Where soft Indulgence counts the hours, and Slavery tends on Pride;

Where tuneful falls, 'mid jasper halls, the fountain's odorous freight,

And, at his nod, as on a god, barbarick menials wait.

Yet would he give his proud domain, with all that tend his will,

So he might press his couch of pain, a trustful infant still;

Might press again that couch of pain, yet not again to rise, But pass away to painless day beneath those gentle

eyes.

GEN. SIR F. H—, K.C.B,

I WELL remember the first scenes of my existence, at least those when my young observation began to look around. I have some indistinct remembrance of a long staircase, and a small room with a sloping roof, a window, a leaden gutter in front, some old flowerpots, and my sister beating me for pulling the leaves; my mother scolding her, with the harsh voice of my father above all; and although these are bygone sensations, I verily believe, could I find out the miserable garret, I should know it again.

My next and more perfect impressions' are of a neat room, with curtains at the window, and a street in front, thronged with people; my father dressed better than most of his neighbours, and my mother and sister in far different attire than I had been accustomed to see them. I, too, was well and warmly clad; had cakes, and oranges, and meat,-all I could desire.

How the change came about I did not know, but I do remember hearing that my father had been lucky, and some of his acquaintances (and he had naughty ill-behaved men always backwards and forwards,) say that he was a clever lucky fellow.

My ideas then were that men and boys ought to swear, for my father seldom spoke without swearing; but that women should not, for my mother never did, and it always seemed to vex her. She was the mildest, softest-mannered creature I ever knew, and if I then had a redeeming quality in my character, it was love for, and imitation (sometimes) of my mother's manner. My father was a tyrant in his family; we none of us dared say anything when he was at home; my mother always trembled when he came in. I remember once in the street saying something to one of my playfellows, in which I mentioned that I was sure it was true, for I heard my father say so; at that moment I received a blow on the head, which felled me to the ground, and then I was lifted up by my clothes, and carried home. I never shall forget the fury with which my father (for it was he who struck me,) stood over me, and the threats he used even of killing me, if ever I repeated any sayings of his. I never did again as long as he lived.

Sometimes we had plenty, at others we fared scantily; and I have seen my father take the very furniture of the room, and for some days, nay weeks, it did not come back. I afterwards found out it was pawned.

"This boy must go to school," said my father, one day, "or he will never be fit for anything. I have made a good thing of that old house lately, so send him;" and to school I went. I learned to read and write, and then was taken away. My father wanted

me.

"F," said he, one day, "you must do something for me to-night; be ready when I call you, and say nothing." I did not like the tone of his voice, nor had I any fancy for what I was to do, although entirely ignorant of its nature; but with me to hear was to

know where to turn; however, I must go home, or my father would beat me. My father!-a murderer? I determined he should be my father no longer;-but how to avoid it? And then my mother, my dear mother! And so home I went.

At the door I met Robert; he was watching for me, and appeared very inquisitive to know "where I had been? why I did not come home sooner?" I could hardly shake him off; but my mother called me, and I was breaking away from his hold when I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder, and looking up saw the face of the chief constable of the town;, a face I knew well. I tottered and fell. What next took place I knew not. No questions were asked me. A posse of constables entered the house; my mother shrieked; all was confusion. They went up-stairs, and, in about half-an-hour, I saw my father brought down stairs upon his bed, and carried out. He looked ghastly pale, but said nothing. When he was gone I own I felt relieved, for I feared, and never could love him; all my love was for my mother, and when they made me walk away with them I cried bitterly for her. I was locked up by myself in the gaol. I slept little that night; my misery was excessive. My food was good; I saw no one but the keeper, and he was very kind. I determined, however, from that moment, never to be concerned in robbery again, not even for my father. I believe I hated him then.

At last I was taken before the magistrates. I had been too well tutored to disclose anything; indeed, I had been in bed by half-past twelve, and not even my mother knew I had been out ;-no one ever came into my bed-room, and I had crept into the old man's house after dark whilst he was at supper. I was, however, remanded. In the afternoon of that day the chaplain of the gaol came to me. He was a mild, kind, pleasant, but grave man; he said nothing to me of the late murder, but talked to me of God and his all-sceing eye,―left me a Bible, and marked down certain places for me to read. In the solitude of that cell I did read; every word seemed to enter my soul. The promises of God to the good vexed and alarmed me, for I knew I was not good. Yet I would read them again and again; and when I found the promise that, "if the wicked man would turn away from his wickedness, he should save his soul alive," I seemed as if I could not take my eye off the passage :-it was a treasure to me. I never shall forget my emotion as I read the 130th Psalm. Could I be included in this? I determined to ask the chaplain, and in the mean time, boy as I was, I kneeled down and asked God. How long I prayed I know not; but I was sobbing as if my heart would break, when I felt a soft hand touch me. I looked up; the owner of the Bible stood before me; his eyes were filled with tears. I turned and clasped his knees, and asked him if God would ever pardon me he gently disengaged me, and sat down upon the side of my bed. We had much talk together, but he never alluded to the cause of my being there. He spoke of a Redeemer, of Jesus Christ, and then said, “I found you praying; let me pray with you,"

and he knelt down. So did I; and he prayed so mildly, so earnestly, so heavenly, every word went to my heart. I was calmed. The effect was like magic ; I no longer feared the gallows so much as the anger of God. When he went away I could have worshipped him. Bad thoughts, however, returned as my excitement passed away-I would not betray! I, indeed, confess! No: I would be a man ;-and then I fell asleep. Is it to be wondered that in the state of my feelings I should have dreamed? I did dream, and the impression of it still remains vividly npon my mind; every thought is now clear before me. I thought that my father and myself had been hanged; that we were dead and lay in the churchyard. Cold, very cold, it was; and I thought my father turned and tried to take hold of me, but he could not: sometimes, indeed, his fingers almost reached me, and I shudderedoh, it was as if a serpent touched me! On the other side was my good clergyman, and he too put out his hand towards me; and I longed as much for his touch as I abhorred that of my father. Presently there came a dreadful figure, and it shook its hand at the chaplain, and told my father to seize me: I can never describe what that figure was like; it haunted me for years: I see it now, but no effort I could ever make was sufficient to describe it. As it spoke, my father again reached out his hand: I felt he must get hold of me, and by a violent effort I rolled towards the other side. The voice of the clergyman said, "If you come to me you must come wholly, entirely,— will you?" I looked at the figure, I felt the cold icy fingers of my father as they began to touch and creep up my side to grasp me, and I cried out, "Yes, yes; wholly and entirely; I will, I will, indeed!" and I awoke.

My hair was on end; a cold sweat ran down my face and limbs; for many minutes I could still but fancy I was dead, and that I felt those cold fingers touch my side; nay, even now I have a feeling of the sensation. It was, however, daylight: I got up: I walked backwards and forwards, terrified and amazed.

Again the thought of being a man, of not peaching, came across me; but, child as I was, I could understand the moral of my dream; I even then thought I must go wholly to God, or that figure would have me. The idea was too dreadful for hesitation; I discarded all thoughts but one; my resolution was made. From that moment I believe I may date that decision of character which has so materially conduced to my success in life. My resolution, I said, was made; "yes; wholly, wholly, I am resolved." I believe few conversions from the ways of iniquity, acting upon a mind as yet not fully imbued with the knowledge of a Saviour, were ever so speedy and so fixed as mine. I waited with impatience until my friend the chaplain came again, and then, asking him to shut the door, told him all, confessed my whole course of life, and my determination to be hanged at once; and turning to my dear 130th Psalm, asked him if God would ever forgive me. His explanation of the Scripture, of the merey to be found in Jesus, and the reason why he

sword; I absolutely devoured his words; I craved more and more; so much so, that more than once the good man stopped and stared at me as if he thought | I was acting a part and deceiving him.

"And what use am I to make of your confession?" he said.

"Any use you please," said I; and he left me. In his next visit he repeated the same question; I at once returned the same answer.

"Do you know that your evidence will hang your father?"

"Oh yes, and myself too."

'No, no, my boy," he said, "not you;" and he explained to me that the law would deal very differently with me.

I asked his advice; he said, that unless it were necessary, he thought I ought not to say anything; but that the crime was so dreadful, the offender must be punished. "Did I know anything of how the old

man was killed?"

I assured him, no; I was in bed, and did not hear of it till the next morning. I did not even see my father go to the house, only I was told to get in and leave the window undone, which I did. "But if I am asked again," I said, "I must tell the truth." "I will endeavour," said he, "to spare you that; and he kept his word. My evidence was not called for; the goods were found upon an accomplice, who turned king's evidence;-it was Robert's father.

I pass over the horror of hearing my father condemned, and the little joy I felt at my own release. Turned out of the gaol, I walked straight home ;I hated the noise of the streets; every one, I thought, stared at and hunted me. I longed to return to that quiet cell where I had learned and felt so much-it appeared a blessed place. I hated liberty, I feared the faces of my accquaintances; but I longed to see my mother and my sister:-I opened the door and walked in. Alas! what a scene awaited me! I shut the door hastily, as one afraid; as if the very stones of the street would rise up against me. I went up at once to my mother's bedroom, for I could see nobody below. The sound of my footsteps brought my sister to the landing; she held up her finger as a sign of silence, and beckoned me towards her. When I came up, we fell into each other's arms, and I believe that silent embrace did more to endear us to each other than all the years of our childhood. Alas! we were alone in the world! Poor Clara had no thought of religion; my impressions were young, and although fixed, yet not strong. She took my hand, and led me into my mother's room-never shall I forget the feeling. I had been prepared to find her unhappy, ill, in tears; but I had expected to kiss her, to comfort her, to tell her my feelings, and to hear her applaud my new resolutions. My hopes of future happiness all rested upon her. I had formed a thousand plans of working for her, and teaching her all that I felt. She was so mild and placid, I was sure she would listen to me, and we should do so

On the bed lay a long, very long, straight form, much taller than my mother, covered with a white sheet. Clara walked before me, and, without a word, turned down the covering of the head. There, sure enough, lay my mother, placid and beautiful as ever, -her sweet countenance with the same expression. But oh! the truth at once flashed upon me-she was dead! Grief, shame, and despair had done their work. She was dead indeed; and all my prospect of future exertion was, as I thought, marred. This was the severest stroke of all to my young heart. I stood like one in a trance; Clara and I remained hand in hand for some time; then we looked at each other, and again at the corpse; then we sat down on the bedside; and more than an hour must have elapsed before either of us spoke. At last I said, “ Clara, let us pray." She stared at me as if she did not know what I meant. I said "Clara, God can help us." Still she did not appear to understand me; but we kneeled down, and I prayed; that is, I said over and over again, "God help us!" "God help us!" &c. These were the only words I could find, but they were from the heart, and they ascended to the Father of Mercies, and we found help.

(To be continued.)

SIGNS.

AMONG the definitions of this word given by Dr. Johnson, we find that it expresses "a picture or token suspended outside a house" for the purpose of distinction. This is the definition of the word hung at the top of our article to which on the present occasion we intend to adhere. We suppose the adoption of "signs" became one of the earliest necessities of enlarged social existence. Places devoted to the purposes of trade, or contrivances for the promotion of commercial intercourse, becoming numerous in particular localities, some simple means of distinguishing each from the other, or from its competitors in the same place, became also indispensable. It was a custom necessarily consequent upon the centralization of men in the form of communities more or less dense, and in the midst of which divers arts and occupations sprang up. In circumstances where streets were often without names affixed, and oftener without any system for the notation of the different dwellings forming them, the tradesman must have early found the expediency of adopting some distinguishing prominent token, to mark his position, and to direct his customers to his establishment. The simplest sign would manifestly be the exhibition outside of a portion of the goods sold within, or a representation of them in some durable material, such

as wood, stone, or iron. Such was probably the first form of development of the sign. A woolpack would designate a woollen merchant, a wheatsheaf a baker or corn dealer, and a bunch of grapes, by allegoric licence, would indicate that juice of the same was procurable within. Signs also served another useful purpose at a period when the dark illiteracy of ignorance reduced the reading portion of the community to an infinitesimal minority. An inscription of the name and nature of the trade was darkness itself to the mass of the people, and possibly could not be readily spelled through by the learned few. But signs were intelligible to every one. Appealing not to the mind, but to the senses, they were universally recognisable; and for the first phases of society these rude tokens were invaluable. As 'society made progress, it will be readily conjectured that trades were created, either by the wants or luxuries of men, the proper expression of which could be conveyed by no generally intelligible sign, although we shall see that an enormous outlay of ingenuity was directed to the accomplishment of this object. In such an emergency recourse was had to a system of arbitrary signs, which were simply, in fact, so many titles of houses or places by which their position should be borne in mind. Therefore, signs which had not the remotest thing in common with the business of the place signified became common, where either the occupation was inexpressible by this means, or where, for the sake of singularity, one chose to deviate from the ordinary track, and sell bread under the sign of the "sheep," or wine under the sign of the "wheatsheaf." After enjoying a long career of usefulness, signs are now vanishing away before the advancing genius of the nineteenth century. This cumbrous mechanism for conveying a simple idea is being swept out of our streets by the far more certain and speedy method of street nomenclature and house enumeration. While the inns yet retain them, and in all probability will long continue so to do, they are disappearing in every other direction, save where some old-time loving inhabitant fondly clings to the swinging memorial, not of the light, but of the darkness" of other days." Before these too are removed by the march of time, we are sure that a little while will not be begrudged in poring over a few of these medals of the Past.

apply to the case of places for trade. An instance of this kind occurs in the sacred text, where the tutelary divinities and the sign of the Roman vessel charged with the conveyance of St. Paul, were Castor and Pollux. Ships of burthen used to have, in addition, a basket suspended on the top of their masts as their sign. Hanging of signs, originally a custom of convenience, at length took the form of a privilege; and in our researches upon this subject we have lighted upon a singular document relative to this point. In the fourteenth year of his reign King Charles I. granted a royal charter of privileges to the citizens of London; in it occurs the following curious clause, which we extract for the benefit of our readers:

"We do give and grant to the said Mayor, Commonalty, and Citizens of the said city, and their successors, that it may and shall be lawful to the citizens of the same city, and any of them for the time being, to expose, and hang in and over the streets, and ways, and alleys, of the said city, and suburbs of the same, Signs, and Posts of Signs, affixed to their houses and shops, for the better finding out such citizens' dwellings, shops, arts and occupations, without molestation, impediment, or interruption of Us, our heirs, or successors." The good inhabitants of the metropolis then, in 1638, estimated at a very different value the system of signs, to those of 1848, since, at the earlier period, it was considered of sufficient importance that this privilege should be perpetually secured by royal charter. We also learn from this extract, that not only were shops thus distinguished, but private dwellings had their signs; and the curious in such antiquities will find frequently upon such old houses as are yet alive, so to speak, either some curious hieroglyphic, or some carved monster, which in their youth served the purpose we are considering. Where a sign was not adopted to characterize a private dwelling, its place was often taken by some pointed, or pointless Latin motto, inscribed in some conspicuous part of the dwelling. The origin, progress, and full establishment of signs as a vehicle of universal language, and as a means for distinguishing places, having been thus imperfectly sketched, we may now, without following any order, because none can be preserved, select for the entertainment of our readers some of the follies and absurdities of the system. Dean Swift says, Wit and fancy are not so much employed in any article as that of contriving signs to hang over houses." And if it is remembered that the ingenuities and witticisms are "not of an age, but of all time," having accumulated during the long period of social history, it was to be expected that a vast mass of singularities must have collected under this head. Swift's keen relish for the ludicrous appears to have made this a favourite study with him, for we read of himself and his companion, that it was their great amusement

"Gravely to try to read the lines Writ underneath the country signs."