No. 5.]

London Magazine:

A JOURNAL OF ENTERTAINMENT AND INSTRUCTION
FOR GENERAL READING.

PROVIDENT SOCIETIES.

NOVEMBER 29, 1845.

THE object of our Magazine being to advance the happiness and prosperity of the people by all prudent and moral means, we are glad to devote an early portion of it to the consideration of the best method of providing for the comfort of the working classes, when by old age or sickness the ordinary sources of provision are dried up. Now, we must begin with confessing that we are not disciples of that school of political economists who would represent man to be so complete and independent in himself, that, if he have only sagacity and energy, he need never be beholden to the charity of his neighbours. On the contrary, we believe it to be a fixed law of our being, that calamitics and misfortunes, against which no prudence can possibly guard, shall befal us, for the twofold purpose of convincing man of his weakness, and of eliciting the kindly feelings of our nature from those who have it in their power to alleviate distress. Nevertheless, prudence is a virtue in the code of Christianity, as well as in that of political economy. And we believe that we can scarcely do a better service to our readers, than to assist them in exercising it in the best possible way for the benefit of themselves and their families. Not a few of our readers, perhaps, will entertain a prejudice against the whole system of Provident Societies, not so much on the ground of their engendering selfishness, as remembering the vice and intemperance of which they are often productive, to say nothing of the insecurity and failures to which they have been found liable. We admit, that whether we regard the tradesmen's provident association of the town, or the ordinary village benefit club, they appear chiefly to have been constructed for the benefit of the publican,' at whose house the members assemble. Again, a very small portion of the benefits which the mechanic, or the tradesman, or the labourer, may secure for himself by prudential means, is provided for by the ordinary societies. Sickness and funeral expenses (and the former, at least, only in the head of the family), for the most part are alone taken into consideration; whereas the system is capable of being applied to the securing, besides, a competent maintenance for old age, to the apprenticing of children, or setting them up in business, or enabling

1 Of 346 Friendly Societics in the county of Middlesex, 311 are held in public houses.

[PRICE 14d.

them to emigrate; and should be made to comprise single women and children, as well as adult males. "There are three principles (observes an able writer) which appear of first importance in forming a benefit society.

"First, that it be based on computations made by some eminent actuary, and enrolled under Act of Parliament. Next, that no portion of the funds shall, on any pretence, be expended in feasting, or at public houses. Thirdly, that the expenses of management shall be defrayed, if possible, out of funds distinct from the contributions of the members: that is to say, out of voluntary donations and subscriptions from honorary members, or out of the income of investments made by such donations."

To which we should be disposed to add, as a fourth rule, that the meetings of the society should not be held at taverns or public houses.

benefits to be derived from these institutions (their We will now give a sample of some of the proper name is guilds, from a Saxon word, meaning to pay) when properly conducted.

For a man 21 years old, the monthly payment to obtain 7s. 6d. a week in sickness, is 1s. 3d. a month for life.

To obtain the same up to 65, and 5s. a week, sick or well, working or not working, after that 1s. 9d. ; that is, only 6d. more. age,

To obtain, from the age of 21, 10s. a week in sickness-1s. 74d. a month for life.

To obtain the same up to 65, and 5s. a week, sick 2s. a month; that is, only 44d. more. or well, working or not working, after that age, And in this latter case, there is included a sun of 47. at death.

For the additional payment of one halfpenny, to obtain an allowance for life after 65, the monthly payment will cease at 60 years of age.

A payment of 1s. 8d. a month for a child under one year of age, will secure 16. at the age of 14.

And if the child should live beyond that age, a sick allowance of 10s. up to 65 years, and 5s. a week, sick or well, afterwards for life, may be purchased, free of all monthly payments, with about the same sum of 167.

If the child die under 14 years of age, the whole deposit will be returned.

Deferred life annuities of any amount up to 100%. may likewise be secured; and the money deposited will be returned, in case of death, to the family of the depositor.

One word more, by way of explanation. While we protest against meetings being held in public houses, and the expenses of festivities being demanded in person. frayed out of the ordinary contributions of members, we are very far from being opposed to the celebration of an annual holiday or festival. Rather, we would make it an essential part of the system. Only.let it be, at least in the country, a matter arranged in each parish by itself, so that it may not be an excuse for riot and intemperance. A genuine parish holiday, commencing with a festive religious service, embracing the practice of manly English games, and leading to the mixing of all classes together in friendly intercourse, would be one great instrument for the revival of good feeling in our rural districts.

On another occasion we shall hope to say something of the history and constitution of the early

The queen gave birth to a living daughter at Exeter, 1st June, 1644, and in less than a fortnight afterwards the earl of Essex advanced to besiege the city. She sent to the republican general, requesting permission to retire to Bath for the completion of her recovery; but, in reply, he intimated that he should lead her prisoner to London, to answer to parliament for having levied war in England. The daughter of Henry the Great summoned all the energy of character which she had derived from that mighty sire, to triumph over the pain and weakness that oppressed her at this awful crisis. She rose from her sick bed, and escaped from Exeter in disguise, with one gentleman and one lady, and her confessor. She was constrained to hide herself in a hut, three miles from Exeter-gate, where she passed two days without anything to nourish her, couched under a heap of litter. She heard the parliamentary soldiers defile on each side of her shelter; she overheard their imprecations and oaths, "that they would carry the head of Henrietta to London, as they would receive from the parliament a reward for it of 50,000 crowns." When this peril was passed, she issued out of her hiding-place, and, accompanied by the three persons who had shared her dangers, traversed the same road on which the soldiers had lately marched, though they had made it nearly impassable. She travelled in extreme pain, and her anxious attendants were astonished that she did not utterly fail on the way.

Having reached Pendennis Castle, she embarked in a

stopped the payment of Henrietta's pension, and reduced | light.
her to the extremity of distress. An accidental visit of Malheureuse Reine."
the cardinal de Retz, the leader of the Fronde, on a day
when her last loaf was eaten, her last faggot consumed,
and she herself destitute of the means of purchasing
more, in all probability saved her from perishing of
want. He found her without any fire, though the snow
was falling dismally; she was sitting by the bedside of
her little daughter, the Princess Henrietta; it was noon,
but the child was still in bed. "You find me," said the
queen, calmly, "keeping company with my Henrietta;
I would not let the poor child rise to-day, for we have
no fire." The cardinal immediately sent her assistance
from his own resources, and prevailed upon the par-
liament of Paris to vote her a subsidy of 20,000
livres.

The affairs of the king had now become desperate, and his affectionate wife presented the most humble solicitations to both houses of parliament, to be permitted to pass over to England, and share his fate, whatever it might be. No attention was paid to her request. The accounts which she received of what was passing in England were so irregular, that she was long kept in the most cruel suspense as to her husband's fate.

We must pass over the details of the trial and execution of Charles, and proceed to the condition of his wife when the fatal intelligence was conveyed to her by Lord Jermyn. "She stood," says Père Gamache, her daughter's tutor, in a manuscript memoir quoted by Miss Strickland, "motionless as a statue, without words, and without tears. To all our exhortations and arguments, our queen was deaf and insensible. At last, awed by her appalling grief, we ceased talking, and stood round her in perturbed silence, some sighing, some weeping, all with mournful and sympathizing looks bent on her immovable countenance. So we continued till nightfall, when the duchess of Vendôme, whom our queen tenderly loved, came to see her. Weeping, she took the hand of the royal widow, and tenderly kissed it, and at last succeeded in awakening her from the stupor of grief into which she had been plunged since she had comprehended the dreadful death of her husband. She was able to sigh and weep, and soon expressed a desire to retire from the world to indulge in the profound sorrow she suffered. Her little daughter was with her, and her maternal love found it hard to separate from her; yet she longed to withdraw into some humble abode, where she might weep at will. At last, she resolved to retire, with a few of her ladies, into the convent of the Carmelites, Faubourg Saint Jacques, in Paris."

"Often," says Madame de Motteville, "did Queen Henrietta say to me, that she was astonished how she ever could survive the loss of Charles, when she so well knew that life could contain, after this calamity, nothing but bitterness for her. I have lost a crown,' she would say, but that I had long before ceased to regret; it is the husband for whom I grieve-good, just, wise, virtuous as he was, most worthy of my love and that of his subjects the future must be for me but a continual succession of misery and afflictions.'

:

"Queen Henrietta," continues her friend, "had enlightened and noble sentiments; in consequence, she keenly felt all that she had lost, and all she owed to the memory of a king and husband who had so tenderly loved her, who had given her his entire confidence, and had always considered her above all persons. He had shared with her his grandeur and prosperity, and it was but just, as she said, that she should take her part in the bitterness of his adversity, and sorrow for him, as if his death had taken place each day that she lived, to the last hour of her life.' In fact, she wore a perpetual widow's mourning for him on her person and in her heart.. This lasting sadness, those who knew her were well aware, was a great change from her natural disposition, which was gay, gladsome, and apt to see all the ordinary occurrences of life in a bright and cheerful

From that hour she surnamed herself, 'La Henrietta's attachment to the Roman Catholic faith seems to have been strengthened during her widowhood into the most uncompromising rigour. She used every effort to win over her youngest son, the duke of Gloucester, to that faith, and treated him with unaccountable harshness, when she found that his constancy was not to be overcome. This struggle, with the differences in which it involved her with the other members of her family, and some unsuccessful efforts made by her to effect a matrimonial alliance between her eldest son and her niece, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, daughter of the duke of Orleans, are among the most remarkable incidents preserved regarding her until the Restoration. On that event she resumed all her former activity of mind; and to assist her son in his restoration, she exerted herself to obtain for him a loan, or present, of 50,000 crowns from the duchess of Savoy, her sister; and she renewed every ancient tie and alliance in his favour.

After the Restoration she continued to reside in France, until accounts reached her of the marriage of the duke of York with Ann Hyde, daughter of the earl of Clarendon. She hastened to England, to use her influence and authority to prevent what she deemed so great a stain and dishonour to the crown. When she arrived she found James willing to accede to her wishes, and to disown his wife, doubts of whose fidelity had been artfully insinuated into his mind by his sister, the princess of Orange. But that princess, who soon after died of small-pox, having, on her death-bed, cleared the character of the duchess from the aspersions which she had caused to be cast upon it, James not only restored her to her place in his affections, but had the happiness of reconciling his mother to his wife. The reason for this change of feeling is not very clearly given. Perhaps the best explanation of it is to be found in the gradual triumph, in a naturally generous mind, (though perverted by prejudices of rank,) of reason, and good feeling, over pride and passion.

She was surrounded by too melancholy reminiscences in England to make a long stay desirable, and she returned to France in a few months. She returned again to England, however, in July 1662, when her son's marriage took place with Catharine of Braganza. She took up her residence in Somerset House, to which she had made very splendid additions and decorations. Here she continued for three years; but the foggy climate of England proving injurious to her health, she took a final leave of it in June 1665, and again returned to France. Here her health gradually gave way more and more, until she died on the 31st August, 1669. The immediate cause of her death was believed to be an overdose of opium, administered through the carelessness or ignorance of her physician. She was interred on the 12th of September, with her royal ancestors, at the magnificent abbey of St. Denis, near Paris. Her éloge, which was spoken by Bossuet, the celebrated bishop of Meaux, is regarded as one of the most eloquent productions of his pen.

Her character is thus summed up in the words of the venerable Father Gamache, to whose manuscript we are indebted for some of the most interesting particulars in the latter part of Miss Strickland's narrative:-" This great queen was indeed universally regretted, for she had established a real empire over all hearts; her cheerful temper, her gay and witty conversation, which enlivened all around her to her last hours; her graceful familiarity, and all those winning qualities, joined to a sincere piety, rendered her delightful to every one. The king of France regarded her, not only as his dear aunt, whom he had known from infancy, but as a real bond of peace between his country and Great Britain; and her son-in-law, his brother, the duke of Orleans, convinced of her rare prudence and sagacity, consulted her on every affair of moment, and gave her his most intimate confidence, as if she had been his real mother.”

BEAUCHAMPS.-A TALE.

CHAP. III.

(Continued from page 38.)

"WELL, sir, a whole week passed by, and no tidings of Master Mark; we began to be anxious concerning the funeral; and Mr. Penrose did not know what to advise. He came up one afternoon, as usual, to know if we had got any news, and that time he staid to take his tea with Miss Deane. He might have been gone about half an hour, when a chaise came galloping into the courtyard at the back of the house. Andrew went out; you mind Andrew, sir? Thank God you be come, sir,' says he. 'I wish to Heaven I had never gone, Andrew.' I heard Master Mark speak these words as he came into the back hall. Where's my poor cousin? where's Mary?' She came out of the breakfast-parlour on hearing his voice, and met him in the front hall. Master Mark kissed her; and, after a few words had passed between them, led her back into the parlour. Then he told her how he had not reached Ross, nor got the last letter, till noon that very day; the party having gone further than at first they intended, to see some sight or another: besides which, Miss Tracey, his lady that now is, met with an unlucky accident, and sprained her ancle, which had delayed them on the road. I was in the oak parlour when Mr. Gifford came in; the coffin had been brought down stairs, and placed there that morning; he looked at the plate, and then spoke kindly to me, saying very handsome things about my long and faithful service; he had no doubt, he said, but that his aunt had ac knowledged the same, and provided for me by her will; but it would be a satisfaction to him to contribute. by any means in his power, to the comfort of my latter days. Those were his words, as well as I can remember them; and I should wrong him if I did not say that he was as good as his words. I have this house, sir, rent free, for my life; and a bit of meadow-land besides, enough to feed a cow. He then explained to me, as he had done to Miss Deane, what had kept him on the road; but Miss Tracey's name came too often, by far, to please me.

"Mr. Gifford having had no dinner, and Miss Deane eating nothing, to speak of, for the last week, I had a trifle of supper got ready, and sent into the breakfastroom; and, being obliged to leave the oak parlour for something that was wanted, poor Andrew, who had been waiting at supper, said to me, 'If it was not almost a sin to think of such a thing at a time like the present, I should say, Hannah, we were not going to be long without a mistress here at Beauchamps.' I bade him hold his tongue, and not talk in that foolish way; for I felt pretty nigh certain that no such mistress as he was thinking of would ever come into that house.

"The next day the will was read; and the funeral took place that same afternoon. It had been Miss Deane's intention to follow her aunt to the grave; she told Mr. Penrose that such was her desire, and, so far from trying to put her off from it, he said it was a decent and respectful custom, too much laid aside amongst the gentry. However, when it came to the point, that is to say, after Mr. Gifford came home, she changed her mind; I never knew what her reason might be, and so I could not satisfy Mr. Penrose, who wondered not to see her amongst the mourners, and thought she must have been suddenly taken ill. We servants all attended, for Miss Deane would not suffer any one to remain with her. When I went up to her room afterwards, she told me she had written again to Mrs. Deane, and fixed for leaving Beauchamps the day after the morrow, as her aunt had told her that they should require no long notice, and that, come when she might, her room would be ready to receive her. I asked her what need to be in such a hurry, and how she intended to travel. She answered me, that she could not properly stay on at

Beauchamps, now that it was Mr. Gifford's house; and that, as for the journey, she should have no fear of travelling by the stage-coach; especially if her cousin would permit Andrew to go on the outside, and see her safe to Mrs. Deane's house. She spoke very steadily, till on my saying that I hoped we might see her back again, some time or other, she burst into tears, and said, Never!'

"When, according to her orders, I desired Andrew to make some inquiry the next morning about the coaches, the old man seemed struck all of a heap. 'But there!' says he, presently, it won't be for long; we shall soon have her back again; it is not worth while for her to take the canaries, at no rate.'

6

"That same evening Miss Deane and her cousin had a long talk together; and that settled everything. I went into her room, when she was going to bed, as I thought. She was upon her knees packing a trunk, and her back was towards me; I told her that I had given her message to Andrew, and that he would do her errand the first thing in the morning. She thanked me, but said that she need not trouble him; her cousin would not hear of her travelling in the coach, and insisted upon taking charge of her himself. She spoke low, and did not turn her head. I made bold to say, that I hoped everything had been made comfortable on the part of Mr. Gifford, in regard to her fortune; for I knew that my mistress, not wishing to leave away more than she could help from her nephew, had put Miss Deane down in her will for only 500l.; and I well remembered also what she had said afterwards, and the charge she had given Master Mark. There is nothing to be done, Hannah,' said she, turning half round as she spoke; I have no need of anything. My aunt's kind remembrance of me, with my own little fortune, the interest of which has been accumulating ever since I was received into this house, that is to say, nearly my whole life- Her voice seemed to fail her, but she soon went on: I have sufficient for my decent maintenance; it is all I am entitled to; all that I desire; but it is not Mark's fault that I have no more--he has offered---he has said everything.' She could bear up no longer, but leaning her face upon the trunk, sobbed as if her very heart would break. I could not help saying that her fortune was but scanty for a young lady like her; and as it was plain that my mistress desired Master Mark should add something to it out of his own large inheritance (for my poor mistress had always been a saving person), I thought she had better let him act according to her aunt's wishes. Oh, no, she could not-her aunt did not know-Mark would need all that she had left him, to keep up the consequence of the family.' I wondered to hear her speak such words, but it was all, except tears and sobs, that I could get out of her. I begged she would leave off packing for that night, saying that I would help her in the morning, or do it all for her, if she would allow me. I then went and fetched a glass of camphor julep, which I made her drink; and seeing her a little more composed, I prayed her to undress, for that I should not leave the room till she was in bed; and so she would be keeping me out of mine, if she did not do as I wished. She said that she would, but begged of me to grant her a few minutes; she promised not to keep me long; so I shut the lid of the trunk, and sat down upon it; and Miss Deane, seating herself on the ground, just where she had been kneeling, laid her head on my lap, as she used to do when she was a little child and wanted me to tell her a story or sing her a song. I know,' says she, presently, that it is wrong to give way in this manner; it shows great want of submission to God's will. I have been taught my duty as a Christian, and now I must pray constantly for strength to perform it; then, in the end, all must be well; as good Mr. Penrose says, I have only to resign myself, without murmuring or misgiving, to the will of Him who careth for the fatherless, for His word is sure, and I shall never be forsaken.'

"The next day, as you may suppose, was both a busy