned hole, and by the assistance of two women who came to see him at the hatch, was pulled through, and so escaped. On being retaken at Finchley, where he was hiding, the jailers threw the quick-eyed young thief into a strong room called the Castle, handcuffed him, loaded him with a heavy pair of irons, and chained him to a stout staple in the floor. People of all ranks came to see him, and all gave him money, but extreme care was taken that no one should pass him a chisel or file. One quiet afternoon, when the keepers were busy at the sessions, Jack went to work. He had already found a small nail, with which he could unfasten his chain from the floor. He then slipped off his handcuffs, and then fastened up his fetters as high as he could with his garters. In getting up the chimney, being stopped by an iron bar, he worked it out with a piece of his broken chain; with this weapon he soon forced his way into the Red Room over the Castle, and there found a large nail, which was in the highest degree useful to him. The Red Room door had not been opened for seven years; but Jack wrenched off the lock in less than seven minutes, and got into the passage leading to the chapel. To force a bolted door here, he broke a hole through the wall, and so pushed back the bolt; with an iron spike from the chapel door he got into an entry between the chapel and the lower leads. In the dark, Sheppard forced the box of the lock of the door of this entry. The next door being also locked, he forced that also. It was now eight o'clock; he now unbolted another door, and got over a wall to the upper leads. He then boldly went back for his blanket, as he resolved to alight on a turner's house adjoining Newgate. He made the blanket fast to the wall of Newgate, and sliding down, dropped on the turner's leads just as the clock struck nine. He got in at a garret window, and stole softly downstairs-a woman of the house hearing his irons clink, but thinking it was the cat-and let himself out. Just after twelve he passed by the watch-house of St. Sepulchre, and going up Gray'sinn-lane, hid himself in a cow-house in the fields near Tottenham-court. The next day he bribed a shoemaker with twenty shillings to procure him a smith's hammer and punch, and he then got rid of his irons. A few nights after he broke into a pawnbroker's shop in Drury-lane, stole a sword, some coats, snuff-boxes, rings, and watches, and rigged himself out in wig, ruffled shirt, silver-hilted sword, diamond ring, and gold watch. same night, getting drunk, he was retaken and thrown into Newgate. Sir James Thornhill, Hogarth's father-in-law, painted his portrait in prison; and he was hung at Tyburn on the 16th of November, in the twenty-third year of his age. An opera and a farce were founded upon his adventures, and allusions to him were made by several City preachers of the day. That Of the state of Newgate in 1744 we have a very interesting record in the an tobiography of that most excellent selfdenying man, Silas Told, one of Wesley's school-teachers. His narrative shows us what vast good was effected by the Wesleyan missionaries in a corrupt city, at a time when our Church was rich and fat as it was lazy and intolerant. A sermon by Wesley, on the text, "I was sick and in prison, and ye visited me not," struck like an arrow in the conscience of Told, and the faint whisper of the inner voice roused him as if it had been a thunder-call from heaven. He felt it was his duty to visit prisoners; and, a few days after, a messenger came to the school, begging that some one might be sent to visit ten malefactors then under sentence of death. In the Wesleyan language, "they were all much awakened; one of them, named John Lancaster, was converted, and appeared full of the love of God." Told went to Newgate, and desired Lancaster to call his companions together into his cell. They all "seemed clear of their acceptance;" and Lancaster said that "that morning, about four o'clock, his conversion had taken place." Out of these ten men, the death-warrants came down for eight; the other two, who remained hard and impenitent, were respited. The night before their execution the keeper had been requested to lock them |