The Life of William Hutton, of Birmingham. 



629 



fceroes of Homer, oi' in those leaders of 

 trained banditti, wlio, under tlie jjMoss of 

 various titles, murder unofibndiu;^ na- 

 tions ; but, for our parts, we liave ac- 

 companied our ojd friend in this narra- 

 live of his peaceful Journey of Life, 

 with heartfelt pleasure; ami our delibe- 

 rate feeling is a fervent wish that our 

 latter days may be lil^e his, and that, 

 wheii our race against time is ended, wo 

 may possess equal claims to tlie re'^pect 

 of posterity. In many respects this 

 work bears a strong analogy to the 

 recent Life of Thomas Hoh roft, as far 

 as both were written by the originals ; 

 but Mr. Hutton was a less artiticial 

 character than Mr. Holcrott, and his 

 story tiierefore pleases us better. Miss 

 Hutton, who has written the ninety- 

 first and last year of her father's life, 

 lias kept up its interest, and rendered 

 the wiiole one of the most instructive 

 pieces of Biography, for the use of tiie 

 lower and middle classej:, whicli exists 

 in our langnajje. Tlie Narrative of the 

 Riots in Birmingham, of which Mr. 

 Hutton was one of tlie vietims, is a 

 document for History ; and, from this 

 part, as being likely to be more accept- 

 able to general readers, and as more 

 capable of being detaclicd from the 

 general narrative, we have made copi- 

 ous extracts.] 



w 



THE AUTHORS MOTIVES. 



'ONE is so able to write a Life as 

 the person wiio is the subject j be- 

 cause his thoughts, his motives, and his 

 private transactions, are open to him 

 alone. But none is so unlit; for his 

 liand, biassed in his favour, will omit, or 

 disguise simple truth, hold out false 

 colours, and deceive all but the writer. 

 I have endeavoured to divest myself of 

 this prejudice. 



I must apologize to the world, should 

 this ever come under its eye, (or present- 

 ing it with a life of insignificance. I 

 have no manoeuvres, no state tricks, no 



public transactions, nor adventures of 



moment, to lay before my readers. I _ . _ r- 7 .?, v...,..., 



have only the history of an individual, the sky serene, and every thing mild but 



sirufglmg, unsupported, up a mountain my uncle and me. The sound of the 



selves, appear in the third person; at, 

 " t/ie Author, the Recorder, or the Writer 

 of this Narrative-" which seems rather 

 tar-fetched. I can see no reason »hy a 

 man may not speak in the first, and us« 

 the simjjle letter I, 



B;it without entering into the propriety 

 of these methods, I have adopted the 

 last. If I speak q/" myself, why no\. from 

 myself? A rareeshow-man may be al- 

 lowed to speak through a puppet, but it 

 is needless in an author. 



THE HISTORY OF A WEEK. 



The week of the races is an idle one 

 among Stockingers at Nottingham. It 

 was SO with me. Five days had passed, 

 and I had done little more than the work 

 of four. 



My uncle, wlio always judged from the 

 present moment, supposed I should never 

 return to industry. He was angry at my 

 neglect, and observed, on Saturday 

 morning, that, if I did not perforin my 

 task that day, he would thrash me at 

 niglit. Idleness, which had hovered 

 over me five days, did not choose to 

 leave me the sixih. Night came. I 

 wanted one hour's woik. I hoped my 

 former conduct would atone for the pre- 

 sent. But he had passed his word, and 

 a man does not wish to break it. " You 

 have not dune the task I ordered I" 1 

 was silent. " Was it in your power to 

 have done it?" Still silent. He repeated 

 again, "Could you have done it?" As 

 1 ever detested lying, I could nut :hink 

 of covering myself, even fioin a rising 

 storm, by so mean a subterfuge; for we 

 both knew I had done netir twice as 

 much. I therefore answered in a low 

 meek voice, " 1 could." This fatal word, 

 innocent in itself, and founded upon 

 truth, proved my destruction, " Then," 

 says he, " I'll make you." He immedi- 

 ately brought a birch- broom handle, of 

 white hazel, and holding it by the small 

 end, repeated his blows till I thought he 

 wauld have broken me to pieces. The 

 windows were open, the evenm" cair 



of ditficulties. And yet some of the 

 circumstances are so very uncommon, 

 as barely to merit belief. A similar 

 mode «f a man ushering himself into 

 Jife, perhaps, cannot be met with. 



If I tell unnecessary things, they are 

 not told in uiinecesbary words. I have 

 avoided proli)(ity. 



A man cannot speak of himself with. 

 out running into egotism; but I have 

 sdhered to tacts. 



^utne writers, in speaking of tjicin* 



roar and tiie stick penetrated the air to 

 a great distance. 



The neighbourhood turned out to in- 

 quire the cause; when, after some inves- 

 tigation, it was said to be, «• Only Hotttm 

 thrashing one of his lads." Whether the 

 crime and the punislnnent were ade- 

 quate, I leave to the reader to determine. 

 He afterwards told my father that he 

 should not have quarreled with me, but 

 for that word. But let me ask, what 

 word could I hjive suLtitituted in, U!^ 

 •^ ^ 'i roooi^ 



