happier sequel, is the running away of
William Hutton of Birmingham, stationer, of
which he himself has given us a touching
narrative. I never took to Hutton in the
days of his success; for it seemed to me that
he got rich by sheer good luck, and that any
one who went upon his plan again must
inevitably come to ruin; but the sufferings
and anxieties of his flight from Nottingham;
were mine. It must be considerably more
than a hundred years ago since, smarting
like Jean Jacques under the insults and
oppression of his master—I think his uncle—
he ran away with a little bundle and with a
shilling or two in his pocket, taking, as
he thought, farewell of Nottingham for ever;
and this reminds me of the running away of
Benjamin Franklin, and of what it led to,
which is in the memories of all my readers.

And, indeed, what does not every one of
these instances remind me of? Cowper,
melancholy mad and smitten with remorse
at his attempt at self-destruction, running
away from the gay world where he had vainly
thought to live as they lived, down to Olney,
there to lead a tranquil and literary life forgotten
by all his old companions. There he
found the true secret of happiness, and
wondered, as all men have wondered, who ever
tried this remedy, why he should live in the
din and warfare of the world, ruffled and
jostled by the insolent and the strong; why
he should strive for the patronage of the great
and a post at the House of Commons, tormenting
himself with doubts and fears, when it
was so easy to slip away and be at rest.

Johnson, hiding in obscure lodgings in the
days when clean linen with him was scarce,
till mistaking for a cause of his happiness
what was in fact but an accidental association
of that delightful retirement, he ventured
to confess his affection for a dirty shirt.

Junius sitting in the shop of Almon
the bookseller, in Piccadilly, listening to the
literary and political gossip of the hour, and
wondering, with the rest, who Junius was.
For, I do not hesitate to class Junius among
the men who have run away. He had run away
from his political associates, and all his
private friends, into a shelter where no man
could ever trace him; combining luxuriously
all the pleasures of running away with the
excitement of the strife. And what was that
gentleman's name who had been taken away,
when an infant, from his father the chief of a
wild tribe of Indians? It was at some time
towards the end of the last century. He, I
remember, acquired the tastes and habits of
civilised life,—even improved so far as to
fight a duel with an officer, I think, and yet,
after all, ran away;—gave up the comfortable
roof, the wig, the powder, and the tights; the
sword, the buckle, and the tri-cornered hat,
to go back and join the savage tribes again.
He had never known his own people and had
therefore no ties of kindred or associates in
the far wilds. He could have been moved
by nothing; but the natural unborn desire of
man—the desire to run away.

As I brood over this delightful idea, it
becomes to me more and more inexplicable
that people do not universally find out the
true remedy for the trouble and turmoil of
life, and in a body run away—sever
themselves from everything and begone. Why
does not the Speaker of the House of
Commons run away? Why does not the
Lord Chancellor, sitting under that awful
flowing, full-bottomed wig in the midst
of the dog-days run away—why do not
all the judges run away? Behind their
judicial seats, temptingly, cut in the wall,
is a little door through which they go out
for refreshment in the middle of the day.
Why not take that opportunity, doffing gown
and wig, and throwing judicial gravity to the
winds, slip out and leave brother Quiddit to
thunder to the empty seat! Why come back
and listen to that gentleman's mock-
deferential sarcasms? Why bother the head with
unravelling the title of Owen Glendower to
a yard and a-half of his neighbour's ground?
Finally, why should any crowned head stand
up to be shot at, every now and then, when
the remedy is obvious and easy? The list,
indeed, of kings who have run away, from
Charles the Fifth to King Leopold, would
count no small number. Did not old George
the Third, when Wilkes and America had
driven him to distraction, dream of it like a
schoolboy who sees the school-door open on a
sunny day ? Why, in short, should I weary
my readers with further questions when the
thing is clear? I should hope that they are
already converted to my views, and are only
anxious to run away.

WANDERINGS IN INDIA.

I CANNOT leave Meerut* without taking the
reader to the churchyard of that station.

An Indian churchyard presents a very different
aspect to a churchyard in England, or
elsewhere. The tombs, for the most part, are
very much larger. When first erected, or newly
done up, they are as white as snow, formed,
as they are generally, of chunam (plaster),
which somewhat resembles Roman cement;
but after exposure to only one rainy season,
and one hot weather they become begrimed
and almost black. The birds, flying from
structure to structure, carry with them the
seeds of various plants and herbs, and these if
not speedily removed, take root and grow
apace. A stranger wandering in the churchyard
of Meerut might fancy that he is amidst
ruins of stupendous antiquity, if he were not
aware of the fact that fifty years have
scarcely elapsed since the first Christian
corpse was deposited within those walls
which now encircle some five acres of
ground, literally covered with tombs, in every
stage of preservation and decay. I was

* See page 112.