ILLUSTRATIONS OF HUMANITY.

No. XLIII.-THE DANCING MASTER. DANCING is an exercise or accomplishment. -some call it by the one name, some by the other-which can boast of a very remote antiquity. It is spoken of in the earlier periods of sacred history. But that the dancing of the ancient Jews was very different from the dancing of this country, it were easy to prove, were it not that the proof would trench too much on our limited space. Dancing is a universal as well as ancient exercise; there is hardly a nation on earth in which it is not one of the most favoured amusements. The black coloured race, whether in Africa or Asia, are inveterately attached to dancing. So great, indeed, was the partiality of the negroes of the West Indies to it, even when worked, in the days of slave-domination, under a burning sun for fourteen or fifteen consecutive hours, that immediately, on quitting their work at night, they were in the habit, on particular occasions, of beginning the dance, and carrying it on until the following morning. And the negroes dance with a cordiality and energy of which we have no idea; there are no lazy or formal evolutions with them. They foot the floor in earnest; they enter on the exercise, and what is more, go through it, with a vigour which might put to shame the trippers of the "light fantastic toe" among us. Even in the northern regions of Great Britain— we mean in the Highlands of Scotland-the amusement of dancing is practised with immeasurably greater spirit than in England. A hearty well-executed Highland fling, forms a striking contrast to the feeble, timid, and lifeless dancing in this part of the country. We have long been curious to know whether or not dancing be systematically taught in barbarous countries, where the natives are so passionately fond of it; or whether they are all self-instructed geniuses in the art. In this country dancing is a somewhat expensive accomplishment; especially to those families who are ambitious of seeing their children adepts in the practice. Many dancing masters-professors they call themselves—make a comfortable livelihood by teaching young legs and ancles to perform their motions with gracefulness and agility. A few of their number, as in almost every other profession, have realised their small independencies; and then retiring from it, have contemptuously and ungratefully thrown to the dogs the fiddle, bow and all, by means of which they had earned their money. The Dancing Master is a very consequential person in his own estimation; he thinks the world could not contrive to get on at all without him. He deems himself a far more important personage than even the prime minister himself. His profession he regards as the most aristoeratic extant. He asks himself, What would fashionable society be but for his services; and he concludes it would be nothing-that it would cease to be fashionable society at all. He reads of the routs at Northumberland House, or the waltzes and quadrilles at

Almack's; and he thinks in his own mind what a valuable member of society he must be who sets them all in motion. He judges of the merits and the accomplishments of all he meets with, by the elegance, or otherwise, of their carriage; whether they walk along the streets or practise their locomotion within doors. He is a severe critic on feet and ancles; and feels a sovereign contempt for the man or woman, no matter how intellectual, whose lower extremities do not come up to his standard. Byron himself would have been less than nothing in his estimation, because it was his misfortune to have a malformation in his foot. The Dancing Master is a prim person in his dress, as well as remarkable for his conceit. He is ambitious of being deemed a dandy; and yet there is something in his appearance which at once enables you to perceive that he is not one of the right sortthat he can claim no legitimate connexion with the Beau Brummelism of the present day. His dandyism, however, such as it is, remains with him to the last. He practises his "scientific" movements so long as he can move a limb; and when he comes to die, he would, if he were to have his own way of it, die in a graceful posture.

ENGLISH SEATS AND SCENERY.

No. V.-CHATSWORTH.

PART FIRST.

CHATSWORTH, the ancient residence of the Cavendish family, and the princely seat of the present duke of Devonshire, (whose elegant taste has added so much to the previous beauties of the spot), is situate near the little village of Edensor, among the Peak hills of Derbyshire, and on the banks of the Derwent, which is here reduced to the size of a mountain rivulet. This part of Derbypiece of Scotland, which has found its way into the heart shire, as indeed most of the county, may be considered a of England. The craggy heights here and there clad in tangled shrubs and plantations, the brown heathy moors, where the bleat of the sheep or wild cry of the curlew, alone, recall the breezy hills of Scotland; the irregular and picturesque vales, down which pour the tumbling brooks and rivulets brawling among the rocks, or occa sionally forming dark and silent pools, choice haunts of the angler; the greystone built cottages and farm houses, all remind us of the pastoral districts of the north.

The village of Edensor, at the entrance to Chatsworth, has been in a great measure rebuilt, and is most picturesquely laid out with buildings and gardens in the Elizabethan and Tudor styles. The woodland scenery of the park around the mansion is much enhanced by the refreshing waters of the Derwent, over which the elegant stone bridge by Payne, is said to be from a design of Michael Angelo. The park is pleasingly irregular in surface, dotted over with trees and furnished with deer, or as we should say in forest phrase, well stocked with verp and venison.'

Proceeding from the charming hostel at Edensor, (a model by the way of a quiet and picturesque country inn), of the majestic mansion, placed below us on the farther we have from the summit of a tufted knoll the first glance or left bank of the Derwent, and in rather a confined though well-sheltered situation, between the river and the

artificial cascades, and a variety of jets d'eau and waterworks in the Versailles style, constructed by a French engineer about a century ago. The artificial weeping willow, for playing off a practical joke on unsuspecting visitors, has often been heard of.

A general idea of the views displayed in this beautiful park may be got by Mr. Rhodes' description.

"A little to the left was the building, backed with broad and ample foliage; cattle reposing in groups on the bank of the river, or cooling themselves in the stream, adorned the foreground; and the middle and remote distances ornamented with towers and temples, disclosed altogether a scene as rich and as lovely as the fancy of Claude ever portrayed."

The noble family of Cavendish is one of the richest, most ancient, and honourable in England. They derive their origin from Robert de Gernon, a soldier of eminence, who attended Williani the Conqueror in his invasion; and from a great grandson, whic assumed the name of Cavendish, the present family derive.

In 1586, one of his descendants was Sir Thomas Cavendish, the famous navigator, who was the third person and the second Englishman who circumnavigated the globe.

But Sir William Cavendish, a vast landed proprietor in the time of Henry VIII., is the person who first laid the fortunes of the family. By his marriage with Elizabeth Hardwicke, (better known in her own time as Bess of Hardwicke,) widow of Sir William St. Loo, and afterwards countess of Shrewsbury, he increased still further his princely fortune, and by his lady had six children, who were destined eventually to found two illustrious dukedoms. After his death in 1560, his widow, who is well known to have been a woman of extraordinary powers, and a masculine and ambitious spirit, again married in 1565, George Talbot, earl of Shrewsbury, at that time one of the richest and greatest subjects in England, a fine chivalrous character, with a reputation as unstained as his rank was splendid, and his descent illustrious. The countess' own estates were settled on her children by Cavendish; but not satisfied with this, she soon arranged a double union, by which they should be still further aggrandised. She stipulated that her eldest daughter, Mary Cavendish, should marry lord Talbot, (afterwards Gilbert, seventh earl of Shrewsbury), the earl's son by his first countess, lady Gertrude Manners, and that his youngest daughter should be espoused by her eldest son, Henry Cavendish.

as Tutbury and Wingfield, in the same neighbourhood, are associated with Mary's mournful history, and receive a charm and interest as once the residence of the beautiful and hapless Mary of Scotland. The bed and furniture which had been used by Mary, the cushions of her oratory, the tapestry wrought by her own hands, are all here, and carefully preserved. There can be no doubt of the authenticity of these relics, and there is enough surely to consecrate the whole to our imagination. In the little Gothic church of Edensor, is a monument to one of Mary's most faithful attendants, John Beton, who died at Chatsworth at this time. He had entered her service early in life, and was a grand-nephew of the celebrated cardinal Beton. This John Beton aided in the queen's escape from Lochleven.

After the death of the countess of Shrewsbury in 1607, the Cavendish family succeeded to the vast property in Derbyshire, which had been settled upon them by their mother; and in 1618, her second son William, then in possession, was advanced by James to the dignity of first earl of Devonshire; and his descendants have succeeded lineally to the present time.

But enough of mere genealogical detail. We shall now refer to a few of the portraits and paintings which adorn the walls of Chatsworth.

First, is that of lady Arabella Stuart, the beautiful but unfortunate inmate of the court of James I., and one of the most memorable victims of jealous tyranny which our history has recorded. Lady Arabella was a daughter of lord Lennox, (younger brother of Darnley), and of lady Elizabeth Cavendish, the favourite daughter of Bess of Hardwicke. The young lady Lennox, while yet in her bridal bloom, died in the arms of her mother, and her daughter, lady Arabella, was brought up and educated by her grandmother at Hardwicke. Her aunt, Mary countess of Shrewsbury, who was imprisoned by James for two years, in consequence of lady Arabella's stolen match with William Lord Seymour, hangs in the same apartment. Lady Arabella, also, soon after her marriage, was committed along with her husband, (afterwards the second duke of Somerset,) prisoners to the Tower, in consequence of the jealous feelings of James and his family, the young lady being a near heiress to the crown. She did not long survive, having died in the Tower in September 1615. The duke of Somerset married secondly Frances Devereux, daughter of the earl of Essex, the well-known favourite of Elizabeth.

We believe she was here in 1571, and again for a short period in 1573, 1577, and 1581.

+ Welbec Abbey and its policies suffered during the Nottingham riots, in the summer of 1830. Upon that occasion, three of the finest seats in this part of England were burned down in one night by a large party of rioters from Nottingham. These were Nottingham castle, a seat of the duke of Newcastle; Wollaton hall, of lord Middleton; and Colwick hall, a seat of Mr. Musters.

THE HIGHWAYMEN OF FINCHLEY

COMMON.

BY ALEXANDER ANDREWS.

FIFTY years ago, it was deemed as daring an exploit to cross Finchley common, or Hounslow heath, after sunset, as it would be now to penetrate into the centre of an

enemy's camp, unarmed and single-handed. and warlike, indeed, were the preparations which had to be made previous to passing over these footpad-haunted commons, even in broad daylight. The post-chaise of the adventurous traveller (for omnibuses were never dreamt of in those days,) had to be equipped with divers weapons of defence, such as pistols, swords, and blunderbusses, and the postilions had to be fortified with deep potations of brandy and water, before the hazardous journey could be commenced; and then, as the chaise rattled over the sandy road of the common, obscured in a cloud of dust, vigilant was the watch kept up within. If only a tree moved, the travellers were quite satisfied that at least half-a-dozen highwaymen were concealed behind it, and the pistols were cocked in order to give them a warm reception. Then, when no highwayman appeared, and the suspicious tree was passed, the travellers grew courageous, and "only wished they had come, they'd have got the worst of itthat they would." And when the post-chaise had cleared the dreaded spot, and was once more drawn up before the door of some comfortable-looking inn, the adventurers would sit over the parlour fire, relating to the attentive villagers the conflicts which they had had with bands of mounted robbers, in which, by some singular chance, the latter were invariably routed.

Such a party as this was assembled in the parlour of the Castle Inn, at Finchley, in the evening of the 27th of February, 1775. Two gentlemen had just alighted from | a large clumsy vehicle, honoured in those days with the name of a chaise, and were narrating to the company how they had been met by two footpads with crapes over their faces,-how the said footpads had presented a pistol at each ear, and demanded their money or their lives;-how each gentleman had heroically replied "Neither!" and knocked the robbers down,-and, finally, how they had chased the footpads across the common, until they compelled them to take refuge in a tree, and, having no time to lose, allowed them to remain. During the progress of this alarming narrative, one of the audience, an elderly little gentleman with a hairless scalp, had been observed as particularly attentive, occasionally ejaculating a "Bless my soul!" or "Dear me!" and when it was concluded, he inquired, first casting a nervous look over his shoulder, "And were you not frightened, gentlemen ?"

I should think not," replied one of the travellers, laying great emphasis on the little pronoun, frightened, indeed!"

"Do you think they are likely to return?" demanded the old gentleman, anxiously.

"Not they," replied the hero of the chaise. Thus reassured, and his courage in some degree restored, the old gentleman inquired if his post-chaise were ready, and being answered in the affirmative, paid his bill, put on his great coat and cocked hat, armed himself to a degree sufficient to encounter an army, and wishing the company good night, stepped into his vehicle.

"Drive as fast as you like over the common, coachee," he cried, as he pulled up the glasses of the window. "Ay, ay, sir," was the reply.

On galloped the two horses, as fast as their eight legs could carry them, whilst, ever and anon, the elderly traveller cast wistful glances over the common. Arrived unmolested about half-way across, he was congratulating himself on his safety, and resolving within his own mind, that all the tales he had heard were false, when an elongated and extraordinary shadow was reflected by the moon across the road, and a grating noise, like the turning of rusty hinges, convinced the traveller that his last hour was come. He involuntarily raised his eyes, and found that the cause of his alarm was a gibbet, placed at the side of

Shuddering at the sight, he relinquished his hold of the pistols, with which his hands had somehow or other come in contact, and sunk back in his chaise in a profound reverie on the wickedness of the world. He had just arrived at the conclusion that, out of the entire population of the globe, not more than two or three honest men, besides himself, could be found, when an imperative demand to stop, echoed over the common. Still, however, the horses pursued their course, till at length a horseman rushed past the window, a heavy blow was dealt, and the chaise stopped. In an instant, each of the chaise doors was opened, and our traveller, scrambling up his weapons, and seizing a brace of pistols in one hand, and a blunderbuss in the other, discharged them through the roof in an agony of desperation.

"Ho, ho!" cried a hoarse voice at his side, "resistance, eh! hold him, Bill."

A tall, stout-built figure entered the chaise and pinioned its little occupant.

"For mercy's sake,-in the king's name, I command,I conjure you," exclaimed the prisoner, alternately having recourse to threats and entreaties, "spare my life!--I have no money to give you, indeed I have not.-Now mind, sirrahs, how you treat a British subject; I know you, I can identify you, and you may yet find the law too strong for you, so-"

"Your money or your life!" shouted the highwayman, drawing his sword; "choose quickly, or in another minute I pin you to the chaise !"

66

Oh, spare me, spare me !" cried his diminutive victim, large drops of perspiration trickling down his face.

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For the last time I ask you-your money or your life!" demanded his tormentor, fiercely; but scarcely had he uttered the words, when a blow from behind felled him to the ground. His companion sprang to his assistance, and a desperate skirmish ensued between the assailant and the assailed. A heavy blow was succeeded by a deep groan, and the chaise moved rapidly onward.

Meanwhile the ideas of our elderly adventurer were scattered in a very chaos of confusion; the one, however, which was uppermost in his imagination was the hope of ultimate escape. But when he perceived that he was being drawn along at the rate of twelve miles an hour, across the common, it for the first time occurred to him that the horses might have run away. Alarmed at the idea, and conceiving the bottom of the chaise the safest place in the event of a collision, he squeezed his little body under the seat, and remained there till the horses suddenly stopped, and the door was once more opened. Wondering whether he was again to encounter à mounted highwayman, under existing circumstances our old gentleman deemed it prudent to remain concealed, until the voice of his postilion, announcing that he had arrived at his destination, in some measure removed his apprehension.

see.

"Well, coachee," said he, emerging from his place of refuge, and looking suspiciously round. “ Oh, it is you, I Well, it's all right, I suppose ?" "All right, sir." "Well, you know," he whispered, slipping a fiveshilling piece into the fellow's hand, "there's no occasion to say where I had concealed myself; the fact is, I had dropped my glove, and was feeling for it under the seat." "I understand, sir," replied the postilion, winking. "And if I remember rightly, I did give that ruflianly highwayman a rather awkward blow on the head." "You did, sir."

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF LONDON LIFE. By the Author of "Random Recollections," "The Great Metropolis," &c. In 2 vols. Saunders and Otley. As the author of this work is the avowed editor of the "London Saturday Journal," it would be an obvious want of taste to express any opinion of its merits. All that can with propriety be done, is to glance at the leading contents, and then present the reader with two or three extracts, by which he will be enabled to judge for himself. The principal chapters of the first volume will be found under the following heads :—“ Medical Quacks and Quackery,"—" Political, Literary, and Miscellaneous Quackery,"-"Dressmakers' Apprentices,"-"Young Women,' Female Servants," "The Aristocracy and the Lower Classes," -and "Benevolence and Benevolent Institutions." The second volume contains, among other things, chapters on "Begging Impostors,"—"Eating Houses,' "Coffee Houses," "The Quakers and Quaker Life," "The Jews and Jewish Life," &c. &c. From one of the chapters we give the following extract.

DRESS-MAKERS' ASSISTANTS.

It is a somewhat singular circumstance, that, notwithstanding the great variety of objects embraced by the comprehensive philanthropy of this vast metropolis, scarcely any attention should have been paid to a class of persons who possess the most urgent claims to the commiseration of the Christian and humane portion of the community. I allude to the Dressmakers' and Milliners' Assistants. Were their condition better known, I feel assured it could not fail to excite a feeling of deep and universal sympathy.

The number of young girls employed in dress-making and millinery in London, is much greater than the public have any idea of. It is impossible to ascertain the number with the exactitude which could be desired; but I have certain data in my possession, by means of which we may make a pretty close approximation to it. The number of females whose names are on their doors as the mistresses of dress-making and millinery establishments, is nearly 1000. It is no exaggeration to assume that the number of persons who live by these branches of business without having their names on the doors, is 500. This would make, in round figures, the entire number of "mistress" dress-makers and milliners, 1500. The question then occurs-What may be the average number of young girls a mistress employs as assistants? In a few of the larger establishments, the number so employed is from thirty to forty; in very few is it less than six. In order that we may err on the safe side, if we err at all, we shall suppose the average number to be ten. Ten, then, multiplied by 1500, would make the entire number of young creatures so occupied, 15,000.

And how do these 15,000 young females live? and how are they treated? A plain unvarnished narrative shall answer the questions.

The usual hour at which dress-makers' assistants commence their labours, is seven in the morning, and that at which they close for the day, is eleven at night. One half hour more elapses before they can retire to rest, and in order to be ready to resume their needle at seven in the morning, they must at least get up by half-past six. The average amount of time, therefore, which is allotted them for rest, does not exceed seven hours. This would be obviously too little for delicate female frames-especially at the critical time of life at which by far the largest portion of these girls are apprenticed-even were their labours light and of short duration during the day. But the very reverse is the painful fact: they ply the needle without a moment's intermission, save the twenty or thirty minutes allowed them for eating their meals, from the time they enter the work-room, until they have quitted it for the night. Now surely it needs no medical genius to tell us, that to poor young delicate creatures thus worn out day after day for a succession of months, with fourteen or fifteen hours' unintermitting toil, seven hours' repose is not only inadequate to meet the requirements of nature, but must be attended with the greatest perils to the constitution. Nor ought I to omit the mention of the fact, that the little repose allowed them is

deprived of its beneficial effects, by the circumstance of from ten to twelve of their number being compelled to sleep in one small confined bed-room.

But the evil if merely regarded in a physical light, does not

end here. In addition to the injurious effects of these protracted hours of exhausting employment on the bodily health and spirits of these girls, they are pent up during the day in heated rooms, where the luxury of a mouthful of pure air is seldom enjoyed. Their meals, too, which are entirely of a coarse description, and altogether unfitted for the subdued and delicate appetite of creatures thus employed in sedentary labour from morn to night, are snatched up with an expedition which deprives their food of half its nutritive qualities. As for digestion, who could expect that process to go on, when the transition from the eating-apartment to the work-table is contemporaneous with the last mouthful they have swallowed? Air and exercise are things unknown to them; and to aggravate the physical hardships of their condition, they are, in the majority of cases, subjected to insults and irritating language from those in whose employment it is their hard lot to be.

Such is the usual fate of dress-makers' assistants, in what is called "the season," which season usually lasts four or five months of the year, beginning in February and ending in July. There is a second season, of two or three months' duration, towards the end of the year, which, though not so oppressive as the first, is still very arduous. On urgent occasions, such as a drawing-room, a ball, or other greater display at court, the hardships of the poor assistants are increased ten-fold. That I may not be suspected of over-colouring the picture, or of giving an exaggerated account of a state of things which is proverbially bad, I shall fortify my positions on this point, by a short quotation from an article which has recently appeared in a literary journal; which article I know, from a private source, to have proceeded from the pen of a lady well acquainted with the subject.

The dress-makers,' says that lady, in describing a scene which consisted with her own personal knowledge, are for the most part young, and many have not done growing. It is near midnight of the second night of working; when they should have been sleeping, and they are to sit through the whole of this night and next day; making three days and two nights of incessant sewing; an occupation which cannot be safely pursued for more than a few hours at a time. These girls are fed high-roast beef, porter, port wine, are supplied them; the rooms are kept light and hot, every stimulus is applied. Three at once drop off their chairs fainting, they are plied with strong green tea, and they resume their work. As often as they are sinking, more green tea is given themtheir eyes are dim, their skin burns, their hands tremble, their voices are hysterical-but the ball-dresses are finished; and that was the object to be attained.'

What a melancholy picture! And yet the scene so vividly described, is one of every-day occurrence in the height of the What constitution could withstand the effects

London season.