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when he was suffering terrible pains as a result of dropsical symptoms, plunged scissors into the calf of each leg. Hawkins states: That this act was not done to hasten the end but to discharge the water that he conceived to be in him, I have not the least doubt."

Two further matters may be mentioned as throwing light on Hawkins's character. There were apparently two volumes in manuscript, in one of which Johnson had written with considerable detail an account of his earlier years; the other contained meditations and reflections also in manuscript. Boswell had seen the autobiographical volume, and had even asked Johnson what he would have felt had he stolen it and disappeared, to which Johnson replied: "Sir, I believe I should have gone mad." Eight days before Johnson's death, when looking for a paper containing instructions to his executors, Hawkins, according to his own story, came across these volumes and put them in his pocket, at the same time informing Langton and Strahan. He did this because he was informed by Frank Barber that "a joint proprietor of a newspaper, well known among the booksellers," was anxious to obtain access to Johnson, and might misuse documents he found lying about. Hawkins admitted to Johnson that he had taken the books, and gave his reasons. He even wrote an apology the next day to which Johnson replied, "If I was not satisfied with this, I must be a savage." Boswell's account makes Hawkins look like a thief detected in his larceny: and even Dr. Birkbeck Hill speaks of him as being "detected in pocketing the volumes. But Johnson's subsequent conduct towards him was entirely cordial, and it may be no undue excess of charity to suggest that this was no more than another instance of the officiousness and tactlessness which were so characteristic of him. The other incident, about which Porson makes great play in a satirical_article in the Gentleman's Magazine, concerned Frank Barber, the residuary legatee under the will. Hawkins resented this, and in the postcript to his Life suggested that provision instead should have been made for a certain Humphrey Heely, whom he calls a "relation" of Johnson, though in fact he was no more than the husband of a deceased cousin who had re-married. Mention of the fact, he says, 66 may serve as a caveat against ostentatious bounty, favour to negroes, and testamentary dispositions in extremis." It is Reynolds who explains this venomous attack. Barber, apparently, did not choose to do anything for Heely: but apart from that,

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Reynolds, together with their co-executor, Sir William Scott, had insisted that Hawkins should return to Barber Johnson's gold watch, which, together with other articles, he had taken for himself. Though there was no specific gift of the watch to Barber either in the will or in the codicil, the other executors felt it was fitting that Barber should have this memento of his master. Hawkins certainly behaved in a petty way, charging his coach hire against the estate every time the executors met; but executors before and since Hawkins have charged travelling expenses, and there is no evidence to show that, except purely as an act of grace, Barber had any specific title to the watch. It was his meanness combined with his sanctimoniousness that exasperated his contemporaries and induced them to put the most unfavourable construction on his actions.

An obituary notice at the time of Hawkins's death speaks of his high reputation for abilities and integrity, combined with the well-earned character of an active and resolute magistrate, an affectionate husband and father, a firm and zealous friend, a loyal subject, and a sincere Christian. Sir John could be (or appear to be) all this, and nevertheless a thoroughly unpleasant person. The type is indeed not unknown even to-day. Hawkins was pompous and a prig, and utterly lacked any sense of humour. A man may have fine qualities of intellect and character, but with these defects he is damned. Humble to his superiors, Hawkins's attitude to his inferiors and equals was apt to be truculent. A religious man, he lacked some of the essential Christian virtues. A man of literary taste, he could yet write a thoroughly bad book. We may liberally discount much of the censure and unpopularity which he had to face as being harsh and unjust, but his virtues made him only less intolerable than his defects. Sir Leslie Stephens has summed him up with his usual judicial fairness as a man of coarse fibre, not without solid good qualities." This is more than most of his contemporaries would have said for him, even if it is far below the estimate which Hawkins no doubt formed of himself. But the judgment stands.

66

EDWARD BOYLE

THE TRUCE OF THE SNOW

IT had snowed all the previous day and part of the night, a fine steady snow, that had come floating down like powder, muffling the country-side in a blanket of white, so that it is a transfigured world upon which the sun is rising.

A faint blush spreads across the blue-green dome of the heavens, a golden radiance appears in the eastern sky, and a few pearly flakes of cloud hanging overhead, all that is left of the sombre snow-clouds which whitened the world, glow with a coppery hue. Below the river fog is piled up in an impalpable faintly violet haze, while, by contrast with the sunrise hues, the snowy landscape seems to be painted in the most delicate tones of blue, the azure shadows serving to dimly indicate familiar contours buried beneath this allenveloping mantle of snow.

With the snow has come peace, a strange silence and stillness, as if the country-side is holding its breath, and fears to move lest it should disturb the silver burden of the trees. Every branch-nay, every twig-is tricked out in white: white that glitters and shines against the sky as the sunlight catches and illuminates it; but not a thing stirs; all is still, and not a sound is to be heardnot even a flake falling from the burdened boughs; until at last there arises a murmur, a faint distant murmur, as of a sleepy sea breaking on a shingly shore. It grows louder and more insistent, but yet seems no part of, nor any disturber of, this peace that has settled upon the country-side. It swells and swells until it becomes the cawing of many bird voices. The rooks in their distant rookery have awakened, and are coming, countless black specks against the sunrise, out into the world of whiteness, to seek their living for the day.

In a seemingly unending stream they float by, winging their way in steady procession from east to west, and the glow has faded from the sky before the rearguard has passed over, leaving the still fields to brood in their silence.

What has happened-where have all the many other creatures gone? Are they hidden beneath the snow, sheltering in burrow and nest, or is there life abroad in this silent white universe?

Walking across the meadows, moving towards the woods, with steps that make no sound in the deep snow, though they leave a broad trail to sully its fair surface, I find that

some creatures have been about, for signs of life become apparent signs of life that are written upon the tablet of the snow animals have crossed, beasts and birds have written in padmark and trail the record of their doings, the record of those who passed in the night, and the record of those more lately about.

Here, lacing the snow in criss-cross pattern, are the footprints of rabbits, showing how they hopped to and fro, scratching here, hopping there, and then galloping off to the wood.

The rabbit's trail is a remarkable and peculiar one: first the small impressions of the fore-feet, the one in front of the other, and ahead of them, side by side, the imprints of the larger hind-feet. When cantering or galloping a rabbit proceeds in a series of bounds, and in alighting the hind-feet overtake the fore. The faster it goes the farther it leaps, sometimes covering as much as six or more feet at a bound. Among the trails on the snow are two where the rabbits had been going fast, where they evidently raced for home, flying over the snow in great bounds. Beyond these tracks are some more footsteps, small dog-like ones, namely those of a fox. No doubt it was from the fox that the rabbits fled in such alarm. Looking closely at the fox trail, some interesting details become apparent-it was made by two foxes stepping one behind the other, the last stepping almost in the footsteps of the first. Turning, I follow their tracks, which pass down the slope towards the covert ahead, noting as I do so that one of the foxes turned aside from the direct route to call at a large molehill (such spots serve as news agencies in the wild world), whence a whiff of rank fox smell greets my nose. No doubt they were a pair, hunting together, and it was the dog-fox that paused at the molehill. Studying the trail, it is apparent that one set of footprints, that of the fox which went first, is slightly bigger than the other; so one can picture the two, the dog-fox leading, gliding across the snowy waste, silhouetted by the moonlight as dark shapes against it. By now, no doubt, they are tucked up asleep in some snug retreat; still, I follow on, to see what they have been doing. Through the bushes and into the wood goes the trail-a wood that is like fairyland, so exquisite are the trees and undergrowth in their clothing of white. Nothing stirs, and it seems sacrilege to push forward into this woodland peace, where all things are hushed and a truce, the truce of the snow, appears to brood over all.

But the truce is more apparent than real, for on the

snow lie scattered some feathers, grey ones, those of a chaffinch, and a few bloodstains on an ancient stump tell where the hawk has feasted-well, snow or no snow, the hawk has got to live!

And as for the foxes' trail, that leads on and on; I follow it by brakes and through briers, across a deep dingle, past the pheasants' feeding place, by fallen trees, onwards through the wood, and at last out into the fields again; and save for one or two deviations of a yard or so, the two trails are inseparable. It was evident these two foxes went everywhere together and never parted company. No doubt a staid and sober "married couple," they liked going about together. It is, perhaps, not always realized that foxes are devoted mates. I have tracked pairs on many occasions, the trail revealing how inseparable they are, and we know that the dog-fox shares in the family responsibilities and helps to feed the cubs.

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Once out of the wood this pair went straight across the middle of a big field, only turning from their course to investigate a newly raised mole hillock (molehills are most attractive) which shows raw and red against the snow, and then trotting on for a certain well-used smeuse" in the next hedge. Foxes do not go through fences at any or every spot, but have their recognized passages or smeuses, which are known to all the foxes of the district. These ways are used also by rabbits and hares, but not by badgers, which generally go through the gates, though gates, however convenient, are despised by the foxes. The latter avoid the works of man as much as possible.

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The pair in question went next across a ploughground, passing close to a roosting covey of partridges, whose 66 squat is plainly outlined in the snow, but had not scented them, though they had evidently smelt a field mouse, for there is shown the impression where one of the foxes pounced, failed to catch the mouse, and then poked about in the snow.

In another place the two indulged in a game and had a roly-poly in the snow, which even shows the impression of their fur where they rolled-what fun they must have had playing under the moon!

I follow them for some way, it becoming evident they were making a circular tour that led them back to the wood. Here is where they investigated some hedgerow rabbit-holes-was my lady thinking of the day, as yet sometime ahead, when she would be needing a nursery ? And then, near the wood once more, is where they paused

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