STRUGGLES FOR LIFE. CHAPTER I. BIRTH AND INFANCY. "This is the place. Stand still, my steed, And summon from the shadowy past Longfellow. HE water in the bay is famous for its clearness; even where the largest ships can ride at anchor, you can see the bright pebbles and the sea-weed at the bottom. As you enter the harbour, there is a green terraced mound on your left hand, evidently the quiet relic of what was once a fortifiChurchbank, cation or castle. The only memorial of war remaining on the spot is a venerable piece of artillery, which probably, in some forgotten age, did service, as the oldest inhabitant has certain traditions on the subject, derived from his grandfathers, which he will circumstantially relate to you for the small consideration of a pinch of snuff. The mound is the favourite resort of children, and you may see them in scores at this moment running around its green base, leaping from its terrace, riding on the old gun, and gambolling at pleasure, as children in all ages B have loved to do, whilst their shouts and laughter come ringing across the smooth surface of the water, and enter your ear as you stand upon the deck of the vessel viewing the dream-like scene. On your right stretches a green shore, with here and there a patch of land well cultivated, while about a mile and a-half inland, a lofty conical hill rises and bounds the view. Right before you lies the venerable old town, stone-built, sea-washed, evidently enjoying repose, and looking as if it had been accustomed to nestle in the bosom of that bay for at least half a dozen centuries. In the centre of the town, like a giant monarch standing among his subjects, the parish church lifts its lofty dome, which sends forth sweet sounds daily to the inhabitants from a set of the finest toned bells in the Queen's dominions. The un usual size of this building, for the purposes of a parish church to a small population, is accounted for by the fact that it was at one time a cathedral. It was built in the early part of the twelfth century. Many a legend, curious and wild, hovers around the history of this noble structure. Beyond, and a little to the right, sleep the ruins of the bishop's palace. Sparrows, starlings, and ivy flourish in the remains of the upper storeys, and rats and kindred vermin enjoy themselves in what were once wine cellars and kitchens, well replenished for ecclesiastical appetites by a people devoted to the ancient Church of Rome. The town itself consists of one long street, as irregular as the stem of a gnarled oak, which shoots out at irregular intervals short lanes, that, like the street itself, at the time of which I write, were odorous with heaps of ashes, rotten fish, and all kinds of abomination, which were allowed to accumulate from month to month, much to the benefit of disease and the doctors.* This is the ancient town of Churchbank. * I understand things are wonderfully improved now, so that "Churchbank" is not to be discovered by the description in the text. FAMILY TRIALS. 3 I was born in Churchbank, and never did more unlikely child live to man's estate; never did feebler infant survive the dangers of infancy and childhood, and weather the storms of subsequent life; and never had the son of poor parents more reason for fervent gratitude to that great and good Being who watches with peculiar care over the helpless, and leads the blind by a way they know not. At the time of my birth, my parents were very poor, although both were descended from ancient and influential families. My father was then in his fiftieth year, my mother being his second wife, and I was the second and youngest child. In early life my father had toiled with great energy, and being a man of superior intellect, of decided piety, and consequently of sober and industrious habits, he had acquired sufficient property to keep him and his comfortable in after-life. He had placed his honest earnings in the hands of two merchanttraders of the place, looking to the interest to meet his moderate wants. His first wife, by whom he had no children, had been an invalid for many years before her death, and as my mother was a person of cheerful temper and good education, in every way fitted to make his home comfortable, he looked forward to the future with composure and hope. But, poor man! his toils and hardships were not yet ended, although he had crossed the meridian of life. About three months before my birth, he was startled with the intelligence that both the traders, in whose hands he had deposited the fruit of thirty years' hard labour by land and water, had become bankrupts, and fled the country. They had left behind them literally nothing, and the capture of the fugitives was not so easy a matter in those days as it is at present. A crew of five fine young fellows perished in the attempt to reach the foreign ship in which it was supposed the fraudulent bankrupts had made their escape. There was lamentation in the town that day, and seeds of sorrow were sown which have not yet entirely ceased bearing fruit. Two of the young men who suddenly found a watery grave on this occasion were brothers, nephews of my father. From respect to their uncle, they had volunteered this hazardous service. My father was stunned by these calamities. But the last bitter drop had not yet fallen into his cup. Unable to bear the shock of these tidings, my mother was suddenly deprived of health; and three months afterwards I was born into the world, the feeblest of poor infants. She never recovered her wonted strength; and when I recall the facts with which I was made acquainted, and recollect the extreme feebleness and sickness of my early years, I am often astonished that both mother and child were not laid in the same grave shortly after my birth. Had not my father been possessed of a strong will, at once chastened and encouraged by undoubting faith in the wisdom of the Divine arrangements, he had quailed, especially at his time of life, to behold these complicated and sudden trials. To begin life again at fifty, especially where there is such a gloomy cause for it as he had, and in the absence, too, of domestic comfort, is no such easy matter as those who have not tried the experiment may imagine. Often, in the days of my childhood, have I wondered at the equanimity of his spirit in the midst of great privations, and at his habit of positive gratitude under all circumstances. He literally obeyed the precept, "In everything give thanks." To the opulent, who stimulate their appetites by rich sauces, it would doubtless sound ridiculous enough to hear a man, whose scanty meal was insufficient to supply the necessities of nature, expressing thanks that he had very little appetite. But I have heard this often, and knew that the man who so expressed himself was as incapable either of falsehood or religious cant, as he was of waylaying and robbing his neighbour. Sometimes my poor loving hearted mother would give way to bursts of grief when she thought of her two poor boys-the youngest of whom was, in all probability, if not mercifully relieved by an early death, destined to be a helpless invalid for life-and of the dark prospect before them, contrasted with the happy circumstance of her own youth, and of the first three years after her marriage. Ön such occasions the father, who felt not only for the children, but the husband who felt keenly for his sorrow-stricken wife, invariably acted the part of a wise consoler, who knew where he had placed his hope, and felt confident that he should not be disappointed. He would say, "Yes, my dear, so far as we can see, our poor boys, should they live, have only a life of poverty and suffering before them; but the future is not to be with us a matter of sight, but of faith. The children belong to God. He is able to provide for them, and I am confident that He will do it." "But if this poor child should never be able to do anything for himself?" "That does not alter the case," he would reply. "God's ability and willingness to take care of His creatures do not depend upon their health and strength; and as we are specially anxious about the feeble one, just because he is feeble, so it may be that God will specially care for him also." "Well, well, I hope they will not be forsaken; but those bad men that robbed us". "Forgive them, dear, as a Christian should." To return to myself. Fancy a child with water on the brain, causing the head to be unnaturally large; fancy the obstinacy of this disease, so great that all the medical skill of the town is unable to remove it; fancy the little sufferer completely given up to death-the case absolutely hopeless-his death-linen waiting ready to be put on, when it shall be satisfactorily ascertained -an exceedingly difficult thing, from his extreme |