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by Nanette Levin, Lisa Derby Oden, Mary Ann Simonds

  1. 5 Easy Tips For Riding Success
  2. Nanette J Levin
  3. Mary Beaudry | Boston University - yvifisylohiz.tk
  4. Inventing Your Horse Career, Book 1 (Unabridged)

Crane, who missed these articles—I saw Tree take from Jones's neck next morning, this part of a handkerchief, which corresponds with a strip which was in the bottom of the smock the stolen property was in. This coat is my son's, George Hanshaw's—the rest of the property is my husband's.

I never broke into the house; I found the things under a hedge, at Barnet. We found them under a hedge, tied in the shawl, by the Swiss cottage. I am single, and live with my brother-in-law, Thomas Durrant, who keeps the Hop-pole public-house, Hammersmith. On Wednesday, the 9th of July, the prisoner came and wanted to know if Mr.

Halford, the surgeon, dealt there—she said, "I want a pint of rum for Mr. Halford"—I gave it to her, believing she wanted it for Mr. Halford, and that he had sent her—he dealt with us. I am last witness's sister. On the Thursday the prisoner came, and wanted a pint of rum, for Mr. Halford—I asked if it was for Mr. Halford, over the way—she said "Yes"—in consequence of that I gave it to her. I am a surgeon, at Hammersmith, living opposite Mr. Durrant—I do not know the prisoner, and did not send her on either of these occasions, for a pint of rum—I did not authorise her to go and get any.

I certainly did fetch the rum, hut not with the intention of defrauding any one; I sent to pay for it next week, hut they refused to take it. I am one of the firm of Robarti, Curtis, and Co. There are three partners besides myself—Mr. Richard Latham has been a customer of our house for many years—this letter marked D, and the bill enclosed in it marked C, wat brought to our house on the 30th of Dec. I am clerk in the house of Robarts and Co. On the 30th of Dec. Did you pay the money? No—I made out a ticket and gave it to the cashier to pay the money—the person waiting for the discounting of the bill was in the passage—I saw him.

I believe you have no recollection whatever of the person? Not at all—it was a man. I am cashier to Messrs. I am clerk in the issue department of the Bank of England. A good many persons come to change notes? Several hundreds in the course of a day—I cannot at all remember the features of the person. I am the manager of a Loan office, in St. I have known the prisoner three or four years, and have transacted loans for him—I have seen him write, received letters from him, and had opportunities of becoming acquainted with his handwriting—I believe this bill of exchange to be the prisoner's handwriting, also this letter, and the name and address on these notes I also believe to be his writing.

Did you know him as a cab proprietor? Bush did—the prisoner was not taken into custody when Forrester first saw me—when he showed me the note, he asked me if I knew the writing and the person's address, and it was from that address that he arrested the prisoner—it was before he was taken into custody that I was shown these notes and the bill, and after Forrester had shown me the 50 l. I am clerk in the Loan-office, in St.

I have known the prisoner from two and a half to three years—I have seen him write, and am acquainted with his handwriting—I believe the whole of this bill, marked C, to be the prisoner's handwriting, decidedly—I have the same opinion of the letter marked D—the name of" John Jones, Lower Eaton-street, Pimlico," on these three notes, I believe to be the prisoner's handwriting. Of course you have seen the prisoner write very often? Not very often—I cannot state more than twice—I have frequently seen him on the subject of letters that he has written—on one occasion when I saw him write, he took down the name and address, and.

Macdonald did not write those particulars—he was present, but the prisoner wrote it on a slip of paper, which he took away. What was the other occasion on which you saw him write? When he endorsed a bill—I have not seen him write at other times, but I have seen letters of his, and frequently acted upon them. This letter came to our house on the 16th of Sept.

Smith—I gave a memorandum to the cashier, Mr. Morris, to pay that bill—I have here a memorandum in my own handwriting, referring to a bill of 75 l. I paid the l. I am a clerk in the Bank of England. On the 23rd of Sept. I am a clerk in the issue department of the Bank of England. On the 9th of March, , I paid gold for these three 10 l. John-street-road, appears on these notes. I am a clerk in the fertile department of the Bank of England. On the 16th of March, ,1 paid gold for these two 10 l.

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John-street," appears on the notes. This bill for l. I am a cashire at Messrs. On the 29th of July, ; I paid the discount of this l. I am a clerk in the Teller's-office, Bank of Eng-land. On the 3rd of August, , I changed a l. I am a clerk in the Tellers-office, Bank of England. On the 29th of July, , I gave gold for these 30 l. Pimlico," on this 30 l. I am in the employ of Messrs. On the 5th of Sept. This letter marked "E," relating to the 75 l.

On the 16th of Sept. Bank of England note—I wrote on it at the time the prisoner's name, the date of the month sod year, and my own name—I find that on this note—I received it personally from him. Do you recollect in Jan. I cannot recollect particularly in Jan. I lent him four months ago has been repaid. Look at the name of "Pitt, Drummond-street, Euston-square," on the back of this other 50 l. I cannot form any opinion about that—I have no recollection that the prisoner ever lived in Drum-mond-street—the name of Turner, and the address on these 10 l.

How many letters have you received from the prisoner? Several—I cannot say how many—I have not kept any—I have none of his handwriting here—I have at home, applications for loans and promissory notes, which have been paid but not taken away. This letter marked E, I believe to be the prisoner's handwriting—the name of Pitt, on this 50 l. The word Pitt is, in your opinion, in the prisoner's writing? It is, and "Drummond-street" likewise—I have not, perhaps, so strong a belief upon that as the other, but I believe it very much resembles the prisoner's handwriting—I am nineteen years old—I have been three years in the Loan-office, before that I was in a law stationer's office.

As a law stationer do you necessarily see a good many different forms of handwriting? Yes—I can form no opinion as to the words "Euston-square"—I believe all the rest to be in his handwriting—the name John Thomas Jones, on these three notes, the l. I am clerk to Messrs. I served a notice on the prisoner last Session to produce the two bills of exchange spoken of—I also served one yesterday—I have a copy of the notice.

Were you at the Mansion-house attending the examination? Duncombe, a solicitor, attended on the part of the prisoner—Mr. Bush attended on the part of the prosecution—Mr. Duncombe requested that the prisoner's friends might be permitted to see the forged documents—Mr. Bush refused to allow it unless in his presence, ind he had an opportunity of cross-examining them—he would not allow them to see them unless they were brought and sworn before the Lord Mayor, and examined upon them. The bills were then before the Lord Mayor the subject of this charge?

Bush proposed that any witness might see them, and be examined as to their belief or not, in the presence of the Lord Mayor. I reside at Queen's-road, Bayswater. I was formerly a partner in the house of Meux and Co. Bayswater, upwards of thirty years—I had a place in town, but the prisoner did not live at all with me there—he was employed at Bayswater—I have a friend named Joseph Smith—I was not acquainted with him at the time the prisoner lived with me—he lives in Gray's Inn—I have been.

When the prisoner was in your employment he was a mere lad? He was—I had no fault to find with him—I have not charged any other person with having committed these forgeries—I may have thought others were about me as well—my suspicions have not been excited as to any other person—I have no suspicion of any other individual—I have not charged any other individual in any shape or way—I cannot tell you what has been operating on my mind, but I have suspected no one—there were persons that might know my affairs very well, but I have not suspected them. I am a barrister, living in Gray's Inn.

I hare been acquainted with Mr. Latham for a great many years—my name to this l. Latham in my life—I have been in the habit of visiting him at Bayswater frequently—I am not conscious of ever having seen the prisoner before today—I have frequently seen the father there. I am an officer of the City of London. I took the prisoner into custody on the 22nd of May last, in Bouverie-street, Paddington—he was in the street in company with my brother, who had seen him first—I have inquired with respect to the addresses on the Bank notes, Lower Eaton-street, Pimliso, St.

John-street, and Drummond-street—I found no such persons as are indicated by those addresses—I do not know that the prisoner ever lived in Drummond-street—I have heard so. You know where he lives now? Yes, with his father—I have had these notes in my possession—I have taken them to show the prisoner's handwriting to about three or four persons, perhaps more—I do not see any of those persons here today, except Mr.

Flear—I cannot say whether the bills and letters have been in my brother's possession. On the 22nd of May, I saw the prisoner in Bouverie-street, Paddington—I stopped him, and asked if his name was Thomas Peat—he said "Yes"—I told him he was charged with uttering three forged bills—he paused for half t minute or a minute, and said, "How do they make out it is me? The documents were here read, as follows: Robarts,—Please to discount the enclosed bill of exchange, bearing my signature, for.

Robarts, purported to be from Mr. Joseph Smith, one for 75 l. As I am about leaving town for a short time, I may be out of the way when they become due; as the time is so near I should prefer having them before I leave, which will greatly oblige. I am the wife of Solomon Harris, who lives on his property at Uxbridge, in the parish of Hillingdon. On Friday, 8th Aug. Stillwell—a table-cover was afterwards produced to me which is my husband's. I am in the prosecutor's service. I was alarmed by mistress' screams, went into the room, and saw the prisoner standing by the table with a stick in his hand—I did not see mistress—I went to fetch master from the garden—I had been in the parlour between nine and ten o'clock that morning, opened the window, and left it open, it was the window which mistress jumped out of—the table-cloth was then on the table—I had not rolled it up and put it on the chair—the chimney-ornament was on the side table—I had not seen the forks for some days—next morning I saw where an instrument had been put in to force the cabinet, and found under the sofa-pillow a fork—there were marks on the cabinet-drawer as if it had been forced by the fork—I left the fork there—a portion of the bead-ing of the cabinet was under the sofa-pillow with the fork—it was safe that morning.

I am a sailor. I was working near the prosecutor's premises, on the 8th of Aug. Harris coming out at the front parlour window, which is about five feet from the ground outside—I then saw Lucket, the servant run out screaming—I had no shoes on—I ran down and had not quite got through the outer gate, when Lucket caught me by the arms—in consequence of what she said I went to the window, and Mr. Harris said, "This is the room the villain is in"—the window was still open—I got in at it and saw the prisoner standing with the stick in his right hand—he held it up, and said the first b—r who came into the room he would knock his brains out—as I got in at the window I stepped on a chair—he directly threw the stick down, and said, "I will surrender, I am a housebreaker"—I collared him—he had no shoes on, they were under a chair behind the door—the room was soon full of people—I kept hold of him—he asked for his shoes—I said he should do as I did, walk without them—I took him about yards, and met sergeant Roadnight, who took him—as I walked him down the street he said he was bl—y glad he was taken, that he came either for money, or else to be transported—as we walked to the station he said, "Stop a minute," he produced from his pocket three forks and a chimney-ornament,.

Harris keeps a large dog. I am a policeserjeant. In consequence of the alarm I went towards the prosecutor's house, and found the prisoner in the hands of Powell and several people—I took him, and on the road to the station he pulled out three silver-mounted forks and a chimney-ornament, and said, "That is enough for you"—I have no reason to think he was drunk or out of his senses—he said he got in at the window, sat in a chair, pulled his shoes off, took a letter from the drawers he took the forks from and read it—Uxbridge is a township in the hamlet of Eiling—I lodged him in the station, returned to the house, and found the table-cover rolled up on a chair close to the parlour window—Mr.

Harris, next day, gave me a piece of beading and a fork—I applied the beading to the cabinet, and have no doubt it had formed part of, it—there was a place where the fork had been to wrench it off, which would enable him to open the drawer—the beading exactly fits the cabinet—when I was taking the prisoner before the Magistrate next day, he asked if he should have his hear-ing that day—I said I thought the lady would not be able to appear from the blows she received—he said she came into the room making a noise, and he struck her to make her quiet, that he sawed the stick from his father-in-law's pigsty—that he came down into the country to get money or be transported—Page gave me the stick—when I went to Mr.

Harris's house I found a knife on the table, where the table-cover had been—the prisoner claimed it as his. I am a builder at Uxbridge—I went to the house in consequence of the screams—I found the prisoner in the parlour in charge of Powell—this stick was on the ground near him—I took it and gave it to Roadnight. I am a medical man, residing at Uxbridge—I was fetched to Mrs. Harris between twelve and one o'clock, and found her lying on the sofa in the bed-room—she had a severe contusion on the side of the head—the mark of severe blows in front of the ear and behind the ear, and on the neck and shoulder on the same side—her arm was much bruised from the wrist to the elbow—her chin was bruised, and the inside of the mouth cut from being pressed against the teeth—it must have been from a severe blow on the chin—there was a very large swelling on the side of her head, as large as a common sized teacup, and a considerable quantity of extravasated blood—she was confined to her bed some days—she was in a very serious state, but no symptoms of danger supervened—it was necessary for her to keep her bed—I have attended her till now.

I was present at the prisoner's examination before the Magistrate—he was asked if he wished to say anything, and was cautioned—what he said was taken down in writing, read to him, and he put his name to it—this is it— read —"I confess I done the robbery, and am sorry I hurt the lady. I did not know what I was doing; I did it without a minute's thought; I never did anything like it before. Katherine Dock Company, his masters, in a vessel in a port of entry and discharge. I am constable of St. On Saturday afternoon, the 19th of July, about three o'clock, the prisoner was brought to my house—he was rather intoxicated, but aware of what he wai doing—M'Gregor and Jones complained, in his presence, of his having stolen things from their chests, on board the Speedy , which then lay in the Dock, that he had taken some tobacco from them, and that they had also lost a 4 d.

Mary Abbott's, Kensington, with intent to steal, and stealing therein, I magnifying-glass, value 1 l. I am the wife of Thomas Pash, and live in a cottage in Green-lanes, in the parish of Hornsey; he is a toll-collector. On the 9th of June I locked the cottage safe at a quarter-past nine at night, and went to my husband at Hornsey-gate—I returned about half-past niae next morning, and found the housedoor as I had left it, but, on entering, found the back room window opened—it had no shutter—it had been buttoned inside— he button was undone, and the window forced open—the window was broken, and the articles now produced all gone—I know the prisoner—he was once a toll-collector—he was never at my house but once.

I live in a cottage at Ball's-pond, and know the prisoner. On the 9th of June, about eleven o'clock at night, he came crying to me, and said his uncle and aunt were dead—he asked if I knew him—I said, "What is your name? Did I not tell you I had found the things in. It is not true.

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I was going along, and saw a man and boy; they watched me a good way; I saw them run away; I followed, and saw these old clothes under the hedge; I took them up; I passed the policeman, who said, "Good night;" whtn I got to the lamp-post I looked at the things. I saw Early at his house; he said, "What have you there?

I am secretary and weekly auditor of the Paddington Savings Bank. I remember a person named Henry Mitchell becoming a depositor in the bank on the 7th of Dec. Do you know anything of Newton? No—I was the party who took the signature on the 7th of Dec. I am one of the trustees of the bank. I paid the 44 l. I am a sawyer, and live at No. I became a depositor in the Paddington Savings Bank in Dec. Who do you work for? Biddle, in King-street—I have 30 s. Who left them with the mother, was it a sawyer named Mitchell?

I believe it was—I never deserted her nor left her at all—I was it home with the children—I swear I was at home when she went out that evening—I did not know where she was going—the children lived at my house—she might have a few shillings or 1 l. Has she ever left her home or her children till you cause her to be taken into custody? No, she never did, and she has always been the reverse to this till this happened—I cannot say that there has been any misconduct between her and Bass—I swear none of the money was her earnings—it was my hard earnings—I represented her as ray wife, and believe it did slip out at Marylebone-office that she was my wife—I afterwards told the truth—that was a week after—I have been receiving from my master 38 s.

West, my sister, in the house with them a fortnight after the prisoner was in custody—Newton did not go to the police. Did she earn anything while living with you? She has not earned anything for twelve months—she never went out to a day's work—she learned the stay business, and made some stays—I was at work all day and best part of the night—she attended to the lodgers. I travel with jewellery about the country—I live in Cock and Hoop-yard, Houndsditch.

In July last I was in the country, and received an order from a customer to set a stone in a brooch—this is the stone— looking at one —I took particular notice of it at the time, and put a mark on it—I received an order from another customer to pat a stone on the top of the pencil-case now produced—I had them both ill my possession when I got to Windsor—I there saw Julius Jonas, who hai a brother in that way at Birmingham—I sent the stone and pencil-case to Jonas's brother, at Birmingham, by the post—when they were done they were to be sent either to me, or to Benjamin Cohen, a cousin of Jonas, in London—soon after this I returned to London, and saw Ferdinand Jonas on the 1st of Aug.

When did you complain at the Post-office? On Monday, the 4th—the pencil-case belongs to the footman of a captain—I do not know his name—I only had it two days—I have not many such articles to repair, and had none at the time—I had never seen them before—the brooch belongs to a servant girl at Feitham, named Mary Ann—I call at houses for orders—I had the brooch also two days—it is a pebble stone, and here is a mark, a chip—it is not uncommon to see stones chipped—I am positive they are the same.

I live at Mr. Cohen's, White-street, Cutler-street, Houndsditch. In July last I was at Windsor, and saw Blumantal—we lived in one room there—he showed me the stone of a brooch, and a silver pencil-case, which had no stone in the head of it—I saw him inclose them in a letter to my brother Ferdinand, who was at Birmingham at the time.

Where did you see the articles? At Windsor—I was looking at the stone and pencil-case—he had jewellery in his box, but I did not look at anything else—he showed me these—my brother being at Birmingham, he wished them sent to him—nothing else was produced—it is a common stone and pencil-case.

I am a travelling jeweller, and live when in London at my cousin's, Benjamin Cohen, No. In July last I was at Birmingham, and received a stone and pencil-case in a letter—they were the articles produced—the stone was not mounted then—in consequence of directions in the letter, I. How came Leopold to direct it?

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I cannot write English, nor read it after it is written—I did not look at the clock as I went to the post-office—I had never seen these things before I received them—I am no judge of stones—it is a silver pencil-case. I remember directing a letter for F. Jonas, on the 26th of July, at Northampton, to "B. Cohen, 9, White-street, Cutler-street, Houndsditch, London"—it was between nine and half-past nine o'clock in the morning—the post-office is three minutes walk from where I wrote the direction.

Nanette J Levin

Did you direct more than one letter? No—I recollect the direction as it is a straightforward address. I am a jeweller, and live at Birmingham. I mounted this stone into a brooch for Jonas, and I forwarded it to him afterwards—I know my own work. Have you done any brooches of the same kind before? Yes—I noticed a defect in the stone when I did it. I am at the post-office at Northampton. A letter put in at half-past nine o'clock would go by the morning mail in the London bag—it leaves at a quarter before ten—the bag was sealed, and a bill in it tied up with the paid letters—this is the bill—it contains the amount of the paid letters.

What time must a letter be put in to go by that mail? By half-past nine o'clock—a letter containing these articles would be 2 d. I am a clerk in the General Post-office. I was on duty in the Inland-office on the 26th of July, and opened the Northampton day mail-bag that day—this bill came in that bag—the bag appeared perfectly secure, sealed in the usual way—the bill contains the total amount of paid letters which came in the bag, not the number—that would enable me to say if the proper amount of paid letters were in the bag—it was all right that morning—a letter for Houndsditch would go through the tunnel to the London District-office—I opened the bag between half-past one o'clock and two in the day—a letter would be delivered in Houndsditch that day.

I suppose you have no distinct recollection of what occurred that day?

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No—the bill states the amount of the paid letters—they are sometimes wrong, and then the bill is altered—here are. I am a letter-carrier in the General Post-office—I was on duty in the Inland-office, on the afternoon of the 26th of July, and collected the letters for the London district, put them into their several boxes, and passed them through the tunnel to go into the London District-office—a letter arriving between one and two o'clock would be sent through the tunnel about a quarter to two—I sent the principal part of the letters through the tunnel.

I am a tunnel-man in the London District-office, and receive the letters which come through the tunnel from the Inland-office—I turn the wheel and draw them through—I was on duty on the 26th of July, after the arrival of the Northampton morning mail, and drew the boxes through the tunnel—the porter takes charge of them then. I am a porter in the London-office. I was on duty on the 26th of July, after the arrival of the Northampton morning mail—I assisted in carrying the letters from the tunnel-man into the sort-ing-office, and placed them on the table to be stamped and sorted to the different walks.

I am a sorter in the London District-office. On the 26th of July, I assisted in sorting the letters which arrived by the day mails—a letter addressed to White-street, Cutler-street, Houndsditch, would be sorted to the Spitalfields walk—the letters for that walk would be tied up in a bundle, and placed in a bag which the rider takes—he would leave the office about ten minutes before three o'clock; and about seven minutes after three—we send them in two parts, to facilitate the sort-ing—I gave them to the porter, but did not see him give them to the rider.

Have you been a sorter long? About three years—we sometimes missort—there are no other sorters for that division—there are four divisions. I am porter in the London District-office. On the 26th of July, I received the letters for the Spitalfields walk from Bell, and gave the bag to Mr.

Mary Beaudry | Boston University - yvifisylohiz.tk

Small about ten minutes to three o'clock. I am mail driver. On the 26th of July, I received the mail bag for the Shoreditch branch from Hudson, and delivered it at the office four or five minutes after three o'clock, in the same state at I received it. I was inspector, on duty at the Shoreditch branch, on the evening of the 26th of July—the mail bag from the Lon-don District-office arrived about five minutes after three o'clock, and another twenty-one minutes after three—there are twelve carriers in the office—the prisoner was one of them—he was assistant to Hallam in the Spitalfields walk—he was on duty at the three o'clock delivery—the letters would be sorted into walks for the carriers, and tied up in bundles before they leave the chief office—on the arrival of the bags each carrier has his bundle delivered to him—Hallam and the prisoner would sort their letters for their own delivery—Hallam would divide them, and the prisoner assist him—that is as to the first dispatch, and the same as to the second—a letter for 9, White-street, Cutler-street, would be given to the prisoner—he ought to deliver it at four o'clock.

The prisoner was the assistant to Hallam, was he the headman? They are both on the walk—one is senior. I am letter-carrier in the Shoreditch Branch-office. The prisoner was my assistant—on the 26th of July, I delivered the letters in the Spitalfields walk—the prisoner was on duty with me—he came at a quarter past three—I opened the bundle of letters which arrived at three, and divided them between me and the prisoner—he would have the letter for 9, White-street—it would be among his portion, and ought to have been delivered by four o'clock.

Do you ever deliver letters on the same beat? Yes, I should go there at six o'clock and at ten—there are ten deliveries a day. The prisoner would have the letters to deliver at four o'clock? Yes, I had no such letter to deliver that day—the prisoner is employed by the post-office, not by me. In July last I received no letter from F.

Jonas containing a brooch and pencil-case—I knew nothing of it till I saw Jonas in London, on the 1st of Aug. How many persons live in the house? Only two—I am a capmanufacturer—I am married and have sons and daugh-ters—I am sometimes out—I have a shop there—when I am absent my wife and the work-girls are there—I have three work-girls—my sons do not assist in my business. I believe Saturday is a day on which you do no business? No, it is my Sabbath—the girls would not be there, nor any business doing. I am the wife of the last witness—I was at home all day on Saturday, the 26th of July—no letter came that day, containing a pencil-case and brooch.

I suppose you do not answer the door to everybody? I must answer it—there was nobody at home but me all day—my eldest child is sixteen years of age—I have one fourteen and one twelve—I have seven children—I was glad for them to go out—I was alone in the house all the day—the elder children went out. I am an officer of the Post-office—I apprehended the prisoner on the 1st of Aug. What room were they in? The front room first floor, in the drawer of a table against the window—there was no bed in the room—the drawer was unlocked—there are two more rooms down stairs—the things were loose in the drawer.

I live at 19, Anglesea-street—the prisoner occupied the back and front rooms, first floor, at the time in question. George Hanover-square, 1 silver statue, value 40 l. I am in partnership with Mr. Have you tested this to find out whether it is silver? I did at the time the prisoner left it with me—I tested more than one piece with nitric acid—that enables me to swear this is silver—nitric acid has no effect at all on silver nor on gold—it would turn green if applied to brass or mixed metal—I do not know the cause of it—I had made, I think, three purchases of the prisoner before this, without knowing his name or address—I do not make any entry of purchases.

How long have you been a silversmith? I have been in partnership with my father nearly six years—I was brought up to the trade—I have no doubt about this being silver. In consequence of a communication made to me on the 13th of June by Mr. Seymour's shopman, who gave me this memorandum, I followed the prisoner—he went to No. Richardson lives there—I followed him in and asked to see Mr. Richardson—I had some conversation with him, and went into a back room, where I saw the prisoner—I said to him, "Sir, you have given a wrong name and address, I must take you into custody on suspicion of stealing some old broken silver"—the prisoner said, "It is all right; my name is Johnson, and I live here"—on his saying that Mr.

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Amazon Drive Cloud storage from Amazon. However, as will become apparent below, this connection was sometimes disrupted by certain religious beliefs about the afterlife and the value of pain, which together helped children to feel more positive emotions even whilst suffering from the most grievous pain. Throughout the early modern period, one response to the providential origin of sickness was guilt. God had brought illness as a punishment for sin, and therefore the sick had only themselves to blame for their afflictions.

This was the case for a nine-year-old poor boy from the parish of Newington-Butts: Guilt may not always have been so unpleasant, however, for it is possible that some children derived satisfaction from observing the reactions of onlookers to their expressions of repentance. Children did not always feel guilty during illness, however. Often, their illnesses were attributed to the sins of their parents rather than to their own transgressions. This was the case for fifteen-year-old Susanna Whitrow from London: The providential origin of sickness, while capable of provoking distressing feelings of guilt, could also be a source of tremendous emotional and spiritual comfort to children.

As the Father calleth his childe when he hath done amiss… and gives him correction: God scourgeth and whippeth his children, but he will not give them one whip, nor one lash more then is for their good… the Patient must taste of the bitter potion before his stomack be cleared. These metaphors, which were ubiquitous in contemporary sermons, were probably very effective in helping children to understand the difficult principle of positive affliction because they involved everyday situations with which the young were especially familiar.

For whom the Lord loveth he correcteth, even as a Father the Son, in whom he delighteth. Occasionally, however, more specific benefits were alluded to. Firstly, affliction was thought to awaken Christians to their sins. Another spiritual function of sickness was to remind Christians to empathise with the suffering of Christ on the Cross.

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In , ten-year-old Mary Warren, who had been suffering from severe stomach pains, described the tortures endured by Christ: They may have tried to reconcile this theological quandary by considering that God had preordained their illnesses for their soteriological benefit. As well as provoking unpleasant feelings of guilt, providence was a source of comfort to sick children, helping them to resign themselves patiently to their suffering in the knowledge that, although it was detrimental to the short-term health of their bodies, it was cathartic to the long-term health of their souls.

Once again, therefore, patients were required to be patient. David Stannard offered a similar interpretation, but suggested that the heightened fear stemmed from the Reformation, and the resulting abolition of the doctrines of purgatory and intercessory prayer, and increased emphasis on the helplessness of man to influence his own salvation. The cause of this ambivalent response was the doctrine of salvation, and its hauntingly divergent fates of eternal happiness and eternal torment. Sick children were made aware of the likelihood of death. A key aspect of patient care involved helping the patient to prepare spiritually for death.

This process of preparation, which involved various acts of piety, was supposed to enable the patient to reach a state of confidence in his or her eternal future. Thus, parents and relatives were obliged to inform their children of their likely deaths, or at least alert them to the possibility. Children also learned of their potential mortality from witnessing the deaths of family members or neighbours.

Children sometimes responded to the anticipation of death with great fear and anxiety. One has only to cast a glance at the contemporary eschatological literature to discover why Hell elicited such extraordinary fear. And this is Hell. Other authors focused on the intensity of the pain suffered by the reprobate, comparing it to the comparatively mild suffering experienced on Earth:. One might question whether these terrible descriptions of Hell would have been shared with children.

Conduct literature written specifically with children in mind did detail the hellish horrors. It is unsurprising that children who read these treatises or viewed these images responded with trepidation. How shall I bear…this heavy sentence? However, it is possible that some adults preferred to conceal the more gruesome details of hell from their little ones. It was not just the thought of Hell that provoked fears in sick children: Some children worried about the practical problems of death and salvation.

In the s, seven-year-old Betty Seymour experienced these fears: While the prospect of dying was undoubtedly frightening, the idea of Heaven helped to mitigate these unpleasant feelings, enabling children to respond to death with a degree of resignation. Sometimes these feelings of resignation blurred into outright happiness and joy, as children positively looked forward to their heavenly futures. This notion was lucidly articulated by F. In regard whereof some Martyres have give a thousand testimonies of joy in the midst of their torments: These feelings of resignation and joy may seem implausible.

This was probably the case for eleven-year-old John Harvy in the s: A close examination of the words of dying children reveals that they had particularly vivid imaginations of Heaven, which may explain why they looked forward to going there. And I think I see all the Saints, arrayed in Whyte there. Firstly, death would bring a termination to physical suffering, replacing it with permanent comfort and happiness. Ill children sometimes looked forward to death because they wished to meet Christ.

Particularly enticing was the prospect of being embraced by Jesus and seeing His face for the first time. Arguably the most comforting aspect of Paradise was the possibility for family reunion after death. Sickness seems to have been a time of emotional and spiritual turmoil for children, as they veered through an array of feelings, ranging from fear and guilt to resignation and ecstasy.

The fundamental causes of this divergent experience were the Christian notions of providence, the soul, salvation, and the value of suffering. Sickness, as a rod of correction, was good for the soul, helping to purge it of iniquity and sin, and ultimately leading to salvation. Whilst illness harmed the body, it perfected the soul, and therefore, pain and illness, no matter how excruciating, could be experienced positively. Religion continued to be crucial, and did not seem to dwindle in significance over the course of the seventeenth century, as has been suggested by certain historians.

Nonetheless, historians have demonstrated that religious faith was widespread in early modern society, and therefore it can be conjectured that some sort of spiritual experience was within the reach of most children. A recurring theme throughout this article has been the notion that the sick should be patient and resigned during their afflictions. Another important theme has been the close emotional bond between parents and their children. Finally, I hope that by viewing illness through the eyes of the child, this article has enriched our knowledge of early modern childhood, and demonstrated that it is possible to glimpse the thoughts and feelings of children, even though the evidence is often oblique and limited.

Metsu lived between and He was the son of the Flemish painter Jacques Metsu c. Beier in Sufferers and Healers: Cambridge University Press, , 61— Age and Identity Aldershot: University of Wisconsin, , — Enenkel eds , The Sense of Suffering: Pain in English Protestant Manuals ca. Oxford University Press, University of Exeter, , for an extended discussion of these topics.

Royal Historical Society Publications, Representations of Childhood Death Basingstoke: Macmillan, , 3. Chicago University Press, , Vol. A Selection , Philip Francis ed. Folio Society, , —8. Pearson Longman, , 2.