his approaching doom, and was in the act of turning his head to speak to the soldiers when a bullet struck him, and he fell dead. José Borjès, a Spaniard, had a longer career, and gave much more trouble to the troops. He kept a diary, which fell into the hands of his pursuers, and is of remarkable interest. He was commissioned by the Bourbonists to take the lead of the 'national' movement in the Two Sicilies. He was particularly directed to proceed to Calabria, with the view of re-establishing the authority of Francis II. He was given to understand that a large force would be placed at his disposal, and that the country would everywhere rise in his favour. He was miserably disappointed. The promised reinforcements did not come. The people did not rise. Day after day, he and his little band were like partridges hunted on the mountains, weary and hungry. When at last a brigand force did join him, he soon found reason to wish himself quit of his allies. They were led by the infamous Crocco, whose horrible cruelties disgusted Borjès, and excited remonstrances that proved all in vain. The brigands stormed a town where the population was loyal to Victor Emmanuel, and, says Borjès, 'It is my painful duty to state that the most absolute disorder prevailed among our soldiers, especially among the chiefs themselves. Thefts, murders, and many other blamable excesses have been the only results of this attack. I have no authority whatever.' Borjès was deprived of all command, and yet held responsible for any disaster. At last he determined that the struggle was hopeless carried on in that way, and that he had better go to Rome for fresh instructions. Pursued and desperate he fought his way towards the frontier. At the last village in Italian territory he determined to give his worn-out followers an hour's rest. That determination was fatal to him. The royal troops came up, surrounded the house in which the brigands were, and forced them to surrender. During the few hours that passed before his execution, Borjès behaved with great calmness. He complimented his captor upon his gallantry. He declared of his two chief comrades that one was a knave and the other a brute. After confession in a small chapel he and his fellow-prisoners were led out to execution. Our last hour is come,' said Borjès, let us die like men.' He kissed his companions, and asked the Bersaglieri to aim at his head. Then, falling on his knees, he began singing with his countrymen a Spanish litany, and they joined in the responses. The litany was interrupted by a discharge of musketry, and Borjès and nine other Spaniards fell dead.

As we have stated, the most vigorous measures taken by the Italian Government have not been wholly successful in suppressing

suppressing brigandage. From time to time we hear of daring feats performed by individual banditti; but it does not appear that the brigands are now acting from political reasons. Manzo, the captor of Mr. Moens, has more recently taken four Swiss gentlemen, and extorted from them a ransom far heavier than that paid by the Englishman. It does not speak well for the activity of the Italian army that this highwayman, for he is nothing else, should still be uncaught, and still be able to carry off travellers.* And yet, as we have shown, there has been no lack of energy on the part of the authorities. Placing under martial law the districts most infested was a severe but most beneficial measure. General Pallavicini's campaign was highly successful, and he made so many prisoners as to almost exterminate brigandage in one province which had suffered most severely. But the brigands found powerful support among the clergy, who are to a large extent Bourbonists. The village priests preached a brigand crusade from the pulpit, and spoke of the wretches whose atrocities we have described, as Our brothers, the brigands.' One priest addressed the Virgin Mary, and declared that he would no longer believe her immaculate if she did not give success to the brigands. These bandits are as superstitious as they are cruel. They generally carry some trinket which has been blessed by the Pope. Nor has Papal aid been confined to these articles. The guns taken from brigands who have fallen in engagements have generally borne the Pontifical mark. It is notorious that there were, if there are not now, offices open in Rome for the recruiting of brigands; a business in which Francis was assisted by the Pope's War Minister, De Mérode. The support of the peasantry has been secured by the payment of large sums for supplies of food. In fact, it would appear from Mr. Moens's book that the brigands were little benefited by their large gains, inasmuch as they had to part with them to the country people in order to obtain the necessaries of life. The approaching completion of the September Convention, by the recall of the French troops from Rome will, perhaps, deprive brigandage of one of its chief supports, Papal sanction. Pius IX. will feel that he must not any longer allow his guest, Francis II., to make Rome the centre of operations against the King of Italy, lest Victor Emmanuel should thereby obtain an excuse for invading the Papal provinces. A still more serious blow to brigandage than the loss of Pontifical support would be the alienation of

* After the above was in type, news arrived of the surrender of Manzo with four of his companions.

the

the peasantry, and that is to be secured by making them responsible for the ransom of 'prisoners' captured. When Pius ceases to bless, Francis to enlist, and the Neapolitans to be manutengoli, there is good hope that one of the fairest countries of Europe will be set free from one of the greatest curses that ever fell upon any country.

THE

ART. VI.-DR. LYMAN BEECHER.

THE 'Autobiography' of Dr. Lyman Beecher has recently been published, under the editorship of his son Charles.* It consists of narratives taken down from Dr. Beecher's lips, or remembered by his children; letters; extracts from pamphlets; and some excellent explanatory and narrative matter by the editor. We propose, with its help, to put before the readers of Meliora' some interesting delineations and anecdotes of a man who was very remarkable in himself, did much good philanthropic work, and has bequeathed to the world a family which includes Henry Ward Beecher and Harriet Beecher Stowe amongst its other distinguished members.

Lyman Beecher was the son of David Beecher and his third wife, Esther Lyman. This David was the son of Nathaniel, who was the son of Joseph, and he was the son of John. We trace the pedigree thus, in order to reach the fact, that John Beecher was the son of Hannah, a widow, who came with the first New Haven immigrants from England in 1638. The three immediate ancestors of Lyman Beecher are said to have been men of physical strength in a descending ratio; Joseph could lift a barrel of cider and drink out of the bung-hole; Nathaniel was not quite so strong, being only able to lift a barrel of cider into a cart; David was short, like his mother, and could lift a barrel of cider and carry it into the cellar. By this queer cider-barrel standard, Dr. Beecher humorously measured the strength of his forefathers; he tells us nothing about his own. But he proved to be a stout temperance reformer, and lived to lift many barrels of wine and spirits out of public favour, and so out of existence.

David Beecher, his father, though a blacksmith, was one of the best read men in New England, and had the respect of educated circles. He had in him a strong dash of the politician, and a love for fun, both which qualities descended

* London: Samson Low, Son, and Marston, 14, Ludgate *

richly to his son. He had five wives in his day, and twelve children, of whom one was Lyman, born October 12th, 1775. To the Anglo-Saxon and Welsh blood in the Beecher veins, Esther Lyman brought an addition of Scotch. She was tall, well-made, and fair, intelligent in conversation, and lovely in character, but died of consumption two days after Lyman, her first child, came into the world. So prematurely born and puny was he, that the nurse, seeing that the mother could not live, thought it useless to attempt to keep the child alive, and actually wrapped him up and laid him aside in murderous despair! Happily, another woman thought she would see if the little thing was living, and, finding it to be so, concluded to wash and dress it, but not without exclaiming 'It's a pity he hadn't died with his mother.' A good Aunt Benton, one of his mother's sisters, took the nursling to her own home; and to her care, and that of a capital nurse-girl, it was that the world owed the preservation of a very valuable life.

The nurse-girl, Annis, only thirteen years of age when she assumed this function for Lyman, had a great influence, Dr. Beecher says, on his character. She was intelligent, wellfavoured, and pious, and in his early days talked with him 'about his soul.' Aunt Benton's husband was a substantial farmer, upright, tall, bright, dark-eyed, and of a pleasant countenance the Uncle Lot Griswold,' in fact, of the 'Mayflower.' Uncle Benton was a saving, contriving, scheming farmer, who made and mended his own tools, harness, and plough, and grew his own food and materials for clothing. The way of life at his house was, therefore, that of varied agricultural and domestic industry,-ploughing, sowing, reaping, hay-making, flax-pulling, wood chopping, sheepshearing, carding, spinning, cheese-making, and the rest of it. Amidst all this wholesome activity the little Lyman spent his first years. He learned also to hunt squirrels, quails, and partridges, and to fish. His Uncle Lot intended to bring him up to the farm, and make him heir to the homestead; but the boy defeated him. It was a long and tough ploughing job that disgusted Lyman with the farm. He was naturally quick, and the plough was slow,-one furrow one way, then back again for another, and by the time the new fifteen acres clearing had been ploughed thrice over, Lyman was inexpressibly sick of the whole concern. That plough,-a curiosity in its way,-branded itself horribly on his memory. It was a curious thing of Lot's own manufacture, clumsy, heavy, patched, with old hoes and pieces of iron; yet Uncle Lot thought much of it. One day the boy drove the ox-team so as to graze the plough with the wheel. There, there, Lyman,'

said the uncle, 'you've run over that plough, and broke it all to pieces.' Why, Uncle Lot,' replied Lyman, 'I haven't touched the plough.' 'Well,' retorted the uncle, 'I'd a great deal rather you had than to have gone so plaguey nigh it.' As ploughing could not fill the boy's mind, he failed to keep his attention properly upon it. He would get lost in reverie and castle-building, and would stalk on, dreaming, for in advance of the plough, until his uncle would say ' Whoa,' and come and give him a shake. One day, soon after that long and hateful task had been completed, Lyman and his uncle were walking together over Toket Hill. The boy fell into a brown study whilst there, and unconsciously kept saying 'Whoa!' ' Haw !' 'Gee!' as if the oxen were under his care at the time. Why, Lyman,' said the farmer, did you think you were driving the oxen?' It was then that Uncle Benton seems to have given up all hope of making the boy an agriculturist. Next day, as they were behind the barn, picking up apples, Lyman,' said he, 'should you like to go to college?' I don't know, sir,' replied the lad. But the next day they were picking up apples again, and without another word having been said by his uncle, the lad said 'Yes, sir, I should.' So the good uncle drove over to New Haven, and talked with the father, and the affair was settled between them. Uncle Lot was to clothe the student, and the father was to do the rest; but most of the bills were ultimately paid by the uncle. Lot Benton adopted another nephew for his heir, and gave him the homestead; but he bequeathed to Lyman a house, besides land, with about two thousand dollars. The work of religious training, begun by Annis, was carried on in the Benton family. Always they had family prayers, and the Bible was read aloud every morning. The first lessons, however, seem to have been chiefly lessons of terror. At that time in New England the Sabbath day was considered to begin on Saturday evening, and the rule was, that play must not begin on Sunday evening before they could see three stars. One Sunday evening, Lyman was too impatient to wait for the sidereal signal. Another boy who saw him said, 'That's wicked, there ain't three stars.' 'Don't care.' 'God says you musn't.' 'Don't care.' 'He'll punish you.' 'Well, if he does, I'll tell Aunt Benton.' 'Well, he's bigger than Aunt Benton, and he'll put you in the fire, and burn you for ever and ever." That took hold. Lyman understood what burning meant, and the' for ever' moved him deeply. 'What emotion,' said he once, I had thinking "no end, no end!" It has been a sort of main-spring ever since.' The schoolmaster, Terror, was rough and coarse, but his lesson was not rejected by the scholar, who grew up serious-minde

of