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day, as heretofore. Each of us had several times presented plans of escape, more or less hazardous, but we had been obliged to give them up as impracticable.'

Guillemard was, however, mistaken in these gloomy prospects. He and his two associates had the good - luck to discover one night a boat on the shore brought by three English sailors: this they adroitly seized, and, after a couple of days' hard toil at sea, they were landed on a part of the coast of Spain, and in a little time fell in with their respective regiments, by which they were joyfully received.

So ends the account of the French prisoners of war in this miserable island, where most of them probably remained till the peace of 1814. In lately going through one of the back streets in Paris, near the foot of the Rue St Honoré, we casually observed an inscription over a door, Café de l'Isle de Cabrera;' and it suggested to the mind, that this was probably a house of entertainment kept by one of the surviving companions of the French serjeant.

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THE VILLAGE BROOM-MAKERS.

ENGLISH Country villages and towns have their passing subjects for amusement as well as the great city itself. Practical joking-a dangerous weapon of its kind-outof-door sports, and betting, and the writing of quizzical rhymes on a neighbour, form at all times a pretty good staple of entertainment. He who has the ability to pen a verse-make lines which will jingle-is reckoned at once a poet and a person of no small consequence; one whose acquaintanceship is well worthy of cultivation. Some years ago, while residing for a short period in a village on the borders of the weald in Sussex, we had an opportunity of marking these peculiarities, and of gathering a few particulars regarding a humble family in which one of these great versifiers appeared.

Poor old Matthew Gedge followed the profession of a broom-maker in the weald, and, as we are told, had for years been noted for the excellence of his rude wares; but of this eminence he was much less proud than of another cause of supposed distinction—namely, that of having a son who, as he fondly imagined, exhibited an extraordinary talent for poetry. Nothing could exceed Mat's delight in chuckling over this splendid accomplishment-splendid, for it promised to do great things for the family.

This youth of promise had been christened Tom, because it had been the favourite name in the family for ages, or ever since old Gedge's great-grandfather's brother Tom obtained celebrity as a poet under the following circumstances :-A whale that had been wounded, perhaps in the North Seas, had wandered into the British Channel, and there attracted the attention of several fishermen belonging to the town of Folkstone, in Kent, who were out mackerel-catching in their well-constructed boats. The energies of every man were directed to the capture of the huge monster. They occupied several hours in the endeavour to entangle it in their nets, or to force it on the Kentish shore; but after having in vain employed every means that could be devised, in which their strength was exhausted, they were almost brokenhearted at the sudden disappearance of the whale to the depths below. The bleeding fish, however, still pursued its course along the coast, and neared the shore off Hastings, in Sussex, where it got into shallow water. The fishermen of this town immediately assembled all their strength, and soon vanquished the defenceless enemy. The tackle was well adjusted, and the expiring whale was towed and drawn on the beach by capstans, amid shouts of triumph. This was considered a deed so worthy of commemoration, that a sum was set apart by the captors, as a premium for the best poetical effusion on the subject. Among the number who, on this occasion, invoked the muse, old Gedge's great grandfather's brother Tom was dubbed the Fisherman's Poet Laureate.

The lines which gained him this distinction were these

'A mortal great whale comed off our coast, indud!

The Folkstoners cou'dn't catch un, but the Hasteners dud.' This elevation above his fellows was not to be permitted to slide into oblivion, although, like the gout in some families, it might lie dormant for a generation or two; so the Gedges' ancestral lustre was thought to have been smouldering for a time, and now to burst into extraordinary effulgence in young Tom. Poor old Gedge looked on his son as a superior being in embryo; his good dame, however, who had no poetry in her composition, and was of a more sober way of thinking, discouraged such a hallucination.

'A tell e what,' he would say again and again to his sagacious helpmate, 'a do think our Tom be a mortal clever chap, he ha gotten such a pretty nack o' wroiting poetry.'

'Ay, there it be again,' she would grumble: 'a do wish e wou'dn't talk such nonsense-e be chock full on't te ycar, a do think. A tell e what, Tom ad better moind his work: there be morts o' heath to bind, an' there be no handles ready?

'Now, doant e zay that, deam: why there be fourscore ready, a did we moy own hands this vera day.'

'Did e do so? then more sheam to Tom to let e, whoile he be sitten scratchen head, an' lookin' at flies on bacon rack, whoil nauthen do e do we pen but twiddle and twiddle, tell a be just ready to throw all into fire. I tell e what, measter, meaking brooms be mortal deal better than meaking werses, vor nauthen do come on't.'

'Ay, ay, deam! never moind, it be all in good toime. A must zay e knaw no more about poetry than a cat do o' an eclipse. Look at what be wroitten up o' the signpost at John Charnam's out at Warnham. People stop and read 'em over and over again; sum on um do laugh mortally-zo doan't e zay Tom bean't a poet. A tell e, deam, he ha got the roight sort o' stuff in his head, else how cou'd such mortal pretty words all noisely packed

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up in poetry, come trickling out at end o' his pen? Listen deam

And up

"John Charnam doth live here,

To play at cricket I do not fear;
Bats and balls he also keeps,

And welcome every friend I meets."

t'other soid of signpost there be—

"I, John Charnam,

Will do half-annum

With ere a long-legged man in Warnham."

Half-annum, deam, do mean hop, step, an' jump; an' it be all mortal clever, I must zay that.'

'Faugh!' exclaimed the old woman: 'a do knaw that nauthen but broom-meaking wull pay the rent; a do tell e that, measter.' And with this home-thrust the debate was usually terminated.

After several months had passed in such contention, a circumstance occurred that brought the old man an argument most triumphant, and to which his dame, however reluctant, was compelled to yield. A man named Wilkinson had been for some years a barber in the town, although originally bred a shoemaker; so, as shaving fell off, he took up that of cobbling. This change gave offence to Mr Scardifield, the first shoemaker and cobbler in the town; and young Tom Gedge was requested to write a few lines, by which the said Wilkinson might be put into utter insignificance. Tom tried, and received twenty shillings for his production. The poetry not only appeared in manuscript, but Scardifield had it painted on a large board, and placed over his shop window

John Scardifield, a man of good renown,

As any in this pretty little town,

Lives here, a cobbler in his stall,

Who will make or mend shoes with any of them all;

And there is one Tim Wilkinson, who knows

That people do not shave who must have shoes;

So leaves off taking any by the nose,

To place bad leather on the people's toes.

But, ladies and gentlemen, I'll let you into the light,

What he puts together in the morn, comes to pieces long before night.'

Such a wonderfully clever effusion produced the desired

effect, and the jibes became so grating to Tim Wilkinson, that he applied to young Tom Gedge to write a counteracting poetical showboard forthwith. Tom hummed and hawed so long, that Wilkinson endeavoured to win over old Gedge, that his influence with the poetical youth might produce a few lines that should annihilate Scardifield outright. This was rather an embarrassing affair to the old man, who perceived the inconsistency; but he submitted it to his dame, who at once replied: "That's what cums o' wroiting poetry, but what meak such a woundy clatter for? A tell e what: a think if Tom do set up a poetry-shop, a moight as well serve one as t'other we his articles, just as 'twere we brooms.' This was a clenching argument; still there was a more powerful reason in favour of Tom's undertaking the business. Tim offered forty shillings, and therefore it is not surprising that he at once agreed to Wilkinson's proposal. In the course of the succeeding night, he hammered out the following inimitable lines

'Here lives a shoemaker who people shaved,

Tim Wilkinson his name. Most well behaved;
He tells John Scardifield, to poze his empty noddle,
That henceforth thinking people will refuse

To wear his ill-made boots and worthless shoes,
That pinch their toes, or make them limp and woddle,
And sets one's teeth on edge to see them try to toddle.'

Two pounds were paid for them by Wilkinson, and
many printed copies were handed about the town; but it
never appeared on a board to compete with its rival over
Scardifield's window. Tom's mother's opinion was found
to be correct. She prophesied that no more fools would
be found to commission such stuff; that poetry, even if it
were much better, would never pay the rent, or make the
pot boil.
And these two points, with all respect to
literature, she, like a good housewife, strongly insisted

on.

Old Gedge could not well rebut the pithy sayings of his dame, and he at length softened into silence, although, till the day of his death, he believed his son to be a prodigy of poetical genius. Tom, having received a few quiet hints regarding the folly of his aspirations, took his

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