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the barrel-it keeps all sound and savoury. And, finally, it is incumbent to say that he who overtasks his days has no evenings. In our country, thank God! labour need not be immoderate to keep one alive. There is such a thing as working too much, and thus becoming a mere beast of burden. I could name some men, and more women, who seem to me to be guilty of this error. Consequently, when work is past, they are fit for nothing but solid sleep. Such are the men and the women who have no domestic pleasures; no reading, no improvement, no delightful evenings at home."

I crown thee king of intimate delights,

Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know.-CowPER.

CONCLUSION.

Had space permitted, we should have gladly availed ourselves of the opportunity of making observations on a few other topics. It might have been desirable, for instance, to show workmen of all ranks the necessity for sending their children to school, and giving them such an education as is consistent with their means -and how much more honourable it would be to do so, than to make their children mere engines of profit by sending them into factories. We should likewise have wished to show the fallacy of the too-industriously-propagated notion that employers, as a body, are animated by any species of desire to oppress workmen, by unduly keeping down their wages or otherwise; though, possibly, any representations to the contrary on our part, might have little influence in modifying prejudices which time and experience will alone effectually dispel. Partly in connexion with this subject, and while recommending social harmony among all classes as very desirable for the common weal, we would have been anxious to sympathise with the working-classes in some adverse circumstances to which they may continue to be less or more exposed; at the same time, however, assuring them that while health is spared, and remunerative labour is to be had, their condition admits of much varied happiness. "It is not uncommon,” observes an author lately quoted, to hear mechanics and other working-men repining at their lot in life, especially as compared with that of such as are engaged in the learned professions. In hours of despondency, those are imagined to be happy who are freed from the necessity of manual labour, whether as men of wealth or of letters. Contentment is the best policy. All is not gold that glitters. Inaction is not ease. Money will not purchase happiness. Lords and ladies are often very wretched people; and the instances are numerous in which even kings

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have thought men of humble stations the happiest. M. D'Alembert relates that Frederick, king of Prussia, once said to him, as they were walking together in the gardens of Sans Souci, 'Do you see that old woman, a poor weeder, asleep on that sunny bank? She is probably happier than either of us.' So, also, Henry IV. exclaims, in Shakspeare

'Canst thou, oh partial sleep! give thy repose

To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and aids to boot,

Deny it to a king?'

that every

which may remind us of a saying of a greater and wiser king than either: The sleep of a labouring man is sweet, whether he eat little or much; but the abundance of the rich will not suffer him to sleep.' And before I dismiss my royal witnesses, let me cite King James I. of England, who used to say that the happiest lot in life was that which set a man below the office of a justice of the peace, and above that of a petty constable. The truth is, labour is not an evil. 'In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,' sounds like a curse, but has been made a blessing by our benign Creator. Health, strength, and cheerfulness are promoted by the proper use of our bodily powers. Among the Jews, labour was accounted so honourable and so necessary, man used to be bred to some trade, that so he might have a resource in case of misfortune. The same sentiment has prevailed in other Eastern nations. One of the Hebrew rabbis has the surname of the Shoemaker, and another of the Baker. Sir Paul Ricaut somewhere mentions that the Grand Seignior, to whom he was ambassador, had been taught to make wooden spoons. There cannot be a greater mistake than to suppose that mental exertion is less wearing than the labour of the hands. Head work is the hardest work in the world. The artisan feels this if at any time he has to spend a whole day in calculation. All men of learning testify to the same truth, and their meagre frames and sallow complexions tell a plainer tale than their words. Sir Edward Coke, the great English lawyer, speaks thus concerning his great work: 'Whilst we were in hand with these four parts of the Institutes, we often, having occasion to go into the country, did in some sort envy the state of the honest ploughman and other mechanics. For one, when he was at his work, would merrily sing, and the ploughman whistle some self-pleasing tune, and yet their work both proceeded, and succeeded; but he that takes upon him to write, doth captivate all the faculties and powers both of his mind and body, and must be only attentive to that which he collecteth, without any expression of joy or cheerfulness while he is at his work." Will not these words breathe a degree of consolation to many who heedlessly consider that all toil is confined to the working-classes.

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ROM the year 1807 to 1814, Spain and Portugal were the theatre of one of the most desperate warlike struggles recorded in history, and which is usually spoken of in England as the Peninsular War. The origin of this remarkable contest was partly civil dissensions, arising from the weakness and incompetence of the reigning powers, but principally the ambition of Napoleon Bonaparte, at that time Emperor of the French, who entertained the design of subduing the whole Peninsula to his authority, and forming it into a kingdom for one of his own family. At first, the native forces of Spain and Portugal made an effort to withstand this foreign aggression; but so far as they were concerned, it would have proved a hopeless struggle. Great Britain, in vindication of her policy in overthrowing the enormous, and, as it was believed, dangerous power of Napoleon, plunged into the disturbance, and in 1808 despatched an army to support the Spanish and Portuguese forces. After this event, the contest in the Peninsula became in reality an English and French war.

The native or patriot armies, as they were called, were as much an incumbrance as a help; and in history they are little heard of, and are only alluded to with the contempt which demoralisation never fails to merit. The principal leaders on

No. 171.

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the part of the British were Sir John Moore, and Lord, afterwards Duke of, Wellington. The chief French generals were Junot, Massena, and Ney.

For six years this fearful war raged throughout the Peninsula. On each side there were in arms from 120,000 to 200,000 men. The French gained many victories, but seldom with any permanent advantage. Succeeding engagements weakened their power; and the fortresses they had taken were captured by sieges and bombardments, the most appalling in their details in the annals of warfare. The French, however, had another kind of foe to cope with besides the English armies, and one which materially contributed to discomfit their projects. This was the guerillas. Guerilla is a Spanish word, signifying a small or petty war, and is applied to persons who lie in ambuscade, to kill whatever enemy comes within reach of their carbines. Spain became an extensive scene of this irregular warfare. While the regular Spanish troops were disgracing themselves by cowardice, and leaving strangers to fight their battles, bands of peasants and others, armed with short muskets, pistols, and daggerssometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback-entered with zeal into the struggle which was going on, and remorselessly cut off every Frenchman who had the misfortune to fall into their hands.

In vain did the French endeavour to extirpate the guerillas. Their tactics consisted in never presenting a tangible part to any large body sent out against them. Having effected their purpose in cutting off small detachments, intercepting couriers with despatches, or seizing supplies, they quickly disappeared in the mountains-only to reassemble at a new point, in order to attempt some fresh outrage. Language cannot describe the vindictiveness, the cunning, and the intrepidity of these men. The greater number had in some way been injured by the invasion: their houses had been burnt; members of their families had been killed or insulted; and their prospects altogether ruined. Added to these causes of hostility against the French, many of them were fired with an extraordinary patriotic zeal and religious fanaticism, and counted it a pious service to rid the earth of wretches who had deluged their country with blood, and desecrated all that religion taught them to venerate. What may seem more strange, the Spanish women, animated with an equally implacable hatred of the French, often performed deeds rivalling in atrocity those committed by guerilla marauders. Nowhere were prisoners safe from female poniards; and thousands of sick and wounded, consigned to hospitals, were ruthlessly murdered. The only hope of safety for the vanquished or disabled French consisted in falling into the hands of the British, by whom they were protected, and sent out of the country as prisoners of war. According to regular military maxims, none of these furtive and vindictive measures could be sanctioned by the English

commander-in-chief; yet neither was the guerilla mode of warfare unacceptable in the existing state of affairs. The guerillas ranked as a convenient body of skirmishers, whose fidelity could be reckoned on; and they were useful in proclaiming, in all quarters, and with almost telegraphic rapidity, any victories achieved by the British forces.

It may be supposed that the guerilla system could not have attained to consistency or importance without an acknowledged head. This personage was Juan Martin Diez. He was the son of a peasant, and was born in the district of Valladolid, in Old Castile, in 1775. In his youth he was a soldier, and served some time as a private in a regiment of dragoons. Quitting the army on the restoration of peace, he returned home, married, and betook himself to agricultural employments. Patriotism, and a love of enterprise, drew him from his peaceful labours on the invasion of the territory of Spain by Napoleon. In 1808, he placed himself at the head of a party of four or five of his neighbours, and commenced hostilities against the enemy; killing their couriers, and thus obtaining a supply of horses, arms, and ammunition. The cruelties of the French having procured him many associates, he prosecuted with uncompromising rigour his system of annoyance and extermination. At this period he acquired the appellation of the Empecinado, from the darkness of his complexion. With the increase of his band, he extended the sphere of his operations, and performed feats of daring and ingenuity which would fill a volume of narrative.

The Empecinado was no ordinary man. He possessed great strength and powers of endurance, was ready in device, and although not without some of the imperfections of the Spanish character, he was honest, generous, and grateful. Among his countrymen he was highly esteemed for his bravery and patriotic ardour; and it cannot be doubted that, had he been exposed to a more fortunate class of circumstances, he would have attained a world-wide renown, instead of the narrow popularity of a Spanish partisan warrior.

It is chiefly of an incident in the career of the Empecinado that we propose to speak in the ensuing historiette. Greatly disinclined to recall the remembrance of military strife-cordially detesting war on principle-anxious to spread sentiments of peace and good-will among men-the relation of any circumstances connected with the war of independence in Spain is scarcely congenial with our feelings. What we have to say, however, is not a recital of battles and slaughter, calculated to excite the youthful fancy, but an anecdote illustrative of the unhappy condition into which a country may be thrown by military convulsion, and of the grateful emotions which were entertained by one who might almost have been called a houseless outlaw.

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