The London Cousin. A tale. By C. T

Front matter

ln 1 vol. Price 12s. ON CHANGE OF CLIMATE, A GUIDE FOR TRAVELLERS IX PURSUIT OF HEALTH. By THOMAS MORE MADDEN, M.D., M.R.C.S. Esg. Illustrative of the Advantages of the various localities resorted to by Invalids, for the cure or alleviation of chronic diseases, especially consumption. With Observations on Climate, and its Influence on Health and Disease, the result of extensive personal experience of many Southern Climes. SPAIN, PORTUGAL, ALGERIA, MOROCCO, FRANCE, ITALU THE MEDITERRANEAN ISLANDS, EGYPT, &c. " Dr. Madden has been to most of the places he describes, and his book contains the advantage of a guide, with the personal experience of a traveller. To persons who have determined that they ought to have change of climate, we can recommend Dr. Madden as a guide. — Athenæum." " It contains much valuable information respecting various favorite places of resort, and is evidently the work of a well-informed physician, — Lancet."

" Dr. Madden's book deserves confidence— a most accurate and excel lent work." — Dublin Medical Review. " It cannot but be of much service to such persons as propose leaving home in search of recreation, or a more benign atmosphere. The Doctor's observations relate to the favourite haunts of English invalids. He criticises each place seriatim in every point of view." — Reader. "We strongly advise all those who are going abroad for health's sake to provide themselves with this book. They will find the author in these pages an agreeable gossiping companion as well as a professional adviser, who anticipates most of their difficulties." — Dublin Evening Mail. " To the medical profession this book will be invaluable, and to those in ill-health it will be even more desirable, for it will be found not merely a guide for change of climate, but a most interesting volume cf travel." — Globe.

"Dr. Madden is better qualified to give an opinion as to the salubrity of the places most frequented by invalids than the majority of writers on the subject." — Liverpool Albion. "There is something, and a great deal too, for almost every reader in this volume, for the physician, for the invalid, for the historian, for the antiquarian, and for the man of letters. Dr. Madden has rendered a necessary service to the profession and to the public upon the subject under notice." — DublinEvening Post. "Dr. Madden's work is fraught with instruction that must prove useful both to practitioners and patients who study it." — Saunders' News Letter. "Dr. Madden deserves the thanks of all those persons afflicted with that dire disease, consumption — as well as of those who suffer from thronic bronchitis, asthma, &c. It is the best work on change of climate that has ever been presented to the public." — Dai/g Post.

Chapter I. First Impressions

Some five and forty years ago, when I was about sixteen years of age, a brighteyed maiden, revelling in the buoyancy of youth's first freshness, looking forward to that land of promise — that future empire of my own sovereignty, that enviable period of all anticipations, when I should become a woman, — and it was just a week after my sixteenth birthday, that my father removed from a distant county, and took the farm on which he afterwards lived and died. The farm was situated on the summit of a hill, B that terminated the bounds of our village. There I still, in memory, see the dear old man — for he liked to be thought old— drawing his chair in winter round the hearth, with spectacles on nose, conning over the politics of a country newspaper, published once a week and duly forwarded by special messenger, from the market town, some six miles further od.

My mother listening, as in duty bound, to all the sage remarks, and criticisms emanating from her honoured lord • and I," how I chafed sometimes when, well knowing the simulated cough I often heard outside the gate, I longed to steal away, but dare not break the spell, which bound me to my chair, though I would even pretend the fire wanted mending, or my scissors were upstairs. My mother's constant mild reply " Sit still Jessy, use my scissors, John will trim the fire," &c, kept me pinned down to earth like a balloon, ere its detaining strings are cut, and, with an ariel bound, it mounts aloft. Just so, my uncurbed will rose buoyant; and had well nigh snapped restraint, when the old kitchen clock would strike nine, and I, alas poor I, knew then all hope of seeing Edward Miller for that night was at an end, for well I knew the signal, and ere the last stroke of nine had fairly vibrated, and the echo passed away, my father, though intent on some engrossing article, would lay aside the paper and say " Jessy, get down the book."

To disobey would have been treason to control, a crime scarcely ever known in those days ; for my father, though a kind indulgent parent, was firm, and held no silken rod over his household hearth. His habits were simple, but punctual and regular, early to bed and early to rise were held social and moral duties ; for did it not make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise, according to Franklin, who was my dear father's favourite authority. But I must not quote authors how ever recondite, or I shall not follow my respected parents in order and regularity. His custom was to sup at six, and this being what he called his leisure meal, more time was then spent in conversation, and giving to us, I, and my brother John, some wholesome sage advice, and instructive guidance, for our after life. b I had left school some time, and John did not go back again to town, though he was three years younger, for his health even then was not good, but in order to perfect his reading — to him was deputed the honour — for such was it esteemed — of reading a chapter in the Bible, before a short simple prayer closed the evening and sent us peacefully to bed.

No ; such were my kind parents' intention, but I fear in several instances, my stubborn rebellious heart felt no such soothing balm. I had, as you will perceive, a liking for a neighbour's son, one Edward, or as he was better known, Ned Miller, a shoemaker's son,butnot him self a disciple of Crispin. Oh, no, he scorned the humble calling of his forefathers, and wished to be a scholar. His friends were poor, but this seemed no bar to his ambition • and with a good person, tall figure, and devil-dare turn of disposition, he determined to make his way in the world, and intended as soon as his mother's consent could be obtained, to leave our village, for a better sphere of action. But his mother's consent had been reluctantly obtained, and still he lingered. Some said Jenny Tibbets detained him.

His father thought to persuade him again to try the lapstone and last, some even thought he had turned coward, and would not go away. I thought — I knew what I thought. But at last my prayers were heard, and my father's absence, rather later at market one night, gave us the wished-for oprortunity of meeting unobserved. For be it known the humble son of the village shoemaker, was not likely to be thought so aspiring as to court the daughter of farmer Lee, of Hazel Court. And our trystings had been few and far between ; my very youth blinding my parents to security, and impunity of fear for my thinking of a sweetheart. This would have been thought impossible. Oh, fatal folly, in supposing a girl too young to feel the fascination of love. The dangerous incense of flattery, to say nothing of that purer, holier, because unselfish feeling, which sometimes early imbues the mind even of a child, who will almost imperceptibly imbibe the love of a generous champion, or cherished favourite, whose self-denial or timely assistance has helped to achieve a difficult task, or soothed away a difficult position, whose companionship has sweetened same lonely errand, or helped to bear some heavy sorrow.

These and many more are causes which produce the natural effects of reciprocity of feel ing. Yet to none of them, were attributablethe intimacy and embryo love that had sprung up between young Miller and myself. His first introduction to me was as unceremonious as it was unexpected, and even now the recollection is as vivid, and the scene as natural, as when he presented his marred and dirty person at the open window of the little parlour in which I was sitting — his face flushed — his nose bleeding — his dress dirty, disordered, and his whole appearance denoting some fearful struggle having ensued. His voice alone was calm, he apologized for the abruptness, hoped he had not frightened me ; but seeing I was about hastily to leave the room, he implored me to stop, and listen while he explained that an accident had happened to my brother.

My brother— what of him ? I did nos faint, but the blood forsook my cheek ; and seeing this, a moment sufficed to clear the trifling impedi ment of the four feet garden. He stood by my side. " Dear Miss Jessy, do not be alarmed," said he ; " he is not hurt, wait and I will tell you all. And you must then help me to get your brother home, and screen him from your father's anger, which he dreads more than his hurt, which I think is not much ; for the truth is, he has been fighting with Peter Harris, your father's plough boy, who is much older and nearly twice as big as little John; but I, luckily, heard the quarrel, and came up time enough to rescue your brother, and punish the coward, who I think, will not forget it for some time, But as John's face is a little cut and his hand rather scratched, I will bring him here if you can manage to put him to bed ; he'll be well by the 5? morning.

" But your own face is bleeding," said I. "Oh, never mind me, just wait here; or, still bet ter o^o and open the front door, I know your father is out ; and if Mrs. Lee can be kept out of the way for a few minutes, all will be well." So I passively consented, and the front door being opened, Ned Miller deposited poor John on his own little bed, and had departed, telling me to wash his face, and give him some water with a little taste of vinegar in it, before I brought my mother in to see him, for John was her darling, and I dreaded much her anger and alarm. But my brother had been more faint than hurt, and soon recovered after I had bathed his temples, and he had washed and refreshed himself ; he was then able to tell how it happened. For to me it was marvellous, how so kind and peaceable a boy should be engaged in such a fearful contest with any one, much less Peter, whom we all looked upon as a quiet civil lad.

But it appeared John's great passion, which was for pet animals, had been aroused, and his little body could ill brook the throes of his great soul. His love of favourites had long been shared by Trim, the house dog, and a hutch-full of beautiful white and spotted rabbits. But this spring a new source of interest was awakened, by discovering a nest of goldfinches, in one of the meadows. All his care and vigilance was exerted to save and rear these treasures, which he wished to keep nested as long as possible ; nor did he inform anyone but me and Peter of his prize, never for a moment suspecting this boy could be base enough to try to circum vent him. What then was his anger ? his fury ? when on leaving the road to cross the meadow, and just give one look at his birds, that he meant to submit in a day or two to my care and protec tion, what should he see, but this spiteful boy, descending from the tree, with stealthy cat like quietude, looking down like another Nero, on his wreaking victims, whose necks he had just rung.

The poor child saw in a moment his confidence betrayed, his pets ruthlessly murdered, his loss irrevocable. Is it then a wonder his injury made him forget his danger ? His father's wrath, his mother's love, his sister's tears ; all ! all were forgotten in the absorbing passion of revenge. He became a very tiger, he sprang upon his foe, who was taken so unawares, that this puny giant, this weak child for b a time had the mastery. But his strength soon evaporated in the one great effort, the first spur of the moment ; and soon this cowardly lout dis covered, and used his superiority of strength, not content with levelling his young opponent; he was in the act of repeating the blow on the pros trate boy, when a figure darted through the hedge, and a well-aimed blow rendered the uplifted arm powerless to harm the bleeding child, who lay stunned at his feet.

Thus diverted from his prey, the big-headed thick-set lout of seventeen, turned to his next opponent. He was much heavier and stouter than the tall slim youth who now confronted him, and who though two years older, would have been hardly thought a match by the villagers for Stumpy Peter, as he was called. But the issue proved that even Mr. Peter's stoicism gave way to village pluck, and village science, for he soon exclaimed : "I did not want to fight you, Ned Miller. I'll give in," and blubbering like a great baby, he begged to be forgiven. The whole affair seemed too serious to be suffered to pass off without my father's knowledge, COUSTN. 11 and my mother decided to tell him all, for my brother's face was not likely to escape his notice, and to resort to subterfuge was not to be thought of for a moment.

Besides, my mother justly deemed Peter unfit to remain any longer in the house ; so though, my father was very angry with John for his intemperate wrath, he felt no less so for Peter's unmanly, cowardly attack on his master's son. . The matter was, however, settled by the lad leaving his place, who soon after enlisted for a soldier. And this was the way I first became acquainted with Ned Miller. A most unromantic introduction say you, and most unpromising commencement ; but one that was never forgotten. And as the subsequent attention which he paid, was attributed by my dear mother to his affection for John, it served to blind them to the real object of his visits — till my brother's restored health did away the excuse, and made our meetings few and far between; still I could not forget the good nature evinced, and the courage displayed.

My mother, too, frequently alluded to Edward Miller as a friend to her boy— a friend in need ; and hoped the time would come when she might have it in her power to repay it ; nor was the time wanting, though not in his own person, but in kind and liberal sympathy to his widowed mother, who lost her husband soon after she lost her son, for not a twelvemonth had elapsed after his absence, ere an affection of the heart caused his sudden death. And poor widow Miller had little left to comfort her, save to cultivate her little garden, and pray for her absent boy, whom she twice only heard from in the first year of his wanderings. But I am anticipating. The mother's heart clung firmly to the thought of his return, though she could never forget the pang of disappointment that awaited her when she found he was gone ; had left her, too, without one farewell kiss, one blessing on his way ; but in this he erred from affection, wishing to spare both their feelings, in a parting scene — at all times so trying to be borne.

Chapter II. Departure From Home

Ned had gone to bed the night before his departure, after wishing his parents good-night, as usual. And his father, always an early riser, tapped at his son's door on going down stairs the next morning ; but after waiting for the usual reply, and thinking he slept soundly, forbore waking him, till about an hour afterwards. Mrs. Miller, on coming down, asked for Edward ; " He seems sleepy this morning," said the shoemaker, " for I called him, when I came down, to go with me this fine May morning, in search of plants, to cover our window sill, as the scarlet Pimpernel, or Anagallis Arvensis, with its pretty red flowers are out now," for John Miller prided himself on being a bit of a botanist. "But go you, mother, and call the boy ; tell him I have just come back, and want breakfast as soon as I have planted these roots !

" So saying, he stepped into the garden, and his wife ran up stairs, but on opening the door her heart misgave her, for she saw the bed was empty, and his clothes gone. Her first impulse was to scream out, " he is gone," which soon brought John from even his flowers — and he then saw what had escaped his wife's notice, a slip of paper containing these words — " Good-bye, dear mother and father, I must write what I could not give you the pain to hear, or myself to utter, the words which I again repeat, good-bye, God bless you; think of me sometimes, and pray for me, and I will always try to deserve your prayers, aud come back a great man ; so cheer up, dear mother ; when you read this, I shall be some miles away from our village." We will not attempt to paint the poor people's sorrow and grief, particularly Mrs. Miller, who had been secretly preparing several new and useful garments, for her son's use ; but would not produce them, lest it might hasten his departure.

And now she wept afresh, as she took up the new trousers and linen she intended to fit him out with, and which had cost her little all to procure. We will leave her to this indulgence of maternal sorrow, and look at the object of it ; as he sprung from his bed, which to him had ever been strewn with flowers ; for he had then comparatively known no trouble ; now he was about to encounter all the ills of fife, which is literally beset with thorns ; and to what end ? Ah ! there he winced, why should he leave home ? with, 'tis true, a scanty competency. But still it had been enough for all his parents' wishes. But would it be enough for his wife? Would it satisfy her? No, never, would he ask Jessy Lee, to share his village poverty, his untutored obscurity. No ! he woukl work ; he would rise superior to the circumstances that now surrounded him.

But how ? Ah ! this must be proved. Jumping up, he penned the few words we have seen he left behind ; and, after committing him self to the care of Providence, tied up his little bundle, consisting of two new shirts, and a few other useful articles, put on a new pair of boots, his father's last present, and quickly left the house. Nor did he stop till he had passed the Blue Dragon, whose creaking sign the fresh spring breeze swayed lazily to and fro. Just above, the road diverged ; and shutting his eyes, as if to close them against temptation, Edward Miller passed the lane leading to Hazel Court, where he doubted not his loved Jessy was buried in peaceful slumbers. " Sleep on," he cried, " may your dreams be blissful and pure like yourself," and taking along breath, as if to nerve him for the struggle, he bounded on, nor stopped till he had reached the summit of the hill ; but when on the top, in the language of Poesy — He turned and left the spot- On ! do not deem him weak — His heart was full of bold resolves, Tho' tears were on his cheek.

Go, watch the foremost ranks In labour's bright career, Be sure the hand most potent there Has wiped away a tear. We will not follow him in his journey to the Metropolis about sixty miles distance, which, however, he accomplished in two days, but behold him on the night of the third, when after wandering about he knew not whither, he sat himself down on the steps of a door, hungry and weary, foot sore and tired, without a home, without a friend. His spirits, which had so buoyed him up while journeying, seemed to sink within him, when he reached the goal of his aspirations. And when he found London in reality, so little the London of his anticipations, he could have wept for very disappointment. But his pride disdained conces sion to go back and admit his failure, to confess his disgust — to tread over again the beaten track would never do.

He would make some effort, try something — anything, but must first be fed. He, therefore, on the morning after reaching London late the night before, went into an eating-house, and hav ing nearly brought his finances to a close, by a scanty breakfast, asked, and obtained permission to refresh himself with a wash, and although his lavatory, was none of the most ample, nor its appliances the most elegant, yet for the time the outer and inner man was much refreshed. Having ascertained the way to St. Paul's, he took that direction, intending to enquire as he went along for any vacant situation he thought he could fill. For poor youth, so unsophisticated, and unused was he to London, that he thought if any one was inclined to work, nothing more was needful, than to make application. But when after three or four rebuffs, and several suppressed titters at his greenness, they all declined his offered services ; he felt his heart sicken, his legs began to fail him, and he turned out of the principal streets and wandered towards the river ; where, sitting down on a step of a house, somewhat in an obscure corner — he imperceptibly fell asleep, and remained so until rather roughly awakened by a slap on the back, and a not very gentle shake of the arm accompanied by — " Now, now, young fellow, this way, come get up, this bed seems so soft, you don't like to leave it ; but move on, or I must take ye to the watch house, and let ye be locked up."

" Oh ! do not do that, pray," said Ned, roused in a minute to a sense of his position. " I am, indeed, doing no harm here, and I have no where else to go." " Oh ! that's very fine, young gentleman," said the watchman, " You ain't the first as had no where to go. But, howsomdever, you don't look skulky nor drunk, nor can I see blackguard or liar written in your face. So tell me where you come from, and how you came here at this time of night ? or rather morning, 'tis three o'clock," and the break of day confirmed his words. So sitting down beside the wretched lad, who was shivering with cold and hunger, having tasted nothing since the breakfast of the previous morning, who related in a few words his story, his failure to procure work and his forlorn condition, entreating the evidently kind-hearted old man to ■ recommend him to some method of honestly pro curing bread, no matter what, till something better turned up ; and his pleadings being those of truth were not to be mistaken.

The old watchman, seasoned and hardened almost to scenes of vice and profligacy, could still discriminate and feel for honest want and truth ful misery ; and he doubted not the genuineness of poor Ned's statement. His heart, too, was prompted by another motive, for he, too, had a son, a wanderer on a foreign shore. So taking up his lantern, whose brilliancy was now quite eclipsed by the dawning day, he told the young man to follow him ; but, before doing so, Ned groped about for his bundle, which, on going to sleep, he had placed beside him. But,no bundle was there to be found. He, whose all of worldly wealth was contained in that knapsack, had been robbed of even that little all. It was gone, gone he knew not wither. " Oh ! that last is easily answered," said the watchman, " for you slept so soundly when I came up, that I passed you twice in my rounds, before I found it in my heart to waken you, and as to taking your bundle — why, I could have taken one of your ears, I believe, without waking you, if I had been so minded.

So no wonder your clothes were stolen. I wonder your hat and shoes were spared ; for, now I look at them, they seem a pretty stout pair to have suited the prigs." " But what shall I do," exclaimed Ned. " I cannot now appear even clean and decent, to pre sent myself for a situation." " That you must try when the situation comes," replied his friend ; " but it strikes me the first thing is to prepare your head and eyes which still look rather heavy, by finishing out your nap, which I just now interrupted. So come along with me, this way, it ain't far." Ned having thanked him, followed his conduc tor through a labyrinth of lanes. They then entered a small court, where, taking out a latch key, he opened a door and entered a little brick kitchen. " There," said he, " Will Wetherell ain't a rich man, but he has got a house over his head, and his old wife won't refuse shelter to a stranger — leastwise for one night anyhow."

So saying, he threw his thick watch coat on the floor in a corner, and taking a slice of bread from a cupboard — " There," said he, " eat that, friend, and lay down for a few hours. My wife will be stirring by and bye, and may perhaps find something for breakfast. I must go now, and turn in, so for the present, good-bye." " May God reward you, sir," said Ned, " nor do I quite despair, but what I may somewhen be myself able in part to repay you — your kindness, I never can." " Ah ! well, tell all that to my Nancy," said the old man ; and opening a latch he went up stairs and Ned sank again into repose. What the information was Will Wetherell gave his wife, we know not, but at first his better half demurred at finding a stranger introduced surreptitiously, and argued no good to her household cares by such an addition.

But to silence all and every objection, her lord like a skilful tactician, felt his best policy depended on a coup de main; so he plunged at once into the softest and most vulnerable portion of the enemy's ranks ; and by one stout broadside levelled all opposition. "Only think, Nancy," he said, "if our Bob was left in Australia or Ingee, without one friend, without so much as a bit of bread to stop the cravings of hunger ; much less a bed to lie upon, and perhaps, too, have had his little stock of clothes stole from him, and his last shirt out of the nice set you bought for him taken away from him whilst asleep; worn out with hunger and fatigue, what would you think, Nancy, should you hear a woman, actually a woman and a mother, had refused to give him shelter ? Would you call her a christian?"

"Oh! the unfeeling brute, the hard-hearted Pagan," exclaimed Nancy. " Ah ! I thought you'd say so," said Will, " so you would never be the woman to do the like yourself, would you ? " " No, surely not," said she. " Then don't turn this poor fellow out to starve or die maybe, or what is still worse, herd with thieves and vagabonds, till he becomes one him self." This eloquence produced the desired effect, and brought Nancy to regard their sleeping guest with as much pity as her husband had himself evinced. And when she saw in the morning a fancied resemblance to her only and much idolized boy, she crept about and did all her domestic duties with unusual quietude, took care not to jingle the>tea cups, not drop the tongs or poker to disturb the sleeper ; and when, after a refreshing slumber, in which the old lady had seen a smile on his lips that touched her heart — for she remembered Bob's smile when last he left her.

Edward Miller had been dreaming of home, his own cottage with its honeysuckle and sweet brier over the porch, shedding its beautiful per fume, and which he fancied he was inhaling in the early morning. Then he found himself lean ing over the white paling of Hazel Court, himself an unobserved spectator of a pretty little figure, with nut brown hair, neatly braided over a fair forehead, whose bright dark eyes were fixed on a brood of little nestlings, running about on the green sward of the Court, while here and there a truant chicken would cause her to trip on the dewy grass till her pretty little feet were moistened by the wet sparkling drops that glittered on the surface, and in the daisy cups that she scarcely crushed beneath her feet, so light were her footsteps ; and now she has collected them together, and sprinkles the snowy curds for the little ones, while the. voracious mother hen, is bountifully supplied with corn from her apron, but, not content, she covets the dainty morsel bestowed on her chickens, and to effect this protrudes her head through the opposing bars, when to defeat her gluttonous intention, the board containing the repast is quickly removed beyond her reach.