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ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
ELIZA COOK'S
JOURNAL.
VOLUME VI.
NOVEMBER, 1851, TO APRIL, 1852.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY CHARLES COOK, KAQUET COTJ&T, FLEET STREET ;
AND MAY BE HAD OF ALL BOOKSELLERS.
5,
FEINTED BY COX (BROTHERS) AND WYMAN, GREAT QUEEN STREET,
LINCOLN'S-INN FIELDS.
INDEX.
MISCELLANEOUS ARTICLES.
Page
Ambitious Schoolmaster . . . . 307
Analogy 45
Australian California . . . . . . 282
Autumn Trip through Munster, 1, 22, 42,
61,67,90, 106, 118, 138,272
Back Settlement Population .. 141
Backwoodsman hunted by Wolves 366
Baronet's Wife 292
Battle for Life and Death 163, 184, 195,
222
Bears, Adventures with .. .. 190
Bernicle or Claik Geese . . . . 166
Birch and Broomsticks . . . . 387
Blackberries, Land of . . * . . . . 81
Blighted Troth 201
Blues, The . . 8
Boers' Fete 205
Breed of Englishmen 353
Bridgman, Laura 393
Broken Club . . . . 232
California, Mark Tapscott's Route
to 99, 123
Channing, Dr 1 87
Cheap John 60
Chisholm, Mrs. 149
Circumstances, Force of .. ..401
Collector, The 9
Comfort versus Muddle . . . . 305
Competition 407
Cooking for a Husband . . . . 29
Courage and Endurance .. ..145
Cousin Lucy 390
Cricket Match 102
Cuts at Yankees 113
Deal gently with the Erring . . 14
Diamond Dust 16, 64, &c.
Doctor Knowall 415
Don't Care! 127
Dream of the Weary Heart . . .122
Drill 17
Durham and Neville's Cross . . 38
English in Shanghae . . . . 308
Esther; A Tale 250
Facetiae of Despotism .. ..147
First Sorrow 229
Floral Symbols . . . . 26, 35
Frog Prince 151
Fuller, Sarah Margaret . . . . 338
Getting up behind 397
Go Ahead ! 334
Good and Evil of Praise . . . . 193
Goodness and Goodnature .. ..153
Government and People . . . . 289
Great Men — Moments of Composi-
tion 374
Head of the Family 361
House of Lords and Commons . . 97
Influence of Dress . . 207
It will Do !
Keep him out !
Kitto, Dr.
Page
. 191
. Ill
. 409
Lady hi the Garden 116
Lady's Voyage round the World . . 295
Laird's Watch 330
Lamplightingj or, Glimpses of
Poetry . . 227, 243, 278, 313, 325
Land of Blackberries 81
Lawyers' Wives 235
Leaves from the Diary of a Law
Cterk :—
Diamond Necklace 260
Edward Drysdale 321
Malvern versus Malvern . . . . 403
LeisureHours— How are they spent ? 327
Lending Libraries for the People . . 360
Lighthouse, Visit to a . . . . 10
Little Daffy downdilly 301
Liverpool to New York . . . . 157
Lowell the Poet 412
Luggage, Philosophy of .. .. 161
Machines and Men 177
March of Civilization 254
Mark Tapscott's Route to California 99,
123
Martin, Sarah 385
Mechanics' Institutes . . . . 86
Midnight Mower 178
Miracle of Life 49
Miser of Harrow Weal Common . . 364
Money- Value of Education . . . . 333
Mother Holle 88
Munster, Autumn Trip through 1,22,42,
61,67,90, 106, 118, 138,272
Musical Corner, 78, 142, 207,!.271, 333, 382
Music in the House 209
My Mother : 371
Neville's Cross and Durham . . 38
Newspapers 258
Nothing like Leather .. ..239
Officious Bird 234
Old Doctor's Opinion on Woman's
Dress 33
Old Man and his Grandchild . . 24
Orinoco in a Storm 343
Our Holiday 4
Our Pupils 355
Parisian Police Anecdote . . . . 269
Passions of Animals 211
Penny a Day— What it can do ..311
Philosophy of Luggage .. .. 161
Pink Satin Dress 237
Poetry and New Poems . . . . 299
Poor Genteel Women . . . . 1 73
Pouchkine, Alexander . . . . 358
Probation by Chess 275
Progress of Physiological Science . . 266
Proverbs, Old English County . . 369
Page
Queries, Catalogue of
Railways in London 378
Recollections of some Familiar Ac-
quaintances .. ..197
Richter, Jean Paul .. .. 316
Rosa and Etty . . . . . . 40
Rossini, Gioacchino . . . . 11
Russian Brothers . . . . 247
Russians.. .. .. ..169
Sacred Poetry of Scotland . . . . 253
Scott's (Patrick) Poems . . . . 171
Seven Trees ; Christmas Story . . 129
Shanghae, English in . . . . 398
Short Notes :—
Assurance of Railway Servants 220
Baths and Washhouses . . 286
Cottage Homes 77
Drawing and Modelling . . 286
Emigration 221
Fat People 126
National Progress . . . . 285
New Notions 77
Partnership, Law of .. ..221
Quarantine 287
Spelling Reform 220
Tea M anufacture . . . . /8
Thought and Feeling .. ..127
Water 125
We do not know each other . . 285
Singing Rooms and Casinos . . 265
Slave Hunts of Dar Wadey, &c. . . 337
Small Talk— Chit-Chat .. ..225
Soap and Water 382
Soldier's Love 84
South Foreland Light and Subma-
rine Telegraph 6s
Spain as it is 379
Sterling, John 57, 75
Stirring the Fire 257
Stolen Bank Notes 214
Story of Titian Vecelli . . . . 51
St. Pierre, Bernardin, Three Visitors
of .. 348
Submarine Telegraph, Second Visit 2/3
Summer Songs 109
Titian Vecelli, Story of .. .. 51
Too Late! 412
Umbrellas ..28
Vocation of the Poet 93
Washing Out 203
White Mill, The 70
Who knew best? 19
Will 396
Windows and Window Curtains .. 181
Wives of great Lawyers . . . 235
Woman's Dress, an old Doctor's
Opinion on 33
Young Idea — Female Education
Young Women in the Colonies
270
241
INDEX TO THE SIXTH VOLUME.
PARAGRAPHS.
Page Page Page
Anecdote of the Dog
. . 304 Hymn to Old Age wanted
352 Rich and Poor
303
Antipathies
.. 176
Art and Fortune
.. 208 Internal Monitor
112 Spirit of the Age
303
Stays and Corsets
32
Beauty everywhere
335 Jests
15
Beauty natural to Woman . .
.. 255
Teaching of Women
224
Bernard Barton
. . 192 Love and Constancy
272 Things lost for ever
32
Business of Life
. . 80 Lovers
336 Thinness of Leaf Gold
336
Tiger frightened by a Mouse
287 ;
Cervantes, Moliere, Shakspere
Chantrey at the City Feast . .
Childhood's Quick Apprehension
Cultivate a Genial Nature . .
•• 384 Marriage
.. 320 Married Life
• • 380 Modern Poetry
o j Trifles
112 j
143
350
jog True Poet a great gift
27>2 Twenty Shillings a year saved by
Working Men
Dangerous Gardening1
Difficulties useful
256 Observation
.' ! 304 Omnibuses in America
Two Gardens of Life
384 visions of the Past
367
399
Female Beauty
Female Character
.. 351 Pause
. . 144 Petty Miseries
367 Walking is good
383 What a Wife should be
319
255
Fine Writers and Fine Talkers
. . 416 Physiognomy of Nose and Mouth . .
35 1 Where does Wood come from ?
336
Possessions
175 Wonderful Man
319
Georgian Women
79 Press on !
47
Glances
. . 143 Progress of Nations
47 Youth, Manhood, Age
192
POETEY.
Alabama
Anger
.. 336 Origin of Dimples
. . 80 Out of Sight out of Mind
256 Special Pleading
272 Spring
48
393
Bridge of Sighs
.. 352
Poesy and Poets
'Tis not Fine Feathers make Fine
Birds
Dead Leaves
. . 208 Primrose to the Poet
64 Time' s Changes .. „ ..
1 28
288
Good Works
.. 16
Richard Cceur de Lion . . - . .
To one who said, " We meet at last "
g6 Truth before Wealth
18}
176
Last Leaf
.. 384
1
Little Herb- Gatherer
.. 105
Under the Mistletoe
144
Look up ' . . . .
. . 1 60 Shower The . .
304
Loyal Heart, to the . .
. . 320 Slave Ship
368
Sone:
64 Win and Wear
112
Musical Murmurs from a Shattered Song of the Red Man
240 Winter's Wild Flowers
1&2
String
.. 400 Song of the Shirt
416 Write soon!
36>
RE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'
S POEMS.
My Birthday
Stanzas — The Tomb
Song of the Imprisoned Bird
24 The Acorn
121 "Tis sweet to Love in Childhood . .
121 The Old Mill Stream
121 Stanzas
281
281
312 |
. . 25 Say, oh say, you love me ! . .
. . 25 Love's First Dream
Blue-bells in the Shade
.. 25 The Surgeon's Knife
121 My Murray Plaid
312 i
A Summer Sketch
. . 56 Fill my Glass, Boy
122 The Future
313 |
Fire!
Lines to the Queen of England
. . 57 The Forest Brake
. . 5/ Song of the Goblet
152 Rory O'More
168 Wealth
345 ,
377
, Sonnet
The Willow Tree
The Smuggler Boy
Anacreontic
.. 57 Washington
. . 89 Harvest Song
.. 89 The Pledge
.. 89 Stanzas
200 Song of the Blind One
200 Stanzas
201 Song of the Worm
248 Sunshine
378 !
378
408
408
Thy Will be Done
. . 90 To the Spirit of Song
249 Stanzas :.
409
VOLUMES I. TO VI.,
BOUND IN GREEN CLOTH, PRICE 4s. GD. EACH.
VOLUMES I., II., AND III.,
CONTAIN
NUMEROUS SHORT STORIES WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR CHILDREN.
TWO NEW SONGS, THE WORDS AND MUSIC BY ELIZA COOK.
Now publishing, price Two Shillings each, sent postage free,
"THE RING AND THE KIRK," and "THE WEDDING BELLS."
Also a Second Edition of " DEAD LEAVES," A BALLAD.
Published at the Office of ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL. May be ordered of any Musicgellor.
No. 131.]
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 1851.
PRICE
OUR AUTUMN TRIP THROUGH MUNSTER.
DUBLIN. — EMIGRATION. — THE LIBERTIES. — IRISH
MISERY. — THE COUNTRY TO CORK.
" WELL," said my uncle, " I like the idea vastly ! It
is true we have been bored enough, lately, with Irish
politics, Irish potatoe disease, Irish emigration, and
other Irish topics, but I should like to see the land
about which we have had so much talk ; and above all,
I should like to see its people. Germany and the
Rhine have grown stale ; Paris is little better than
a cockney suburb ; Italy, Egypt, and even Spain,
have become English highways : Ireland is still fresh
and untrodden ground. It's a settled point, then,
that we take Ireland for our autumn tour."
" Which part of Ireland shall it be? There's
Dublin and Belfast — "
" No, no, those are little more than English and
Scotch settlements — half Saxon, half Celt. Let's
get among the Milesians, down in Munster. What
say you to Cork, Limerick, and Tipperary ? There
we shall come upon the old blood of the country, and,
I am told, the most fertile lands of Ireland,"
" Well, Munster be it then ! "
I need not describe the journey across England,
and from Holyhead to Dublin, which we reached in
about thirteen hours from London. I confess, the
first appearance of Dublin surprised me. I had seen
no city superior to it. Its streets are superb, and
its public buildings magnificent. Its thoroughfares
are bustling with life. Sackville Street and the Quays
are matchless. But alas ! in the one you find a large
admixture of squalor with wealth; and along the
other, you see but few evidences of the healthy stir
of commerce. The first vessel we saw along the
Quays was the Wave, nearly opposite the deserted
Custom-house, — a Custom-house without Customs.
" A fine vessel, sir," said my uncle to a sailor stand-
ing on board.
" She is, indeed ; — the finest emigrant ship sailing
from Dublin."
" An emigrant ship ! And is such the use to which
your finest vessels are put ?"
"Troth, an' it is, sir. Dublin exports nothing but
cattle, butter, and emigrants. But emigrants are
the staple article now ; emigration beats the cattle
_and butter trade hollow."
" The cattle and butter to England, and the emi-
grants to America ? Isn't that the way of it ?"
" It is, sir. Before, the people went over to
England to look after the cattle and the butter, and
perhaps to get a share of them ; but now they nearly
all go to America."
Along the Quay were several young men and
women, well clad, evidently in holiday dress. We
found them to be emigrants — respectable peasants,
the very bone and sinew of the country.
" So, you are leaving old Ireland," said I to a young
man who had stepped on shore again, after seeing
some boxes safely deposited on board.
" I am, sir ; about three hundred of us sail to-
morrow for America, in the Wave — she's a slow ship,
but a safe one."
" And why do you emigrate ? "
" Why ? Because I have the means of going — a
brother in America has sent money enough home to
take out myself and my sister. No Irishman will
stay in Ireland now, who has the means of leaving it."
" Yet, this is a rich country, beautiful and fertile."
"Ay, a beautiful, green laud, sir, but cursed —
cursed in its landlords, its laws, its potatoes, and its
all. We are flying from Ireland at the rate of a
thousand a day, and remittances are coming into the
country at the rate of about ten thousand pounds a
week, from our relations in America, to help us to
fly thither. In ten years more we shall have nearly
left the country altogether to you English, to do with
as you will."
And the young man turned away, to join his sister
who was near at hand.
"Well," said my uncle, "there must be some
terrible evil beneath all this. The sight of that emi-
grant ship makes me almost heart-sick. To think of
thousands of people flying from their old homes, and
from the land they love, to brave unknown perils and
hardships ! It has a bad look, and indicates some-
thing rotten in the State."
We hailed a carman. Cars run along every street
in Dublin ; they are the popular mode of convey-
ance for all who can afford to pay for them ; they
are light, convenient, and cheap. You leap up on
one side, your friend on the other, and away drives
the car, at a trot or a gallop, as you choose.
"What's the fare for an hour's drive ?"
"A shilling an hour, yer honour."
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
"Well, drive us through thebest streets of Dublin."
"I will, yer honour," said the carman, and away
we went. Along the noble Quay, up Sackville Street,
past the Post-office, past the Lying-in Hospital, then
up the hill, through many fine streets and squares.
"See there, sir," said the carman, "these fine
houses, that you now see standing empty, were all
occupied by the lords and gentry of Ireland in the
grand old times."
" The grand old times ! When were they ? The
houses seem comparatively modern, and are certainly
very handsome."
" Ah, yer honour, I mean before the Union, when
we had a Parliament of our own down there in College
Green. They've turned our Parliament House into
a rag-shop, you would see."
" A rag-shop ! Why, I thought it was the principal
office of the Bank of Ireland ?"
" An' so it is, yer honour ! "
" Ah ! I see," said my uncle ; " by rags you mean
Bank-notes. Well, that's one definition of a paper
issue ! "
We drove down the Quays, past the noble Four
Courts — the Irish halls of justice, certainly one of the
finest buildings of the kind in Europe — then across
Carlisle Bridge again, and along Grafton Street.
"And this is your old Parliament House ?" said I,
pointing to the noble building now used as the Bank
of Ireland. "It is not the first time that a temple,
destined for other usea, has been taken possession of
by the money-changers."
"They must be drove out, yer honour/' said the
carman, "if it isn't too late."
I found " too late " was ever on this poor fellow's
lips, when alluding to any of the popular measures
for the regeneration of Ireland ; and I afterwards
found the same expression, uttered in a tone of deep
melancholy, by Irishmen, wherever I went.
" And this fine building here — what is that ?"
" That's Trinity College, and a noble place it is, all
round full of professors and libraries. I've known it
this thirty year. It's a mighty grand place, your
honour."
And BO we drove on. These fine streets, it must
be admitted, have a very English look, and the names
over the doors of the shops, especially of the larger
ones, are many of them English and Scotch. Indeed,
while in Dublin, we saw posted up against the walla
many flaring posters denouncing these " Monster
Houses."
Merrion Square, so widely known as containing the
house wherein the great O'Connell dwelt, is a remark-
ably handsome square, though I perceived that many
of its houses were untenanted. Among others, the
house which O'Connell occupied had stuck in the
window a notice " To Let."
"They are all going," said the driver. "The rich
won't live in Dublin now, and they leave it to the
Cr, who can't get out of it. Our lords and gentry
e all gone. The Duke of Leinster's fine house
there, is now a Museum. You see how it is, your
honour ! "
We had now driven back to a part of the city
higher up the Quay, along which we were proceeding.
"Now, look there," said my uncle, pointing to a
large printed bill at a shop door, in a narrow street.
" That's something curious."
The bill announced for sale within, at BO much a
score, " The Old Established Howth Oysters," under
the motto of " Ireland for ever ! " On the opposite
side of the street was a rival shop, with the placard
outside of, "Erin go Bragh — The Real Original
Clontarf Oysters for sale here."
"Then," said my uncle to the carman, "have the
Saxon oysters come to your shores, to compete for the
honour of occupying Dublin stomachs, that the ' old
established, ' and the ' real original ' oysters are setting
up their cry of ' Erin go Bragh ?'"
" May be they are, your honour ; for if there's any
good going here, the Saxon 'a sure to be in for the
largest share of it."
"Erin go Bragh oysters ! It looks very like 'In I
the name of the prophet, Figs ! ' "
"Ah, here's another curious bill," said I, pointing
to a wall of boards stuck over by posters. " Let us
get down and read these."
I confess to a partiality for the literature of dead
Walls everywhere. Nothing gives one a better in-
sight into the political movements, the commercial life,
and the social state of the people, than the placards
addressed "to the million," which are stuck up along
the public thoroughfares. What did we see here,
then ? First, there was a flaming bill, headed " Ire-
land for ever ! " containing an address beginning,
'* Fellow-countrymen! — The public mind is in a state
of great excitement, and very naturally so, in conse-
quence of the afflicted state of Ireland, the Monster
House Monopoly, the Irish Manufacture Movement,
&c., &c., all of which require a |very dispassionate
consideration." After such an introduction, you
would expect the promulgation of some grand plan
of national amelioration — some mighty projection of
philanthropy or benevolence ; — but no — the writer
merely goes on to announce that "a Capital Break-
fast may be had at No.—, Street for 4d., and a j
Dinner for 6d. ! "
" It's only the art of puffing got acrogs the Channel,"
Baid my uncle ; " it seems to have come over with the
Saxon, and become native and patriotic, like every-
thing elae here. See, there is the placard of a
'Patriotic Assurance Society.' But what have we
here? — A 'Good Samaritan Lodge,' a working class
benefit society, I suppose, 'Registered by Act of
Parliament,' and one of its provisions is, that 'at
the death of each adult, the Holy Sacrifice of the
Mass will be offered for the happy repose of the soul
of the deceased, and of all deceased members of the
Society. Entrance Is., weekly subscription 4d.'
This is surely a new application of the mutual assur-
ance principle ! But come along, we have had enough
of your favourite literature of the dead wall, though
I admit it is quite as worthy of perusal as much that
issues from the bookshop."
" Now, drive us through the poorest parts of the
city, Mr. Driver, and let us see what there is beneath
all this fair outside."
"Yes, sir ; shall I drive you through the Liberties ?"
" By all means — I suppose it is quite safe?"
" .Ah yes, safe enough, your honour, though they're
very poor people."
We drove up the hill from the south bank of the
Liffey, towards St. Patrick's Cathedral, which stands |
on a fine site, though it is a miserable building, fast •
going to decay, notwithstanding its large revenues.
Half of it is in ruin, and the remainder is fast follow-
ing. The only things in it worth looking at (and
there is little in it worth hearing, except the chanting),
are the busts of Swift and Curran — both very fine.
As we drove up the narrow street towards the Ca-
thedral, the squalid poverty of Dublin began to open
out before us. We saw before us a population,
apparently little, if at all, above the condition of
beggars. Half-clad children, squalid, barefooted
women, ragged and dirty men, filled the thorough-
fares. A sickly stench pervaded the narrow, crooked
streets. The shops were as mean and poverty-stricken
as the people ; many of them repositories of old
worn-out stuffs — old clothes, old furniture, old rags,
old locks and bolts, old scraps of all kinds, and two
of them we observed were devoted to old car- wheels !
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Many of these places are a kind of booths, open to
the street ; and on the pavement, in front, ragged
women and children sat basking themselves, "dis-
coorsing" together. The streets there are noisy with
talk. Womens' heads protruded from the holes along-
side the pavement, which are the openings of cellar-
dwellings, often packed with miserable occupants —
the one opening in the cellar-hole generally serving
for both door and window. Other unwashed heads
were projecting from the sashlesa windows over-head,
within which you might see the blackened walls of the
apartment, sometimes full of occupants ; and along
the street itself were squatted numerous groups, all
in rags, all poor, all destitute ; and yet nearly all
talking, and apparently all happy ! As we drove up
the street leading to the Cathedral, a little ragged
boy, seemingly out of sheer fun, threw himself along
ihe pavement in a succession of summersets, almost
keeping pace writh the car ; and the other ragged
youngsters about him laughed and joked at his
agility. Some of them were as nearly destitute of
clothing as it was possible to be, without being
naked ; and their skins seemed not to have known
water.
"Really," said my uncle, "I don't think I ever
saw in my life before, such a mass of poverty crowded
into one place ; but, after all, it seems only poverty, —
it is not misery. There is contentment on those faces,
on many of them merriment and gladness. It is really
very extraordinary."
" Ah, it's the light heart and the light purse they
have, your honour," said the carman; " but there's
misery too in the back streets about here — poor
starving creatures, God help them ! "
"Are there many streets as bad as this, where the
population is as wretched?"
"Ay, hundreds, sir — half Dublin is as poor as
that" — pointing to a squalid group squatted in the sun.
"Well, who need wonder that the Irish people are
flying out of their country ? If it does nothing better
for them than that, why, the sooner they wipe its
dust off their feet, the better."
"Yes, your honour, they're all going — it's only the
means they want. Ireland 'g no longer for the Irish.
The curse of God, or of Cromwell, is on our country."
" Well, now, we've seen enough of thig — drive us
back to Sackville Street, my good fellow."
"I will, sir; but first let me take you through
Weavers' Square — It's close at hand."
We drove on, and passed through the deserted
quarter. Some sixty years ago, the place was busy
with the noise of the loom and the shuttle ; now it is
silent. The windows of many of the tall houses are
dismantled, and the streets are desolate. Like every-
thing else in Ireland, except poorhouses and barracks,
the place is going to ruin and decay.
" There is no weaving done here now 2" I asked.
" Next to none, sir ; the people are ruined out :
the English have taken all our trade away."
"How is that?"
" We haven't fair play, sir. It's bad laws has done
it all. It was not so when we had a Parliament of
our own."
" Bad laws ! why, there are no laws against Irish
weaving, nor Irish manufacture of any kind. If you
have lost your trade, it must be because you have not
worked to keep it. If the English make better and
cheaper articles for your Dublin markets, and Irish
people prefer buying them, why blame bad laws,
which have nothing to do with the matter ? But the
trade 's gone — that's clear ; and it's a bad business for
your poor people, I admit."
" It is, sir ; and we've looked long enough for the
good old times back again."
"Ay, but longing won't do," said my uncle, "you
Dublin people must set to work in good earnest, else
the good times won't come."
" It's too late, sir. Ireland 's clean ruined, and
there's nothing left for us but to quit it."
We found the same hopeless feeling on the part of
the people everywhere prevalent. Hope seemed to
have taken adieu of them, and their thoughts were all
across the Atlantic, where they wished to be. Many
had gone, many more were going, and a still greater
number longed to go.
Wherever we went, there was the same aspect of
poverty. The poor were everywhere, crawling on the
doorsteps of the lordliest mansions ; beggars on the
pavement, peeping out of cellars, crouched along the
quays, starting up at your approach, and haunting
your footsteps — beggars before you, behind you, and
on every side. A swift-footed beggar dogs you in the
street, and you find you can only cut him with a
copper — "I have got no change," — "I'll find change
for your honour this minute " is the ready reply. The
beggars go in ones, in twos, in groups, in detach-
ments. You give a penny, and the whole group is
full of eloquent thanks — "May the heavens be your
bed, and may you never feel hunger ! " A beggar
family lies squatted along the footpath, barring the
way — a woman, the centre of the group, smokes a
little black pipe, she has three children around her,
and a fourth at her breast. " A halfpenny, for the
love of God!" rises from the group, and if you drop
one, " the blessing of God upon your head" is shouted
after you. Such are the sights for the stranger, in
and about the capital of Ireland.
Dublin, though a splendid city in its wealthier
quarters, soon tires one accustomed to town sights.
It is in many respects a counterpart of our English
metropolitan city. Its public buildings, exhibitions,
Phoenix Park, Castle, College, museums, and such
like, are of the first class, and in many respects are
objects of great interest, and will amply repay inspec-
tion by those who have leisure. But our desire was to
see the country and the people — so, after a moderate
share of Dublin sight-seeing, we determined to push
into the far south-west.
Next morning we were up betimes, and had an
early breakfast. I was amused as well as gratified
by the solicitude of the waiter for our comfort. An
English waiter brings in his meats, sets them down, does
what he has to do without saying a word : you might
never know the sound of his voice. But this Irish waiter
seemed most anxious that we should be comfortable ;
and did not spare kindly expressions. " Do thry and
make a breakfast, sir, it's good for a long journey,"
said he. " Thry an egg, sir, they're fresh laid — I'm
sure you honours will like them," and so on. At
parting, I placed the usual douceur in the waiter's
hand : " Thank your honour's mercy, and bless your
sowl. I wish you safe home, and a pleasant journey,
sir." "Egad, "said my uncle, "I rather like that:
he seems a fine warm-hearted fellow. Indeed, these
Irish are quite gifted with natural politeness, if not
with a genuine kindness. Even that waiter can't
help doing the hospitable. I suppose we English
are either a cooler or a less demonstrative people."
We drove to the station of the Great Southern and
Western Railway, situated up the Liffey, on the
south bank. The station is the most beautiful and
compact I have yet seen, built after a noble design.
The whole appointments of this railway are admirable
• — road, carriages, and servants ; and it is a model of
punctuality, so far as I could judge. We took our seats
for Cork.
It ia but a very rapid and summary view of a
country, which one gets from the windows of a rail-
way carriage ; still, something is to be seen. Fertile
fields and heavy crops bespeak the richness of the
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
soil, and the industry of the people. ' From the
buildings which dot the landscape, you can draw
some inferences as to the wealth and enterprise of
the people. But it was matter of remark to us
strangers, how few buildings of any kind were* to be
discovered amid the landscape. No smoking long
chimneys anywhere, bespeaking manufacture ; no
wind-mills, indicating agricultural activity ; nothing
whatever corresponding in character to the English
village ; nothing at all resembling the English farm-
steading, except in the near vicinity of Dublin, where
the land is very rich and fertile ; very few peasants
dwellings, and these merely of mud and wattles, as
they might have been six hundred years ago ; very
few towns, and these poor and decaying ones, as, for
instance, Kildare, with its Round Tower — the town
an old decayed place, its houses falling to pieces.
Near this place is the famous Curragh of Kildare, an
immense tract of land, some six miles in length and
two in breadth, containing much fertile soil, but now
lying comparatively waste. It is the property of
Government, but why it lies idle and untilled, when
there are so many poor people wanting work, and
unfed, none can tell.
The Great Bog of Allen lies near at hand, and
part of it is crossed by the railway. Bog extends
for miles, — much of it reclaimable, but unreclaimed.
This bog is only one of many which occupy the
central districts of Ireland, and form a peculiar
character of Irish scenery. Unlike England, the
centre of the island is hollow, so that most of the
Irish rivers are mere chains of lakes. It is this that
accounts for the immense extent of river navigation
which the Shannon affords. The Bog of Allen, like
the other Irish bogs, is not without its value to the
peasantry who live around its outskirts and upon the
seemingly little islets which here and there stand
out upon its surface ; the bog affords an inexhaustible
supply of fuel for the Irish peasant, and is almost
the only article of life which he has in plenty.
Sometimes you discover, on the skirts of the bog,
a strip of green. What is that ? — the potatoe patch !
At first you can discover no traces of a dwelling ;
but look a little closer, and you will see some slight
elevations above the surface of the ground — not
differing from the bog in colour — they are the roofs
of human dwellings ; and in these low hovels, without
window or chimney, thrown up of mud and covered
with turf or thatch, after a style of architecture
which a Hottentot could rival, the Irish peasants
manage to live, and starve. The turf for the winter's
fire is got so easily from the bog, where one may
"cut and come again" for ever, and the potatoes
which satisfy the poor Irishman's wants are so easily
grown, that it were perhaps better for Ireland that
the turf were all burnt and the potatoes all blighted ;
for then the Irishman would have to exert himself to
dig under the earth for the coal in which Ireland
abounds, and to plough and cultivate its surface for
the production of a higher article of food than that
which now satisfies him.
At Portarlington, the railway passes through the
beautiful estates of the earl of that name, which are
now in the market. They are burdened with debt,
and are brought to the hammer by the authorities of
the Encumbered Estates Court. The land about this
neighbourhood is rich and fertile, but in many places
seemingly left idle and waste. On towards the county
of Tipperary, the land continues increasingly rich,
the pasture abundant, the crops heavy ; men and
women are seen toiling in the fields ; the peasant
farmers' huts, though still of clay and thatch, have a
more comfortable look ; well-fed cattle are seen brows-
ing here and there, and the landscape, set off by the
glorious background of the Galtee mountains, — green
to their summit, — looks gay, smiling, and beautiful.
" It is indeed a beautiful land," said a voice at my
elbow ; " the people of such a country must have put
themselves to great trouble to make it poor, when
nature has been so bountiful towards it."
He was an English gentleman who thus spoke, — on
a journey of pleasure and observation, like ourselves ;
and I could not help assenting to his remark.
"The land is rich, indeed," said another speaker,
evidently a native, from his strong accent, "and the
people are a hard-working, industrious people ; but
it is the bad landlord that is the curse of Ireland ; it
is he that makes it poor ; and what with bad laws
and oppressive taxation, the poor man has not a
chance of life in this country."
" Well," said the gentleman who had first spoken,
" I don't quite see the force of that. The law does
not prevent the grass growing, or the cattle from
feeding ; and as for taxes, you pay less than we do in
England ; about the bad landlord, there may be
something in that. But I confess I don't quite see
how he can be the cause of all the misery and poverty
that we see ; it is the same everywhere, both in town
and country, both where there are landlords and
where there are only house lords."
And here arose again the interminable subject ot
the causes of Irish misery. The Irishman held, that
Government and landlords were the chief causes ;
the Englishman insisted, that the people themselves
must also have something to do with it, and that it
was all folly to look to Government or to law to do
that for a people which they ought to do for them-
selves. I never heard these questions discussed in
Ireland, but the most various and opposite causes
were cited. One said it was the landlords, another
the potatoes, a third Popery, a fourth English mis-
government, a fifth the indolence of the Celtic race,
a sixth small-farms, a seventh — but there was no end
of causes adduced ; and I could not help agreeing
with my uncle in his assertion, that "if the Irish
people would but give up talking about the causes of
their poverty, and set to work upon the land, the
mines, and the fisheries of Ireland, they might soon
be the richest people in the three kingdoms. Why
should not Munster do as Ulster has done ? It has
the same law ; and it only needs industry and resolu-
tion on the part of the people, to achieve even greater
prosperity than they have done."
It was afternoon when we reached the Cork station.
Outside the landing-place there was a crush of omni-
buses and cars, and a deafening altercation was going
on among the drivers thereof for places. All seemed to
be talking and shouting at one and the same time ; and,
mixed up with the hubbub, were the entreaties of the
beggars fluttering in rags. Below lay the city, en-
vironed with green hills, at the head of its beautiful
bay, as fine a picture of hill, valley, and estuary, as
might be seen. Seated at last, we were driven down the
hill, through and across many miserable, tumble-down
streets, and along others which looked very spacious
and handsome, and were then set down at the Imperial
Hotel, one of the best-appointed inns in the kingdom.
OUR HOLIDAY.
A TALE.
BY PEECY B. ST. JOHN.
MONSIEUR and Madame Richard were a young
couple, who married for love. Of the middle classes,
they were very well off. Before marriage they had
known scarcely anything of each other, with the
exception of one or two days spent in the country
accompanied by their parents. There was one day in
particular, which they remembered always with
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
pleasure. It was about a week before they were
married. There had been a picnic got up by the
friends of the future husband, and all those who
were to be present at the wedding were there.
Jules and Louise, the future couple, were all the
day together ; they talked of the happiness of being
united, of the felicities of wedlock, of mutual affec-
tion ; but neither had formed to themselves any
notion of how this happiness, this felicity, was to be
brought about. Then came the noce, at which they
danced ; and then the honeymoon, when they were
very happy ; and then they sank down into a regular
serious married couple. They had not, before marriage,
taken any trouble to inquire into each other's tastes
and feelings ; they had not nurtured any ideas in
common, and now that they were hopelessly united,
their very love seemed to fade away after the first two
or three months. Jules returned to his habits previous
to marriage, Louise to hers. Very little would have
been required to have prevented this, — a simple
effort on the part of either to have pleased the other,
a wish to discover the means of doing so. But they
did nothing of the kind, so Jules went to a cafe and
played billiards, cards, and dominoes, and Louise,
when the shop did not require her presence, ran her
fingers over her piano, or did wool-work, labouring
like a little horse in a mill, at an arm-chair cover
which had been commenced three years before.
Such, unfortunately, is the early result of too many
marriages, which commence with fond caresses and
continual endearments, and end with indifference,
when not amid violence and quarrels. The cause is
generally the same, — >want of knowledge of each
other's character and habits, and worse than that, a
disinclination to take the trouble to inquire into each
other's feelings. A philosopher has said, "Know
thyself," and has declared this knowledge to be the
height of human wisdom ; but with married people
it's more important to understand each other. Half
the quarrels in the world take their origin in
mistakes. A playful pouting, when the lips look
scornful, and the eye is beaming with love, has often,
through carelessness, been taken for serious ill-temper,
and given rise to a terrible scene of passion. It is
only by studious examination, or by time, that we
arrive at a comprehension of people's weak points,
and it is precisely by a knowledge of the weak
points of those we love, that we can make them
happy. In all serious things, common sense will
make sensible persons yield, but the most sensible
are apt to let trifles influence them. A man who
could bear the loss of a hundred pounds in his
business philosophically, would be made cross all day,
perhaps, by his wife losing his spectacles, his cane,
or his snuff-box. This is not perfect wisdom, but it
is still less wise for a wife to be careless about such
things. A wife might quietly allow you to pay
attention to another lady all the evening at a party,
and yet be miserable if you read the newspaper- to
yourself at breakfast. Perhaps to you it is the most
agreeable and convenient time, but still, a reasonable
man would contrive to find another opportunity, if he
saw that it was likely to have any bad influence on his
wife's temper for the day. But there is so dreadful
a spirit of opposition in the human character, that
we are much more apt, at times, to do precisely that
which is unpleasant to those we love, than to yield
gracefully, and enjoy the sweetest of human enjoy-
ments,— giving pleasure. Some persons fancy that
to be made happy is the pleasantest thing in life ; I
have always felt and observed that the height of
human felicity is making others happy. If a young
man takes to himself a wife, with the idea that she is
to make him happy, he will generally find himself
mistaken ; a woman expects you to make her so, and
be assured that if, instead of lying down and waiting
for it, you seek to diffuse it around you, it will come
without being courted, of its own accord. I knew a
man, who, when he came home of an evening to his
wife and family, was always tired, and consequently
cross. Down he would sit, looking as black as
thunder ; he said nothing for some time, and then
when spouse and children stood aloof, or talked in
whispers among themselves, he began to grumble,
declared that he was thought nothing of ; and I have
known him to go to bed without touching his dinner.
One day some stroke of good luck happened to him
just before he came home ; he leaped into a cab,
entered his house, and sat down in his usual place.
Scarcely had he done so, before one of the children
ran up to him, saying, " How happy papa looks to-
day ! " then came the rest crowding round him, and
then came the mother to scold them for teazing their
father ; but she went not away, for the husband drew
her on his knee, let two children sit the other side,
with other three standing round, and never was man
happier. From that day he always came home
smiling and cheerful, and the children stood aloof no
more ; there was no more whispering, no more silence
when he entered, but wife and little ones all rushed
together to be the first in his arms. Nor does he
ever let her check their most uproarious mirth ; it is
delightful music to the father's ear, after the former
silence.
A year passed, and there came no change with
Monsieur and Madame Eichard. They never
quarrelled, but they were coldly indifferent in
manner, and soon scarcely ever spoke. Madame got
careless, too, about her dress ; she lay in bed of a
morning, and allowed her husband to breakfast alone,
because, when together, they never spoke. He took
in the National, and she the SiZcle for its feuillcton, and
both read. But she found, by-and-by, that she could
read just as well in bed, and never rose before twelve.
Jules, who was industrious, with all his faults, rose
early, assisted the shopmen to arrange the shop,
looked over the accounts which an elderly woman
brought to him who had lived thirty years with his
father, and then had pretty well done all the work
which was necessary for the day. Once or twice he
went out to breakfast with friends, and returned only
at night. But Madame never murmured ; she felt
full of ennui, wearied and glad to go to bed of an
evening, but it never struck her that it was from any
want of her husband's society.
One morning Jules rose as usual at seven o'clock,
and went down stairs. The old woman and the
servant met him as he entered the shop, and wished
him many happy returns of the day.
" Of what day ? " said Jules, much surprised.
" Of your happy wedding-day," replied the women,
still more astonished than himself.
"Ah, yes ! " continued Jules, thoughtfully, and he
went into the shop. It struck him, as he did so,
that his year of married life had been productive of
but very indifferent happiness, and he very quietly
asked himself why ? Louise had no fault that he
could see, he had nothing to reproach her with ; it
must then be himself. He could not very well tell
in what his own fault consisted, but a vague thought
came across him, that something different was
required from what now existed, ere his union
with Louise could be productive of felicity to either.
He called his servant-girl, bade her prepare a very
choice and nice breakfast, and then went out.
About an hour later he returned with an enormous
bunch of flowers, — one of the most beautiful bouquets
to be found in the whole market of the Madeleine.
Marie, the bonne, who had waited upon Louise before
her marriage, looked surprised and pleased.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
"Here, Marie," said the jroung husband, with a
cheerful smile, — the walk and pleasant errand had
done him good — " take this up stairs to your mistress,
with my best wishes for many happy returns to this
our wedding-day, and say that if she will come down
to breakfast, I shall be very pleased and gratified."
" Yes, Monsieur, but will you not take it up your-
self ? " said the maid, a little slily .
" No ! You take it up ; Madame Dubois will
watch the breakfast while you are gone," replied
Jules, who knew too little of his wife's disposition to
be aware whether she would be pleased or not.
"I will just run over the accounts."
And the young man, in a state of considerable
flurry, turned once more into the shop. Marie,
however, returned almost immediately, and brought
back her mistress's message.
" Oh, Monsieur, Madame is so pleased ! " said
Marie, quite elated ; " she will be down in ten
minutes. She will thank you herself when she
is up."
" Very good ! " replied Jules, whose heart beat with
about as much emotion as when he first knew Louise.
About twenty minutes later, Jules was sitting at
his breakfast-table, with the paper in his hand, waiting
for his wife. Suddenly it was taken out of his hand,
and two fond kisses were imprinted on his cheeks,
and then on his lips.
" My dear good Jules," said Louise affectionately,
"how kind, how good of you ! I had quite forgotten
this happy day."
" So did I, my dear ; but we will not forget it
again. Why, you have got your wedding-dress on,
too ; how pretty you look ! "
"Do you think so ? " replied she, quite pleased and
gratified.
" Do I think so ? " cried he, "why, you are always
BO, my love ! "
Louise laughed, and paid him some like answer in
return, and then Marie brought in the breakfast, and
both fell too with appetite and pleasure. The effort
on the part of Jules to make that one day pleasant,
had had most fortunate results, and when, about an
hour later, they sat quietly chatting after their meal,
they looked so mutually satisfied and joyous, that
Jules kept to himself an appointment he had to go
and play a match at billiards, and taking his wife's
hand in his, again addressed her.
" What shall we do to-day ? " said he, looking into
her eyes, and making to himself the remark of how
clear and blue they were.
"Whatever you like, my love!" replied Louise,
who was herself noticing how handsome Jules
looked.
" Supposing I borrow my cousin's gig, and drive
you down to St. Germain to dinner ? " said he.
"I should be delighted," replied Louise, quite
surprised.
Jules went and fetched the gig, and about one they
started. It was a lovely day. All was sunshine and
bright above, and Louise looked quite lovely in her
rich wedding-dress, new bonnet, and with her little
blue-fringed parasol ; and Jules in his best was,
she thought, all she could have wished.
About ten minutes after they left the house, they
passed a large and well-known estaminet, where
billiards were played by idle people from morning
until night. A group stood by the door, who hailed
Jules with a low murmur.
" I had quite forgotten," said he, a little confusedly,
pulling up at the same time, " I had promised to
play a match with Pinson. Gentlemen, you must
excuse me, but this is my wedding-day anniversary.
When Infixed the match, the date had slipped my
" But you should not disappoint all your friends
for me," said Louise, sweetly ; " I never saw a match
played. On such a day as this, I have a right to be a
little dissipated."
" But it will delay our drive," replied Jules, much
surprised.
' ' It will only delay it, " said his wife, in such a tone
as left no doubt of her sincerity.
"Gentlemen, I am at your service for one hour.
My wife will come in and see us play," cried Jules,
alighting and helping her out, amid warmly-expressed
thanks from the gentlemen.
A man took the horse and gig in charge, and
Monsieur and Madame Richard went into the esta-
minet. It smelt of smoke very strongly, and was in
general not the sort of place to suit a person of
rather delicate habits. But Louise did not make a
face, or even cough, but took a place offered her in
full view of the billiard table, accepting the proffered
bottle of sirop and water with as much empressement
as if the cafi had been the very locality she would
have desired to be in. Had not Jules shown that
morning an eager desire to please her? why should she
not make a little sacrifice for him ? Jules was rather
proud of his play, and that day out-did himself,
winning the match with ease against one who in
general was his equal. Loud applause greeted him
from all around, and none sought to restrain him,
when, presently, he went away with his wife, on his
way to St. Germain.
He was proud, delighted, happy, — proud that his
wife had seen him do something well, and proud to
show his pretty wife to his friends ; delighted and
happy at feelings which were new and sweet, and
which he wondered much at not having felt during
the year of existence which both had wasted. They
left the dusty town by the magnificent avenue which
our neighbours have named after the Elysian fields,
and followed the Avenue de Neuilly. They soon lost
all sign of the city, which lay behind them.
"How do you enjoy your day?" said Jules,
suddenly, after some moments of silence.
"I am very happy," replied Louise, whose eyes
beamed with a clear pellucid light that seemed to
illumine all her face.
" I think this way of spending a day delightful; I
wonder we never thought of it before."
" Indeed, it is charming ! " exclaimed Louise,
fervently ; "we always spend a stupid Sunday,
paying formal visits ; suppose we go into the country
en tete-ti-tete, if you can resign yourself to spending a
whole day alone with your wife."
"My dear," said Jules, with much warmth, "I
never spent so happy a day before."
In such talk the time passed rapidly, and St.
Germain was reached before they thought they were
half way. They put up their vehicle at the principal
hotel, and then went out for a walk in the forest,
after ordering dinner, which Jules did in splendid
style, for he was happy, and wished to do honour to
the anniversary. The wood was soon gained, and
then, arm-in-arm, cosy and comfortable, with all the
joyousness of young lovers, and all the security of
married people, — and there is a security in feeling
that those we love are ours, — they buried themselves
in the depths of the magnificent forest, — a forest
rich in woodland scenery, to be found indeed in
abundance around Paris,— at Meudon, St. Cloud,
Montmorency and other places. They wandered
hand in hand for some time, and then, a sweet spot
offering itself, they sat down, Louise on a bank, Jules
at her feet. But he was not silent now, the pent-up
feelings of affection and love, which, unknown to
himself, had been swelling in his bosom for more than
a year, now welled forth, and forgetting that they
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
were married, he sued for her affection as if he was
not sure of it ; he begged her to give him her heart,
and when, in accents low and soft, the young wife
whispered words of love and affection, — the first
earnest ones she had ever uttered, — he was enrap-
tured.
" Dear Louise ! "
" Dear Jules ! "
And then they were silent awhile with very joy of
the heart, — which is rarely communicative.
"Bravo ! bravo ! " suddenly exclaimed a jolly voice
from within the trees; "here's Jules Richard en
partie fine ! "
And followed by a band of joyous rioters, a noisy
friend of Richard, who led a pleasure-party, burst
upon the unconscious pair. The rest of the company
stood aloof discreetly. They were of the same class,
men and women, as Richard, and some knew him,
but none recognized his wife.
"Yes, gentlemen," said Jules rising, and speaking
with an attempt at mock gravity, to conceal his deep
feeling, " I am out for the day with a lady, as you
see. It is the anniversary of my wedding-day, and I
came down for a tete-ct-te'te expedition with my wife.
I think I could not have done better."
All the married ladies loudly applauded, and
crowding round Louise, were eagerly introduced to
the young wife, who received their congratulations
with a face beaming with smiles and blushes. She
willingly agreed to join the pafty, though a rapid
glance at Jules told him how much she regretted
their previous quiet felicity.
" Where do you dine ? " said Jules, with silent
wish that they dined anywhere but at the Hotel de
France.
"At the Hotel de France," replied M. Ragotin,
the first interrupter ; " we have ordered dinner for
six."
"Then I must have ours added to yours," said
Jules, resigning himself to his fate with a good
grace, satisfied at the present results of that day.
"Agreed," responded M. Ragotin, "and we will
pledge the health of the husband who takes his
wife out for a solitary day's pleasure a year after
marriage."
" And who will do so ten years after marriage ! "
cried Jules, enthusiastically.
" Bravo ! " shouted the ladies in a hearty chorus.
" Vive Monsieur Jules, the model husband ! We hope
to see all married men take example by him."
"Do you wish to turn into English at once,"
said M. Ragotin, who thought he said something very
severe, " and have your husbands always after your
heels ? What will become of France, if we lose our
character for gallantry ? "
"My dear fellow/ cried Jules, warmly, " I defy
any man to spend with his sweetheart before marri-
age, with a strange and sudden passion of an hour, with
another man's wife or friend, such a day as I have
spent with my own wife. It has been joyous, happy,
and delightful, with the consciousness that I was
doing right, — that I was being innocently happy,
while a feeling of shame and guilt mostly poisons such
days as those to which I have just alluded.
There was a moment's silence ere any replied.
The young husband spoke with such earnestness, that
none failed to feel for a moment the influence of his
words ; when Ragotin broke the silence, it was to
change the topic, as being himself not at all a model
husband, the subject was far from pleasant to him.
Some jeux-innocents, — games usually confined to
children and very young persons, — were now pro-
posed, such as colin-maillard, or blind man's buff, puss
in the corner, &c. Jules joined heartily in this proposi-
tion, as did his wife, and the whole party acquiescing,
they commenced. Such games are very funny when
played by grown-up people, especially if there be
any fat middle-aged people of the company, who, in
their anxiety to look light and agile, generally give
subject for a good deal of laughter. Such was the
case now. M. Ragofcin was what one might call a
gentleman who did the heavy business. He was
about fifty, corpulent, and with a face that spoke of
good living and fast living, and yet this ci-devant
jeune komme would be thought young still. He was
much struck by the appearance of Louise ; and by
the curl of contempt which came upon his lips, when
Jules spoke during the game of his wife's affection,
he seemed to think that if he only chose to enter the
lists, the husband would stand but a poor chance.
When he was blind-man he took care to peep from
under the handkerchief and catch her, and then
threw himself pointedly in her way. He made,
however, a feint at escaping. Louise's hands were
outstretched, and he tried to pass under them. But
his head touched her hand, and she caught at him
quickly, crying, " Monsieur Ragotin ! "
Loud was the roar of laughter which followed, and
Louise taking off her handkerchief to see what was
the mattei-, found the gallant gentleman's wig in her
hand, and Ragotin himself rolling on the grass down
a slight declivity.
" That comes of being a fool ! " exclaimed Madame
Ragotin, a little, thin, dry body of about fifty, — a very
good woman at bottom, but one who had been
soured by the bad conduct of her volatile spouse.
"I'm all right," said the husband, looking very
sheepish, as Louise demurely gave him his wig ;
" but I think upon the whole these are very childish.
Mon Dieu I it's half past five ; dinner will be ready
by the time we get round."
"Allans, then ! " cried Jules, taking his wife's arm,
" upon my word, I feel an appetite ; the air of the
country is wonderful ! "
Everyone agreed ; for French people, though they
talk of our being great eaters, are fond of the
pleasures of the table, and upon the whole, with
their meat breakfasts and variety of dishes, eat more
than we do.
The dinner was lively and pleasant, M. Ragotin
forgot his disaster, and became merry and joyous as
usual. He was the first to propose the healths of
Jules Richard and his pretty wife ; spoke eloquently
of the delights of matrimony, so much so, as to make
his wife hold up her hands in comic amazement, and
concluded his improvization, — a very poor one, this
not being the forte of our neighbours over the water,
—by expressing a wish that they might often meet
again on similar occasions. Jules responded with all
the energy of sincerity, added to the exhilarating
influence of champagne, and kissed his wife before
the whole company, a proceeding which Louise
resented most properly, returning the affront with
interest. Loud was the laughter on that auspicious
occasion. The genuine happiness of the young
couple was infectious, and none feeling inclined to
break up so pleasant a party, music was asked for,
and a dance got up without further ceremony. The
friends of M. Ragotin were numerous, and many of
them young girls and young men, so the dancers
were lively and willing. Jules at once determined to
stay all night at St. Germain, and secured an
apartment. He then joined in the fun with zest and
animation.
It was late the next evening when they found
themselves at home at dinner. Little was said during
the repast, but when Marie and Madame Dubois had
retired, they spoke.
"How I have to thank you, dearest," said Louise,
" for a charming day yesterday ! "
8
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
"The beginning of many happy days, I hope,"
replied Jules.
" Yes, indeed ! But you must forgive my lying
in bed of a morning, my bad temper, my slattern-
" Nonsense ! you must forgive my running out to
cafes and e-taminets," replied Jules.
"Then suppose, Monsieur, we kiss, and say no
more about it ! There, — that's a good man. And
now, what shall I do ? "
" Play me something with your dear fingers,"
replied the young man, after kissing his wife with
earnest affection.
Louise rose with alacrity, and playing and talking,
and amid fond endearments, the time soon slipped
away.
That waa their first home evening, and the
commencement of a long term of domestic felicity.
Each tried to please the other, having discovered
that such is the foundation, with sincere affection,
of conjugal felicity. They learned the important
truth, — that much as we may love society and our
fellows, and though we may occasionally indulge in
outdoor pleasures, a husband and wife must trust to
each other for all real joy and happiness. Monsieur
and Madame Richard, by a fortunate accident, found
out all this before it was too late, and ever remem-
bered, with passionate delight, the landmark of their
conjugal joy, — the anniversary they ever named as
" Our Holiday."
THE BLUES.
FEW people, we suppose, live in the world, who have
not at some time or another been in the "Blues."
We do not mean of course by that term, a certain
aristocratic regiment of cavalry, which in military
circles is known by that title ; but a peculiar soi't of
melancholy which goes by that name, or rather by a
longer and less polite one, to wit, " the Blue Devils/'
which has been abbreviated to suit ears polite.
It seems strange that blue is associated in phra-
seology with melancholy. The colour of the vault of
heaven,. one would think to be anything but a com-
panion for miserable feelings. The blue, too, belongs
to truth and charity, as an emblem ; but we suppose
the fact is, that many talk analogically, without
knowing it. Blue is the cold colour, and the
inhabitants of the north feel cold as an evil, just as
those of the tropics do heat. That is the tempera-
ture with which they have to combat for their own
preservation, and thus it is that our poets have
written of "cold grief" and "cold despair," and the
colour of cold — blue — has been mixed up in our phra-
seology with melancholy. It would be an interesting
subject for the philologist to investigate how far
climate and local position form the idioms of a race ;
but that is far too scientific a matter for us to touch
upon, in such a paper as the present. It would be
more in keeping with our vein, to tell our readers
what they have often seen ; that the mendicant at
night, hovering near the chemist's window, shows his
practical association of blue and misery, by the care
which he takes to stand in the rays of light which
pass through the gigantic blue bottle there. He
knows full well, — the cunning rogue ! — that the red
would make him look as jolly as a beef-eater. The
green and yellow, kindred colours to blue, serve his
purpose better ; but the blue itself casts the deepest
shade of misery over his features, and draws the most
halfpence from the pockets of the benevolent.
Whatever may be the analogical meaning of the term,
certain it is that the blue devils are accounted ill spirits,
and very disagreeable things. To some they come
only occasionally, to others they form a permanent
source of misery, and by all they are dreaded as an
evil. Indeed, those who have experienced such disor-
ders, generally shrink from them more sensitively than j
from physical pain ; and the healers of the body, from
the time that Shakspere made Lady Macbeth's
physician asked whether he could "minister to a
mind diseased," have been more puzzled with them
than with substantial ailments ; yet as they are more
or less troublesome to all, we suppose that not-
withstanding their unpleasantness, they serve some
good purpose in nature. The most singular thing
about them, perhaps, is the mystery which attends
their coming and going. We may at this moment be
radiant with joy, basking in the sunshine of existence,
and by the next minute, like a cold cloud stealing
silently over the bright warm sun, the blue devils
may draw their film over the mind, and all is shade.
What is it brings them into the mind ? They do not
walk in the footsteps of memory, for memories,
however sad, are tender, and we willingly cherish
them, while the blue devils are an unmitigated un-
pleasantness. They do not ride in the chariot of
thought, for they have nothing thoughtful about
them. They are not in any degree allied to reflection,
— in fact they prevent us from thinking. We are
simply passively miserable under the infliction of
these malicious mental sprites. We are "hipped"
as a man of the world would say ; "low," as a
washerwoman would observe ; "down in the mouth,"
as a coalheaver would remark ; or " desponding," as
the young lady who reads romances, would lispingly
suggest ; but we do not at such times think. It is
plain, then, that the blue devils are not thoughtful
devils ; we suppose few devils are, for if they did
think, their wretched condition would so tell upon
them, that they would be more miserable than even
blue devils usually are.
Well ! it is very easy to say what a thing is not ; so i
easy, that every novice who tries his hand at descrip-
tion is pretty sure to do so negatively.' But that is
by no means a satisfactory mode of dealing with a
subject ; we want to know, not what is not, but what is.
What are the blues, then, and where do they come
from ? Is it possible they come from the Red Sea,
which of old was the popular receptacle for all evil
spirits ?
We could try to " call them from the vasty deep,"
like Glendower, did we not agree with Hotspur, that
they would not come. Besides, it seems quite clear
that blue devils cannot come out of the Red Sea —
that would be cold coming out of heat. By the
way, « we wonder why the magicians and devil-
banishers of old always banished evil spirits to the
Red Sea. Why did they not transport them to the
Dead Sea, and so rid our race of them for ever ?
that would have been a much more sensible pro-
ceeding. It is probable, however, that as death does
not apply to spirits, only to bodies, the sea of death
was no place for them. They had too much vitality
in them to be finished in that way, and the blue
devils have much too tenacious a hold over our pen,
to be lost even in a sea of digression.
If you were to ask. a physician what the blues were,
he would most probably tell you that they were a
disease of the digestive organs. That when a man
ate too much dinner, or did not eat any (not from
want of will, but want of' ability to do so), or when
he devoured hot heavy late suppers, or took a glass
or two of grog or a bottle of wine too much, he
would be apt to have a next morning's visit from the
blues ; and probably if the said disciple of Escula-
pius happened to be a very practical or demonstra-
tive person, or you happened to be a very good
patient, or if he took any special interest in you, he
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
would take down a diagram, and show you how the
food was taken into the stomach, and how it was
acted on by the gastric juice, and carried from one
receptacle to another, and purified and converted
into blood ; and then he would explain how, when
any of these processes were disturbed, the circulation
of the blood grew languid, and the nerves ceased to
act, and the brain grew torpid and dull, and the
extremities cold, and cheerful thoughts fled, and
the blue devils came in, to fill up the vacuum.
All this is no doubt very scientific, but it is by no
means satisfactory to us, first of all, because it does
not explain all the cases of blues ; and secondly, and
that is a far more important objection, because it
does not square with our theory, for of course we
have a theory, or else we should have no business to
write about the matter at all. We say it does not
account for all the cases, because a bad coat, without
the possibility of getting a better, is as apt to give a
man the blues, as too much wine or meat, and an
empty pocket is fully as efficacious in that way as an
empty stomach. The physiological reason then does
not settle the question ; and besides, it seems to
smack too much of that practical materialism which
so rules the world. It is a gross way of accounting
by physical laws for what we hold to be purely
spiritual phenomena, and that we cannot bring our
minds to. But our theory is free from all such
objections.
What is it ? We will let you know in good time ;
but when one is propounding a grave philosophical
and metaphysical fact, it must be done with all due
deliberation and gravity. A congregation would not
give twopence for a preacher who gabbled through
his sermon with the speed of a mountebank, and the
world would not value a sage who seemed to be in a
hurry. Our theory then is, that neither full stomachs
nor empty ones, neither shabby clothes nor unfur-
nished pockets, can be said to be the cause of blue
devils. In spite of the proverb which tells us that
"angels' visits are few and far between," we are
inclined to think that the very name given to these
constant visitors of humanity is a misnomer ; that to
all who choose to make them so, they are guardian-
angels with angelic missions ; and that the things
which are said to be their causes, are but invitations
for them to come. Devils, indeed ! why does not the
drunkard, under the influence of them, make good
resolves, which resolves are not broken till the blues
have passed away ? Does not the prodigal whom,
they visit, while they stay, repent him of his follies,
and resolve to be wiser for the future? Do they
ever bring temptation with them, when temptation is
powerless while they reign * and do they not always
come oftenest to the worst, — to those who have
committed the most errors of body or mind, to warn
them of their wrong doing ? Every fit of the blues
is an opportunity for repentance, and those who are
most in want of the opportunity, have it the most
frequently. True, they inflict suffering and torment ;
but when did good ever come to the family of man
except through pain or the desire to avoid it ! These
blue devils or angels, — for we presume that we have
made it at least a moot point which they are, — are the
ghosts of past follies and errors coming back to us to
point out a better course, — that is the purpose they
serve in the economy of the world, and we would not
have them, whether angels or devils, banished from,
this sphere, till the sins they spring from are banished
too. If we could remember, whenever they visit us,
to ask why they come, and where they come from,
what was the exact nature of the invitation we had
given, we should find them our benefactors. If they
are angels we should then learn to cease to trouble
them by our deviations from the path of right ; and if
they are devils, we shall do with them as the sages of
old are said to have done with the spirits they sub-
jugated,— make them agents to work out benefits for
us. There is a beautiful moral in those old fairy
tales which tell us that evil spirits never come over
our thresholds unless we invite them, — nay, even
drag them in, and that when they do come, and we
attempt to turn them to our use, they torment us
only when we give them the chance. That points out
how the blues are to be treated, and serves to show
us how, if they are really devils, we can convert
them into ministering angels. What we have to do,
is, not to forget that when we do wrong, we send the
blues a special invitation, and when they accept it, if
we turn them to the best advantage, they will tend to
keep us from doing wrong for the future.
THE COLLECTOR.
He has a fouth o' auld nic-nackets,
Rusty aim caps, and jinglin' jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets
A towraonth guid ;
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.
From Burns's Lines on Capt. Grose.
COLLECTORS of curiosities are a queer race of beings,
generally oddities, and sometimes originals. In their
way, they are often useful, as the snappers-up of
unconsidered trifles, and the patient accumulators of
facts and specimens, which the historian or the philo-
sopher works up into a story or a system. They are
of many kinds and orders ; you will know the geolo-
gical collector by his hammer and blowpipe, and the
botanical collector by his tin case slung across his
shoulders. The collector of moths and butterflies
carries with him a lot of little boxes, in which he
immures his victims or specimens, and he skewers
them through with a pin under his glass case, where,
in this impaled state, they wriggle about for weeks
together, until they have died and become dried, —
the collector pronouncing their tenacity of life under
such circumstances to be " remarkably curious."
Then there is the collector of shells, who ransacks
the ends of the earth for specimens, and places friends
in India and at the Antipodes under contribution. This
kind of collector is very often of the female sex. The
Tatler, however, mentions a remarkable male speci-
men of this class, citing the will of one Nicholas
Gimcrack, who bequeaths to his " dear wife " one box
of butterflies, one drawer of shells, a female skeleton,
and a dried cockatrice ;" cuts off his eldest son with
"a single cockle-shell," for his undutiful behaviour
in laughing at his little sister, whom his father kept
preserved in spirits of wine ; and bequeaths to another
of his relations a collection of grasshoppers, as, in the
testator's opinion, an adequate reward and acknow-
ledgment due to his merit.
Some collectors are of the miscellaneous order, and
they have a maw for everything that is "curious ;"
these are they who chip off the corners of stones in
old abbeys, cut bits of wood from Herne's oak and
such like, carry away in their pocket a portion of
earth from the field of Waterloo, beg for a slice from
the timbers of the Royal George, and are thrown into
ecstasies by possessing the night-cap in which some
great murderer was hanged. They are equally pleased
by a hair from the Great Khan's beard, or a boome-
rang from New Holland, or a Hindoo god, or a patch
of Rush's trowsers, or a cast-off glove of Jenny Lind.
They will treasure a nettle brought from the ruins of
Persepolis, or the nose of a recumbent knight chipped
off a tombstone in a cathedral. Some collectors are
more systematic, — they confine themselves to special
10
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
pursuits ; one has bits of the ropes with which every
great criminal has been hanged during the last half-
century ; another has chips from Stonehenge, from
York Minster, from Westminster, from St. Peters,
from the Pyramids, and from Petraea.
Then there are the real antiquarian collectors,
great in old coins, old armour, old spatulas, old
" parritch-pats," old pans, old gullies, old armlets,
old fibulas, old iron of all sorts. These are generally
great at reading old inscriptions, though they are
sometimes deceived, like Monkbarns in the Anti-
quary, who, after puzzling his brains about the capital
letters, "A. D. L. L." inscribed on a stone, found
that after all they meant no more than " Aiken Drum's
Lang Ladle."
Then there are the literary collectors ; one collects
illuminated manuscripts ; another, caricatures ; a
third, homilies and prayer-books ; while some, like
the late Duke of Sussex, confine themselves to bibles.
The collection of that illustrious prince included a
copy of nearly every edition of the bible that had
ever been printed, in all languages. Some collect
books in peculiar departments of history; for instance,
the late Sir Robert Peel prided himself on his collec-
tion of rare'books illustrative of Irish history, which
was perhaps the finest extant. Others collect works
illustrative of the Commonwealth period ; and some
give themselves up entirely to collecting pamphlets.
The old picture collectors are a distinct class ; an
antique piece of smoked canvas, — all shadow and no
picture, — provided it is ascertained to be " genuine,"
and bears on it the mark of some great artist, fetches
an inconceivably high price. It is not patronage of
art, or love of art, which actuates picture collectors
generally, but the desire to accumulate curiosities.
Most of them will pass by a picture fresh from the
brush of the living artist, and fix their attention on
some old smoked daub. The living artist may starve,
while the dead artist is "patronized," and his veriest
rubbish is largely bought up. Hence many living
artists find it to be their interest to paint " old
pictures," and to cook them to suit the taste of
the lovers of the rare and curious. The manufac-
ture of genuine " Hobbimas," " Vanderveldes,"
" Wouvermans," and such like, is known to be very
extensive.
The autograph collector is a mighty hunter-up of
curiosities ; nothing will turn him aside from his
pursuit, and no man is oftener voted a bore. He
thinks nothing of addressing Sir Charles Napier on
some point of naval reform for the purpose of securing
his reply and signature, and pesters " F. M." the
Duke of Wellington until he has extorted his auto-
graph. Let a man publish a novel or a poem, and
he is forthwith written to from all quarters, with the
same object. If the live man can be caught hold of,
he is at once solicited to write in autograph -books of
collectors, or in young ladies' albums. If a man has
committed a murder, his autograph is at a still higher
premium ; Mrs. Manning's name decorates many
books, and Rush was pestered for his signature till
he swore again.
The Penny Post offers great facilities for this mania.
If it costs only a penny to get a real live duke's sig-
nature, it is no great wonder if dukes are often
written to for the purpose of securing it. The auto-
graphs of members of Parliament are not now so
much thought of; generally speaking, Oxford's or
the boy Jones's is more prized. The most favourite
autographs for young ladies' albums are those of
sentimental poets or affgcting preachers ; many are the
autographs of the latter class that have been extorted
by billets-doux.
This curiously-diseased taste of the public is turned
to account by those who are BO fortunate as to pro-
cure original letters from persons whose autographs
are in request. Thus, on looking over a second hand
book catalogue of a month or two back, we find
" private notes " of Dickens and Miss Martineau
offered for sale, the former at the price of 7s. 6d.,
the latter at 3s. 6d. A MS. article by Douglas
Jerrold, with his signature, is offered for 5s. A
letter of Thomas Hood for 5s., and a short note of
Thomas Moore for the same money. A letter from
Robert Nicoll, the Scotch poet, to William Lovett,
is offered at 4s. 6d. * and one from Samuel Rogers to
Thomas Miller, the basket-maker, is priced 5s. Robert
Burns's autograph fetches a high "price ; a sheet from
his account-book of Excise entries, signed by his
name, together with some notes from his sons, being
offered at £2. 2s. ; and a collection of royal auto-
graphs, of Her Majesty, Prince Albert, and others,
is offered for £2. 10s. It is certainly worth the while
of Joseph Ady, or any other clever correspondent, to
obtain letters and private notes from distinguished
personages, and then offer them for sale through the
second-hand bookseller.
There are collectors in numerous other depart-
ments, so numerous that they could scarcely be recited
within a moderate compass. There are florists who
collect auriculas, others Cape heaths, and others
tulips, while some are famous for their collections of
leeks, cabbages, or artichokes. We have even known
a collector of keys, — keys of celebrated gaols, castles,
dungeons, ecrutoires, pigeon-houses, house-doors,
and old iron safes. One man collects and pastes into
a book all his tavern-bills for half a century ; another
collects old bones and pottery, dug out of antique
barrows. Collectors of seals rival the collectors of
autographs in ubiquity. The wine collector stores up
in his cellar specimens of innumerable vintages, and
several bishops of the Church pride themselves on
their collection of beer. The stock of the late Arch-
bishop of York was considered the most complete in
the kingdom, and fetched a very high price at his
death. But perhaps the most odd collector of all,
was the noble earl who died lately, leaving behind
him a collection of snuffs, worth upwards of a thou-
sand pounds !
There are also national tastes for collection. Thus
the German collects pipes, the Scotchman snuff-'
boxes, the Englishman bank-notes, and the French-
man specimen journals of the revolutionary era. In
Italy and Spain they collect bits of the true cross, and
remnants of other sacred objects from Palestine. In
the United States they collect the old furniture and
bibles of the Puritan fathers. In Ireland they collect
old pikes of the year '98.
The* inveterate and enthusiastic collector is a man
whose honesty is to be suspected. The collector of
engravings sometimes leaves an ugly gap in a valu-
able book, and the collector of old manuscripts
not unfrequently leaves a hole in the shelves
of a public library which cannot be filled up.
The collector overleaps all obstacles in his way ;
what would he not do to get at a Queen Anne's
farthing ? No stone coffin of defunct Saxon is secure
against his intrusive pickaxe ; no church-spire is so
lofty but he will scale it, no river so deep but he will
gravel it, no wall so thick but he will penetrate it, no
place so sacred but he will explore it. He grabs
letters, skewers moths, pockets Roman tiles, carries
off old bones, mutilates bodks, and apprehends en-
gravings, with consummate nonchalance. He wants
this, that, and the other thing for his collection.
What is conscience to him ? Is there not his scrap-
book and his dead-house to be filled ? For these
reasons we suspect the curiosity-collector, believing
him to be a person of loose moral notions, and not
at all to be trusted.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
11
GIOACCHINO ROSSINI.
"!L GRAND MAESTRO/' or, at least, his beautiful
music, has been the theme of so much praise and
eulogy in this country, that we may fairly rank him
as one of the most exalted geniuses of the age. His
prolific mind has given to the world a library of
music, abounding in delightful melodies. The more
they are heard, the more pleasure they impart,
and their sounds will linger on the ear, and only
cease to vibrate with the end of Time. It has been
the custom of the world in by-gone ages, to neglect,
while living, the most extraordinarily-gifted men ;
however, we believe that with Rossini, this is a rare
exception. There is no musician of modern times
whose operas have been received with more enthu-
siasm by the whole of Europe, or one who has been
more liberally rewarded for his splendid works, than
the subject of our memoir.
Gioacchino Rossini, this deservedly celebrated
composer, was born on the 29th of February, 1792,
at Pesaro, a pretty little town in the Papal States,
on the Gulf of Venice. His father (it is said, of
Hebrew extraction) was a performer on the French
horn, not of very high standing, as his living depended
wholly upon engagements obtained at the fairs of
Sinigaglia, Fermo, Forli, and other little towns in
Romagna and its neighbourhood, where he formed
one of the impromptu orchestras which are collected
for the operas.
The mother of Rossini, who had been a very
handsome woman, was a tolerable "second donna ;"
they went from town to town, and from company to
company, the husband playing in the orchestra, the
wife singing on the stage, — poor, of course, but merry
as grigs.
Rossini, their son, "covered with glory," with a
name which resounded throughout Europe, faithful
to his paternal poverty, had not laid by for his whole
stock, when he went to Vienna, a sum equal to the
weekly salary of one of the prima donnas of the
London Italian Opera. Living was cheap enough at
Pesaro, and though his family subsisted on very
uncertain means, they were never sorrowful or
discontented, and above all, " cared little for the
morrow."
In 1799, Rossini's parents took him to Bologna;
but he did not begin to study music until 1804, when
he was twelve years of age. In Italy, musical
tuition is to be obtained at a very low rate ; his
father therefore endeavoured to place him under
D. Angelo Tesei, a professor, and our young student
in a very short time made such strides in the science,
that he was engaged in the choir, where his
fine voice, handsome countenance, together with the
cheerfulness of his youthful manners, rendered him a
very welcome auxiliary to the priests who directed
the Fwnzioni.
Under the tuition of his able master, he continued
to improve in the art, and in the year 1816 he was
capable of singing any piece of music at sight, could
accompany himself on the piano-forte, and had
gained a fair knowledge of counterpoint. He now
began to give promise of superior talent ; the
exquisite quality, power, and sweetness of his voice,
combined with his outward demeanour, determined at
once the course he was to pursue, — that is, in a few
years, to come out as first-tenor.
Rossini now quitted Bologna to undertake a musical
tour in Romagna. He presided at the piano-forte, as
leader of the orchestra, at some of the smaller towns,
and in 1807 entered the Lyceum at Bologna, and
studied for a time under Father Stanislao Matteo. In
a year after, he composed a cantata entitled 11 Piano
d* Armenia; this was his first production of vocal
music, and for which he was immediately elected a
director of the Academy of Concordi.
From Bologna he went to Venice, and in 1810 he
composed for the theatre San Mose, a petite opera in
one act, called La Cambiale de Matrimonio. Returning
to Bologna in the autumn of the following year, he
prepared L'Equivoco Stravagante, for representation.
Afterwards, revisiting Venice, he produced for the
Carnival of 1812, L'Inganno Felice. An experienced,
ear, acquainted with this opera, will often recognize
many morceaux, that were introduced in a more
matured state in his after productions. At the
Carnival of Venice, in 1813, the great master
produced his Tancredi. This delightful piece was so
successful, that it created a kind of musical furore,
from the gondolier to the nobleman. In the very
courts of law the judges were obliged to impose
silence on the persons present, who were singing
" Ti rivedro mi rivedrai." The dilettanti were all in
raptures, and declared that another Cimarosa had
revisited their region. So popular was this charming
opera, that in the course of four years it made the
tour of Europe. No one can doubt, with such a
disposition as Rossini possessed, living in such a place
as Venice, where he was idolized, that he was as
happy a man as he was celebrated as a composer.
In the autumn of 1812 he completed his twenty-
first year. At this time he was engaged to compose
for the Theatre La Scala, at Milan, La Pietra del
Paragone, — considered his chef-d'ceuvre in the buffa
style. We believe this opera has never been
introduced in this country. After immense success,
Rossini revisited Pesaro and his mother, to whom
he was passionately attached. During his absence,
his only correspondent had been his mother ; his
letters were addressed, " To the most honoured
Madame Rossini, Mother of the celebrated Composer
in Bologna" Such is the character of this extra-
ordinary man ; half serious, half laughing. Happy in
his genius, amidst the most susceptible people in the
world, intoxicated with praise from his very infancy, he
feels conscious of his own glory, and "does not see
why Rossini should not naturally hold the same rank
as a general of the army, or a minister of state. The
latter has drawn a great prize in the lottery of
ambition; Rossini has drawn a great prize in the
lottery of Nature." The preceding phrase is his own.
The hypercritics of Bologna charged Rossini with
transgressing the rules of composition ; he did not
dispute the accusation, — " I should not have so many
faults to reproach myself with," said he, " if I were
to read my manuscripts twice over ; but you know
that I have scarcely six weeks given me to compose
an opera. During the first month I amuse myself.
And pray, when would you have me amuse myself,
if not at my present age, and with my present
success ? or, would you have me wait until I am
old and full of spleen ? The last fortnight comes,
however ; every morning I write a duet or an air,
which is rehearsed in the evening. How then is it
possible that I can perceive an error in the accom-
paniments ? " The accusation was repeated in Paris,
by M. Berton, of the Institute, who drew a
comparison between Rossini and Mozart, disadvanta-
geous to the former. This produced a very animated
reply from M. de Stendhal, and a furious paper war
was the consequence. 9
From Bologna, our now Great Master was engaged
to visit all the towns in Italy, where there was a
theatre. He composed five or six operas in a year,
for each of which he received eight hundred or a
thousand francs, about forty pounds English money.
The difficulties with which he had to struggle in
combating with the caprices of the different singers,
12
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
were numerous ; but this is invariably the case with
performers, and must prove a source of annoyance to
the author. No man suffered more from the conceit
and whims of singers, than did the illustrious
Handel, which the following anecdote, we are
induced here to insert, will verify. The very simple
and well-known air, " Verdi Prati," in Alcina,
which was constantly ^encored, was at first sent back
to Handel, by Carestine, as too trifling for him to
sing. Upon which, he exclaimed, " Vat ! he refuses,
toae he ? " and in a towering rage went off in haste
to his lodgings, and with a tone and gesture in
which few composers except Handel ever ventured
to accost a first-rate singer, cried out, in his usual
curious dialect, and with his accustomed impetuosity,
" You tog, you ! — tont I know petter as yourseluf
vaat is pest for you to sing 1 If you vil not sing all
de song vaat I kive you, I vil not pay you un stiver."
On another occasion, this great composer was annoyed
by the celebrated soprano, Currioni, insolently
refusing to sing his admirable air, " Falsa Imagini,"
in Otho. "Ah, ah! vaat, yer vont sing it, — eh?"
ejaculated Handel at the top of his voice, which was
not the most pleasing. " You vont, eh ? I alvays
know you vas a very tievel ; but I vil let you know
dat I am Peelzepup, de prince of de tievils." He then,
in a rage, took the prima donna up in his arms, and
declared that, if she did not immediately comply
with his orders, he would throw her out of the
window. It is unnecessary to observe, that his
orders were obeyed, and that the piece mentioned
became the greatest favourite in the opera.
The facility with which Rossini composed was
astonishing, but to listen to the rehearsals of his
compositions appeared to give him pain. On every
occasion, the performance of a new opera superseded,
for the time, every other occupation on the part of
the inhabitants. At the commencement of the over-
ture, a pin might be heard to drop ; when it had
finished, the most tremendous hubbub ensued. It
was either praised to the skies, or hissed without
mercy. The same excitement took place after every
air. It is only in Italy that this rapturous, and
almost exclusive admiration of music, exists.
About the year 1814, the fame of Rossini reached
Naples, the inhabitants of which, with commendable
self-complacency, were astonished that there should
be a great composer in the world who was not a
Neapolitan.
Rossini was engaged to produce for the Neapolitan
theatres two operas a year, for several years. The '
labour was immense, but he performed it laughingly,
and ridiculed everybody, which caused him many
enemies, of whom, the most incensed was M.
Barbaga, the manager with whom he had engaged,
and to whom he paid the uncivil trick of marrying
his mistress. Rossini commenced at Naples towards
the end of 1815, in the most brilliant manner, with
Elizabetta, Regina, d' Inghilterra, — a serious opera ;
but, to comprehend the success of our young com-
poser, it is necessary to go a little further back.
King Ferdinand had languished for nine years in
Sicily, amidst a people who were continually talking
to him of parliaments, finances, the balance of
power, " and other absurdities," at last he arrived at
Naples, and behold ! one of the most beautiful
features of his beloved city, that which, during his
absence, embittered most his regrets, — the magnificent
theatre of San Carlo, is burnt down in a night. The
loss of a kingdom, or half a dozen battles, would not
have affected him so much. In the midst of his
despair, M. Barbaga said to him, " Sire, in nine
months I will rebuild the immense edifice, which the
flames have just devoured, and it shall be more
beautiful than it was yesterday." He kept his
word. From that moment, M. Barbaga became the
first man in the kingdom. He was the protector of
Signora Colebrand, his first singer, who laughed at
him all day, completely ruling, and consequently
commanding every one about the theatre just as she
thought proper.
Signora Colebrand afterwards became Madame
Rossini, and was, from 1806 to 1815, one of the
finest sopranos in Europe. In 1816, her voice began
to fail, her intonation became imperfect, but no one
dared to say so in Naples, and from 1816 to 1821,
they (the audience) were obliged to be thus nightly
annoyed in this their principal pleasure, without
venturing to complain.
When Rossini first arrived at Naples, anxious to
succeed, he employed all his art to please the prima
donna, who entirely governed the director, Barbaga.
Her voice was not pathetic, but was magnificent,
like her person. Rossini adopted the best means of
enabling her to display it to the greatest advantage.
After the brilliant success of Elizabetta, Rossini went
to Rome, and at the Carnival of 1816, produced
Torvoldo e Dorlislca, and afterwards, his chef-d'oeuvre,
II JSarbier de Siviglia. He then went to Naples,
and produced La Gazetta, and after, Otello. He
then returned to Rome for La Cenerenlola, and to
Milan for La Gazza Ladra.
In 1817, Rossini, elated with the success his
Cenerentola had met with at Rome, returned to Milan,
not a little anxious to see how the Milanese would
receive him, — he who, notwithstanding all their
entreaties, had left, to lavish on another spot the
rich productions of his genius. To make some sort
of compensation, it was necessary he should do some-
thing extraordinary. He composed La Gazza Ladra.
This splendid opera was soon completed, the several
characters studied, and, singular to say, each per-
former was pleased with his part, and sure of success ;
the bills were posted, and Rossini was preparing to
take his seat in the orchestra, when one of his friends
rushed into the room, his countenance bespeaking
despair: "Eh bon Dieuf What is the matter?"
cried the Maestro.
" Oh, my dear Rossini ! It is cruel to think of — "
" What is it you mean ? Do speak out."
" Well then, I have just been informed that a party
are coming to the theatre to hiss ! Yes ! actually to
hiss your opera, — and such music, too ! My dear
friend, there is a plot against you, — your composition
is to be hooted from the stage."
"Indeed!" said Rossini. "I am sorry to hear
that."
In fact, he knew the party he had to contend with,
and therefore, without further delay, he determined
at once to meet the "coming storm." He entered
the orchestra with his usual nonchalance, and took
his seat at the piano-forte. A buzz, that from its
loudness seemed to portend no good, ran through the
house. Rossini cast his eyes round the pit, and
fancied he saw his "friends," with their mouths
screwed up, preparing to utter those abominable
sounds borrowed from the serpent, — sounds of " dire
importance " to ears polite, and more particularly
to those of an author.
However, make a beginning he must. The
overture commenced, and the performers executed it
in a masterly style. The beautiful march of which
the first part consists, was listened to with silence ;
then followed the Allegro. Rossini, whose heart now
beat high with anxiety, was alive to every little
sound ; his flurried imagination led him to construe
every whisper into a hiss. At length the overture
was finished. The chorus was sung. The storm
which was gathering, and still looked lowering, had
not yet burst forth, when Ninetta entered, tripping
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
13
with her basket of flowers, to the beautiful sym-
phony of " Di Placer" — the melody, which is
enough to "bend the knotted oak," was not lost upon
the susceptible Milanese. The words, " Bene ! motto
bene / bravo ! bravo ! " resounded from all parts of
the house.
The music all along kept gaining ground ; at last
came the trio, " Oh! Nume Benifico," between Ninetta,
Fernando, and the Podesta, — this was the touchstone ;
the fury, which all along had been threatening, now
burst forth, but in a very different manner to that
which was expected. The house rang with "Bravo !
Bravissimo ! Viva Rossini ! " So violent was the
enthusiasm, that it was with difficulty restrained.
The custom in Italy, when an author is so
honoured, is to rise and bow to the audience.
Rossini accordingly rose and bowed, deafening
applause all the time testifying that " Peace was
concluded." The performance continued amid the
same excitement, and at the end of every piece,
nothing was to be heard but " Bravo ! Viva Rossini ! "
The furore became greater during the second act ;
he was scarcely seated, when the same enthusiasm
was expressed with as much warmth, and sometimes
frenzy, as before. The trial-scene of Ninetta, with
the expressive march to the execution, created an
extraordinary effect, and the curtain fell amidst "one
blaze of triumph ! " and a grand triumph it was for
the Great Master. Never was success more decided,
or more deservedly obtained, and it yet remains a
question whether, as a musical production, it is not
equal to his Barbier.
Notwithstanding the nonchalance with which Rossini
generally took things, the excitement, together with
the overwhelming reception which he met with, was
too much for his nervous system, and he was obliged
to remain quiet for some time.
After an unparalleled and brilliant season, he
returned to Naples, and there produced L'Armide.
The public wishing to mark their sense of Madame
Colebrand's uncertain voice, L'Armide was not very
successful. Piqued at this, Rossini endeavoured to
obtain his object without employing the voice of
Madam Colebrand. Like the Germans, he had
recourse to his orchestra, and converted the accessory
into the principal ; the result was the Mose, known
in this country as II Pietro VErmita, the success of
which was immense.
In 1824, Rossini was induced, from the liberal offer
maJe to him by the management of the Italian
Opera, to visit England, for the purpose of under-
taking the direction of the musical department of
that theatre ; he was also to have two thousand
guineas for a new opera, which he was to compose in
this country. Whether the libretto was not to his
mind, whether the humidity of our murky atmosphere
did not agree with his inspirations, or whether, from
the number of engagements (we beg pardon, we mean
invitations), which pressing heavily upon him, inter-
posed, we do not pretend to say, but certain it was,
there was no new opera forthcoming, nor has he, to our
recollection, composed anything since of any conse-
quence, saving his Stabat Mater, which was performed
some seven years since at the Italian Opera-house, and
subsequently at the St. James's Theatre. During his
! stay in London, he was the "great lion of the day."
Such was the furore of the Rossinian mania, that he
has been known frequently, during the season, to
visit two of the aristocratic soire'es in one night, on
which occasion, he was graciously pleased to accept
fifty guineas from each party : indeed, that was his
price. " Signor fill his pocket full, den he laugh at
Johnny Bull." Among the invites which he received,
was one from the "First Gentleman of the Age," —
King George the Fourth. On the night this grand
entertainment was given, all the elite of the nobility
of " Happy England " were present to meet the great
Italian master. On his name being announced, the
band struck up the Overture to Guillaume Tell. On
his entree, His Majesty received him in the most
gracious manner, and continued for a length of time
in conversation with him. In the course of the
evening's amusement an occurrence happened, which,
at the time, went the round of the daily papers, and
which we shall here relate in the shape of an anecdote,
not doubting its veracity. The king was anxious " to
try " a duet with Rossini, to which the Great Master
readily assented. The duet selected was from II
Pietro VErmita, " Parlar, Spiegar, nonposso," Rossini
accompanying the same on the piano-forte. It is
needless to add, that the duet went off splendidly ;
the applause was beyond etiquette, which induced
the kmg good-humouredly to say, " I suppose it
is intended we should repeat it ; What say you ? "
To which Rossini replied, in rather an off-handed
manner, "Yes, yes; by-and-by will do;" — this was,
to say the least of it, very injudicious and offensive,
and the king felt it as such ; he was the last person
to put up with a slight, and particularly from such a
man, he accordingly turned on his heel, and sent him
to Coventry for the remainder of the evening.
On this circumstance being mentioned to him on
the following day, he treated it in his usual careless
manner, and replied that he had been invited to the
Palace as a Great Master, and that he considered he
was equal to any king in Europe, having visited most
of the Continental sovereigns, all of whom made him
perfectly at home, by putting him on an equality with
themselves, while in their presence.
That II Grand Maestro is a vain man, there can
be but very little doubt ; or that his conduct on the
occasion narrated, was not calculated to render him
any advantage while he remained in this country.
Yet there were plenty who made excuses for him, and
many laughed at his independence. " It was the easy
way that foreigners had ;" or, " He was spoiled by the
careless manners of foreign courts." So that what
would have ruined any other man, served only to
make sport of with him. During his sojourn in this
metropolis, he gave a concert at Willis's Rooms, in
which he did honour to Lord Byron, by composing
his requiem, and which was sung on this occasion
with a full chorus. He also introduced his celebrated
buffo song, "Largo al Factotum," in which he
accompanied himself on the piano-forte, and received
a rapturous encore. The tickets were a guinea each,
and the room was crowded to excess.
Rossini is partial to the company of his own
countrymen, but he invariably eschews musical
conversation, always turning it to some other
subject.
It is said that he has acquired a large fortune.
In the early part of his career he occasionally
resided at Paris or its environs. He has long since
given over composing ; he says, laughingly, "It is now
high time to compose himself," and although he has
been tempted by handsome offers to write another
opera, yet he declined them, observing that he had
made enough, he therefore could see no reason why he
should begin again, after having once retired, choosing
rather to leave it to the young and rising aspirants
for musical honours !
Rossini, in person, is remarkably good looking,
possessing easy and fascinating manners, and it is said
that when in his zenith he was warmly admired
by the fair sex. On one occasion, when at Milan, a
lady, abandoning her palace, her husband, her
children, and her reputation, arrived early one
morning at his small apartments at an humble inn ;
the first moments were very tender ; but presently,
14
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
the most celebrated and the most beautiful woman
of Bologna (the Princess — — ) also made her
appearance ; here was a "terrible to-do ;" but Rossini
only laughed at both, sung them a buffo aria,—
" Then put on his hat, and away he hiked,
And left them to settle it how they liked."
He is particularly fond of lobsters, eating them
almost at every meal, — frequently to excess, which at
one time (while in London), nearly cost him his life,
and it was only through having resort to the moat
violent medical remedies that he obtained relief.
Rossini, although he has composed so much, may
be said to be yet in the prime of life, being only
fifty-nine years old. He has written more in a
shorter space of time than any other composer either
before or after.
We noticed a short time since, in a Parisian paper,
that he was residing near his native place, in the
vicinity of Bologna ; that he had recently taken to
his bosom a young and blooming bride, and that he
was in the enjoyment of excellent health. He has
our hearty good wishes that he may long continue
so, "To wear- his blushing honours thick upon
him."
" DEAL GENTLY WITH THE ERRING."
AUNT LIZZY sat knitting in her high-backed chair,
glancing over her spectacles, from time to time, at
the figures moving in the street without. A pro-
jecting little mirror enabled her to command a full
view of the busy scene ; and it was her pleasure
thus, of an evening, to wile away the hours in
pleasant converse with a friend. When other
subjects failed, a topic was usually suggested by some
passing face, — most of the town's-folk being well
known to my aunt.
As we were seated there in the twilight, a vehicle
drove rapidly along the street. "It is the doctor,"
observed Aunt Lizzy, " where can he be called on
such emergency to-night ? "
The carriage stopped at the end of the street,
opposite an entry leading into a mean close of houses,
inhabited by many poor, and by some disreputable
characters.
"He has stopped at Waldy's Close," I observed ; "ha
is doubtless going to see the wretched girl, who
attempted to destroy herself this morning."
"I have not heard of the circumstance," said
Aunt Lizzy.
" It is only one of those bad girls down there, — a
wretched creature, who, in her despair, or insanity
as some say, threw herself over the balustrade of the
bridge ; but she fell into a shallow part of the river,
and was taken up terribly injured, — so much so, that
she cannot possibly survive."
" Poor thing ! What she must have suffered,
before she was driven to that terrible attempt
against herself ! How little do we know of the secret
sorrows which wring the hearts of our kind ! — what
agony it would cause us, did we know a thousandth
part of them ! "
" But your sympathy would be quite out of place
here, dear aunt ; this woman ia quite an infamous
person, — not worthy of your consideration, I assure
you."
" Infamous ! and unworthy of consideration ! The
most misguided human being is worthy of sympathy,
and none are utterly infamous. Let us take care
how we cast stones about us. Who knows the heavy
temptations of the poor, except themselves ? And
if girls, — who are born weak, and are educated into
exaggerated weakness, — who are taught to set the
highest value on things extrinsic, and to pride them-
selves upon beauty, dress, and ornament, without
the benefit of any better guidance, — if, when thus
sent into the world, they fall before temptation,
against which they have never been protected and
fortified, ought they not to be pitied quite as much as
they are condemned ? Were we to know all the
circumstances attendant upon the downward career
of these poor creatures, we should not be without some
sympathy for them which, if it did not restore them to
society, would at least render their state lesa
wretched and intolerable than it is."
" I wonder to hear you talk in BUch a way ! " I
observed. " Why should a state of wickedness be
rendered anything but intolerable ? Why waste
sympathy on those who set all virtuous conduct at
defiance ? How do you reconcile those notions of
yours with a due sense of propriety and morality ? "
"My dear girl!" said Aunt Lizzy, "I cannot
help remembering how tenderly and lovingly One,
whose example I would humbly follow, dealt with
the erring and the sinful. Were not the sternest words
He said, — 'Go, and sin no more?' And are we,
who have been well brought up, who love virtue
because we have been carefully trained to do so, and
who have been kept out of the way of all temptation, —
are we to judge harshly our erring sisters, whose life
has, perhaps, been one long desperate struggle against
poverty, adversity, and temptation ? "
" Well, you are the only one whom I have ever
heard attempt to say a word in palliation of the
wretched life of Grace Walters."
" Grace Walters ! And is it she ? Spare her,
poor girl ! "
" What ! you know her, then ? "
" I knew her when a child, and have fondled her
on my lap for hours together. Her mother was
married from our house, — she was a tidy servant
and a good woman, though she proved unfortunate in
her husband. He was a devoted lover, a handsome
fellow, and a good workman ; but he was a drunkard.
That, however, was after their marriage. Drink is
the curse of many a home, which, but for it, would be
happy. While the mother lived, her children were
tenderly cared for ; but she died of fever, in a poor
cottage, from which nearly all comfort had dis-
appeared ; and then the children were not cared for
at all. When the man came home at night, drunk,
the children were often cruelly beaten, because they
cried for food. Little Grace, who was the oldest,
would be sent out to haggle at the stalls on Satui'day
nights for cheap bits of meat, the father spending
his earnings mainly at the public-house. Could the
poor thing learn virtue in that home 1 But'the man
got mated again to some woman of kindred nature
to his own ; and if the family were in misery before,
they were in torture now. The girl was used as a
drudge, and as an object on which husband and wife
alike vented their fury in their domestic quarrels. Ah 1
little do we know of the hardships and sorrows borne
by those whom we are so ready to condemn, because
their lot has not been so happy as our own ! "
"But the girl, — poor thing I what became of
her ? "
" She grew up, half fed, half clad, untrained ; and
when she was old enough, she was sent to a work-
shop, to earn money for her parents. There she
toiled for years, till she grew a young woman. I
have seen her there. She had a fine appearance for a
girl of her station ; dressed showily, and had
admirers. She was followed by young men of higher
station than her own. They tempted her with visions
of ease and pleasure, • — which were all the more
seductive, when contrasted with her daily routine of
toil, and her miserable life at home. No kind
mother was near to whisper counsel and give her
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
15
virtue strength ; but a drunken, screeching virago, who
made her domestic life hideous. She fled — do you
wonder ? but alas ! poor girl ! it was to her ruin.
" The betrayer, as usual, came to her in the guise
of love. She knew not the false from the real, and
she believed the betrayer's tale. But pity her !
Are not the wisest baffled at this game ? What
stratagems will not the unprincipled and selfish
employ to effect their purpose ? He was of a much
higher rank than her own, and skilled in all such
powers of gallantry as were calculated to win a weak
woman's heart. A villain, who can practise such
arts, is often loved and preferred to better men.
This man, though young, had already distinguished
himself by his career of vice ; and yet she loved him,
— believed him to be sincere — and fled with him."
" Alas, poor girl | it was a pitiable fate."
"You may truly say so, — you see what her
temptations and trials were, but you can form no
conception of her sufferings. There was poison in
the chalice of love which she quaffed ; her gleam of
happiness was short, — it was but a flash, and then
all was darkness and desolation. He left her,— a
broken plaything ; she became — need I say what ?,
— a weed tossed about amid the mire of the streets.
And now, as you have told me, her world-wearied
heart has thirsted for death ! "
"What a pitiable history you have told me, dear
Aunt Lizzy ! I see now, that in the career of the
most vicious, there may be circumstances to mitigate
the condemnation with which we visit it, though not
to diminish our aversion to the career itself."
" There is every reason why we should deal gently
with the erring," said Aunt Lizzy; "we see the
temptations they have fallen under, but we know not
what they have resisted. It is not for us to antici-
pate the judgment of the Almighty, and to make a
hell for these unhappy beings before their time, in
addition to the horrors which their own course has
already plunged them in. And may He deal merci-
fully with that wretched girl whom we have spoken
of; for though her sins have been great, so have
been her temptations."
Aunt Lizzy stretched forth her hand, and took up
a little book, in which she had inserted a mark.
Opening it at this place, she said —
" Let me read to you a short passage from a new
book, which says on this subject much that I have
often thought, but in language which I should vainly
attempt to imitate. The book is called The
Companions of my Solitude ; and the author, who-
ever he is, has my heartfelt thanks."
And so .saying, Aunt Lizzy, in a rather trembling
voice, read aloud the following passage : —
"The virtuous, carefully tended, and carefully
brought up, ought to bethink themselves how little
they may owe to their own merit that they are
virtuous, for it is in the evil concurrence of bad
disposition and masterless opportunity that crime
comes. Of course, to an evil-disposed mind, oppor-
tunity will never be wanting ; but when one person
or class of persons is, from circumstances, peculiarly
exposed to temptation, and goes wrong, it is no
great stretch of charity for others to conclude that
that person, or class, did not begin with worse
dispositions than they themselves, who are still
without a stain. This is very obvious ; but it IB to
be observed, that the reasoning powers, which are
very prompt in mastering any simple scientific
proposition, experience a wonderful halting in their
logic when applied to the furtherance of charity.
" There is a very homely proverb about the fate
of the pitcher that goes often to the water which
might be an aid to charity, and which bears
closely on the present case. The Spaniards, from
whom I dare say we have the proverb, express it
prettily and pithily : —
" ' CantariUo que muchas vezas va a la fuente,
O dexa la asa, o la frente.'
" ' The little pitcher that goes often to the fountain, either
leaves the handle or the spout behind some day.'
The dainty vase which is kept under a glass-case in a
drawing-room should not be too proud of remaining
without flaw, considering its great advantages.
" In the New Testament we have such matters
treated in a truly divine manner. There is no pallia-
tion of crime. Sometimes our charity is mixed up
with a mash of sentiment and sickly feeling, that we
do not know where we are, and what is vice and what
is virtue. But here are the brief stern words, ' Go,
and sin no more ;' but, at the same time, there is an
infinite consideration for the criminal, not however
as criminal, but as human being ; I mean, not in
respect of her criminality, but of her humanity.
"Now, an instance of our want of obedience to
these Christian precepts has often struck me in the
not visiting married women whose previous lives will
not bear inspection. Whose will ? Not merely all
Christian people, but all civilized people, ought to
set their faces against this excessive retrospection.
" But if ever there were an occasion on which
men (I say men, but I mean more especially women),
should be careful of scattering abroad unjust and
severe sayings, it is in speaking of the frailties and
delinquencies of women. For it is one of those
things where an unjust judgment, or the fear of
one, breaks down the bridge behind the repentant,
and has often made an error into a crime, and a single
crime into a life of crime.
"A daughter has left her home, — madly, ever so
wickedly, if you like ; but what are too often the
demons tempting her onwards, and preventing her
return ? — the uncharitable speeches she has heard at
home ; and the feeling she shares with most of us,
that those we have lived with are the sharpest judges
of our conduct.
" Would you, then, exclaims some reader or hearer,
take back and receive with tenderness a daughter
who had erred? 'Yes,' I reply, 'if she had been
the most abandoned woman upon earth.'
"A foolish family pride often adds to this un-
charitable way of feeling and speaking, which I
venture to reprehend. Our care is not that an evil
and an unfortunate thing has happened, but that our
family has been disgraced, as we call it. Family
vanity mixes up with and exasperates rigid virtue.
Good Heavens ! if we could but see where disgrace
really lies, how often men would be ashamed of their
riches and their honours ; and would discern that a
bad temper, or an irritable disposition, was the
greatest family disgrace that they possessed."
"There," said Aunt Lizzy, laying down the book,
" that is the true spirit in which this great evil is to
be dealt with ; there is all the power of Christian
gentleness in it."
JESTS.
Be not scurrilous in conversation, nor satirical in
thy jests; the one will make thee unwelcome to all
company, the other pull on quarrels, and get the
hatred of ^hy best friends ; for suspicious jests, when
any of them savour of truth, leave a bitterness in
the minds of those which are touched. I have seen
many so prone to quip and gird, as they would rather
lose their friend than their joke. These nimble fancies
are but the froth of wit.— Lord Chancellor Burleigh.
1C ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
(ORIGINAL.)
DIAMOND DUST.
GENIUS lights its own fire, but it is constantly col-
GOOD WORKS.
lecting materials to keep alive the flame.
EVERY difference of opinion is not a difference of
How shall we climb to Heaven ?
principle.
How seek the path aright ?
CARNAL joy, like a land-flood, is muddy and furious,
How use the essence given
and soon gone, leaving nothing behind but pollution
To trim Earth's temple-light ?
and marks of ruin ; spiritual joy resembles a pure,
Oh ! not by lips that pour
The tones of Faith alone ; —
perennial stream, which adorns and enriches the
grounds through which it flows.
" Good Works " must live before
MAN wastes his mornings in anticipating his after-
The true disciple 's shown.
noons, and he wastes his afternoons in regretting his
mornings.
Ye leaders of mankind,
THE greater part of the goodness at any time in the
With precepts loudly heard,
world is the goodness of common character ; the
Oh ! let your conduct bind
chief part of the good work done must be done by
Example with your word.
the multitude.
Shame to the holy teacher
EVERYTHING useful or necessary is cheapest ; walk-
Whose life we dare not scan ;
ing is the most wholesome exercise, water the best
Though language forms the preacher,
'Tis " good works " make the man.
drink, and plain food the most nourishing and healthy
-diet ; even in knowledge, the most useful is the
easiest acquired.
It is not well to say,
INTENSE mental activity, steadily directed to some
Our lowly race is run
leading pursuit, is the source of all distinction.
In far too narrow way
TALENT is the union of invention with execution.
For great deeds to be done.
Let fair Intention move
RIGHT in one thing becomes a preliminary toward
right in everything ; the transition is not distant,
The heart to do its best ;
from the feeling which tells us that we should do
And little, wrought in love,
harm to no man to that which will tell us that we
Is " good work " great and blest.
should do good to all men.
COMPLY with some humours, bear with others, but
Relax the warrior gripe,
serve none.
Turn swords to reaping-hooks,
Melt bullets into type,
Bend spears to shepherds' crooks ;
Sow fields with yellow wheat,
Instead of crimson limbs,
And such " good work " shall meet
A people's grateful hymns.
COURAGE ought to have eyes as well as arms.
CAUTION is the lower story of prudence.
GROSS jealousy is distrust of the person loved ;
delicate jealousy is distrust of one's self.
PHILANTHROPY is often not the love of man, but
the love of being thought to love him.
ALL men need truth as they need water ; if wise
Build up the school-house wall,
men are as high grounds where the springs rise, ordi-
Where Infancy and Youth
nary men are the lower grounds which their waters
May hear God's echoes fall
nourisji.
From Knowledge, Hope, and Truth.
Twine on the social band
THERE are some persons on whom virtue sits
almost as ungraciously as vice.
That ties us to each other ;
Let such " good work " expand,
MEASURE not thyself by thy morning shadow, but
by the extent of thy grave.
Till man to man is brother.
IF life be a curious web, which each' man and
wpman are obliged to weave, why should not a thread
Let Woman have her share
of gold run through the woof ?
Of reason unreviled,
Till those ordained to bear
A WISE gardener will take care that a too-powerful
heat do not draw up from the root an excess of the .
Are fit to guide the child.
vital fluid, and injure the delicate plant for ever.
Let Woman fairly take
The place she's born to fill,
MAN is just when he does not appropriate to him-
self more merit than belongs to him, or rob another
And such " good work " shall make
of what is his due.
Our great sons greater still.
IT may often be a man's duty to persevere in a
profession to which he feels a strong disinclination,
Let nations trample down
but no man ought to enter into a way of life for
The flag of savage strife ;
which he is conscious of an insurmountable inca-
Let Peace and Justice own
pacity.
That Love is King of Life.
THE best means to learn our faults is to tell others
Let Wisdom onward march,
of theirs ; they will be too proud to be alone in their
And, while Life's spirit groans,
defects, and will seek them in us, and reveal them
Let Faith's triumphal arch
to us.
Have " good works' " corner-stones.
— , .
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
ELIZA COOK.
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 132.]
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1851.
[PRICE l±d.
DRILL !
WONDERFUL is the magic of The Drill ! Look at
that serried rank of men marching along to the sound
of martial music, with a tread that makes the earth
shake. In an instant, at the sound of a bugle, they
advance, retreat, form in line, in square, in close
column ; they pile bayonets ; are " beat to quarters,"
prime, load, and fire, with wonderful dexterity ; or
they march steadily against vollied fire, against
belching cannon, up fortress heights, and beat their
heads against bristling bayonets, as on the breach
of Badajoz.
Yet these men — what are they? These veiy
soldiers, — so valorous, so complete, so consummately
disciplined, that the earth vibrates to their march, as
at the tread of a god, — were once tailors, shoe-
makers, clodhoppers, delvers, and weavers, many of
them gaol-birds, the veiy scum and sweepings of
society ; and now, their gait is that of heroes ; they
are full of power and might ; and hearts throb, and
pulses quicken, as they march along to " Rule
Britannia," or "The British Grenadiers." You see
in all this a striking exemplification of the wonderful
results of Drill.
Here is a soldier, — a veteran, — covered with,
medals ; his face bronzed, his lips compressed, his
gait firm and martial, his figure erect. He was not
always so. But a few years back, he was a lubberly
lout holding the plough-stilts, his mouth gaping,
his shoulders stooping, his feet straggling, his
arms and hands like great fiiis swinging by his
side ; but now see how cleverly he handles his
musket, and how perfectly disciplined he is at every
point. That fellow, at the word of command, would
storm any breach, mount any barricade, and venture
on the most desperate deed of valour.
An unruly mob meets, talks loudly, proceeds to
outrage, and the cry rises up on the outskirts of the
crowd, "The soldiers are coming!" or, "The police!"
and straightway, on the half a dozen men in red or
blue coats making their appearance, there is a rush
on all sides to escape, and the riot is quelled at once.
It is no unfrequent occurrence for two or three
policemen to make a dash at a mob of thousands,
and for a moment they are engulphed, as if lost. Biit
watch the issue. The crowd separates, disperses,
flies before them. Each policeman seizes one or
more prisoners, and bears them off to the police-
office. Is the crowd then composed entirely of
cowards ? By no means ! Take any one of that flying
crowd, dress him in the soldier's or the policeman's
coat, and subject him to the Drill, and you will
see him, like any soldier or policeman, dare, single-
handed, to face a violent mob, and seize his prisoner
from among them ! It is discipline, together
with the power of The Law, which exercises, on
occasions such as that to which we refer, so potent
an influence.
Drill means discipline, training, education. The
first drill of every people is military. It has been
the first education of all nations. The duty of
obedience is thus taught on a large scale ; submission
to authority ; united action under a common head.
Barbarism is thus organized ; nations are disciplined
and prepared for better things. Even the drilling
of the barbarian hordes of Russia by their Czar, for
purposes of military ambition and conquest, may, in
the order of Providence, be the appointed way by
which the nations of the East are yet to be led
towards higher civilization and freedom.
Nations, as they grow older, adopt other methods
of discipline. The drill becomes industrial. Con-
quest and destruction give place to production in its
many forms. The Industrial Drill has this year had its
grand review in Hyde Park : — that is the representa-
tion of the grand army of Europe. See what trophies
it has won, what labours it has performed, what
patient industry it has exhibited. The captains of
Industry are the greatest leaders of this age.
There was not a department of the Exhibition but
showed the perfection of Drill in the art of profitable
production. In the machine-room, you might see how
skilled mechanics and artizans guided, directed, and
controlled those wonderful machines for spinning,
weaving, cutting, -printing, pumping, twisting, and
carving. All was perfect discipline, — the hand and the
eye being trained to precision and skill, — the move-
ments of the workers were quick, but steady, prompt,
but unhurried. What the results of that precision
and skill are, you might see in the tapestiy, the carpets,
the cotton-prints, the muslins, the silks, and the
woven fabrics of all kinds, which filled so large a space
in the Exhibition. Go into Yorkshire and Lanca-
shire, and you find armies of these labourers at
work, where the discipline is perfect, and the results,
13
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
as regards the amount of manufactured produce
turned out of hand, are quite prodigious.
Every industrial process, nowadays, is performed
by drilled bands of artizans. Not a pin is made
without long training and discipline, and without the
co-operation of many hands. Some twenty-five men
go to form a pin, each passing it through a process
for which he has been specially drilled and disciplined.
In this way, it takes more than one man to make a
pin's head ! So, sub-divided into battalions, and
regiments, and companies, and ranks, are the privates
of our modern industrial armies. And it is the same
in all departments of production.
There is a risk here. It is possible, — nay, ex-
ceedingly probable, — that the operative, by being
confined exclusively to one small mechanical process,
in which, however, he is perfect, may become a kind
of machine. His mental powers are not called into
action by the mechanical process he is engaged in, —
his invention is never taxed, — he is a very small
part of a large system, of the beginning and end of
which he may be alike ignorant. Like the soldier,
he acts, without reflecting to what end he acts.
Thus the Drill has its evils, as well as its advantages ;
and these evils can only be corrected by making men
as far as possible self-dependent, by means of a course
of sound mental discipline and culture.
Do not, however, let us underestimate the advan-
tages of the industrial drill. Why is Ireland so
poor? Because her people have never been drilled
to act in concert, to work in concert, to produce in
concert. Why is England so rich and so powerful ?
Because her people have carried discipline into every
home, into every workshop, into every farmstead.
We are a disciplined, a drilled people, and, therefore,,
a successful people.
We have said that the Drill is found in the farm-
steads of England. But there is room for improvement
here. Agricultural workers work too little in
concert ; and hence their want of success, when
1 compared with the artizan and industrial population
i of the towns and cities. Hear how the Spectator
describes this backward specimen of the great army
of industry, in the year 1851 : —
" We have seen at the Exhibition specimens of the
British labourer in full canonicals ; a familiar object,
but seen under a new aspect. Of all the agricultural
implements, this one struck us as the least improved.
In the international display of costume this staple of
the British nation, 'its country's pride/ did not
stand forth in very picturesque aspect. If low diet
has left any substance in the man, his dress is the
best disguise of it. It is, you see, not unlike a
woman's bed-dress, with differences not in its favour.
The stitching, especially, which he preserves with so
much traditional affection, much detracts from the
dignity naturally inherent in the simple drapery of a
night-gown. On the breast and between the shoulders
no small portion of the stuff is drawn into ' gathers,'
firmly stitched and restitched, and forming in either
case a sort of plate a few inches square. The effect is
peculiar. Behind, few things could so well aid the
slouching shoulders, in destroying every appearance
of breadth. In front, the little stomacher, flat amid
the unshapely fullness around it, gives to the chest
the appearance of being stove in. On his feet this
agricultural implement wears boots which constrict
the ankle and destroy the play of the foot ; humanly
speaking, the man cannot walk, he can only hobble.
But by long practice and a perfect resignation, he
does contrive to get along in a measured hobble,
which suggests a certain dignity of patience. He
cannot walk, he cannot talk ; his mind hobbles as
slowly as his legs. The pains are bestowed in
stitching his smock : hig legs are defended from the
possibility of being active ; his mind, — that has been
left merely fallow. No system of rotation crops has
been extended to that. The man is the living
exemplar of agriculture in its boasted prime ! Talk
of backwardness or slightness, no implement in the
whole Exposition is so ill- contrived as this, so rude,
at once so slight and so heavy, so ill-adapted for
working in any kind of soil. There can be no question
that farmers would derive material benefit from an
improvement of this machine. Besides, if we may
trust a country tradition to that effect, this that we
have been considering as a machine is by nature
allied to the human species, and ought to have a soul,
which might perhaps be worthy cultivating on its
own account. But our cautious readers will warn
us that here we are trenching on the dangerous
ground of theology. We say no more. We make no
positive assertions — no peremptory suggestions ; we
will not presume the question of soul ; \ve will
not insist that anybody ought to interfere. If we
have made a motion without being aware of it, we
hasten to withdraw it, as they do in Parliament."
We want some better drilling, then ; some more
efficient schooling, and discipline, and training for
our agricultural labourers, than they have yet ob-
tained. We want armies of organized labourers
set to work upon our fields. Why, for instance,
should not the poorer classes, who are driven to
" the parish " for subsistence, be employed, under
proper captains, in reclaiming the wastes and swamps
of this and the neighbour island ?
In Holland, the state has formed home colonies
of the poor, located them on waste land, drilled them
to work, and trained them up to be industrious and
self-supporting citizens. They have not only increased
the quantity of productive land in their country, and
thus added to the supply of food for their population,
but increased also the number of productive and
trained labourers, on which the wealth and well-
being of a state mainly depend. It is easy to see,
also, how, by drilling the helpless classes to industrial
habits, you increase their powers of self-dependence,
and enable them either to provide for themselves
without being a burden upon others at home, or put
them in the way of carving out their own career as
emigrants in new lands beyond the sea.
Already Industrial Schools have been established
for the drilling of poor children to industrial labour,
in different parts of the country, — of which that of
Norwood is the most complete. The Poor Law
authorities in several parishes and unions have also
made experiments in drilling adults in like manner
to agricultural industry, the results of which, especi-
ally lat Farnley Tyas and Sheffield, have been
eminently successful. We hare heard of other
parishes preparing to follow their example ; and we
look for valuable results from such experiments,
before many years are over.
On efficient drilling and discipline, men's success
as individuals, and as societies, entirely depends. The
most self-dependent man is under discipline, — and
the more perfect the discipline, the more complete
his condition. A man must drill his desires, and
keep them under subjection, — they must obey the
word of command, otherwise lie is the sport of
passion and impulse. The religious man's life is
full of discipline and self-restraint. The man of
business is entirely subject to system and rule. The
happiest home is that where the discipline is the
most perfect, and yet where it is the least felt. We
at length become subject to it as to a law of Nature,
and while it binds us firmly, we yet feel it not. The
force of habit is but the force of Drill. It becomes un-
conscious. Look at the violin or the piano-forte player.
See what discipline has done for those wondrous ten
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
19
fingers of his ! He executes brilliant passages with
most extraordinary rapidity, and yet is scarce con-
scious of the feat, so far as his muscular organs are
concerned.
The first drilling-place of every human being, and
the best, is the Home ; the next is the School ; the
third is the Workshop. Here we have the moral,
the intellectual, and the industrial discipline of the
human being provided for. When the Home of
the poor is "no home," as Charles Lamb says it is,
then the more necessary is the School, though it
never can supply the education which the home
ought to provide. But it may do much ; look into the
Infant schools, the Ragged schools, and the Indus-
trial schools, and you will find that they combine the
home with the school, as much as that is possible.
But if there be neither the discipline of the home,
nor the discipline of the school, what have you
then ? — an untrained, untaught, rude, and savage
generation, whom the Workshop may drill into
wealth-producing machines, but whose existence,
as regards its higher ends, can only prove a miserable
failure.
First, then, let us help the people to good Homes,
next to good Schools, and lastly, to good Industrial
Discipline. Unfortunately, it is too much our practice
to put the last first, and think little or not at all of
the others, which are infinitely more important.
WHO KNEW BEST ?
A TALE. •
a garden between it and the road, stands the house of
Master Baptist Heinzelmann, a respectable citizen
and cabinet-maker, or tiscldermeister, as the Germans
call it, so surrounded and overshadowed by tall
trees and shrubs, that it reminds you of true content-
ment, which is always quiet and retiring where it
reigns in the heart. Nimble vine-branches climb up
the walls and over the roof, so thick and shady, that
birds build their nests among them, and rest every
night under the sheltering leaves. Besides this
there is no other garnishment or decoration to be
seen about the dwelling, although Master Heinzel-
mann is in very comfortable circumstances. As it
had come down from his father and grandfather, so
stood the house at the time of our tale ; one storey,
compact and solid. From the garden you entered
the spacious outer room, the ordinary play-place of
the children, and from that into the living-room, and
from that into the large workshop, where Master
Heinzelmann kept his ten or a dozen journeymen at
work from one year's end to another, without reck-
oning the apprentices. His business flourished
greatly, for the townsfolk preferred to go to him
whenever they had orders to give or purchases to
make. His workmanship was tasteful and durable,
and what was more than all, he overcharged no one,
which pleased people, and on that account they did
not mind the walk to his house, although it was, as
before said, a little off the road, and out of the way.
What the house wanted in grandeur and ornament,
was made up by the contentment and the gentle but
full-hearted happiness which had taken up their
abode within it. Free from cares of whatever sort,
Master Heinzelmann passed his days in the circle of
his family. Providence had bestowed on him a
good-looking, intelligent wife, and three healthy and
lively children, on whom his whole affections hung,
and when they assembled each evening, after the
labours of the day, none looked comelier and happier
than they. At seven o'clock, Master Heinzelmann
left off work, and dismissed his men ; the noise of
saws, hammers, and planes ceased, and a peaceful
stillness reigned in the house ; and he, having put on
his comfortable indoors jacket, filled a pipe, and
looked about for his family. In summer, he found
them nearly always in the garden, or in the outer
room, near the open door, from whence there was a
pleasant view over the sweet-scented flower-beds.
His wife welcomed his coming with a friendly nod
and a cheerful smile, and the children ran to meet
him, clung to his hands, and strove to climb up for a
kiss. Such was Baptist Heinzelmann's daily pleasure,
abounding in all that makes life happy. After lifting
up and embracing his children, he would sit and
listen to their lively, prattle, or watch their simple
sports, in which he himself often took a part,
while their mother made ready the evening meal.
When this was over, they went and sat in the pretty
summerhouse, and talked about the little occurrences
of the day. There was always something to relate,
concerning the children, or the housekeeping, or the
garden, or of other matters, nor was there any lack
of simple gossip, which, however insignificant it
might seem, yet had a meaning and an interest for a
family bound together by the strongest ties of love.
Father, mother, children, enjoyed the quiet gladness
of a household into which the noise of the great
world without seldom penetrated. And in what else
does happiness consist, than in gladness and content-
ment ? He who possesses them needs to ask for
nothing further. Had Master Heinzelmann always
remembered that, he would have saved himself from
much turmoil and vexation.
One fine summer evening the Tischlermeister left
his workshop as usual, put on his lounging jacket, lit
his pipe, and turned his steps towards the front
room, from whence came the noise of merry laughter
and shouts of fun. Softly he approached behind the
open door which concealed him from his wife and
children, leant himself at his ease on the lower half,
and looked smilingly down on the frolics of his little
ones. The mother, with the youngest girl on her
lap, sat on the doorstep, while Fritz and Hans
crawled about the floor. They were playing a
hundred tricks with the kitten, which had come into
the world only a few weeks before. Fritz had got a
piece of coloured cloth for a plaything, and flung it
across the room, but with a thread cunningly fastened
to it, so that he might pull it back again. The kitten,
according to the manner of young cats, leaped and
seized the lure with comical antics, but just as she
fancied it was fast between her paws, came a sudden
pull, and away flew the prize, while she looked after
it with ludicrous astonishment. Then rose bursts of
merriment and shouts of delight, and the mother,
glad in her children's pleasure, laughed with them,
and took care that the old cat should not disturb
their sport by any sudden outbreak of ill-temper.
Master Heinzelmann looked on for a little while,
and amused himself, without being seen, with his
children's diversions. All at once, however, he made
a grave face, and said, " Enough, little ones ; let the
kitten go, and come to supper. Come, dear wife, it
is all ready."
As soon as the children heard their father's voice,
they thought no more about the kitten, but sprang
up and ran towards him with merry faces. But he
did not hug and kiss them as he was accustomed to
do; he gave them only a short salute, and the same
to his wife, who came towards him with her hand held
out, and the youngest child on her arm.
" Baptist," she said, " dear husband, we have had
rare fun this afternoon ; you should see how cleverly
Fritz can spring about with the kitten ! But what is
the matter? You look angry. Has anything hap-
pened to vex you?"
20
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
"Not exactly vexatious," replied Heinzelmann,
C( and yet, as I saw you sitting there so pleasantly, I
was a little fretted to think that I had promised Master
Vollbracht to go into town this evening. I would
much rather stay at home with you."
" Go to town, Baptist, to-day ? " asked Frau
Margaret in astonishment. "And what have you to
do there?"
"Oh, it is about some town affairs," answered
Baptist ; " I don't myself know rightly what they are ;
when Master Vollbracht told me, I did not altogether
understand, but, at all events, I promised to go for a
short hour, so as to be quit of him. You know well,
Margaret, that to speak truly, the locksmith is no
special friend of mine — he is too fond of the public-
house. Still, a promise is a promise, and I must
keep my words ; so let us have supper quickly, for
the sooner there, the sooner shall I be back again."
Frau Margaret said nothing, although it could be
seen in her face, that her husband's going out in the
evening was not at all agreeable to her. She went
and got the supper ready, Master Heinzelmann ate
a few mouthfuls hastily, and then rose up and put on
his coat.
"Good-by, Margaret," he said, "good-night, chil-
dren! I expect to be at home again soon, wife."
"Go, then," she answered with a cheerful look,
" and I will wait for you ; but do not stay too long."
Baptist promised, and went. Frau Margaret felt
uneasy as she looked after him. It was the first even-
ing since their marriage that she had been left alone
in the house. When she heard the garden gate shut
behind her husband, she became fearful, and pressed
her hand over her eyes, out of which a few tears had
forced their way. Presently, however, she said to
herself — "Timid heart! what matters it if you are
left alone for once ? It will not happen often, for he
loves me ; yes, and the children too. How can I be
so silly ! "
So she thought, and then put on a cheerful face,
and played and talked to the children, as though
nothing had happened. But that pure gladness, which
leaps from the care-free heart as a clear spring, was
wanting. She sent the youngsters to bed earlier than
usual, and placed herself at the window, and looked
silently forth into the garden, which the moon, with
its pale light, seemed to have covered with a veil of
silver. Thus she waited for her husband's return.
At ten o'clock she hoped he woiild come : by-and-by
eleven struck, he was still absent: another anxious
half-hour passed — at last he came. She heard his
footstep still far off, heard the garden-gate creak, and
flew to meet him.
^"So late! you bad man," she cried merrily, but
with a slight reproach in the tone of her voice.
"I could not do otherwise, dear wife," replied
Baptist, who was visibly a little excited. "You
should only have been there! They paid me great
honour, and when I was coming away at ten o'clock,
they all cried out for me to stay, that my opinion had
great weight with them, and so, really I could not
leave. But you should have gone to bed, Mar-
garet."
"No ; I was not at all tired," answered the wife.
" But, now, make haste in ; you are heated, and the
cool night air may do you harm."
Lovingly she drew him into the house, anti listened
patiently to all that he had to tell about the matters
that had been talked over in the town, and how he
had settled and determined nearly every question,
because of his consequence and station.
" There's only one thing vexes me," he said lastly,
_" I was obliged to promise to go again. Two evenings
in the week are fixed on for the meetings, and as
everybody was in favour, I could not well say no.
However, it is but two evenings; the whole history
wont last longer."
If Frau Margaret was alarmed at the beginning of
the evening, she was now doubly fearful. Her quiet
in-door happiness seemed to be all at once threatened
by some great danger. She trembled to think that
her husband could find pleasure away from home —
away from his children, and she had the sense to
foresee the consequences. But she remained silent,
for she was too bewildered to find words to express
her apprehensions, and then, she knew that when her
husband had once made a promise, nothing would lead
him to break it. This made her sorrow the greater,
and for the first time since her marriage, her pillow
was wet with tears. She however concealed her
sadness from her husband ; she hoped that the good
old habits would rule again, and make him dislike
passing his evenings away from home.
Although Frau Margaret was prudent and sensible,
she deceived herself in this matter. Truly enough,
Baptist at first went out for the evening unwillingly,
and not without a struggle, but gradually this resist-
ance disappeared, and at last he longed for the hour
which led him among his companions. He was a
man of clear judgment, knew how to deliver his
words neatly, and his comfortable circumstances gave
him a cei-tain importance, so that, quite naturally,
in course of time he gave the tone to the company,
and his sayings were received as oracles. That
flattered his vanity, which therein got full satisfac-
tion, and before long, he wondered in secret how he
could have lived so. many years in the background,
and had so little to do with the world. The political
and religious questions of the day, about which he
had never before troubled himself, began to excite
his eager attention. He read newspapers, journals,
pamphlets, and became a great politician — at least
in the eyes of himself and his companions. The
magic circle of his calm and peaceful happiness was
broken. Baptist himself had done it, but without a
foreboding of what he had destroyed. He fancied
himself happier than ever, and could not see that all
his household joys were blighted.
But Margaret saw and felt it. She mourned in
secret ; the evenings when she sat at home alone were
sad and sorrowful for her, and at last, as Baptist left
off observing any rule in his outgoing, but longed
more and more to be away from home, she plucked
up a heart, and begged of him to leave her no more.
"But why not?" rejoined Heinzelmann; "we do
nothing wrong. We debate about matters for the
good of the town and of the State. There must be
grea^ changes, Margaret, before things can be better
with us. But, presto, it will come."
" Oh, Baptist, what concern have you with the
town and the State ? " answered Frau Margaret.
" Look at your family, that is your town and State.
WTien you are with it, and fulfil your duty rightfully,
then are you one of the best of citizens. Consider
well: the skin is nearer than the fleece."
" Yes, wife, but what do you mean by that ?" said
Baptist, a little angrily. < < Perhaps I am not fulfilling
my duty ? "
"No longer the same as formerly, dear husband.
Don't take it ill, Baptist, but my heart and conscience
compel me— I must tell you. You neglect your busi-
ness a little. Yesterday, you know, the town-clerk
wanted his coffer ; but you — you went out at five,
and the coffer was not finished."
"Eh, what!" cried Baptist snappishly. "I had
business in town — we were to lay a memorial before
the magistrates about the pavement, and that could
not be done without me ; and the town-clerk can have
his coffer to-day."
"No, dear husband," replied the wife, "he sent
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
21
a little while ago to say that he had got one; and
now, you see, the coffer must be kept on hand unsold."
"The town-clerk is an old fool, "continued Baptist,
fretfully. " These aristocrats ! — they always want to
ride on the necks of us honest traders. But patience !
Our turn will come some day."
"But, dearest husband," said Margaret, soothingly,
"the town-clerk has always been very agreeable and
friendly with you, and it is certainly not his fault,
that the coffer was not ready at the right time. Many
go out for wool and come home shorn. Had you
thought more of the skin than of the fleece, you
would have saved yourself all this trouble. You
understand your business — that's the skin; the street
paving — that's the fleece."
"Yes, I understand well enough what you mean,"
rejoined the Tischlermeister, "but I understand it
quite otherwise ! You, however, do not understand
me: men were meant for general affairs, for great
matters. Their mind stretches far beyond the narrow
circle of housewifery. Only let me alone, and don't
mix yourself up in things which don't concern you, and
which you don't understand."
Frau Margaret saw plainly that her remonstrance
made no impression, and she remained silent. But
her sad and downcast looks spoke more loudly to the
heart of her husband than her words. Heinzelinann
found that her view was not far wrong, after all, and
made an attempt to withdraw from his companions,
and again live a domestic life. But his attempt failed.
Vanity, and the desire to appear somebody, led him
back again to his crooked ways, and soon they became
worse.
The insurrection at Paris broke out — the Republic
was proclaimed — and the news of these events fell on
the minds of the German people like a spark in a
barrel of gunpowder. Blow followed blow, feelings
grew hot, and almost every town had its own revo-
lution. That was something for Master Baptist
Heinzelmann. He was called to the head of the
democratic party, and made the leader of a revolu-
tionary club, and spouted speeches full of fire and
flame ; the mob cried hurrah ! held up their hands for
him — he became drunk with triumph — was chosen
town-councillor — a great man, as he thought, and
leader of the people. He was near being elected
Deputy to the Diet, and sent as representative to
the Parliament at Berlin. Master Baptist swam in
pleasures — Frau Margaret swam in tears. Her hus-
band triumphed — she sat at home and wept. Her
husband walked proudly about, and looked radiant
with joy — she was full of mournfulness, and the
feeling of happiness seemed to have disappeared from
her heart for ever.
Master Heinzelmann appeared to be totally changed.
He troubled himself no longer about his business, but
left everything to his workmen. Every morning early,
he left home to fulfil his new vocation as leader of the
people, and to labour for their happiness. He saw
not that his own happiness was going to ruin in the
mean time. He used to return home late, worn-out,
weaiy, and hoarse with much speechifying and shout-
ing, and ill-tempered into the bargain. Scarcely had
he exchanged a few sulky words with his poor wife,
than he betook himself to bed. He rarely saw his
children: the pleasant evenings in the front-room had
all vanished as a dream, and could not be recalled.
Instead of merry laughter, and joyful cries, and glad
shoutings, there was nothing to be heard but the low,
sad sobs of Frau Margaret. Peace and contentment
seemed to have fled from the house, as well as from
the hearts of all its inmates. Yes — all ! for to confess
the truth, Master Baptist Heinzelmann found, little
by little, that although his new life in the busy
current of politics brought plenty of excitement, it
by no means brought contentment; and instead of
making him happy, it laid upon him rather a burden
of cares, vexations, hardships, and losses of many
kinds. At first it went well enough — but how went
it afterwards ? His party, which in truth was not a
small one, listened to him right willingly when he
held forth and displayed his political knowledge, but
they also had no objection to a cool drink now and
then between the fiery speeches. So Master Baptist,
from time to time, in order to keep up his popularity,
was obliged to let a cask of ale go the rounds, and that
was not quite so pleasant to him as to be listened to
with attention, and to hear the hurrahs when he said
something a little more violent than usual. Besides,
there were other leaders of the people as well as he,
who stood in high favour with the mob, but who had
very little money, while Master Heinzelmann was
well-to-do, and could afford to offer a sacrifice on the
altar of his country, and — he offered it. Only, some-
how or other, the sacrifice was wanted so often, and
that was not much to the liking of the tischler-
meister. In the end — and that worried him the most
— his journeymen became refractory all of a sudden.
They wished also to have property of their own, and
demanded higher wages. Baptist Heinzelmann liked
revolutions very well, but not against himself, and so
he told all his hands to go to Jericho, and for a time
his business went to sleep. From this it happened
that orders did not come in quite so numerously as
before, which puzzled Baptist not a little. He began
to turn it over in his mind, and all at once he be- ;
thought himself of what his good-hearted wife had j
said to him one day — •" Remember ! the skin is nearer :
than the fleece." Never had the truth of this proverb
come before him so strikingly and forcibly, as now
that his delusions were losing their strength. A ••
singular and irresistible longing to return once more i
to his former tranquil and retired, and yet happy
life overcame him. What was the selfish love of the
mob, against the pure and true love of wife and chil-
dren ! — a painted bubble in comparison with a bright
and costly jewel. Baptist Heinzelmann plucked up j
a heart ; towards evening he left the council-house I
and went home. No one was in the garden ; it lay !
there in deep stillness. He stole down a by-path to [
his workshop, where now but three hands were em- ;
ployed out of the dozen that formerly worked therein, !
and threw off his Sunday clothes, put on his dear
old comfortable jacket, his cap on his head, reached
down the clay pipe which had had such a long rest, j
lit it, and then went softly through the inner to the
outer room. Wife and children sat, as often before, ;
on the threshhold, not lively as they used to be, but !
particularly quiet and downcast — even merry Fritz
had scarcely a word to say for himself. The sun was
dropping down to his setting, and cast golden streams
of light through the thick foliage of the vine which i
enwreathed the door and window, down upon the I
clean boards of the floor. Sweet odours were borne j
in on the air from the garden, the birds chirped
and twittered their last evening notes, and peace
and tranquillity reigned around, except in the hearts
which once knew nothing else than joy and con-
tentment.
Heinzelmann leant over the door, and for a time
looked at his family in silence. The past came before
his mind as pleasant pictures. " What a fool was I ! "
he said inwardly to himself; "what more blessed
happiness can there be, than the happiness in the
circle of one's own family ! What a fool was I, not to
see this long ago : that I could be so long blinded by
stupid vanity and foolish pride ! But there is yet
time, and I will not let it escape."
" Margaret," he said aloud, and with friendly voice.
" Baptist— is that you? and so early!" she cried,
22
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
and sprang up; " and what do I see?— in the old cap
and jacket ! Are you not going out again ? "
"Not to-day, nor tomorrow, nor afterwards,"
answered he, smiling. " With the old dress, I have
found again my old heart. The skin is nearer than
the fleece, my Margaret, my good, dear, wife ! "
"Oh, goodness!" she exclaimed, "what do you
say ? what do I hear ? am I not in a dream ? "
" If you are dreaming that the old contentment
has come back again," replied Baptist, "then is your
dream a true one. I have grown wise at last,
Margaret."
"Thank God," stammered the Frau, "and instead
of handling the pen, you will now work with the
plane — Will you?"
" Yes, Margaret, stick to that which I know, and
leave it to others to bungle at politics. In short, I
have given up my post — I am no longer town-coun-
cillor. I am now only what I was before — Tischler-
meister Baptist Heinzelmann ! Am I welcome to you
as such ? "
With a shriek of delight, Frau Margaret fell into
her husband's open arms. Long and close was their
embrace, and the sense of newly-quickened joy brought
sweet tears from the wife's heart. The children under-
stood not what was going on ; but they saw that their
father was glad and contented, and they were glad
and contented too. Until late at night, they sat
together in the garden, rejoicing in their new-found
happiness.
Baptist became truly the tischlermeister of former
days, and suffered himself to be no more drawn into
temptation. A burnt child shuns the fire ; and he
knew now the difference between family joys and
worldly joys. His late friends and companions came
entreating him to take part once more in their pro-
ceedings, but Baptist put them off with a laugh, and
answered, " Not so, dear friends — the skin is nearer
than the fleece! Indoors there, at the work-bench,
is my post. Other people understand politics and
government better than I — I leave the task to them."
The friends and companions tried again two or three
times — Heinzelmann, however, remained firm; they
gave up and came no more. But the old customers
returned, and the old journeymen also, who had
thought better of their strike — and above all, the old
joy of tranquil, domestic life.
Baptist would not change with any one. And Frau
Margaret ? — only go by the house some day towards
evening, when she is playing with the children, or
sitting with them and her husband in the garden ;
then, when you hear her clear, silvery laugh, then,
I can believe, you will no more ask if she is happy.
Such a laugh can come only from a truly happy heart.
OUR AUTUMN TRIP THROUGH MUNSTER.
THE CITY OF CORK. — THE BAT. — BLACKROCK. — PAS-
SAGE.— THE "PRINCESS." — LOST IN A FOG. — LAND
AT BLACKROCK. — CORK AT MIDNIGHT.
THE situation of Cork is remarkably fine ; and the
neighbourhood, for picturesque beauty, is almost
unrivalled. The principal part of the city lies in the
bottom of the valley of the Lee, which flows through
it, affording a large extent of quay for shipping
purposes ; and from the river banks, streets of houses
straggle in all directions up the steeps which sur-
round the place. The streets in the centre of the
city, — evidently the newest part of it,— are spacious
and well-built. Indeed, Irish towns are generally
superior to English in this respect, — that in their
better quarters, they give far more space, and. have
thus a grander and more stately appearance. This
is pre-eminently the case with the principal streets
of Dublin, Cork, and Limerick. But pass from them
into the older parts of these towns, and you will find
squalor, filth, and wretchedness, infinitely worse than
anything of the kind that is to be met with in any other
country. And Cork forms no exception, although it
is a place of some trade, and the population are, on the
whole, better employed than in most other Irish towns.
But even trade, the people told us, like everything
else, was here on the decline ; nearly all manu-
factures had died out, and the only trade carried on
was in the export of butter, corn, and emigrants !
Everywhere emigrants ! The people fleeing their
country by hundreds and by thousands !
Few of the merchant classes reside in the city :
they nearly all live out of town, — along the banks of
their beautiful bay ; and for miles on either side, — as you
pass down to Cove by the steamer, you see their snug
houses perched along the heights, indicating comfort,
success, and wealth, so far as they are concerned. Of
course, the great attraction of Cork is its bay, and
we took an opportunity of sailing down to Passage
the first evening of our stay there. Steamers to
Cove, or Queenstown, as it is now called, are con-
stantly plying from Merchant's Quay, near St.
Patrick's Bridge, at a very low fare ; and the number
of passengers is often inconveniently large, showing a
disposition as well an ability to excursionize on the
part of a considerable portion of the population of Cork.
The sun was setting as we sailed down the river,
and the succession of views which presented them-
selves at every winding of the stream, here and there
enlivened by shipping craft, were of the most charming
description. It was lamentable, however, to see the
deserted state of the few ship-building yards along
the noble river. One would expect some indica-
tions of business in that department, admirably
situated as Cork is for purposes of trade. But no.
The dry docks, and yards, and slips, are there ; but
no ships building, no repairs even going forward ; only
a rotten boat here and there, and the worn-out
boiler of an old marine-engine, — only one little
sloop did we see in course of erection along those
spacious quays.
"What house is that?" I asked of a fellow-
passenger, pointing to a fine mansion on the banks,
near where the river expands into the bay. "That
is Mr. Fagan's house, — the late member for Cork.
He is a great butter-merchant." Another fine
mansion which he pointed out, was the house of a
provision-merchant. These seem to be the staple
trades, and they produce most of the ' rich men of
Cork and the neighbourhood. These houses of theirs,
nestling amidst trees, with their verandahs and green-
houses, trimly-kept grounds and snug little gardens,
give* one a favourable idea of the life of the middle
and upper classes of Cork, indicating, as they do,
a love of snug homes and picturesque scenery.
The river has now expanded into an arm of the
sea, though it has the appearance of a lake, being
shut in on all sides by winding banks and studded
islands, which open out as you advance, and disclose
new and varied views of the most delicious and
ravishing beauty. This continues for about, six miles,
until the bay expands, and the green shelving ba,nks
seem to become less bold, and retire away in the
distance. The most stately mansion along the bay,
is that of Smith Barry, one of the largest landed
proprietors of the neighbourhood, — embarrassed, like
most others, and with large portions of his estate
lying idle, — the tenants having emigrated by wholesale,
and no others having yet been found to occupy their
place. This fine property, we were told, would
shortly be in the market. .
Blackrock Castle is a picturesque object in des-
cending the river, standing upon a jutting promontory,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
23
commanding fine views in all directions. The
structure is modern, though it seems to have been
built upon an old foundation of a similar kind. From
this point, it is said William Penn embarked for the
New World. Below this point, the river expands
into the dimensions of a lake, hence called Lough
Mahon ; then, a mile or two lower down, a green
island lies across the channel, and a little to the
right, is seen the village of Passage, beautifully
situated, just where the wide reach of river ends,
and where it contracts into little more than river
breadth. Beyond this again, the river sweeps to the
left, where Cove> or Queenstown, is reached, com-
manding the capacious and magnificent harbour of
the Bay of Cork. But I stopped at Passage, as it
was growing dusk, though there was still light
enough left to enable me to see the long reaches
of the bay, under the mellow evening's light.
Passage looks picturesque from the river, for some-
thing has been done for it in the way of whitewash,
and a few pretty cottages are scattered along the
heights. But when you pass into the village, you
find that the "distance lent enchantment to the
view." The place consists of a few straggling streets
and many middens and sump-holes : its odour is
anything but fragrant. There was a small bustle
about the one street-corner, where a number of
women and children, with several men, stood lounging
about, the latter smoking, and nearly all, men,
women, and children, talking. The village was
quite alive, — heads were projected over most of the
windows, and women stood discoursing in most of
the doorways. The number of children, who must
have been all out of doors at the time, seemed prodi-
gious for the size of the place. I wandered up the
hill, — past dismantled houses, which lay as they fell,
past rotting old boats, empty slips, logs of wood,
swine tenements, whose occupants were squeaking
and grunting their loud satisfaction, — and then I
reached, at length, the lieight overlooking the village.
The bay lay asleep ; a ship at anchor in the stream
threw its long shadows in the water, the few white-
washed houses on the further side seemed to sleep
under the falling night, and the beautiful variety of
water, wood, and swelling knoll, died away in the
distance. The only sound heard amid the general
stillness, was the hum of voices rising up from the
village below. I shall never think but with delight
of the charms of that beauteous landscape.
But lo ! there is the bell of the last steamer for
Cork, — the Princess. She is just rounding the head-
land near Monkstown, about a mile below stream, so
we hurry down to the quay again, in tune to get on
board. The Princess is full of passengers, — mostly on
pleasure-trips. Some have been down to Queenstown,
others to Monkstown, — the lovely day has attracted
many abroad. The bell rings again, and we are
away up stream. Though the night was quite clear
when we set out, we had not proceeded a mile on our
way before a dense fog came on, and the boat had to
proceed warily ; and before other ten minutes had
passed, the words " Stop her," brought us almost to a
standstill. It had now grown dark as well as foggy.
The skipper did not know whereabouts his ship's
head lay ; but guessing his course with what
accuracy he could, the steam was put on again. We
were hailed by a loud voice from the shore, " Steamer
ahoy!" "Ay, ay!" " Alter your course, "called
the voice, " or you'll be ashore in two minutes ! "
The engine was stopped. " What house is that ? "
asked our skipper. " Mr. Oliver's," answered the
voice. " How does our head lie ? " There was a
laugh at this, and a voice called out, " Feel it : you'll
find it thickish ! " Our boat's course was altered
again ; and we steamed on slowly. We were in the
Lough, where there is water enough in the channel,
but we must sound for the shallows and sand-banks, so
a man was placed in the boat's bows with a lead.
At first there was some difficulty in finding one ; but
a heavy bolt was attached to a string, and the
"heaving of the lead " commenced.
Now arose a great discussion and altercation on
board. Everybody had an opinion to give, as to the
direction of the "castle lights". A group gathered
round "the captain," and a loud altercation took
place. The difference of opinion was great ; but each
man had his argument, which was as good as the
captain's, and he was evidently lost in a mist. The
man at the lead sung out " Four fathoms ! " next
" Three fathoms ! " then, " Two fathoms and a
half! " " Stop her ! " called out the captain. So the
boat lay to, and the discussion went on. Some one
called out "Light a-head ! What ship is that?"
" The Alice ! " "Is your head lying up stream?"
" Ay, it is ! " " Do you see the castle light ? "
" No ; it's light is no better nor a farthing candle any
time ! " " Whereabouts does the castle lie ? " " Look
to your compass, and be to you ! " shouted a
savage voice, at length, from the strange ship.
"Ay, to be sure," said some of the passengers,
"examine the compass." "We have not got one
aboord ! " said the captain. "What! no compass?
Are you allowed to sail without one ? " But it was
so ! There was nothing in the shape of a compass
on board, — neither a ship's compass, nor a pocket-
compass, which may be had any day for a shilling !
" Can you lend us your compass for a moment ? "
asked our skipper of the strange ship, which we had
now come alongside of. "Ay, send on board, and
I'll let you have k. But why do you dare to sail
without one ? " "We never need it." " Then you
don't need it now ! "
However, we neared the vessel, which was lying
at anchor in the stream, and after mooring ourselves
to her, the mate went on board for the compass.
The compass came, the master of the vessel accom-
panying it. They took their station over the paddle-
boxes, and then the strange captain called for a
lantern. "Bring here the lantern," called the
master of the Princess. Some minutes elapsed, and
then the cabin-boy brought a farthing candle stuck
in a pint-bottle, — one of the lights which had been
standing on the cabin table ! The dismal light
glimmered and flickered under the boy's cap, which
vainly sheltered it. The candle was blown out
before he could ascend the paddle-box, and there was
only the stinking red wick in the shape of light.
"Bring a lantern," said the strange captain again.
"Please, your honour, we haven't got none !" " No
lantern ! Egad ! This is a genuine Cork boat,
I see ! Send on board my brig again for the loan of
a lantern." So another trip was made to the Alice,
and a lantern borrowed. At last, the compass was
examined, the crew and passengers, with both
captains, taking part in the discussion.
For an hour, at least, the discussion continued, and
at last, when something like unanimity had been
reached, after a greater waste of words than it ever
had been my lot to hear, the rope was thrown off, and
the boat moved again. The tide had now turned,
and was running strong down the river. It was
eleven o'clock, and quite dark ; but the captain was
still on the look out for the ineffectual Blackrock
light. It was nowhere to be seen. " Try the lead
again." The lead was cast, but after a few throws,
the string came up without it. The string had
broke. " The lead 's gone," cried the man. " Take
a bolt or key," said the skipper. "I think they'd do
well," said a private soldier, " to take the skipper's
head, — there's lead enough in that." "The lubbers/'
24
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
said another, " they all have their trade to learn
yet." An iron bolt was brought, and a piece of rope,
but before the soundings could be taken, there was a
heavy rubbing under foot, a heaving roll of the ship,
as if it had run upon a bank of mud or sand, and
then the captain pronounced that " We have stuck."
" Stuck in the mud, you are ! " said a voice. And so
it was. We must lie there till five next morning,
when the tide would turn ! Adieu bed for this night ;
and for the friends of the numbers of people on
board, anxiously waiting for them at home, night-long
distress and lamentation ! But no ! For some there
was hope yet. The ship's bell was set a-ringing, and
in ten minutes the sound of oars was heard ap-
proaching through the dark. The boatmen of
Blackrock had heard the signal, and put off for a
job. And a rare night's work they must have had.
The first two went off laden deeply. But the water
was still, and not a breath of wind stirred. I went
off with the third boat, and after abo.ut half
an hour's rowing, was landed at Blackrock about
twelve o'clock ; from thence to Cork it was about
four miles, and thither we trudged along the solitary
road. Two Cork ladies and another gentleman formed
the party ; but their lively spirits made the road
ehort^ and the night was fine and starlit, though the
fog still lay thick over the river below.
Lea-ring the party, when we reached the outskirts
of the city, for my own particular quarter, I soon got
puzzled by the quays, and lost my way, groping
along the badly lighted streets. I now found the
town had a double set of quays, along the two
branches of the Lee. The streets were quiet and
seemingly deserted, though here and there a loud
howl of an angry woman rose up in the darkness of
the night. Occasionally, also, a wretched creature
would issue from under cover of a wall, — and, passing
along a dark part of the quays, a tall woman in a
cloak suddenly sprung up from behind a harbour-post,
against which she had been leaning. Poor wretches !
Perhaps homeless ! But I reached, at last, the more
frequented streets, now abandoned by all save an
occasional watchman, and a few groups of women.
These streets, at this late hour, seemed to be used as
cesspools,— they smelt villanously, — the same odour
and put to the same uses as the streets in the Old
Town of Edinburgh were some fifty years back.
My nose told me, in the most emphatic way, that the
scavenging of Cork must be in the most imperfect
state. But, doubtless, these things will be mended yet.
At last, I reached my quarters. My uncle was
enveloped in dreams ; but when the following morn-
ing, I told him of my adventures, he confessed that
my trip to Passage had been worth my while ; and
that scene on board the Princess, — without compass
without lantern, without knowledge, without busi-
ness-like promptitude and decision, but with such
abundance of oratory, — he declared he should have
liked to witness it, "It was," he thought, "so
thoroughly characteristic." Whether this be so or
not, let those who know better than I pretend to do
determine.
THE OLD MAN AND HIS GRANDCHILD.
FROM THE GERMAN.
THERE was once a very old man, whose eyes had
become dim, his ears deaf, and whose knees trembled
under him. When he sat at the dinner-table he
could scarcely hold his spoon, so that sometimes he
spilt his soup on the cloth. His son and his
daughter-in-law were much displeased at this, and at
last they made their old father sit in a corner behind
the stove, and gave him his food in a little earthen
dish. He never got as much as he could eat, and he
would often look towards the table with wet, longing
eyes. One day his shaking hands let the little dish
fall, and it was broken. The woman scolded, but
he said nothing, — only sighed. Then they bought
an iron dish for him.
Once as he was sitting thus in the corner, his
little grandchild of four years old played on the floor
near him with some pieces of wood. " What art thou
making 1 " asked the father, smiling.
"I am making a little trough," answered the child,
"for father and mother to eat from when I am
grown big ! "
The man and his wife looked at each other in
silence, and then their tears flowed fast. They brought
the old grandfather back to the table, they gave him
as much food as he wished, and they never again
spoke an angry word when his trembling hand spilt
the soup on the cloth.
RE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS,
MY BIRTHDAY.
MOTHER, there's no soft hand comes now
To smooth the dark curls o'er my brow ;
I hear no voice so low and mild
As that which breathed "My own loved child ! "
No smile will greet, no lips will press,
No prayer will rise, no words will bless,
So fond, so dear, so true for me,
As those I ever met from thee.
Oh ! that my soul could melt in tears,
And die beneath the pain it bears ;
The grief that springs, the thoughts that goad,
Become a heavy maddening load ;
For all that heart and memory blends
But hotly scathes and sorely rends ;
And feeling, with its biting fangs,
Tortures with sharp and bleeding pangs.
My Mother ! thou didst prophesy,
With sighing tone and weeping eye,
That the cold world would never be
A kindred resting-place for me.
Oh, thou wert right ! I cannot find
One sympathetic link to bind,
But where some dark alloy comes in
*To mar with folly, wrong, or sin.
My Mother ! thou didst know full well
My spirit was not fit to dwell
With crowds who dream not of the ray
That burns the very soul away.
That ray is mine, — 'tis held from GOD,
But scourges like a blazing rod,
And never glows with fiercer flame
Than when 'tis kindled at thy name.
My Mother ! thou'rt remembered yet
With doting love and keen regret ;
My birthday finds me once again
In fervent sorrow, deep as vain.
'Thou'rt gone for ever : I must wait
The will of Heaven, the work of fate ;
And faith can yield no hope for me
Brighter than that of meeting thee.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
25
STANZAS— THE TOMB.
FEW years ago I shunned the tomb,
And turned ine from a tablet- stone ;
I shivered in the churchyard gloom,
And sickened at a bleaching bone.
Then all were round my warm young heart-
The kindred tie — the cherished form ;
I knew not what it was to part,
And give them to the dust and worm.
But soon I lost the gems of earth,
I saw the dearest cold in death ;
And sorrow changed my joyous mirth
To searing drops and sobbing breath.
I stood by graves all dark and deep,
Pale, voiceless, wrapt in mute despair ;
I left my soul's adored to sleep
In stirless, dreamless slumber there.
And now I steal at night to see
The soft clear moonbeams playing o'er
Their hallowed beds, and long to be
Where all most prized have gone before.
Now I can calmly gaze around
On osiered heaps, with yearning eye,
And murmur o'er the grassy mound —
" 'Tia a glorious privilege to die ! "
The grave hath lost its conquering might,
And death its dreaded sting of pain,
Since they but ope the path of light
To lead me to the loved again.
SONG OF THE IMPRISONED BIRD.
YE may pass me by with pitying eye,
And cry " Poor captive thing !"
But I'll prove ye are caged as safely as I,
If ye'll hearken the notes I sing.
I flutter in thrall, and so do all ; —
Ye have bonds ye cannot escape,
With only a little wider range,
And bars of another shape.
The noble ranks of fashion and birth
Are fettered by courtly rule ;
They dare not rend the shackles that tend
To form the knave and fool.
The parasite, bound to kiss the hand
That, perchance, he may loathe to touch ;
The maiden, high-born, wedding where she may
scorn ;
Oh ! has earth worse chains than such !
The one who lives but to gather up wealth,
Though great his treasures may be,
Yet guarding with care and counting by stealth,
What a captive wretch is he 1
The vainly proud, who turn from the crowd,
And tremble lest they spoil
The feathers of the peacock plume
With a low plebeian soil ; —
Oh' ! joy is mine to see them strut
In their chosen narrow space ;
They mount a perch, but ye need not search
For » closer prison-place.
The being of fitful curbless wrath
May fiercely stamp and rave ;
He will call himself free, but there cannot be
More mean and piteous slave ; —
For the greatest victim, — the fastest bound,—
Is the one who serves his rage ;
The temper that governs will ever be found
A fearful torture-cage.
Each breathing spirit is chastened down
. By the hated or the dear ;
The gentle smile or tyrant frown
Will hold ye in love or fear.
How much there is self-will would do,
Were it not for the dire dismay
That bids ye shrink, as ye suddenly think
Of "What will my neighbour say ?"
Then pity me not, for mark mankind,
Of every rank and age ;
Look close to the heart, and ye'll ever find
That each is a bird in a cage.
BLUE-BELLS IN THE SHADE.
THE choicest buds in Flora's train, let other fingers
twine ;
Let others snatch the damask rose, or wreath the
eglantine.
I'd leave the sunshine and parterre, and seek the
woodland glade,
To stretch me on the fragrant bed of blue-bells -in the
shade.
Let others cull the daffodil, the lily, soft and fair,
And deem the tulip's gaudy cup most beautiful and
rare ;
But give to me, oh ! give to me, the coronal that's
made
Of ruby orchis mingled with the blue-bells from the
shade.
The sunflower and the peony, the poppy bright and
gay>
Have no alluring charms for me ; — I'd fling them all
away.
Exotic bloom may fill the vase, or grace the high-
born maid ;
But sweeter far, to me, than all, are Mue-bells in
the shade.
26
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
FLOKAL SYMBOLS.
IN TWO PARTS.
PART I.
YE poetry of woods ! romance of fields !
Nature's imagination bodied bright !
Earth's floral page, that high instruction yields ;
For not, oh, not alone to charm the sight,
Gave God your blooming forms, your leaves of light ;
Ye speak a language which we yet may learn —
A divination of mysterious might :
And glorious thought may angel eyes discern
Flower writ in mead and vale, where'er man's foot-
steps turn.
CHARLES SWAIN.
SYMBOLISM has been a prominent feature in the
history of the human race, and has manifested itself
in an infinite diversity of forms. Men have ever
sought for the expression and embodiment of the
sentiments and passions of their hearts, and have
found them in the appearances of nature. The green
world of nature, with its multiplicity of beauties, —
whether of field or forest, of mountain, glen, or river, —
has thus become a great allegory of the human mind in
all its phases and manifestations ; hence the invention of
symbolic language, or the adoption of types as expres-
sive of the hopes and fears and Protean sentiments of
the human heart. This symbolism had its first origin
as a system among the imaginative and luxurious
people of oriental climes. Under a soft, serene,
and intensely blue sky, glowing with unclouded
sunshine during the day, and glittering with un-
numbered stars by night, it is not surprising that
the imagination, once kindled by the contem-
plation of beauty, should trace, in the varied forms
of loveliness which adorned the bosom of the
earth, a language expressive of the phases of the
human mind, and a sympathy for human sorrows in
the enchantments of the earth and heaven. And
thus, in these sunny and luxuriant climes, the
highest aspirations of the human soul, — religion and
poetry, the veneration for beauty and • holiness,
found language and expression in the symbolic
vocabulary of nature. From these lands, blessed
with exuberance and fertility, this language has
found its way to our own cold and cloudy shores,
having been brought hither by pilgrims, who have
toiled across the wide deserts, and through the
fruitful valleys of the East, to pay homage at the
consecrated shrines of nations and temples which
have now no other existence than as fragments in
the history of the past. We may now linger over
the beautiful features of these mystic languages, and
dwell upon them till we become enraptured. If the
divine passion of love stirs within us, we may read
the history of the sentiment, as a part of the indi-
vidual history of the universal soul of man, from the
first spark which kindles a. new emotion in the en-
thusiasm and fervour of youth, and which in due time
becomes a great passion, heaving and pulsing within,
till it expands and grows into universal philanthropy,
and lights up all the world with its generous flames.
Or if in melancholy mood, we can pity the despair
which may be spoken by a present of myrtle, inter-
woven with cypress and poppies ; and whatever
feelings may sway us, we shall find their prototypes
among the flowers ; for this is but another mode of
translating the universal language of nature, and will
be cherished and cultivated as long as poetry exists.
Of these floral symbols, some are of such a general
character, and they would be adopted and appre-
ciated so readily by any people, that it would be
difficult to recognize them as individual facts. The
flower wo»W. ever be a type of all innocence and
beauty. The lovely hues and symmetrical forms
which flowers display, would ever suggest an sesthe-
tical or ideal beauty pertaining only to the soul.
Their brief existence and decay would render them
fit representatives of our own fleeting lives. Lite-
rature abounds with metaphors and symbols of this
general character. Thus of Corinne, that warm-
hearted daughter of Italy, whose soul brimmed with
passionate affection, as warm and pure as the sun-
light of her native skies, Madame de Stael writes :
"This lovely woman, whose features seemed de-
signed to depict felicity, — this child of the sun, a
prey to hidden grief, — was like a flower, still fresh
and brilliant, but within whose leaves may be seen
the first dark impress of that withering blight which
soon shall lay it low. . . . The long black lashes
veiled her languid eyes, and threw a shadow over
the tintless cheek." Beneath was written this line
from the " Pastor Fido : " —
Scarcely can we say this was a rose.
A similar passage occurs in a lament for Lady
Jane Grey : —
Thou didst die
Even as a flower beneath the summer ray,
In incensed beauty, and didst take thy way,
Even like its fragrance, up into the sky.
J. W. ORD.
In such a tone of subdued eloquence does the
sister of Sir Philip Sydney mourn over the memory
of her sainted and incomparable brother.
Break now your garlands, O ! ye shepherd lasses,
Since the fair flower that them adorned is gone j
The flower that them adorned is gone to ashes ;
Never again let lass put garland on :
Instead of garland, wear sad cypress now,
And bitter elder, broken from the bough.
The language of deep feeling is ever poetical, and
in every age of the world's history flowers have
aided in giving force to the utterance of the heart's
passion, whether of love, hate, sorrow, or joy.
Perhaps love and sorrow have created more poetry
than any other sentiments which have ever had
birth in the breast of humanity.
If bliss be a frail and perishing flower,
Born only to decay ;
Oh ! who, — when it blooms but a single hour, —
Would fling its sweets away ?
Among the many chaste and poetical allegories
which occur scattered up and down the eastern
liferature, is the following: — "As this dark mould
sends upwards, and out of its very heart, the rare
Persian rose, so does hope grow out of evil, and the
darker the evil the brighter the hope, as from a
richer and fouler soil comes the more vigorous and
large* flower." There is another of this class, which
conveys in a most elegant form a symbolical em-
bodiment of the refining influences of the pure and
the beautiful. "A traveller, in passing through a
country in Persia, chanced to take into his hand a
piece of clay which lay by the way-side, and to his
surprise, he found it to exhale the most delightful
fragrance : ' Thou art but a poor piece of clay, ' said
he, ' an unsightly, unattractive, poor piece of clay :
yet how fragrant art thou ! How refreshing 1 I
admire thee, I love thee ; thou shalt be my com-
panion, I will carry thee in my bosom. But whence
hast thou this fragrance ? ' The clay replied, ' I have
been dwelling with the rose ! ' " In another Persian
legend, we are told that Sadi the poet, when a slave,
presented to his tyrant master a rose, accompanied
with this pathetic appeal : — " Do good to thy
servant whilst thou hast the power, for the season of
power is often as transient as the duration of this
beautiful flower." This melted the heart of his lord,
and the slave obtained his liberty.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
27
The well-known " Language of Flowers," was
first introduced into this country by Lady Mary
Wortley Montague ; but in the modern system
nothing is preserved of the fresh poetry and brilliancy
of thought which characterized the floral symbolism
of ancient eastern nations. The rich imagery and
startling truth of the eastern metaphors and symbols,
have crumbled into ruins, like the temples dedicated
to their gods. Sickly and weak as is the modern
language of flowers, it is yet as prevalent in use as
ever, and has been rendered tame by its universal
adoption in the intercourse of life ; instead of being
E reserved as a part of religious worship, and of the
ighest forms of poetry. Lady Montague tells us,
that in Turkey, you may, through the assistance of
these emblems, either quarrel, reproach, or send
letters of passion, friendship, or civility, or even
news, without ever inking your fingers ; for there is
no colour, no weed, no flower, no fruit, herb, nor
feather, that has not a verse belonging to it. So, too,
no Turkish lady would send a congratulatory message,
or a ceremonious invitation, without sending with it
some emblematical flowers carefully wrapped in an
embroidered handkerchief, made fragrant by the
odours of flowers, which conveyed also an emblematical
meaning. But these are merely fragments of the
ancient customs of the eastern nations, where all was
symbol, emblem, and allegory ; and where the
imagination usurped the power and controlled even
the affairs of the state.
These emblematic verses are in the form of
enigmas, and are founded on a sort of crambo or
bout rime. M. Hamma has collected about a
hundred specimens, but they are exceedingly un-
translateable. We quote three of the most manage-
able which we can hit upon.
Almonde.— Wer bana bir Ominde.
Pear. — Let me not despair.
Rose.— You smile, but still my anguish grows j
Rose.— For thee my heart with love still glows.
Tea. — You are both sun and moon to me,
Tea.— Your's is the light by which I see.
But these are arbitrary and fancied similarities
founded on the mere rhyming and jingling of words,
and although occasionally conveying an idea, are
upon the whole, mere frivolities to fritter away the
hours which might be better spent in the growth of
ideas, in tracing out the real symbolical expressions
of nature, in establishing these as keys to the
aesthetics of all beauty, and as the frame-work of the
noblest poetry. The real language of flowers is as
old as Adam, and the antiquity of floral emblems
dates from the first throbbings of love in the human
heart. Indeed, by love it is supposed to have been
invented, as a parable speaking to the eye, and
thence teaching the heart.* The bower of myrtles
and roses was the first temple dedicated to love and
beauty ; and to this happy spot the enamoured
youth invited the chosen one of his heart by means of
floral emblems.
To catch a glimpse of floral symbolism, when
yet in its pristine vigour and poetical sublimity, we
must go back into the dim vista of departed years,
and search amid the mighty caves and temples
where the early nations of India, Egypt, and Chaldea,
knelt fervently in adoration ; and where superstition
clothed all things with a wild and terrible gran-
deur, and rendered nature emblematic of the highest
spiritual truths.
Amid these relics of former magnificence, and
within the walls of these crumbling temples, are
H. G. Adams.
yet to be seen the sculptured symbols which em-
bodied the ideas of their daily faith. Dread and
mystical as many of these are, even when viewed in
the calm light of reason, there is yet a bewitching
poetry, and a sublimity of thought associated with
them, as startling and wonderful, as they are beau-
tiful and true. The history of the universe has been
written in living characters upon the obdurate granite
in which those mystic caves are hewn. The dawn of
creation is represented by a leaf divided into light
and darkness : when
The heavens and the earth
Rose out of chaos.
And the story of the ages has in like manner been
written in symbols of leaves and flowers.
Of the flowers consecrated to religious deities by
the symbol-worshippers of India and Egypt, none
occupy a more prominent position than the Lotos.
Its sacred leaf was the
Emblem and cradle of creative Night.
It was anciently revered in Egypt, as it is at this day
at Hindostan, Thibet, and Nepaul, where they
believe it was in the consecrated bosom of this plant
that Brahma was born, and on which Osiris delights
to float. Naturalists have differed in opinion
whether the celebrated Lotos was a hero, a flower, or
a tree. Some authors have affirmed that it was a
rough thorny shrub, the seeds of which were used
to make bread ; but the testimony of Herodotus,
that the lotos is a species of water-lily, which grows
in abundance in the Nile during the inundations,
is so very conclusive, that no other solution of the
question can be accepted. Herodotus bears testi-
mony to the high antiquity of the Egyptian venera-
tion for the lotos, and M. Savary assures us that
at the present day, the degenerate children of the
Nile are animated by the same feelings of worship
and veneration. It was called the " Lily of the
Nile," from its growing in abundance on the banks,
and in the marshes which form the delta of that river.
It is a stately and majestic plant, of the Nymphse
tribe, and rises about two feet above the water,
having a calyx like a large tulip, and diffusing an
odour like that of the lily. The wonderful physical
peculiarities in the growth of this plant, rendered it
an appropriate symbol in a worship of the most
degrading and immoral character.
The plant grows in the water, and the blossoms
are produced amongst its broad ovate leaves. In
the centre of the flower is formed the seed-vessel,
which is produced in the form of a bell or inverted
cone, and punctuated on the top with little cavities
or cells, in which the seeds grow. The seeds, when
ripe, are prevented from escaping, in consequence of
the orifices of the cells being too small, and so they
germinate in the places .where they ripen, and shoot
forth into new plants, until they acquire such a
degree of magnitude, as to burst the matrice open
and release themselves ; after which, like other
aquatic plants, they take root where the current
chances to deposit them. This apparently self-pro-
ductive plant became the symbol of the reproductive
power of all nature, and was worshipped as a symbol
of the All-Creative-Power, — the spirit which "moved
upon the face of the waters," and which gave life and
organization to matter. We find the same symbol
occurring in every part of the Northern hemisphere
where symbolic religion has prevailed. The sacred
images of the Tartars, Japanese, and Indians are
almost all represented as resting upon the lotos
leaves. The Chinese divinity, Puzza, is seated on a
lotos, and the Japanese God is represented sitting on
a water-lily. The flatterers of Adrian, emperor of
28
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Rome, after the death of his favourite Antinous,
endeavoured to persuade him that the young man
was metamorphosed into a lotos-flower ; but the
emperor created a temple to his memory, and wished
it to be believed that he had been changed into a
constellation. The plant is poetically described in
the Heltopades, as "The cooling flower, which is
oppressed by the appearance of day, and afraid of the
stars ; "* — in allusion to the circumstance of its
spreading its flowers only in the night. There is a
beautiful passage in the Sacontala in reference to the
palmistry of the Brahmin priests. " What ! " exclaims
a prophetic Brahmin, "the very palm of his hand
bears the mark of empire, and, while he thus eagerly
extends it, shows its lines of exquisite net-work, and
grows like a lotos expanded at early dawn, when the
ruddy splendour of its petals hides all other tints in
obscurity, "f
"This is the sublime, the hallowed symbol, that
eternally occurs in oriental mythology ; and in truth
not without substantial reason, for it is itself a lovely
prodigy ; it contains a treasure of physical instruction,
and affords to the enraptured botanist exhaustless
matter of amusement and contemplation. No
wonder, therefore, that the philosophizing sons of
Mizriam adorned their majestic structures with the
spreading tendrils of this vegetable, and made the
ample expanding vase that crowns its lofty stem, the
capital of the most beautiful columns."!
The onion was held in similar esteem as a religious
symbol in the mysterious solemnities and divinations
of the mythologies of Egypt and Hindostan. Mr.
Crauford has imagined that the delicate red veins and
fibres of the onion rendered it an object of venera-
tion, as symbolizing the blood, at the shedding of
which, the Hindoo shudders. But astronomy has
stamped celebrity on the onion ; for, on cutting
through it, there appears, beneath the external coat,
a succession of orbs, one within the other, in regular
order, after the manner of the revolving spheres.
We have the authority of Alexander, § [that the
onion was worshipped as a symbol of the planetary
universe by the astronomers of Chaldea, before it
was adopted by either Egypt or India. The Egyp-
tian veneration for plants and animals arose from
their symbolical representations of the benevolent
operations of Nature ; while there were some
which were held in abhorrence, from possessing
opposite symbolic meanings. Thus the onion, as a
symbol of the spheres, was held sacred to Osiris, — the
soul of the material universe, the energy that
generates and nourishes all things ; and to his con-
sort Isis, — the nurse and mother of the world, the
goddess of a thousand names, — the Infinite Myrio-
nyma.
Notwithstanding the extreme veneration for the
onion as a noble astronomical symbol, yet when a
more minute attention to its growth and cultivation
had taught that it flourished with the greatest vigour
when the moon was in the wane, the priests of Osiris
began to relax in their worship, and by the priests
of Diana, at Bubastio, it was held in abhorrence and
detestation. These floral symbols of the ancient
nations have elucidated some of the most difficult
questions concerning their history, and have made it
certain, that most of the Indian and Egyptian
customs originated in Chaldea, — that land of serene
and tranquil skies, where the observation of Nature
first grew into a science, and was cradled and
cherished in the earliest ages of the world.
* Heltopades, p. 282.
t Sacontala, p. 89.
J Maurice's Indian Antiquities, p. 527.
J Alexander ab Aleiandro, lib. vi. cap. 36.
UMBRELLAS.
THEY say you may know a man by the kind of dog ho
keeps, — the ninny keeps a poodle, the bold man a
mastiff, the elegant lady an Italian greyhound, and so
on. But in our opinion, umbrellas are a more certain
test, and a man may be known by his umbrella better
than by his dog.
Here is a smart dapper fellow, in kids and black
pants. See what a smart umbrella he carries, — so
tidily put together, its steel frame and ethereal silk
covering bringing it within the compass almost of a
walking-stick. The umbrella is quite in keeping with
the man.
But see ! Here is a fat umbrella of the old school ;
bulging out above and below, tied round the middle
by a band which holds its girth tightly together ; and
yet it seems struggling to get loose, and expand its
sturdy whalebone ribs. That is Biddy, the washer-
woman, on her way to the Great Exhibition ! The
squat, thick, fat umbrella, Biddy's Sunday friend for
so many long years, stands her friend still. Nobody
has stolen, for nobody has thought it worth while to
steal, her umbrella. She and it are safe.
Ah ! see that coy damsel, — you have just caught a
glimpse of a dimpled chin and a pair of rosy lips,
under the wings of her parapluie, — half parasol, half
umbrella. How you long to see a little more ! But
no ! she is past ; and the mouth and chin haunt you
for weeks, strangely associated with the smart
umbrella which shaded that lovely face.
The old gentleman carries a stout, strong silk
umbrella about with him in all weathers. The
shower never catches him napping. "A fine day,
sir!" "I never trust it," is his answer; "I'm to
too old a bird for that. See, there's a shower in :
the west ! " And in five minutes, sure enough, his
umbrella is up.
There are connoisseurs who go about scanning the
print-shop windows, and peering into them with '
their eye - glasses. They carry a sharp-pointed •
umbrella under their left arm. There is one before !
us. He leisurely saunters along, secure against rain !
or storm. Ha ! he has caught sight of a print-shop, [
and wheels round, his umbrella-point meeting an I
advancing passenger in the teeth. "Take care of
your umbrella, sir ! You have almost knocked my
teeth in." The connoisseur stammers, and begs
pardon ; but before he has reached the street-corner, !
his umbrella is under his arm again, and while he
peers into a window it is poking at the faces of the
passers-by behind him.
The man of business rarely carries an umbrella ; !
but when he does, it is like himself, — firm, solid, I
useful, and hard-working. The material is of alpaca I
or strong brown silk. The elderly lady sometimes !
startles the omnibus inside by the rustle of her wet
machine, as she presses in from the shower. She
soon clears a way for herself and umbrella, which,
though silken, inclines to be fat. A damp stranger
is anything but a luxury in a 'bus.
When a sudden shower falls, it is curious to watch
the unfolding of umbrellas. For one that is pre-
pared a dozen are not. Here is the test of the
cautious, foreseeing man. Umbrellas are a bore, it
is true, but the prudent fellow will rather be bored
than be wetted. The exquisite takes shelter in a
passage, where, to his infinite disgust, he must rub
shoulders with flunkeys, porters, and nursery-maids.
See what not carrying an umbrella has subjected
him to. Even the fair lady has to fly, — perhaps into
a cigar-shop, or under the portico of a gin-palace !
Her fragile parasol — her lavender-coloured zephyr, —
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
29
has no chance against Boreas, whose showers un-
happily are not of Eau-de-Cologne.
What a loose morality prevails on the subject of
umbrellas ! How ready everybody is to borrow, —
how oblivious in returning, umbrellas ! The friend
to whom you nod in the street, has been caught in
a shower, and though he has not before crossed your
door, he boldly ventures in to ask " the loan of an
umbrella." Of course you lend it, and of course your
gingham departs to that bourne, from whence no
umbrella returns. You cannot refuse an umbrella ;
is is only the hardest of the hard-hearted, who ever
dreams of such a thing. One who would instantly
refuse to lend a half-crown, hesitates not a moment
in lending the same individual an umbrella worth
! three times the money. But the umbrella once
borrowed, is gone ; possession of this article being
usually regarded, not only as nine, but ten points
of the law.
There is some talk just now of a community of
property. As regards umbrellas, we should say,
"by all means." Let these articles be provided out
j of a common fund, and as common property. As it
is, no man can call his umbrella his own. It is another
1 man's to-morrow, — no matter, though your name is on
the handle. Stealing umbrellas (not fat, but silken
ones) is so much the custom, that it is not considered
i any breach of the eighth commandment. It is followed
: as a kind of law of Natxire. A man who would
: shudder at the idea of taking your hat, seizes upon
your umbrella, and carries it off without compunc-
tion. Therefore, let us have a Community of
| Umbrellas, by way of a relief to the general con-
COOKING FOE A HUSBAND.
^ UMY dear," said Mr. Katzenstein, coming hur-
riedly in from his office. Mr. Katzenstein was
head-partner in a German firm, but had naturalized
as an Englishman, and married an English wife.
" My dear, here is an overpowering honour about to
fall upon us."
"Goodness, Edward, I hope it won't crush us ! "
" Nonsense, my dear ; listen to me. You know
— the great German poet, dear to all the hearts
of the Vaterlande." Mr. Katzenstein was becoming
enthusiastic. " Well, he is over, and I have been
introduced to him ; and he is coming to dine with us
to-day, to take pot-look, as the English call it."
* e — — t " oriorl IV'TVo T^n-f -rono-fain
cried Mrs. Katzenstein.
Before we go any further, we will invent a name
for our celebrity. If will never do to let the
Katzensteins keep calling him , and ,
during several hours' visit ; so if our readers please,
we will just dub him at once Blumenwald.
" Blumenwald ! Franz Blumenwald ! " cried Mrs.
Katzenstein. " What in the world shall we do with
him ? And coming to take pot-luck, too ! Oh !
Edward, you never played me a worse trick than
this."
" Never mind, my dear. Set Lily to work, and I
have no doubt all will go right. Have a nice little
dinner, — nothing ostentatious, mind ; and get up
some of that saur-kraut out of the cellar. He's a
trump at saur-kraut, I understand, — eats it at all hours
of the day. Meanwhile I will go and get a parcel of
good cigars."
So saying, the worthy man, — who was chiefly
noticeable for a pair of prominent blue eyes, and a
head too large for his body, — left the room, just as
his daughter Lily entered it.
"Lily, my love," exclaimed her maternal parent,
" here is a pretty to-do. Such a visitor ! You must
do your very best, Lily. We can't get fresh fish to-
day. A little good gravy-soup, and a couple of
fowls, wrth some of that nice ham, would do very
well."
" Yes, mamma."
" And, Lily, if you could just whip up a few of
those German creams, that your aunt Rosalie taught
you how to make when she was over "
"All shall be right, mamma."
"Mr. Blumenwald."
" Who, mamma ? " hastily inquired Lily, for the «
first time manifesting some interest in the expected
visitor.
" Franz Blumenwald, my dear, — the poet."
" Oh ! mamma, the great, grand Blumenwald."
Lily was a true German maiden of a certain type ;
fair, plump, large, outwardly phlegmatic, — except
when unusally excited, as on the present occasion, —
inwardly dreamy, enthusiastic, given to reveries and
transcendentalism. In countenance she resembled
her father, and yet few would have liked to say so ;
for his starting visual orbs were, in her face, trans-
formed into tender, floating organs, celestial as those
of a loving seraph ; and the only trace of his immense
head, visible in hers, was the broad placid forehead.
Then who would object to the slight over-fulness of
that bewitching mouth, revealing, as it did every
moment, the rows of pearls within ? In short, our
heroine was a lovely specimen of mild, gentle, peace-
ful womanhood ; and when her long golden tresses
were disposed in their most becoming form, she
might well have passed for a madonna of the old
Flemish masters.
With all Lily's romance, she had a fund of good
plain sense at bottom, that never suffered her to
neglect the duties of the hour. Upon^ leaving her
mother's presence on this eventful day, she gave one
short five minutes to the idea of the great personage
whom they were about to entertain, and then her
very delight spurred her on to hasten into the large
commodious kitchen, there to consult with the cook,
and afterwards personally superintend the prepara-
tions for their improvised dinner. Lily was attired
as every sensible housekeeper ought to be, when
attending to* her morning duties ; that is, she had on
a neat well-made printed dress, not too long, with
collar of snowy -white ; and her hair was nicely out of
the way. So there was nothing to hinder her setting
to work at once, while the cook stepped out to buy
the fowls, about a little scheme of her own, of which
we shall say nothing more at present.
Dear Lily ! It would have done your heart good to
see how tidily she moved about ; how she whipped
the creams, and flavoured the soup, and got out the
best china, and polished the decanters, and counted
the wine-glasses, tall and short, and fetched up from
the cellar the bitter ale, and porter, and wine,
taking care to select a couple of bottles of her father's
primest hock, for she knew well that the poet loved
this sparkling drink, she had read it in some of his
choicest lyrics. Nor was the saur-kraut forgotten,
though her mother had omitted to mention it in
her first directions ; and when that good lady called
to her daughter as she was passing the door of the
dining-room an hour before dinner, — "Lily, Lily, I
never told you get up the saur-kraut," she was
answered by a composed "Yes, mamma, it is all
ready in the large china dish." For Lily had turned
her reading to good account here again, and promptly
understood this second predilection of the great man.
It was half-past four o'clock, and all was ready.
The drawing-room looked pleasant, blight, warm,
English ; the lady of the house, handsome and
Bmiling, in her black satin gown, and French cap
30
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
trimmed with roses. Sweet Lily was attired as
became her comely gentleness, in a clear white
muslin, decorated with the palest pink ribands, her
shining hair falling in large soft curls over either
temple, and descending to her well-formed shoulders ;
her blue eyes lighted up with a mingled joy of
delight and expectation. The door-bell sounded a
peal, the tidy parlour-maid hastened to open it, the
quick, bustling step of Mr. Katzenstein ascended the
stairs, followed by a slow and stately footfall, and the
host and his guest entered.
It is the most difficult thing in the world to
imagine an individual's appearance from any descrip-
tion of his person, however elaborate. Hence we
are continually baffled, and all our ideas reversed,
upon an introduction to those whom we have hitherto
known only by report. Such was not exactly the case
with Lily Kafczenstein. She had met with a portrait
of the poet, in the frontispiece to a collection of his
poems, and it happened to be tolerably like. Yet
she was not prepared for the extreme majesty of his
lofty stature, for the clear penetrating glance of his
hazel eye, or the magnificence of the auburn locks
that curled and clustered around the high, pale brow,
marked by a prominent vein. What with her former
imaginations, her present impressions, and the im-
mense distance that she fancied must exist between a
simple maiden like herself and the colossal genius
before her, poor Lily was well-nigh overwhelmed ;
and when her father brought their distinguished
guest up to where she stood, trembling and shrinking
like a white rose in a cold blast, and the proud
glance of those hazel eyes rested for a moment on
her fair countenance, she would willingly have been
spared the introduction that followed. She was not,
however, called upon to say much ; a mutual bow,
and the poet turned away, and devoted himself to
her mother.
It was plain that Franz Blumenwald was not
particularly gallant ; nay, one would almost have
conjectured that he was wanting in a perception of
the beautiful, or how could he have so disdained the
drooping Lily, as not to cast another glance towards
her? But his very neglect gradually restored her
self-possession ; and she remained in a trance of
delight, listening to his brilliant conversation,^ he
flew from topic to topic, illustrating and idealizing all
by the light of his marvellous genius. And when,
dinner being announced, he offered his arm to her
mother and led her down stairs, the maiden's only
uneasy thought, as she followed with her father, was
as to whether the cook had thoroughly understood
her directions in regard of a certain dish.
" Take some saur-kraut ? " inquired Mr. Katzen-
stein, as the meal proceeded.
" Certainly." And the poet helped himself very
unpoetically, and devoured an immense plateful, — as
it were unconsciously. It was a weakness, a foible of
genius.
" My dear," said Mrs. Katzenstein to her daugh-
ter, who had not yet spoken a word beyond, "If you
please," and " Thank you,"— "My dear, what is this ?"
The servant had just uncovered a dish that had
not entered into Mrs. Katzenstein's calculations.
" I will trouble you," said the poet, sending up his
plate. "This dish," he remarked, "is endeared to
me by associations connected with a particular epoch
of my life. But I was not aware that this peculiar
preparation was known in England. I presume,
Mr. Katzenstein, that you have imported it."
"Not I, my dear Sir ; I do not meddle with those
matters. It must be Lily's fancy ; but where she got
the recipe, I cannot imagine."
This then was Lily's secret, she acknowledged the
fact by her sparkling eyes and heightened colour.
The poet looked at her, and for the first time a
gleam of admiration softened the piercing brightness
of his glance. Are then the greatest of men to be
influenced through so vulgar a medium as that of
the palate ?
However this may be, it is certain that the poet
forthwith condescended to bestow a portion of his
conversation upon our heroine, addressing her
directly from time to time, but seldom eliciting more
than a monosyllable. At length, apparently finding
it labour in vain, he desisted, but his eye frequently
travelled towards her ; and once their glances met,
and though Lily's eyelashes immediately descended
upon her cheek, she had read something in the bright
hazel orbs, that made her thrill all over.
The remainder of the visit passed as such visits
usually do, and Franz Blumenwald departed. It
was his intention to leave for the north, he had said
in the course of conversation, and another of those
singular glances had thrilled Lily's heart as he said
it. But she went quietly on with her crochet- work,
looking a very emblem of peace and innocence, until
discovering that a rosette was missing from the front
of her bodice, she bent down to search for it. It
was not to be found, and she resumed her employ-
ment. As the poet made his final bow, she dis-
covered an end of pink riband peeping from his
waistcoat pocket. Could it be ? An odd kind of
feeling prevented her from making the inquiry that
rose to her lips, and he was gone.
That evening, on returning to bed somewhat late,
Lily took from a private drawer the book in which
she recorded the events and reflections of each passing
day. We should like to persuade our young readers
to keep a diary. If a succession of such records
could be carefully and securely laid up during the
years of a long life, the owner would have a truer
estimate of the value of slight occurrences, would
acquire a clearer view of the minute hinges on
which turn the good or evil, the prosperity or
adversity, of our lives, than we can ever otherwise
expect to arrive at. And what novel could equal in
interest such a collection as this ? We all live novels,
did we but know it. But it is time to take a peep
at Lily's diary.
Seated at her dressing-table, her shining hair safe
in its embracing curl-papers, her white dressing-
gown falling around her like the robe of a glorified
saint, rapidly, and in some agitation, she wrote thus :
"Thursday, May 25th. What a poor trembling
fool I have been! He, the long-time idol of my
heart, he, unhoped for and unexpected, has been in
the same room, breathing the same atmosphere. I
have drunk in the fire of his Eloquence, have met the
glance of his piercing eye, have been spoken to bj ^
him, gently, condescendingly, and yet I have not had
a word to say in reply. What will he think of me ?
To-morrow I shall be forgotten, or remembered only
as the most sheepish and awkward girl he ever met
with. If I could but have spoken, have told him
that his poems : but it is all a vain dream. I
am evidently good for nothing but to cook ; the only
incense I can offer my idol is the steaming fumes of
savoury dishes. That he, the great, sublime genius,
would deign to look favourably upon such a one as I,
was the mere doting of a foolish brain, yet what did
that expression mean? And again, when he went
away.
" These geniuses are absent, just as people say.
My poor rosette, thou are little conscious of the
honour done thee ! He doubtless espied thee lying
on the floor, and forthwith, without a thought, cram-
med thee into his pocket.
" Weh mirl I could not even speak to him in his
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
own beloved language. Foolish Lily ! go drudging
on to old maidenhood ; cook, crochet, pay wearisome
j calls, dress, dance, sing, play, and draw, — thou hast
j missed the mate of thy heart.
" I wonder if the moon shines in at his window,
lighting up those sublime features, now wrapped in
placid slumber. I should like to gaze on him thus,
! he would no longer daunt me. "
While Lily was writing thus, by the light of a
waning taper, Franz Blumenwald sat in his apart -
i merit at the hotel, smoking a cigar : so continually
i opposed on this queer earth are fancies and realities.
\ Before Kim stood a bottle of some light wine, beside
t him pen, ink, and paper, and a pink satin bow. He
| rose from his chair, stirred the fire English fashion,
walked to his travelling desk, which leaned against a
chair, placed it on the table, and took from it a small
square book, in which he proceeded to write the
following record in his native language, which we
take the liberty of translating for the benefit of our
! readers.
" May 25th, 18 — . Some days form turning-points
; in our world-destinies. Fair, sublime, soft-floating
I maiden, whose transparent robes wave like wings
around thy majestic form, thou little suspectest that
j a heart is laid at thy feet, to raise into Elysium, or
I to trample the life-blood thereout. Never before met
I I with a silent woman. But this maiden dwells in a
perpetual tranquillity that is better than speech ;
I while her eye, love-laden, wafta a thousand tidings
to him that can understand.
"While her hand, white as a snow-flake, dispensed
the hospitalities of her father's table, methought my
lost and lovely Emilie sat beside me. It was again
the happy anniversary- day of our marriage, when my
adored wife smilingly placed my favourite dish before
me, and kissing my brow, said : — ' This from thy
Emilie's heart, my Franz.' We ever afterwards
called it the Herz-blumen ; and when my wife passed
into the eternal world, like a silvery mist fading
before the light of morning, I swore in my heart that
never more should it beat for any woman who came
not with the Herz-blumen. Yesterday I saw the
dish again for the first time ; and thou, white-floating
Lily, art my wife, if love of poet can win thee."
This may appear to be very fanciful and nonsen-
sical to our matter-of-fact English readers ; but if
they will take the trouble to look into any accredited
translation of German rhapsody, they will find
passages a thousand times more so. And whether
they like it or not, the fact of the diary stands there,
unalterable.
We know not how the poet commenced his
wooing. No doubt it would be like himself, — that is
to say, unlike .everybody else. Suffice it to say, that
he did not proceed to the north ; that he wrote to
delay his return home ; and that one fine day two
months afterwards, when I chanced to pop somewhat
unceremoniously into the Katzensteins' handsome
drawing-room, I found myself an unlooked-for
witness of an interesting family scene. Mr. Kat-
zen stein leant back in his easy chair, with a hand-
kerchief over his eyes. His wife, with more com-
posure, was extending her hand to the poet ; who,
with his arm round the waist of the fair and almost
fainting Lily, stood proudly upright, radiant with
liappiness and love. His hazel eye no longer shed
the icy beam that had somewhat displeased me when
I had been introduced to him a few weeks before. It
now floated in softened lustre ; and turning gently
towards the intruder, he quietly said : " Come for-
wards, my good sir. I beg to present my bride."
We suppose our readers are aware that with the
Germans, a woman is called a bride, immediately
upon her betrothal.
So the -fair Lily had fallen in with a husband to her
taste ; though we question if our young English ladies
would not have looked somewhat coolly upon a man
who could treat them so cavalierly on the first
meeting. Mais chacun a son gout. It is better than
being a slave before marriage and a tyrant after-
wards.
MARRIAGE.
Some marry for love, others wed for money ; some
to escape an uncomfortable home ; some to keep their
carriage ; some for rank ; and some from carelessness.
None of these are legitimate motives, — none of them
likely to produce happiness. But there is a feeling
which requires worth to satisfy it, and experience of
that worth to fix it, which is irrespective of age, or
time, or even sex, — which seeks for one love and
spirit for its minister, and only asks for one, — which
united Jonathan to David: "For Jonathan's soul
was knit unto the soul of David, and Jonathan loved
David as his own soul." Attachment, adhesiveness,
or affection, are the synonymous terms which describe
this feeling, and friendship is the result. Most men
have but few friends, many have none. Lord Byron
had but one, and he was a dog. Happy were we all
if, in choosing a partner for life, we were to take care
that, although there must be differences, there should
be no discrepancies ; although opinions might vary,
they should never clash ; that high pride should not
be united to the lowly in spirit, nor great purity to
the offensive or the vicious ; that mean selfishness
should never chain down into perpetual companion-
ship the generous and the just ; nor that the deceitful
and the false should destroy the happiness of the
noble and the true. Let not the quick unite himself
to the sulky or the dunce. Let not the delicate and
the pure defile itself by contact with the vulgar and
the gross ; and then, if care be taken by both, each
will come to each with an ability and a desire to com-
fort one another. The struggle of their lives will be
not only to be each other's help, but to rub off day
by day those" small differences of opinion and excres-
cences of habit which vitiate and wound, and keep
up festering sores, but which only require to be
frowned on, and they go. Such people may have no
honeymoon of joy, but, as life wears on, they will
assimilate more and more, both in appearance and in
mind. Uniting in one wish, one hope, one habit,
one fear, their faces will at length take on the leading
features of their minds, and they who met as strangers,
unlike as strangers are, will gradually acquire the
lineaments of each, from long community in taste and
feeling with each other, and exhibit a brother's and
sister's likeness, as they have long felt a brother's
and sister's love. Happy, thrice happy, husband and
wife, who grow into the likeness of each other ! they
married from a feeling which flies not away with youth,
but clings, like the ivy, more tenaciously in age ; and
when the bloom has left the cheek, and sweetness
gone from the lip, and time has written deep wrinkles
on the brow, affection will hobble in even before love
flies out of the window, hallow the hearthstone of the
leal and true, and make the last days of such a couple
happier than the first ! Love of home was given to
man that he might people the earth ; what else should
prevent continual irruptions of Vandals and of Goths
into the sunny climes of the laughing South ? what
should keep the Laplander content in his cave, or the
Goitre in his valley, but the same feeling which urges
the eagle to the mountain top, the lion to his den,
and the bird to her favourite bush ? Love of offspring
32
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
is more largely given where most needed. What
should prevent the she-bear, or ravenous wolf, from
eating their own cubs ? they starve, and the most
delicate morsels are within their reach ; and yet they
have a feeling stronger than hunger, objects more
dear than their own lives ; an affection which, more
unerring than reason, saves them who cannot save
themselves, and stamps a mother's love with more
than earthly holiness and power. What but this in-
duces the cannibal mother to spare her child in her
extremity, or the poor factory-woman to pluck the
half-tasted morsel from her own parched lips to give
it to her famishing child ? " Look at that poor idiot,"
said a poor woman at Stourport ; ' ' he can do nothing
but mischief. But for him, I could help my husband
to work, and add to his scanty means for the support
of our eight children. He is a sore trouble to me ;
but, somehow, he clings round my heart more than
all the other seven put together." And so it should
be. This is the test of true love ; it looks not to
merit, but to need. And the mother's heart is oft
the only asylum to which an erring son can fly ; the
only shelter that may succour or can save. — From a
Lecture by Mr. Rwniball before the Collegiate Institution,
Liverpool.
STAYS AND CORSETS.
Of all wicked fashions that of wearing tight corsets
is the most wicked. They not only interfere with the
free motions of the muscles, but they entirely alter
the shape of the body as it is designed by nature ;
squeeze the important organs contained in that part,
so as to impede their healthy action; and entail
misery and disease upon the unfortunate victim of
fashion. Did it end here the punishment would be
given to the party committing the wrong, but it is a
well known fact that the offspring suffers ; and it has
been remarked that they are as feeble in mind as they
are in body. The great men I have alluded to were
not the offspring of tight-laced mothers. Even beauty
of countenance is impaired, and in time destroyed, by
tight corsets. Those instruments of mischief wither
in the complexion the freshness of health, and substi-
tute for it the sallowness of disease ; on the spot
where the rose and the ruby had shed their lustre
they pour bile and sprinkle ashes. They do still
more ; they dapple the cheek with unsightly blotches,
convert its fine cuticle into, a motley scurf, blear the
eyes, discolour the teeth and destroy them by caries,
and tip the nose by cranberry red. That effects of
this description often result from gastric and hepatic
derangement every practitioner of medicine knows,
and it is a well-ascertained fact that such derangement
is produced by corsets. But tight stays make still
more fatal havoc of female beauty, by imprinting on
the countenance marks of the decay of mental beauty
— I mean deep and indelible lines of peevishness,
fretfulness, and ill-temper, the bitter result ofimpaired
health. Women bear fevers, consumption, fractures,
wounds, and other forms of injury, with a patience
and mildness which, if they do not improve her per-
sonal beauty, increase her loveliness, and add tenfold
to the sympathy and sorrow felt for her suffering ;
but dyspeptic affections, when brought on by wearing
corsets, are submitted to in a very different spirit,
and no complaints pour into the temper such acerbity
and bitterness as those of the digestive organs. I
should rejoice indeed if what I have here said may
have the effect of destroying the abominable pra.c-
tice which destroys health, peace, and loveliness.
Dr. Geo. Dwm.
POESY AND POETS.*
BY THE AUTHOR OF " SILENT LOVE."
O, POESY ! sweet manna of the mind !
Dropt down like dew in deserts ! — ever kind
And soothing distillation from above,
Thy voice is Music, and thy spirit, Love.
Essence of thought most pure — Nature's sweet voice —
Fond nurse of Truth, which makes the soul rejoice, —
Inspiring draught from youthful Hebe's urn,
0 ! let me fondly with thy fervour burn ;
Teach me thy mighty secrets to relate,
Make me intensely feel that thou art great.
Immortal gift, transcending worlds by far,
Before, and destined to outlive each star ;
Refining influence to mankind given,
As a foretaste of all-enduring heaven !
Through thee we truly see the beauteous spring, —
Through thee we hear the woodland minstrels sing, —
Through thee new light illuminates the eyes, —
Through thee we read the wonders of the skies, —
Through thee we feel aright for other's woes,
Thy tenderness such sympathy bestows ;
In hope or joy, despondency or grief,
Thou art the surest medium of relief.
For what is Poesy ? What can it be,
But a diffusion of the Deity !
No man can be a poet by desire, —
Deep in his soul must burn the sacred fire !
Soft in emotions, tender in his heart,
Warm in affection, unallied to art ;
Not the mere slave of searching for a rhyme
To make his subject-matter sweetly chime ;
But charged with fond idea 'yond controul,
That pours like living lava o'er his soul !
Whether in silent sorrow for the poor
That come in age and sickness to his door,
Or 'mid those scenes sublime where all is gay,
And sea and sunshine gambol on the way —
Whether in sacred fane, or festal hall,
Where beauty sits in splendour round the wall,
Or 'mid soft music's sweet, enticing swell,
Or sparkling lakes, where naiads seem to dwell ;
First let the spirit of the theme inspire
Before his living fingers touch the lyre ;
Then shall he pen enduring strains of love,
Such as the unseen angels may approve.
* We have been favoured with this poem by the corres-
pondent who presented us with Wilson's poem, published in
No. 112 of the Journal.
THINGS LOST FOR EVER.
Lost wealth may be restored by industry, — the
wreck of health regained by temperance, — forgotten
knowledge restored by study, — alienated friendship
smoothed into forgetfulness. — even forfeited reputa-
tion won by penitence and virtue. But who ever
looked upon his vanished hours, — recalled his slighted
years, — stamped them with wisdom, — or effaced from
heaven's record the fearful blot of wasted time ?"— *
Mrs. Sigourney.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLKS COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 133.]
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1851.
PRICE
AN OLD DOCTOR'S OPINION ON WOMAN'S
DRESS.
You ask me for my opinion on the subject of
practical reform in the dress of women. As I have a
habit of speaking out, you shall hear it roundly, and
at once. I here premise that I utterly disclaim any
admiration of the exaggerated and ridiculous cari-
catures exhibited on the stage and in our shop
windows, under the title of " Bloomer Costume ;"
such a theatrical style of attire is not to be desired,
nor would it be imitated by sensible women ; but a
modified phase of the proposed reform may be very
judiciously and becomingly substituted. I think
that the sooner an alteration and improvement
takes place in female attire, the better. I am
perfectly aware that vulgar ridicule and conceited
prejudice operate powerfully to prevent this being
effected, but we have so many instances on record
of beneficial discoveries and progressions being the
marked objects of scorn and deiision When first
discussed, that a reflective mind will not be dismayed
at the antagonism offered by impertinence or ignoraiice.
I think woman's dress, as at present arranged, is liable
to the objections of dirt, danger, discomfort, and
most certainly, despite its "Alexandrine length,"
indelicacy. Woman has two legs as well as man, and
it is essential to have them as closely and as separately
clothed to insure from cold and undue exposure.
I have seen accidents, when a woman might have
escaped without serious hurt, had not her instinctive
attention been given to replacing her deranged outer
garments, — she knew she was insecurely covered
below, and her anxiety to prevent further exposure
was the direct cause of mutilation of body, and often
loss of existence. Had she been accustomed to be
well cased in some sound material, she would have
been less fastidious about 'showing a leg for a few
minutes, and the preservation of limb and life greatly
facilitated thereby. I have lately had two female
patients, who fell while going up stairs, in consequence
of their skirts being too long to admit the possi-
bility of ascending without raising these ridiculous
petticoats with one hand. One lady, unfortunately,
had her first-born in her arms ; the child received a
severe concussion of the brain, and the mother
dislocated her wrist.
I have been called to attend many with rheumatic
affections oi the limbs, and internal diseases of the
lower organs, when, on inquiry, I have found the
patients either entirely without close-fitting habili-
ments, or wearing those of a flimsy and useless
quality, affording no protection whatever against
draught or damp. Now, if one of the two sexes must
needs go about the world in such an unguarded state
of body, I really think we men are most competent
to incur the risk attending it, for the higher and
more nervous organization of women renders it
doubly incumbent on them to be uniformly and care-
fully wrapped about the extremities.
In making good my charge of "dirt" the world
will admit the visible evidence afforded by trailing
skirts every dusty or rainy day. I am a tolerable
philosopher, and not easily disturbed by trifles, but
when I see expensive silks and satins go about doing
the work of crossing-sweepers' brooms, — when I see
several inches of rich dresses trailing through the
heterogeneous offensive gatherings of city-streets, —
when I see shoes and stockings one mass of mud, —
when I walk in a choking cloud of dust raised by the
fair beings around me,' — really my equanimity gets
slightly irritated, and I am inclined to apply a pair of
scissors to the " part affected ;" and here I can say
something of the indelicacy advanced. Women who
have a natural respect for common cleanliness, as
naturally endeavour to preserve their ^skirts from
contamination, and frequently on a rainy day I have
beheld ladies holding their dresses so high, that a
most unseemly display was the consequence. Poor
things ! they were perfectly innocent of the same
display, and only exercising a womanly desire to keep
" tidy ;" but I vow that I have witnessed indelicate
exhibitions, from attempts to keep long petticoats out
of the mud, that offended good taste and refined
feeling more than any reasonable adoption touching
Turkish trowsers could have done. I have seen women
get out of omnibuses on black, sloppy days, when
one of two results was impossible to avoid, — either
the drapery must serve as a mop to the steps, or
there must be a very uncertain degree of personal
exposure ; in the first case, there is spoliation of a
good dress and great annoyance to the wearer ; in
the latter, the unavoidable " indelicacy " is a subject
of grinning delight to any empty-headed " gent "
who may be passing. It is my opinion that a
woman's walking robe should be independent of
34
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
drenched flagstones and filthy puddles. She ought
to be able to walk without devoting her sole atten-
tion to the bottom of her dress. She ought to be
educated with less of false delicacy than to entertain
the notion that the supposed possession of locomotive
power above the ankle is " shocking," and "im-
proper." Heaven forbid that I should, in the most
remote matter, wish to neutralize the exquisite and
charming constituents of woman's real modesty. I
have seen too much of the holy worth and moral
strength attached to woman's conduct, to be able to
do otherwise than worship and respect the innate
principles which prompt such exemplification. I am
no raving enthusiast seeking to place man and
woman in false positions, but I am mentally con-
vinced that woman might be invested with a freer
and safer style of attire, without being disqualified
for any of her important relations, either as mother,
wife, daughter, sister, or citizen.
Now for the " discomfort ;" perhaps this would be
beat understood by adopting the practical advice of
an American lady to a young gentleman who con-
sidered his brains and whiskers competent to rule
the Solar system, "Just try long petticoats yourself in
muddy weather, and see how you like them." We have
little doubt that an hour's experience in the dabbling,
dirty, trailing garments would lessen the wonder that
sensible women should seek some style more pleasant
for " getting about " in. Fancy the bliss of walking
with draggling, heavy, mud-soaken petticoats flapping
against the ankles at every step ! Consider how
pleasant it is to have the feet thoroughly dredged
with dry foul dust on a hot dog-day ! Imagine the
freedom of running up stairs to the third floor with
a candlestick in one hand and some domestic luggage
in the other ! there is a constriction of limb and
action that makes the journey more difficult than a
round or two on the treadmill ; and then in the mazy
dance, what total impossibility of activity or healthy
freedom do long petticoats cause, when every partner
is likely to step on the hem and produce unlimited
rents ; what yards of damaged gossamer, and what
myriads of "undone gathers" I have observed and
pitied ! indeed, I am acquainted with a family of
three young ladies who regularly take needle and
thread to evening parties, for the express purpose
of "sewing each other up." Just cast your eye
round a room during the last "galop," and the
chances are that you will behold sufficient tattered
and pinned-up flounces to suggest the notion of a
genteel game at romps in Hag Fair.
I also believe that long petticoats afford a disgrace-
ful concealment to the feet of slovenly, lazy women,
and did we dare to inspect the state in which many
keep their "propelling members," we should find
trodden-down, slipshod, ragged shoes, and unmended,
dirty hose to a disreputable extent ; and this condi-
tion of the feet, and a yawning, half-undone row
of "hooka and eyes" down the back, are points
of personal neglect which always mark a slatternly
and not too really delicate woman. Men in daily life
are invariably neater and better equipped about the
feet than women ; but if women's garments were
short enough to be entirely out of the mud and dust,
and yet of a perfectly modest length, ladies would
soon be as particular about their shoes and boots as
they are now about their collars and cuffs.
During my visits to the Great Exhibition, I had
multifold opportunities of witnessing the absurd
extent to which the "fashion" of "long petticoats "
has been carried. I accidentally trod on the frail
muslin of a young lady, and the consequence was a
rent some half-yard in length. I apologized, but the
girl with frank sense replied, " Don't name it, sir ;
ladies wear their dresses go long, that it is impossible
to avoid treading on them." A little further on, I
observed the skirt of a lady in literal rags at the
bottom, — the lining had been pulled and torn into
small fragments, and fell beneath the dlk in dirty
shreds, affording a subject for laughter and contempt
to all around, until the gentleman with her begged
her to step aside and pin it up, if possible. I
happened to be leaving one day when it rained
heavily, and the distress of the well-dressed women
was pitiable. The bottoms of their dresses seemed
the great focus of anxiety, and no wonder. The
turning of skirts over shoulders, the tucking-up in all
manner of mysterious arrangements, and the general
venting of disgust at the abomination of "long
petticoats," assured me that women have a very keen
and impatient sense of the inconvenience inflicted
by them ; and really the odd and not very decorous
display of under-garments and limbs would have
been well obviated by a more rational style of
walking attire. And let us here say a word on the
extravagant outlay incurred by this wilful destruc-
tion of material.
I have ventured to remonstrate with my daughters
sometimes, when they requested a sum of money for
" new dresses," and observed that the dresses they
were condemning seemed very presentable. " Oh,
yes ! " was the reply, " they are very good, excepting
round the bottom, and they are not fit to be seen
there," and sure enough they convinced me of
the fact, by exhibiting a collection of soiled and
unseemly skirts that offended my vision most
sensibly, and a twenty-pound note left my pocket
while I poured somewhat fierce anathemas on "long
petticoats." I am as proud of seeing my wife and
daughters well dressed as any man, but I decidedly
object to giving half-a-guinea a yard for silk to sweep
the streets with. Thus, we see that "long petticoats
are alike objectionable either in the promenade or
polka, and ought to be discarded by rational women
as one of those excrescences of Fashion which so
often disfigure what Nature made perfect and beauti-
ful. I firmly believe that these ridiculously long
petticoats were first employed by some high-born
child of physical misfortune, who had swollen legs
or deformed feet transmitted with the same blood
that claimed a coronet, and thus were primitively
worn, on the same principle as the stiff, high,
abominable stocks exhibited by men some half
century since were, — that of hiding an offensive ugli-
ness ; but why the well-turned ankles and neat feet
of the majority of women should be shrouded in dirty
trolloping drapery, and why the want of healthy
liberty of action and personal comfort -should be
thrust on the whole sex on such a score, only the
obstinate and silly prejudice of Fashion can explain.
And now to a frightful source of evil, — the tight,
small waist, so much admired by those who dream not
of the mortal consequences attending it. A mass of
suffering and disease is attributable to this compres-
sion of the viscera which is truly deplorable. Few
out of the pale of physiological research 'and evidence,
have a notion of what " small waists " originate ; the
fashion is as unnatural as unartistic, and a painter
or sculptor would turn with pity and contempt from
the young lady whose waist can be almost spanned.
How can digestion and circulation possibly go on
with the ribs compressed into such a wasp-like
circumference as we are, daily forced to look on ? —
how can the spine retain its beautiful upright figure,
so warped and ill-treated as it is ? Can we believe
that God did his work so badly in the fairest
and most exquisite work of his creation, that buck-
ram and steel are needed to prop up "the house
of life ? " Did he mould the best of his creatures so
carelessly, that pinching in here and swelling out
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
35
there, are essential to render the " plastic, breathing
image " fit to enter a drawing-room ? What insolent
presumption is in the hand that seeks to improve the
upright beauty of the human being ! And does the
short-sighted mortal think that Nature will not have
her revenge for the insult thrust upon her ? Does
the woman imagine that the arteries, veins, stomach,
lungs, and heart, will do their proper duties under
such a grasping vice of artificial constraint ? Does
she think her progeny will be strong and healthy, as
if born of an untrammelled mother ? Surely, there is
need of reform in this error most peremptorily ; for if
the real amount of injury inflicted on the human
system, by means of stays, were exposed to the blind
victim's eyes, a woman would turn from " corsets "
as from a boa constrictor. I have three girls in my
family, but not one of them has ever been incarce-
rated in "stays." A substantial sort of close-fitting
vest is all I ever permitted them to wear, and I am
happy to say, that finer forms, or better constitutions,
cannot be produced ; their spines are as straight as
those of my boys, and had I a score of girls to bring
up, I would teach them to look on steel, whalebone,
and buckram, as so many means of suicide.
There is another condition of female dress which
deserves unmitigated censure ; I mean the mysterious
heap of either feathers, flannel, horse-hair, or wool,
which goes by the generic name of "bustle." I have
followed ladies who sported such an extreme redun-
dance in this department, that it at once appeared
laughably unnatural and grossly indelicate. Oh,
what a pity it is that woman is not able to appreciate
the natural and exquisite beauty of her form ! How
it is to be regretted, not only in a physical, but in an
artistic sense, that the pinches in here and piles up
there, regardless of the power and design of the
Creator ! Why will she insist on screwing in the ribs,
and thereby ruining one of the greatest beauties in the
human form ? — a flat, straight back. All grace ia
utterly negatived by the round, hunched-up shoulders
which too often mark the female figure, and which
are almost invariably the result of undue pressure on
the spinal muscles. I saw a young woman on horse-
back at Brighton, a few days since, whose waist was
a "mere nothing," — I looked at her with pity ; for
not only was she miserably sickly looking, but her
whole figure was angular and ugly to a painful
degree, and not a "line of beauty " presented itself
to the eye, despite her very taper waist. And now,
taking all things into consideration, do you not think,
my dear friend, that woman's dress might be improved ?
There is not the slightest occasion for women to be
dressed like men ; but I contend that flowing skirts
of reasonable length, with trowsers, full or otherwise,
to the ankle, would be infinitely superior in every
way to the nasty, uncomfortable, dirty, "long petti-
coats," now in vogue, most strenuously observing, at
the same time, that the body be habited loosely and
freely, and I am convinced this reform would afford
exhibitions of elegance far beyond anything the
present system can show.
There is another point of woman's " full " dress, or
rather "undress," which I cannot forbear touching
on. "Indelicacy" seems to be the great moral
statistic on which people dwell in this question of
robe reform. Now, it seems to me to be great
twaddle to discuss the gross indelicacy of showing
four inches of ankle and leg covered with some thick
material, while the bosoms of women are laid open to
the insolent and unhallowed gaze of every male
observer in " fashionable society." I have beheld
"conventional" and "authorized" displays in this
degree of Almack's "Bloomerism," which mortally
disgusted me. How do we reconcile this incongruity ?
I am an old man, a husband and a father, and could
say much on this view of the question, but shall
content myself with this advice to the "Women
of England,"— Cover your bosoms, and prove your
delicacy ; show a little more of your legs, and become
clean and comfortable.
As for the " indelicacy " of this reform, which is
so much talked of by some very "nice" people, I can
only say that I know the indelicacy lies rather in the
minds of the fastidious observers, than in the pro-
posed curtailing of street sweeping garments, and
every sensible man will readily admit that the proper
cleanliness, real modesty, and personal comfort, of
half the human creation would be greatly advanced
by the abolition of these "horrid long petticoats."
We never experience any great shock to our propriety
when we see tall stripling girls attired in "frocks and
trowsers," but rather admit that they are gracefully
and healthily dressed ; we never start at the sight of
a Turkish lady, nor deem her at all unsexed because
she displays a small portion of her legs in elegantly
arranged muslin or silk. Oh ! Fashion and Preju-
dice are a couple of jades, alike impudent and
obstinate. For many years these two jades kept
dear little infants muffled in "long petticoats/'
which were useless, expensive, and very incon-
venient. They wrapped the tiny head in close hot
caps, and insisted on many other things as foolish
and unhealthy ; but we have had a reform here, and
the sooner we have a reform among our loved and
highly-esteemed female scavengers, the better. As
for "wearing the breeches," " innovation of mascu-
line rights," and all that sort of nonsense, indulged
in at random by brains of a very limited or very
coarse order, I can only say, that I as much pity the
man who deems his manhood established by his sole
right to trowsers, as I do the woman who considers her
modesty based on a needless quarter of a yard of dirty,
dragging, cumbersome petticoat. Now you have my
honest Opinion on Woman's Dress, — use it as you will.
FLORAL SYMBOLS,
IN TWO PARTS.
PAKT II.
THE rose has been a symbolic flower in every age
of the world. It has been the universal symbol of
beauty and of love ; the half-expanded bud representing
the first dawn of the sublime passion, and the full-
blown flower being an emblem of the matured love,
which, when it ripens in the heart of a devoted
woman, gives her a nobility and grace only equalled by
the angels, and renders her sacred to ONE in fond
and constant attachment. It gives new life and
enchantment to her beauty, and sheds a heavenly
light upon the domestic hearth, and hallows all who
come within its influence. The rose is the delight
of the East, the eternal theme of the poet, and the
emblem of all virtue and loveliness. The Romans,
whose profuse use of flowers subjected them to the
reproofs of their philosophers, considered the rose as
an emblem of festivity. The Egyptians made it a
symbol of silence, and crowned Harpocrates with a
garland of its blossoms.
The classical story of the death of the beautiful
youth, Hyacinth, has rendered that flower an emblem
of grief. It is very probable, however, that the
hyacinth of the ancients was the red lily, called the
Martagon lily, or Turk's cap. Virgil describes the
flower as of a bright red colour, and as being marked
with the Greek exclamation of grief, AT, AI, and
which maybe faintly traced in the black marks of the
Turk's cap. Milton speaks of this as
That sanguine flower inscribed with woe,
30
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
and as there are no such marks upon the wood
hyacinth, that plant has been called ffyacinthus non
scriptus (not inscribed). The Eastern poets have
made the hyacinth subserve many poetical uses. By
Hafiz it was adopted as the symbol of elegance and
grace, and he delighted to compare his mistress's
hair to its blossoms ; hence the term, — hyacinthine
locks, which was originally an Oriental comparison.
The asphodel was also an emblem of sorrow, and the
Greeks used it at their funerals.
We cannot wonder that so fragrant and lovely a
plant as the myrtle should become a symbolical
teacher. It was most anciently the emblem of peace
and quietude, and gave a living freshness to the
annunciation of the angel mentioned by Zachariah,
who said, as he stood among the myrtle-trees, "We
have walked to and fro through the earth, and
behold, all the earth sitteth still and is at rest."
From being an emblem of peace, on account of its
quiet beauty and perfume, it afterwards became an
emblem of war, in consequence of the hardness of
its wood rendering it very suitable for warlike
intruments : —
The war from stubborn myrtlo shafts receives.
VIRGIL.
From the Supple nature of its branches, together
with the odour emitted by its leaves, it was largely
used for entwining into wreaths, garlands, and
crowns. These were worn at the Roman festivals,
and the myrtle-boughs were steeped in the wine, to
improve its flavour and fragrance ; and hence the
myrtle became a recognized emblem of festivity. By
the magistrates of Athens, it was worn as a symbol
of office. By the Greeks, it was dedicated to Venus,
either because it grows near the sea, whence she is
said to have arisen, or because the sweet and un-
fading nature of its foliage, made it a suitable tribute
to the goddess of beauty. The Greeks planted the
myrtle abundantly in those lovely groves which have
been so renowned in song, and where he who
wandered was greeted by such a succession of
delightful odours, that he might believe himself
transported to some sweet land of enchantment ;
where every breath was sacred to poetry and love.
The myrtle was sacred as a symbol of love and
beauty, and the first temple erected to Venus was
surrounded by a grove of myrtles. When the ancient
poets or painters represent Venus rising from the
ocean, they tell us that the Hours or Seasons, who
were the offspring of Jupiter and Themis, present
her with a scarf of many colours, and a garland of
myrtles. There is an old fable concerning Eratos-
tratus, who burned the famous temple of Diana at
Ephesus, on the same night as Alexander the Great
was born. He was a Naucratian merchant, and
during one of his voyages, there arose a terrible
storm. Fortunately, he had in his possession a small
statue of Venus, whose protection he immediately
implored. The goddess caused a prodigious number
of green myrtles to spring up in the ship, and of
these the sailors made garlands, and by wearing
them were saved. They arrived in safety at Nau-
cratis, the great commercial city of Egypt, and from
that period, the garlands of myrtle were called
Naucratites. By Papirius Cursor, who erected the
first sun-dial at Rome, the myrtle was made a symbol
of the Roman Empire ; and to make the idea more
capable of appreciation by the people, he planted two
F which party would
predominate or sink into imbecility, in the govern-
ment of the empire.
The floral symbols of Holy Writ are exceedingly
beautiful, and are frequently used to convey a divine
command in a poetical form ; and are usually remark-
able for their botanical coi'rectness. From the
circumstance of Elijah having been sheltered from the
persecutions of King Ahab by the juniper of the
mountains, that plant has become a symbol of
succour, or an asylum. Britain might well adopt
this as her national emblem, for truly, since the
stirring events in the various European states,
persons of all languages and creeds may say with the
Psalmist, — "Thou hast been a shelter for me, and a
strong tower from the enemy." The almond was a
symbol of haste and vigilance to the Hebrew poets,
— " What seest thou 1 " said the Lord to Jeremiah,
and he answered, — " I see a rod of an almond-tree.
Then, said the Lord, — Thou hast well seen ; for I
will hasten my word and will perform it." The
almond is a lovely plant, and puts forth its delicate
blushing flowers so quickly, and so much in advance
of other trees, and while its own branches are yet
leafless ; that its adoption as a symbol of haste is
very happy. With the Eastern poets it was a symbol
of hope, —
The hope, in dreams of a happier hour,
That alights on misery's brow,
Springs out of the silvery almond flower
That blooms on a leafless bough.
MOOKE.
But no floral symbol can equal in beauty or sacred-
ness the passion-flower. This lovely blossom is so
peculiar in construction, that when the Spanish
conquerors of the New World first met with it in
the woods, they gave it its name, and adopted it as an
emblem of the sufferings of Christ. The thread-like
stamens which surround the rays of the flower and
some other portions, suggested to their enthusiastic
imaginations the story of the Saviour's passion ! and
the sight of this wondrous symbol in a wilderness in
which they trod for the first time, seemed to them to
betoken conquest, riches, and power — to be achieved
under the sanction of religion. But they sought
rather to insure a temporal dominion, than to act in
obedience to that God who had planted flowers in
those solitary wilds ; and the very men who beheld
in the passion-flower an emblem of mercy and of love,
an emblem of faith in God and fellowship to man,
carried misery, malevolence, desolation, and death,
wherever they trod, and made their standard a signal
of blood, torture, and tyranny. Oh ! that iniquity
should ride rampant under the sacred banner of a
Christian faith, and sew the seeds of ruin and
degradation, while wearing an emblem of mercy and
gentleness upon its savage brow ! Oh ! let the
passion-flower be still an emblem for us, but let
it keep us in the fulfilment of the benign precepts
of the great teacher, whose suffering is symbolized in
the form of the flower, — that by contemplating it,
we may be raised in thankfulness to God, and learn
to recognize the great truth first taught by Him who
-Trod
The paths of sorrow, that we might find peace,
— that all men are brothers, and that to love each
other is our highest earthly mission !
The clover has been revered from the most remote
antiquity as a religious symbol. Its triple leaf
renders it adaptable to a multiplicity of ideas. The
Druids held it in high repute, both as a charm against
evil spirits, and for its supposed medicinal virtues.
They were very confident in its powers, because its
leaf represented the three departments of Nature,—
the earth, the sea, and the heaven. The legends of
Ireland tell how St. Patrick chose it as an emblem
of the Trinity, when engaged in converting the pagan
Irish, and hence the esteem in which it is held by the
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
S7
Irish people ; — for the shamrock is only the common
white, or Dutch clover (Tri folium repemfy. The
ancients represented Hope by a little child standing
on tiptoe, and holding a trefoil in his hand. Scarcely
any religious symbol has been so widely and
reverently regarded as such, as the aloe. Through-
out the East it is held in profound veneration. The
Mahometans, especially those who reside in Egypt,
regard it as a religious symbol of the most exalted
character. The Mussulman who has performed a
pilgrimage to the shrine at Mecca, ever after
considers himself entitled to the veneration of a
saint, and hangs the aloe over his door to signify his
religious purity, and to proclaim the great duty
which he has performed. It is also highly esteemed
as a charm against any malign genius, and no evil
spirit will pass a threshold where so holy a symbol
is suspended. The Jews at Cairo have a similar
belief, and suspend the aloe at their doors, to prevent
the intrusion of these dreaded influences. The
Mahometans, who plant their burial-places with
lovely shrubs and flowers, making even death look
beautiful and the graveyard a place filled with
promises of joy, plant the aloe at the extremity of
every grave, on a spot facing the epitaph ; and
Burckhardt tells us that they call it by the Arabic
name saber, signifying patience. The custom is a
holy one, for the plant is ever green, and so to those
who mourn for the loved ones whom they have
lost, it whispers patience, and is a living type of a
more peaceful world afar, where those who have
suffered here, and who have clung faithfully together,
will meet again in the pleasant land.
The Eastern poets usually make the aloe a symbol
of bitterness, doubtless in allusion to its association
with death, and to the bitter flavour of its juices.
"As aloe is to the body, so is affliction to the soul,
— bitter, very bitter." It is usually adopted as an
emblem of acute woe, of " Sorrow that locks up the
struggling heart."
The woful teris that their letin fal,
As bitter werin, out of teris kinde,
For paine, as is lique aloes, or gal.
CHAUCER.
The wormwood is also a symbol of bitterness. In the
modern Language of Flowers it represents absence.
Dr. Watts says, in his work on Logic, " Bitter is an
equivocal word ; there is bitter wormwood, there are
bitter words, there are bitter enemies, and a bitter
cold morning ;" and the absence of those we love is
also bitter, and may well be spoken by wormwood.
The rosemary has a similar meaning, and has become
a symbol of remembrance, from the old custom of
using it at funerals, and perhaps from its supposed
medical virtue of improving the memory. Shakspero
uses it as a symbol of remembrance : —
There's rosemary for you— that's for remembrance :
I pray you, love, remember,
said the sad Ophelia : so Perdita, in Winter's
Tale :—
[To Polixines and CamiUo.~\ You're welcome, sir !
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. — Reverend sirs,
For you there's rosemary, and rue ; these keep
Seeming, and savour, all the winter long :
Grace and remembrance, be to you both,
And welcome to our shearing !
Pol. Shepherdess,
(A fair one are you) well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.
It is perhaps the greatest evidence of the transcen-
dency of Shakspere's genius, that in the philosophy
of little things there is a stern regard to truth of
detail. Never does he mention an insect or a flower,
but it is in harmony with the season, place, and
moral of the event it serves to illustrate. His floral
symbols are especially beautiful, and when regarded
as emblems of the purpose of the dialogue, shed a
new light and beauty upon his sacred pages. In the
same scene as we have just quoted, he makes Perdita
give flowers to her visitors appropriate to, and
symbolical of, their various ages.
Here's flowers for you ;
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram ;
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,
And with him rises weeping : these are flowers
Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given
To men of middle age : •
******
Now, my fairest friend,
I would, I had some flowers o' the spring, that might
Become your time of day ; and yours, and yours ;
That wear upon your virgin branches yet.
******
Daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty : violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady
Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips, and
The crown-imperial ; lilies of all kinds,
The flour-de-lis being one !
But the most beautiful of Shakspere's floral symbols |
occur where poor Ophelia in her madness goes to
make " fantastic garlands "
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
which are all emblematical flowers, and tell a silent
tale of her broken heart. The first signifies fair
maid ; the second, stung to the quick ; the third, her
virgin bloom; the fourth, under the cold hand of
death ; and the whole, being wild flowers, might
denote the bewildered state of her faculties. No wreath
could have been chosen more emblematical of the
sorrows of this beautiful blossom, blighted by dis-
appointed love, and withered by filial sorrow.
We may learn much from this language of flowers.
The alphabet of Nature is rich in eloquent teachings,
and appropriate, though mute, — expressive of the
hopes and fears which dwell in eveiy human breast.
Yes, flowers are meet symbols of human feelings and
passions, and the sentiments and emotions which sway
and agitate the soul of man : —
Those token-flowers tell,
What words can ne'er express so well.
And so, too, might have sung the Israelite of old,
when wandering on the flowery banks of Jordan ; or
the Babylonian, when musing on the grassy borders
of the Euphrates ; or the swarthy son of Egypt, when
kneeling in worship beside the sacred waters of the
Nile. Flowers were the most prominent feature in
the symbolic languages of antiquity, and originated
in the true language of Nature, when the human
heart made its first utterances. And when flowers
were recognized as proofs and manifestations of
divine love, they immediately became living symbols
of human history, and foretokens of the events and
purposes which were locked up in the unborn ages,
and which were to be slowly unfolded to the human
family, as Time sailed and ages were developed. Let
them be symbolical to us in every place and season ;
and when Nature puts on her summer attire, and
in her thousand varieties of flowers shows us the
sweetest of her smiles, we may, through these silent
preachers of beauty and holiness, become partakers of
the joy which is wafted by the breezes of the morning.
If the typical resemblances of flowers moved the men
of old to veneration and worship, and kindled in
their hearts noble and god-like aspirations, it may
do the same for us, and teach us in the hour of
38
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
affliction, or in the exuberance of joy, still to look
up to
That God, who grows not old !
Who built the earth, and piled, from grassy vales,
The pillar-mountains to sustain yon roof,
Resplendent and serene j — who hung out lamps,
To cast their calm lights o'er the deep, when storms
Rise muttering ; — whose hand hath shed wild flowers
In clefts o' the rock, and clothed green knolls with grass
And clover, and sweet herbs, and honey-dews,
Shed in the starlight bells, where the brown bees
Draw sweets j— who filled the summer bush with birds
That sing the live-long day ;— that poured cool streams
To murmur 'neath dark willows ; — fills the air
With odorous breaths and puling music, like
The breath of June.
Athanase, by E. F. ROBERTS.
DUEHAM AND NEVILLE'S CKOSS.
I SHALL never forget my first sight of the city and
cathedral of Durham. It was in the days of the old
mail and heavy coaches, when passengers were glad to
be wheeled along at ten miles an hour, who now grumble
if carried at only double the speed by parliamentary
railway trains, and are scarcely to be satisfied with
anything short of express speed, or about a mile a
minute !
I had set out from Leeds by the " fast coach " on
the preceding night, — snatching occasional dozings
and snoozes, whilst I lea"nt against the huge pile of
trunks and bags of horse-corn (to dislodge which we
were shoved about at every stopping-place), when
the first grey of dawn streaked the distant east.
Shivering and yawning by turns, we rattled through
the streets of Darlington, — then a quiet Quaker town,
undisturbed by the snorting of steam horses, — and
again I dropped off into an uncomfortable slumber,
when I was suddenly wakened up by a passenger
beside me exclaiming to another, " There she is ! "
It was the cathedral of Durham just come into
sight. The sun had now risen above the horizon,
and was driving the light fleecy clouds before him up
the sky. We were running down the hill at a
slapping pace, past the Telegraph Inn, on the
Croxdale road, — a plantation ran along the valley on
the right, and beyond it swept the rive» Wear
through lovely meadows. But the grand feature of
the scene stood right before us, — the majestic
towers of the cathedral, whose eastern windows were
glittering in the light of the morning sun. The
round keep of the castle, too, and the pile of
buildings on the hill, stood up far above the mass of
the city, which looked mean and insignificant,
clustered beneath them. We drove through the
streets, — long, dirty, and narrow, — changed horses,
and were soon away again, down the narrow western
street leading out of the market-place, across Fram-
wellgate bridge, and there behind us, on the cr*est
of the hill, stood up the glory of Durham,— the hoary
and venerable cathedral of St. Cuthbert, and the
massive bastions and ramparts of its adjoining equally
ancient castle.
I have since visited Durham, and made a closer
acquaintance with its beautiful scenery ; and in
beauty and historic interest, I know of few places to
compare with it. It lies quite off the great high-
road of communication now. There are no mails,
nor heavy coaches, nor streams of traffic, passing
through it ; it is comparatively silent and deserted ;
its trade decays ; it is merely an old cathedral town, —
the capital of the county, it is true, but not to be
compared with Sunderland, Gateshead, or even
Stockton, Darlington, and South Shields, which are
much busier and wealthier places, and full of the
life, bustle, and enterprise, of which Durham seems
to be altogether deficient. Somehow, it has been
thrown out of the stream of railway traffic, whether
through the indifference of its citizens, or their hosti-
lity to railways (as was the case at Maidstone), we can-
not tell, but, certainly, Durham must go down, — except
as a resting-place for the antiquary, and as a resort
for the lover of picturesque scenery, — unless it can
recover its former position, and get placed on the
main line of passenger traffic, as before.
I do not know any cathedral to compare with
that of Durham for beauty of situation. It stands
on a lofty promontory, enclosed in one of the
windings of the river Tees, which quite sweeps
round its base, leaving only a narrow neck of land,
along the crest of which, seen at a distance from the
west, the main street of the city winds like a great
snake. The cathedral and castle stand aloft on the
crest of the hill/ and quite over-top every other build-
ing in the city ; and in whichever direction you stroll
out of Durham, you catch glimpses of the cathedral-
towers, through the green lanes, or across the bound-
ing green hills which surround it for miles, — north,
west, and south.
Then, how interesting is the place, from its
antiquity and its historical associations ! There
stands the castle of the Norman conqueror, and the
shrine of the celebrated Saint Cuthbert ! The place
has seen battles, stormings, and sieges, often and
again. The turbulent Scots have rushed against its
walls, and been dashed back. Wallace, imprisoned
there, escaped from it by night. The cathedral has
seen its reverses, too. Cromwell stabled his horses
there, and after the battle of Dunbar, he stowed
4,000 Scotch prisoners within it, who revenged
themselves for their durance, by defacing its decora-
tions and monuments. The great proportion of the
dwelling-houses of the city have unmistakeable
marks of age upon them. They are of all shapes, —
peaked in the roof, projecting in the gable, and
oddly constructed about the doors and windows.
The streets are all up and down hill, — are narrow
and winding, closely packed, and have an ancient
smell.
The place seems to have owed its importance in all
ages mainly to its patron saint. The hill on which
the cathedral stands, may have been a station of
some ancient British tribe, for its position must
always have pointed it out as a military post ; but
of that, history is silent. Not until the body of St.
Cuthbert, after long carrying about by the monks,
was deposited on the hill of Dunholme, did the place
become famous and sanctified. They were driven
from their fane at Lindisfarne by the pagan north-
men ; retreated, bearing the body of Cuthbert
always with them, into the loftiest of the Northum-
berland hills ; afterwards, wandered about from
place to place ; wherever the body rested for a time,
a church afterwards springing up, so that not
less than forty churches were erected on such sites,
and dedicated to the saint, — miraculously preserved
through many dangers, the body being on one
occasion (according to tradition) floated down the
Tweed in its stone coffin, from Melrose to Till-
mouth !
Still the monks travelled on, — bearing, with the
body of the saint, the head of St. Oswald, the stone
cross of St. Ethelwold; and many thigh-bones of
other departed Saxon saints. For forty years they
rested at Chester-le-street ; but thither, too, the
Danes penetrated, and the monks again set off in
their wanderings, and reached Eipon, where they [
rested for some months. Again they penetrated
northward, and reaching the thick forest of Dun-
holme, took up their permanent abode on the height,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
39
where the church and castle, and then the town,
became gradually erected, after the forest had been
sufficiently cut down to render the skirts of the hills
fit for habitation. Yet again, however, was St.
Cuthbert's body removed from its shrine, on the
occasion of William the Conqueror sending a strong
army into the north, to punish the rebellion of the
Saxon population. The monks took shelter in
Lindisfarne, but returned to Durham with their
treasure so soon as peace had been restored.
Saint Cuthbert was a saint of peculiar idiosyncracy
respecting women. In his more advanced years, he
could not bear the sight of them. In his younger
days, he had the reputation of being what is now
called "fast," but when converted, his aversion to
the sex became quite decided. He carried this to
such an excess, that he would not even allow a cow
to come near his sacred walls in Lindisfarne, because
" Where there is a cow there must be a ivoman, and
where there is a woman there must be mischief." To
get at a respectable distance from the sex, he retired
to one of the Fern Islands, opposite Bamboroug1!
Castle, where he worked numerous miracles. When
he heard of a wedding, he was in despair ; but when-
ever he heard of a woman dying, he had his convent
illuminated. His enmity to the sex did not cease
with his earthly existence. After he had died, and
his remains were enshrined in the cathedral at
Durham, a woman could not approach the place,
without the heels of the saint setting up a loud
kicking against the coffin ; so, at least, says
tradition I And no sooner did Bishop Hugh Pudsey
commence the erection of a chapel at the east end
of the cathedral, to be dedicated to the Virgin
Mary, — a woman, — than the good Saint Cuthbert at
once showed his displeasure, by causing great rents
in the building, on seeing which, it was forthwith
abandoned. Even as late as 1333, on the occasion of
Edward III. and his Queen Philippa resting for a
night at Durham, where they slept in the priory,
the saint in his coffin became riotous : the monks,
alarmed, ran to the royal pair, and the queen
had to rise in the middle of the night, and escape
from the sacred precincts in her nether garments I
Such was the extraordinary antipathy of the good
old saint to the dear delicious sex .
The shrine of Durham for many centuries enjoyed
the highest celebrity, and rich bequests of lands,
goods, money, and jewels, were constantly being
made to it ; so that, in course of time, it became
the richest of all the sees of England, and remains
so to this day. The monks, an old legend says,
" got the art of enslaving the devotion of princes to
their own private ends ;" they were constantly
telling the lords and great men of some new vision
of the saint, which showed that certain lands were to
be bequeathed to his shrine, and in one sweep, they
secured the whole lands lying between the Tyne and
the Tees, besides extensive lands in Northumberland,
Cumberland, and Yorkshire. The noble cathedral
gradually was reared, with its chapels and lofty
towers, — casting their long shadows across the hill
at sunset. The city grew up around its base and
along the hill-crest, and it became, in course of time,
one of the most important places in the north.
The sight of the cathedral pile from the palace-
yard is exceedingly grand. Thg style is Norman,
indicated by the round-headed windows, running
in tiers along the building, — some of them richly
ornamented with jagged archwork. It bears marks
of having been completed at various times, —
indeed, it was in course of erection during nearly the
entire of the thirteenth century. Yet the structui-e
forms a grand and harmonious whole, — quite unsur-
passed in England ; not so ornate as many, but more
imposing and complete, than most cathedral struc-
tures. And when you enter the body of the
building, you are struck with awe at the majestic
round pillars, — rising up from the ground like a
grove of solid oaks, and stretching out their branches
from side to side, enclosing over-head a vast extent
of fretted roof. Kohl, the German traveller, seems
to have been more struck by Durham Cathedral
than by any other which he saw in England, and
speaks of it with high praise in his travels in
this country.
But since Kohl visited Durham, it has undergone
many alterations and improvements. The heavy
screen in the entrance to the choir has been com-
pletely removed ; the organ has been placed in one of
the side aisles ; a rich ornamental screen of Caen
stone has been reared behind the high altar, which
has been entirely renovated ; and an exquisitely
carved group, in marble, of the Last Supper, after
the picture by Leonard! da Vinci, has been set
immediately over the communion table. The effect is
extremely fine ; and the gorgeous oriel window of
richly-stained glass, admits a stream of mellowed
light upon the imposing scene. The view from
under the western window, looking towards the
altar, along the whole length of the building, is
grand and striking, — simple, yet sublime.
I was present at the service on Easter Sunday,
and could not help being struck by the small number
of persons present on the occasion. Here was a
number of eminent clergymen, a complete choir of
singers, a service admirably performed to the accom-
paniment of a fine organ, in a church of venerable
antiquity and grandeur ; and yet there were few
persons present besides those who were paid for
coming. The dozen benches for "the people/' placed
under the central tower, were not half filled, and
those who occupied them seemed to be chiefly
strangers. The people of Durham were not there,
— they were in other places, perhaps in square brick
chapels, or in the fields, or sitting at home. How is
this ? A bishop with upwards of £20,000 a year, —
a dean, prebends, precentors, priests, well-appointed
and handsomely paid, — choral and anthem singing of
the best, — withal, a free admission to the public, and
the public not there ! — only the paid and the
curious, with a few university students, who are
obliged to attend. Was it thus in the times when
the magnificent cathedral was reared, and its
splendid possessions bequeathed to it ? Has the
religious, the devotional spirit, left us ; or have the
le at large grown tired of religious performances ?
lese are grave questions, however, which I do not
pretend to answer here.
In the afternoon, I walked over to Neville's
Cross, about a mile and a half west from the city,
beyond the Framwell-Gate Bridge. The road passes
between high green banks, in some places rugged
and steep, as if it had, at one time, formed the
stream of a mountain torrent. I reached the rude
stone cross erected to commemorate the great victory
obtained by the English army over the Scots in the
year 1346. It stands immediately behind the toll-
house, on a hillock of earth thrown up on the top of
the round hill, on which the press of the battle was
the thickest. Away to the west stretch the Eed
Hills, divided from this spot by a slight valley. To
the south, lies the beautiful valley of Auckland, in
which the English army, consisting chiefly of the
knighthood and archers of Durham and north York-
shire, assembled, prior to making their advance upon
the Scotch army. Over the round hill to the east,
the bold towers of the cathedral of Durham stand
grandly up into sight.
At the time when this battle took place, Edward III.
40
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
was in France. He had just fought the famous fight
of Crecy, and was now engaged in laying siege to
the fortress of Calais. The French king, to divert
the attention of his powerful foe, had urged the
Scotch king, then David Bruce, to invade England,
which he did at the head of a powerful army, — chiefly
mounted on Galloways, or small horses, little bigger
than Highland ponies. There were, however, thirty
thousand of these, and three thousand regular horse.
The Scotch king was at Bearpark, the country seat
of the Bishops of Durham, when he heard of the
rapid approach of a large army hastily summoned
together from the neighbouring districts, and headed
by Lords Neville, Percy, Hastings, Angus, and
Ross, supported by the Archbishops of York and
Canterbury, and the Bishop of Durham.
The English army occupied the crest of the hill, —
three thousand of their best archers lining the hedges
and ditches commanding the approach of the Scots,
who came on, confident of success, from the direction
of the Red Hills. As they advanced, the archers
poured in their volleys of arrows, and soon threw
the Scotch horsemen into confusion ; but they dashed
on, headed by their brave and impetuous king, and
reached the crown of the hill, where a tremendous and
bloody struggle took place. The Scots were totally
defeated ; their king, after desperate efforts of valour,
was taken prisoner, with three of his earls and forty-
nine of his barons and knights ; and the wreck of the
array retreated in confusion across the border,
wasting and burning as they went. The rude stone
structure now alone marks the spot. The fields are
smiling in peace. As I returned to the city,
hundreds of children were out on the green hills
rolling their pace eggs (for it was Pace Sunday), and
shouting with glee. From the cathedral tower, where
the monks had shaken out the folds of the holy
corporax cloth of Saint Cuthbert, and prayed for the
success of their army in battle, — from that tower
there now rung forth the chimes of the cathedral
bells, calling the unwilling people to church. How
different the aspect of the time at which the battle
of Neville's Cross was fought, compared with the
present ! No hostile Scots spread terror and devasta-
tion before them ; no gallant muster of nobles and
yeomen rush to the field to oppose them ; no warrior
bishops nor mitred abbots taking the field at the head
of their steel-clad warriors ; no monks telling their
beads in the cathedral chapels, nor pacing the
antique cloisters ! The times have changed, — peace
prevails ; industry extends in all directions ; colliery
engines on every side mark where a busy people has
settled down ; a steam whistle is heard from beyond
the hill, and the smoke of a distant railway train
shoots along the horizon.
ROSA AND ETTY.
ROSA was a careless, joyous girl of twenty ; uncon-
ventional, unartificial, and unconstrained by the no-
tions of the world's propriety, which have offered up
so many fine, natural spirits, upon the altar of artificial
politeness. Good-natured, open-hearted, frank, and
artless, merry as a Hebe, joyous and free as the winds
of heaven, and yet lovable, and kindly, and with
sympathy for the suffering pilgrims who journey alone
and uncared for, through the rough walks of the
world, no wonder that Rosa was beloved, and
gathered around her all that was worthy and good.
No wonder that she was the little heaven, where
were centred, the loves, the joys, the sorrows, hopes,
and fears of the family, whose every member looked
to Rosa — dear Rosa — as to the "hope sky" of their
happy home : and how well-worthy she was of this
adoration, with her kindly words and smiling glances
of encouragement ! And then there was another dear
one of the little circle, — sister Etty, with her calm,
peaceful glance, and beautiful, reposeful character,
and her gentle, subdued love for all worthy humanity.
They were sisters for each other and for all the world,
— concentrations of goodness and kindness seldom to
be met with in the walks of life. Now that the time-
threads of a long life, meandering in silver lines through
my hair, like tell-tales of the years that are past, pro-
claim me to be advancing to age, my enthusiasm will
not be ascribed to any other cause than that of a sage
love for the good ones of earth, and a wisdom-like
appreciation of the stars that sometimes shine with a
steady light in the broad sky of humanity, casting
around rays of brightness, that lead wanderers from
afar to cluster around, like child-satellites, unto the all
love spreading sun.
And so, Rosa was twenty, and Etty — nice little
sister Etty — was seventeen, and the years that were
gone seemed to smile upon them still. Such halcyon
remembrances there were, to bring back again those
joyous hour-filled years, and the rough old fellows —
wedded as they were to the grim and solemn past —
seemed to forget their sober characters, and to return
as young, and careless, and impudently merry as they
were in the duration of their lives, looking so unim-
peachably present, that one almost thought they were
existent ; roguish old fellows, how they did smile, to
be sure ! — and then, such scenes as they brought back
with them. Could we regret age, with these remem-
bances to warm and cheer the downward time of
life?
And Rosa had a merry brother, and another merry
brother, who both sparkled and scintillated like little
oft1- shoots of the sister star, and who continually joked
and made merry with the merry things of this world, 1
and were always ready to accompany their sister in
her mirthful moments, and to make the other sister,
Etty smile, and kiss them both when they became
silent ; — but the world is not always laughing, — youth
is not for ever youth, and so the years brought with
them a change, and Rosa— but I anticipate. — Retros-
pection.—
Frank rises an opposite character upon the scene — •
earnest, calm, studious, thoughtful Frank, with one
eye for earth, and another for the systems and changes,
and philosophies and religions, and wondrous parables
that ages upon ages have accumulated for the investi-
gation and resolution of the sages of the present, who,
with the earnestness and determination of devotion,
dedicate their lives to the enlightenment of their
fellows, and while they allow the voice of admiration
to fall upon their ears, and to be lost in the sounds of
rejoicing with which the future seems to resound
from a liberated and clear-seeing humanity, yet not
unregardingly do so, but gather fresh courage and
strength from the remembrance of the admiration the
world has given them, and look forward with purity
of thought, to the reward which awaits the conclusion
of their labours of enlightenment in another world.
Frank's youth was a struggle — a battle on the field
of principle — encompassed by the follies and trivialities
of the actions of a youth of degeneracy, and by the
want of companions and thoughtful minds to hold
communion with, and with whom to discuss the revela-
tions of the future and of the present, pregnant with
announcement of new systems, and new wonders,
and new doubts, cast upon the before-recognized
systems of the past.
And Frank's mother, with her pale, but holy and
thinking countenance, and the love with which she
appeared to regard her only boy, — how noble a cha-
racter she appeared ! how commanding, and yet how
dependent and gentle, when leaning upon the arm of
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
her son ! gathering strength, and a happy depen-
dency from the energy of her own formation, where,
leaning with gratitude and pride, she could exclaim
• — "And this is my work;" and the two, dependency
on each other, struggled through the cares and
troubles of life — never sad nor cast-down, but elevated
and unyielding in their battle of the good cause of
man'a self-inherent power of extrication, and of his
regeneration, through himself, of what is imperfect in
humanity.
Rosa and Frank were cousins, but had not met
for many years : they had sent, through their parents,
the greetings of one child to another, and laughed
and enjoyed the regards which they exchanged in thig
manner.
Time at length wrought a change, and it became
necessary for Frank and his mother to remove nearer
to their friends. Henceforth the families were inti-
mate, for each saw a something of communion, and
passing their time together, they exchanged thoughts
as they arose, and each imparted to the other some-
what of their own prevailing characteristics. Rosa
became more thoughtful, and Frank more merry —
but thoughtful still ; and Etty, impregnated with
philosophy and the grand mysteries of ancient my-
thology, looked particularly grave and observing, and
began to seriously wonder and examine, and sift from
the mists of tradition the factful occurrences of the
past, and deduced inferences therefrom bearing upon
the present, and some — alas that it should be said ! —
of such a mysterious nature, as seemed to signify the
impossibility of their bearing relation to anything
ancient or modern, and to claim their parentage of
her own already inventing brain.
And Etty — studious Etty — pored upon her books,
and Frank and Rosa studied another book ; and while
Etty philosophically made her observation upon the
printed tome, Rosa and Frank were observing and
studying the living, warm, and throbbing book of the
heart, whose every open page of clear and artless
sincerity became daily more delightfully visible —
such a clear, prominent, bold and vigorous, yet soft
and loving book. What a happy study for the young
warm natures of earth, and how clearly is known
its every page from the speaking index of the
face ! But Etty understood nothing of this : she was
progressing, and enlightening everybody with sage
remarks. She sometimes wondered at the want of
attention Frank and her sister evinced ; she was too
good to be indignant, so she ascribed it to their own
attention being engaged, and forgave them. Did
they need forgiveness ?
And presently Frank found another friend, of some
particular character, and of some particular individu-
ality— one of the many of the world who fill up the
blank spots in the crowd, and pass through life, look-
ing at everybody else, but seldom attracting notice
themselves. He attached himself to Frank ; he in-
vested Frank ; he surrounded — besieged him, until
finally thinking the combat rather undignified, and
likely to last a very long time, Frank made a merit
of necessity, and honourably capitulated ; but alas !
the capitulation was followed by a joint occupation, —
he must go where Frank went, — he must make friends
of Frank's friends, and at length he managed, by some
laughably surreptitious proceeding, to force Frank to
introduce him to his cousins, when — how happy
Frank was ! — he immediately saw something very
attractive in sister Etty, and incontinently pro-
claimed himself her devoted slave ; and Etty thought
he would be so useful to fetch books, and look out
words, and search for places on the maps ; and then,
as he was somewhat of an encyclopaedia, he was very
desirable as a work of reference, and indeed appeared
to be regarded in that light, and so Etty tolerated
him, for which he expressed himself grateful and
obedient, as in duty bound.
But how thoughtful Rosa became, to be sure ; and
how she would laugh merrily for a moment, and then,
suddenly and very unaccountably, cease, and look
quite grave again, to the wonderment and vast dis-
composure of Etty, who on such occasions demanded
if she were not ill, and made a multitude of what
Rosa thought, very silly and uncalled-for remarks.
What an incomprehensible creature Etty had become,
and how very awkward she was sometimes with her
notions of illness, and her unfeeling, but unconscious
particularity ! Frank's friend saw and comprehended
all this, and like a wise and considerate man, engaged
Etty in the delight of some controversy, and disputed
a point of no earthly importance, with great apparent
warmth and sincerity, but generally ended by giving
up the contest, which, as it had no significance, he
did not object to do.
One day Frank approached Rosa, and seating him-
self at her side, proceeded huskily to descant upon a
painting which she had that day finished, making
some frightfully ridiculous remarks upon the shading
and colouring, which, if the picture had been all he
said it was, would indeed have been a curiosity in the
pictorial world. Rosa endeavoured to relieve him,
and spoke huskily too — so huskily, indeed, that Etty
looked up, and remarked they were — impudent Etty !
— croaking like two frogs upon a fine evening, and
she supposed they had caught cold the day before,
when upon a pic-nic in the country ; and then she
looked down, and went on with her book again ; and
Frank presently gathered courage, and tremblingly told
Rosa how she had gained upon him day by day, and
how at length he came to love her for her friendly heart,
and warm, sunny nature, and that now his happiness,
and his mother's too, depended upon her consent ;
and Rosa candidly confessed a similar feeling, and
the two opened their full hearts and sealed their
young affection with a half-sly kiss, and Etty — awk-
ward Etty — looked up at the moment, propounding
the question, " Do you not think that the wonderful
mysteries which envelope" — and then she came to a
dead pause, with much astonishment depicted on her
countenance, and Frank confusedly replied to the half
question, that he really could not say, and Rosa, for her
part, did not know, and Etty said she supposed they
did not, and, very majestically, and with a look of
deep pity, left the room — considerate "Etty ! And
Rosa's brother smiled, and Frank's mother smiled,
and Frank's friend congratulated, and Etty supposed
she ought to congratulate too, and said something
about happiness, and Plato, and ancient marriage
customs ; and Frank's friend said to Etty, afterwards,
rather tremblingly, that she ought to think of marry-
ing, and Etty laughed very heartily at the ridiculous
notion, and quite discouraged him from all attempts
for the present, and so they settled down with a
perfect friendship, cemented by mutual esteem and
regard, and were continually doing good, and seemed
to gather as much happiness as is ordinarily the lot
of mortals.
Frank and Rosa were happy — veiy happy — and
began to look forward to the time of their marriage ;
but the call of a nobler humanity intervened, and the
marriage was indefinitely postponed. —
Frank's college friend's little daughter, — Laura, —
a little rose-bud, shone upon by the morning, sun,
and raising its beautiful head to the heaven that
smiled upon it; and so the little fragrant rose had
appeared before the father's heart, and so the warm
sun of a father's love had cheered the little blossom,
and made it turn towards the giver of its young,
tender life.
Confiding and trustful, and full — so very full— of
42
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
affection, the little heart almost broke under the
misfortune of a father's death, and a father's loss.
The sun warmed it not, the heavens smiled not upon
it, and it grew desolate, and very cold and cheerless, —
so cheerless, that it looked into the wide waste of the
world, and saw no one to people it with bright love-
ful images again ; and it turned to the void, and would
have given it a cold embrace, and a sad and mournful
welcome, had not the giant-spirit of goodness raised
up the more than friend that was to redeem the
fluttering trembler from its sad solitariness, and take
it into another warm, throbbing, and kindly bosom,
and there to nestle it, and to cheer and nourish it
into a worthy and beautiful life ; and so the young
heart is full again, and has the mournful consolation
of clinging to the breast of its father's friend, and
nourishes the love so necessary to warm and cheer,
and make it a worthy part of the great heart of
humanity. And Frank's mother received her with
open arms, and kissed her thoughtful brow, and bade
her welcome to her future home and her new-found
parents. It was the evening of her arrival, and Frank
had been called from the room upon important busi-
ness. He returned with a knit brow, and firm, but
pale countenance. No more transpired that evening,
but on the following day he told his mother that they
were almost ruined — his banker having failed, and
there not being a dividend of one shilling in the
pound for the creditors ; but Frank resolved to main-
tain the young orphan, and to give up the greatest
happiness that could have been conferred upon him,
at least for the present.
He wrote to Rosa, and told her of the alteration in
his circumstances, and that he felt it a sacred duty to
support Laura. He told her, that for that purpose he
must give up, for the present, all thoughts of marriage,
however much it pained him, and entreated her to
forgive him for having gained her affection, but to
perhaps embitter and to make unhappy the re-
mainder of her life. He would not ask her to wait,
trusting to the future, for that would be a crime.
And Rosa, sad and tearful at heart, could but
approve of so noble a resolution, and wrote and told
Frank that her love was still his, and that she now
loved him more than ever dearly for his goodness ;
and so, they arranged not to meet until time had
accustomed them to look upon events calmly and
clearly, and to hope against hope in the occurrences
of futurity.
Laura was thirteen, and had never known or seen
her mother's smile ; she had been essentially the only
comfort of her father's home, and he had been the
only one whom she loved. They were poor, and
Laura was educated at home, and by her father, and
acquired more than the ordinary education of general
women. She learned to think deeply, and to trace
events to their causes, — the wonders apparent, to the
greater wonders invisible, and to ponder the plan of
the visible creation, and the unknown power of its
Creator, as evinced in material things. Laura under-
stood the sacrifice that had been made for her happi-
ness and support ; she could see, though untold, that
this was a great suffering, although it was borne by her
preserver with a calm and dignified energy ; she saw
that Frank laboured almost night and day, and know-
ing that he was not rich, foresaw the barrier that had
been raised to his marriage, by her father's having
dedicated, as a last trust, his only child to the care of
his only true friend. Frank accepted the gift, and
loved it. He gained the confidence of the young and
trusting girl, and foresaw a joyous future in her
perfect development, and a great duty in the guid-
ance of the affectionate nature confided to him, and
in the proper direction of the talents and powers with
which she was evidently strongly gifted. In fulfil-
ment of their mutual wishes, he withdrew himself
from Rosa, that he might not tax their dear-bought
resolution too heavily, and in order to devote the
whole of his time to his adopted daughter. Shortly,
the three retired to a cottage, situated in a seques-
tered valley of the country, and there entered the
one upon what he conceived to be a duty of principle,
no less than a duty of love, and the other to repay,
by her devotion and study to please ; the great sacri-
fice which her new-found parent had so nobly made.
Five years have passed. Rosa and Frank have often
met lately, and they both love Laura, who has now
dawned into womanhood, and has a mind stored with
knowledge, and a fancy vivid, graphic, and at the
same time solid and discerning. She grasps great
ideas with energy and decision, and turns them into
bold living thought, welding with an iron hand all
into one strong and tensive focus, bearing clearly and
vividly upon the point she desires to illustrate. Her
first book has been published, and she is prepared to
present it to Frank, who does not even know of its
publication, but to whom, as a dear parent, it is dedi-
cated. Frank's mother has seen, encouraged, and
upheld Laura in her exertions, and stands with an
anxious face, regarding her, as she tremblingly, but
with a loving smile, advances to present her book to
Frank : she places it in his hands, and at length he
understands — he reads the Dedication, and his tears
fall upon Laura's uplifted brow, as he presses her
forehead with his pale lips, and thanks heaven for
the reward it has vouchsafed in his noble child, and
Rosa presses her to her breast, and sheds many tears,
for theirs has been a worthy sacrifice, and has given
rise to a great end and a great nature.
And Laura pulls forth her stored treasures, that
she has earned from time to time by contributing to
various papers, and tells them joyfully, that she can
now more than support herself. And she joins their
hands, and tearfully bids them be happy, and love
her still as they have always done.
And Etty — philosophic Etty — forgets her philo-
sophy, and laughs and cries by turns, and they all
smile and are happy, and whisper that Etty will not
refuse Frank's pertinacious friend, who has, after all,
turned out a clever and noble fellow, if he ever pop
the momentous question again, which it seems pro-
bable he will do, as he periodically has done so for
these last five years.
It may be said of Laura, that she had found the
world great and good, and that, supported from on
high, she had laboured and striven till success crowned
her efforts ; that she went through life, gathering the
world's best gifts around her, till the inestimable
wealth of knowledge was hers, and until the soul-light
gleamed upon the path she trod, and made it clear
before her steps.
OUR AUTUMN TRIP THROUGH MUNSTER.
TRIP TO COVE. — OLD THINGS TO NEW USES. — CLOTNE.
— THE EMIGRATION TIDE. — ROUND TOWER. — CLOYNE
CAVES. — THE PEASANTRY.
A CHEAP Sunday trip to Cove, Aghada, and Carri-
ghaline, again attracted us down the Bay of Cork.
The packet was crowded with well-dressed people, —
Cork tradesmen and mechanics, and numerous
strangers of both sexes. The day was beautiful, and
the scenery even more charming than when seen by
the mellow light of evening. The bright sun
brought out the brilliant green which fringed the
margin of the beautiful bay ; and it lit up the snug
villas and homesteads which extended on both sides
down towards the Cove. The sail was delightful,
past Blackrock, past Passage, past Monkstowh, a
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
43
snug little watering place, perched under a lofty
cliff, and commanding beautiful views of the islet-
studded bay towards the south. Then the steamer
sped along Hawlbowline Island, then Spike Island,
lying there like great ships of the line, and studded
with fortifications. Opposite these, on our left,
looking down the famous roadstead of Cove Harbour,
— affording the most capacious and secure anchorage
in Great Britain, — is the town of Cove, now termed
Queenstown, in honour of the visit of Victoria a few
years ago. In the same way, the Irish, who seem
to be a very loyal people, changed the name of
Duulearey, on the east coast, to Kingstown, in honour
of the visit of that model of a king, George the
Fourth ! Queenstown is a pretty little place, lying
along the steep side of a hill, the houses rising in
terraces, one over another, somewhat in the form, of
an amphitheatre. The view of the bay and its nume-
rous islands from the upper level, is remarkably grand.
At the landing-place, there is a very ingenious
illustration of the manner in which old things are
put to new and original uses in Ireland. Not to
speak of the wonderful style of patching up old
clothes, or of the old bottle doing duty as candlestick,
and the old shirt as a stop -gap in a broken pane, —
expedients adopted elsewhere, — there is certainly an
originality and an ingeniousness in the adaptation of
old things to new purposes here, greater than is to be
observed in any other country. Thus, you will see
an old chaise used as a summerhouse, a chair leg or a
broom-stick propping up a window-frame (for pulleys
and leads seem little used), an old castle used as a cow-
house ; and here at Queenstown there was an old
vessel, which seemed to have been drifted up against
the pier and stuck there ; but some ingenious
carpenter had sawn a deep passage or gullet through
its timbers, and planted steps therein, so that the
old battered ship did the duty of a landing-place
remarkably well.
The steamer, after taking up and setting down
passengers at Queenstown, sailed across the bay,
through a fleet of foreign ships, from all countries,
chiefly laden with corn, and waiting there for instruc-
tions as to their final destination ; and in a few
minutes, we reached the rude pier of the little village
of Aghada. Here cars and coaches were in waiting,
and they were soon filled with passengers.
" How far do you go ? "
" To Cloyne, your honour," answered the carman.
"Cloyne!" said my uncle. "I know that word.
Cloyne ? I remember ! The Bishop of Cloyne. The
great Berkeley once lived there. Let us go see the
place, by all means."
So we mounted forthwith one of the country cars,
which are so contrived as to stow away an almost
illimitable number, alongside, in front, and in the
well in the centre. One comfort is this, that the
vehicle can scarcely upset, and if you do fall off, you
cannot fall far. So away we went at a dashing pace,
seated beside the driver.
The country hereabout is rich and fertile. Some
of the best land in Ireland lies in the peninsula in the
centre of which Cloyne is seated. Yet there were
here and there large fields which seemed to be under
no cultivation whatever, and what was a worse
feature still, many huts which seemed only recently
to have been unroofed. Comparatively few inhabited
dwellings, and even those wretched ones for the most
part, were to be seen.
"A rich country," observed my uncle, to the
driver.
" Ay, your honour, rich enough, but a poor people ;
though this is a good part of the counthry, too.
Some fine land there as ever grew praties. But the
blight 's on them, as you may see."
" True, they seem quite gone. Have many
people emigrated from hereabout ? I see many huts
pulled down."
"Emigrated? Ay, a power, sir. Every day, they
are leaving the counthry. Hundreds have gone, and
their friends are going after them."
" But some of the people must be doing well here, —
yourself, for instance ? "
" Troth, no, your honour, I go in the spring. A
sister of mine has twice sent me home three pounds,
and I shall be able to go in less than six months."
"A sister ! then she is helping you to emi-
grate ? "
" Oh, yes, sir ; we all help each other to get there.
The girl 's been only a twelvemonth out, in service
at Boston, and she has sent home every penny of
her spare earnings. We shall all go, — nothing 'ud
keep us in Ireland now, not even betther times than
ever we seen afore."
" And what's to become of the country ? "
" Why to tell you the truth, it's all going to the
bad. The rents are too high intirely, and the land 's
eaten up with poor-rates."
"But, there now, look to that field there, — it
seems to have more weeds than corn. There would
seem to be a profit in that waste ; if the weeds were
taken out, the crops would be all the heavier and
more remunerative."
" It's little your honour knows then of the land-
lords' ways of doin' hereabout. Let a poor man
make the best of his land, and the landlord is at
once down upon him for a higher rent. If the farmer
don't pay, he is turned out to make room for
another. There must be a Tenant Right for the poor
man. But it may be too late. The people will soon
have all gone, and there will be no tenants left. So
the landlords will have it their own way, bad scran
to them ! "
Here was a popular account of the state of the
Irish peasantry, which I afterwards found confirmed
by many other witnesses. I have also heard a landlord's
view of the case, which -differs in many essential
particulars, but that I shall come to in its place.
The village of Cloyne was now reached, consisting
of a long street of cottages, with a short street
running at right angles with the main one, and
leading down to the old church and the round tower,
which is separated from the church by the high road.
The car-driver gave an account of the erection of the
Round Tower, which I have not found confirmed by
any learned writer on the subject.
" Who built that Round Tower ? " I asked of him,
when the tall pillar came into sight.
"Why," said he, "they say that tower was built
by Saint Colman in the coorse of a single night."
" And for what purpose ? "
" I can't tell that," was his reply; "but I suppose
for his own honour and glory."
And even the most learned antiquarians cannot
with certainty tell us much more of these singular
structures. Their origin is lost in a remote anti-
quity, and the builders of them have left no record
of their uses.
We ascended the Cloyne Tower, which is one of
the very few in Ireland now actually used as the
church belfry, the purpose for which, as the learned
Petrie says, they were originally erected. Others,
who regard . them as something much more wonder-
ful, insist that they were erected for the purposes
of Sun Worship, and that they were the temples of
the old idolaters of Ireland, — the worshippers of Baal.
However this may be, the Round Tower of Cloyne is
a belfry now, and it answers the purpose exceedingly
well. We mounted the wooden staircase, and from
the summit, 105 feet above the level of the ground,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
obtained a delightful view of the rich valley, extending
east and west from Cloyne.
"I have a notion," said my uncle, "about the
origin of these towers. In my opinion, they have
been erected by the old worshippers of the country,
and were kept up as rival temples, as a kind of
opposition shops, wherever Christian churches were
erected. Temples such as these are found in Persia
and Thibet, and there are several of them in Scotland,
I believe."
"Is it not more probable," I asked, "that they
existed long before Christianity, and that when the
new religion planted itself in Ireland, it availed
itself of these old structures, and thus sought its
way towards popular acceptance, by adopting the
sites already regarded as sacred by the people of the
country ? "
" It may be ; but after all, the origin and purpose
of these erections must ever remain a puzzle for the
learned. And so let us leave them ! "
When we descended from the Tower, we found
congregated at the outer gate a convoy of ragged
lads, ready to "show us the caves." "Whereabouts
are they ? " " Down here, your honour, not a
minute's walk off." So to the caves we went, past
the high wall of Bishop Berkeley's favourite orchard,
and over the low stone wall with which Dr. Bennett
surrounded what he called his " rock shrubbery."
We vaulted over the wall, and about a hundred yards
within the field reached the principal entrance to the
caves. From these, it is supposed Cloyne derives its
name, — Cluain being the Irish name for a cave. By
a narrow opening, we descended into the earth, and
found ourselves in a vault of limestone rock, stalactites
of marvellous shapes descending from the roof in all
directions. The shouts of the ragged lads who had
preceded us, resounded from the far-off caverns of
the place. They are said to reach in all directions to
a great extent, and a little boy told a story of how
" two sogers, in the rebellion, once went into the
caves, tying a string to a tree outside, to direct them
back ;»but that the string broke, or somebody cut it
(and here the lad gave a snigger), so they never could
find their way out of the turnings and twistings in
the caves, and they were lost for ever intirely ! "
Returning into the village, we found the long
street full of peasants,— men and women, — in their
blue great coats and hooded cloaks, the Catholic
chapel having just dispersed. We saw the "church "
also empty itself of some half-dozen well-dressed
people, showing that their church was not the
popular church. Indeed, there did not seem to be a
single Irish peasant in that congregation. Here they
are all Catholics, and belong to the . " rale ould
religion, as they call it."
I have rarely seen a finer set of peasants than
were assembled in the streets of Cloyne that
Sunday. I do not pretend to discuss the question of
race here; but to a certainty, these people are
altogether unlike the peasantry of England, or
indeed of the northern and eastern parts of Ireland
itself. In Leinster, Ulster, and even in Connaught,
you will find many fair people, red-haired, brown, or
flaxen, with blue eyes ; but here in Cloyne, the men
and women were all dark, some swarthy, many even
dusky, as you observe among the warm people of the
South of Europe. Such beautiful women ! with
lustrous black eyes, finely arched eyebrows, long
pencilled eyelashes, and hair black as the raven's
wing. There is a grandness of gait, too, about these
peasant girls, a freedom and ease, a dignified grace
and witchery of manner, even though they be but
peasant girls, which is infinitely fascinating. The
peasant men were fine-looking fellows, too, very-
swarthy and dark. There was an air of comfort and
respectability about them, greater than I had yet seen
in any other district, and on the whole, there was a
comparatively smaller sprinkling of beggars, though no
Irish village, not even Cloyne, can be said to be free
of such. I may further remark, that in the general
expression of face among these peasants, there was
something solemn and sad looking. There was not
the reckless fun and apparent freedom from all care
of the ordinary Irish peasant. A heavy shadow
seemed to lie on their face, and to be its habitual
expression. My uncle, who has travelled much
abroad, declared that those peasants reminded him
strongly of the noble peasants of Spain, and now
that he had seen them, he was disposed to believe
the tradition which imputed the early colonization of
Ireland to Phoenicia and Iberia. The language of the
peasantry hereabout, and indeed nearly all over
Munster, is Irish, or Celtic ; and though most of
them know English, they speak it in a halting and
imperfect manner, as if it were a foreign tongue
to them.
The long cloaks of the women, and the great coats
of the men, which they wear alike in summer and
winter, were as common in many districts of Ireland
three hundred years ago, as they are now. Edmund
Spenser, the poet, refers to the dress at some length
in his View of the State of Ireland, published in
1596 ; and he saw in the mantle a garment descended
from a very remote antiquity. With most of the wo-
men, it is the principal article of their wardrobe, and it
must be confessed that they wear it with much dignity
and grace. An Irish girl shows as much art in the
management and drapery of her mantle, and in the coy
arrangement of its hood, as the Spanish donna does in
the handling of her fan. And to see one of their hooded
faces, set off by glossy black hair braided round a
small delicately-formed head, is, indeed, a comely and
fascinating sight. In Kerry, a district of Munster
further west, the white linen cloak is still occasionally
observed. One day, we met a fine young woman
carrying a heavy wicker basket of stuffs upon her
head, draped in one of these ancient mantles. Her
feet were bare, and she was without bonnet or cap,
but the folds of her white robe fell about her figure
as gracefully as the drapery of a Grecian statue, and
gave to the humble girl an inconceivably elegant look,
notwithstanding her menial occupation.
To return. After a few hours, we drove back to
Aghada, where the steamer got under weigh again,
and proceeded up one of the beautiful arms of the
bay, towards Castle Mary. What a field for the
landscape painter is there ! Water, rock, wood, and
valley, in constant succession, presenting new beauties
af every turn, with here and there an old castle or
religious structure in ruins. But it is not merely
ruins in which Ireland is rich. The fields are fertile,
the land is fat ; and the wonder is, that there should
be any poverty in a country so teeming with all the
elements of wealth. This was a frequent remark
made on all sides of us, by Irishmen themselves, as
by strangers, who saw the scenery there for the first
time. There was an intelligent gentleman on board,
— an Irishman, — who let a kind of new light in upon
the ravelled skein of Irish politics and suffering.
" Our misery," said he, " all dates from a Conquest,
and we are living under its influence still."
"How is that ? " asked my uncle, " conquest is at
an end, — there has been no conquering war in Ireland
for hundreds of years past ; and the first conquest
must all have been forgotten long ago, as ours in
England has been."
"Not at all," answered Mr. Fogarty. "The
Conquest is everywhere to be traced in Ireland,
and it is working to this day. You see that old
castle, ' with its strong square tower, and its lofty
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL*
43
battlements. That erection indicates the existence
at one time of a landed class at war with the people.
The landlord was not of the country, but one of
the conquerors of the country, who shared among
themselves its richest lands, — he lived within his
strong walls, defended by his armed retainers, while
the people lived in their huts outside, at war with
him."
" But the castle has crumbled into ruins," said my
uncle, "just as our English castles have done, and
the landlord now lives below in his square comfortable
house, with his drawing-room window open to the
sod."
" Still the Conquest is with us," observed Mr.
Fogarty : ' ' the English lords made common cause
with the English people ; a new feudal relation
sprang up between them ; there was a mutual sym-
pathy, trust, and recipi'ocity of interests among
them, and they prospered. With us, the lords of the
land (I speak of the general body) have regarded the
Irish people with no feelings of sympathy, — they
avoided living amongst them, where they could do so,
looking on them merely in the light of rent-producers ;
they have fleeced them through their agents and mid-
dlemen, and shunned all contact with them ; while the
people, on the other hand, have regarded the owners
of the la'nd with hatred and suspicion. What else could
you expect 1 For hundreds of years this has been
going on. Confiscations have followed each other, and
the people have seen the lands of the country made
over to the successful soldiers, captains, and chiefs,
who happened to be on the winning side, — of course,
the side that was uppermost in the government of
England."
"But that is hundreds of years ago!" said my
uncle, " it must be all forgotten now ? "
"The history may be forgotten," was the answer,
"but the conquest continues, notwithstanding. You
must remember that England had but one Norman
Conquest ; whereas we have had many conquests, —
under Henry II., Henry VIII. (who enforced upon us
his Church of the Conquest), Elizabeth, whose
general, Lord Grey, assured her, after one of his
campaigns, that there was little left in Munster, but
' carcasses and ashes.' Then there were the planta-
tions of James I., who banished the Irish from their
own soil to make room for his Scotch subjects. There
was also the terrible conquest of Cromwell, who
parted our lands among his soldiers, whose war-cry
among the native Irish was, " To or Cdnnaught !"
And lastly, there was the conquest of William of
Orange, who left with us the conqueror's badge of
Protestant ascendancy. You have had no such con-
quests as these in England, irritating and galling the
hearts of the people, educating them into rebellion,
and crushing them deeper and deeper into bitter
poverty."
"Well, it is a sad picture," said my uncler "and
I confess there seems to be much truth in it. The
present of a people is the offspring of their past ; and
certainly the bad treatment of any race of men,
continued for centuries, is not to ba remedied in a
day. But things are not so bad now, — the conquest
is surely at an end by this time, — we are one people,
under one head and one common legislature ; and one
law begins to prevail."
" But not one spirit, — we have not yet in Ireland
the spirit of English landlordism. If you want
evidences that the conquest is not over yet, look at
our soldiery. The strong castles have gone ; but look
at our barracks, — barracks, soldiers, and armed police
everywhere ! Forty thousand armed men needed to
keep the country quiet ! There is no evidence of
peace in that fact. But the Encumbered Estates
Court is working a cure, and before long we shall
have a new race of landlords, and I hope a new spirit
of sympathy between landlord and tenant ; and then
the Conquest will be at an end ! "
" Well, you have given me a strange history of
your country in a nutshell. When I think of Ireland
and Irishmen, I shall recall it to mind, and it will
make me tolerant and charitable ; I fancy we do not
make sufficient allowance for the errors and mischiefs
which past misdeeds and a long course of misrule
have inflicted on your unhappy but noble land."
And so the subject dropped. We were now again
in Cove Harbour, passing through the fleet of foreign
merchantmen, their various country's flags flying from
the mast-heads. The sail up the Bay under the light
of the warm sunset, was fine, — indeed, under all
lights, the Bay of Cork is beautiful, — and we landed
at St. Patrick's Quay, amid a crowd of loungers,
planted thick along the quays, and clustering along
the battlements of the bridge.
ANALOGY.
WE often find a great difficulty in making people
understand what analogy is, and yet, in its simplest
form, there is scarcely anything more easy of com-
prehension, or more frequently used. Analogy is the
resemblance or comparison which exists between two
or more persons, or qualities, or things. The
common and every-day forms of speech abound in
analogies, which are so well known and trite, that it
seems almost ridiculous to quote them, and yet it is
necessary to do so, in order to be properly under-
stood. When we say that a boy is like his father,
we discover and indicate points of analogy. They
are analogies when we say of a thing that it is as
green as grass, or as white as snow, or as pure as
faith, or as true as steel, or as precious as gold. In
fact, these simple forms of analogy are so common in
the language, that we can scarcely open our moutha
without one dropping out — for comparison is one of
the most active faculties of the human mind,
beginning its operations at a very early age, — long
before the child can speak, and continuing with the
least diminution of vigour, down to the latest
period.
Perhaps among young people, before the mind is
formed ; in old people after it has decayed ; and in
ignorant people, in whom it has never been de-
veloped, the faculty of comparison is most energetic.
It is an easy means of obtaining a certain sort of
knowledge, — a far shorter cut than either induction
or deduction, which demand the exercise of persist-
ant and consecutive observation, and of strict and
sequential reasoning. It is here that the difficulty of
treating of analogy begins. So long as we merely
compare, there is nothing abstruse about it, but
people always proceed, after some fashion or other,
from simple analogy to analogical reasoning, which is
a much more complex thing.
What is analogical reasoning \ We have already
seen that analogy is the resemblance or resemblances
between things. Analogy is to analogical reasoning
what facts are to science, — the basis from which it
starts. Thus, after observing resemblances between
things, we begin to draw inferences, that their results
are similar, that they will produce the like effects,
that they depend upon the same causes. We observe
sometimes in the events of a period which is present
to us, a certain likeness to the circumstances of some
age which has gone by. History tells us what the
result of that was, and we begin to infer that the
future will be similar. We see a certain man pur-
suing a course either of toil, and study, and virtue, or of
idleness, thoughtlessness, and vice, which resembles
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
that we know to have been pursued by another, and
we come to the conclusion that their fates will be
alike. We know that in past years, April showers
and May suns have heralded in buds and blos-
soms, and we are sure that in future years the same
will occur. So, too, when we see a fruit or a flower
in all respects similar to those which we have seen
at previous times, we argue that they were produced
by the same causes ; — all these are familiar examples
of analogical reasoning, about which there does not
appear anything abstruse or difficult. The simplicity
of most of them, however, arises from their relating
to known and well-understood things, and when we
leave that track, analogical reasoning becomes a very
metaphysical and abstract operation.
Nothing, in fact, can be more abstract or theo-
retical than reasoning about what we do not know ;
yet we are all in the constant habit of doing it, and
then we always reason analogically, or by comparison
with what we do know. We are apt, for example,
to judge of the feelings of another, which we do not
know, by our own feelings, which we are conversant
with, — of the future, which is to us, at all events,
uncertain, by the past, which is accomplished, and
recorded, and here is the chief difficulty and per-
plexity of analogical reasoning, and the main-spring
of its frequent delusiveness. Analogy only relates
to likenesses, but* takes no heed of differences ; and
while there are certain resemblances between every
individual, there are also certain points of distinc-
tion. Just so, too, while every cycle of years has
events in common with every other era, there must
be many which are peculiar to itself. It is here that
analogy, comparing, but not discriminating, does not
take heed of the maxim, that "Like causes produce
like effects, but only under the same circumstances."
If analogists in their reasoning could accurately
match every fact, every circumstance, every ten-
dency of one period, one person, or one thing, with
another, then it would be mathematically certain
that each would produce precisely the same results.
But as this obviously is impossible, because the
observed circumstances of any two things do not
exactly tally, and because we cannot be certain that
we have accurately observed all the circumstances,
analogical reasoning is never entirely to be depended
upon. It is a rule with us never to touch upon
theological subjects, or to assume, in regard to them,
a controversial tendency, but it will easily be seen
from what we have said, that analogy is closely
connected with a certain species of faith. All
attempts at evidences of religion must rest purely
upon analogical reasoning. It is that which makes
us connect a design with a designer, contrivances
with a contriver, and constantly repeated and similar
effects with a constantly acting cause. We see these
things, on a finite scale, constantly operating around
us, and from that we reason by analogy to the
operations of the infinite. Belief in revelation,
however distinct from all reasoning whatever, stands
upon a totally different ground. Belief in fallible
thought is there discarded for the enunciation of
infallible knowledge. Here we find analogy acting
a different part, — the part not of reasoning, but
of illustrating. The terms which we comprehend
are applied to what is incomprehensible. High and
low are used to signify that which is above all height
and below all depth ; flame is used as a symbol to
typify anger, the hand to represent power, and
qualities are impersonated by physical resemblances,
so as to bring within the range of our minds that
which would otherwise be beyond their compass.
The origin of the old mythologies is to be sought for
in the regions of analogy, by which essences and
attributes, either of Nature or Humanity, were
symbolized by figures which had the greatest resem-
blance to them.
In poeti-y, too, analogy makes a great figure.
Indeed, it may be said to be the very foundation
of descriptive and imaginative poetry. Poetical
reasoning scarcely ever reaches to the logical or the
demonstrative, and mostly, in proportion as it does
so, it becomes less poetical. The logic of poetiy is
the logic of perception and feeling, rather than
of reflection. This has caused Pope to be called
"a rhyming philosopher," rather than a poet. Of
all the men who take a high rank in poetic literature,
he, perhaps, compares least and enunciates most.
Take, for example, that famous line of his, —
The noblest study of mankind is man.
It is a direct assertion, which might as well have j
been written in prose as in verse. There is nothing
compared, — nothing to draw upon the imagination ;
contrast it with the equally well-known and often-
quoted words of Shakspere : —
To hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to Nature ; to show
Virtue her own feature.
This we find is entirely founded upon comparison
or analogy. Nature is personified, so that she may
be imaged. So also is Vice, which has features ; and
the mirror typifies mental instead of physical reflec-
tion. Hosts of instances might be picked from every
poet of this kind. Scott, for example, in his " Lay
of the Last Minstrel," beautifully likens the foam
of an angry wind-tossed river, to " the mane of a
chestnut steed." The first two lines of Cowper's
poem upon "Truth" furnish a fine instance of
analogy, they are, —
Man, on the dubious waves of error tossed,
His ship half foundered, and his compass lost.
Here we have error likened to a sea with stormy
waves, and man's means of safety and direction to
the physical instruments, — the ship and compass,
which help him to control the real waters. It is a
beautiful analogy, and consistent in all its parts ; but
though good analogy and poetiy, it would be bad
reasoning, for error is not, in all respects, like a sea.
It might as well be likened to a quicksand or a
whirlwind.
The analogy is peculiarly applicable to a maritime
nation ; for when we argue from what we know to
what we do not know, we argue generally from that
which we know best, or are most familiar with.
Thus, if Cowper had been an Arab instead of
an English poet, he would most probably have
likened error to the sandy, treacherous desert, and
man's failing hope of help to the drooping camel, — an
analogy which would have been equally true and
beautiful, and more forcible to the desert-dwellers.
This tends to show that analogy will have the
greatest power when it deals with ideas to which
the mind is already accustomed.
In popular oratory and writing, analogies are very
frequent. Indeed, those who occupy the platform
among us, and give birth to the more fugitive
productions of the press, have a stock of symbols,
without which, we do not know how they*would
manage. To them the use of analogy seems a
necessity more than a convenience, and their illustra-
tions are so familiar, and well understood, that they
need no explanation. Yet, sometimes, they are very
complex, and present a curious inversion and re-
petition of analogy. For instance, we have gifted
animals with the reputation for certain qualities, and
then we use those animals as the types of the
qualities. Thus, we ascribe to the lion boldness and
majesty, and to the eagle rapidity, and when a
speaker drops the word lion or eagle in a comparison,
we know in a moment what he would be at, without
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
47
waiting for the end of the passage. We have all
heard such analogies used over and over again, as
" the oak that has braved," &c., for a steadfast nation,
as "towers of strength," for enduring institutions,
and "crumbling ruins," for failing laws or modes of
government. Who is not well acquainted with " the
pinnacle of prosperity," in which success is likened
to a building complete to its topmost point ; of " the
gulf of despair," in which hopelessness is compared
to a profound abyss, — of the pitfalls of deceit, where
man is supposed to be in the position of a wild beast,
whom wily hunters trap in pits; of "the sword of
destruction suspended over our heads by a hair," in
which Damocles is made the type of a people in
danger. Apropos of this, and by way of showing the
dangers of falling into false analogy by inexperienced
writers, we may mention a case, in which the sword
and the pit were thrown together in "confusion
worse confounded." Some years ago, a writer in a
periodical addressed to the people, but which we had
better not name, wound up a glowing peroi-ation by
assuring society at large, that if it did not mend its
ways, and that speedily, it would fall into the pit of
destruction which was " hanging over its head." The
absurdity here consists, not in the ridiculousness
of the ideas themselves, but in their incongruity.
The man no doubt had in his mind the sword of
Damocles and the pit of destruction, but instead
of using one or both, he applied to the one he chose
the position properly belonging to the other, and fell
into the ludicrous error of hanging a pit, and
threatening society with a fall upward ! There is also
.1 great risk of using ignoble comparisons for great
subjects, and vice versa. False analogy, however,
often produces a species of wit, of which, among
verbal escapades, attributed to natives of the Sister
Isle, there are plenty of instances on record. The
latest we have heard of this kind is that of the man
who compared a very ragged garment to "a lot of
holes sewed together."
One of the most curious applications of analogy is
that which is shown by many of the idioms and
"slang" phrases, chiefly used by the more unedu-
cated classes. When a man does a thing hastily or
inconsiderately, he is said to go " like a bull at a
gate." This comparison comes from a received
opinion that a bull will as soon run at a gate as at a
man, and that he always makes his rush with his
eyes shut. When anybody acts with lightning-like
rapidity, he is said to do it "like winkin," — a
popular recognition and comparison of the physio-
logical fact, that the involuntary act of winking the
eyelid is among the most rapid motions of the human
frame. The epithet "seedy," applied to a gentleman
whose clothes have seen better days, rests upon a
perception of the shabbiness of appearance presented
by plants which have run to seed. The poet typi-
fying old age by "the sear and yellow leaf," uses only
another form of the .idea. We use the word
"hipped" synonimously with "cast down," to signify
a man in grief. This probably has a curious origin.
It most likely arose in a wrestling country, a favourite
mode of throwing being over the hip ; and "hipping"
a man, or "giving him the hip," are now terms well
understood among wrestlers. When some people
astonish a man, they say they " opened his eyes," —
the wide-open eye being a well-recognized sign of
wonder or astonishment. "Like cat and dog " is a
well-known analogical phrase for quarrelsome people,
— those two species of animals being pretty constantly
at war. There are hundreds of other instances of
familiar analogies, some simple, others complex,
which might be pointed out, but these we have
adduced will probably be sufficient to serve the
purpose of showing how much analogy does
toward forming the idioms and sayings of the
people.
We have analogy, then, in reasoning, in theology,
in poetry, in oratory, in writing, and in ordinary
conversation, pretty constantly in use among all
classes. We have avoided instancing the vexed
ground of metaphysics, — that endless maze, where
men always seem to reason in circles ; but we may
say here, that they, too, are almost entirely ana-
logical. It is obvious that a mode of thought so
constantly used should, if possible, be governed by
some rule. That rule we take to be this, that
analogy is useful for illustration rather than for
demonstration, for description rather than for dis-
covery. To that rule there will, of course, be some
exceptions ; but those who know analogy best, who
have spent the most time in its study and the
greatest pains in its elaboration, will acknowledge,
that from the difficulties by which ever-varying
circumstances and limited knowledge surround it, it
is a most uncertain means of evolving certain con-
clusions.
THE PROGRESS OF NATIONS.
The political, as well as the scientific, history
of nations shows us three periods. In the first, the
qualities and faculties of men are developed in all
their varieties and contrasts ; weakness submits
to strength ; wisdom and the gift of invention are
honoured as godlike qualities ; the general conditions
of the social compact are laid down in the form of
commandments, — all these commandments begin with
the words "Thou shalt ;" men have duties, but no
rights. In the next period are developed the rela-
tions of mutual dependence among these qualities ;
the contest between opposite qualifies leads to the
adoption of laws ; from the consciousness of that
which is right is developed the sense of the possession
of rights, political and social ; by the union of similar
rights political powers arise ; the struggle of opposite
powers (such as democracy, oligarchy, and monarchy)
leads to revolutions, and revolution is the name given,
to those processes by which a disturbed equilibrium
is restored. In the third, or last period, that amount,
degree, or proportion of mutual dependence among
all qualities, rights, and powers, which secures to the
individual, without injury to others, the fullest and
freest development of all his faculties and qualities, is
fixed, and thenceforth revolutions are at an end. —
Liebig's Letters on Chemistry.
PRESS ON !
There is much to be done for poverty and labour.
The world has already roused itself to a consciousness
of the momentous fact. Society strengthens every
hour the hands of Government, and every hour shall
find us more clearly ascertaining duty, more anxious
to fulfil it. The bodily health of the masses, their
moral and intellectual culture, their spiritual well-
being, their social and political rights, have more
interest to-day for every class in the State than any
other subject. The necessity of solving the difficul-
ties of the many-sided question of the claims of labour
is on all sides acknowledged to be paramount. The
fate of England for the future no doubt largely
depends upon her wisdom and intelligence to-day ;
we have no fear of her ultimate happiness and triumph.
There is no danger to be dreaded from the generous
activity of the well disposed ; even wild and wanton
teaching can operate but as a feather against the
wholesome living tide that pours steadily and surely
on towards the abiding shores of blessed civiliza-
tion.— Times.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
(ORIGINAL.)
A SPECIAL PLEADING.
AND so they tell you Mary, love, that I am false and
g&J,
And that I woo another maid when I am far away,
And that I'm seen in merry mood upon the coast of
France,
And let another pair of eyes allure me to the dance.
They tell you that I do not care for all the vows I've
made, —
That love with me is but a game, at which I've often
played ;
They say that sailors win a heart— then think of it
no more,
And that your Harry soon forgets this bit of English
shore.
You knew me as a sturdy boy,— you trusted to my
arm
To pull you through the gale, without a breathing of
alarm ;
I've grown and strengthened in your sight, and shall
it be confessed,
That he who clasped with Childhood's hand betrayed
with Manhood's breast ?
I kept my good old mother till she gently drooped
and died,
I have a little sister still, that's clinging to my side ;
And could I bear a manly heart to them, my Mary,
dear, —
Could I be faithful to my homo, and yet be traitor
here?
Oh ! Mary, don't believe the tale,— indeed it is not
true ;
How could I, even if I would, love any girl but you ?
Oh ! do look up into my face, and see if you can find
A trace of any feeling there but what is just and
kind.
Tell me who raised the foul report, — who cast upon
my name
The taint of infamy that works with meanness, vice,
and shame,
And if it be a man that gave the bitter slander birth,
I'll strike the coward, rich or poor, down to his
parent earth.
Curse on the tongues that sought to fling a poison in
my cup,
May ill betide their evil souls, — Come ! Mary, do
look up ;
Say that you love me as you did, -or, though I'm
proud and brave,
My spirit soon will pray to be beneath the ocean
wave.
Look ! here's the curl you gave me when I stood
upon the sands,
Just going for the first sad time to far and foreign
lands ;
See! here's the handkerchief you tied so fondly
round my neck,
And these two precious things were all I rescued from
the wreck.
Oh, can it be I do you refuse to listen to my word ?
"Tis simple ; but a purer truth the angels never
heard ;
I'm faithful to you, Maiy, as an honest man can be,
And would my heart were opened wide for all the
world to see 1
But ah ! perhaps some other one has gained your
woman's love, — -
You've changed your roving sea-gull for a quiet
cottage-dove ;
You think a fair-cheeked husband that could sit
beside his fire,
Would be a wiser life-mate for a maiden to desire.
Last night I saw young Walter May keep near your
window-sill,
And there he watched you from the door and joined '
you on the hill ;
And twice before I've seen him lurk beside you on
the road,
And when you fetched the fishing-net, ho soon took
up the load.
Oh Mary ! something 's choking me ! Tell, tell me, is
it so ?
Say, do you love him ? Walter May J tell, tell me,
Yes or No ?
Oh ! let me hear the worst at once, — cost what it
will to sever,
I'll only ask for one more kiss, and say Good-by for
ever.
That blush, — that tear ! — what do I hear? — You love
but me alone ?—
God bless you, girl ! I breathe again, — my life, my
joy, my own !
How could you for a moment doubt the language of a
lip,
That breathed for you its deepest prayer upon a j
sinking ship ?
Come, let me kiss those eyelids dry, and then we'll
walk awhile,
We'll go across the clover field, and sit upon the
stile, —
We'll take the village in our path, for, as you wisely
say,
Twill mortify the gossip fools, and silence Walter
May.
And, Mary,— let me whisper love;— before I sail
again,
I'll work a charm to make the words of evil-speakers
vain.
The first of May will soon be here, and that blest day
shall bring
Your Harry's heart to anchor in a tiny golden ring !
ELIZA COOK.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 334.]
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1851.
[PRICE
THE MIRACLE OF LIFE.
OF all Miracles, the most wonderful is that of Life —
the common, daily life which we cany about with us,
and which everywhere surrounds us.- The sun and
stars, the blue firmament, day and night, the tides
and seasons, are as nothing compared with it. Life
— the soul of the world, but for which creation were
not!
It is our daily familiarity with Life, which obscures
its wonders from us. We live, yet remember it not.
Other wonders attract our attention, and excite our
surprise ; but this, the great wonder of the world,
which includes all others, is little regarded. We
have grown up alongside of Life, with Life within us
and about us ; and there is never any point in our
existence, at which its phenomena arrest our curiosity
and attention. The Miracle is hid from us by famili-
arity, and we see it not.
Fancy the earth without Life ! — its skeleton ribs
of rock and mountain unclothed by verdure, without
soil, without flesh ! What a naked, desolate spectacle,
— and how unlike the beautiful aspect of external
nature in all lands ! Nature, ever- varied and ever-
changing, — coming with the spring, and going' to
sleep with the winter, in constant rotation. The
flower springs up, blooms, withers, and falls, return-
ing to the earth from whence it sprung, leaving
behind it the germs of future being. For nothing
dies : not even Life, which only gives up one form to
assume another. Organization is travelling in an
unending circle.
The trees in summer put on their verdure ; they
blossom ; their fruit ripens — falls ; what the roots
gathered up out of the earth returns to earth again ;
the leaves drop one by one, and decay, resolving
themselves into new forms, to enter into other
organizations ; the sap flows back to the trunk ; and
the forest, wood, field, and brake, compose them-
selves to their annual winter's sleep. In spring and
summer the birds sang in the boughs, and tended
their young brood ; the whole animal kingdom rejoiced
in their full bounding life ; the sun shone warm, and
Nature rejoiced in greenness. Winter lays its cold
chill upon this scene ; but the same scene comes
round again, and another spring recommences the
same " never-ending, still beginning " succession of
vital changes. We learn to expect all this, and become
so familiar with it, that it seldom occurs to us to
reflect how much harmony and adaptation there is
in the arrangement — how much of beauty and glory
there is everywhere, above, around, and beneath us.
But were it possible to conceive an intelligent
being, abstracted from our humanity, endowed with
the full possession of mind and reason, all at once set
down on the earth's surface, — how many objects
of surpassing interest and wonder, would at once
force themselves on his attention. The verdant,
earth, covered with its endless profusion of forms of
vegetable life, from the delicate moss to the oak
which survives the revolutions of centuries ; the
insect and animal kingdom, from the gnat which
dances in the summer's* sunbeam, up to the higher
forms of sentient being ; birds, beasts of endless
diversity of form, instinct, and colour ; and, above all,
Man — " Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye ; " —
these would, to such an intelligence be a source of
almost endless interest.
It is Life which is the grand glory of the world ; it
was the consummation of creative power, at which
the morning stars sang together for joy. Is not the
sun glorious, because there are living eyes to be
gladdened by his beams ? is not the fresh air deli-
cious, because there are living creatures to inhale
and enjoy it? are not odours fragrant, and sounds
sweet, and colours gorgeous, because there is the
living sensation to appreciate them ? Without Life,
what were they all ? /What were a Creator himself,
without Life — intelligence — understanding — -to know
and adore Him, and to trace his finger in the works
that He hath made ?
Boundless variety and perpetual change are ex-
hibited in the living beings around us. Take the
class of insects alone : of these, not fewer than
100,000 distinct species are already known and de-
scribed ; and every day is adding to the catalogue.
Wherever you penetrate, that life can be sustained,
you find living beings to exist ; in the depths
of ocean, in the arid desert, or at the icy polar
regions. The air teems with life. The soil which
clothes the earth all round, is swarming with life,
vegetable and animal. Take a drop of water, and
examine it with the microscope : lo ! it is swarming
with living creatures. Within Life, exists other life,
until it recedes before the powers of human vision.
The parasitic animalcule, which preys upon or within
50
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
the body of a larger animal, is itself preyed upon by
parasites peculiar to itself. So minute are living
animalcules, that Ehrenberg has computed that not
fewer than five hundred millions can subsist in a
single drop of water, and each of these monads is
endowed with its appropriate organs, possesses spon-
taneous power of motion, and enjoys an independent
vitality.
In the very ocean deeps, insects, by the labour of
ages, are enabled to construct islands, and lay the
foundations of future continents. The coral insect
is the great architect of the southern ocean. First
a reef is formed ; seeds are wafted to it, vegetation
springs up, a verdant island exists ; then man takes
possession, and a colony is formed.
Dig down into the earth, and from a hundred yards
deep, throw up a portion of soil — cover it io that no
communication can take place between that earth
and the surrounding air. Soon you will observe
vegetation springing up — perhaps new plants, alto-
gether unlike anything heretofore grown in that
neighbourhood. During how many thousands of
years has the vitality of these seeds been preserved
deep in the earth's bosom ! Not less wonderful is
the fact stated by Lord Lindsay, who took from the
hand of an Egyptian mummy a tuber, which must
have been wrapped up there more than 2,000 years
before. It was planted, was rained and dewed upon,
the sun shone on it again, and the root grew, bursting
forth and blooming into a beauteous Dahlia !
At the north pole, where you would expect life to
become extinct, the snow is sometimes found of a
bright red colour. Examine it by the microscope,
and lo ! it is covered with mushrooms, growing on
the surface of the snow as their natural abode.
A philosopher distils a portion of pure water,
secludes it from the air, and then places it under the
influence of a powerful electric current. Living
beings are stimulated into existence, the aeari crossii
appear in numbers ! Here we touch on the borders
of a great mystery ; but it is not at all more mysteri-
ous than the fact of Life itself. Philosophers know
nothing about it, further than that it is. The attempt
to discover its cause, inevitably throws them back upon
the Great First Cause. Philosophy takes refuge in
religion.
Yet man is never at rest in his speculations as to
causes ; and he contrives all manner of theories to
satisfy his demands for them. A favourite theory
now-a-days is what is called the Development theory,
which proceeds on the assumption, that one germ of
being was originally planted on the earth, and that
from this germ, by the wondrous power of Life, all
forms of vegetable and animal life have progressively
been developed. Unquestionably, all living beings
are ^organized on one grand plan, and the higher forms
of living beings, in the process of their growth, succes-
sively pass through the lower organized forms. Thus,
the human being is successively a monad, an a-verte-
brated animal, an osseous fish, a turtle, a bird, a
ruminant, a mammal, and lastly an infant Man.
Through all these types of organization, Tiedemann
has shown that the brain of man passes.
This theory, however, does nothing to explain the
causes of life, or the strikingly diversified, and yet
determinate characters of living beings ; — why some
so far transcend others in the stages of development
to which" they ascend, and how it is that they stop
there,— how it is that animals succeed each other in
right lines, the offspring inheriting the physical struc-
ture and the moral disposition of their parents, and
never, by any chance, stopping short at any other
stage of being — man, for instance, never issuing in a
lion, a fish, or a polypus. We can scarcely conceive
it possible that, had merely the Germ of Being been
planted on the earth, and "set a-going," anything
like the beautiful harmony and extraordinary adapta-
tion which is everywhere observable throughout the
animated kingdoms of Nature, would have been se-
cured. That there has been a* grand plan of organi-
zation, on which all living beings have been formed,
seems obvious enough ; but to account for the diver-
sity of being, by the theory that plants and animals
have gradually advanced from lower to higher stages
of being by an inherent power of self-development,
is at variance with known facts, and is only an
attempt to get rid of one difficulty by creating
another far greater.
Chemists are equally at fault, in endeavouring to
unveil the mysterious processes of Life. Before its
power they stand abashed. For Life controls matter,
and to a great extent overrules its combinations. An
organized being is not held together by ordinary
chemical affinity ; nor can chemistry do anything
towai-ds compounding organized tissues. The prin-
ciples which enter into the composition of the organ-
ized being are few, the chief being charcoal and water,
but into what wondrous forms does Life mould these
common elements ! The chemist can tell you what
these elements are, and how they are combined, when
dead ; but when living, they resist all his power of
analysis. Kudolphi confesses that chemistry is able
to investigate only the lifeless remains of organized
beings.
There are some remarkable facts connected with
Animal Chemistry — if we may employ the term —
which show how superior is the principle of Life to
all known methods of synthesis and analysis. For
example, much more carbon or charcoal is regularly
voided from the respiratory organs alone, of all living
beings — not to speak of its ejection in many other
ways — than can be accounted for, as having in any
way entered the system. They also produce and
eject much more nitrogen than they inhale. The
mushroom and mustard plant, though nourished by
pure water containing no nitrogen, give it off abun-
dantly ; the same is the case with zoophytes attached
to rocks at the bottom of the sea ; and reptiles and
fishes contain it in abundance, though living and
growing in pure water only. Again, plants which
grow on sand containing not a particle of lime, are
found to contain as much of this mineral as those
which grow in a calcareous soil ; and the bones of
animals in New South Wales, and other districts
where not an atom of lime is to be found in the soil,
or in the plants from which they gather their food,
contain the usual proportion of lime, though it remains
an entire mystery to the chemist where they can have
obtained it. The same fact is observable in the egg-
shells of hens, where lime is produced in quantities
for which the kind of food taken is altogether inade-
quate to account ; as well as in the enormous deposits
of coral-rock, consisting of almost pure lime, without
any manifest supply of that ingredient. Chemistry
fails to unravel these mysterious facts ; nor can it
account for the abundant production of soda, by
plants growing on a soil containing not an atom of
soda in any form ; nor of gold in bezoards ; nor of
copper in some descriptions of shell-fish. These
•extraordinary facts seem to point to this — that many,
if not most, of the elements which chemists have set
down as simple, because they have failed to reduce
them further, are in reality compound; and that
what we regard as Elements, do not signify matters
that are undecompoundable, but which are merely
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
51
undecompounded by chemical processes. Life, how-
ever, which is superior to human powers of analysis,
resolves and composes the ultimate atoms of things
after methods of its own, but which to chemists will
probably ever remain involved in mystery.
The last mystery of Life is Death. Such is the
economy of living beings, that the very actions which
are subservient to their preservation, tend to exhaust
and destroy them. Each being has its definite term
of life, and on attaining its acme of perfection, it
begins to decay, and at length ceases to exist. This
is alike true of the insect which perishes within the
hour, and of the octogenarian who falls in a ripe old
age. Love provides for the perpetuation of the
species. "We love," says Virey, "because we do
not live for ever : we purchase love at the expense of
our life." To die, is as characteristic of organized
beings as to live. The one condition is necessary to
the other. Death is the last of life's functions. And
no sooner has the mysterious principle of vitality
departed, than the laws of matter assert their power
over the organized frame.
"Universal experience teaches us," says Liebig,
"that all organized beings, after death, suffer a
change, in consequence of which their bodies gradu-
ally vanish from the surface of the earth. The
mightiest tree, after it is cut down, disappears, with
the exception, perhaps, of the bark, when exposed to
the action of the air for thirty or forty years. Leaves,
young twigs, the straw which is added to the soil
as manure, juicy fruits, &c., disappear much more
quickly. In a still shorter time, animal matters lose
their cohesion ; they are dissipated into the air, leav-
ing only the mineral elements which they had derived
from the soil.
" This grand natural process of the dissolution of
all compounds formed in living organizations, begins
immediately after death, when the manifold causes
no longer act, under the influence of which they were
produced. The compounds formed in the bodies of
animals and of plants, undergo, in the air, and with
the aid of moisture, a series of changes, the last of
which are, the conversion of their carbon into carbonic
acid, of their hydrogen into water, of their nitrogen ,
into ammonia, of their sulphur into sulphuric acid.
Thus their elements resume the forms in which they
can again serve as food to a new generation of plants
and animals. Those elements which had-been derived
from the atmosphere, take the gaseous form and re-
turn to the air ; those which the earth had yielded,
return to the soil. Death, followed by the dissolution
of the dead generation, is the source of life for a new
one. The same atom of carbon which, as a constituent
of a muscular fibre in the heart of a man, assists to
propel the blood through his frame, was perhaps a
constituent of the heart of one of his ancestors ; and
any atom of nitrogen in our brain, has perhaps been
a part of the brain of an Egyptian or of a negro. As
the intellect of the men, of this generation draws the
food required for its development and cultivation from
the products of the intellectual activity of former times,
so may the constituents or elements of the bodies of a
former generation pass into, and become parts of, our
own frames."
The greatest mystery of all remains. What of the
Spirit — the Soul ? The vital principle which bound
the frame together has been dissolved ; what of the
Man, the being of high aspirations, "looking before
and after," and whose "thoughts wandered through
eternity ? " The material elements have not died, but
merely assumed new forms. Does not the spirit of
man, which is ever at enmity with nothingness and
dissolution, live too ? Religion in all ages has dealt
with this great mystery, and here we leave it with
confidence in the solution which it offers.
STORY OF TITIAN VECELLI.
TITIAN Vecelli was born in the year 1477, at Capo
del Cadore, in Friuli. At six years old he began to
display his wonderful taste for colouring. Almost
every child, whether destined to become an artist or
not, takes pleasure in scrawling rude designs with
chalk or a pencil ; but Titian disdained mere outlines,
and at the early age we have named, used to search
gardens, meadows, and hedge-rows, for the most
brilliant and many-hued flowers. As he contem-
plated the whiteness of the lily, the crimson of the
rose, the purple of the violet,— all the thousand vary-
ing and blending tints of those vegetable jewels, his
infant soul was wrapped in mute and magical ecstasy.
Once in possession of nature's palette, the child asked
not for artificial colours. He used to express the
juice of freshly -gathered flowers on the designs which
he traced on a whited wall, and a painting in fresco
was the result. The inhabitants of Cadore admired,
during many years, a beautiful head of the Virgin,
painted in this manner by the young Vecelli, on the
capital of a pillar. When his name had become
famous, numbers thronged to see this fresco, until
some tasteless architect threw down the column,
under pretence that it obstructed a public passage.
After having received a few elementary lessons in
painting, from Sebastiano Zuccati, Titian wag sent
by his father to Venice, to prosecute his studies
under the direction of Giovanni Bellini. This artist
then enjoyed the reputation of being the purest and
most classical designer of the Venetian school^
Hitherto oil-painting was unknown in Italy — water
colours were exclusively used ; when a rumour was
spread through the city of St. Mark, that a Sicilian
painter, named Antonello, had arrived from Messina,
and was possessed of some admirable secret for pre-
paring and mixing colours. The news travelled from
studio to studio, and was received with scoffing in-
credulity by all the artists, except Bellini, who,
instead of ridiculing what he did not understand,
resolved silently to see and judge for himself.
It must be confessed, that the means he employed
to discover Antonello's secret can scarcely be justified;
for deceit, whether acted or spoken, must always
be abhorred by every honourable mind, and Bellini
had recourse to a stratagem, such as a truly upright
man would have scorned to employ.
One morning having arranged himself in a splendid
satin doublet, with hose to match, and a velvet hat
and white feathers, he repaired to the house of Anto-
nello, and had himself announced as a, gentleman, who,
being about to take a long journey, was desirous of
having his portrait painted as speedily as possible.
As to the price, he left it to the artist to charge any
sum he pleased. Antonello was completely deceived,
and hastened to give his wealthy visitor a sitting.
At the end of two hours, the head was so far advanced,
that Bellini could recognize his own features ; and,
while looking at the painting, he failed not to praise
the rare softness and mellowness of colouring of the
flesh-tints. "Ah, ha!" said the Sicilian, with a
knowing look. "The effect which your excellency
admires, is produced by a secret invention of my own,
which your Venetian painters know nothing about."
[This boast of Antonello's exceeded the truth : —
he was not the inventor of oil-painting — he had
learned the art in Flanders from John of Brayes.]
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
"May I, without indiscretion, inquire in what this
new process consists ? " said Bellini, on whom not a
movement of his rival had been lost.
" Certainly, mio signori. Do you see this flask ? "
"Yes."
" It contains a most costly elixir, distilled by my
own hands from certain herbs that grow near Mount
Etna. I pour a few drops of this liquid into a saucer,
dip my pencil into it, and then, without trouble, pro-
duce on the canvas the tints and tone of living flesh."
" Strange ! " said his visitor, with a simple air. " I
Should have thought, judging from its odour and
appearance, that your elixir was neither more nor
less than linseed oil ! "
Antonello reddened, and fixed his eyes on the
speaker, but as nothing in the look or voice of the
latter betrayed that he attached the slightest im-
portance to his discovery, the Sicilian continued to
expatiate volubly on the occult virtues of the liquid,
and the marvellous care requisite in its preparation.
The Venetian seemed perfectly satisfied, and started
some other subject of conversation.
In two days afterwards the portrait was finished :
Bellini paid handsomely for it, and took it home.
His purpose was fully accomplished.
It was just at this period that Titian was placed
under the care of Bellini, and the gay, ardent young
man, could scarcely have arrived at a more unlucky
moment.
Moved by a whimsical idea, that by so doing he
could expiate his sin, Bellini resolved to employ his
ill-gotten secret solely in painting saints, monks, and
martyrs, and these of the most sorry and woe-be-
gone description. Fancy poor Titian with his bright
bounding spirit, fresh from the sunny meadows and
breezy hills, immured in a gloomy studio, whose sole
ornaments consisted in a double file of skeleton saints
and tortured martyrs !
Determined to place a severe, and, as he believed,
a salutary check on the glowing fancy and wayward
will of his pupil, Giovanni Bellini strictly interdicted
his attempting any beautiful or pleasing subjects.
Madonnas and Magdalens were forbidden fruit ;
while St. Sebastian pierced with arrows — Job on
his dunghill — St. Anthony in the temptation, formed
his daily food. Poor Titian ! he the while was
dreaming of Venus and Psyche,- — of gorgeous dra-
peries,— of golden sunset tints, — of noble lords and
lovely ladies.
There was however no remedy, he must submit ;
and ere long the dullness of the school was greatly
enlivened by the arrival of a new pupil, named Giorgio
Barbarelli.
He was a tall, handsome youth, — clever, brave,
witty, and, moreover, endowed with a genuine love
of fun, and a most comfortable indifference to the
unpleasant consequences of his thoughtless actions.
His comrades received him with open arms, and
hailed his arrival as a delightful interruption to the
cloisteral monotony of the school. Frequently did
Bellini repent having opened his doors to this pleasant
scapegrace ; while in spite of himself he admired the
noble qualities and superior talents of his pupil ;
coming at length to tolerate his faults, and pardon
his escapades with very unusual indulgence. The
master, indeed, exercised the privilege of bestowing
on him tedious lectures and severe reprimands, to
which Giorgio listened with downcast eyes, and a
most edifying air of contrition; until with a side
glance he perceived that the storm had spent its
force and the sunshine was returning. Then he
would shake his rich dark curls, fix his large bright
eyes on his reprover with an air of innocent surprise ;
and finally, with a word, a smile, or a gesture, brino-
back the vanished gaiety of his class. His conf-
panions bestowed on him the pet name of GiORGioNE,
and by it he is known to posterity. He and young
Titian speedily became bosom friends ; and the great
ambition of the latter was to be able to imitate suc-
cessfully the masterly outlines and delicate trans-
parent colouring of Giorgione.
It happened one day, that, as the two friends were
wandering ai-m in arm through the streets of Venice,
they met three young sculptors of their acquaintance.
At first, conversation turned on the artistic topic of
the day, a horse in bronze, modelled by Andrea
Verrochio. When each had given liis opinion of the
work, they began to discuss the comparative merits
of the two arts, of painting and sculpture.
" Ah ! " said the youngest of the sculptors, " there
can be no doubt that our art deserves the pre-emi-
nence."
" Why so, my master ! " asked Giorgione.
"Because," replied the first sculptor, "it is the
most difficult. A woman can manage a pencil, but
for moulding bronze or chiselling marble, the hand of
a man is required."
" Because," said the second, "it is the most durable.
Canvas wears out ; walls crumble ; wood decays ;
but marble and metal defy the injuries of time, and
challenge immortality."
"Because," added the third, "it is the most com-
plete. Painting can represent but one side of the
Iniman figure, whilst our art displays the whole in
every possible aspect."
"Then, my masters," rejoined Giorgione, quickly,
"you imply that painting is an easy, vulgar art,
within the reach of women and children ? "
" Oh, Giorgione !— "
"Allow me to finish," said the painter. "You
maintain that your art is superior to ours, because time
destroys pictiires more quickly than statues. Accord-
ing to this rule, poetry and music must be supremely
contemptible ; for the sweetest notes die away as they
are uttered, and the most glorious verses are confided
to a perishable sheet of paper. But you forget that
printing has been invented to perpetuate the book,
and engraving to re-produce the picture."
" But—"
" Silence. You assert finally that painting is an
incomplete art, because it can display but one side of
a figure. Well ! my masters, what would you say, if
at one glance^ and without obliging you to walk round
my painting, as you have to do to your statue, I can
succeed in showing you the back, the face, and both
profiles of a man ? "
" We would say that you had performed a miracle."
"Come, let us lay a wager," cried Giorgione, re-
assuring his friend Titian with a look.
"» Agreed ! " replied the sculptors with one voice.
" Then, my masters, I wager two hundred sequins
that I will paint such a figure as I have described."
" Who is to judge ? "
"Yourselves."
" How many days will you require ?"
" Four, my masters ; one for each side of the figure."
" But this is mere folly ! It would be stealing
your money ! "
" Perhaps so."
" You do not wish to draw back ? "
" Certainly not."
" Then adieu ; and remember that in four days we
shall claim from you either two hundred sequins, or
the marvellous picture. / So saying, the sculptors
walked away, laughing heartily at what they deemed
the silly bravado of Giorgione. When the painters
were left alone, Titian believing that his rash friend
had entered into an engagement which he would find
it impossible to fulfil, offered him his slender purse
towards paying the forfeit.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
" Keep your purse, dear friend ; " said Giorgione,
" it is still lighter than my own. I'm resolved to win
the bet, and then we will take a few days' vacation
from the old Maestro, and enjoy life as long as the
money lasts."
' ' But how will you manage to fulfil the conditions ?"
" You shall see."
On the fourth day, when the three sculptors arrived,
Giorgione displayed his picture. It represented a
warrior, who, having his back turned towards the
spectator, stood looking at himself in a fountain, in
whose limpid waters his full front figure was reflected.
At the left of the warrior was suspended his suit of
polished steel armour, in which was mirrored with
exact fidelity, the whole of his left side. At the
right was painted a looking-glass, which reflected that
side ; and thus, in a perfect, though whimsical man-
ner, Giorgione had fully succeeded in representing
at the same time, the four sides of the same figure.
All Venice thronged to see this curious production,
and the three young sculptors who had provoked the
bet, paid their money with a good grace, readily con-
fessing their own defeat, and the triumph of Giorgione.
Behold our two friends now richer than they had
ever been before. They were determined at all
hazards to enjoy themselves, and accordingly took
French leave of their easels, and never thought of
returning to the gloomy studio, while a single sequin
remained.
Giovanni Bellini was not a man to pardon his truant
pupils for their daring escapade. On the contrary,
when necessity forced them to return with contrite
looks, the door of their master's house was irrevocably
closed against them.
"Come," said Giorgione, whose proud spirit was
quickly chafed, " as he won't receive us, we can't do
better than set up as artists on our own account.
Trust me, Titian, we shall yet bless Providence for
having caused this pious old master of ours to dismiss
us with such scant ceremony. We will hire a room,
and live as we best can."
" Agreed, Giorgione : I am your friend and brother,
and will follow wherever you choose to lead."
"And I think I can promise, Titian, that we shall
not want employment ; that is, provided we are not
too fastidious. We must not expect, for example,
to be sent for at once to decorate churches and
palaces ; nor. are we to feel greatly surprised, should
kings and cardinals, the Emperor and the Pope,
decline to appear among our sitters. I shall mag-
nanimously pardon their indifference ; for, were I in
their place, I dare say I should treat two scamps like
ourselves in precisely the same way. We must only
make them pay double, whenever the fancy does take
them to have their portraits painted by Master
Giorgio Barbarelli, of Castel-Franco, or Master Titian
Vecelli, of Cadore."
"Meantime," said Titian, "we will paint wooden
furniture, shop-fronts, sign-posts, — anything by which
we can earn a few coins, — anything, in short, but
saints and anchorites."
Such was the humble debut of the two greatest
colourists of the Venetian school ; and in many
respects they had fallen on propitious days. The
Italians of that epoch were almost insane on the
subject of painting. Doors, wainscots, screens, fur-
niture of all kinds, and even the most trifling articles
for the toilet, were covered with the most exquisite
designs and frescoes, whose smallest fragments are
now preserved in our collections with jealous care.
The friends, as they had hoped, soon found abund-
ance of employment. By incessant practice, the
manner of Titian came to resemble so perfectly that
of Giorgione, that the best connoisseur could scarcely
distinguish the difference. Their works were sold in
common, and they equally shared the gold and the
glory.
In 1504, the great mercantile depot called the
Fondaco de' Tedeschi having been destroyed by fire,
a new and more splendid building was constructed ;
and the Doge Loredano, whose portrait Giorgione had
drawn, consigned to him the task of ornamenting the
principal facade. A gentleman named Barbarigo,
who, for a similar reason was inclined to befriend
Titian, obtained for him the privilege of painting the
opposite side. Both artists surpassed all their former
performances, in their execution of this important
work. No one, except their most intimate friends,
could distinguish which part belonged to each ; for
the whole was signed by Giorgione. But in the
portion executed by Titian, there was a figure of
Judith placing her left foot on the severed head of
Holophernes, and grasping in her right hand a bloody,
reeking sword. Nothing could be more powerful and
fearfully true than the painting, and every one who
inspected the fa9ade, and believed this figure to have
been the work of Giorgione, congratulated him on
his wonderful success, and assured him that it far
surpassed all his former productions ! These un-
witting comments roused all the latent jealousy of the
painter's mind. His love for Titian was changed into
hatred ; and, shutting himself up in his room, he
obstinately refused to see him. All Titian's efforts
to see him, or obtain even a word of explanation,
were fruitless ; and unable to remain any longer in a
place where he had lost the affection of his best-
beloved friend, Titian left Venice for Vicenza. He
never again saw the ill-fated Giorgione, who shortly
afterwards died of grief at the desertion of a lady
whom he fondly loved, and who left him to marry his
rival. After a short sojourn at Vicenza, Titian
visited Padua. Now, it is impossible for a stranger
to enter that city without being importuned by its
inhabitants to bestow something for the sake of their
patron saint, Anthony. If you are rich, they ask you
for money, — if poor, for prayers : for privileges, if
you are a king, — for verses, if a poet, — and for pic-
tures, if you happen to be a painter. Titian being
in the latter predicament, was forced to comply with
the anxious request of the monks, and undertook to
depict in fresco, three of St. Anthony's miracles.
These admired compositions are still to be seen in the
school of the saint, at Padua, and have been frequently
copied by modern artists.
In 1511, after the death of Giorgione, he returned
to Venice, and was commissioned by the Council, to
complete some frescoes left unfinished by his unhappy
friend. This task was executed so fully to the public
satisfaction, that the Doge bestowed on Titian an
income of three hundred crowns a-year, subject to
the charge of painting the portrait of the Doge and
his successors. Besides this, he was to receive eight
crowns for each portrait so painted.
In 1514, our artist was summoned to the court of
Alfonso d'Este, Duke of Ferrara, celebrated at that
time as the resort of all the illustrious men of the day,
in literature and science, as well as art.
On the arrival of the Venetian painter, he was
received by the Duke in person, and welcomed with
every manifestation of respect. Titian was then
thirty-seven years old, and his personal appearance
was very striking. He has himself transmitted to us,
in several portraits, the noble form of his head, the
classic outline of his profile, his lofty brow, and his
large bright eyes. His conversation was lively and
attractive, and his manners eminently captivating.
"Master Titian," said the Duke, "consider this
palace as your own. Our wish is, that you should
dispose of your time precisely in the manner which
shall best please you. Should you, however, in order
54
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
to beguile your leisure hours/ resume your pencil and
your palette, I need not say what pleasure it would
afford the court, to have an opportunity of viewing
one of your marvellous productions."
With a graceful air of gratitude, Titian thanked the
Duke for permitting him a free choice of subjects in
decorating the palace ; and on the following morning,
the enthusiastic painter commenced a piece, the "Tri-
umph of Bacchus/' which remains as a triumph o:
genius.
It would be difficult to describe the rapture of
Alfonso d'Este, when he found himself possessed of
several pictures by Titian. Had the third part of
Italy been added to his states, he could not have felt
more delight. The artist became his chief favourite ;
and he loaded him with presents, caresses, and honours.
He sat to him for his portrait, and thought he could
never recompense him sufficiently for so fine a work.
Whenever Titian spoke of returning to Venice, the
proposal was met by his host with opposition and
entreaties. At length, when the painter insisted on
going, Alfonso accompanied him in person, and when
he was returning (unheard of favour ! ), received him
into his lucentaur* in which, hitherto, only the mem-
bers of the ducal family were privileged to sit ; and
brought him back in triumph to Ferrara.
At the court of Alfonso, Titian formed a close
friendship with Ariosto, the magic colouring of whose
style rivalled, in its power of re-producing images,
the glowing canvas of the painter. The latter took
the portrait of the author of Orlando, who requited
the favour by consecrating a few lines of his immortal
poem to the praises of Titian.
One day, at the Duke's table, conversation turned
on the merits and defects of the Dutch and Flemish
painters in general, and those of Albert Durer in
particular. The general inclination seemed to be to
depreciate this artist, until Titian stood up warmly
in his defence, finishing by saying : —
" It is far easier to criticize Durer than to imitate
him."
" Could not you paint in his style, Master Titian,
if it pleased you so to do ?" asked the duke.
"At least I could try. If your Highness would give
me some wall or folding-door, I would try to paint on
it a head of Christ, with all the exactness and minute
finish of the Flemish school."
"I thought," remarked Alfonso, "that you never
voluntarily selected religious subjects ? "
" Not when they were forced on me, mio signori ;
but as your Highness has kindly allowed me to follow
my own inclination, I shall not be sorry to paint a
few sacred pictures, in order to make amends for the
number of profane ones which I have lately produced."
"On that principle, Master Ludovico," said the
duke, turning to Ariosto, " we may expect a scrip-
tural poem from you, in expiation of the sins of your
Orlando."
"I think I shall wait," laughed the poet, _" until
Cardinal Bembo shall set me the example. His emi-
nence has published a Canzonicre^ in honour of his
mistress ; but, so far as I know, he has not yet
translated a single one of David's psalms."
"You're the most incorrigible pagan I know.!
" After your Highness."
The company rose from table in the midst of a
running fire of epigrams and repartees ; and in ten
minutes afterwards, no one thought of Albert Durer
and his works.
Except Titian : he remembered the discussion well.
Early next morning he shut himself up in a room ;
and so covered with paintings was every spot in the
* The name of the large vessel used by the Venetians at the
ceremony of espousing the sea.
palace, that "the only vacant place he could find was
the door of a cupboard. On this he sketched the
celebrated head of Christ, since transported to the
Dresden Gallery ; and in a few weeks he finished
it with such exquisite beauty of detail, as to draw
from even the staunchest partisans of the Flemish
school, warm expressions of admiration.
Titian often said that a painter ought to employ
but three colours— white, red, and black ; but he
thoroughly understood the science and the magic of
contrasts, and the effects of clear-obscure : no other ,
artist has obtained such marvellous results from so ,
simple a process. The secret of his success often ,
consisted in shedding over the picture a strong, well-
defined light, and in gradually shading off the halt-
tints to the outer edges, which he touched somewhat
forcibly, in order to bring out the objects in strong
relief. In his portraits, he concentrated light, life,
and vigour in the eyes, the nose, and the mouth,
leavino- the remainder in a soft and uncertain demi-
tint. °As to the expression and resemblance, he has
never yet been rivalled.
It would be tedious, and almost impracticable to
enumerate his multifarious productions ; portraits,
allegorical paintings, historical, classical and sacred
subjects, started into life in marvellous profusion
and bewildering number, the creation of 'his prolific
pencil. Titian became intimately acquainted with
one of the most notorious characters of his day — the
Scourge of Princes, Pietro Aretino. Despite^ of the
•unbridled license and immorality of this man's writ-
ings, which have justly, in our day, consigned them
to oblivion, there can be no doubt that his bitter,
pungent satires, had their use at the time they were
written, in exposing and repressing abuses both in
church and state. Whether through fear or admira-
tion, Aretino certainly exercised much power and
influence over even the greatest and noblest of his
contemporaries ; and to him may be fairly ascribed
the firm establishment of Titian's renown.
In 1530, the painter took a likeness of the satirist,
who, in place of enriching him with gold, simply took
a sheet of paper and a pen, and recommended Titian
to the notice of his friend, the Emperor Charles V.
Just at this time, Charles had come to Bologna to j
receive the imperial crown from the hands of Clement
VII. He sent for Titian, and having received him
with the most signal marks of favouf, invited him
immediately to paint his portrait. This the artist
accomplished to the complete satisfaction of ^ his illus-
trious sitter ; representing him seated on his mighty
war-horse, in splendid armour, and in an attitude so
noble and majestic, that his subjects involuntarily
bowed in homage to the canvas.
He presented Titian with a thousand golden crowns,
and promised to befriend him further.
As soon as the emperor had left Bologna, Titian
hastened his return to Venice, in order to dazzle its
inhabitants with his increased fortune and colossal
fame. But " a prophet hath no honour in his own
country." The great artist met but a cold and envi-
ous reception in that city which ought to have hailed
him as its brightest ornament ; but he — and it is a
compensation shared by all great geniuses — was too
deeply engrossed by his immortal works to hear the
dull hissing around— his eyes were fixed on too lofty
a goal to be able to 'discern calumny twining its
serpent- folds in the shade, and crawling in the dust.
About this time he received a commission from the
monks of St. Nicholas de Frari, to paint an Eccelwmo
for their chapel. Titian amused himself by intro-
ducing portraits of his friends amongst the historical
figures, with a total disregard of the anachronism.
Pilate wore the features of his particular friend
Partenio, who certainly had no great reason to be
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
55
flattered by the choice : Charles V. and Soleyman
were placed, standing side by side, in the costume of
Roman soldiers ; while the artist introduced his own
likeness . into a corner of the canvas, as though he
w_ere watching the effect produced on the spectator,
by the sad and dishonouring exposure of the Man-
God.
At the desire of the Duke of Gonzaga, he painted
figures of the twelve Caesars, which, although copied
exactly from ancient statues and medals, were so
living and so true, that it was difficult to imagine
they had not been taken from life.
In the year 1512, he had married a Venetian lady
of good family, whom some writers call Lucia, others
Cecilia. They had two sons, Pomponio and Horace,
and a daughter named Lavinia. The eldest son took
orders as a priest, but disgraced his sacred profession
by scandalous and dissipated conduct. He squan-
dered all his property, and died literally on a bed of
straw. His brother Horace, on the contrary, was
mild and studious, and cultivated painting with some
success. But his twinkling light has been completely
lost in the dazzling effulgence of his father's fame.
Their sister, who was born in 1530, was very beauti-
ful, and the cherished darling of her father. Her
features constantly beamed from his canvas, always
embodying some chaste inspiration, some poetic
dream.
His great contemporary, Michael Angelo, rendered
full justice to his genius. "Titian," said he, "has
absolutely no equal in the power of counterfeiting
life " (controffare il vivo). The truth of this sentence
was confirmed by an incident which occurred shortly
after it was uttered. Titian placed on an open
terrace his portrait of Paul III., in order to let the
varnish dry. All the citizens passing by, believing it
was really the Pope, who stood enjoying the fresh
air, bowed respectfully and did homage to the portrait.
This anecdote is related by Benedetto Varchi, one of
Italy's most veracious historians. The Pope made many
efforts to induce Titian to remain at Rome ; but in
vain, he preferred returning to Venice, where he had
a few attached friends, who were wont to visit his
studio, and in whose society he enjoyed many happy
hours.
Towards the end of 1548, the Emperor summoned
him to court, and declared in the ears of the millions
who owned his sway, that he would not sit to any
painter save Titian. As Alexander the Great refused
to be painted by any one but Apelles, so Charles V.
prohibited all other artists from taking his portrait.
Titian was permitted to go in and out of the palace
at all seasons : he accompanied the Emperor in his
excursions, and alone enjoyed the privilege of entering
the imperial apartments unannounced. Beside all this,
Charles conferred on him the insignia of his orders,
and created him a Knight and a Count.
He and his mighty patron both grew old. Seventy-
six winters had furrowed Titian's noble brow, and
Charles was about to quit his throne for a cloister.
Before finally resigning the world, the Emperor wished
to be once more painted by his favourite ; and had
chosen for his costume his most brilliant and richest
armour. While rapidly sketching the outline, Titian's
pencil fell from his hand, and before the attendants
could stir, Charles stooped, and picking it up, pre-
sented it respectfully to the artist.
" Sire," said Titian, amazed, " what is this ? "
"Titian is worthy to be waited on by Caesar,"
replied the Emperor.
When some of the courtiers, jealous of the favour
enjoyed by the artist, ventured to speak in his dis-
praise to the Emperor, Charles replied, that the world
contained many nobles, princes, and kings, but only
one Titian.
About this time, our painter made a tour through
Germany, and was received, wherever he went, with
delight and enthusiasm. He painted a vast number
of portraits of illustrious personages during his five
years' sojourn there.
After the death of the Emperor, Titian continued
to serve his Catholic Majesty, Philip II., as his painter
in ordinary. But the new king was so much occupied
with the affairs of the Inqxiisition, and his ministers
so fully engaged in extirpating heresy, that they often
forgot to pay our artist's salary ; and he was obliged
to demand from the monarch himself the price of his
labours.
One day, Titian received from the court a commis-
sion to paint a Magdalen. In accordance with the
harsh and gloomy disposition of Philip, the figure was
to be furnished with various accessories of peniten-
tial horror. Notwithstanding, however, a sincere
desire to obey, the painter, carried away by his glow-
ing imagination, shed over the features of his Mag-
dalen an expression of arch and winning grace, sadly
at variance with feelings of grief and compunction.
Despite of the scars of scourge and hair-cloth, the
flesh looked soft and rosy ; the hair, though sprinkled
with dust, retained its silken beauty ; while the
bright eyes flashed with pleasure through their glis-
tening tears. In short, it was the beautiful sinner
of Magdala, before, not after, her repentance.
Ere he had finished the work, Titian perceived his
error. As a specimen of art, the picture was irre-
proachable, but there was much reason to presume
that Philip II. would not pay for a Danae or a Leda,
where he had ordered a Magdalen.
The artist thought of an expedient. Nearly oppo-
site his studio lived a young girl, an orphan, of great
beauty and strict virtue, but who had been forced by
dire necessity to sit to artists as a model, for a very
small pittance. Our painter had often remarked her
leaning listlessly on her crossed arms near the window,
plunged in a deep reverie, while her eyes were filled
with tears.
Titian sent for her, and offered to give her four
florins each sitting, on condition that she should
remain upright and motionless in the required posi-
tion, as long as he should wish, and whatever might
be her fatigue.
The young girl, enchanted with so liberal an offer,
promised what he wished, and the sitting commenced
immediately.
At the end of half an hour, tired of maintaining
the same attitude, she humbly begged the painter,
notwithstanding their agreement, to give her one
moment's respite.
Titian feigned not to have heard her, and pursued
his work with unremitting ardour. Another quarter
passed — a fresh supplication from the model, and
continued silence on the part of the artist.
At length, wheri an hour had elapsed, the poor
child, overcome with suffering, renewed her petition
to the painter, and then, without waiting his per-
mission, reclined against a chair.
Titian, in great anger, reproached her roughly with
having broken her promise ; and threatened to turn
her out of the studio without the stipulated payment,
if she did not instantly resume her former atti-
tude.
The unhappy girl, worn out with grief and pain,
rose without uttering a word, and stood in the
required position, while bitter and abundant tears
flowed silently down her pale cheeks.
"'Tis done! " cried Titian in a voice of triumph.
" That's the expression I wanted ! " And having
given a few rapid touches, he ran towards the girl,
embraced her with paternal tenderness, wiped away
her tears, and placed her on an easy couch.
5G
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
" My child," said he, " you have aided me to com-
plete a masterpiece, and it is but right that you
should share the profits. " Here," he added, giving
EE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS.
her a heavy purse of gold, " is your dowry. I will
marry you to one of my pupils, so that your sitting
as a model will be no longer compulsory."
Philip II. was struck with admiration and wonder
A SUMMER SKETCH.
at the sight of this picture, in which Titian had indeed
surpassed himself. After paying him the highest
compliments,, the king inquired graciously, where-
fore the Magdalen was weeping so bitterly ?
"Sire," replied Titian, "she is praying you, with
'Tis June, 'tis merry, smiling June,
'Tis blushing Summer now ;
The rose is red — the bloom is dead —
tears in her eyes, to pay me the arrears of the
The fruit is on the bough.
pension bestowed on mo by your Majesty's august
father."
Flora with Ceres — hand in hand,
Philip took the hint ; and it appears by a letter
Bring all their smiling train ;
written from Barcelona, and dated March, 1564, that
The yellow corn is waving high,
the viceroy of Naples, and the governor of Milan,
To gild the earth again.
were ordered to discharge, without delay, the just
demands of a man whom his Majesty esteemed so
The bird-cage hangs upon the wall,
highly.
Amid the clustering vine ;
When Vasari, in 1566, visited Titian at Venice, he
The rustic seat is in the porch,
found him seated before his easel, working with
WThere honeysuckles twine.
unabated vigour, and conversing with untamed viva-
city.
The rosy ragged urchins play
This was ten years before his death ; but even to
Beneath the glowing sky ;
the last, though the old man's back was bent, his
They scoop the sand, or gaily chase
eye dim, and his hand trembling, yet his soul sur-
The bee that buzzes by.
vived, keen and brilliant, as a sword which has worn
out its scabbard.
The household spaniel flings his length
Titian was upwards of ninety years old when he
finished his great painting of the Transfiguration,
and another scarcely less excellent, of the Annuncia-
Along the stone-paved hall ;
The panting sheep-dog seeks the spot
"Where Iccifv stmdows fiill
tion, for the church of San-Valtore.
Now, it happened that the patrons of the church
— honest burghers, whose knowledge of the fine arts
was extremely limited — fancied they observed an
inequality in the execution of the piece, some por-
The petted kitten frisks among
The bean-flowers' fragrant maze ;
Or, basking, throws her dappled form
tions of it, in virtue of the eternal law of contrasts,
To court the warmest rays.
having evidently been sacrificed by the painter. They
therefore had the hardihood to ask Titian whether
The opened casement, flinging wide,
the painting was really his.
The indignant old man vouchsafed not a word in
Geraniums gives to view ;
With choicest posies ranged between,
reply, but darted a withering glance at the querists ;
Still wet with morning dew.
and then signing to his attendant to bring him a
pencil, with a hand tremulous from anger and emotion,
he traced in a corner of the picture the emphatic
'Tis June, 'tis merry, laughing June,
There's not a cloud above ;
words : Titianus, fecit, fecit I
The air is still, o'er heath and hill,
He received a visit in his studio from Henry III.,
The bulrush does not move.
king of France and Poland, escorted by the Dukes
of Ferrara, Mantua, and Albino. They conversed
The pensive willow bends to kiss
familiarly with Titian, admired his paintings, and
The stream so deep and clear ;
the king having selected those which pleased him
, While dabbling ripples, gliding on,
best, requested their owner to fix the price, which
Bring music to mine ear.
should be remitted to him immediately.
O
The old man smiled, rose with difficulty from his
The mower whistles o'er his toil
chair, and bowing respectfully, said :
" Your Majesty will do me the favour to accept
these pictures as a testimony of my gratitude. I do
not take money from my guests."
The emerald grass must yield ;
The scythe is out, the swath is down,
There's incense in the field.
He lived in a style of royal magnificence, dispens-
Oh ! how I love to calmly muse
ing, in the exercise of hospitality, a large portion of
In such an hour as this ;
the sums he received.
In 1576, when he wanted but one year of having
lived a century, he died of the plague, then raging
To nurse the joy Creation gives,
In purity and bliss !
at Venice.
Notwithstanding the mourning and consternation
in which the city was plunged, despite of the risk
incurred in attending the funeral, the remains of
There is devotion in my soul
My lip can ne'er, impart ;
But thou, oh God ! will deign to read
Titian were followed by a multitude, and interred
The tablet of rny heart.
with solemn pomp in the church of St. Luke. The
inhabitants stippressed their private grie£ in order
And if that heart should e'er neglect
to render, at the peril of their lives, the^st tribute
The homage of its prayer,
of respect and homage to him who was the glory of
Lead it to Nature's altar-piece, —
their land.
'Twill always worship there.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
FIEE.
BLANDLY glowing, richly bright,
Cheering star of social light ;
While I gently heap it higher,
How I bless thee, sparkling fire !
Who loves not the kindly rays
Streaming from the tempered blaze ?
Who can sit beneath his hearth
Dead to feeling, stern to mirth ?
Who can watch the crackling pile,
And keep his breast all cold the while ?
Eire is good, but it must serve :
Keep it thralled — for if it swerve
Into freedom's open path,
What shall check its maniac wrath ?
Where 's the tongue that can proclaim
The fearful work of curbless flame ?
Darting wide and shooting high,
It lends a horror to the sky ;
It rushes on to waste, to scare,
Arousing terror and despair ;
It tells the utmost earth can know
About the demon scenes below ;
And sinks at last all spent and dead,
Among the ashes it has spread.
Sure the poet is not wrong
To glean a moral from the song.
Listen, youth ! nor scorn, nor frown,
Thou must chain thy Passions down :
Well to serve, but ill to sway,
Like the Fire they must obey.
They are good in subject state
To strengthen, warm, and animate ;
But if once we let them reign,
They sweep with desolating train,
Till they but leave a hated name,
A ruined soul, and blackened fame.
LINES TO THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND.
LADY, perchance my untaught strain
May little suit a royal ear ;
But I would break my lyre in twain
Ere aught it yield be insincere.
There's been enough of dulcet tone
To praise thy charms and greet thy youth ;
But I, though standing by thy throne,
Would proudly dare to sing the truth.
I cannot join the minstrel throng
Who pour idolatrous pretence ;
Because I deem such fulsome song
Must sadly pall upon thy sense.
Thou art a star, whose leading light
Must beacon through a stormy way ;
Shine out, and if thou guid'st aright,
Our hearts will bless the saving ray.
If thou wouldst walk a better path
Than regal steps have chiefly trod,
So sway thy sceptre, that it hath
Some glorious attributes of GOD.
Peace, Mercy, Justice, mark His reign,
And these should dwell with all who rule
Beware ! resist the poison bane
Of tyrant, knave, or courtier fool.
Thou hast been trained by goodly hand
To fill thy place of mighty care ;
And Heaven forbid that Faction's band
Should turn our hopes to blank despair.
Lean on thy people, trust their love,
Thou'lt never find a stronger shield ;
The " toiling herd " will nobly prove
What warm devotion they can yield.
Remember, much of weal or woe
To millions, rests alone with thee ;
Be firm, and let Old England show
A nation happy, wise, and free.
SONNET,
Written at the Couch of a dying Parent.
'Tis midnight ! and pale Melancholy stands
Beside me, wearing a funereal wreath
Of yew and cypress : the faint dirge of Death
Moans in her breathing, while her withered hands
Fling corse-bedecking rosemary around.
She offers nightshade, spreads a winding-sheet,
Points to the clinging clay upon her feet,
And whispers tidings of the charn el-ground.
Oh ! pray thee, Melancholy, do not bring*
These bitter emblems with thee ; I can bear
With all but these, — 'tis these, oh God ! that wring
And plunge my heart in maddening despair.
Hence, for a while, pale Melancholy, go !
And let sweet slumber lull my weeping woe.
JOHN STERLING.*
IN TWO PARTS— PAKT I.
A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift.
" WHO was John Sterling ? " is a question we have
more than once heard put since the announcement of
his biography by Carlyle. Sterling ! was he some
hero ? or does Carlyle, who so often speaks through
personations of his own invention, mean by Sterling
some Anti M 'Growler, Plugson of Undershot, or
Sir Jabesh Windbag ? No ! John Sterling was a
veritable man, — a living, struggling, hard-working
man, — a really loving and lovable man, — one
who took captive the hearts of even the sternest,
and bound them to him by the strong ties of friend-
ship. He seems to have been one of those beautiful
natures that carry about with them a charm to
captivate all beholders. They are full of young
genius, full of promise, full of enthusiasm ; and
seem to be on the high-road towards honour, fame,
and glory, when suddenly their career is cut short by
death, and their friends are left bewailing and
lamenting.
Just such another character was Charles Pember-
ton, — a man of somewhat kindred genius to Sterling,
— who had done comparatively little, but had excited
great hopeB^ among a circle of ardent friends and
* The Life of John Sterling. By Thomas Carlyle. Chap-
man and Hall. 1851.
58
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
admirers, whom he had riveted to him by certain inde-
finable personal and intellectual charms ; when he was
stricken down by death, and, like Sterling, left only
a few scattered " Remains " to be judged by. Poor
Keats, too, died just as he had given to the world the
promise of one of its greatest men, but not before he
had sent down into the future, strains of undying
poesy. Shelley, too ! What a loss was there ! What
glorious promise of a Man did he not offer ! But the
names of the great, who have died in youth, are
more than can be told : as Shelley sang, —
The good die first,
While they whose hearts are dry as summer's dust
Burn to their socket.
But what of Sterling? What did he do ? What
has he left as a legacy to us by which to know and
remember him ?
We have now two lives of him, written by two of
his many intimate friends and devoted admirers, —
Archdeacon Hare and Thomas Carlyle. That two
such men should have written a life of Sterling,
would argue of itself something in his character and
career more than ordinary. Archdeacon Hare's came
first : his work was in two volumes, containing the
collected Essays and Tales of John Sterling, with a
memoir of his Life. On reading that Life, interest-
ing and beautiful though it was, one could not help
feeling that there was a good deal remaining untold,
and that the tone adopted in speaking of John
Sterling's opinions on religious subjects was un-
necessarily apologetic. It seems to have been this
circumstance which has drawn forth the Life by Car-
lyle. "Archdeacon Hare," says Carlyle, "takes up
Sterling as a clergyman merely. Sterling, I find,
was a curate for exactly eight months. But he was a
man, and had relation to the Universe for eight and
thirty years ; and it is in this latter character, to
which all the others were but features and transitory
hues, that we wish to know him. His battle with
hereditary Church-formulas was severe ; but it was
by no means his one battle with things inherited, nor
indeed his chief battle ; neither, according to my
observation of what it was, is it successfully de-
lineated or summed up in this book. A pale sickly
shadow in torn surplice is presented to us here ;
weltering bewildered amid heaps of what you call
' Hebrew Old-clothes ; ' wrestling, with impotent
impetuosity, to free itself from the baleful imbroglio,
as if that had been its one function in life : who, in
this miserable figure, would recognize the brilliant,
beautiful, and cheerful John Sterling, with his ever-
flowing wealth of ideas, fancies, imaginations ; with
his frank affections, inexhaustible hopes, audacities,
activities, and general radiant vivacity of heart and
intelligence, which made the presence of him an
illumination and inspiration wherever he went?
It is too bad. Let a man be honestly forgotten when
his life ends ; but let him not be misremembered in
this way. To be hung up as an ecclesiastical scarecrow,
as a target for heterodox and orthodox to practise
archery upon, is no fate that can be due to the
memory of Sterling."
And so Carlyle determined to give thi* more
ithohc portraiture of his deceased friend. Let us
now examine the incidents and the more prominent
features of Sterling's life.
The life is that of a literary man, and presents
comparatively few incidents. Even as a literary man
.e was never at any time a notoriety, and his name
never filled the mouths of men, nor was seen in the
newspapers. He was comparatively unknown ex-
cept by his own circle of ardent admirers. We give
a few facts about his early history.
Sterling was born at Kaimes Castle, in the island of
Bute, Scotland, in 1806, of Irish parents, who were
both of Scotch extraction ; the mother was some-
what proud of being a descendant of Wallace, the
Scottish hero. Edward Sterling, the father, pursued
farming ; he had been a militia captain, and took to
it as a calling, by way of helping out the family
means. From Bute, he removed to Llanblethian, in
Glamorganshire, in 1809, where the family remained
till 1814. Here the young Sterling's childhood was
nurtured amid forms of wild and romantic beauty.
But his father, the captain, was an ardent- minded,
active man, and could ill confine himself to the small
details of Welsh farming. His thoughts were abroad.
He corresponded with newspapers. He wrote a
pamphlet. He sent letters to the Times, signed
Vetus, which were afterwards thought worthy of
being collected and reprinted. The captain went
further. He left his farm in Wales, and proceeded to
Paris, with the project of acting as foreign corre-
spondent for the Times newspaper. His family
accompanied him to Paris, where they staid some
eight months, until the sudden return of Napoleon
from Elba, when they had to decamp to England on
the instant. Captain Sterling returned to London,
where he finally settled ; and before long became
a very notorious, if not a distinguished personage.
His connection with the Times newspaper grew
closer ; until at length he became extensively known
as " The Thunderer of the Times," and was publicly
lashed by O'Connell in that character ; Sterling, on
his part, returning the great agitator's compliments
with full interest. The character and history of this
Times editor, — a great power of his day, — are given
at some length by Carlyle, who seems to dwell upon
the subject with much pleasure. Indeed, it form?
one of the most delightful and interesting parts of
the book.
The boy was schooled in London, and grew as boys
like him will grow ; he was quick, clever, cheerful,
gallant, generous, self-willed, and rather difficult to
manage. A little letter of his to his mother, is
given in the biography, written when he was twelve
years old, showing that he had "run away" from his
home at Blackheath, to Dover. The cause had been
some slight or indignity put upon him which he
could not bear. But he was brought home, and like
other child's "slights" it was soon forgotten. As a
boy, he was a great reader in the promiscuous line ;
reading Edinburgh Reviews, cart-loads of novels, and
"wading like Ulysses towards his palace, through
infinite dung." At sixteen he was sent to Glasgow
University, where he lived with some of his mother's
connections. Then, at nineteen, he proceeded to
Trinity College, Cambridge, where he had for his
tutor Julius Hare, now the archdeacon his bio-
grapher.
Though not an exact scholar, Sterling became well
and extensively read, possessing great facilities of
assimilation for all kinds of mental diet. His studies
were irregular and discursive, but extensive and ency-
clopedic. At Cambridge he was brought into friendly
connection with many afterwards distinguished men
-Frederick Maurice, Richard Trench, John Kemble'
Charles Buller, Monckton Milnes, and others, who
were afterwards in life his fast friends. Sterling was
a ready and a brilliant speaker at the Union Club ; and "
already began to exhibit strong " Radical " leanings
displaying no small daring in his attacks upon
established ideas and things. "In short," says
Carlyle, " he was a young and ardent soul, lookino-
with hope and joy into a world which was infinitely
beautiful to him, though overhung with falsities and
foul cobwebs as world never was before ; overloaded
overclouded, to the zenith and the nadir of it, by incredi-
ble uncredited traditions, solemnly sordid hypocrisies
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
59
and beggarly deliriums old and ' new; which latter
class of objects it was clearly the part of every noble
heart to expend all its lightnings and energies in
burning up without delay, and sweeping into their
native Chaos out of such a Cosmos as this."
It was Sterling's intention to take a degree in Law
at Cambridge, but, like many other of his intentions,
it came to nothing ; and after a two years' residence,
his university life ended. What to do next ? He
has grown into manhood, and must have a "profes-
sion." What is it to be ? Is it to be the Law, or the
Church ? or, is he to enter the career of trade, and
make money in it, thereby to secure " the temporary
hallelujah of flunkeys." His "Radical " notions gave
him a deep aversion to the pursuit of the Law ; and
as for the Church, at that time, he had sported ideas
at Cambridge about its "black dragoon," which
showed that his leanings were not that way. The true
career for Sterling, in Carlyle's opinion, was Par-
liament, and it was possibly with some such ultimate
design in view, that Sterling engaged himself as
secretary to a public association of gentlemen, got up
for the purpose of opening the trade to India. But
the association did not live long, and the secretary-
ship lapsed.
One other course remained open for Sterling, — the
career of Literature, and he plunged into it. Joining
his friend Maurice, the copyright of the Athenaeum
(which Silk Buckingham had some time before
established) was purchased, and there he printed his
first literary effusions, many of which are preserved
in Archdeacon Hare's Collection, — crude, imperfect,
yet singularly beautiful and attractive papers, as, for
instance, The Lycian Painter, containing seeds of great
promise. Yet, asCarlyle observes, "a grand melancholy
is the prevailing impression they leave ; partly as if,
while the surface was so blooming and opulent, the
heart of them was still vacant, sad, and cold. The
writer's heart is indeed still too vacant, except of
beautiful shadows and reflexes and resonances ; and
is far from joyful, though it wears commonly a
smile." He himself used afterwards to speak of this
as his "period of darkness."
The Athenceum did not prosper in Sterling's hands.
He did not understand commercial management,
which is absolutely necessary for the success even of
a literary journal. So fhe AtfiencEum was transferred
to other hands, under which it throve vigorously.
But the Athenceum had introduced Sterling into the
literary life of London, which tended to confirm him
in his pursuit. Among the celebrities with whom
he now had familiar intercourse, was Coleridge,
whose home at Highgate Hill he often visited, and
there he listened to that eloquent talker playing the
magician with his auditors, — "a dusky sublime
character, who sat there as a kind of Magus, girt in
mystery and enigma, whispering strange things,
uncertain whether oracles or jargon." The influence
which Coleridge exercised upon the religious thinking
of his day, was unquestionably great, dreamy and
speculative though he was ; but whether it will
survive, whether the religious life of the world will
be advanced in any way by Coleridge's lofty musings,
is matter of great doubt to many ; because, glorious
though the rumbling of his sonorous voice was, you
too often felt that it died away in sound, leaving no
solid, appreciable, practical, intelligible meaning be-
hind it. But on this wide question we shall not
enter. Certain it was that Sterling, notwithstanding
his 0" Radical " notions, was for the time deeply
influenced by his intercourse with Coleridge, and by
what Carlyle calls his "thrice-refined pabulum of
transcendental moonshine." This sufficiently appears
in the novel of Arthur Coningsby, which Sterling
wrote in 1830, — his only prose book.
About this time, Sterling deeply interested himself
in the fate of some poor Spanish emigres, driven out
of their own country by some revolution there, and
then vegetating about Somer's Town, beating the
pavement in Euston Square. Their chief was Gene-
ral Torrijos, with whom Sterling had become intimate,
and in whose fortunes he took a warm interest.
Torrijos was zealous in the cause of his country ; he
would effect a landing, revolutionize and liberalize
Spain ; but he wanted money. Sterling was inte-
rested by the romance of the thing, and he also
warmly sympathized with the sentiments of the old
general. He proceeded to raise money among his
friends ; money was collected ; arms were bought ; a
ship was provided by Lieutenant Boyd, an Irishman ;
the ship was in the Thames, taking in its armanent,
when, lo ! the police suddenly appeared on board, and
the vessel was seized and its stores confiscated.
Torrijos, Boyd, and some others, did afterwards
manage to land in Spain ; where they met with an
exceedingly tragical ending.
But something else issued from this Spanish mis-
adventure, of interest to Sterling. He had become
acquainted with the Misses Barton, the daughters
of Lieutenant-General Barton of the Life Guards, —
very delightful young ladies. He seems to have
excited something more than merely friendly feelings
in Susannah's bosom ; for when he went to take leave
of her, to embark in the projected Spanish invasion,
the following scene occurred : —
" 'You are going, then, to Spain? To rough it amid
the storms of war and perilous insurrection ; and
with that weak health of yours ; and — we shall
never see you more, then ! ' Miss Barton, all her
gaiety gone, the dimpling softness become liquid
sorrow and the musical ringing voice one wail of
woe, ' burst into tears,' — so I have it on authority.
Here was one possibility about to be strangled that
made unexpected noise ! Sterling's interview ended
in the offer of his hand, and the acceptance of it."
So Sterling quitted the Spanish expedition, and
married Susannah Barton. But scarcely was he mar-
ried ere he fell seriously ill, — so ill that he lay utterly
prostrate for weeks, and his life was long despaired
of. His career after this was a constant alternation
of health and illness, rampant good spirits and
prostrate feebleness. His lungs were affected, and
consumption began to show indications of its coming.
The doctors, however, gave hopes of him, — only it
was necessary he should remove to a warmer climate.
His family had inherited a valuable property in the
West Indies, at St. Vincent, whither he went to
reside in 1831, and remained in that beautiful island,
under the hot sun of the tropics, for about fifteen
months, returning to England greatly improved in
health. From thence he went to Bonn, in Germany,
where he met with his old friend and quondam tutor,
the Rev. Julius Hare, then and now Rector of
Herstmonceux, in Sussex. With him, Sterling had
much serious talk on religious matters.
Sterling, still under the influence of the Coleridgian
views, which had been working within him at St.
Vincent and since, expressed to Mr. Hare a wish to
enter the Church as a minister, which Mr. H.
" strongly urged " him to do, offering to appoint him
to his own curacy at Herstmonceux, which was then
vacant. Shortly after, he returned to England, was
ordained deacon at Chichester, in 1834, and was
appointed curate immediately after, entering ear-
nestly on the duties of that calling. But this lasted
only for some eight months, when his health, certain
"misgivings," doubts, and distresses of mind, com-
pelled him to withdraw, and he left for London again,
finally to embark on the great sea of literature,
GO
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
which he felt to be his proper vocation. Carlyle
designates his acceptance of the curacy as "the
crowning error" of Sterling's life. "No man of
Sterling's veracity," says he, " had he clearly
consulted his own heart, or had his own heart
been capable of clearly responding, and not been
dazzled and bewildered by transient fantasies and
theosophic moonshine, could have undertaken this
function. His heart would have answered : ' No,
thou canst not. What is incredible to thee, thou
shalt not, at thy soul's peril, attempt to believe !
Elsewhither for a refuge, or die here. Go to per-
dition if thou must, — but not with a lie in thy
mouth ! ' "
Carlyle twice heard Sterling preach, and thus
describes the occasions : " It was in some new
college-chapel in Somerset House ; a very quiet
small place, the audience student-looking youths,
with a few elder people, perhaps mostly friends
of the preacher's. The discourse, delivered with a
grave sonorous composure, and far surpassing in
talent the usual run of sermons, had withal an air of
human veracity, as I still recollect, and bespoke dig-
nity and piety of mind ; but gave me the impression
rather of artistic excellence than of unction or
inspiration in that kind. Sterling returned with us
to Chelsea that day ; and in the afternoon we went
on the Thames Putney-ward together, we two with
my wife ; under the sunny skies, on the quiet water,
and with copious cheery talk, the remembrance of
which is still present enough to me.
" This was properly my only specimen of Sterling's
preaching. Another time, late in the same autumn,
I did indeed attend him one evening to some church
in the City,— a big church behind Cheapside, < built
by Wren/ as he carefully informed me ; — but there, in
my wearied mood, the chief subject of reflection was
the almost total vacancy of the place, and how an
eloquent soul was preaching to mere lamps and
prayerbooks ; and of the sermon I retain no image.
It came up in the way of banter, if he ever urged the
duty of 'Church extension,' which already he very
seldom did, and at length never, what a specimen we
once had of bright lamps, gilt prayerbooks, baize-
lined pews, Wren-built architecture; and how, in
almost all directions, you might have fired a musket
through the church, and hit no Christian life. A
terrible outlook, indeed, for the apostolic labourer in
the brick-and-mortar line ! "
CHEAP JOHN.
"A GENUINE Sheffield whittle— best steel— ivory
haft — two blades and a corkscrew— a real tip-
topper— who'll buy ? who'll buy ? "
Such was Cheap John's style of speech He
was a sharp fellow, with a keen cunning eye His
tongue was glib as an eel. When I first saw him he
stood in front of his cart,— his travelling warehouse
- m the market-place of a country town, with
a crowd of gaping rustics about him, admiring
his amazing volubility, which to country-bred men
always seems something next to supernatural A
man who can go on talking without stopping, as
Cheap John could do, for hours together, was to
them as extraordinary as the feat of the juggler who
draws tape, ribands, and gimp, from his mouth yard
upon yard, without stint or measure. They' who
never spoke except in monosyllables, couldn't for the
hie of them conceive how the thing was done. But
Cheap John spoke on, and what was more, he sold
s goods. I, poor little dumpling, was myself
inducsd to buy by the brilliant description which he
continued to give of the Sheffield knife. / wanted a
knife. I had infinitely longed for one, since I had
been advanced from the state of pinafores to that of
trowsers. My hand fumbled for the bright shilling
which I had saved together in coppers, and now could
spend as my own.
"Only fifteen-pence, who'll buy? It will serve
for a looking-glass, a razor, a whittle, a lancet, a
gimlet, a corkscrew ! The very best Sheffield steel,
— a first rate article, — who'll buy ? only fifteen-pence.
Will any one give a shilling for this first-rate article ?
It's a terrible sacrifice, but I'm determined to sell ;
only a shilling. Any bid 'I "
"I'lltake it," said I. John detected the bidder,
small though his voice was, in an instant. " Make
way for the gentleman," said he. I advanced,
blushing scarlet, with my bright shilling in my hand,
and exchanged it for the knife ; Cheap John calling
out in his droll way, " Sold again, to a gentleman
worth fifty thousand pounds a year ! " There was a
broad grin among the rustics, and I retreated with
the knife in my pocket.
I was ambitious to try its mettle. Of course my
first experiment was on a stick. Who has not felt
the delight of cutting his first stick, and with his
first knife, of which he is whole and sole proprietor ?
Alas ! I had not proceeded far, before I came to a
knot in my stick ; I pushed and cut, — I had not much
strength, but it was too much for my new knife.
There was a snap, and the blade was left sticking in
the wood. Conceive my sorrow. "Ah ! " said a
bigger boy, to whom I told my tale, " that's one of
Cheap John's knives, — it's only cast-iron ! it isn't
worth twopence ! " " But he said it was the best
steel." " Bah ! Cheap John says anything that'll
make his knives sell, — they're only a pack of rubbish."
I often fell in with Cheap John after that fir,-:t
adventure. I found him selling me cheap fishing-
hooks, and cheap "gut" for lines ; cheap hoops,
cheap whips, and cheap balls ; and when I was
advanced to the dignity of a beard, cheap razors, and
many other cheap things. There were Cheap Johns
who seduced me into buying boots, through whose
tips my extreme termini would insidiously peep
before the day was done, — cheap stuff for trowsers,
which soon got "baggy" about the knees, and
which knowing friends told me was made of shoddy ;
indeed, one of these was so obligingly kind as to
thrust his thumb through the tail of my top-coat one
day, to convince me of the fact. "You have the
honour," said he, "of wearing a coat which has once
done duty as a carpet, perhaps as a horse-rug, but
which now, thanks to the shoddy manufacturer,
adorns an admiring follower of Cheap John."
N^t to speak of hats, stockings, linens, and
"Nichols," I found Cheap John had also an
extensive hand in the coffee trade. He was " great "
in that department, bringing the beverage within the
means of all cheap consumers, by the aid of burnt
coffin- wood, roasted liver, red ochre, and chicory. I
gave up coffee altogether, preferring to drink that
which I knew something about, to the villanous
compound now falsely called by the name of coffee.
But lo ! Cheap John, I found, had been at work with
^ too. There was " Monsieur Tonson come
again." My black tea was sloe-leaves with a coating
of black lead, or old tea-leaves, infused and re-infused^
bought up from servant maids, and made to look as
good as new ! My green tea was painted. My
cocoa was adulterated with pea-meal. My choco-
late was full of flour and treacle. And the "gemuine
homeopathic cocoa," was the most unsound of all.
In my sugar was sand, and my milk was watered.
Not an article was unadulterated, not even the
water ; it was an animal mixture ; when boiled, a
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Gl
decoction of wheel globules and slimy animalcules,
sold out by an incorporated company at the " lowest
figure." Cheap John was everywhere ; and not only
I, but the public at large, was his victim.
It was not always that I could escape the knave.
He tracked me through all my meals. Did I take
refuge in sausages, he was there, in the shape of
dead cat and horse. The question of " what becomes
of the dead donkeys," approached somewhat nearer
solution in my mind. My butter was mixed with
lard, and my beef was blown up. " Nice white
veal " made me shudder. I tried to avoid Cheap
John and his shops, — yet he contrived to get access
to me, somehow. I was not always proof against the
temptations of his advertisements. But time and
suffering did much for me. I at last acquired the
moral courage to avoid him. I passed by his great
advertizing vans with a shrug ; ran my eye over his
puffs without reading them ; avoided cheap shops as
a nuisance ; could hear of infusion of logwood, sold as
"fine old crusted port" at 35s. the dozen, with
deliberate composure ; and was satisfied to buy
things that were good, even though they were not
cheap. In short, I had found out Cheap John, as a
boy and as a man, to be a thorough-paced knave, and
I eschewed him accordingly.
OUR AUTUMN TRIP THROUGH MUNSTER.
THE VALLEY OF THE LEE. — MERRY BEGGARS. —
' ' FOREIGN " SETTLERS. — MACROOM. — ' ' KERRY FOR
. BUTTER." — INCHAGEELA. — GOUGANE BARRA. — RICH-
ARD CRONIJST. — SAINT FIN BAR'S ISLE. — PILGRIMS AND
BEGGARS.
BY far the finest and most picturesque route from
Cork to the Lakes of Killaraey, is that up the valley
of the Lee, by Macroom, the Pass of Keim-an-eigh, and
Glengarriff ; and that was the route which we took,
accordingly. Adopting the convenient outside jaunt-
ing car of the country, we started from Cork on a fine
morning in early autumn, accompanied by the
" God bless ye " of a group of merry beggars, of all
ages, who had collected round the car at the hotel
door, and whom a halfpenny a-piece seemed to make
as happy as could be. Passing out of the city by the
fine western road, we passed, in succession, the noble
Queen's College and the New Lunatic Asylum, both
fine buildings of considerable extent. These, with the
extensive barracks, and the county gaol, are among
the finest public buildings in or about Cork. Barracks,
gaols, and lunatic asylums ! But the college is cer-
tainly a redeeming feature — which Ireland owes to
the Government, — and it is a kind of set-off to its
barracks and poor-houses.
The scenery all up the Lee is most beautiful.
Plenty of old castles — a story of horror attached to
each ; some the strongholds of old Irish chiefs, bat-
tered and destroyed in the course of the many devas-
tating rebellions which harassed the country ; others
the castles of the foreign lords, with Norman-French
or English names, who, " more Irish than the Irish
themselves," were generally as ready as they to wage
war against each other, or against the Government it-
self. Of these old ruins, Carrig-a-droid is one of the most
interesting, the origin of which, tradition ascribes to
the instrumentality of a Leprehawn, or fairy, in this
way : A cripple, or hunchback, had fallen in love with
his chieftain's daughter, and was pining for her, when
one day he heard the click of a Leprehawn's hammer,
who was making brogues down by the' river-side.
He seized the fairy, and compelled him to tell the
secret place where his treasures were secreted. The
Leprehawn not only did this, but endowed the hunch-
back at the same time with manly grace ; when he
wooed and won the lady of his love, and built for her this
beautiful castle. Another tradition ascribes its origin
to a chief of the Macarthys — a powerful family in this
neighbourhood in the " ould times." Like almost all
other old ruins in Ireland, Oliver Cromwell besieged
it, and its strength for a time baffled him. It was
then held for Charles I., by a Roman Catholic Bishop
of Ross — a valiant general of that day. It was only
taken by stratagem, and was afterwards dismantled.
The abbey and castle of Kilcrea lie not far off,
— embosomed in trees, in a lovely part of the valley
— the burial-place of the Macarthys. Further on,
are other ruined castles, the former strongholds of the
M'Sweenys, O'Learys, and other old families, most of
which are extinct.
The huts along the route lay scattered far apart.
Though the valley is rich and fertile, the population
seems very thin and very poor — the huts miserable,
dark, dismal, and unwholesome places, their floors
mostly beneath the level of the ground ; an occasional
pig standing in the doorway, or rooting about among
the litter on the floor ; but even a pig is an evidence
of prosperity, of a sort which many of these poor
Irish peasants could not boast of.
Our car stopt at a little village of not more than a
dozen humble huts, that the horse might have a drink ;
and in as many seconds, some eight beggar-boys, girls,
and old women, were about us, soliciting "a ha'penny
for the love of God," &c. One of the poor girls was
idiotic, but the boys were mostly stout active fellows,
and nothing would serve them but they must dance
a jig (which certainly proved of the roughest sort) for
our entertainment, one of the biggest of them singing
a song in Irish, by way of tune.
" I can't understand," said my uncle, " the brilliant
gaiety, and apparently genuine happiness, of these
poor fellows. They look as if they had never known
care or want, excepting that their dress is terribly
scanty. See that fine big fellow, how lustily he
capers, knocking his knees on the hard ground for
a diversion."
' ' How old are you, sir ? "
" Fourteen, sir."
" And what do you work at ? "
" Work, sir ? Is it work your honour said ? Arrah,
thin, it's small work we'd have, till the praties are
ripe ! "
" And what do you intend to do when you are a
man ?"
" Why, I'll go for a soger, your honour, — but I'm
not big enough yet."
A sad sight, truly, to see the youth of a country
looking to the hard life of a soldier — or to the emigra-
tion fields of America, which the more industrious do
— for the occupation which their own rich soil so
abundantly offers to them, were there but sufficient
inducements held out to them by employei-s. Some
time after, when at Cashel, I found a foot regiment
had just entered the town, on their way to Clonmel.
The inn was occupied by officers ; and on stepping
out to the door, I was accosted by a youth,
some sixteen years of age, who eagerly asked if I
" would take him for a soger ? " He had come in from
the country, some three or four miles off, to "list."
What became of him after, I did not hear ; but by
this time, possibly, he may have sold himself— fine
young fellow he was — as " food for powder."
As we drove off from the " Potheen House " — for
the place we had stopt at was no better — more
beggars had arrived ; some of them hurrying on their
shreds of clothes as they issued from their wretched
cabins. It was a lamentable picture of an Irish
village. Yet the carman told us, that the richness
of the land thereabout had recently tempted both
02
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Scotch and English farmers to settle there. One
Perthshire fanner, of whom I afterwards heard, had
been there for a year, and was so pleased with the
people, and so satisfied with his prospects, that he
had induced a cousin to come over and settle near
him. He had the farm on a lease, paid 19s. an acre
for the land, which was of first-rate quality, and got
as many labourers as he wanted at lOd. a-day, which
was 2d. beyond the average wage of the district ; by
this means securing the best labourers, and keeping
them in his service after they had become initiated
into his improved methods of farming. It is easy to
see that the extensive settlement of a new class of
energetic farmers, men of capital, who are free from
the prejudices — religious, political, and otherwise — -
of most of the present employing classes of Ireland,
would soon put an altogether new face on society,
and elevate the labouring classes in all ways — morally,
physically, and socially.
"But what of their laziness?" asked my uncle of
the young Scotchman who gave us the above informa-
tion.
" Try, them ; " was his answer, " pay them a fair
wage, and you'll get no more willing, hard-working
labourers anywhere. Give them but the inducement
to work, and they will be just as industrious as they
are in England, in Scotland, and in the United States.
Treat Irish labourers kindly, and of all others you
will find them the most grateful. The charge of
laziness originates, I believe, entirely in prejudice ;
at least, I have never been able to discover any fail-
grounds for the charge."
" Ah ! " said my uncle, " I see how it is. Like all
other settlers in Ireland, you have become more Irish
than the Irish themselves."
"Well," said he, "I confess I love the country,
and I admire the peasantiy, — a nobler race does not
exist, and with such elements of fine character as are
very rarely to be met with. But they want good
usage, sir, — they want to be treated as men, — and
have they not a right to be so treated ? "
Something more passed of a similar tendency, of
which perhaps more anon.
We had now reached Macroom — a long straggling
town, consisting of a single street up to the mar-
ket-place, where it branches into two; the old
keep of the castle of Macroom, together with the
large square hulk of a desolate-looking inn, behind
which the castle stands, dividing the two western-
most streets. The country about Macroom, which
stands on the river Sullane, is of remarkable beauty.
You step out of the market-place, through the old
gateway, directly into the shrubbery which surrounds
the castle, and immediately before you stands the
lofty, square, ivy-covered keep, which, done up in
modern style, is nearly all that remains of the old
building. But it is a spot of marvellous beauty.
Far away, up the hill-sides on the south, extend
noble woods, between which and the castle grounds
lies a noble park, studded with clumps of trees, amid
which you discern antlered stags and herds of deer ;
—the grass of the most delicious green — the landscape
rich and laughing, — nature arrayed in her gayest
livery. To the north and west, up the Sullane, the
view is equally fine, but of a different character, with
the hills of Slievh Puagh in the distance. As usual,
a long history of rapine and warfare is associated with
the old castle— emblem, as it is, of a time when force
was the only recognized power in the district,
For why? because the good old rule
Sufficed them, the simple plan
That they should take, who have the power
And they should keep who can.
^ Peeping in at the gate-keeper's cottage, at the out-
side entrance to the castle, we could discern, omin-
ously arrayed over the chimneypiece, swords, pistols,
and a musket, emblems, it is to be hoped, of only
bygone times.
The market-place was ocoupied, here and there, by
apple and potatoe sellers ; and in the butter market-
house, opposite the inn, were some men and women
selling butter-milk. " Fine butter-milk !" " The best,
sir, will you buy ? " "You have famous butter here-
about." "Ay, fine boother — but Kerry for boother !"
" Better than Cork ? " " Ay, sir, the best in Ireland.
Kerry for boother, Cork for whate (and good boother
too, but not so good as Kerry), Tipperary for mutton,
Limerick for beef, Waterford for pork, and all Ireland
for praties ; that's the way of it, sir." "And what
becomes of your butter?" "It all goes to Cork."
" And where then ? " f< To England. They need .a
power of boother there." " But do you use none of
it at home ? " " We're too poor for that, yer honour ;
we want the money to pay the rent." " The English
money then helps, you to do that ?" "I wish, sir,"
broke in a by-stander, " they'd keep their money,
and lave us the mate. One set ov them buys our
boother and corn, and carries them away, and another
set catches the money as soon as it comes back, in
rent ; and so, yer honour sees, there's nothing left
for Pat, barrin' the praties and the butter-milk, and
sometimes only the bare praties, and not. enough of
them either." " And that's the way of it ? " "It is,
yer honour, and a wrong way it is intirely." To which
there were sundry cordial assents expressed by the
by-standers.
Leaving Macroom, our course lay up the valley
of the Lee, the Kerry hills now coming into view
in the distance. The road becomes wilder, the
country more moorland, the hills which skirt the
road are covered with heath in full bloom; arable
land occurs only at rare intervals, but occasionally a
patch of potatoe-ground is observed, though the huts
of the poor peasants to whom they belong — probably
concealed under the ledge of some rock — are rarely
to be seen. Bog land principally occupies the bottom
of the valley, but fertile patches of grazing land are
observed along the higher levels, and the cattle graz-
ing thereon are sleek and fat, of the short-limbed,
compact, Kerry breed. To the left, along the hill-
side, the guide pointed out the house of the O'Sulli-
vans, formerly a grand family in these parts, but now
reduced, like most other houses of the old blood. At
length, on reaching a rising ground, and surmounting
the crest of a little hill over which the road lay, a
charming prospect burst upon our sight — the old
castle and village of Inchageela lay before us.
I do not remember, ever before, to have seen so
beautiful and perfect a picture ; it is as complete in
all its accessories as if a Turner or a Stanfield had
grouped it ; but no ! they could not have imagined so
lovely a scene — this has come from the hand of a far
higher artist. The ruined castle of Inchageela lies
before you in the bottom of the valley, — a tall, square,
picturesque old building, surrounded by venerable
trees. The Lee winds through the valley, and
beyond the ruin lies Lough Allua, the upper part
of which seems to conceal itself behind the hills and
rocks which enclose it, and from which the river Lee,
which flows through the lough, takes its rise. The
beauty of the middle distance, in this picture, is
admirably set off by a noble background of hills,
peak rising above peak, far into the heart of Kerry.
The summit of Hungry Hill, some forty miles off,
was pointed out, the loftiest peak in the mountain
range. From the brow of the hill, which was purple
with heather in full bfoom, we lay and looked down
upon the lovely picture — so quiet and peaceful under
the mid-day sun — and drank in the beauty of the scene,
at length reluctantly tearing ourselves away, but
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
63
carrying with us impressions of the surpassing loveli-
ness of Inchageela, which we shall never forget.
Returning to the car, we proceeded on our way
to the village of Inchageela, along the northern shore
of Loiigh Allua, traversing a country becoming at
every step more wild, rocky, boggy, and sterile. A
few miles more brought us to the huts of Gougane
Barra, the principal being a shebeen, or public-house,
with a frontage of litter and puddle. The others,
some half-dozen in number, were of the most miser-
able description, consisting of mud, wattles, and
straw. A guide, seemingly the one comfortably
dressed man about the place, volunteered his services
to show us the lake and the holy island, some two
miles distant, and we set out with him, accompanied
at the same time by a train of beggars, whose num-
bers increased as we advanced. One of these was a
very picturesque fellow, Richard Cronin by name.
He was a little short man, with a comical expression
of face, and a bright twinkling eye ; his chin carried
a beard of some weeks' growth, and his lank hair
escaped from under his tall hat, which boasted of
little more than twb inches of rim, and that ragged.
The hat may possibly have seen service in Bond
Street, on .the head of some London dandy, some
time about the end of last century. His coat was
too big for him, and the long swallow tails dangled
down to the middle of his calves, which were bare.
j Coat and breeches were open to the winds at many
j points, and they sadly stood in want of needle and
thread. Indeed, the man was a picture of the mean-
est poverty, and yet he seemed as happy as a king.
He freely volunteered his own jokes, and laughed at
any observation which would bear to be laughed at.
" What's his name ? " I asked of the guide.
"Richard Cronin, sur," answered Richard, who
was close at our elbow, " my family 's well known in
thim parts."
" They are, yer honour," said the guide, " he comes
of good family — very dacent people they were — his
father farmed a dale of land hereabout. "
"And how is it that Richard has failed in the
world, and come to this plight ? " •
" His father was ruined out, and died poor."
" What's your trade, Richard ? "
" A slather, sur."
" But there isn't a slated house within a dozen
miles, I suppose ? "
" Ah ! " said the guide, " he'd better say a gentle-
man at once."
" Are you married, Richard ? "
" No, yer honour, I'm a bachelor ; a nate man for
a nice widdy wid a fortin ! "
" You seem badly off for dress ? "
" Troth I am, sur ; but it's a mighty illigant dress
(glancing down at his accoutrements) for a summer's
day ; but for winter — ah ! " and he shrugged his
shoulders.
" You seem happy ? "
"Well— lam, Sur ! "
Richard had been witness to some stirring scenes
in his day, transacted in this out-of-the-way valley
among the hills. He had seen " the fight " between
Lord Bantry's " throopers " and Captain Rock's men,
thirty years ago, but denied that he had any part
in it ? he was " but a garsoon at the time, but it
was a hard and a bloody fight, and the bullets were
flyin' about like hail : I seen two of the men were
killed by the throopers that day."
Beguiling the way with talk, — in which young Dan
Sullivan, a red-haired lad of about fifteen, hung in
tatters, joined with great alacrity wherever he could
edge in a word, — we reached at length the hill over-
looking Gougane Barra Lake. A more wild and
solitary scene can scarcely be imagined. Surrounded
by almost precipitous hills, the little lake sleeps
placidly in the hollow, the streamlet of the Lee
issuing from its eastern margin. A little islet
stands in the lake, bearing a few trees, between
which the ruins of an old chapel may be discerned.
Descending the hill, we crossed the artificial cause-
way, and reached the island, which is regarded as a
holy place by thousands of devotees among the peas-
antry of the neighbourhood, who resort hither on
Saturday evenings in great numbers, spending the
night and the following day in prayers at the Holy
Well, and at the numerous " stations " around the
chapel ruins. The place was the hermitage of the
famous Irish saint, Fin Bar, who is alleged to have
worked many "miracles" in his day; and the peasan-
try of the neighbourhood continue to attach miracu-
lous virtues to the place, — and even Dan Sullivan coiild
tell us of blind persons who had been made to see,
and deaf to hear, and lame to walk, and even horses
and swine that had been cured of diseases, by bathing
in the waters of the Holy Lake. Some years ago,
when priests attended at the place on Sundays, the
crowds of peasants who resorted to the lake were
much greater than now, "but the murtherin' and
swearin' " — said our informant, Richard Cronin —
"was so terrible, that the bishop stopt it." Still,
not a week passes but hundreds of poor persons
resort to the " stations," and pray their way round
upon their knees. Five prayers are repeated at the
first station, and five more are added at every station
after the first, so that the number goes on in a pro-
gressive ratio, till at the ninth station forty-five
prayers are said, or in all two hundred and twenty-
five ; " and to do this takes a good two hours by the
clock," added the guide. To keep count, the devotee
carries a slender stick, which he calls a "count-
stick," on which he cuts five nicks with a knife, at
every fresh station. Numbers of these sticks, with
forty-five nicks on them, were lying strewed about
the place. Shreds of clothes, bits of net, and such
like, were hung about the bushes, the offerings of the
poor pilgrims ; and on a rude cross, made of two bits
of decayed branch, stuck in the centre of the chapel
area, was hung a woman's cap — in tatters, — " the
offering of some poor woman who died lately," as the
guide explained.
On our way back to the village, we found our
followers gradually increasing in number. One stout
fellow, who seemed to have been working in the bogs
near at hand, joined us on the island, and took part
in the conversation, but by the time we reached the
village, there must have been some fifteen men, women,
and boys, before and behind, dodging us along, and
some rubbing shoulders with us. Turning a corner,
what seemed a hole in the earth lay before us ; but, to
my surprise, on passing it, a human head appeared, fol-
lowed by a body in rags, and a miserable being hopped
out and after us ! At another point, where a few poles
seemed to have been laid against a piece of perpen-
dicular rock along the road-side, covered over with turf
and furze, two women appeared, one of them with a
big child in her arms ; and these two hobbled after us
also. But the most startling apparition was that of
an old man, with a grizzled grey beard, dirty and
haggard, who sprung out of a dismal hovel along the
roadside, and met us full in the face, howling Irish,
with his arms extended, a heavy crutch in his right
hand. "You do not know what he says?" asked
the guide." "No." "He says to you, 'Ah! here
comes one of my tenants ! ' " But our pace was too
fast for the old man, who could not keep up with us,
so he dropt behind, still howling. It was a difficult
matter to find coppers for so many attendants, but
we managed to get away from them at length, with
many blessings.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
SONG.
Oh ! had I but a fairie's wand
To rule o'er hapless sons of clay,
I'd use it with a despot's hand
To chase all evil things away.
I'd turn the poor man's pence to gold,
I'd move the veil from sordid eyes,
And all the wide world should behold
The falsehood that in riches lies.
Oh ! had I but a fairie's wand,
I'd give to ev'ry child of song,
Neglected by his native land,
The riches that to worth belong.
I'd tear the mask from beauty's cheek,
I'd guide the wayward steps of youth,
And lips that now but falsehood speak,
Should whisper vows of love and truth.
J. E. CARPENTER.
THE PRIMROSE TO THE POET.
' I'M come again to greet thee,
Despite the frost and snow,
And am I not as welcome
As I was long years ago ?
You sought me ftien in childhood,
At morning's early gleam,
Adown the rugged wild wood,
And by the brawling stream!
And well I loved thy praises,
Proclaiming through the air,
That primroses and daisies
Were beautiful and fair.
Oh ! many a joyous meeting
Since then have we two seen,
Of holy love and greeting,
When spring-time leaves were green
I told thee on the hill side,
While shedding dewy tears,
I'd come again to cheer thee
Through all thy future years.
I vowed I'd leave a token,
A tiny tuft of green ;
've kept that vow unbroken,
As thou hast ever seen.
And where the ivy mantling
Kepelled the snowy flake*
I saw thee watch my bantling
Beneath the fringing brake*!
Thou lov'st me,— and I'll cherish
Thy faith through pain and pride,
And when thy best friends perish,
Thou'lt find me at thy side.
E. CAPERN.
DIAMOND DUST.
IT is good in a fever, much better in anger, to have
the tongue kept clean and smooth.
MODESTY in your discourse will give a lustre to
truth, and an excuse to your error.
Too much assertion gives ground of suspicion ;
truth and honesty have no need of loud protestations.
A MAN who has any good reason to believe in him-
self, never flourishes himself befoi-e the faces of other
people in order that they may believe in him.
IF you have any excellency, do not vainly endea-
vour to display it ; let it be called into action acci-
dentally, it will infallibly be discovered, and much
more to your advantage.
THE common miseries of life give us less pain at
their birth than during their formation, and the real
day of sorrow is ever twenty-four hours sooner than
others.
THE heart is the mint of all who have no other
wealth.
THE Chinese have a saying, that an unlucky word
dropped from the tongue cannot be brought back again
by a coach and six horses.
THERE are years in the life of both sexes when
everybody includes the one sex, — nobody, the other.
No man is wholly intolerant ; every one forgives
little errors without knowing it.
IN everything that is repeated daily there must be
three periods ; in the first it is new, then old and
wearisome ; the third is neither, it is habit.
THERE are few doors through which liberality and
good-humour will not find their way.
A DISPOSITION to calumny is too bad a thing to be
the only bad thing in us ; a vice of that distinction
cannot be without a large retinue.
EMBELLISHED truths are the illuminated alphabet
of larger children.
THE chambers of the brain are full of seed, for
which the feelings and passions are the flower, soil,
and the forcing-glasses.
PARENTS cling to their child, not to his gifts.
WE should have a glorious conflagration, if all who
cannot put fire into their books would consent to put
their books into the fire.
ONLY trust thyself, and another shall not betray
thee.
FEW men have a life-plan, although many a week,
year, youth, or business-plan.
A HEART that is full of love can forgive all severity
towards itself, but not towards another ; to pardon
the first is a duty, but to pardon injustice towards
another is to partake of its guilt.
^ HE that has no resources of mind is more to be
pitied than he who is in want of necessaries for the
body ; and to be obliged to beg our daily happiness
from others bespeaks a more lamentable poverty than
that of him who begs his daily bread.
CHILDHOOD knows only the innocent white roses of
love ; later, they become red, and blush with shame.
DECENCY and external conscience often produce a
far fairer outside than is warranted by the stains
within.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAV, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 135.]
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 1851.
PRICE
THE SOUTH FORELAND LIGHT AND THE
SUBMARINE TELEGRAPH.
MYTHS are every day becoming realities, and it
behoves us, ere we smile at the apparent extrava-
gancies of Utopians, to cast a glance upon the
realized dreams around us. A man in the quiet
of his chamber evolves, from amidst the chaos of his
dreams, some great problem ; and while yet the
universal voice jeers around him, realizes his idea,
and carries the world by storm.
Myths become realities ; marvels become every day
matters of fact, and we are no sooner revolving
theories, than we find they are theories no longer.
A myth carries us at sixty miles an hour, through an
iron tunnel, suspended at a dizzy altitude above a
rapid river ; we pierce mountains and hills, cross
valleys ; we speak words in Edinburgh, and ere we
have realized our own thoughts, they are carried by
lightning to the metropolis, stamped with an iron die,
and in a short half hour, the whole London world is
sifting and discussing the intelligence we have just
spoken in Edinburgh, — 428 miles away ! Yes ; the
present is a matter-of-fact age, but our matter-of-fact
is more inconceivable and poetical than our dreams
gone by, — for realization is more wonderful than
conception. We now literally fly through the air ;
"We breakfast in London, and take a late dinner in
Paris," and just as we walk into the Paris Telegraph
Office, and wonder what weather it is in Great
Britain, we are informed that the South Foreland
says, "Weather beautiful, calm sea, and a warm
south-west wind," and so, with a long whe-w, we
hasten away, and over a bottle of mn ordinaire in the
cafe, laugh at Tomkins's proposition of a Menai
tunnel railway, under the sea, from Dover to Calais.
Too much, Tomkins ; a little at a time, if you please.
It was a beautiful sunshiny morning, when we
started for a pedestrian journey from Dover to the
South Foreland. The sea was rippling calmly and
peacefully upon the beach, the beautiful bay was full
of shipping, the castle at our left towered above the
cliff, just gilded by the rising mellow autumn sun,
the masses of green verdure clung here and there in the
clefts of the dazzling white chalk, masses were thrown
in shadow by the projecting portions of rock, while
a cloud sailed occasionally from landward to the sea,
and presently was observed gliding silently and
spirit-like, far away to the French shore. But the
cloud's swift flight is now far outdone ; that pretty
trained pigeon just starting in its rapid flight for the
opposite coast, with a small white paper tied to its
foot, will bs anticipated. Yon almost misty outline
of a distant continent, is within the compass of the
fraction of a second's time, and words are perhaps
even now passing under the keel of yonder proud
East-Indiaman, sailing so majestically towards the
broad bosom of the Atlantic. We traversed the
shingly beach in high spirits, and presently came to
a zig-zag path cut in the face of the cliff, and leading
to the summit. — We soon reached the lofty level
of the high ground, and the lighthouse burst freely
upon our view. Words were no more spoken, our
whole senses were entranced, and the one prevailing
thought was, who should reach the building first,
and first cast eyes upon the wonder-working instru-
ment, which will soon, it is not too much to say,
effect a revolution in the ideas and affinities of
nations.
We entered a small room looking out upon the
channel, and our eyes were first directed to a thin,
snake-like looking rope led over the window-sill, and
connected with a strangely complicated-looking ma-
chine, which a gentlemanly person informed us to be
" Brett's Printing Telegraph."
"And this," said I, regarding with no little
concern a small mahogany box, one foot by ten inches,
" and this is Brett's Printing Telegraph ! This," and
I slightly curled my nether lip, while my companion
smiled, " and this — this thing talks ; absolutely prints
words — real words at Calais ! "
"Yes," said the presiding genius, with provoking
calmness, " and fired a gun there a day since."
I smiled ; this was almost too much, but I had
resolved to be calm, and controlling my voice,
demanded if Calais could also print at the South
Foreland, and would he print a name which I would
give him to send over? .
The name was taken, the instrument set in motion,
we heard a confused mysterious rattling, and saw
a needle indicator perpetually cutting mad capers
round a disc, on which the letters of the alphabet
were painted ; round went the needle, and we
thought it pointed at S, back it flew again, then
forward; click, click, click, we stared, — painfully
stared at the disc, and the needle, and the letters,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
backwards and forwards, — now here, now there ;
Ah ! and we seized a letter ; we have it, no, yes ; then
back again, P, no, O, no, E, yes, K, no ; bless me, and
bathed with perspiration, our eyes starting from their
sockets, and with a confused sense of having spelled
the word P-O-E-K, we desisted, and threw ourselves
exhausted into a chair.
The manipulator smiled, and told us, " those
movements were not to be followed by embryos in
the art."
We thought not ; at all events, we had a doubtful
impression of our own success, but we timidly asked
if he had not spelled pork?
He was too compassionate to laugh actually, but
his eyes laughed, his cheeks laughed, his whole frame
laughed, and still there was that abominable needle
leaping madly backwards and forwards, and here and
there, and seeming to give an extra skip and jump, as
though expressly rejoiced at our stupidity.
We gave it up ; we acknowledge it with deep
shame and humiliation ; but we looked under the
table ; it was small, very small, scarcely large enough
to afford shelter to a young kitten ; but we did look,
we saw nothing but wires, and nothing, no, nothing
suspicious.
" Now ! " suddenly cried the attendant spirit ; and
we directed our eyes towards the instrument, but we
saw only the same insanity manifested by the little
needle. It flew everywhere, downwards and back-
wards, upwards and forwards, and we were becoming
again very much excited, when a thin slip of paper
appeared, and came slowly out from the wood-work
of the instrument. We were slightly alarmed, but
we set our teeth firmly, and kept together. It came
out slowly, and we soon saw little black marks upon
it. We darted forward and gave it a strong pull ; it
gave way, as a little thin piece of paper might be
expected, and we had the satisfaction of tearing our
daughter's name in half, and blinking and winking
in the endeavour to decipher the meaning of the
letters, ice.
We at length laughed. We triumphantly held up
the paper. " We did not say anything about ice,
what was ice to us." We were told to wait one
moment ; we did so : again the little slip came forward,
and the letters A 1 close to the torn portion, revealed
themselves ; we were wrong, confuted ; we hastily
swallowed several sceptical words just going to slip
blithely from our tongue; we spelled "Alice," and
warmly shaking our friend by the hand, confessed
that it was wonderful, and that we were enthusiastic
converts. "And now," said we, "for the expla-
nation of the mystery, now for the revelation of all
these strange and wonderful performances. That
little needle — "
"Is only an indicator."
Only an indicator. We were relieved, gratified at
» being only an indicator. We looked at it with some
contempt ; it seemed shrunken, as though it would
hide itself ; it knew it was only an indicator, it didn't
print. We absolutely caught ourselves laughing at
it, and we thought how many other indicators there
were in this world which " didn't print."
"This," said we,— and we pointed 'to a maze of
wheels cogged and not cogged, ratchetted and not rat-
chetted, springs, wires, and machinery in profusion —
this saM we, "is Brett's Printing Telegraph itself? "
"Yes; and I will now explain the mode of
operation."
We had a boy with us, a headstrong, reckless lad
He was noisy, and we gave him sixpence, and turned
him out.
m " It is a fundamental law of electricity," said our
informant, " confining ourselves always to the present
se.of telegraphs, to take the shortest course by
which it can return to the batteiy or point whence it
started. So long as a wire is perfectly protected
from any conducting substance it will follow that wire
wherever it may lead, but the moment that wire
touches water, or the earth, both being conductors, it
will run into the earth at that point, and return
directly back again to the battery whence it started.
There is one instrument at the South Foreland, and
one at Calais ; from each instrument a wire is led to
the earth, and buried to the depth of about six feet
to make a good connection. An insulated wire is
then led, say from the Foreland instrument, over to
Calais through the water. When the Foreland sends
a signal, the fluid runs along this insulated wire to
the Calais instrument, through that instrument, and
down the wire buried in the earth six feet ; it then
leaves that wire, and passes through the earth with-
out any wire to the Foreland, up the wire buried at
the Foreland six feet in the ground, into the Foreland
instrument, and then back to the battery. As the
fluid always takes the shortest course, it is evident
that if it left the Foreland, and the submarine wire
touched the water at any point, it would run into the
water at that point, and return to the Foreland
without condescending to pay its respects to Calais at
all ; and it would be the same if the signal were sent
from Calais : the moment it met the water at the
exposed part of the wire, it would take a skip back
to Calais, without visiting the Foreland. Hence the
gutta percha covering of the telegraphic wire. But
gutta percha would soon have been worn through by
the abrasion of the rocks ; it is therefore protected by
a quantity of prepared hemp, saturated in tar, and
over this are wound ten thick, iron wires, forming an
inconceivably compact and weighty cable, of about
two inches in diameter, calculated to bear an
immense strain, and to resist, from its small size
and great weight, the most angry lashings of indig-
nant Neptune."
" And the printing instrument 1 " said we, con-
scious that we were perhaps asking too much.
" Is a combination of machinery, as you see. The
fluid's task, at each movement I make of this handle,
is to attract the little piece of soft iron you see
between the coils of wire, the fluid passes through
those coils, which are formed of very thin wire, and
in so passing, it converts other pieces of iron attached
to them into temporary magnets, when they immedi-
ately attract the piece of soft iron. Thus to form the
letter D, I move this handle to that letter. D is the
fourth letter in the alphabet, I therefore successively
send four currents to France and back, each time
attracting the piece of soft iron, and by that releasing
four times the machinery connected with it, which
operates upon a perpendicular wheel, on which are the
letters of the alphabet raised above its outer circum-
ference ; that is also moved round four niches, or to
the letter D. I then draw this handle back, at the
moment I do so, a piece of brass presses a slip of
paper, which runs horizontally over the perpendicular
wheel, downwards upon the wheel, and the letter D,
being uppermost, is impressed upon the paper ; while,
at the same time, the paper is caught up, and moved
the eighth of an inch onward, ready for the next
letter. The wheel has now the letter D uppermost,
but the instant the letter is formed upon the paper,
the wheel is run back again, by a leaden weight,
to the blank before the first letter of the alphabet,
and is again ready to be acted upon as before.
"The manner in which the wheel with the letters on
its circumference is acted upon, is precisely the same
as that in which the pendulum of a clock moves the
hands round the disc ; every time the piece of soft
iron is attracted backwards or forwards, it moves
two arms, which act upon ratchets in the wheel, and
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
67
allow it go round one niche at each stroke ; and it
moves round in this manner from being provided
with a spring, wound up just as a common watch
spring. If this spring, therefore, were allowed to
run down, the fluid would merely attract the piece
of iron backwards and forwards, without any other
effect. As before mentioned, the wheel is brought
back by having a heavy weight attached to it, which
it winds up at every forward movement it is forced
to make, by the fluid setting the machinery in
motion.
" But," said our kind informant, " Calais is about .
to make a communication."
Again the little needle indicator rattled away,
again the same strange contortions were gone through,
again the wheel was impelled round at each succes-
sive stroke, again came the stop, down was pressed the
paper upon the letter, the impression received, and the
paper moved forwards, and the wheel we then saw
was pressed against by two little inking rollers so as
to keep the letters properly blackened.
Our eyes became tired with following the gyrations
of the machinery, and we patiently awaited the
conclusion of the communication. It was presented
to us to read, and there in clearly printed letters,
we found, "I am going to dinner, shall be back
at two."
We were delighted, and much more intensely
gratified when this was presented to us, and we
comfortably ensconced in our pocket, a piece of
printing, every letter of which had been impressed by
the attraction of a fluid which had travelled under-
neath the water, by the submarine wire, and again
returned through the earth itself, more obedient to the
will and superior intelligence of man, than even the
dumb animal given to him for his use.
We still staid chatting with our intelligent friend,
and, indeed, felt irresistibly attracted by the pre-
sence of the master spirit which served us so well.
" And what," said we, " is the total length of the
submarine wire ? "
"Just twenty-five miles at first, but since then we
have added a short piece to it, to enable us to reach
quite to the Calais shore. Its weight formerly was 200
tons, and it would have required about 4,000 men to
raise it. It is now still more."
" Is it possible ! " we exclaimed.
"Not only so, but it would take fourteen or fifteen of
the huge anchors outside the Exhibition to lift it
quite from the ground ; and yet," said he in continua-
tion, " it would break by its own weight."
" Its own weight ? " said we, puzzled.
"Yes ; for instance, if only ten miles were cut off,
its weight would be so great, if suspended from a
given point in the air, that it would separate into
We began to think this might be true, and we
mentally endeavoured to compute the aggregate
weight of 200 tons !
"The wire in the centre of the cable," said our
informant, in continuation, "is composed of copper,
about 1-1 6th of an inch in diameter. We are en-
abled to have it thus small, as copper is a much
better conductor than galvanized iron, of which
telegraphic wires are generally composed.
Again we heard the usual prelude to a communica-
tion, and fearing to intrude too much upon the time
of our friend, we heartily shook hands, and departed"
upon our way homeward. On arriving at the gate of
the light-house, however, we saw the cable snugly
ensconced upon the grass, and running towards the
cliff. We followed it, until we came nearly to the
brink, when we saw that the wire descended into a
sort of dell. We ran down, and heard a hollow, long
continued sound, made by a small stone which we
had lurched over the brink. We proceeded more
cautiously, and came to what is technically termed
a " shaft " protected by two folding doors. We
raised one, and then from the black, unfathomable
depths, came, subdued into a rumbling awfulness of
tone, the sound of human voices. We momentarily
trembled, and watched the humanly intelligent wire
sinuously winding into those gloomy depths. It was
with an expressible sigh of relief, that we withdrew,
and looked abroad again upon the bright landscape. The
sun was glancing upon the French coast, the pictur-
esque light-houses, surrounded with gardens, sur-
mounted by two opposite heights of the cliff near
which we stood, the channel was dotted with vessels
proceeding under a smart breeze, the white foam of
the sea broke upon the distant Goodwins, the red
light and the white cliffs of Ramsgate, with the
beautiful recession of Pegwell Bay, were brightly, and
yet sadly lighted in the distance, and it was with
a feeling of subdued joy and pardonable pride for our
beautiful country, that we retraced our steps to
Dover.
OUR AUTUMN TRIP THROUGH MUNSTER.
THE PASS OF KEIM-AN-EIGH. — ROCKITE AFFRAY. —
THE PRIEST'S LEAP. — IRISH CHARACTER. — QUICK-
WITTED BOY. — "ROYAL HOTEL." — FIRST SIGHT OF
BANTRY BAY. — GLENGARIFF INN. — IRISH ORANGE-
MAN.—A CRAMMED HOUSE. — SCENERY OF GLENGARIFF.
THE sun was half-way down the horizon as we
entered the Pass of Keim-an-eigh (or Path of the
Deer). The pass is about two miles in extent, the
road winding through the bottom of a great moun-
tain rift, almost perpendicular rocks rising in many
parts of it, to a great height, on either hand. ^ It is a
desolate and gloomy valley, grand and wild, — in some
places almost appalling. Here and there, a bright
jet of water shoots from the face of the rock, and
dashes down into the deep rugged channel which
occupies the bottom of the rift.
In some places, the precipitous rocks approach so
close to each other, that there is only room for the
road and the rivulet between. At one of such points,
about half-way up the Pass, the spot was pointed out
to us, where the Rockites blocked up the road, in 1822,
by hurling down into it a huge rock from the hill-top.
These wild hills were the head-quarters of the insur-
gent peasantry, who, from their secure fastnesses,
sallied out by night in all directions, making seizures
of arms wherever they could find them. Lord Ban-
try's house had been attacked by one of their bands,
with this view, and many other houses of the sur-
rounding gentry; until, at last, a body of armed
gentlemen, accompanied by a small detachment of
regular infantry, determined to attack the Rockite
stronghold, and disperse the disaffected. On reach-
ing the head of the Pass (coming as they did, from
the west, from the direction of Bantry), the officer
who commanded the infantry refused to enter within
the dangerous defile ; but the hot-headed Irish gentle-
men would not be deterred, so they boldly galloped
down the Pass, scoured round the lake of Gougane
Barra, and searched the huts in Inchageela, — but lo !
nearly the whole population had fled into the hills.
The men were all in the immediate neighbourhood of
the Pass, and were meditating a terrible revenge
upon their lords, for such of their companions as they
had killed in former encounters. At the narrowest
part of it, "where the sides rise precipitously from the
road, they were thickly clustered on the heights,
where they crouched unseen from below.
The mounted gentry, about forty in number, dis-
63
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
appointed of tlieir prey, turned their horses' heads
homeward, by way of the gloomy Pass ofKeim-an-eigh.
They rode slowly up the ascent. All was silent ; not a
human being was to be seen. Meanwhile, the Eockite
captain had ordered a huge rock, immediately over-
hanging the Pass, to be loosened, and it hung trembl-
ing over the perilous road. The gentlemen approached,
unconscious of their danger ; when suddenly an old
man stood out from his hiding-place, behind a rock
on the hill-side. This old man's two sons had been
transported ; his wife had died broken-hearted by the
blow ; and the old man, reckless and desperate, had
joined the Eockite rebels. When he saw his enemies
so near him, in the path below, he could contain him-
self no longer, but darted forth, screamed out a bitter
curse against the men who had made him childless,
and hurled a stone with such aim, that it struck and
wounded Lord Bantry's horse. A pistol was fired at
the old man, and his dead body fell tumbling down
the precipice. Instantly, the hill-side was alive
with men, who rushed, yelling, down towards the
road. The gentlemen saw their danger, and spurred
their jaded horses into a gallop. They reached the
precipitous part of the pass : there was a noise and
rumbling commotion on the heights overhead. The
tremendous rock had been dislodged from its site ;
but it was too late ! The last horseman had barely
cleared the gap, when it came thundering down, and
blocked up the pursuit of the exasperated peasantry.
Such is the last story of the Pass of Keim-an-eigh !
But these rugged hills must, in all times, have
been regarded as a stronghold of the desperate and
the dispossessed — always a numerous class in Ireland ;
and in remote times, a much more formidable class
than now. Many are the stories still told among the
peasantry, of the outlawed O'Sullivans and O'Learys,
who made these rocks their fastnesses, and set at
defiance the sword and fetter of the Saxon. To this
day, a large proportion of the peasantry belong to
one or other of these clans, though the glory of
their race has departed, and they have long ceased
to inspire the Saxon with terror at the sound of their
name. The gauger, or the exciseman, in his search
for illicit whiskey-stills among the rocks and moun-
tains, is the only interloper they dread ; and the new
police daily thread the wild pass without the slightest
fear of danger.
At length we emerged from the ravine, and entered
upon a bleak and barren district, skirting a range of
hills, which bound the county of Kerry, separating it
from the western borders of Cork. One of these
hills was pointed out, called "The Priest's Leap,"
and, as usual, a story was attached to it. In the
days when priests were hunted in Ireland like wild
beasts, and a reward of five pounds was set on the
head of every one of them that could be caught and
delivered over to the English authorities — the same
price being paid for the head of a wolf,— in those
wild and lawless day.s, a priest, hunted by the Phil-
istines, had reached the top of that hill, across which
runs the wild road towards Killarney, when, just as
they had laid their hands upon his robe, the priest
prayed to St. Fiachna ; and lo ! his ass forthwith
gave a great leap, leaving the marks of his knees in
the solid rock, and instantly he sprung seven miles off
at one spend, and the priest was saved from his per-
secutors ! So runs the incredible tradition
The sun was now setting behind the hills of Kerry
and we had still a long road before us. The horse
was lazy — could scarcely be made to go beyond a
jog-trot, by dint of all the goading and whipping the
car-driver could employ. This driver was but a bov
of fourteen ; but, if the horse was slow, he was fast-
as clever a little fellow of his years, as I had ever
tmet. I confess, I had become rather sceptical as to
the quick wit of the Irish peasantry. Indeed, I had
heretofore found more solid sense among them, more
thoughtfulness for the future, on which all their
thoughts seemed to turn, — looking across the Atlantic,
towards America, for the means of living which i
they could not find at home, — more seriousness, and
even melancholy, especially among the industrious
among them, — than I had been prepared to expect.
From many of them I could not draw a remark,
beyond the sober, the rational, and the common-
place. The wild spirits painted by Lover, and Lever,
and Croker, seemed to have disappeared ; and I
began to fancy that Irishmen themselves have given
too much prominency, in their delineations of their
poorer fellow-countrymen, to the merely frivolous,
reckless, and wayward. From what I saw of Irish-
men,— and I mixed with them freely, — I should say,
that either Lover's Handy Andy, is an altogether
untrue picture of the Irish peasant, or that the Handy-
Andys have died out during the famine, or emi-
grated to the United States, during the last dozen
years. I am persuaded that the Irish peasantry,
have really in them far more solid elements of
character, than we in England have given them,
credit for.
But this Irish boy, who drove our car for us, was
really a bright specimen of Irish wit and repartee.
Yet he was half English, as he told us ; he was born
at Woolwich, where his father lay when a soldier,
but had been brought up among his mother's relations
in Ireland. There, no doubt, he had gathered his
ready fund of humour and drollery.
" Your horse will never carry us to Glengariff, my
boy," said my uncle, growing impatient.
"Never fear, yer honour, he's got the right blood
in him."
" Why, he stumbles at every step — he'll be down
directly."
"Oh no, sir, he's a good Protestant horse."
" A what ? "
"A Protestant, sure ! "
"How's that ?"
"Why, sir, he never goes down on his knees :
that's what he isn't used to ! "
" Ha, ha ! then, I suppose you are a Catholic ? "
"That's the way of it," said the lad, with a merry
twinkle of his eye.
" And where did you pick up that lazy brute ? "
" Why, I suppose he was one of the Eoyal steeds,
and that's the raison he won't work kindly at first,
yer honour ; but give him time, and, with a taste of
the whip-end now and then, he'll get us over the
ground."
The rogue was ready enough to make his remarks
wpon the passers-by, along the road. A fellow with
only a shirt and pair of breeches passed, accompanied
by a woman in rags. — "A party of the nobility,"
said he, "returning from the Lakes of Killarney !"
"Boy," said my uncle, "you must have sucked
the Blarney stone."
" Not even kissed it, yer honour ! "
" You seem fit to be a professor ! "
"Well, yer honour, when they start a-taching it at
the Queen's College of Cork, I thry."
Here the boy made a sudden dash at some object
buzzing about his face, and exclaimed, " Bad scran to
you, you ugly baste."
" What is it ? " I asked.
"It's one ov thim Irish landlords," said he — "a
wasp, yer honour."
" And why do you call them so ? "
"Why, yer honour knows, it's the wasps that kills
the baes, and dhrives them out ov their nests ; bad
loock to them ! "
The country through which we were now passing
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
was wild and bare. Hills rose towering in the dis-
tance, prominent among Avhich were the peaks of
Hungry Hill and the Sugar Loaf, beyond Bantry
Bay, now standing bold against the crimson sky.
Huts appeared at very rare intervals, and for miles
not a human being was to be seen. " It reminds
one/' said my uncle, "of a desert country. One
would think the people had gone out of the land,
and that, like Selkirk in Juan Fernandez, 'we're
monarchs of all we survey.'"
"And my rights there is none to dispute," chimed
in the boy.
" What, you rogue, do you know Cowper ? Can
you recite us something from Moore ? "
"Arrah, no more of that, yer honour, for here's
the hotel, and we must give the royal horse a dhrink ! "
We dismounted at the " hotel " door, and entered.
It was a very humble hut — its only occupant a woman.
The principal visible furniture which it contained
was a table, a kettle, and a bottle of whiskey, which
wo tried, and my uncle pronounced it "small still,"
smelling strongly of " turf smoke." Doubtless, it
had been brewed somewhere about in these wild
hills, where gaugers rarely penetrate. The hut was
of turf, with the usual hole in the roof ; the turf fire
glowed on the hearthstone, around which several
children sat looking into the red. There were some
boards over-head, in a corner of the hut, which, we
were informed, constituted the sleeping-place of the
family. A contented pig grunted in a corner. It
was a lamentable place of abode for human beings.
We mounted again, and drove on. The hills in
the west now looked much nearer at hand, and soon
a long arm of the glorious Bay of Bantry, reaching
far up into the land, came in sight. The light of the
glorious skies was reflected in the water, which lay
there like a sheet of gold set in jet, the dark land
stretching round it on all sides. Fetching a compass
round the arm of the bay, we passed a ruined bridge,
across its narrow neck, at one part, which seemed as
if it would cut off a large stretch of road ; but the boy
pronounced it impassable, and we drove round by
the head of the Bay. Over a rising ground, and
there before us lay another far-reaching inlet, still
reflecting the glowing sky. Another long detour,
and at length the further side of the bay is reached.
But it has now grown night, and the aurora borealis
shoots its streaming meteors up into the star-lit sky.
We could only see the gloomy hills standing black
against the blue. A drive down-hill, through woods,
" past Madame White's," as the boy told us, the ad-
jacent grounds belonging to her ; and then, a few
lights shining from the windows of a white-washed
j house facing down Bantry Bay, announced to us that
our day's journey was over.
"This is GlengarifF Hotel, yer honours," said the
boy ; and so saying, he threw the reins on his lazy
brute, and we dismounted.
The inn was choke-full ; full to the door, and full
to the roof. Some were coming from Killarney, and
some were going to it, while others were resting
there, 'enjoy ing the beautiful scenery of Glengariff,
which nothing in Ireland can surpass. One re-
markably odd fish there was in the public room — a
kind of native, — one of the rough and ready Pro-
testants of the old school — in short, a red-hot Orange-
man. A Protestant, in Ireland, does not so much
mean an individual who believes in certain religious
dogmas, as one who belongs to a certain political
party. The Irish Protestant is , generally English or
Scotch by descent and in name ; and you may very
often detect him, by the contemptuous tone in which
he speaks of the pure Irish, whom he despises.
Yet, there is much pith and energy of character in
these Orangemen, "foreigners" though they be.
They have held their ground for centuries, bolstered
up, alas ! too often, by cruel and sanguinary laws.
In many districts, to this day, they are the principal
landowners, merchants, millers, and factors, employ-
ing large numbers of people. This remarkable speci-
men of the class, whom we met in the inn at Glen-
gariff, was a landowner and large farmer down the
Bay ; he dealt in cattle, in butter, in fish, — in every-
thing that would sell. He was, in fact, a hard-work-
ing, energetic man, the centre of industrial activity
in his neighbourhood, but he was as rough as Glen-
garifF granite. Scarce a sentence escaped his lips
that was not fortified by an oath, generally of the
roughest kind. Oaths flowed as if spontaneously
from him, though of course we can give no specimen
of his gift in this respect. He denounced all Irish
politicians as "a set of thaives and rapscallions,"
"not a mother's son of them but would sell himself
to " So and So " for a government berth over in
London there." Only one man of them all would he
place a ha'porth of confidence in, and that was Colonel
Chatterton, of Cork !
One of the company here started the subject of
Irish suffering, and the starvation of the poor in that
neighbourhood, .two years ago. " Not a bit of it, sir ;
you know nothing about it," said our gentleman.
" But, didn't they die of hunger ? " " Not a soul of
them — the idle, lazy divils, — it was the Indian male
was too sthrong for them intirely ; they wouldn't
work, so the male blew them up, and they died of
idleness, the haythins. Ah, I know them, sir, betther
than you London genthry. Wasn't I on the Boord
ov Guardins, and seen the whole rascally business
wid my own eyes ? Such squanderin' of money I
could not believe were possible ; a set of stupid, idle
government rogues came down on us, and took the
business out of our hands, and a pretty kettle of fish
they cooked for the counthry." It was of no use
talking — the popular representations were all lies
according to him ; it was the "Boord o' Guardins,"
and not the poor who had perished, that had been
wronged. In short, the intensely landlord-view of
things was represented in this gentleman's person,
and it was easy to see the frightfully distorted pre-
judices through which he regarded eveiy aspect of
the Irish question. We found that he represented a
small, though not an uninfluential class of persons in
his country — the men who have power at county
boards, who hold property, and farm land in large
tracts ; and whose views of Irish society and politics
are deeply coloured by their religious and party preju-
dices. It is to be hoped that the numbers and influ-
ence of such gentlemen will give rapidly way before
the advance of right principles, and more enlarged
social sympathies. But their existence, and their
preponderating influence in certain districts, show
what diffi cultie« have yet to be encountered, in dealing
with the causes of Irish misery at their sources.
More visitors arrived late. They could not be de-
nied admittance, there being no other public house of
entertainment within a dozen miles, and that across
the Bay. So the lower rooms were packed with the
strangers at night. I camped upon the parlour floor ;
the Orangeman, after imbibing numerous tumblers of
hot punch, — in the course of which he sent " Irish
papistry," repale, and Government puppies who had
substituted Boords o' Guardins, to unmentionable
places, — was deposited in a remote room, with a
damp gent, who had just arrived across the Bay
from Bantry, and afterwards turned out to be a
Cockney from Cheapside, but who, in his own opinion,
had sounded the depths, and ascertained the true
causes of Irish misery. As both were excessively
talkative, obstreperous, and dogmatical, I have no
doubt they had a comfortable and quiet night of it !
70
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
On turning out of my camp in the parlour, at six
o'clock in the morning, to make room for some gentle-
men who turned into it for breakfast, I proceeded to
explore the interior of the house, in search for water.
Directing my way into the inner recesses, I found
myself in a dark hole seemingly dug out of the earth,
and the familiar instruments hanging about it, revealed
to me that this was the kitchen. It must have been
the original part of the building — the nucleus round
which parlours and bedrooms had afterwards been
ranged. The place smelt ancient, and I wished I had
got my breakfast before accidentally inspecting it. But
at last I was admitted to a bed-room above, still warm,
for the purposes of ablution ; and while there, the
native population of the house, who had been en-
sconced in the attic all night, began to descend.
They came down a ladder, and the Exodus occupied
the better part of an hour, at intervals of course.
There must have been more than a dozen persons
stowed away in the roof; but it was harvest time
at Glengariff, and, therefore, temporary inconveniences
were not to be thought of.
But what of the scenery out of doors ? Nothing
could excel that for beauty and grandeur. The
waters of the Bay lay close at hand, flashing in the
rising sun ; beautiful islands here and there, casting
a dark shadow upon its surface. Lofty, bold, rugged
hills ranged themselves along its western margin,
while the opposite shore was rich, riante, and lovely,
radiant with- brightest green. Eeaches of the bay
lost themselves behind jutting crags and low promon-
tories ; a martello tower, erected on an island in
front, recalled to mind the times of war and invasion,
even in this lonely place. "Crom well's Bridge"spanned
a little brook leading out of the glen — a bridge which,
the people say, Cromwell commanded to be "built
in a night," on pain of his hanging a man for every
hour he was delayed in his march : "so the bridge
was ready in a night, for they knew the ould villain
to be a man of his word." The view from the hill
immediately behind the Glengariff Hotel commands
a magnificent prospect of the Bay — extending for
some forty miles south and west, over island, pro-
montories, hills, and water, until the gaze is lost in
the distant ocean-line of the Atlantic. It is impos-
sible for mere words to do justice to the grandeur and
beauty of the scene, which is perhaps unsurpassed in
Britain ; and, at a time when the picturesque is so
assiduously sought after, abroad and at home, I am
only surprised that the glorious, wild, grand, and
lovely scenery of Bantry Bay and Glengariff should
be so little known.
THE WHITE MILL.
A TALE.
BY FRANCES DEANE.
HAVE you ever sat and heard the waters splash
under the old mill-wheel in the beautiful valley of
Denacre, — that most romantic and sweet of little
dells, round the ancient and historical town of
Boulogne -sur-mer, whilom besieged by old King
Harry and a British army ; now besieged by truant
English, — persons of moderate means who wish to
give their children the advantage of learning French ;
by the many who now begin to enlarge their minds
by travel, — that enemy of prejudice ; and also by
a very large proportion of individuals who take a run
across the water, on the specious pretence that the
downs and cliffs of the French watering-place are
more conducive to healthful recreation than the
interior of the Queen's Bench or Whitecross Street
Prison.
If you have, you will have seen a picturesque mill,
and gloomy mill-wheel about the middle of the valley,
an old house which once belonged to rich inhabitants,
but which, of late years, has found poorer owners.
There it stands, with its ever-turning wheel, like an
old paddle-box, green and damp, — all covered, as it
were, by barnacles, like those found on the bottom
of ships, — a large white house above, with a large
barn-yard. It is commonly called the White Mill.
Many a legend and tale is told in the neighbourhood,
even a ghost story, in connection with the old mill,
but despite the "night side of Nature," I have
no belief in visionary appearances, regard them as
mere fatalities of the imagination, like dreams and all
other tokens by which men and women profess to dip
into the future as into a well, and therefore prefer
recording a narrative founded on reality.
About twenty years ago, the owner of the mill was
one Gaspard Maret. Previous to the restoration of
the Bourbons, he had been an officer under Napoleon.
Unlike the majority of the superior officers of the
great Corsican soldier, he remained faithful to the
memory of the man who had raised him to rank and
fortune, and refused to serve the king brought in by
a foreign invasion. He had very little money, but he
had industry and perseverance. He had a large
family for France, he had some knowledge of his
father's trade ; his parent had been a miller when the
revolution broke out ; but the son, like most other
young men, had been obliged to march for the
frontiers to defend his country against invasion.
Brave, intrepid, quick of eye, he rose rapidly in his
profession, and would certainly have risen higher, had
not the restoration cut short his career. He at once
abandoned arms for trade, and chose that of his
father. He had four children, — two sons and two
daughters. His eldest boy was at a military school,
his second was educating as a Protestant minister,
Avhile both his daughters were at home. The mill-
house was large, and contained numerous apartments,
some of which Maret let in the summer to any
family who required quiet lodgings, thus adding to
his moderate income, and providing in general some
pleasant society for his daughters Sofie and Pauline.
It happened a few years back that two wanderers
stopped one morning, in the spring of the year, to
rest themselves on the wayside near the old mill.
They sat on a fallen trunk, and gazed around with
interest. The green and young grass, the budding
leaves, the chirping birds, the daisy just in flower,
with all the other variegated colours that spangled
the meadows, — the primrose, the cowslip,
The violet dim, «
But sweeter than the lids of Jurio's eyes,
, Or Cytherea's breath,
with the sweet-smelling wild thyme, that, crushed
with the foot, yields such delicious fragrance, the sun
gilding the verdant hillocks, the lowing of cattle in
the distance, the tall waving poplars sighing afar
off, seemed to charm the pair who sat upon that
grey old tree, which years had covered with a thick
coat of moss. It was a young man about two and
twenty and a woman about thirty.
The woman was tall and commanding in appear-
ance, and singularly handsome ; but of that masculine
• beauty which awes more than it attracts. There was
in her none of that subtle and fugitive delicacy, that
certain nameless grace, that volatile and fleeting
essence which defies definition, but which an able
and eloquent writer has denominated the ideal of
loveliness, which in woman is never real, where it is
not gentle. Her eyes were dark and piercing, but
singularly beautiful ; her mouth, a model for a
sculptor ; her nose, though well shaped, was aquiline
and masculine ; and the whole expression of her face,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
71
that of one used to give orders and have them
obeyed. Intellect predominated in her countenance,
but not an intellect of a pleasing order. It seemed
the intellect more of a soldier than a thinker, more
of a mathematician than of one who revelled in the
softer and more humanizing studies which in general
are the province of woman. Not that I think my
sex at all likely to be injured by severe and serious
studies, but in general, the peculiar tone of our
minds make us prefer the less arid paths, — those
strewn with moral flowers, and shaded from the
barning heat of thought's more scorching rays, by
deep green foliage. Doubtless, in that woman, there
was a well of softness and of heart, but she studiously
concealed it from the gaze of the multitude.
The young man was soft, gentle, and womanly
almost in appearance. He was a pleasing and
subdued likeness of the woman. All that in her
was repulsive, in him was attractive. His eyes were
dark, but dreamy, profound ; his mouth small, and
overshadowed by a melancholy smile. He was about
the middle height, very slight. Singularly intellectual
was that placid countenance, deeply thoughtful those
eyes, sweet and seductive that mouth. Julie and
Alexis de Fougeres were brother and sister, the
former born during the exile of his parents in England.
They had, on returning to their country, recovered
but a very small portion of their property. Still, it
was enough to live quietly and obscurely, in decent
comfort, and to enable Alexis to educate himself
properly. She was twenty, he twelve, at this period.
Pale, thin, with hollow cheeks, he was, though
without actual disease, so frail, so tender, so like an
exotic plant nurtured beneath a case, that he re-
quired the nursing of a mother. But both his
parents were dead. Julie took their place. Robust,
healthy, of powerful mind, well read, but deeply
imbued with those prejudices of rank and birth, which
women cling to even more eagerly than men, Julie
had only one fear, and that was that Alexis would,
in the lectures he attended at his school, and from
his masters, acquire some of those awful ideas of
philosophy, progress, and advancement, which Julie
hated, as the primary cause of their own poverty
and obscurity. Never was poor aristocrat more
proud, more wedded to old ideas, more haughty to the
new rich, more condescending with the humble poor.
She made up her mind never to marry. She could
not expect one of her own caste to choose one so
poor, and she would rather have died on the revolu-
tionary scaffold, than have united herself to one of
the" middle classes, a man enriched by trade, or even
to a soldier who had risen from the people. She saw
two castes, — the well-born and the low-born, and
to her they were a different race, of separate origin,
varying in intellect, blood, and appearance. She
sought as much as possible to imbue Alexis with
these ideas. She gave him to read all the historians
and philosophers of her predilection, but he yawned
over them, and took up Madame de Stael, Moliere,
or J. J. Rousseau, or some of the popular writers
of the* day.
Julie had resisted at first, and sought to deprive
him of his favourite authors by the authority which
she had over him ; but gentle, submissive, and
loving as was the young man, he found ample oppor-
tunities for gratifying his peculiar tastes in reading.
He was fond of long walks, and during these, some
of those authors were always his companions. Julie
saw that to resist would be to make her brother
vinhappy, and she yielded. At eighteen, he finished
his outdoor studies ; for Julie, who would not listen
to his desire of learning a profession, from both
pride and fear of the consequence of contact with
the world, induced him to leave attending colleges at
that early period. She began travelling in France, —
a pleasure which their income, to any one with less
elevated and ambitious views, a handsome one, en-
abled them to indulge in with ease. But Julie, who
knew what had been the pomp of her father's
chateau, and who had imbued her mind with every
habit and ceremonial of the old days, suffered vast
humiliation because she had only one femme-de
chambre, and her brother but one valet. But all this
was hidden, concealed ; during their journeys, they
never sought society. Julie wrapped herself up in
her dignity, Alexis devoted himself to his books.
Early in the year during which our narrative
commences, Mademoiselle de Fougeres remarked
that Alexis did not seem well. He was paler than
usual. He had for three months past been more
studious than ever. He had devoured poetry in
French, in English, in German. An unknown
impulse seemed to make him instinctively turn to the
worship of the beautiful, — for real poetry is nothing
else but a superior language devoted to the task
of keeping alive the flame of noble feelings, of
beauty and love. Alexis had never loved woman.
His retired life, his entire devotion to his sister, had
never allowed him to think of that beautiful crea-
tion, that joyous happiness, that friend, that sweet
companion, which men of intellect and feeling call
wife. From want of opportunity, his eyes had
never turned to woman. It is true he felt an un-
known vision ever around him, that his reading
having taught him the outlines of the tender
passion, he had often dreamed of love, he had
formed an ideal woman for himself, a creature of the
imagination, which perhaps, from its superiority to
reality, guarded him against the effects of ordinary
affection. But thought, reflection, reading, study, a
craving for some one to whom he could say other
things, — he knew not what, — than what he said to
his sister, had given him for some time sleepless
nights and dreamy days.
Julie saw it, and determined to take him to the
sea-side. She selected Boulogne as the pleasantest
watering-place in France.
They put up at an hotel, and then went forth to
select country apartments. They hunted for some
time without finding any, and the third morning,
wearied and annoyed, entered the valley Denacre.
Julie had found either too much pretension, or too little
cleanliness, in all those who offered to accommodate
them ; and they were now conversing on the subject
of their disappointment, as they sat in front of the
White Mill in that charming valley.
"There are lodgings to let in yonder strange
looking mill," said Alexis, suddenly ; "a place which
suits my fancy amazingly."
" Let us go see," replied Julie, " though I scarcely
think it will be of any use."
And they went down the slope of the hill to the
pathway, and entered the court-yard. On the
threshold of the door was a young girl about seven-
teen,— a child of Raphaelic creation, one of those
living pictures of St. Cecilia, which are found
sometimes, but rarely on the path of human existence.
Fair, with eyes that floated between grey and blue,
partaking of the piercing intellect of the one, and
the softness of the other, with faultless features on the
whole, and yet not one perfect of itself, with semi-
golden, semi-auburn hair, floating in loose ringlets
round her -head ; she received the visitors with a
smile so sweet, so unassuming, that both were
struck, — Julie with alarm, Alexis with admiration.
Mademoiselle de Fougeres instinctively retreated a
step, but recovering herself, advanced eagerly.
" You have apartments to let," said she, haughtily.
"My father has," replied the young girl, gently,
72
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
but with firmness, a little nettled at the tone of the
other.
"Will you do us the favour to show us what rooms
you have," said Alexis, eagerly.
Julie looked astonished, for her brother rarely
spoke on such occasions ; but simply regarding it as
the natural politeness of a young man for a pretty
girl, passed on without further notice. M. Maret
was in the mill at work, but Pauline, whom the
strangers had seen, sent for him by a servant. She
then proceeded to show the apartments which were
to let. These were two bed-rooms and a sitting-
room, on the opposite side of which were the two
little rooms occupied by Sofie and Pauline. Both
Julie and Alexis were pleased with the rooms, and
Alexis at once chose the one which looked down the
valley, and which afforded a pleasing and extensive
view. Julie looked at him with a scrutinizing air,
but Alexis was gazing out upon the trees and
flowers.
They then went down stairs, and found M. Maret,
who had put on a clean blouse, and washed his face.
He was a handsome, open-countenanced, middle-aged
man, with an air far superior in intelligence to most
of his class. He bowed with a military politeness
which pleased Alexis, and a little shocked Julie.
He then asked if the apartments suited, intimating
that he could only receive lodgers who boarded with
his family. Julie was about to answer, when her
brother checked her.
" Julie," he said, his pale face flushing with un-
wonted excitement, " I am sure the air of the valley
will do me good. I am prepared to make any sacrifice
to get that room." A "
"We shall not ask any sacrifice," replied M.
Maret, politely ; " fix your own time for meals, say
what you like to have, and all shall be at your
disposition."
"You are very kind ;" said M. Alexis, "my sister
will arrange all this with you."
Julie did so, agreeing to their terms, and gladly .
accepting two other little rooms for their servants,
without whom, in any place, the lady would have
been miserable. That evening they came in time to
change their dress, and dine. As their life for some
weeks changed but little, a brief outline of one day
will do for the rest. They dined that evening, M.
Maret at the head of the table, his daughters on each
side, Mademoiselle de Fougeres opposite her brother,
and beside Sofie, Alexis beside Pauline. This
arrangement, perhaps not wholly accidental, was
continued as long as they remained in the house.
The conversation was varied and interesting • the
brother and sister found Sofie and Pauline, gentle
unassuming girls, fond of their father, well-informed,
well-read, and even, when pressed, capable of sus-
inmg an argument. But intense was the horror of
Julie, when she found that they were, at the same
time, Bonapartists and liberals. Too young to
have seen much of the sufferings of the empire
daughters of a man originally a republican, and then
to the great soldier whom he had served
they adopted, like most young persons of their age
that deep admiration for Napoleon, which Beranger'
by his songs against the Restoration, had so much
ostered. Like most young ladies, and I do not
>arate many from the category, they did not know
much about politics, which was no great matter, but
hey had that admiration for all that makes a noise
and glitter m the world,-for gorgeous magnificence,
for military glory, which makes our sex peculiarlv
inclined to loyalty, especially towards a great con
queror But Alexis gave her no time to speak
J hough used to bow to his sister in all things and
having always abstained from discussing tlebated
topics with her, he had thought for himself, and
having had no contact with world prejudices, he
knew them not. His mind had been elevated by
books, by reflection, and he was naturally a friend to
all that was enlightened and great. He even, while
blaming much in Napoleon, expressed high admira-
tion for his genius.
"But you are the son of an emigre ? " said Maret,
much surprised.
"Our father," cried Julie, looking severely at
Alexis, " was the Marquis de Fougeres, true to his
king and the country, and never recognized by word
or deed, the usurper of whom you speak, nor bowed
for a moment to the Revolution."
"A revolution," replied Alexis, not without some
timidity, " to which France owes more than all that
preceded it, — awful, terrible, frightful, as it was ; — the
evil is past, the good remains."
"MonDieuf" said Julie, with a shriek, "where
have you picked up those shocking, shocking notions ?
I never heard them before."
" Because you never spoke to me on the subject
before. I have spent the last four years in serious
reading and reflection, and I have come to the
conclusion that the revolution was necessary and
unavoidable."
Julie made no reply, she was so overwhelmed with
astonishment, but Pauline joined timidly in the
conversation, and delighted Alexis, used to his sister's
more severe tone, by her gentleness and soft mode of
speaking. After dinner, however, seeing that his
sister was deeply hurt, he changed the subject, and
proposed music, seeing that the sisters had a piano.
They looked at Mademoiselle de Fougeres, and
hesitated.
"I will play after you," said she, bowing, and
endeavouring to hide her deep mortification under a
smiling exterior.
Sofie and Pauline advanced to the piano, and began
to play and sing. They had not advanced very far
with music, but they sang with great taste and
feeling. Alexis spoke warmly of their talent, but
Julie, while confessing her admiration of their pure,
clear voices, corrected many errors. Both thanked
her cordially, with a sweet smile, which chased away
for the moment every unkind feeling from her bosom.
She then played herself, with power and perfect
knowledge of the instrument.
"Oh ! Mademoiselle," cried the frank -spoken
Pauline, " If you would only play to us a little every
day, and give us a few hints, we should be so
grateful."
" With pleasure ! " replied Julie, condescendingly,
and then the talk was of music. She was a profound
musician, knew both the history, and theory, and
practice of the art, and her conversation on the
subject was deeply interesting. Before the end of
the evening, the feeling of dislike which had involun-
tarily begun to rise in the minds of the sisters, had
quite vanished, and they sat down to supper in quite a
different mood to what they expected. Julie was
charming, frank, unaffected ; and old Maret himself,
who hated all emigres and royalists, was quite
softened.
But they knew not Julie. She had the eye of a
general, and his tactics. She saw, by some intuitive
perception, that Alexis would fall in love with
Pauline. She knew that, quiet and calm as he
appeared, he had the blood of the De Fougeres in
him, and that nothing would be more difficult than to
make him give up any idea which had once entered
his head. She reasoned that if he could so far forget
his origin and education, as to see anything good in
the revolution, — which she condemned equally for
its atrocities and its victories over ignorance, and
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL
73
injustice, and tyranny, — he would not long hesitate to
marry one, who, though a soldier's daughter, was
decidedly one of the people, a class of whom she had
the greatest horror, especially since they had declined
to be the mere slaves of the rich and noble. Though
religious in her way, she made distinction between
God's creatures, wholly inconsistent with the magni-
ficent, pure, and elevating religion, which she
professed, without understanding. Her brother was
too old to be controlled by force, and she saw that,
unknown to her, her influence had been sapped to
the very roots by his education and studies ; for what
was her influence worth, if he had the courage to
think differently from her 1 Like a prudent general,
then, before superior forces, she determined to turn
the difficulty ; she resolved not to see anything, to
oppose him in no way, and to trust her own wits
to obviate any seriously dangerous results.
Next morning, they breakfasted at an early hour,
and then went out walking, the girls, at the request
of Julie, accompanying them. Alexis was so evi-
dently charmed with Pauline, that Julie feared to
take him away from her all day, lest during the long
hours which elapsed before their return, he might
think too much of her. Julie was, I think, prudent ;
for I am told men are apt to be more influenced
than they would like to confess, by these little
absences.
Thus passed three months, during which Alexis
regained his health. He did not read as much as
usual, but he talked instead, while Pauline took to
reading under his directions. One evening Sofie and
Julie, — it was a hot summer's night, — were standing
at a window, talking. Mademoiselle de Fougeres was
describing some scenery in England, and for the
benefit of the fresh air, they were looking out into a
pretty flower garden, cultivated chiefly by Pauline.
She sat beside Alexis reading. He was writing a
letter. Suddenly, he turned towards her.
"Pauline," said he, in a low whisper, "I am so
happy, that I know not how to express myself. I
have written down in these pages my feelings, and
shall give them to my sister to-night."
" But she will never consent ! " replied Pauline,
sadly : they had explained their mutual feelings a
month past.
"My dear Pauline," said Alexis, gravely, " I love
my sister, I look up to her, I respect her, but in a
matter like this, I must not think of yielding to her.
I hope from my heart to gain her consent ; but now I
have your promise, and Sofie says that your father
approves of the idea, my mind is resolved."
"But how miserable it will be to pain so good, so
affectionate a sister ! "
"My dear Pauline, my happiness in one scale and
a prejudice ia the other ! — I cannot hesitate. You are
the first woman I have ever been intimate with, but
I love you not for that. Years of intimacy would
never have made me feel the same for dear Sofis
there. She is not my ideal, she will be some one
else's. But you have become necessary to my exist-
ence, my star of life, and I cannot think of
hesitating a moment."
"As you please, dear friend ! " replied Pauline,
sighing, and rising to join the other ladies, while
Alexis sealed up the letter. M. Maret returning
from the town at this moment, supper was announced.
Shortly after, it being late, all went to bed. Julie
was seen to her room by her femme-de-chamlre, whom,
however, she immediately dismissed. She was not
inclined for sleep, and intended reading. Placing a
chair near her bed, she advanced to a desk in which
was a book. A letter lay on the table, she took it up
hastily, it was addressed to her, and in her brother's
handwriting. She turned very pale, and then she
frowned darkly, as advancing to her chair she sat
down to peruse the epistle. She read it slowly and
methodically, stopped to think over each paragraph,
— and it was a long letter, — without hurry, and seem-
ingly without passion. At last, she came to the end,
folded it up, and laid it on the bed.
" Never ! " she cried, aloud, "I will never consent !
What ! mingle the blood of the De Fougeres with
that of the plebeian Maret ! Because we are poor
and humble, shall a wretched officer of the Corsican
usurper dare to hold up his head amongst the children
of nobility ? No ! Take care, Pauline, you have roused
a lion, take care it does not bite ! "
Julie did not go to bed that night. She sat with
her head in her hands, thinking. She was very pale,
her eyes flashed strangely, her mouth was compressed,
and her lips livid. There were plans of wild and
deep import rolling in her head. She wanted but
black lamb-skin, hair like knotted serpents, and a
torch, to look like one of the furies of the Greek
stage.* About six o'clock she laid down to sleep,
and did nob rise till long after breakfast. Her
brother then saw her. But what a change ! She
greeted him with an affectionate smile, she shook her
head in pity, and while declaring solemnly that she
would never consent to his marriage, which she
considered derogatory and degrading, stated that she
would offer no active opposition. Unequal marriages,
it is true, are rarely wise ; but then this arises
from the fact, that men of education and elevated
position generally, — when they make unequal marri-
ages,— marry girls who have nothing but beauty to
recommend them, without acquirements, which are
necessary to make them suitable companions. This
was not the case with Pauline and Sofie, they had
been taught judiciously and carefully, their minds
were imbued with noble and aspiring thoughts, they
had none of that grovelling feeling, that prejudice,
that worship of mere appearance, that pride or inso-
lence of manner, peculiar to uneducated persons who
are above the poor in material position, and which
constitutes vulgarity. The instant that a woman can
speak her ovpi language purely and correctly, is well-
informed and free from the trammels of vulgarity, she
is the equal of any, and fit to mate with the highest
born in the land. So thought Alexis.
A month more passed, during which preparations
were made for the wedding. They were to be
married in two months more, and selected Paris as
their habitation, Alexis having decided on following
the profession of the law, now that he had deter-
mined to assume the responsibilities of a married
man. One evening Pauline, after a visit to a village
where she had some poor people whom she was used
to assist, looked feverish and flushed. She went to
bed. Next day she was delirious. She had the
typhus fever.
Alexis was almost annihilated by the blow, and he
sank into a chair, covering his face with his hands.
He thus escaped seeing the bitter smile which passed
over the countenance of Julie, — a smile of triumph,
of hope, of joy.
"Is the attack dangerous ? " exclaimed the young
man, suddenly rising, and seizing the doctor by the
hand.
" She will require great care. She needs nurses,
who must, however, take strict precautions," replied
the doctor.
"I enroll myself as one," said Julie, quickly;
"if Sofie will undertake the day, I will the night."
" God bless you ! " cried Alexis, warmly.
" I do but my duty," said his sister, turning away.
* Manners and Customs of Ancient Greece. By James
Augustus St. John. Vol. II. p. 260.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
How changed was that house now ! No smiles, no
songs, no laughter, and no light-hearted and merry
talk. All was silence, everyone spoke in hushed
whispers, the very mill-wheel was stopped, lest its
noise might disturb the sick girl. Alexis was ever
hovering round her room ; sometimes he tried to read,
but he *did not even see the page. Julie and Sofie
were her constant nurses ; the former generally slept
till midnight, and then, being roused up by her
femme-de- ckambre, she sent Sofie to bed, and took her
place until day. Three days did Pauline wrestle
with death, but the fourth day was a day of hope,
for the physician declared her all but out of
danger. Her youth and good constitution had
vanquished the gloomy angel which flutters its wings
over the portals of eternity.
But the nursing continued. She needed it more
than ever.
Alexis was in raptures. His love seemed to have
increased with the danger in which his affianced wife
had been placed. Julie saw this, and writhed
inwardly with all the tortures of wounded pride and
hatred of the plebeian race.
One day she was very pale at breakfast, and said
she should walk into Boulogne for the sake of the air.
She went out about eleven, declining to be accom-
panied by her brother. About an hour after she
started, she might have been seen in a retired part
of the valley, concealed by trees, and. rapt in deep
thought. She gnawed her under-lip, she* looked
fiercely at stones and trees, she muttered to herself,
she frowned. Every passion, — rage, hate, despair,
seemed to have fixed itself in her eyes, on her
curling lip, over her whole face. She sat there five
hours without moving.
That night the house was quiet in deep slumber.
It was midnight. Alexis had gone to bed two hours
ago, Sofie had not long retired to rest, and Julie
had taken her place. The apartment she had been
removed to, — Julie's large bed-room, — was dimly
illumined by a small lamp ; the large bed almost
wholly concealed Pauline, who slept soundly. The
curtains were opened to give her air,»and her face
could be just seen peeping out of the lace borders
of her cap. One arm was lying from under the
clothes, white, thin, with the blue veins distinguish-
able under the skin, which was remarkably trans-
parent. She breathed more freely than usual, her
lips, slightly apart, showed her pearly teeth ; she
looked the image of beauty, returning gradually to
health.
Julie sat in a distant corner gazing at her. She
was livid. Her eyes were fixed fiercely on the young
girl. Suddenly, she listened attentively. Not a
sound was to be heard anywhere. The house was, as
it were, the temple of silence. She rose and ad-
vanced towards the bed, treading with the utmost
precaution, and listening at every step. Presently
she stood beside the young girl, and looked at her
once more.
" Beautiful, indeed ! " she mentally ejaculated,
" Why have you come in my way ? "
She at this instant drew a white packet from her
bosom. She opened it. It appeared to contain a
dozen powders. She laid one on the table by the
bed, returned the others to the wrapper, and placed
them whence she had taken them. On the table was
a lamp, a phial of medicine, two glasses, and a
decanter of water. She poured out a glassful of water
and drank some of it. Then she put the powder
contained in the paper in the other glass, and added
the usual quantity taken by Pauline, when she
awoke.
At this instant, a step was heard distinctly, and
Julie, pale and trembling, turned towaids the door.
But it was her brother walking up and down the
next room.
Julie, however, felt her legs failing her, while her
heart beat so violently that it could have been heard
a yard off. Snatching up the glass before her, she
drank it off.
"My God, what have I done! " she said, as too
late she discovered that, in her agitation and alarm,
she had drunk off the poisoned draught prepared for
Pauline.
" What is the matter, dear Mademoiselle ? " asked
Pauline, gently opening her eyes, and gazing in
wonderment at the countenance of Julie.
" Nothing, only that I drank your medicine
instead of a glass of water, and as it is not very nice,
I uttered an exclamation," replied Julie, almost
calmly.
" Would you be kind enough to pour me out some
more ? " said Pauline, sweetly.
Julie did so, but in the clean glass, and after
washing away every sign of the poison. She then
bade Pauline be still, and returned to her chair. She
trembled in every limb as she walked, and as she
sank into her seat, could scarcely stifle a groan.
The poison was so divided as to kill certainly after
ten or a dozen doses, but the result of one was
doubtful. It might merely make her very ill, — it
might kill her. She dared take no remedy, having
procured the poison only by bribing heavily a boy
employed in a chemist's shop. But what she thought
most of was the probable failure of her plan. She
seemed to see an interposition of Providence in the
rising of her brother at that moment to walk round
his room, as if aware of the imminent peril in which
his mistress was placed. She felt that she could not
again administer the poisoned draught.
In the morning she was very ill, and every one
thought that she had caught the fever from Pauline.
But is was the poison, agitation of mind, and remorse.
She remained ill for some time, Pauline being quite
well and about the house before she thought of rising.
Never was nurse more devoted, more patient, than
Pauline. As long as they would allow her, she never
left the side of Mademoiselle de Fougeres. She gave
her everything with her own hand.
One evening, the first in which Julie had left her
bed, she was alone with Pauline and Alexis, who
had in his turn turned nurse.
" How long is it now before your wedding ? " said
she, suddenly addressing Alexis.
"My dear sister, we must see you well first,"
replied Alexif .
" I shall be well enough in a week. But when
was it to be ? "
" In five weeks," said Alexis, with a happy smile.
"To- please me, Pauline," exclaimed Julie, ad-
dressing the young girl, "you will fix it at this day
fortnight."
" Oh ! Mademoiselle ! " cried Pauline, very much
surprised, her still pale cheeks suffused with blushes.
" But you will not be well enough, and we should not
be happy."
" But I shall never know a moment's joy, my dear
sister," exclaimed Julie, "until you are Alexis's wife.
It is my day dream, my night vision, for then I shall
think God has pardoned me."
" For what ? " cried Alexis.
"Brother, hate me if you will, but I must confess
my sin. I am ill because, I accidentally drank the
poison I had prepared for your wife ! "
The young couple looked at her astounded ; now
they understood the extent and implacability of that
patrician pride which had driven her to the borders
of crime and death. For a few moments they were
silent, and then Alexis demanded, in a trembling
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
75
voice, an explanation. Julie laid bare her whole
sentiments, told the whole truth, the once-desired
vengeance and the revulsion of feeling produced by
her failure, her illness, and the unvarying sweetness
and amiability of Pauline during her confinement to
her room.
" And now, can you forgive me ? " she cried,
holding out her hands to both.
"Oh, yes!" replied Pauline. "It was but a
momentary illusion, which you have amply made up
for by your generous avowal. Most proud shall I be
to call you sister, if you will but allow me."
"It is I am proud to be the sister of one so
generous and kind," said Julie; "but you must
prove your forgiveness by advancing the marriage
day as I asked you."
They consented, and the rest of the evening was
spent in driving from the mind of Mademoiselle de
Fougeres all trace of any idea that they thought
anything of the act, which in a moment of madness
she had premeditated.
That day fortnight Alexis and Pauline were
married, and they went to live in Paris, where the
young man at once took the necessary steps to get
called to the bar. He insisted on Julie living with
them, and after some resistance, she consented. The
effect on her mind of that fatal hour, when blinded
by her pride she had fallen to a level with the scum
of creation, was most remarkable. She took a com-
plete dislike to all her former ideas, extended her
reading beyond the narrow circle to which it had
before been confined, cast aside one by one all her
antiquated prejudices, and became a woman of gene-
rous and patriotic feeling, and reasoning judgment.
Alexis rose high in his profession, and became so
popular, that he is now a member of the opposition
in the assembly which rules France, and Mademoi-
selle de Fougeres, a pleasant and warm-hearted old
maid, teaches her brother's grandchildren these
immortal truths, summed up in the words, — Liberte",
Egalite, Fraternite, which are but the application
of Christian principles to politics, and which, as
civilization and enlightenment ' advance, prejudices,
selfishness, and ignorance abate, and the waters of
truth flood the desert lands of tyranny and falsehood,
will become the watchwords and guiding principles
of all nations.
JOHN STERLING.
IN TWO PARTS— PART IU
Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds,
At last he beat his music out.
There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.
TENNYSON'S " In Mernoriam."
JOHN Sterling, for causes which Archdeacon Hare does
not clearly state, but which Carlyle in a rather mysti-
cal way indicates, left his curacy at Herstmonceux, and
removed to London, where he took a house at Bays-
wat^r. At this time he was, in personal appearance,
thin and careless-looking, — his eyes kindly, but rest-
less in their glances, — his features animated and
brilliant when talking, — and he was always full of
bright speech and argument. He did not give you
the idea of ill-health ; indeed his life seemed to be
bounding, and full of vitality ; his whole being was
usually in full play ; — it was his vehemence and
rapidity of life which struck one on first seeing him.
Carlyle says, that he wore holes in the outer case of his
body, by this restless vitality, which could nototherwise
find vent. He seems now to have been in the thick
of doubts and mental discussions — probing the founda-
tions of his faith, — and, it is to be suspected, losing
one by one the pillars on which it had rested. It is a
terrible "valley of the shadow of death," this which
so many young minds have to pass through in these
days of restless inquiry into all subjects — religious,
social, and political. As Shelley writes : —
If I have erred, there was no joy in error,
But pain, and insult, and unrest, and terror.
Sterling's views began to diverge more and more from
those formerly held by him, yet this never interfered
with a single one of his friendships. Tolerant and cha-
ritable, there was an agreement to differ ; and certainly
it is better for men to differ openly and honestly, than
hypocritically to agree and conform — even for "peace's
sake." And why should men quarrel about such mat-
ters, respecting which no one man can have more
positive or certain knowledge than any other man ?
What am I ?
An infant crying- in the night :
An infant crying for the light :
And with no language but a cry !
TENNYSON.
Sterling read many German books at this time,
such as Tholuck and Schleiermacher, from which he
diverged into Goethe and Jean Paul Richter. But
his health was still delicate, and a residence in the
south of France was determined on. He went to
Bordeaux accordingly, and while there, his "theo-
logical tumult "decidedly abated. " Tholuck, Schleier-
macher, and the war of articles and rubrics," says Car-
lyle, "were left in the far distance; Nature's blue
skies, and awful eternal verities, were once more
around one, and small still voices, admonitory of many
things, could in the beautiful solitude freely reach
the heart. Theologies, rubrics, surplices, church-
articles, and this enormous, ever-repeated thrashing
of the straw ? A world of rotten straw ; thrashed
all into powder ; filling the universe, and blotting
out the stars and worlds. Heaven pity you, with
such a thrashing-floor for world, and its draggled
dirty farthing-candle for sun ! There is surely other
worship possible for the heart of man ; there should
be other work, or none at all, for the intellect and
creative faculty of man ! "
Sterling set about working at various literary en-
terprises. Poetry occupied his attention, and while
at Bordeaux,- he wrote The Sexton's Daughter ; he also
stored up a number of notes and memoranda respect-
ing Montaigne, whose old country house he visited,
and these shortly after appeared, in a very able
article from his pen, in the London and Westminster
Review. After a year's stay, he returned to England
again, and engaged himself in writing occasional
articles for Blackwood's Magazine. His health being
still delicate, he wintered at Madeira in 1837 ; speak-
ing of it in one of his letters, he says that, "as a
temporary refuge, a niche in an old ruin, where one
is sheltered from the shower, the place has great
merit." He continued writing papers for Blackwood,
of which the best was the "Onyx Ring." Wilson
early recognized Sterling's merit as a writer, and
lavished great storms of praise upon him in his
editorial comments. He seems to have possessed the
gift of literary improvising, to a great extent. He was
a swift genius — Carlyle likened him to " sheet-light-
ning." He had an incredible facility of labour,
flashing with most piercing glance into a subject, and
throwing his thoughts upon it together upon paper
with remarkable felicity, brilliancy, and general excel-
lence. While at Madeira, Sterling busied himself with
reading Goethe, of whom he gives the following striking
opinion, in many respects true : — "There must, as I
think, have been some prodigious defect in his mind, to
let him hold such views as his about women and some
other things ; and in another respect, I find so much
coldness and hollo wness as to the highest truths, and
7(5
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
feel so strongly that tlie heaven he looks up to is
but a vault of ice, — that these two indications, leading
to the same conclusion, go far to convince me he
was a profoundly immoral and irreligious spirit, with
as rare faculties of intelligence as ever belonged to
any one."
His health improved by Madeira, he returned to
England, still fragile, but radiant with cheerfulness ;
"both his activity and his composure he bore
with him, through all weathers, to the final close ;
and on the whole, right manfully he walked his wild
stern way towards the goal, and like a Roman wrapt
his mantle round him when he fell." He went on
writing for Blackivood, contributing the Hymns of a
Hermit, Crystals from a Cavern, Thoughts and Images,
and other papers of this sort. Then he engaged as
contributor to the London and Westminster Review,
for which he wrote several fine papers. The raw,
winter air of England proving too much for his weak
lungs, he went abroad again — this time to Italy —
where he revelled in its picture galleries, and collec-
tions of fine art. He did not like the religious aspect
of things there, and spoke freely about it. He was
home again in 1839, considerably improved in health ;
but still he continued to lead a nomadic life, for the
sake of his health. Now at Hastings, then at
Clifton ; and again he had to fly before worse symp-
toms than had yet shown themselves, — spitting of
blood and such like, taking flight, late in the season,
for Madeira. But when he reached Falmouth, the
weather was so rough that he could not set sail, so he
rested there for the winter, the mild climate suiting
his feeble lungs better than Clifton had done. By
this time, during his residence in the last-named
place, he had written his fine paper on Carlyle, for
the Westminster Revieiv, and also published a little
volume of poems, containing some noble pieces. Car-
lyle speaks in rather a slighting strain of poetry
in general, and has a strong dislike to what he calls
"the fiddling talent." " Why sing," he asks, "your
bits of thoughts, if you can contrive to speak them ?
By your thought, not by your mode of delivering it, you
must live or die." Besides, he denies t% Sterling that
indispensable quality of successful poetry, — depth of
tune; his verses "had a monotonous rub-a-dub, in-
stead of tune : no trace of music deeper than that of
a well-beaten drum." This opinion we think de-
cidedly wrong, even though Carlyle be the critic.
Let any one read Sterling's Dcedalus, and they will
be satisfied of his tunefulness, as well as his true
poetic feeling. We know no verses fuller of music in
every line. These are a few stanzas : —
Wail for Drcdalus, all that is fairest,
All that is tuneful in air or wave !
Shapes whose beauty is truest and rarest,
Haunt with your lamps and spells his grave.
Statues bend your heads in sorrow,
Ye that glance amid ruins old,
That know not a past, nor expect a morrow,
Un many a moonlit Grecian wold !
By sculptured cave, and speaking river,
Thee Daedalus, oft the nymphs recall ;
The leaves, with a sound of winter, quiver •
Murmur thy name, and murmuring fall. '
Ever thy phantoms arise before us,
Our loftier brothers, but one in blood •
By bed and table they lord it o'er us
With looks of beauty, and words of good.
The volume of poems, however, attracted no notice •
yet Sterling laboured on, determined to conquer
success. He met with some delightful friends at
Falmouth, among others, with John Stuart Mill
and an intelligent Quaker family— the Foxes— with
*liom he spent many happy hours. In the following
spring, he was by his own hearth again at Clifton now
engaged on a long poem called The Election, which
was published : he had also commenced his tragedy
ofStrafford, when he left to winter at Torquay. Thus
he journeyed about, flying from place to place for
life. Then to Falmouth again, where he delivered an
excellent lecture on "The Worth of Knowledge, "before
the Polytechnic Institution of that place. Soon after,
he was off to Naples and the sunny south, his health
still demanding warmth. He was home again in
1843 ; and one day, while helping one of the servants
to lift a heavy table, he was seized with sudden
hemorrhage, and for long lay dangerously ill. By
dint of careful nursing, he recovered, but the seeds
of death must have been planted in him by this
time. This year his mother died, and in a few days
after, his beloved wife — terrible blows to him. But
weak and worn as he was, he bore up manfully, mak-
ing no vain repinings, and with pious valour fronting
the future. He had six children left to his charge,
and he felt the responsibility deeply. Falmouth,
associated as it now was in his mind, with calamity
and sorrow, he could endure no longer ; so he pur-
chased a house at Ventnor, in the Isle of Wight, and
removed thither at once. He was now engaged on a
poem called Cceur-de-Lion, not yet published, of which
Carlyle, who has read it, speaks very highly. Sterling
visited London, for the last time, in 1843, when
Carlyle dined with him. "I remember it," says he,
" as one of the saddest of dinners ; though Sterling
talked copiously, and our friends — Theodore Parker
one of them — were pleasant and distinguished men.
All was so haggard in one's memory, and half-con-
sciously in one's t anticipations ; sad, as if one had
been dining in a ruin, in the crypt of a mausoleum."
Carlyle saw Sterling afterwards at his apartments
in town, and the following is the conclusion of his
last interview with him : — "We parted before long ;
bed-time for invalids being come, he escorted me
down certain carpeted back stairs, and would not be
forbidden ; we took leave under the dim skies ; and,
alas ! little as I then dreamt of it, this, so far as I can
calculate, must have been the last time I ever saw
him in the world. Softly as a common evening, the
last of the evenings had %)assed away, and no other would
come for me for evermore."
Sterling returned to Ventnor, and proceeded with
his Cceur-de-Lion. But the light of his life had gone.
"I am going on quietly here, rather than happily,"
he wrote to his friend Newman ; "sometimes quite
helpless, not from distinct illness, but from sad
thoughts, and a ghastly dreaminess. The heart is
gone out of my life" This brittle existence of his
was at lengtk about to be shivered. Another break-
age of a blood-vessel occurred, and he lay prostrate
for the last time. The great change was at hand, —
the final act of the tragedy of life. He gathered his
strength together, to quit life piously and manfully.
For six months he had sat looking at the approaches
of the foe, and he blanched not nor quailed before him.
He had continued working, and setting all his worldly
affairs in order. He wrote some noble letters to his
eldest boy, then at school in London, full of affec-
tionate counsel. "These letters," says Carlyle, "I
have lately read : they give, beyond any he has
written, a noble image of the intrinsic Sterling, —
the same face we had long known ; but painted now
as on the azure of eternity, serene, victorious, di-
vinely sad ; the dusts and extraneous disfigurements
imprinted on it by the world, now washed away."
About a month before his death, he wrote a last
letter to Carlyle, of "Remembrance and Farewell,"
wherein he says : — "On higher matters there is
nothing to say. I tread the common road into the
great darkness, without any thought of fear, and
with very much of hope. Certainty, indeed, I have
none. With regard to You and Me I cannot begin
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
to write ; having nothing for it but to keep shut the
lid of those secrets with all the iron weights that are
in my power. Towards me it is still more true than
towards England, that no man has been and done
like you. Heaven bless you ! If I can lend a hand
when THERE, that will not be wanting. It is all very-
strange, but not one-hundredth part so sad as it
seems to the standers-by."
" It was a bright Sunday morning when this letter
came to me," says Carlyle ; " and if in the great
Cathedral of Immensity I did no worship that day,
the fault surely was my own. Sterling affectionately
refused to see me ; which also was kind and wise.
And four days before his death, there are some
stanzas of verse for me, written as if in star-fire and
immortal tears ; which are among my sacred posses-
sions, to be kept for myself alone. His business with
the world was done ; the one business now to await
silently what may lie in other grander worlds. ' God
is great/ he was wont to say : ' God is great.' The
Maurices were now constantly near him ; Mrs. Mau-
rice (his sister) assiduously watching over him. On
the evening of Wednesday, the 18th of September,
his brother — as he did every two or three days —
came down ; found him in the old temper, weak in
strength, but not very sensibly weaker ; they talked
calmly together for an hour ; then Anthony left his
bedside, and retired for the night, not expecting any
change. But suddenly about eleven o'clock, there
came a summons and alarm ; hurrying to his brother's
room, he found his brother dying ; and in a short
while more, the faint last struggle was ended, and all
those struggles and strenuous often-foiled endeavours
of eight-and-thirty years, lay hushed in death."
SHORT NOTES.
A New Notion.
ANOTHER regenerator of the race has appeared at
Naumberg, in Germany, where a person called
Mahner is now engaged in preaching the necessity of
man's confining himself to a diet of bread and
water, going barefoot, and letting his hair and beard
grow, as the only means of regaining his lost state of
primitive health. He would thus bring us back to
the fabled golden age, when men eschewed the flesh
of animals, lived on fruits and roots, and drank pure
water. We have many such regenerators now-a-days.
Dr. Graham, of the United States, has founded a
sect, a branch of which has extended to this country,
where it occasionally celebrates its triumphs in
vegetarian banquets. Doubtless, man can live on
vegetables, and drink water. The human constitution
is such, that it can accommodate itself to almost any
diet. In Orinoco, the popular diet is fat clay, which
seems primitive enough ; and the Australian dines
off the gum and bark of trees, and has nothing but
water to drink. Yet we look in vain for the
virtuous simplicity of the golden age among these
children of Nature. Very little, if any, flesh is
consumed by the negroes of the Bight of Benim,
and yet they are the most savage arid cruel of all the
black races. It is folly to think of regenerating men
by the kind of diet given to them. If vegetables
could help men onward, then surely Ireland were
the most advanced and civilized part of the three
kingdoms, for there the staple diet is potatoes,
— potatoes for breakfast, dinner, and supper, often
with not a savour of meat of any sort. The new mode
of living is also put forward as a " universal
remedy." The primitive diet, like Morrison's Pills,
is to cure all diseases. Mahner is to rival Priessnitz
and the Cold Water Cure. The primitive diet is
advertized to cure the gout, among other things.
We dare say ; but we prefer old Abernethy's pre-
sci-iption as the more effectual, — " Live upon
sixpence a day, and earn it." Doubtless, abstinence
would cure many diseases, — abstinence from drink
stronger than water, especially. But perhaps more
diseases are caused by want of proper food than
by too much ; and Manner can do nothing here. In
no branch of popular humbug is there a wider scope
than in the projection of new cures. People, for ttie
most part, know nothing about their constitutions,
or the conditions necessary for health ; and they fall
an easy prey to the impostor or the quack who talks
loudest and makes the biggest boast. One day it is
brandy and salt, the next, salt is denounced as the
source of all diseases. Now it is cold water, at
another time, Holloway's pills and ointment, Mes-
merism, Homcepathy, Allopathy, Old Parr, vege-
tables, " Yarbs," Cockle, Galvanism, and a thousand
other things. And all cures have their hosts of
followers. The quack thrives, and the public are
gulled. Manner's is only the last dodge, and
doubtless, he, too, will have his patrons and
supporters.
Cottage Hornas.
The Cottage Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand !
So begins one of the popular songs of the day. It is
to be feared that the picture is not " after nature."
A clean, snug cottage, tightly thatched, or slated, —
whitewashed, well-furnished, is, indeed, a beautiful
object, even in a picture. But how few are there
of this sort ! Are they not, in town and in country,
the exceptions to the rule ? ' ' The Cottage Homes
of England," for the most part, are not beautiful,
not comfortable, not wholesome. They are badly
built, the ground about them is mostly undrained,
they are very cold in winter, and they breed rheuma-
tism, typhus, and many other diseases. They are
not roomy enough. In many cases, they consist of
only one apartment, which serves for kitchen, wash-
house, parlour, dining-room, and sleeping-room.
Sometimes there is a little back-room, which admits
of greater decency in the domestic menage. But for
the most part, the cottage homes of England are as
we have described them. They are not so bad, it is
true, as the cottage homes of Ireland, — where a
little mud and turf, roofed over, forms the Irish
dwelling. But still they are capable of vast improve-
ment, which, the sooner effected, the better for the
"bold peasantry, their country's pride." Mr.
Stevenson has published a little book on the
"Cottage Homes of England," containing "suggested
designs, and the estimated cost of improved cottage
erections."* The object of the book is excellent, and
it will doubtless do good, by directing the attention
of builders and landlords to this important subject.
How much practical good might be done in this way,
can scarcely be told. For, the home is the soil in
which the young human being grows, where it
receives its first impressions of existence, and where
the disposition to be happy, or the reverse, is first
developed. Let the home be a comfortable and
happy one, and its influences directed by a virtuous
father and mother, and what may you not hope for
from the children cultured and nurtured there?
But from the untidy, dirty, comfortless homes of a
people, there can issue little other than bitterness of
spirit, misery, and crime, which go on reproducing
each other in constant succession. First, a cottage
* The Cottage Homes of England } or, Suggested Designs
and Estimated Cost of Improved Cottage Erections. By J. W.
Stevenson. Houlston and Stoneman.
78
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
must be cheerful ; second, roomy ; third, warm and
wholesome. A good supply of water is essential ;
and a bit of garden ground attached to it, in the
country, is a great blessing to a poor man. Mr.
Stevenson, in his little book, gives many designs for
such cottages, which we should like to see generally
adopted. They are not picturesque, so much as
comfortable and wholesome, and that is, after all,
the grand desideratum.
The Tea Manufacture.
THERE are two kinds of green tea, glazed and tin-
glazed. The former is coloured with a mixture of
Prussian blue and gypsum. It is so manufactured by
the Chinese to suit the capricious taste of foreign
buyers, who judge of an article used as drink by the
eye instead of the palate. The China manufacturer
has to give his article such a "face " as will suit our
buyers' fancy. Both the black and the green teas
in common use are obtained from the same plant, —
the Thea Bohea, — their difference depending alto-
gether on the manner in which they are prepared
and dried. The green tea, which in some constitu-
tions is so apt to produce nervous irritability and
sleeplessness, is the leaf carefully dried, — its glazing
being a matter of manufacture to suit the market.
The black tea, on the other hand, is subjected to
heating and a kind of fermentation, aecompanied
with oxidation by exposure to the air, during which
process, much of the essential oil or other active
principle which characterizes the green tea, becomes
dissipated, or, at least, greatly diminished in amount.
The same results are observed in the drying of
ordinary medicinal herbs in this country, by different
methods. In the preparation of black teas, the
leaves are always allowed to remain exposed to the
air in mass, before being roasted. During this
exposure, they undergo a process of spontaneous
heating, or slow fermentation, until a certain degree
of fragrance is developed. The leaves are said to
wither and give, and they become soft and flaccid.
Great skill and experience are required to conduct
these operations nicely, and when the "proper point
is arrived at, the leaves are immediately removed to
the roasting-pan. After being roasted and rolled
two or three times, they are placed in a cylinder Of
basket-work, open at both ends, to dry over a small
charcoal fire. The cylinder is so arranged that a
stream of heated air passes through the leaves, and
by this means the watery vapours are finally expelled.
It is during this process that the leaves assume their
black colour ; afterwards they are rolled, twisted, and
sifted carefully. In drying and roasting green tea,
the freshly-picked leaves are roasted at once without
delay, and without any exposure or fermentation ;
and hence the sole cause of difference between the
two kinds of tea. This important necessary of life is
often sold in an adulterated state. There is a small-
sized tea of the gunpowder kind which is very much
adulterated with scented caper. This manufacture
has been extensively carried on at Manchester • it
leaves a profit to the adulterator of about one
shilling a pound, which is a strong inducement to the
commission of the fraud. Some of the bright green
teas are manufactured by covering inferior kinds
Of tea with Prussian blue, turmeric, and sulphate of
lime. And black teas are, in like manner, extensively
manufactured by coating inferior leaves with black-
lead. Sand and dirt are often detached in consider-
able quantities from such leaves, after they have been
infused in hot water, — as much as 35 in 100 parts
Many of these teas consist of tea dust held together
by gum ; and they have no leaves to uncurl. There
are also adulterations of unglazed tea, very cun-
ningly got up, and some of them have been found to
contain as much as 34 per cent, of ash, sand, and dirt.
Of these adulterated teas, it has been ascertained (as
the Edinburgh Philosophical Journal informs us) that
750,000 Ibs. have been imported inte England during
the last eighteen months ! and the attempt has been
made to get them passed through the Custom-house
as "manufactured goods." The Chinese, however,
sell them as teas, but they honestly call them
"lie teas," a name which they well deserve; the
Chinese merchant manufacturing them to meet the
price offered by the English merchant. The black is
called by the Chinese " lie floiver caper" and the
green "lie gunpowder" The tea-brokers of this
country designate them by the names of " gum " and
" dust " teas.
OUR MUSICAL CORNER.
WE were sitting lately in our snuggery one evening,
gossiping away the hours with two eminent musi-
cians, who seemed to think our enthusiastic insanity
on certain matters of melody a very agreeable symp-
tom of aberration. We mixed up a strange medley
of composers and compositions in our desultory talk.
The " Fugue in G," " Sebastian Bach," "LucyNeal,"
"Handel," "Love not," "John Blockley," "Battle
Symphony," "Beethoven," "The Creation," and
" The Light of Other Days," were all jostled together
in the oddest manner imaginable.
We ran up and down the gamut of great names
with all the rapid ease of John Parry's "Indefatigable
Young Lady," — from Jubal of ancient celebrity, to
Jullien of modern notoriety ; we touched all "in-
struments of sweet sound," from the first Conch
Shell to the last " Sommerophone " — Madrigals and
Marches, Glees and Gregorian Chants, National An-
thems and Nigger Songs, Bishop's Glees and Balfe's
Solos, Mozart's everything and Meyerbeer's some-
things, were treated of with vigorous discussion. We
had just jumped from one of Mendelssohn's glories,
to express our unlimited admiration of Shield's genius,
and half lamenting that we were not born in the days of
"Inkle and Yarico," and " Rosina," when one of ow
guests rather startled us by exclaiming, " I say, why
don't you have a Musical Corner in your Journal ?
You ought," and forthwith our qualifications were
detailed, and we were installed into the high and
responsible office of " critic" at once. It was decided
that we should give our honest opinion of the new
music that might come in our way. So, when our
friends were gone, we seriously sat down and inquired
how we stood as to the said qualifications. "We
ought to be very musical, certainly, said we, if tools
make«the artizan," as we counted up the number of
instruments in our domicile : — two pianos, a flute,
two violins, two flageolets, and an accordion, are
within reach, and we are sure of the existence of a
very tolerable drum — if such a thing can be tolerable
in private life ; a triangle — with a slight twist in its
Euclidian arrangement ; a venerable double-bass, and
a most brazen cornet-a-piston in some of the remote
cupboards of the establishment. Then we have a
detestably fine ear, that can pick out a false fiddle in
one of Costa's grandest " crashes ; " then we can
" play a little " — as people generally do chess — only,
we confess, that in some of the "florid" passages,
where the fall of an avalanche, or an electric tele-
graph message is intended/ to be conveyed, we are
puzzled, and hardly "know the moves," frequently
" giving it up," as many have the old-fashioned riddle,
— "It goes with a coach, it stops with a coach, 'tis of
no^ use to a coach, and yet a coach can't go without
it " — thinking the conundrum question and chromatic
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
79
scale would both be solved by the same word. More-
over, we can manage to make ourselves intelligible on
more instruments than one — beginning with the organ,
and ending with the Jews' Harp ; indeed, we love
music to such an excess, that we once discarded an
unexceptionable admirer, because he thought proper
to denounce dear " Auld Robin Gray," as "a stupid
old thing ; " and when we own to even having at-
tempted to soothe ourselves at a country inn, during
a wet day, with an ancient hurdygurdy, our musical
weakness may be imagined, and perhaps pitied. Be it
understood, that we are not about to become scien-
tific " cutters-up " of "heavy operas" and "light
ballads ; " we are not purposing to sit in judgment, as
though the godship of Apollo himself were invested in
our puny form ; we have no notion of becoming terrible
or important in our mission ; we "intend simply to play
over the new music that we often find on our table,
and inform our young friends as to what pleases our
fancy. We are 'somewhat eccentric in our taste at
times, and never ashamed of owning a vulgar admira-
tion, and should we offend a purely classic ear by
our recommendation of something unrecognized by
any " school," and unti'aced by any opera score,
please to remember, gentle reader, that we hereby
propitiate your toleration ; and, moreover, we promise
that if our young friends write to us, and say that
our musical opinion is not wanted by them, why, we
will not intrude it, but go on strumming in our own
unsystematic fashion, and put our notes and notices
along with the damaged triangle, up in the garret
cupboard.
Now to begin with this heap before us. Let
us take those published by R. Codes & Co., New
Burlington Street. First, we have No. 1 of Recollec-
tions of Wales, which is an arrangement of that
exquisite old air, "Poor Mary Ann," by Brinley
Richards. We have never heard this air so admir-
ably rendered ; there is a power, delicacy, and finish
about the variations, which must charm all who hear
it. The composer has judiciously avoided all extreme
difficulties and elaborate fingering, so that a moder-
ately skilled performer may here achieve a brilliant and
j sweet effect, without heavy practice. We long to see
more of Mr. Richard's " Recollections." Here is a
ballad. "The Desert Flower," composed by George
Barker, the well-known source of "Mary Blane,"
"Why do Summer Roses Fade," &c. The melody,
in four flats, is very sweet ; the second part is par-
ticularly adapted to the words, and shows that the
composer studies his author to some purpose. An-
other ballad by the same composer — "I'm think-
ing o'er the days, Mary" — partakes of the same
pleasing character; and, moreover, both the ballads
have respectable words — an essential material, which
Mr. George Barker eminently deserves. "When
the Swallows Hasten Home," is a very elegant
German air, arranged as a fantasia, by Theodore
Oesten ; but we question whether the introduc-
tion or the variations are in keeping with the theme.
We imagine the composer intended to carry out the
motif with bird-like variations, but they present
little more than a series of exercises for the hand,
and those not of an over novel character ; however,
it has the advantages of being showy and short.
" La Brabanconne" is a national Belgian air, made
into a "brilliant impromptu," by Oscar Cometant.
If his Majesty of the Belgians complimented this
composer on his management of " La Brabanconne,"
as stated in the first page, it must have been from
its reviving some old recollections ; or else M. Com-
etant, by his very superior style of playing, won
the gracious terms in which his Majesty noted it.
We can see very little in the air itself to recom-
mend it. It is a "march," certainly, with the usual
amount of dotted notes, semi-quavers, rests, and
strongly marked passages, but it is not to be com-
pared to many of the same class. The introduc-
tion is by far the best part, being spirited and
beautifully modulated. " Petra Camara," by Paul
Henrion, is a very pretty Spanish waltz — easy, light,
and flowing, with considerable originality about it.
" Hamilton's Modern Instructions for the Pianoforte,"
is one of the very best elementary works we have ever
seen. How much better they manage these things
now, than they did in the olden time ! Even in our
days of "musical study," we were fagged and tired
with the dry, difficult method of imparting the neces-
sary rudiments, and to this day we have a dreamy,
nightmare sort of remembrance of " dementi's Ex-
ercises," and that dreadful "Battle of Prague," where-
in "Go to Bed Tom" made us very sleepy, and the
" Cries of the Wounded " nearly killed us. In the work
before us, we have sound instruction blended with
pleasant harmony, and we have been thinking how
amazingly we should have "got on," had such assist-
ance been then afforded to the developing talent of
"remarkably clever children." We can give this work
our strongest recommendation. Here is a ballad,
"The World is a Fairy Ring" — Purday, 45, High
ffolborn, — the words being written by ourselves,
why, of course, our kind friends will not expect a
mother to point out the rickets of her own child ;
but of the composer, Philip Knight, we can speak
freely. Those who know his melodies, and admire
them — as they cannot fail to do — may add this to
their folio. The air is flowing, expressive, and within
the general compass of voice — carrying a degree of
originality not often met with in the thousand and
one " songs " issued monthly. We can heartily com-
mend this to our young friends — that is, if they
have no particular prejudice against the author.
Now, we have the " Bloomer Polka, " by J. J.
Blockley— Cramer, Beale & Co., Regent Street. This
is a very graceful Polka — one of the best of the
season, and very pleasant to dance to. The " Clipper
Quadrille," — by the same author — is an admirable
arrangement of sea-song tunes, which gladden the
heart and tickle the feet to spontaneous locomotion.
Then we have the " Bloomer Schottische, " the
"Bloomer Waltzes," and the " Oberon Polka," — all
light and joyous, as the most " fantastic toe " could
desire. But come, we must wish Apollo good morn-
ing for the present, promising him another "consulta-
tion " at an early opportunity, for a very juvenile
friend has found his way to our elbow, and insists on
our affording some specimens of the "vulgar classic."
"Drops of Brandy," and "The Young May Moon,"
have been strongly hinted at, and we know from
experience, that if we decline to oblige the curly-
headed petitioner, we shall have a voluntary accom-
paniment in the extreme treble, which might con-
fuse our judgment slightly ; and as to smacking those
dear dumpy little fingers (albeit they are rather
dirty) — why, the thing is not to be done by any being
with more of human kindness in them than a Hay-
nau. Thus we postpone our "duty to the public,"
to gratify a private individual of some three feet
perpendicular ; but as history informs us that smaller
affairs have influenced greater matters, we submit
with a grace ; and now for a, presto jig, and an extem-
poraneous hornpipe round the table.
THE GEORGIAN WOMEN.
In Europe, by a Georgian female is usually under-
stood a tall, slender creature, of voluptuous figure,
wrapped in ample rich apparel ; with thick black hair,
long enough to entwine its glossy fetters round all
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
hearts of men ; with an open forehead, and a pair of
eyes within whose dark, mysterious magic circle the
secrets of all delights of sense and soul lie spell-bound.
Her gait is luxury. Joy goes before her, and admi-
ration follows her. The flowers on which she treads
look upwards, trembling with delight as they die, and
exhale their fragrance as an offering to the beauty.
With such ideas do strangers usually come to Georgia,
and — find themselves singularly undeceived. Travel-
lers who, with expectations raised so high, set foot
on a land surrounded by history and tradition with a
nimbus of wonder, either obstinately abide by their
previously formed opinion, or hastily pass to the other
extreme, and find, to their amazement, everything
filthy, ugly, loathsome. The truth lies in the midst.
The people of Georgia, taken as a whole, are unde-
niably one of the most beautiful races of people on
the earth ; but although I am a great adorer of
woman, I must in this case give, with unconditional
preference, the palm to the male sex. Herein all
those cultivated inhabitants of Georgia who have eye,
taste, and an impartial judgment agree with me.
Nay, I must add to this, that of that higher beauty
which exists where spirit, heart, and mind are re-
flected in the eye, there are in the whole Caucasus
few traces to be found, among women as well as among
men. I have had a fair chance of seeing all that Georgia
contains of womanly beauty, but have never beheld a
face that has fully satisfied me ; although the graceful
costume of the fair inhabitants of this land (the head-
dress excepted) contributes very much to the heighten-
ing of their charms. The face is altogether wanting
in that nobler spiritual expression which lends to our
fair Europeans an enchantment all their own. These
can still awaken love and gain hearts even when the
time of their bloom is long since past ; in a fail-
Georgian, on the other hand, with the freshness of
youth fades everything away. The eye which always,
notwithstanding its seeming fire, has breathed nothing
but repose and inactive voluptuousness, acquires a
faint expression ; the nose, already in itself somewhat
overstepping the bounds of beauty, appears, in con-
sequence of the early sinking cheeks, of so unnatural
a size, that many imagine its dimensions actually
grow with years ; and the bosom, which in this land
plays certainly no hidden part, acquires too soon a
flaccid character — mere appearances, which, among
Europeans, occur more seldom, more imperceptibly,
and in far more limited proportion. If we put to
this account the custom, so prevalent in Georgia
among young and old, of laying on white and red
paint, it is easily seen that such and similar arts
of the toilette, too striking as they are to the eye, can
only tend to lessen the good opinion of the beholder.
— Bodenstedt's Travels.
THE BUSINESS OF LIFE.
We recollect walking with Mr. Thomas Carlyle
down Regent Street, when he remarked, that we
poets had all of us mistaken the argument that we
should treat. " The past," he said, "is all too old for
this age of progress. Look at this throng of car-
riages, this multitude of men and horses, of women
and children. Every one of these has a reason for
going this way rather than that. If we could pene-
trate their minds, and ascertain their motives, an
epic poem would present itself, exhibiting the business
of life as it actually is, with all its passions and inte-
rests, hopes and fears. A poem, whether in verse or
prose, conceived in this spirit, and impartially written
would be the epic of the age." And in this spirit it
was that he conceived the plan of his own " French
Revolution, a History."— Monthly Magazine.
RHYMES FOR YOUNG READERS.
A H G E R.
OH ! Anger is an evil thing,
And spoils the fairest face, — •
It cometh like a rainy cloud
Upon a sunny place.
One angry moment often does
What we repent for years ;
It works the wrong we ne'er make right
By sorrow or by tears.
It speaks the rude and cruel word
That wounds a feeling breast ;
It strikes the reckless, sudden blow, —
It breaks the household rest.
We dread the dog that turns in play,
All snapping, fierce, and quick ;
We shun the steed whose temper shows
In strong and savage kick :
But how much more we find to blame,
When Passion wildly swells
In hearts where kindness has been taught,
And brains where Reason dwells.
The hand of Peace is frank and warm,
And soft as ring-dove's wing ;
And he who quells an angry thought
Is greater than a king.
Shame to the lips that ever seek
To stir up jarring strife,
When gentleness would shed so much
Of Christian joy through life.
Ever remember in thy youth,
That he who firmly tries
To conquer and to rule himself,
Is noble, brave, and wise.
ELIZA COOK.
CHILDHOOD'S QUICK APPREHENSION.
Grown persons are apt to put a lower estimate than
is just on the understandings of children ; they rate
them by what they know, and children know very
little,* but their capacity of comprehension is great ;
hence the continual wonder of those who are unaccus-
tomed to them at the " old-fashioned ways " of some
lone little one who has no pLayfellows, and at the odd
mixture of folly and wisdom in its sayings. A con-
tinual battle goes on in a child's mind between what
it knows and what it comprehends. Its answers are
foolish from partial ignorance, and wise from extreme
quickness of apprehension. The great art of educa-
tion is so to train this last faculty as neither to
depress nor over-exert it. The matured mediocrity
of many an infant prodigy proves both the degree of
expansion to which it is possible to force a child's
intellect, and the boundary which Nature has set to
the success of such false culture. — Hon. Mrs. Norton.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 136.]
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1851.
[PracE
THE LAND OF BLACKBERRIES.
What tho' no charms my person grace,
Nor beauty moulds my form, nor paints my face?
The sweetest fruit may often pall the taste,
While sloes and brambles yield a safe repast.
BLACKLOCK'S Plaintive Shepherd.
TALK not of the luscious land of vines ; sing not the
praises of blue heavens and rivers which flow through
vintage banks ; of Rhines, and Moselles, and Rhones,
i and Danubes ; forget that there are regions of
towering palms, and fruitful bananas, and golden
prairies reaching to the sea, — lands all fragrant with
magnolia blossoms, and jungles where the richest
fruits rot, untouched, upon the mould ; sigh not for
Grecian vales and isles of Paphos ; nor pine for the
rose-gardens of Cashmere, nor for the scented bowers
where the bulbul sings. Know that, here in this
island of green meadows and luxuriant hedgerows,
we speak the tongue of Lydgate; that we are com-
patriots with Spenser, Chaucer, Shakspere, and
Keats ; and that it is the land of beechen woods and
i Druidical memorials ; and above all, let us be grateful
to the Providence which has placed us in the Land of
Blackberries.
Blackberries ! rich, juicy, cool, and gushing,
which, in the days of boyhood, lured us with
their jetty lusciousness, and made us forget old
Horace and the Pons Asinorum, ««ind in exchange for
the Eton Grammar and the pickled birch, gave us a
larger life in. the green woods, made our young hearts
beat with hopeful enthusiasm, and filled us with the
first taste of life's poetry. Who then but would love
blackberries, even though less delicious and refresh-
ing to "the palate than they really are ? "Who but
; would love the simple fruits which recalled the
memories of orchard-robbing, school-mischief, April
fools, holiday rambles, and frantic dogs with kettles
or crackers at their tails ? Blackberries, — ah ! away
we go, the sunshine is still blinking among the trees,
and although the air grows chill, autumn is still
ruddy, and the hedges are yet fruitful. There is
; Epping Forest, whither we went from Stepney at
eight years of age " Blackberry ing." We knew
j almost every dell, and cover, and tangled copse, and
i from any path could lead you direct to the richest
garden of blackberries. We knew the haunts of
Hornsey, and Finchley, and Old Ford, — now, alas !
little towns, or appendages to London, — long before
we were twelve years of age ; and many a dream
of Robin Hood and Will Scarlet have we dreamt
there among the fern, after having sated ourselves,
after the fashion of Justice Greedy, — with the blackest
of ripe blackberries. There was always a charm
about it, which neither tattered clothes, nor lacerated
hands, nor angry looks at home, nor harsh words at
school, could ever dispel ; and to compensate for all
the sorrows and trials of school drudgery and book
education, we had the nobler education to be gained
in the Land of Blackberries. And now, after having
sunned our hearts in the green ways of Saxon poetry,
after having held companionship with the forests, and
bugles, and green hills of Scott, and luxuriated
among the lush and leafy coverts of Endymion
Keats, besides many fair-spent hours over Ritson and
Robert Herrick, how can we refrain from loving
blackberries ? Blackberries, which speak so win-
ningly of "yellow-girted bees," aiid "golden
honeycombs," and "jagged trunks," and "unseen
flowers in heavy peacefulness." Love them ? ay !
and away we go into the thick wood, far from the
roar of cities and the tramp of men, far from the
soul's prison-house, into the free air of bosky dells,
where ragworts and harebells tremble, and the
brambles hang their clouds of fruits.
This time to Cheshunt, fifteen miles from town, in
the prettiest part of Hertfordshire. Through the
ancient churchyard, glancing at the monuments of tha
Cromwells and the grassy mounds of many a sturdy
Puritan, superseding Hervey's sickly " Meditations,"
by thoughts which are always better suggested on the
spot. Gathering as we go any precious little gem
which may add to the herbarium, we reach Cheshunt
House, and refresh our memories with the stories
of Wolsey's pride and fall ; thence to the shadow
of a great beech in Cheshunt Park, to dine upon the
grass, and discover a new and most " come-again "
flavour in the beef and ham, which, despite our
worship of the blackberries, makes us feel keenly for
the Vegetarians. Dinner over, through the green
lanes to GofFe's Oak, gathering berries as we go, the
first handful being offered as a libation to the earth,
after the manner of school-boys and the ancients.
At Goffe's Oak we rest for the night, and enjoy that
delicious slumber in a snowy bed which can only be
82
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
enjoyed at a country inn in the land of black-
j berries.*
The mornings are grey and misty at blackberry
' time, so before venturing on the great expedition
before us, let us be internally fortified with a good
breakfast. The fragrant coffee tickles the sense
until the nose seems to laugh at the conceit, and the
palate, beguiled by the bland richness of the fresh
butter and new-laid eggs, threatens to forget the
anticipations of more blackberries.
We are away at last, upon the roadside, gathering
as we go from the brambles that skirt the pathway.
Away with conventionalities ; fling away the books ;
and let us for the present live for blackberries. The
berries are as black as death, and as delicious as the
first kiss of a fond lover.' There they hang like sugary
showers of healing and delectable manna ; hatless,
on tiptoe, forgetting drawing-room and parlour
courtesy, scorning etiquette and the doctrine of
appearances, and like children in our aboriginal
wildness, we gather and eat, we eat and gather.
Satiated, we walk on, and take the path to the left,
which leads to "Newgate Street" and "Little
Berkhampstead." The country, with its woody hills
and miles and miles of wheatlands, turnip-fields, and
meadows, swells grandly around us. There are copses
and forests of pine stems ; broad fields of cruciferous
blossoms glowing like golden seas with ripples and
billows of liquid amber. Up above lie the woods ;
and the partridges and pheasants whirr away in
heavy flight to shelter. The toil up-hill has cooled
our energies, so we step in here to a small roadside
inn, and seated in the only public room, which serves
as kitchen, pantry, and public parlour, regale our-
selves with a sweet draught of "Prior's Entire."
Here are eight houses and a mud cabin, backed on
one side by the splendid park of Squire Ellis,
flanked to the left with the . richly wooded hills,
through which the road rises and falls like an
undulating line of foam upon a dark green sea of
mountain billows; behind lies the valley we have
just left, with its banks of harebells, wild thyme,
and yellow ragworts, and on all hands the country
lies basking in sunshine, full of fertile promise,
beauty, and vegetable exuberance, and dotted and
fringed all over with bushy lines of blackberries.
Down the steep hill towards the wood, up again, as
the road passes over the upland, and a new scene
breaks upon us. Down again into the thick of the
wood, and feast our eyes on the interminable silvery
birch masts, which gleam away into the dark back-
ground, like the epars of an anchored fleet all
wedged together in a green sea of fern, while a
solemn rustling in the green twinkling foliage above,
sounds like a chorus of dryads, or the song of
liberated 'fays, which have been imprisoned in the
glens since the days of Oberon and Titania. Black-
berries again, richer, larger, and more pregnant with
the cool mulberry flavour of any yet. Appetite
grows keen, and we feel that we could eat all the
woods contain, they are so grateful and delicious.
* Goffe s Oak stands on Cheshunt Common, overlooking-
he ancient lands of Guffiey, and commanding a splendid pano-
rama of hill country beyond. The tree from which the inn
takes its name, is an ancient oak planted in the reign of
William the Conqueror, and which is now a hollow ruin
though still bearing a head of foliage. The inn is on! of the
best samples which remain of the " Good Old Time " and
still preserves the English characteristics of female beauty
domestic comfort, and hearty good cheer
Alternating with blackberries are crab-trees, loaded
with fairy fruit ; then clumps of willow-herbs, here
covered with rich purple blossoms, there powdered
with downy seeds ; then again, St. John's wort, then
blue scabious, and then broad flushing sheets of
crimson lythrum. Blackberries again and again, and
stomachs and baskets are filled to repletion. The
robins, and chaffinches, and willow-wrens, flutter and
sing, and chirp about us ; and now and then the
rabbit limps along through the brown brake, and the
partridges run to cover. Between the singing and
chirping of the birds, and the flutter of the wood-
pigeon's wing, there is an occasional pause, — a dead
stillness, — which is so solemn, so palpable to the
sense, which has been all but stunned by the fret and
din of cities, that it begets fear, and we tremble lest
the rest-harrow which blooms beside should convert
its spines into spears, and threaten us ; or that the
earth should gape and let forth some monster of
malignity, such as the knights encountered in the
olden time. Silence is new to man, and as strange as
it is new ; it is the searching and listening of the
suspended sense which begets the mysterious feeling
which accompanies it, and when it comes upon us in
the world of green moss, and crushed leaves, and
tangled branches, and blackberries, we feel that we
are alone with God, and come nearer to Him in the
solitudes, and the silence becomes a new voice,
whispering of trust, and faith, and renewing love, and
steadfast hope in the promised hereafter.
And here, sitting on the green bank, which is as
soft and elastic with the mossy growths of many
years as any bed of down, with the smiling face
of one whom we love beside us, let us indulge in a
soliloquy on the all-absorbing topic of blackberries.
Not that the silence of the woods needs to be broken
by the voice of man, for he, too often, carries strife
and tumult into regions which had else known peace,
and blights the fresh face of Nature with his
iniquities and feverish impulses. Nevertheless, it
seems meet, and the shadows nod a welcome.
Well, this said luscious, jet-black berry, or fruit
of the bramble, is a thing of no mean degree, either
in its botanical or literary history. Its botanical
characteristics ally it closely to the brilliant roses
of our gardens, and to the velvet peach, and the
apple, and the cherry. It is, in truth, a rose, and
its blossom, in shape and arrangement, is a miniature
of the rose of the hedges. Its sprays are long and
flexible, its juices are wholesome, and its fruit
salutary and refreshing. The leaves and stems
afford a valuable dye ; and its young tops were
anciently eaten by the Greeks as a salad. It grows
in every country of Europe, and over the broad moor-
lands of the north it produces abundance of its
welcome fruits. Its homely name of bramble, from
the Anglo-Saxon brceamlle, or bremel (anguis crucians),
signifies something furious, or that which lacerates
the skin ;* and suggests the hirsute nature of its
stems. Hence, — "Doth the bramble cumber a
garden ? It makes the better hedge ; where, if it
chance to prick the owner, it will tear the thief ;"f
though in this sense the term is not confined among
the Saxon writers to the blackberry plant, but
applied to others which are ragged and thorny. For
instance, —
Swete as is the bramble flour
That beareth the red hepe, J
in which the wilding rose is "the bramble flour," and
not our own true blackberry : though in another use
* Vide Skelton by Dyce, I. pp. IS/, 216, 278.— Chaucer's
Romaunt of the R^se.
t Grew. Cosmologin, III. c. 2.
J Chaucer, Rimevf Sir Tkorpas, v. 13.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
83
of the word there is no doubt but the 5Zao£-berry
is referred to, —
One of hem was a tre
That beareth a fruit of sauour wicke,
Full croked was that foule sticke,
And knottie here and there also,
And blacke as berry or any slo.*
Now a right good plant is this, our wayside bramble,
and one deserving a nobler vindicator than we. It
grows bravely and endures all weathers, it sits beside
the old oaks, and sees age come down and whiten
their brows, keeping ever youthful and jovial itself.
Renowned in story, from the time when it caught the
garments of Demosthenes, as he fled coward-like
from the field ;^ or when it alleviated with its rich
mellowness the asperity of the Baptist's " locusts
and wild honey ;" or was strewed over the graves of
Spartan heroes ; or wove tassels of leaves and rose-
shaped blossoms over the skeletons of Alexander's
frozen army, or over the ghastly remains of humanity
in Odin's Wood. Fair and welcome art thou, 0 hum-
ble and unambitious bramble, as when thou wert
mingled with the earliest offerings of herbs, or
scattered on the green altars of the ancient Gauls !
Beautiful still, as when mingled with ^Esop's happy
gift,.t when covered with elegies in deification of
Rosalind, or when nodding a response to Words-
worth when he so sweetly sang, —
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair work did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran ;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts in that sweet bower
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
But, alas ! the learned in the lore of flowers attach to
thy blossoms the idea of Remorse. There is no cup
so pure but dregs may be found at the bottom ; and
thou, with thy "gauzy satin frill," and tempting
harvest of juicy blackness, art armed from head to
foot with thorns, — thorns which lacerate and pierce
the flesh, and like the bitter draughts along the path
of pleasure, too often bid us taste of one before we
reach the other. Why art thou girded round with
thorns ? is it that man may not pluck all the fruit,
and thus some be left for the little birds who fear not
brambles ? or is there some lurking medicine in thy
many lancets, such as the Indians seek while rubbing
their bodies with the prickly sela, or the old Romans
pined for, when they sowed nettles to rub them-
selves? § Heaven knows ! perhaps we get a blessing
when we smart the most, and if God wills it, so let
it be.
If all this availed not to make the bramble a dear
thing, and teach the true glory of the land of black-
berries, what shall avail against the fact (which we
have intentionally deferred till now), that they were
the only food of the poor "Children in the Wood,"
and that from day to day as they wandered through the
dreary wilderness, unwatched by men, but cared for
by God : — he, with his arm round her little neck, she
looking up in his face with a tear in her eye ; and
amid the occasional fears and alarms which beset
them, feeling still safe while guarded by her boy.
* Chaucer, Rom. Rose.
t Holland's Plutarch, p. 765.
t yEsop made an offering of flowers to the god Mercury,
and was rewarded with the gift of inventing fables.
§ Camden's Britannia,
Who could pluck a blackberry and think of this
without letting fall a tear, and again thanking God
that he dwells in a land where the lives and liberties
of babes are so sacred, that that old story never
yet failed to move a heart, even if it were a heart of
stone ; thanking God that it is the land of baby love,
of boyish glee, and of blackberries. Ah ! the robin
conies now year by year and strews leaves upon the
graves of innocence, — Nature has a higher care for
her children, and the daisies will grow over the
grave of Keats, and the blue violet will linger about
the resting-place of Shelley.
Well, with childhood's rosy memories, with antique
legends and histories, ranging from that earliest age
when men fed upon the simplest productions of the
ground, when
Content with food which Nature freely bred,
On wildings and on strawberries they fed ;
Cornels and bramble-berries gave the rest,
And falling acorns furnished out a feast. *
down to Rosalind and the " Children in the Wood,"
together with no end of uses in medicine and the
arts, and that grandest of all uses, the making of
conserves, preserves, tarts, pies, and puddings, and
mingled with damsons, the richest syrup in the cata-
logue of modern confectionery, we say again, — Heaven
bless the brambles, and all cheer to the Land of
Blackberries !
From the silent wood, by a road to the left, we
passed into a picturesque region of farmhouses and
ancient homesteads ; down a steep hill which gave us
another view of the splendid country we had crossed
before, and "up hill and down dale," about three
miles, brought us back to the Goffe's Oak again. Tea,
— oh, how delicious ! eggs, fresh butter, — butcher's
meat not be got. Arranged botanical specimens,
and "between whiles," peeped in at the basketful
of jet blackberries, and thought of flour and suet,
and how long a pudding takes to boil. Emerson,
nothing better in the world of literature, after a
green ramble, — solemn, thoughtful, filled to over-
flowing with rich green images and wooded sanctuaries
of primitive thought, which suit the mind after its
powers have been allowed to expand in converse with
the bladed grass and honeysuckles. Warm brandy
and water, rather weak, eases the rigidity of limb,
and soothes the body, which the sun has fevered ; and
then, sleep is indeed a " comfortable bird ;" and if
not a "Key to golden palaces," at least a grand
restorative for another day amongst the blackberries.
Six days pass, and each seems more beautiful than
its predecessor, till warned of anxieties and cares,
and knowing that commercial interests permit us not
without stint to pluck blackberries for ourselves, we
take train, and are once more in a region not of
blackberries, but black bricks and cold stones, and
colder hearts, amid
The weariness, the fever, and the fret,
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
There's the bell for dinner ! I know there's a black-
berry and damson pie in the oven ; if I. could give
a bit to poor Keats, it would make him sing a more
cheerly song ; but as I cannot, let me leave this
melancholy prosing, and while sprinkling sugar in
the purple juice, shout the " The Land of Black-
berries for ever ! "
* Dryden's Virgil.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
THE SOLDIER'S LOVE.
FOUNDED ON FACT.
you do not doubt me, William ; you do not
believe that there was any truth in what that
mischievous Peggy Ramsey said, that I loved Henry
Brown better than you, — and should forget you in a
few months. You do not leave me in anger or
distrust, dear William ? "
" I cannot think that you intended any more than
what you women call an 'innocent flirtation,' Mary ;
but I fear Brown is not disposed to look upon your
behaviour in that light. He fancies that he may yet
win your love in spite of all the promises you have
given me ; and you must not wonder, dearest Mary,
if I am sad-hearted and doubtful as to the future,
when I know how much Harry has the advantage of
me in all worldly matters. I shall soon be far away ;
and if you do forget the poor soldier for the rich
farmer, perhaps I ought not to blame you."
" William, this is not kind ; indeed, I do not
deserve it. I never felt more for Harry than a
cousinly regard ; and you believed me once when I
told you that I loved you above all the world.
Believe me now, dear William, when I say so.
However long I may have to wait, I take Heaven to
witness, that I will never marry any one but you."
That William Duncan did believe her was fully
evidenced by the look of loving confidence which met
her beseeching eyes. And when, an hour afterwards,
they strolled on down the green lane which led to
Mrs. Hope's cottage, their happy countenances
seemed to say that any cloud which might have
dimmed their affection was overpast.
Mary Hope was the only child of a respectable
farmer in the pretty village of Hartdale. Her
father had died a few months before she completed her
eighteenth year; and Mrs. Hope had resigned the
farm to her nephew Henry Brown. She and Mary
took up their abode at a pretty cottage near their old
house ; where they lived happily together on what
was by them considered the ample provision which
the worthy farmer had made in the event of his
decease. Mary had always been a spoiled child ; and
when she grew towards womanhood, and by her
bright eyes and merry smile enchained the heart
of more than one of the village beaux, she was not a
whit less capricious than when she teazed her kind,
easy mother as a wayward child of ten or eleven
years of age. Long before the death of her father,
Mary had listened to the more than cousinly words of
affection which Harry Brown loved to speak to her ;
and she hearkened with pride and pleasure, too ; for
Harry was a fine, manly fellow, and there was not a
girl in Hartdale who would not have been flattered by
his attentions.
Mary knew that she was young, and Harry had
often told her that she was beautiful, and as I said
before, she was saucy ; so, whenever her lover talked
seriously of his love for her, she laughed, and said,
that she was too happy with her mother to leave her
even to get back to the old grange. He might ask
Margaret Ramsey or Ellen Burns to take pity on his
loneliness ; she had not any inclination to settle down
as a grave, steady farmer's wife ; and she would
shake back her bright curls, and laugh provokingly
at her disappointed cousin.
Mary had reached her nineteenth year, when
William Duncan met her at a village feast in the
neighbourhood of Hartdale. Her beauty and buoy-
ancy of spirits won the heart of the young soldier •
and as the liking was mutual, a few weeks found Maiy
Hope and William Duncan engaged lovers. Their
happiness was not of long duration. William's
regiment was ordered to India, and he tore himself
from the arms of his betrothed ; bearing with him as
his only consolation, h'er promise that on his return
she would become his wife.
##*#**
Nine years have passed away. A graceful form is
standing at the parlour window of the old grange,
looking out upon the clear river which flows past the
garden. Twilight is deepening around ; and the young
moon is already shedding her beams upon the water.
So soft and balmy is the air, so soothing and beauti-
ful the scene, that we wonder to see the dark eye of
the gazer dimmed with iears, which brim over upon
the long lashes. Her thoughts are wandering back j
to just such an evening, when she parted with one
whom she had promised to love, and love only, for
ever. How has she fulfilled that vow ?
A merry shout is heard in the passage without, and
three rosy children scamper in.
"Mother! mother! we've been down the lane
with Louisa Harris, and we've brought back, look,
mother ! such a queer thing ! "
" Thutch a tweer ting ! " lisps little Mary, the
youngest of the group. It is a hedgehog, and Harry
and his sisters dance with glee as they hold it up for
their mother to look at.
And these are the children of Harry Brown and
his beautiful wife, Mary Hope.
We must now retrace our steps. Mary had
remained faithful to William for many months after
his departure. She heard occasionally from him ; and
his letters, full of hope and confidence, cheered her
in her expectation of his return. At length they
ceased altogether. All this while Harry continued a
daily visitor at the cottage ; and though he had long
ceased to address Mary as a lover, his affectionate
sympathy and generous attentions were always at her
service. With Mrs. Hope, he had ever been a
favourite ; and to see her darling child happily
settled at the grange was the wish that lay nearest
her heart.
A heavy pecuniaiy trial came upon mother arid
daughter. The bank in which their little property
was placed, suddenly failed ; and when Harry, upon
hearing of this misfortune, came forward and offered
them a comfortable home in the house which had
once been theirs, Mrs. Hope ventured to speak to
Mary upon the subject which she had hitherto been
too delicate even to hint at. At first, the idea of
marrying any one but William Duncan appeared an
impossible one to entertain ; but his continued
silence by degrees had already caused her to believe
him unfaithful, and her mother and cousin made it
seem more practicable ; and though she told Henry
thai she feared she could never feel the same degree
of affection for him as that which she even then
cherished for William, and begged him not to speak
of love to her again ; there was a tenderness in her
tone, a blush on her cheek which seemed to contra-
dict her words. But Mary was a true woman. What
years of earnest wooing would have failed to effect,
was accomplished by a few months of quiet sym-
pathy and generous self-sacrifice on the part of
Harry.
Mary had now been married seven years : and
during that time no tidings from William Duncan
had ever disturbed her conscience, though she knew
from other sources that he was still alive, and
unmarried. Her husband was devoted to her ; and
their three bright-faced,' healthy children enlivened
the old grange with their bounding steps and joyous
voices. Mrs. Hope lived with them, and took a
great deal off her daughter's hands, by superintend-
ing the dairy and poultry-yard.
Mary loved her husband and was grateful to him ;
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
and yet the remembrance of her parting promise to
William Duncan, so speedily broken, was a sorrow
that ever haunted her. But more substantial griefs
were at hand, which, for a time, deadened this
remorseful memory.
It was a sultry summer day, in the time of hay-
harvest ; when Harry returned from the field earlier
than was his wont. Mary was sewing by a little
round table in the window, and he drew a chair
close to hers, and laid his head upon her shoulder.
" How hot your head is, dear Harry," she remarked,
" are you unwell ? "
"I don't know, Mary," he replied, " my head is
shockingly bad ; and just feel my hands. They are
burning hot, and yet I shiver all over."
"They are, indeed, Harry; you have worked too
hard this sultry day. Let me send for a doctor
directly, dear. Perhaps you want bleeding."
" Do you thirlk so, Mary ? Confound their
bleeding ! I don't think it does one any good. But
just as you please, little wife."
So the village doctor was summoned ; and doing all
in his power to make matters worse, before night
Harry was prostrate in the most violent delirium of a
virulent fever. In three days more, the generous
soul had departed ; and his sorrowing wife hung in a
paroxysm of grief over all that remained -of the kind
and disinterested Harry Brown.
The youthful widow and her mother were now
again left together ; with the additional care of Mary's
three children, who were almost totally unprovided
for. As soon "as she could think and plan for the
future, she determined to sell all the farming stock
and unnecessary furniture, and to retire again to
their cottage, which meanwhile had been inhabited
by a labourer. From the proceeds of this sale a
little capital would be obtained, which would enable
her to begin life anew. Mary sat down in her
patient hope, and calculated how much she might
earn by sewing, and by instructing a few of the
neighbour's children with her own. The result of her
meditations was satisfactory, and she determined to
commence immediately.
A blessing on the bright cheering angel Hope !
How many a heavy heart has she lightened ! How
many a weary and stricken soul has she quieted and
strengthened by her brave encouraging words !
Never did mortal sink so low as to be beyond the
reach of her helping hand ; never was wound too
deep for her to find and heal it. It is hers to pour a
bright ray through the riven thunder-cloud ; to
mingle in the bitter grief-cup some drops of purest
honey. The loneliest mourner, weeping over the
grave which contains his dearest earthly treasure,
may, if he will, see Hope with her raised finger and
holy trustful look pointing him to Heaven. A
blessing on the sweet angel Hope ! And so felt
Mary Brown when she sat down in her humble
dwelling, and plied the needle which was to win
bread for herself and those dearest to her.
But time passed on, and their small capital was
becoming exhausted. Mary worked early and late,
and yet her utmost labours barely ensured them a
scanty subsistence. Her mother, too, was getting old,
and would soon be unfit for exertion ; and the shadow
of extreme penury already darkened their doorway.
One cold autumnal evening, just at the time when
it is too dark to see distinctly to do anything, and
yet too light for the economical to think of lighting
candles ; — on such an evening, Mary had laid down
her eternal stitching for a moment, to rest her eyes
and warm her numbed fingers. A scanty fire burned
in the grate ; and their frugal supper was laid out on
the table for herself and her mother, the children
having retired to bed an hour before.
" Mother," said the young widow, " it is a weary
getting on this. I don't wonder at people wishing
to die."
Mrs. Hope looked round. She was spreading her
shrunken hands over the tiny blaze, rocking back-
wards and forwards on her chair as she did so.
"No, child," she answered, "nor I neither. There
comes a time to many of us when we seem to have
lived long enough. Why am I still here, adding to
your heavy burden, when I cannot do my share to
lighten it ? "
"No, mother, dear mother, do not say so," en-
treated Mary, pressing close to her aged parent,
whom trials, more than years, had rendered old.
" You have ever been a strength and a help to me.
Your presence, mother, and your dear face, have
enabled me to bear much that I should have sunk
under alone. Never say again that you are a burden,
mother — ."
They were startled by the sound of a manly foot-
step on the paved walk of the little garden. The
next moment a hand was on the latch ; the door
opened and William Duncan stood upon their hearth-
stone !
The vicissitudes of a soldier's life had wrought
some change on the slim figure and handsome face of
the young man ; but the change was not for the
worse. His cheek was browner and his figure more
athletic ; and the awkward shyness of the youth was
exchanged for the confidence of the tried soldier and
the travelled man. Though Mary was much startled,
she was too old, and had known too much sorrow, to
evince her emotion by screaming or fainting ; and
even had she been inclined to either of these weak-
nesses, the quiet self-possession of her old lover
would have prevented any such exhibition of her
feelings. He seized Mrs. Hope's hand and pressed it
warmly, listening to her rapid inquiries and congratu-
lations with a melancholy smile. Then he went to
Mary and grasped her hand in silence ; after which
he turned again to Mrs. Hope.
"The old place is not much altered," he said,
" though you, my dear old friend, are. I fear you
must have suffered greatly. But it is little to see an
alteration of face, if only the feelings be the same."
The deep sigh with which he concluded went to the
very heart of Mary ; who turned away to hide the
tears that would start in spite of all her efforts to
retain them.
Recovering herself at length, she took a seat near
him, and endeavoured to be easy and friendly.' But
though he listened deferentially to the words which
she addressed to him, he replied as briefly as possible ;
and she found to her bitter mortification, that an
invisible barrier had risen up between them.
That night was a sleepless one to poor Mary. The
fair memory of the love which she had betrayed
shone in brighter colours still, when contrasted with
the indifference which William now evinced towards
her ; and remorse for her unfaithfulness seemed
aggravated by his lofty self-command.
When compelled to speak, he had answered her in
monosyllables, evidently regarding her as a fickle,
inconstant woman, unworthy the regard of a sen-
sible man. Never did poor Mary feel so low in
her own estimation, as when she laid her aching head
upon her pillow, on the evening of William Duncan's
return to Hartdale.
The next morning, Mrs. Hope and he had a long
and private interview. Mary avoided meeting him ;
she could not bear to see his altered look ; and she
only hoped that he might leave her to her lonely lot,
and no longer add to her self-reproach by his dumb
reproofs. But William Duncan had come to Hart-
dale with the determination of settling there. His
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
mother had died a year before ; and with her property
and a pension, with which he was discharged from
his regiment, he hoped to make Mary his wife, and
the old age of her mother a happy one. He had
heard of the reverse iii their fortunes, but not until he
reached Hartdale did he know that Mary was faithless
to him. His resolution was soon taken. The nature
of it we shall learn as we proceed.
Eight months had passed since William Duncan's
return to Hartdale, — and Mary had become compara-
tively used to his grave and distant manner ; and
though his silence was a constant source of pain to
her, it was some alleviation to see him so kind to her
mother and children.
One evening he was later than usual in his visit to
the cottage ; and Mrs. Hope having expressed her
belief that he would not come that night, went early
to rest. Maiy took her knitting and sat in the clear
twilight beneath the little porch. Soon she heard the
well-known step coming along the lane ; and pre-
sently William walked up the garden.
"My mother thought you would not be here
to-night, so she went to bed, — but — "and Mary
hesitated, " will you sit down and rest awhile ? "
William seated himself beside her, and for some
time they preserved silence ; at length he gently
took her hand.
"Mary!" he said,—
It was the first word he had voluntarily addressed
to her since his return. In another moment she
was drawn close — closer — £b his side, her head was
leaning on his shoulder, — and her long-suppressed
love and anguish found expression in a passionate
burst of tears.
" My own love ! my own Mary ! and did you
think that I no longer loved you, when my life has
been one long devotion to you ? I gave you cause to
think this, Mary ; I ceased to write to you, knowing
that, from our position up the country, my letters
were not likely to reach their destination, and
believing that I could rely on your constancy through
absence and silence. Don't weep so bitterly, love.
When I came home and found you, as I thought,
designedly unfaithful, I would not show you what I
still felt, until I had proved you. These eight
months I have been a witness to your self-denying
virtues ; I have marked every tone, eveiy look, that
evidenced your still existing, though hidden affection
for me ; and I was sure some strong necessity, some
excellent motive, iiad induced your apparent faithless-
ness. Yesterday I talked with your mother ; for the first
time she explained everything to me ; and now I feel
that I shall not offend my own self-respect by
offering you afresh a heart that has never swerved
from you, a hand that has never, even in thought,
been placed at the disposal of another. Speak to
me, Mary, my injured, excellent Mary, speak one
little word."
Mary raised her head ; and turned her weeping face
upon him.
" You are more learned than I, William ; I do
not quite understand all you have been saying.
But this I do understand, that you are reconciled to
me, and do not think so very badly -of me as I
fancied you did. And if you really like to take
such a poor, worn body, after all the injury she has
•done you, why then, William — ."
No further explanations were needed. Their
troth was plighted in the kiss that told far more
satisfactorily than the most eloquent language, the
depth of their tried and true affection.
******
When at length the happy Mary retired to rest,
with William's affectionate good-night still lingering
in her charmed ears, she found her mother not
asleep, as she expected, but wide awake, waiting
for her.
" Mary, dear, come here, and let me look at you.
It is ?s I hoped ; William has been making it up
with you. I knew be would, dearest ; I knew he
would, sooner or later. I have been sure of it, ever
since the long talk I had with him, the morning
after his return. He could not bear to see you
overworking yourself, Mary, and we are indebted to
him — ."
" I knew it, mother, all this time. Did you think
I was so simple, as not to guess where the money
came from, upon which we have lived so comfortably ?
I would not refuse it for your sake and the children's,
but I was laying by secretly all the while to pay
it back again to him, for I could not bear,
mother — ."
" There, darling ! don't recal old sorrows. He is
to be your husband now, you know ; and you must
rub up all your best looks, and be as much as
possible the same pretty Mary whom you once
promised to bestow upon him alone."
"And to my shame and sorrow, mother, that
promise was broken ; though God knows, with a good
motive. But I will forget all that now, if he will
only love the poor remains of that beauty that once
pleased him. I can only say that, mother, now; for
I have no reason left to be vain."
So Mary resigned herself to her renewed happiness ;
and so potent a spell dwelt therein, that in a month
or two, — which they occupied in renovating and
beautifying the little cottage with Mary's hidden
store of money, — in so short a space of time, she
began once again to look almost as lovely as in clays
of yore. Not that she could quite get rid of all the
footprints that grief and care had traced upon her
gentle forehead. Nor could the matronly form be
expected to re-assume the slender, girlish grace of
former years ; nor the dark eye to shine as brilliantly
as before its lustre had been quenched in frequent
tears. But what was missing of her youthful prime,
was more than made up by the pure and lofty expres-
sion that a trained and disciplined soul never fails to
impart to the meanest countenance ; and as William
gazed upon the "sublimity of patience" throned on
the brow of his recovered Mary, he did not regret
the trials that had so long separated them, — for he
felt that these would greatly cement the happiness
that remained ; and he was right. Strengthened by
the remembrance of past sorrow ; thankful for the
good now so lavishly bestowed upon them, and with
brave hearts and humble spirits prepared for any
future trial, — you could not find a happier couple in
Hartdale than William and Mary Duncan.
MECHANICS' INSTITUTES.
HINTS FOR THEIR EXTENSION AND IMPROVEMENT.
MANY years have now elapsed since Mechanics'
Institutes were first started, with such strong hopes
of success. The Glasgow and London Institutes were
the first, and were established in 1823. They were
then regarded as one of the most powerful agencies for
accelerating the moral and intellectual improvement
of man. The first experiments were so successful, that
they led to others, and there was scarcely a town in
England and Scotland, of any size, in which a Me-
chanics'Institute was not- before long established. Not-
withstanding the jealousy, and even hostility of some
parties, who regarded them as "infidel" institutions,
because they confined themselves to the cultivation
of purely secular knowledge, they gradually gained
a footing, and at length rallied round them the sup-
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
87
port of nearly all classes of the community. " The
schoolmaster was abroad," became the general motto,
and Mechanics' Institutes became a great fact.
The mechanic and operative was to be schooled by
the new institutes, into the enjoyment of the delights
of intellectual recreation, as well as instructed in the
scientific rationale of his particular craft. With this
view, libraries were formed, and lectures were deli-
vered, principally on chemistry and mechanical philo-
sophy. A few of the respectable inhabitants of a
locality iindertook the formation of the institute, and
fed it by subscriptions, also forming the committee,
and superintending the management. Many of these
institutes prospered ; others, after the novelty had
subsided, died a lingering death ; and even many of
those which had promised the greatest success died
of collapse and decay. Of those which survived, many,
in order to keep themselves alive, associated them-
selves with Literacy Institutes, Philosophical Insti-
tutes, Athenaeums, Lyceums, and so on ; and some
of the most thriving now exist only in this connec-
tion.
The fact became but too obvious, that the me-
chanic and operative class did not join those insti-
tutes. When they did so, they were almost always
found in a minority of the members, the majority
belonging to the middle ranks of life. Both these
classes have strong prejudices, and somehow they have
never yet been found to mix together in this country
in a very kindly way. The working men found them-
selves edged out of all share in the management ;
they ceased to take an interest in the Mechanics'
Institutes, and they accordingly remained, what they
now mostly are, — not working mens', but middle
class associations. It is unquestionable, nevertheless,
that great good has resulted from their establish-
ment ; for they have popularized knowledge to a
large extent, and assisted in diffusing a desire for
scientific and literary information, greater than ever
before existed.
Still the fact stares us in the face — that the work-
ing people do not belong to these associations, and to
call them the Institutes of Mechanics, is altogether a
misnomer. One has only to enter the library, or the
lecture-room of a Mechanics' Institute in any town,
to see this at a glance. The audience is composed of
professional gentlemen, young ladies, bankers, and
lawyers' clerks, respectable shopkeepers, and trades-
men,— in short, all classes except the men and wo-
men who work with their hands for a living — the
strictly mechanic or operative class. The subjects
lectured upon have become literary, rather than
scientific ; and you see very clearly that it is not the
working class, so much as the middle class intellect
and tastes, that are appealed to. We must therefore
regard Mechanics' Institutes, so far as regards their
improved culture of working men, as a failure, up to
the present time.
The causes of failure, we think, are not far to seek.
First, they have failed because the working people of
this country have not yet been educated up to the
point at which they can derive any large amount of
benefit from Mechanics' Institutes. Their elementary
education, obtained at school in their younger days,
has been of the most meagre description. A large
proportion of them cannot even read ; and conse-
quently they have no desire for knowledge. Many
others have never got beyond the mere elementary
arts of reading and writing, and have never had
their taste cultivated, or a desire for knowledge
awakened.
But, secondly, of the remaining part of the working
class (a small minority of their class) who have the
desire for self-culture, there is a general reluctance
manifested to enter a Mechanics' Institute, as at
present constituted ; because they feel that they are
not placed on the same level as the other members of
the Institute. They are excluded from all interest
or share in the management. They are treated in a
patronizing manner ; and, generally speaking, work-
ing men do not like to be " patronized." Hence,
they prefer forming themselves into what are called
Mutual Improvement Societies, where they can meet
on the same level, and manage their own affairs
entirely by themselves ; and this is the case even in
those towns, where some of the most thriving so-called
Mechanics' Institutes are located.
A third cause of failure is to be found in the fact,
that the subjects which, of all others, interest Intelli-
gent working men in these days — namely, questions
of political and social well-being — are excluded from
Mechanics' Institutes. We do not see how the pre-
sent institutes, which are professedly established for
purposes of literary and scientific culture, can well
depart from their accustomed practice in this respect ;
we merely allude to the circumstance, as one reason
why the working classes do not join themselves to
societies, from which the subjects in which they take
the most interest, are rigorously excluded.
Another cause, and by no means an unimportant
one, is, the absence of amusement in Mechanics' In-
stitutes generally ; in place of which, the audience,
not unfrequently, has to listen to a very heavy and\
unprofitable lecture — on somebody's poems, or on
somebody else's novels, or on Shakspere's women
or fools, or on cryptogamic plants. Such lectures are
very apt to send a man to sleep, who has been work-
ing all day amid the whirl of machinery and tho
beating of hammers. It is really too much to ask
an artizan to come and listen to such things. You
must give him some entertainment that will at least
keep him awake, and amuse if not instruct him.
Not that sound information should be excluded, to
make room for amusement ; but amusement and at-
traction of some kind there must be : if not, the
public-house and the casino will attract the operative
as now, and not the Mechanics' Institute.
Then, again, of the small number of young men
who join Mechanics' Institutes for the higher pur-
poses of self-culture, most of them soon find that they
are not exactly in the way of deriving from them
much practical good. They may gather together a
number of new facts, in an easy way, and pick up a
certain amount of conversationable material, at a cheap
rate, passing from point to point in the realms of
knowledge, skimming the surface, and gathering here
and there a flower or a truth. But knowledge is not
thus to be wooed and won : it must have study,
labour, work, bestowed upon it ere it can be mastered,
especially those deeper truths, which lie like hidden
ores under our feet, and must be dug for patiently,
ere they can be brought to light, and made our own.
Genuine students, practical labourers in the cause of
self-culture, find that they can do more sitting at
home with a good manual and a few simple apparatus,
than amid all the showy appliances of the modern
Mechanics' Institute.
To render educational institutes, intended for the
real bond fide working classes, effective and useful,
we suggest that the following conditions are requisite.
1. There ought to be a greatly improved elemen-
tary education of the working classes in day-schools.
This is absolutely necessary, and must be accom-
plished, before mechanics, or other working mens'
institutes can generally prosper. The day-school
only can adequately perform the work of elementary
instruction, and prepare working men to take advan-
tage of the instruction furnished by the Mechanics'
Institutes, when they arrive at adult age. This
process may be a slow one, but we should be deceiv-
88
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
ing ourselves, were we to expect any large 'measure of
genuine prosperity from our working-class institutes,
until society has fulfilled this first and bounden obli-
gation to its members.
2. The working class ought themselves to manage
the institutes intended for their own instruction.
They know best what their intellectual wants are,
and how to set about supplying them. The manage-
ment of such institutions by themselves, would
of itself be an education of a most valuable kind.
They can manage their own clubs and benefit so-
cieties ; — why not their own Mechanics' Institutes ?
Without this' condition, it is to be feared the working
people will continue to look on the existing societies
with jealousy and aversion. Managed by themselves,
working men would choose their own subjects, taboo
politics or not, as they might find advisable, or intro-
duce such proportion of amusement, as they might
themselves find expedient.
3. In connection with all Mechanics' Institutes,
classes for learners in science and literature should
be organized, in which those desirous of increasing
their acquirements in any special branch of knowledge,
may join together in self-culture. Each member of
such a class would bring his information into the
general store, and share it with his brethren, who
would impart theirs in turn. By the aid of books or
teachers, they could extend their inquiries, and thus
go on steadily accumulating knowledge. The ad-
vantages of a system of this kind are numerous, but
one of the most important is this — that it would tend
to the cultivation of habits of inquiry and observa-
tion. Several existing Mechanics' Institutes, though
very few, have adopted the practice ; and in all cases
it has been attended with the most marked advantage
to the members.
The general adoption of these hints would, we
believe, not only tend to the rapid extension of
genuine Mechanics' Institutes, but also greatly im-
prove the moral tone of the mass of society, and
advance the intellectual condition of the whole body
of the people.
MOTHER HOLLE.
FROM THE GERMAN.
THERE was once a widow who had two daughters, one
pretty and industrious, the other ugly and idle. But
she loved the lazy child the best, and made the other,
therefore, do all the hard work of the house, yes,
even be the cindermaid. And when all was clean in
the kitchen, the unkind mother would send the little
maiden into the street to spin, — she had to sit on the
edge of the well, and spin until the blood ran from
her finger-ends.
Now^ it happened that one day she stained the
spool with her bleeding hands, and so she thought she
would wash it in the well, but as she stooped to do
so, it fell into the water and sank. Weeping bitterly,
she ran to tell her mother of this misfortune, but the
cruel woman cried, with her loud scolding voice, "As
you let the spool fall, you must fetch it up again ! "
So the maiden went away, and quite bewildered by
her sorrow, jumped into the deep well.
When sho opened her eyes again, she found herself
in a beautiful meadow, in which grew thousands of
flowers, while the sun shone brightly over all. She
walked across the pleasant grass, and presently came
to an oven full of bread ; the loaves called to her,
saying, "Take us out! take us out! or we shall
burn,— we are quite baked enough ! " She immedi-
•tely stepped up, and took them all out. Going on
again, she reached an apple-tree weighed down with
fruit ; it also cried, entreatingly, " Oh, shake me !
shake me ! all my apples are ripe ! " She shook the
tree, while the apples fell around her like rain, till
not one was left hanging, and then pursued her
journey. At last she arrived at a little house, from
which there peeped an old woman, whose teeth were
so long, that the maiden felt afraid, and began to run
away. The old woman, however, called after her,
"Don't be afraid, dear child, come back and live
with me, — if you will keep the house neat and clean,
you shall be happy,— only be sure to shake my bed
well, and make the feathers fly about, for then it
snows on earth, — I am Mother Holle ! " *
As the old woman spoke so kindly, the maiden
stayed with her, and did all she could to please her,
and never neglected to shake the bed well, so that
she led a pleasant life without hard words, and
enjoying every day the nicest food, both boiled and
baked. But after awhile, the little maiden became
sorrowful, for though she was a thousand times
better off with Mother Holle than at home, she still
longed to return there.
At last she ventured to tell her mistress, " I am
happy here," she said, "but I cannot stay any
longer ! "
"I am sorry you wish to leave me," replied
Mother Holle, " but as you have served me truly, I
will take you home myself."
She then took her by the hand and led her to a
great gate ; as soon as it was open, and the maiden
was passing out, a shower of gold fell upon her, so
that she was quite glittering Avith wealth.
"This is all yours," said Mother Holle ; "it is the
reward of your industry," and then she gave her the
spool that had fallen into the well.
When the gate closed, the child found herself in the
world again, and close by her mother's house ; a hen
perched on the edge of the well, cackled joyfully, —
Kickereekec,
Our golden young mistress again I see !
and when her mother saw all the riches that adorned
her, she, too, made her welcome.
As soon, however, as the mother heard how all
this gold had been acquired, she determined that her
idle daughter should likewise try her luck. So the
lazy maiden sat on the edge of the well and spun,
and in order to stain the spool, she pricked her finger
with a thorn, then throwing the spool into the water,
she jumped in after it. She, too, found herself in
the beautiful meadow, and took the same path that
her sister had done. When she arrived at the oven,
the loaves again cried, "Take us out! take us out ! or
we shall burn,— we are quite baked enough ! " but
the idle girl answered, " I don't intend to dirty
myself with you ! " and went on. Presently, she
came to the apple-tree which called out as it had
before,
ripe ! "
take care that none fall on my head ! " and so con-
tinued her journey without stopping. When she at
last met Mother Holle, she was not at all afraid
of her — she had already heard about her great
teeth, — so she at once asked to be hired.
The first day she really did her best, was industri-
ous, and minded all the old woman said to her, — for
she thought continually of the gold that was to be
her reward. On the second, she was somewhat lazy
again, and on the third, she could scarcely be made to
rise in the morning, and did not shake one feather
out of Mother Holle's b'ed. The old woman soon
became tired of this bad conduct, and told her to return
unc a^pic-Lice \vmuil Uclllfc;u OUU MS 11 IiaO.
• Oh, shake me ! shake me ! all my apples are
"I'm glad to know it," replied she, "I'll
* Therefore, when it snows in Hessia, people say, " Frau
Holle is making her bed."
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
89
home. The idle maiden was very glad to do so, and
expected now to receive the golden shower. Mother
Holle led her to the great gate, but as she was
passing out, instead of gold, a kettle of pitch was
emptied upon her.
" Take that for your wages ! " cried the old woman,
and she banged to the gate. The maiden Avent home
all-bedaubed with the pitch, and the hen on the edge
of the well cackled, —
Kickereekee,
Our dirty young mistress again I see !
RE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS.
THE WILLOW TREE.
TREE of the gloom, o'erhanging the tomb,
Thou seem'st to love the churchyard sod ;
Thou ever art found on the charnel ground,
Where the laughing and happy have rarely trod.
When thy branches trail to the wintry gale,
Thy wailing is sad to the hearts of men ;
When the world is bright in a summer's light, —
'Tis only the wretched that love thee then.
The golden moth and the shining bee
Will seldom rest on the Willow Tree.
The weeping maid comes tinder thy shade,
Mourning her faithful lover dead ;
She sings of his grave in the crystal wave,
Of his sea-weed shroud and coral bed.
A chaplet she weaves of thy downy leaves,
And twines it round her pallid brow ;
Sleep falls on her eyes while she softly sighs,
"My love, my dearest, I come to thee now !"
She sits and dreams of the moaning sea,
While the night- wind creeps through the Willow Tree.
The dying one will turn from the sun,
The dazzling flowers, and luscious fruit,
To set his mark in thy sombre bark,
And find a couch at thy moss-clad root.
He is fading away like the twilight ray,
His cheek is pale, and his glance is dim ;
But thy drooping arms, with their pensive charms,
Can yield a joy till the last for him ;
And the latest words on his lips shall be,
" Oh, bury me under the Willow Tree ! "
THE SMUGGLER BOY.
WE stole away at the fall of night,
When the redlround moon was deepening her light,
But none knew whither our footsteps bent,
Nor how those stealthy hours were spent ;
For we crept away to the rocky bay,
Where the cave and craft of a fierce band lay ;
We gave the signal cry, " Ahoy ! "
And found a mate in the smuggler boy.
His laugh was deep, his speech was bold,
And we loved the fearful tales he told
Of the perils he met in his father's bark,
Of the chase by day and the storm by dark ;
We got him to take the light boat out,
And gaily and freshly we dashed aboub,
And nought of pleasure could ever decoy
From 'the moonlight sail with the smuggler boy.
We caught his spirit, and learnt to love
The cageless eagle more than the dove ;
And wild and happy souls were we,
Roving with him by the heaving sea.
He whispered the midnight work they did,
And showed us where the kegs were hid :
All secrets were ours, — a word might destroy, —
But we never betrayed the smuggler boy.
We sadly left him, bound to range
A distant path of care and change ;
We have sought him again, but none could relate
The place of his home, or a word of his fate :
Long years have sped, but we dream of him now,
With the red cap tossed on his dauntless brow ;
And the world hath never given a joy
Like the moonlight sail with the smuggler boy.
ANACREONTIC.
WINE ! Wine ! Wine !
Thou purple stream of bliss ;
Thy Lethe powers drown bygone hours,
And make a heaven of this.
Go, look upon the boundless sky,
Where shining planets roll, —
There's none can match the sparkling eye,
When Wine lights up the soul !
Let monaichs say their Eastern gems
All other gems surpass,
We'll show them brighter in the drops
That stud each draining glass.
Wine ! Wine ! Wine !
Thou purple stream of bliss ;
Thy Lethe powers drown bygone hours,
And make a heaven of this.
There's beauty round that might entice
The angels, as of yore ;
Once drawn to earth by such a charm
They'd seek the sky no more.
There's music, soft and thrilling — hark !
What magic in the strain !
'Twere madness for to listen long,
Come, fill the glass again !
Wine ! Wine ! Wine !
Thou purple stream of bliss ;
Thy Lethe powers drown bygone hours,
And make a heaven of this.
Young Bacchus reels about our board,
With face like morning's blush ;
His cheeks have pilfered from the grapes
Their rich carnation flush.
The rosy rogue around to-night
A treble rapture flings ;
He revels with Apollo's lyre,
And Cupid's burning wings.
Wine ! Wine ! Wine !
Thou purple stream of bliss ;
Thy Lethe powers drown bygone hours,
And make a heaven of this.
90
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
"THY WILL BE DONE."
LET the scholar and divine
Tell us how to pray aright ;
Let the truths of Gospel shine
With their precious hallowed light ;
But the prayer a mother taught
Is to me a matchless one ;
Eloquent and spirit -fraught
Are the words — "Thy will be done."
Though not fairly understood,
Still those words, at evening hour,
Imply some Being great and good,
Of mercy, majesty, and power.
Bending low on infant knee,
And gazing on the setting sun,
I thought that orb his home must be,
To whom I said — "Thy will be done.
I have searched the sacred page,
I have heard the godly speech,
But the lore of saint or sage
Nothing holier can teach.
Pain has wrung my spirit sore,
But my soul the triumph won,
When the anguish that I bore
Only breathed — " Thy will be done."
They have served in pressing need,
Have nerved my heart in every task,
And howsoe'er my breast may bleed,
No other balm of prayer I ask.
When my whitened lips declare
Life's last sands have almost run,
May the dying breath they bear
Murmur forth — " Thy will be done."
OUR AUTUMN TRIP THROUGH MUNSTER.
BANTRY BAY. — THE FRENCH INVASION. — ROUTE TO
KENMARE. — COCKNEY AMONG THE HILLS. — KERRY. —
IRISH DISTRESS. — EDUCATION. — KENMARE. — THE
POLICE FORCE. — IRISH TIME. — TURC WATERFALL. —
KILLARNEY.
BANTRY Bay is celebrated in Irish history as the
place fixed upon by the French for the debarkation
of their invading army in 1796. France was then
governed by the directory, whom Theobald Wolfe
Tone, a leader of the United Irishmen, had fairly
enlisted in his " country's cause ; " and a fleet of
forty-three sail, having on board an army of 15,000
men, and arms for 50,000 more, actually set sail, and
made for the Irish coast. The fleet was however
dispersed by a terrible storm ; and of the forty-three
ships, only sixteen sail, with 6,500 troops on board,
reached the rendezvous of Bantry Bay. The winds
continued to blow with great fury, preventing
General Grouchy from landing his army ; and soon
after another tremendous storm, from the north-east,
still further scattered the fleet and blew them out to
sea. But for five days these hostile ships lay in
Bantry Bay, anchored so near the shore, that Tone
(who was on board the Indomptdble, of eighty guns),
says he could have tossed a biscuit on shore. The
expedition had originally been placed under the
command of General Hoche, a young officer of great
ability, afterwards killed in the Rhine ; but the ship
in which he sailed was separated from the fleet
during the first storm, and was blown back to port
at Brest.
As it was, General Grouchy, — the same who after-
wards failed Napoleon in his hour of need a.t Water-
loo,-- -reached the Bay with an army, which, had lie
landed it, would have marched to Dublin with
comparatively slight resistance, for there was then
but a very small armed force in Ireland, and the
bulk of the people were waiting for the signal to
"rise." Tone, in his autobiography, says (writing
on the 22nd of December) : — "All rests now upon
Grouchy, and I hope he will turn out well." But
Grouchy, according to Tone, did not turn out well.
He did, indeed, at one time agree to land, and the
plan of debarkation and order of battle were arranged.
But the winds blew harder than ever, and on the
sixth day Grouchy ordered his ship's cables to be
cut, and ran out to sea. The fleet reached Brest in
safety. Tone says in his journal :— " It is the
dreadful stormy weather and easterly winds which
have been blowing furiously and without intermission
since we made Bantry Bay, that have ruined us.
Well ! England has not had such an escape since the
Spanish Armada, and that expedition, like ours,
was defeated by the weather ; the elements fight
against us, and courage is of no avail."
The part of the Bay where the French fleet lay
at anchor for five days was near its mouth, off Bere
Island. Of course, the appearance of such a force
caused no small alarm, and an immediate panic seems
to have spread over the country. Many are the
stories told by the peasantry of their alarming
visitors. Judging from what they say now-a-days,
there does not seem to have been 'much sympathy
for the foreign invaders in that quarter, indeed they
seem rather to have regarded them in the light of
enemies. One of the men who rowed us down the
Bay in a boat, spoke of one of the French ships that
had been burnt, by way of " rejoicing ; " but it was
evident that the facts of the visit were now becoming
forgotten, or already draped in the mythical and
wonderful.
I have spoken of the little island with the Mar-
tello tower, lying about a mile dowa the Bay, from
Glengariff, it is called Garnish Island. You may
have a boat at the inn door, and sail down to the
place, and be back in less than an hour, and it is
well worthy of a visit. A little two-oared boat
swiftly bore us thither, and the boatman told us how
that the tower there was built "for fear of the
French ; " for the y;ear after " the invasion," fortifi-
cations were erected along the Bay, and on most of
the islands. We landed at the rude jetty, rather
hurriedly as the boatmen seemed to think, for one of
them exclaimed : " Aisy, aisy, Sir ! betther be sure
than sorry" — a good maxim, worthy of being noted,
like those of Captain Cuttle.
The view from Garnish Island is extremely fine.
The rugged hills of Glengariff, or the rough glen,
surround the Bay studded with its lovely green
islands. The bare rocks in many places shoot far up
into the sky, seemingly rent asunder and forced up
by some terrific convulsion of nature, their strata
being plainly discernible. Only the mountain goat
can scale these giddy heights. In a recess of the
Bay, on a delicious green plateau, stands the mansion
of Madame White, a widowed sister of Lord Bantry,
perfect in its site, and commanding prospects of
island, wood, and water, with a background of lofty
mountains of quite an Alpine character. Looking
down the Bay, a vast expanse of water lies before
you, Whiddy Island in the distance, behind which
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
91
lies the little town of Bantry, here hidden from
sight. Travellers go into raptures about Killarney,
and it has a world- wide fame ; but how very few
know anything of Glengariff. Yet for grandeur,
variety, and extent, — for rugged rocks, beautiful
islands, rushing streams, wooded ravines, and lovely
coves, the latter is certainly equal, if it does not
actually bear away the palm.
There are the elements of great wealth too in
Bantry Bay. It is full of fish of nearly all kinds,
waiting to be caught. What a treasure would such a
bay as Bantry be to the fishermen of Wick, who in
two days in one week, not very long since, caught
fish worth4 £10,000 ; but Bantry Bay is compara-
tively unfished. Rarely is a sail seen on its surface ;
and the Bantry fishing-boats, very few in number,
are exceedingly imperfect, being small, leaky, and
often patched with canvas. It is lamentable to
think, that with such stores of wealth lying before
them, in that and the other magnificent bays around
the Irish coast, so little should be done to cultivate
them ; and that such schemes as the distillation
of peat and the cultivation of beet-root should be
patronized, when the natural wealth and teeming
abundance of both land and sea are so greatly
neglected. But they say at Bantry, that they have
no access to markets. The Wick fishermen, on the
northern coast of Scotland, are much further from
the great fish-markets than the bays of Ireland are.
It is not so much on the fresh fish trade that they
rely, as on the curing trade ; and they largely supply
the foreign, the English, and the Irish markets. Even
the principal Irish towns are often supplied with fresh
fish by Scotch fishermen, who catch the fish off the
Irish coasts, and sell them in the Irish markets. This
should not be ; at all events, Irishmen themselves
ought to cultivate the fishing-trade, and endeavour
to supply at least their own markets.
Nearly' all kinds of fish, and those of the finest,
frequent Bantry Bay : salmon, John Dory, hake and
skett, mackerel, herring in abundance, and all the
common kinds of fish ; oysters and all kinds of shell-
fish are extremely plentiful. At Bantry I priced a
John Dory, a foot and a half long, and found it
selling for 4d. ; in the London markets it would have
fetched 6s. You may buy a hake (a fish somewhat
resembling mackerel in appearance), of from 41b. to
51b. weight, for three-halfpence, and so on of other
kinds of fish, which are found in immense abundance.
Bantry Bay offers the greatest possible attractions to
the enterprising fish-curer, who, though he might at
first have to encounter the strong prejudices of the
native fisherman, must eventually succeed, not only in
realizing great profits, but in establishing a trade
which would give remunerating employment to an
immense number of hands now comparatively idle.
We left Glengariff about noon, by the stage-car,
which runs daily from Bantry to Killarney. The
only passengers who arrived on the vehicle were a
gentleman and his two daughters, who had lived all
their days at Bantry, and were now taking this
journey for the first time. All the rest of the seats
were immediately taken by the last night's tenants
of Mr. Eccles's hotel ; they were chiefly English, —
from Northumberland, Liverpool, and Yorkshire ;
and London was represented by a specimen of the
genuine cockney, whose notions on Irish questions
generally were of the most ludicrous kind. His
amazement was great to find a place of the extent
and beauty of Cork in Ireland, and his regret was ex-
treme that the Bays of Cork and Bantry could not be
transported to the neighbourhood of London. There
they would quite "take the shine out of Blackwall
Reach and the Isle of Dogs ; in fact Vauxhall itself
was nothing to them."
The ascent from Glengariff up the glen is long
and tedious, but the views of the surrounding scenery
are very charming. The road winds zigzag up the
side of the hill, and from the height, on the borders
of the county Kerry, the view of the glen below, and
of the Bay lying spread out far beneath you, studded
with its many islands, all lit up by the bright rays
of the sun, presents a picture of wonderful beauty.
Why should hunters after the picturesque run so far
in search of it abroad, when here in Ireland it is
found in such infinite variety and exquisite perfection ?
The cockney gentleman was really enraptured,
and professed he "had no idea there could be such a
place. Good ged ! " said he, " to think that I took
my breakfast in Oxford Street on Wednesday morning,
and here am I among these tremendous mountains
within five days. What an extraordinary state
Nature must have been in, when she put up these
wonderful places ! There can be nothing in Africa
or New Zealand to equal that," — pointing to a
precipice of rock overhanging the road ; — " but bless
me, to think of what a quantity of capital building
stone ! Why the deuce do these wretched people of
the country prefer living in mud huts, when they
have such capital stone ? Why, I declare there's
enough hereabout to build all London ! That stone
would sell there for half-a-crown the square yard !
Did you ever see such a stone? There, sir, there
must be a good two hundred cubic feet in that
block there ; and to think that the people live in
pig-styes ! "
On the hill-top, we drove through a tunnel of about
two hundred yards long, cut out of the solid rock,
and then, at the further end of the tunnel, we enter
the county of Kerry. The road is then for some
miles down-hill, through a bare mountain region,
gradually improving as you reach the lower grounds ;
and occasionally a good farmhouse, somewhat in the
English style, is passed. The property hereabouts
all belongs to the marquis of Lansdowue, who has
done something for his estate in the way of building
substantial houses, though, at the same time, the
poor on his lands are about the poorest in Ireland.
About three miles from Kenmare, a Catholic priest
got upon the car, which, though already laden,
seemed capable, by packing and piling, of accommo-
dating any number. The priest got seated beside
my uncle, who immediately entered into conversation
with him.
" You know this neighbourhood ? " he asked.
" Know it ! I have been born in it, and lived in it
the best part of my life ; I may say I know every inch
of it."
"You will excuse me," said my uncle, "I'm a
mere passing stranger here ; but I'm curious to know
the views of an educated gentleman as to the real
causes of the distress suffered by the people of this
country. I have inquired often, but the replies are
so different, that I get quite bewildered, and am now
more in the dark than ever."
"Well, sir," said the priest, "it all depends on
the class and on the interest of the party giving you
the information. For my part, I belong to the
people, and I suppose I take their view of the
matter, — so it may be one-sided like the rest."
"And what is your view, then, as one who
sympathizes with the people, of the true causes of
popular suffering, — of the peasantry, for instance, who
farm this estate here ? "
" The short and the long of it, in my opinion, is
the insecure tenure of land. The peasant has no
inducement to exert himself. If he improves his
land, the landlord raises his rent, and if he does
not pay it, he is liable at once to be turned out
at the bidding of the landlord or his agent. This
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
makes the peasant quite careless of all improvement.
The motive to work is entirely taken away. This
estate here, for instance, though it is admirably
situated for manure and seaweed, and is capable of
the greatest improvement, is one of the worst-culti-
vated estates in all Ireland."
" But surely the marquis of Lansdowne is not a
man to take such an advantage of a poor man as
that to which you allude ? "
"Why, this estate is one of the most improvable,
and the peasantry living upon it are amongst the
poorest in Ireland. Yet the marquis is a good
and benevolent man. It is the system that is wrong ;
like the other landlords, he leaves his estates to be
managed by his agents, and the agents all pursue one
course,— that which I have described. The marquis
has consideraly improved the estate, and opened up
the fine roads leading through it, yet the peasantry
living on it are poor and miserable in the extreme.
They feel there is nothing left for them but to emi-
grate, and they are going in shoals."
"What is to be the end of this extraordinary
emigration, or Exodus as they call it ? "
"It is easy enough to see, I think. The land will
become unpeopled ; and before many years are over,
there will not be people enough left to till and
cultivate it. Only a few weeks since, the marquis
helped above three hundred of the peasantry on his
estates to emigrate in a body. Twenty-five carts
carried them all, — a more heart-rending procession
I never saw. And these were .not the poorest people
either ; but the hard-working, the youthful, and the
energetic. Lord Lansdowne, though he paid a
pound a-head to help these people to go out of the
country, and perhaps did them a genuine service,
will probably one day find out that he has been expel-
ling the life's blood of the country. Under a better
system, — under an equitable tenant-right system, for
instance, these poor people might all have been made
prosperous, happy, and comfortable at home. They
thrive in America ; why not in Ireland ? It is only
wise and just arrangements between landlord and
tenant that are needed."
" Then, the people have suffered hereabout, during
the last few years past ? "
" Suffered ! Ay, they have perished, — died, many
of them of absolute hunger ! I have seen them fall
down by the road-side, die, and be buried where they
lay. Indeed, they have suffered terribly ! "
We passed a building by the road-side, from which
a number of little boys were issuing. "A National
School, I suppose ? " asked my uncle.
" It is," said the priest.
"There is still some difference of opinion about
these schools ; they have not been so sitccessful as
was anticipated ? "
"Who says so?" observed the priest: "these
schools are the hope of Ireland. They are raising up
a new race of men and women ; indeed, they are
doing wonders. Half a million of children are
receiving instruction in these schools, that, but for
them, would be receiving little or no education. One
thing the schools are certainly doing,— they are edu-
cating men and women who will not rest satisfied
with misery. The people educated there, if they
remain in Ireland, will make it better ; if they find
they cannot, they will go on emigrating, as at
present."
The car stopped on the outskirts of the little town
of Kenmare. Three other Catholic priests stood
conversing by the road-side, who seemed to be on the
outlook for our friend, and he leapt off the car and
joined them, waving an adieu. After a short stop-
page and luncheon at the large roomy inn of
Kenmare, and a change of horses, we drove on
towards Killarney. The country grows wilder. We
ascend another range of hills, Kenmare lying behind
us in the hollow of the valley, at the head of the
great Kenmare River ; before us rise up the Keeks
and Mangerton ; the driver points out before us, in a
hollow of the hills, the Gap of Dunloe ; and to the
left, the Coombh Dhuv, or Black Valley. We mount
the crest of the hill, and before us lie the famous
Lakes of Killarney.
Unquestionably, the Glengariff road is by far the
finest approach to this delightful scenery. The lakes
lie spread out at your feet like a map, and you have a
bird's-eye view of the whole district, before you enter
upon its examination in detail. Any description of
scenery is flat, compared with the reality itself ; and
therefore I shall not attempt to depict the enchanting
picture which now lay before us, combining so many
varied beauties, wild mountains, peaceful lakes, green
islands, wooded slopes, and winding avenues under
the shade of magnificent trees of all sorts.
The police station stands on the crest of the hill, by
the road-side, and there stood in the doorway several
of the men belonging to the constabulary force, — one
of the best-disciplined and efficient bodies of police,
or soldiery (as they might rather be described), in any
country. They are the picked men of Ireland, — are
well-educated, of good character, and generally hand-
some fellows, — dressed in green uniform, and armed
with swords and carbines. As an Irishman once
observed to me, "They are a splendid nucleus for
a national army." But, as it is, they are regarded
one of the most "loyal" bodies of men in Ireland.
Their conduct in the apprehension of Smith O'Brien
showed that their Repeal sympathies were not very
great. Indeed, some Irishmen do not hesitate to
say, that Ireland, with the police alone, could be
kept pei'fectly quiet, without the aid of soldiery. One
gentleman explained their influence thus — "You see,
they are a set of handsome fellows ; and, as they
have a station in every town and village, in the centre
of the place, the girls come about them, and tell them
of all the schemings that are going on among the
people ; so, you see, these fellows, who can be depended
on, being well-paid, well-dressed, well-disciplined, and
loyal, are enabled at once to nip all sorts of devil-
ment in the bud." You find these police patroling,
or hanging-about in market-places, at railway stations,
in villages, and on the high-roads, wherever you go in
Ireland. They are in number, mounted and un-
mounted, about 14,000 men, and owe their origin,
we believe, to the- late Sir Robei't Peel. Here we
found a police station even on the solitary Turc ruoun-
ta;n, overlooking the beautiful scenery of Killarney.
Our cockney had become almost inspired as we came
in sight of the Lakes. But the clock surmounting
the police station, which he compared with his watch
in a very business-like style, he found was late.
"Their clock is quite wrong," said he, "by my
watch." The driver looked at his, and pronounced
the clock right. "You know it is Irish time," said
a gentleman. " But there isn't one time for Ireland
and another for London," said our friend — "Green-
wich time governs all." " But Irish time here is
twenty -five minutes behind Greenwich." "Good
ged, sir !" said the cockney, " isn't it most extraordi-
nary that these Irish people are behind in everything !
They can't even get their clocks to go like other
people." "But it's the sun, you know," explained
the gentleman again. "The sun ! what has that to
do with it?" "Why, it does not reach hei-e till
twenty-five minutes after it has passed Greenwich ! "
" Ha ! ha ! what odd arrangements of things they do
have in this country ! "
The cockney was however put in extraordinary
good humour by the sight of the Turc Waterfall,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
notwithstanding the stinging bites of the mosquitoes,
which issued in clouds from the arbutus bushes which
cover the sides of the narrow valley. This beautiful
sight caught his eye, in the midst of a discussion with
another about the prices of beef and mutton in the
London markets last week, and the effects generally
of free trade upon the price of food. "Bless me,"
he suddenly exclaimed, "what a remarkably nice
waterfall ! That, now, would be worth any money to
the proprietor, if he could exhibit it in London."
"At Cremorne, for instance." "Yes, or at the
Colosseum : why, it quite beats the Alpine Falls and
the Swiss Cottage, I declare ! "
As the car drove down the avenue towards Macross,
sundry girls came running up, offering "mountain
dew" to drink ; the said mountain dew consisting
of goats' milk and whisky. Some sipped, and declared
it equal to "old man's milk," and even the ladies
were curious to try the native Killarney beverage. It
was now evening. The red sun shone in the waters
of the lake, and half of his disc had sunk behind the
highest of the Reeks, casting broad black shadows
across the landscape. The trees in the foreground
seemed as if tipped with gold, and the fleecy clouds
hovered over the god of day, as he went down the
sky. We reached the Lake Hotel, just as his last
rays were illumining the now dimly discerned features
of the glorious landscape, and were fortunate enough
to find room (though on the sofa) in that delightful
resting-place.
THE VOCATION OF THE POET.
WHAT are the essential elements of poetry, and
what is the true mission of the poet, are themes upon
which considerable difference of opinion exists, even
among poets themselves, notwithstanding that a
large amount of thought has been expended on the
production of books and treatises designed to set
these questions at rest. It is but a short while
since, that a literary institution in the great metro-
polis, offered a prize of one hundred guineas for the
best essay in answer to the inquiry : " What is the
legitimate influence of poetry on the human mind ? "
and that sum of money was actually awarded the
successful essayist. For ourselves, we confess, that
after an anxious perusal of the essay referred to,
with a multitude of similar papers, we are yet unable
to tell what is precisely the legitimate sphere
wherein the poet may pursue his vocation, or to
define exactly, and with logical precision, what is
poetry. We are inclined to think the first of these
questions proceeds upon an incorrect assumption,
and are of opinion that the only boundary — if the
term be not a misnomer — to the poet's exertions, is
that imposed on him by his finite powers and concep-
tions ; that the whole universe of mind and matter
is his sphere ; and that he is entitled to travel
wheresoever his impulses or his fancy may lead him,
to cull incense for the Muses. To the second ques-
tion we have no reply. If any venturous reader can
solve this problem to his satisfaction, and give us a
definition of poetry, we shall indeed feel grateful to
him, for we confess in all humility, we have hitherto
utterly failed in our efforts to that end. But we are
consoled in our ill success, by the reflection that a
host of wiser heads than ours have been as unsuc-
cessful as ourselves. The truth in this case we also
half suspect to be, that poetry is universal in its
manifestations as its origin, — its spirit is in every-
thing, pervading everything, and influencing every-
thing for Good. When therefore we speak of the
Vocation of the Poet, or of poetry itself, we would
guard against being supposed to mean every duty of
the poet, or every aspect of his divine art. The fact
really is :
The forms of the heroic change from age to age,
although
The spirit in the forms remains the same.
With the progress of the celestial system, the
material condition of this world of ours has undergone
a gradual but continuous change ; the mental rela-
tions of society have become altered, and even our
moral perceptions have taken a somewhat different —
we hope a loftier and purer — form. Tennyson some-
where thus expresses his views on this subject. He
says : —
I believe that throughout nature one eternal purpose runs,
And the minds of men are widened by the progress of the
suns.
A beautiful and clear exposition of a great truth, —
the analogy between physical and mental progress,
and their mutual dependence on each other. There
can be no doubt that
Truth is eternal, but her effluence,
With endless change, is fitted to the hour ;
a fact from which we indirectly deduce a wide lesson
of charity, — that he whose mind is so shapen that he
cannot keep pace with the general progress of
civilization, should be gently led forward by per-
suasion and kindness, rather than urged onward by
the goad and spur of persecution.
We write for the men and women of the present
day, and we deal therefore with the poet and his
office as they concern and affect the well-being of
those whom we desire to serve. What then are the
characteristics of the poet of the present age ? By
what outward and visible sign, or what mental
indication, shall we distinguish the true from the
false poet, — he whose whole soul is instinct with
Beauty and Love, the true apostle of humanity,
from the mere Poetaster, whose being is devoid of
generous emotion ? The true poet has about him no
outward sign by which he can be recognized, save
that his writings and his utterances furnish. To be
a poet,
Is to have a quicker sense than most
Of what should be, but deeper pain than most
To see what is.
His credentials, as we have said, are in his verse,
and his muse being always attuned to the most holy
sympathies, will not fail to touch the responsive heart-
strings in every listener, even as an instrument in
the hands of a skilful player sends forth sweet
melodies, which float upon the air, and entering the
ears of men, awaken an echo in their souls, if they be
not wholly dead to a perception of the beautiful.
From whence does the poet's inspiration proceed ?
Is its source to be found in the busy sphere of com-
merce, where men rudely jostle and crowd each
other, arid where the stern conflicts of everyday life
keep men in a state of bubbling commotion, — where
men's souls seem bound by the iron bonds of a
narrow expediency, and the sympathies never enter,
— where all thought and feeling, every hope and fear,
desire and aspiration, are represented by the talis-
inanic symbols £. s. d., or those trite phrases,
profit and loss ? If, again, the spirit of poesy dwells
amid society, is it with the high-born or lowly, the
poor or rich, — those most or those least favoured by
fortune, that she chiefly loves to dwell ? Where may
we most reasonably seek her presence, — in the humble
walks of life, the lanes and alleys where disease and
poverty find their abode, where fever and miasma
hold sway, and rosy health is never seen; or is it
amidst wealth and fashion, the gilded saloons and
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
the perfumed drawing-rooms of stately palaces, where
luxury runs riot, and does her deadly work as surely,
if not so rapidly, as the like result is brought about
by directly opposite agencies in the other extreme
of human society ; or does she shun both the very
rich and the very poor, and select the happy medium,
which stands half-way between the two poles of
society, as her abode ? Or, again, does she hold
her court, as pastoral poets tell us, apart from
the noise and hubbub of towns and cities, in the
green fields and meadows, the hills and valleys,
the "woods and wilds," far removed from the foot-
prints of man and woman, attended by a retinue of
wood-nymphs and water-sprites, and such bright
creatures of fairyland, who know nothing of the toils
and woes of humanity, and who consequently dance
and dream away their lives in a round of unvarying
bliss ? Authorities are not wanting to sustain each
of these views. One poet tells us
The lapse of waters o'er a rugged stone, —
A pool of reeds, — a moorland weed or flower, —
A dimpling spring, — a thorn with moss o'ergrown,
Are symbols of her universal power.
"While another, a true bard, who has high claims
upon our consideration, and who, if the question,
like a legal dispute in one of our law courts, could be
settled by the mere force of authority, would have
great weight with us, — informs us
The poet sees beyond, but dwells among
The wearing turmoil of our work-day life.
Then we have Madame Dudevant, the poet-
novelist of France, — a wild and wayward spirit, but
gifted with a warm heart and a soul devoted to
noble behests, who in one of her "Letters of a
Voyager," exclaims, " Oh, God ! I was not born to be
a poet, but misery hath made me one ; " and another
poet tells us also,
High natures must be thunder- scarred
With many a searing wrong :
From mother Sorrow's breast, the bard
Sucks gifts of deepest song.
In addition to which, there is an oft -quoted passage
in Shelley's "Julian and Maddalo," to the effect
that
Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong ;
They learn in suffering, what they teach in song.
Now if these latter opinions be correct, and the
essential elements of poetry are sorrow and tribula-
tion, the muse must be indeed a melancholy sort
of muse, — more likely, we opine, to engender sorrow
in the breasts of men, than chase away the necessary
gloom which all are heirs to. Then we have the
pastoral poets, to whom cursory reference has been
already made, and who having drawn their inspira-
tion from primeval nature, would assert with the
shade of Wordsworth, if challenged, that the genuine
spirit of poetry lurks only amid such scenes as it
has been their delight to revel in and pourtray.
They would tell us
These speak a language to the favoured ear,
Loud as the thunder, lofty as the lights
That crowd the c^pe of cloudless winter nights,
And fill the soul with worship, hope, and fear.
James Westland Marston is a name honourably
know in connection with recent efforts to elevate the
dramatic literature of this country, and as the author
of "The Patrician's Daughter," a dramatic poem of
the first order. In this play, Mordaunt, the hero
says :
To feel
A deep and constant love for humankind,—
A sense of beauty's presence, not alone
In lofty show, but in its latent haunts,
Which few investigate,— the humble hut
And bosom meanly clad ; worship of justice ;
The warm emotions of an unchecked nature,
Which rises as by instinct against wrong ;
These are the elements of poetry.
It would be very possible to multiply our quota-
tions to a wearisome length, but we will conclude
this portion of our subject by a brief extract from
James Eussell Lowell, a transatlantic poet, who
asserts that
Poesy springs not from rocks and woods ;
Her womb and cradle are the human heart,
And she can find a nobler theme for song,
In the most loathsome man that blasts the sight,
Than in the broad expanse of sea and shore,
Between the frozen deserts of the poles.
There is, it seems to us, a truth in each of the ideas
set forth in the above quotations, however contradic-
tory they may at first sight appear. The sphere of
poetry is universal, — its elements are everywhere,
and it manifests itself in everything. The true poet
is he who wrorks out fully and thoroughly the dic-
tates of his inner soul, who follows the design and
purposes of his individuality. If it be true, as it
most certainly is, that the effluence of truth varies
with the mental progress of the world, and changes
with time ; it is as true that the forms of the heroic
vary also in like manner, from the like causes ; and
it is almost self-evident that both are influenced by
ten thousand modifications of character and circum-
stance. Thus, in olden times, Homer wrote songs to
celebrate the victories of war, but the modern bard,
if he speak the Anglo-Saxon tongue, must in his
verse relate the victories of peace, if he would live
in the memories of men. The recollection of such
poets as Korner and Dibdin is fast fading out, as
the circumstances that inspired their muse cease to
be remembered, and even Sir Walter Scott, despite
his brilliant genius, must share the same ultimate
fate, while Shakspere, and even quaint old Chaucer,
are gaining daily appreciation with the multitude.
Such poets as those we have just named, revealed
the workings of the spirit of the times in which they
lived, and have furnished us with a sort of esoteric
chronicle, — a record of domestic habits, thoughts, and
feelings, that the ordinary historian, whose sole
business was with courts and battles, wotted not of.
The muse of Shakspere
Chimes with the music of the eternal stars,
which although at brief periods obliterated from the
view, ever and anon reappear and bestud the crest
of heaven, as with choicest jewels. But it must
never be forgotten, that we " have fallen on eventful
times," — we live and move, and have our being in a
peculiarly stirring and active period of the world's
history ; great thoughts are moving in the bosom
of society, — there is a mighty upheaving of the giant
mind of humanity at this moment ; and the poet
of the present day must comprehend the " wondrous
meaning " of all these things :
He must reflect his race's struggling heart,
And shape the crude conceptions of his age.
We have no wish to decry any phase of the divine
faculty, and may remark that we are keenly sensitive
to the charms of nature. We can join in the
apostrophe of John Critchley Prince, and exclaim : —
Dull must he be, — oppressed with earthly leaven,
Whp looks on nature's face, yet feels no nearer heaven.
But we also assert that the poet cannot now-a-days
afford to spend his whole time and energies in
trilling lays to buttercups and daisies. It is not,
assuredly, by merely looking on the face of nature
that we can attain to the excellencies of the spirit-
world. We are in "the valley of the shadow of
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
95
death," and must nerve our souls for conflict with
the powers of darkness, or succumb to their fatal
power. The kingdom of heaven can only be reached,
by the children of this world, after having undergone
a probation of severest trial, and the poet no more
than any other man is exempt from this necessity.
On the contrary,
God judgeth us by what we know of right,
and from one so bounteously endowed with bles-
sings as is the poet, much will be expected. The
modern bard must be a never-ceasing labourer for
the behoof of his fellow-men, and he is but
An empty rhymer,
Who lies with elbow idly on the grass.
The vocation of the poet is to teach the true
dignity and worthiness of human nature ; he must
address himself therefore to the whole people, if he
would achieve an enduring reputation. The poet of
the present era, who would fulfil the higher destinies
I of his nature, —
He who would win the name of truly great, —
must remember that the words of Longfellow, —
Life is earnest, life is real,
are pregnant with deep meaning ; and imbuing
himself with the spirit of the times, he must not only
address himself to all people, but seek to ally himself
to all people in feeling, and obtain the mastery over
their sympathies. His heart must
In itself enfold the whole,
Felt by the hearts about him, high or low. '
He must be the friend of all humanity, with a heart
especially open to the claims of misery and woe.
He must be the teacher of great truths and prin-
ciples. It is his duty to teach
His fellow-men their beauty and their strength,
And show them the deep meaning of their souls.
But while he asserts the sense and desire for good-
ness, which lurk at the bottom of all, — even the most
evil hearts, — his muse will never fail to arouse the
efforts of all such to effect their own emancipation
from crime and sin, and will direct their aspirations
upwards, excelsior-like, to the regions of purity and
love. He must ever be the champion of virtue and
of worth. His muse will always be found enlisted on
behalf of right and justice, and in the performance of
his duty he will protect the weak and suffering, and
must not shrink from the more distasteful task of
exposing cruelty and injustice in high and low places,
regardless of fear or favour.
The poet possesses a lively faith, with which he
seeks to imbue his disciples. It is a feeling ever-
present with him, and one that mixes up in all his
daily movements a"nd affairs ; but principally he
strives to instil into men's minds that faith
In humankind, — the only amulet
By which the soul walks fearless through the world.
I This faith, which has been so well described, in
j sacred writ, as the evidence of things unseen,
| enables him to peer into men's souls, and to trace
! out the hidden motives of human conduct. It
! inclines him to the sunny rather than the shaded
paths of life, and when distrust temporarily triumphs
! in his mind, and engenders gloomy thoughts, it
i dispels the cloud as soon as it is formed. Faith tells
j him there is
Nothing too wondrous of too beautiful,
To be the guerdon of a daring heart.
The poet is also richly endowed by "meek-eyed
Hope," and when even faith loses her control, and
the bitter teachings of sad experience destroy the
creations of his fancy, or at least shake their founda-
tions in his mind, her mild twin-sister, gentle Hope,
whispers consolation and encouragement in his ear,
which stimulate him to renewed exertions to accom-
plish his ends, and re-establish his tottering belief.
Yes ! the true poet has 'both faith and hope in an
eminent degree, and they shine forth lustrously with
every word and deed ; but he has charity also in
abundance. His charity, however, is not of the
fashionable kind that displays itself in ostentatious
almsgiving, for the poet is genei-ally too poor to
render this possible, and were it otherwise, — did his
means permit him to dispense material bounties to
his fellows, to ever so large an extent, he would take
care not to let his "left hand know what his right
hand did." As it is, he scatters his mental gifts
with unstinting hand, and freely gives to all. Yes !
gentle reader, to all, — even to the outcasts and
Pariahs of society, for he even
Sees a brother in an evil-doer.
And so far from Pharisee-like spurning those
who may have transgressed the proprieties, he
rather seeks by redoubled efforts, and by continued
appeals to the moral consciousness of the offender, to
restore him to the paths of rectitude.
And the true poet is the apostle of love. His love
is indeed boundless, —to him it seems
That love is the law of infinity,
The dominant chord of the mighty Seven,
That form the harmonies of heaven.
It were strange indeed if he were not, since all who
can read the book of nature will learn the lessons of
love from every page ; and the evidences of this holy
feeling are also everywhere manifested in art. Love
then is the " dominant chord " in the music of poesy,
— the basis of all her teachings : —
Oh, yes ! the humblest of external things,
Whereby she deigns to enchant us and to teach
(If loving heart the human learner brings),
Are signs of her grand harmonies and speech.
Such are a few of the wider and more general aspects
of poetry and the poet's vocation. It will certainly
be admitted that while we consider the poet's a
"high office," we attach to it grave and serious
responsibilities. But has the bard no compensating
pleasures ? Oh, yes ! he has privileges and rewards
richer than ordinary mortals can conceive, —
He knows and feels to him is given
The joys that yield a glimpse of heaven.
He lives in the bright ideal of his own fancy, where
the carking troubles of the outer world cannot
intrude, and drinks an atmosphere of beauty and
love. Think not, although one or two of the " sons
of song " may so assert it, that the poet's life is one
of misery, and that he whose labours cheer the
fireside of poverty, and find appreciation in the
drawing-room and boudoir, is himself only "made to
mourn." Oh, no ! far otherwise, —
For poets' dreams, tho' strange it seems,
Can help the weary heart along ;
and no one knows this fact better than the poet
himself, who has learned it experimentally.
We are not unprepared to expect that in thus
describing the purpose and vocation of the poet, we
attack the claims of those versifiers —and their name
is legion — whose pretensions to the title they assume,
mainly rest on a certain singularity of costume, and
who affect all sorts of airs and conceits, forgetting
the self-evident truth, that
The day has long gone by, wherein 'twas thought
That men were greater poets, inasmuch
As they were more unlike their fellow-men.
And we fear, too, that we shall move the ire of another
numerous class of her Majesty's lieges. We appre-
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
h-nd that we run some risk of offending a multitude
of gentlemen,— mostly of immature years,— who have
obtained some little reputation for the hour, and won
"golden opinions" from lady patronesses. We
refer to
Those niggard souls, who deem
That poesy is but to jingle words,
To string- sweet sorrows for apologies
To hide the barrenness of unfurnished hearts.
This we cannot help. We have no wish to give
offence to any mortal, but we certainly desire to
rescue the " divine art " from the " low estate " into
which these vapid and miserable rhymesters have, in
the circles of their influence, succeeded in reducing it.
But there is another class of persons with whom
we would have a word. There are those who deny
the usefulness of poetry altogether, — who, having
"no music in their souls," would banish the Muses
from the face of God's creation. By these men the
poet's high office is decried, and the bard himself
Deemed a vain trifler, wrapt in airy dreams,—
A child unfit for commerce with the world,
A cloudy theorist, incompetent
To aught that's practical.
We know not exactly how to deal with these
objectors. Their reasonings may touch the young
gentlemen just described — to the quick, as the
phrase is ; but we do not see how they affect the
true poet. If, however, it be necessary to offer any
reply in defence of the positions we have set up, we
do so by asking those who deny the usefulness of the
poet's office, in the words of a great living author,
what art can be
So practical as that,
Which showing what should be, nourishing
Feelings of goodness, beauty, bravery,
By portraitures of those possessing them,
Describes the mental model of a world,
After which it were well if ours were fashioned ?
And having asked this question, we pause for a
response. "Silence," saith the old saw, "gives con-
sent ; " unless, therefore, an answer is attempted, we
venture to consider we have made good our case.
This point settled, we shall next ask our " practical "
friends
What is the end
Of all true policy, if it be not
To work out poetry in act ?
Reader, one word with you in conclusion. We
have claimed for the poet's office a high and broad
xitility, — we have assigned to the poet an important
mission in the mental and moral economy of the
world. The means of realizing the results of his
labours for the benefit and advantage of poor suffering
humanity, are however contingent on your support.
Sustained by the favour pf his fellow men, he will be
enabled to achieve those results quickly ; but
without such aid, his task will be dreary and his
toil will be long. Show then your sense of his
usefulness, by cultivating an acquaintance with his
muse. You will there learn the lessons of Love and
Charity, — of Hope and Faith, which lessons cannot fail
to improve the mind and purify the soul. Poetry is
a sweet consoler in the hour of trial and of difficulty ;
it tinges the darkened landscape of life with " a gold
and silver sheen," and rainbow hues ; it sings glad
anthems to cheer the woe-worn spirit, and point its
aspirations upwards to a lofty ideal, and the practical
result is to lead the sorrowing soul ever onwards in
new endeavours after a life of goodness and of truth.
Oh ! then we bid thee, for thine own sake and for the
sake of thy fellows, — endue thy mind with her living
influence, garner up her rich treasures, give heed to
her holy teachings, and in so doing thou wilt render
thyself blessed indeed,
TO "RICHARD CCEUR DE LION."
\_The Equestrian Statue placed outside the Great Exhibition
Building, in Hyde IJark.~\
OH ! for a pride like thine, to be
The spirit of the modern time ;
When dreams of peace and liberty
Have tinged the thought of every clime.
Onward ! but not with battled steed, —
Not for a false and brutal dream,
But for a pm-er heart and creed, — •
Humanity's love-dawning beam.
For laws, and faith, and truth, and love, —
The holy strife with vice and sin ;
To rear the name of Him above,
O'er each unholy thought within.
Onward, for ever ! till we learn
The lessons of each flower and star ;
Till Heaven in every heart shall burn,
And God speak clearly from afar.
The far, far fading, sun-bright sky
Seems to reflect His image down,
And light thy conscious, kingly eye,
And shine upon thy circling crown.
Yes, thou wert noble in thy time, —
Ay, worthy of that noble face,
And worthy, under any clime,
To lead the progress of thy race.
But Richard, in that darkened day
Men had not learnt their father's will,
And Christ in vain had showed the way
That lies, alas ! in shadow still.
Ay, Richard, in thine own best light,
Thou nobly didst the hero's part ;
And would that still, in Christian fight,
We hailed thy true, thy lion heart !
In mighty war of steam and steel, —
The war of Art, and Truth, and Joy,—
The war that speeds the engine-wheel,
And doth all powers of love employ.
But we have spirits true as thou,
For he who cast thy glorious mould,
Who flung such glory on thy brow,
Must some of thy devotion hold. -
, E. M. S.
Just Published, price Two Shillings, postage free.
DEAD LEAVES,
A Ballad; the Words and Music by ELIZA COOK.
London : Charles Cook, Office of " Eliza Cook's Journal."
No. 137 of the Journal will contain
THE HOUSE OF LORDS & THE HOUSE OF COMMONS,
By Eliza Cook.
The Number for Christmas Week will contain,
THE SEVEN TREES ; OR, A CHRISTMAS IN THE BACK-WOODS,
By Percy B. St. John; and
UNDER THE MISTLETOE, A CHRISTMAS SONG,
By Eliza Cook.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 7-1-/5, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 137.]
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1851.
PRICE
THE "HOUSE OF LORDS," AND THE
"HOUSE OF COMMONS."
BY ELIZA COOK.
DON'T be alarmed, gentle reader, you are not about
to be called on to study "Parliamentary Reform,"
" Elective Franchise," or " Constitutional Law."
Oh dear no ! we hear so much of these subjects
every day from clever people, who often seem, to our
ignorant mind, to leave off just where they begin,
that we have no relish for such themes. It is quite
another way that our thoughts are turning. " Her
Majesty's Theatre, Fidelio, Playhouse Prices, Cru-
velli, Pardini," &c. &c., struck our eye as we
rattled through the streets of London on our way
from Brighton, just before the close of the season,
and we suddenly thought that we should like to see
play-going folks revel in full-dress, German composi-
tion, Italian singing, and the run of the musical
" House of Lords."
Accordingly, we ensconced ourselves in a " capital
box," having the fullest view possible of the whole
house. We did not go to worship Beethoven on this
particular evening, — we did not intend to be hyper-
critical as to the instrumentation of the band, or the
execution of the vocal difficulties, — we meant to pay
particular attention to the audience, and see how
they enjoyed themselves.
We cast our glass around, and beheld a tolerably full
house, the greater portion of the number evidently
being unaccustomed to the Opera. The style of dress
was, in many instances, very amusing, especially among
the elderly ladies, who seemed to have rummaged
the chests, wardrobes, and bandboxes of even their
grandmammas, to do honour to " the Opera." We
detected an unknown quantity of valuable lace in all
sorts of shapes, from the Spanish veil to the French
ruffle. We saw embroidered satins, Indian scarfs,
Chinese fans, Angola wrappers, superb taffetas, and
gorgeous damasks, that reminded us of the treasures
tumbled on the floor by somebody in the " Arabian
Nights." $ne dear old lady attracted our, we fear,
rude attention ; her grey hair was banded under a
sort of cap, half 'turban, half something else (we are
not great in millinery) ; her dress was of black
velvet, and her shoulders bore a rich crimson shawl.
She seemed thoroughly determined to be happy, and
when she smiled there was a sort of condensed star-
light about her face, which was quite grateful after
running one's eyes against the flaring gas. She sat
perfectly upright, gazing on the house " as good as
gold," while the overture was played ; but there was
an old gentleman beside her, with whom we got up a
mental quarrel directly ; he seemed fumy and
fidgetty, everything about him was " sharp," and he
was set down by us as one of those domesticated
porcupines, that continually remind us of gooseberry
tart without sugar. His white waistcoat glistened
with a sort of extra-starched fierceness, his cravat stuck
out in two right points like a terrier-dog's ears ; his
hair was afraid of his head, and stood bolt upright
in a sort of acute "Brutus ;" his eyes seemed
keen enough to cut off his nose, and his nose seemed
jealous of a perfect axe of a chin. "Can that man
admire Beethoven ! " thought we, as he jerked his
chair, and looked sharper than ever. Wait a bit,
and we shall see.
Look round the pit ; Cruvelli is singing her best
towards the end of the first act, and a lank-haired
individual is yawning, and actually cutting his nails
with a penknife ! Can it be ! Yes, so it is. Go back
to the Adelphi at half-price, young man, and do not
delude yourself into the belief that a suit of black
and a white tie will enable you to pass for a gentleman.
See, further on to the right, that lady in a tartan
silk, with red flowers in her hair is trying to be
amused, but the attempt is useless. The music
breathing from her face is embodied in that long sigh
of weariness, just escaped ; she secretly wishes
herself at home "crocheting," and begins to wonder
what people can find to admire so much at the opera.
Two gentlemen and three ladies have just caught our
eye, all yawning at once, and the second act not over.
Look in the grand tier, and see that handsome boy
brought to the opera, for a great treat, by his
godfather. How fidgetty the lad is ! how he wriggles
about in his seat ! he is thinking of that "capital
pantomime " he saw last Christmas at Drury Lane,
and how lovely Madame Vestris looked as " King
Charming " last week ; he is twisting the finger-ends
of his gloves into dirty rags, and using his pocket-
handkerchief a deal more than is necessary j but the
fidgets must have some outward sign, or they become
dangerous to the nerves. The act is just over, and
he exclaims in restless impatience, "Is it all like
this ? won't there be any fun ? " We hear the god-
98
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
father attempting to console him with whispers
about " Beautiful dancing soon;" the handsome boy
knits his brow for a moment, with a slight sense of
victimization and personal injury, and twists his
gloves more vigorously than before. Now let us
look at the old lady and old gentleman. Apollo defend
us ! there they are, labouring tinder that peculiar
suspension of the faculties, known as "forty winks,"
and nodding at such uneven moments, that we
cannot be cajoled into the fancy that they are
marking the time of what Pardini is singing ; really
the opera seems to be particularly narcotic to-night.
We did not expect that biped acidulated drop to
behave well ; but the dear old lady ! she might,
surely, have enjoyed herself; see, they are both
roused by the crash of brass and chorus of voices.
" Bless me, I never went to sleep when I went to see
Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble," says the old lady ;
"I can't think how it is." Let us explain, dear
" original antique." You are a little older than you
were then ; perhaps you have not been educated in
the German school of composition, and these grand
mastodons of music carry immense and mysterious
weight ; you have left your secret snuff-box at home,
and then, the last fifty bars have been rather heavy.
. Don't go to sleep again, dear old lady ! and we will
forgive you. At this moment, we spied out our
cousin Dick in a distant box, with a lady on each side
of him. Dick has often been with us to various
theatres at "Playhouse prices," and was always the
most cheerful, wide-awake escort in the world, but
he seems beaten by " Fidelio " and the opera ; there
he sits, the image of passive endurance, his head
dropping listlessly on his left shoiilder, and now,
when he stirs, it is only to fling himself back,
expand his chest, and stretch his mouth to its
utmost extent. We were ashamed to own our con-
sanguinity, so turned our glass away, and took a wide
survey of the pit. The general impression that the
faces made on us was, that they were " dreadfully
tired ;" the audience seemed to be labouring under
serious depression of spirits, produced by drinking
too freely of Beethoven, and those who had been
accustomed to enjoy the Haymarket and Lyceum,
had evidently arrived at the conclusion, that the
opera was a " slow " affair, and not a few " genteel "
ladies and "fast" gentlemen secretly determined
never to go again, even at "Playhouse prices."
" Well," thought we, " ' the people ' do not seem to
care much for the ' Grand Opera ;' " the propensity
to gape seemed overpowering, and we were just
thinking that not two in a hundred were so charmed
as they ought to be, when a strange sound met our
ear. We were certain it was no note in " Fidelio,"
and were equally certain that, though the house was
thrown open to the "lower classes," veritable pigs
were not admitted. We turned with abrupt anxiety,
and there was our knight-errant in as sound a
slumber as tired nature could wish for. We knew
him to be strong in the brain, animated in the tongue,
quick with the eye, and powerful with the hand ; but
alas ! we recollected that he had broken down in the
" ear " more than once, and there he was actually
"snoring" during the last scene of " Fidelio."
"Come," said we (sotto wee), "this confirms our
opinion, the 'Grand Opera' is not the thing for
people who have not been schooled in it. They like
( High Life Below Stairs, ' or ' The Lady of Lyons '
much better, if they dared to tell the truth ;" and
glancing into the pit, we saw active indications of
being "very glad it was nearly over," so we shook
our " squire " into a knowledge of his existence ;
departed, went our way, and dreamt all night of
Cruvelli jumping down the yawning mouth of our
cousin Dick. We talked the matter over a little the
next morning, and scarcely wondered at the listless
weariness displayed by the audience ; and indeed,
there is much in many operas to try the patience of
those who repair to Her Majesty's Theatre with the
Gothic notion of being entertained by the stage
proceedings alone. For those who go to stare and
be stared at, who make their boxes a fashionable
"trysting place," and the pit a "dropping in,"
rendezvous, the opera is, doubtless, a very
pleasant place of resort, but we have several ac-
quaintance with fine musical taste and intense love
of the art, who have privately confessed to us
that there are not above half-a-dozen operas they
can "sit through" with personal enjoyment. The
quantity of monotonous " recitative " is usually a
weighty preponderance, that requires a strong
musical digestion to assimilate, and if the execu-
tion of the more brilliant and elaborate com-
position be not first-rate, it frequently amounts to
what a country gentleman, within our hearing,
denominated "a good deal of growling and scream-
ing." We rarely care about going ourselves without
some pleasant friend to talk to now and then, and
more than once we have taken some " last number "
to cheat the heavy parts ; so, upon due consideration
of these little matters, we cease to wonder at the
universal "yawning" of the "Playhouse price"
people at^-he opera.
It so happened that, a few evenings after, we were
at Sadler's Wells, — a house supposed by many to be
a "little theatre," in an "out-of-the-way place,"
yet this little theatre holds two thousand five hun-
dred people, and is the only place now where one
can see Shakspere respectably put upon the stage,
and consistently played. We entered during the
first act of "Timon of Athens," and we were
immediately struck by the earnest and animated
attention given by the audience. Every one knows
that "Timon of Athens" is not the most attractive
playf of Shakspere's, yet we found the people listening
and gazing with profound interest. It was pleasant
to see the artizan class, with grimed shirt-sleeves
turned up to the elbow, dirty fustian jackets,
butcher's caps, and coalheaver's flaps, all quietly
absorbed in a classical, dry play. There were the
women without a vestige of toilet pride, beyond a
battered bonnet and tattered shawl, with their eyes
and ears intent on the story of olden Greece. They
seemed to understand and appreciate Shakspere
much better than the elite audience did Beethoven,
and the. undivided attention they gave to what they
came to see was quite refreshing after the wearied
languor so unequivocally -exhibited at the "House ot
Lords," in the Haymarket. The pit was filled with
highly -respectable people, well-dressed, well-man-
nered, and we shrewdly suspect, well read in Shak-
spere. The boxes showed anything but a " beggarly
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
99
account," and the first lords and ladies in the land
might have felt tolerably at home at Sadler's Wells ;
there was no sound of "nuts, apples, oranges, or
biscuits," to offend "ears polite;" no vending of
"porter, ale, or cyder," to shock temperance disci-
ples ; no whistling ; no shouting ; no stamping was to
be heard ; a little extra " hubbub " of gossip between
the acts, rather pleasant than otherwise, was all that
could be observed upon, even by the most fastidious
critic in conventionalism, and in short, a more quiet
and orderly assemblage of pleasure-seekers could not
be desired. It always gratifies us to see the audience
at this house held in magic chains by the representa-
tions that can find no patronage at the "National
Theatres," and moreover, these " hardworking
people " prove themselves no ignorant spectators,
dazzled by fine dresses, scenery, and spectacle ; they
know how to distinguish the fine points, and seize on
the choice speeches, with the unerring instinct of nature,
— there was no vulgar burst of merriment at the some-
what coarse language which marks a scene or two in the
play. Mr. Phelps gave the passages with the earnest
.; and embittered impulse intended by the great author,
and the listeners interpreted that intention without
one symptom of obscene or gross perversion.
By-the-by, how is it that we find at this theatre,
situated amidst a comparatively poor and unedu-
cated class of inhabitants, so much less of ribald and
offensive nonsense than we do at another theatre or
two that we could name. We are not over scrupulous,
and can laugh at a joke as readily as any tolerably
decent person, but we must say there has been cha-
racter and language offered for our amusement lately
at a certain theatre, which eminently disgusted all
those who hold the manager of a playhouse slightly
responsible as the purveyor of public recreation, — a
position in which he may effect vast good by promo-
ting the laughter that simply exhilarates* the spirits
| and aids digestion, or cause much evil, by presenting
! the objectionable and unclean provocative^ to mirth,
i which can but degrade the general mind, and pander
1 only to the gratification of the most depraved taste.
Sadler's Wells always avoids this baneful course, and
yet the house is always full. To return to "Timon
of Athens." The play progressed, and not a yawn
was visible ; the people were delighted and en-
thralled, and their conduct would have done honour
to the highest class of English audiences. We
watched them with infinite satisfaction, and could
but contrast the vivid interest and voluntary
attention bestowed by an artizan class on this dry
play, with the vapid " dead and alive " endurance of
a "Grand Opera" at Her Majesty's Theatre by the
rich and enlightened, and we confessed to ourselves
that there was no theatre in London afforded us so
much real pleasure as Sadler's Wells. We always
rejoice there to see the human mind excited and
charmed by " Shakspere's Plays," and are glad to
find that the " working classes " can truly estimate
the admirable manner in which those plays are
represented by Mr. Phelps and his competent
supporters. Thank God, our " scum of the nation,"
as the Times designates them, are beginning to
discover that brutal indulgences and drunken dissi-
pation end only in misery and disgrace ; that bull-
baiting and dog-fighting are not among the noblest
of man's pursuits. They can now find healthy
pleasure in taking . their wives and children to some
suburban haunt on a fine Sunday, instead of skulk-
ing about disreputable districts, betting two to one
on Tiger against Turk ; and not among the least aids
to moral respectability and mental progress, is such a
place of recreation as Sadler's Wells. These are our
rough notes of two evenings spent by us in the
"House of Lords" and the "House of Commons,"
simply illustrating that the "genteel" visitants seemed
to fall far short in their enjoyment of the entertain-
ment provided for them, to what the " common
people " did, who paid their hard-earned bits of
silver to see old Will Shakspere acted as he ought
to be.
MAEK TAPSCOTT'S OVERLAND EOUTE TO
CALIFORNIA.
IN TWO PARTS — PAKT I.
THEEE are some men whom mere dull, plodding, suc-
cessful industry, fails to satisfy. They are always
buoyed up by some day-dream or other. They will
venture on a " spec " by which a sudden fortune is
to be made ; and even where they care little about
the money, they will try the venture. They like to
enjoy the flush of life ; repose is death to them ; they
would live in a whirlwind. Life is nothing to them,
unless effervescent. What though the briskness goes
off the sooner, and only flat, stale dregs remain at
the bottom of the cup ! The sharp briskness they
will have, no matter what the ultimate issue may be.
Mark Tapscott was doing well enough on his farm,
on the banks of the Illinois river. He had made all
snug about his farmstead, erected a loghouse, re-
claimed one-half of a capital farm of some 300 acres,
with abundant "water privileges." He had pros-
perity and wealth before him, could he but have been
satisfied to wait. But no ! now that he had done
battle with the wilderness, reclaimed it and made it
fertile, and had only to sit and let the fruits of his
industry ripen in peace, the relish of his life had de-
parted. Other immigrants were settling round about
him on all sides; he felt the pressure of advancing
civilization, and he had become so accustomed to
the wild life, that he grew to love it. He would
retire further back, and get into the back woods of
the west, or sojourn upon some yet untrodden prairie,
where he could once more feel a free man again.
About this time Mark was seized by the Californian
fever. It was raging all over Michigan, Illinois, and
Indiana ; men were selling off their farms, converting
every disposable thing into cash, and setting off, down
the great rivers, to New Orleans, or migrating across
the vast unpeopled territory which lies between the
settled states and the western sea-board of the
American continent, towards the great Gold Land,
of which such wondrous tales were everywhere spread
about. This was just the very thing to seize hold of
Mark's imagination. He was at once caught by the
fever, and nothing would serve him, but he would
" go to California." He had no wife nor children to
hang about his skirts and stay his departure. So,
but a few weeks saw him a free man, rid of his farm
to an English emigrant who had propitiously entered
the district, and away down the river to St. Louis, on
the Mississippi. You know the place ? St. Louis is
called "The Queen of the West," and a thriving,
populous city ; it is the entrepot between the North
and South — full of bustle, full of trade, and at this
season full of emigrants to California, by New
100
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Orleans and Missouri. "California" was placarded
on every wall, was talked of in every house, was
inflaming every mind. The fever was here at its
very height. Mark hastened to be off on his way.
He would go overland — for the adventure, as well as
because of the speed.
Mark soon found companions enough : he joined
himself to a party of strong men, of nearly the
same condition and impulses as himself, natives of all
countries — some Yankees, some Irish, some Scotch,
some English, adventurers. Behold a party of five
and twenty, with Mark at their head, invested in a
uniform of green, well armed with rifles, pistols, and
bowie-knives ; and each .with a small store of dollars
in his pocket, all ready for the Overland Route.
A snag voyage up the yellow Missouri for some
400 miles, is no joke ; but that is an ordinary per-
formance now-a-days, when steamers ply regularly up
that sweeping river. Past Jefferson, the capital in
the wilds, — past BooriVille, another Missouri town,
still further west, — past Lexington, to Independence,
and here the crowd and bustle reminded one again of
the quays of St. Louis — Californians bustling about
in all directions, some seeking friends, others over-
hauling luggage, others engaged in barter, prelimi-
nary to the final outfit. But we follow our friend
Mark and his party. He was its life and soul, —
prompt, energetic, and sagacious, — well fitted, by
his trapper's life, for the command of a detachment of
such spirits as he led, who were not slow to detect
his qualities, and unanimously selected him for their
chief. Who does not love command ? Mark felt
that, so far, the exchange from the settler's solitary
hut had been a gain to him, in free, joyful, animal
life, whetted by adventure and enterprise.
The party are soon on the move. One fine morn-
ing in April saw them mustered outside the little
town of Independence— and a finer troop of healthy,
ardent men, you would not desire to see. They
mustered five stout waggons, containing the tents, the
bedding, the ammunition, and the " traps" of all sorts,
requisite for an overland journey of some 2,300 miles.
This was no petty adventure, and the men knew it,
and were braced up for it. The waggons were loaded,
and the horses, which had been picketed about the
little encampment, were saddled and bridled; the
muster was called. All's right. " Now," said Mark,
leading the way, " this way for California ! " The
men set up a cheer, and the caravans moved off,
Mark at the head of the advanced guard, a horseman
riding by the side of each waggon, and another little
party bringing up the rear. A ringing ' ' Hurrah ! "
from the assembled crowd of emigrants, saluted them
as they set out — the first overland detachment of the
season.
Be sure that Mark and his party had their hands
full. These half-broken mules, unaccustomed for so
many months to the load, are as skittish as young
rams, and almost as difficult to drive as a team of Lieu-
tenant Cumming's bullocks, across the eloofs of South
Africa. But the country was, as yet, comparatively
easy ; a kind of rolling country, grassy, with tracks
not difficult nor uneven. So the mules got gradually
broke in, and the discipline of the party established.
They were already bordering on the country of the
Red-skins, but knew they were of a harmless sort,
drunken and idle, — debased by their contact with
civilized men, and as yet affected only by their worst
vices. But they had not yet quite left the settled parts.
There were, here and there, in some richer spots
than others, the newly-enclosed farms of American
emigrants, — patches reclaimed from the boundless
West. One morning, when the dew was yet glitter-
ing on the grass, and the mist was hovering about
the summits of the green knolls, Mark led his party
across the line which formed, the pale of the most
western State ; and, leaving the "House of Refuge,"
a public-house, partly situated on the line itself, and
often the retreat of debtors and others amenable to
the laws, they set forth into the wilds, on their three
thousand miles journey towards the land of Gold, like
a small fleet leaving its haven to brave the dangers of
the trackless ocean, and venturing upon unknown,
and it might be, calamitous perils.
They had stout hearts, the men of that party ; but
they were silent as they paced forward into the waste.
Yet it was not a waste, either. The prairie stretched
unbounded before them on all sides, covered with the
first fresh green of the early spring. At the first
glance, the prairie seemed one vast level of illimitable
extent ; but look a little more closely, and you see
that it consists of undulating, wavy outlines, like the
long rolling swell of the Pacific in a calm.
The sun paced slowly overhead, and sank gently
down to his rest, leaving the traces of his glory behind
him, cresting the summits of the gentle undulations of
the prairie, and throwing a gentle shade behind them.
Some thirty miles had been travelled during that clay,
for the ground was favourable, and the bottom sound.
Though there was little or no track, they knew they
were in the right direction, steering as they did by
the compass, like mariners across the pathless ocean,
and occasionally noticing the landmarks which they
had been told of by travellers of the waste before
them.
" Ha ! " cried Mark joyously at last, " there, if I
mistake not, is our resting-place for the night," point-
ing a-head to a solitary elm, standing alone in the
wide prairie, " there we shall find sweet water enough
in plenty, if travellers' tales be true."
The fagged and wearied travellers spurred their
jaded beasts, and even the dumb animals themselves
seemed to cock their ears and to quicken their pace,
as if they sniffed the water from afar. They pressed
on, and now they reach the margin of a welcome
pool. But alas ! what rotting, decaying carcass is
that lying there ? A rotting ox, or buffalo — swollen
and putrid,* in the middle of the pool ! No ; this
would never do— so the weary party trudged on again
a few miles further, where they camped on the borders
of a running stream called Bull Creek. The mules
were unladen, the waggons were unyoked, and after
turning the beasts to graze, the hungry party sat
themselves down to supper under the open heavens.
But what dai'kness is this that has so suddenly
hung itself across the sky, as with a pall ? Heavy
black clouds, and floating masses of watery vapour,
borne along by gusts of wind, which in a few minutes
rise into the force of a tempest. A whirlwind of the
wilds bursts upon them, and torrents of rain teem
down^from the upper air. The one tent that had
been set up, was blown over ; the ground was soon
sodden with water, and the soaked wanderers sought
the shelter of the waggons for the night. But these
storms are of short duration, and usually purify the
atmosphere ; — by midnight the clear sky, gemmed
with ten thousand stars, shone overhead ; and when
the sun peeped up from the far expanse of prairie
which stretched to the east, Mark, whose turn it was
to be then on guard, woke up the sleepers with the
joyful cry of " Up, men, the sun 's awake ! All hands
to yoke, and away." There was much yawning and
stretching of limbs, and mutterings of " It's too soon
to start yet ; " but soon the little camp was alive, the
mules and horses were brought in from their brows-
ings, the waggons were yok'ed, and the caravan pro-
ceeded still deeper into the solitude which stretched
away towards the west.
There is more variety in a journey across the central
and yet-unpeopled land of America, than one would
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
101
be disposed to expect. Even on the prairie there is an
occasional change of scene — green slopes and belts of
timber here and there cross the path, the wood mark-
ing the windings of a prairie stream ; now a green dell
invites them to a noon-day rest, the wimpling rivulet
which runs near it supplying a store of wholesome
water — or, a lofty ridge, flanked by a deep ravine ;
sometimes a bold bluff, capped with timber, comes
into sight, and from its crest, if you can surmount it,
you may see the far-spread prairie, stretching away in
graceful undulations, as far as the eye can reach. Then,
there is the fresh breeze that is almost always blowing
aero.ss the prairie, — the beautiful modulations of the
changing clouds — the storm that can be seen from its
beginning to its end — the curious looming of objects
between earth and sky, taxing the ingenuity every mo-
ment to rectify. There is the anxiety for the night's
quarters — the serenade of wolves, howling round the
camp, ready to carry off the beasts' harness in their
voracious assaults, and on which the night guard has
to keep a strict look-out. This species of danger
gives a zest to the interest of a prairie journey ; and
by day there is an occasional deer hunt, in which the
riflemen distinguish themselves by their skill in track-
ing and shooting the game, — all this gives an interest
and variety to the prairie journey, while the first
flush of adventure is still strong on the travellers
across the plains.
But the verge of the prairie country is. at length
passed, and now they must prepare for greater variety
and more trying perils. A river lies before them,
running rapid and deep, between steep banks. The
wheels of the waggons, are locked, the leading spans
are unharnessed, and by dint of great care the
vehicles are let down the declivity one by one, the
men holding them back by means of stout ropes
attached to the axles. Now they have reached the
banks, and a party swims or wades across to the
river's further bank, bearing with them a coil of
ropes. " Ha, men ! " cries a struggling swimmer,
battling with the current, " this will never do ! there
is no bottom here ; the waggons must go down !
Ha ! now I find bottom — firm ; this will do ! A little
lower down, Mark ! just by that little creek, there."
He goes along sounding — now up to his middle, and
in the deepest part of the stream up to his armpits.
He takes the coil of ropes upon his head, and wades
across, followed by others — who make sure of the
ford, and select its safest parts. And now the
waggons are drawn, one by one, into the stream,
horses are swum across, and the dragging through
the stream proceeds — the work of nearly half-a-day.
But there are stout hearts among the group ; and
the dusk finds them all camped — waggons, horses,
mules, and men — on the further bank of the stream,
enjoying their suppers under the mellow moon's
light.
But the country becomes still rougher and wilder as
they proceed onward. They cross the Shonganong
on a corduroy sole, formed by cutting down logs, and
dropping them in the bottom of the muddy stream.
A whole day's work is there — not accomplished with-
out accident, for an axle is broken in the crossing,
and then there is a further delay for the repair of
damages. Then there is the second branch of the
same river — equally toilsome and laborious. There
a waggon-tongue was broken in a slough, amid the
tumbling of the waggon-mules, who plunged heavily
amidst the mire, and had almost been lost therein.
But, cutting off the harness, a coil of ropes was
fastened round their limbs, and they were dragged
out, more dead than alive. Toil and accident now
tried the spirits and strength of the party, but
Mark Tapscott never failed to cheer up and animate
them by his example. He seemed to bo everywhere,
directed every move, and the confidence of the men
in his skill and courage became complete. He gave
renewed strength to all, and was never wanting with
a kind and cheering word. Thus does the influence
of one energetic man bear up and animate all who
are within his reach.
Several days passed, the party still hopeful and per-
severant, though occasionally one or more became
knocked up, and lay in the waggons till they had
recovered. Indians occasionally crossed their path,
and sometimes they stumbled on a group of their
wigwams, the idle aborigines lounging about in their
blankets, solicitous only after firewater and gun-
powder. The valley of the Kansas was reached — a
beautiful, fertile valley, along whose banks stretched
green hills, then gay with flowers peeping up amidst
the herbage, while groves and clumps of trees bud-
ding into foliage, and blossoming shrubs skirting the
plain along the stream, made it look like one of the
favourite resting-places of nature.
"I should like to rest here," said Mark to one of
the men, — " this is the very paradise of the land —
more rich and fertile than any spot of earth I have
ever before beheld."
" Stop here ! " was the reply, " and California before
us l— the land of Gold ? "
"True;" said Mark, "and the danger of getting
there, — the enterprise, the peril, and the toil. But
you are right. California must be reached first.
Yet I feel that the memory of this lovely place will
haunt me, and who knows but I may yet plant my-
self by this belt of timber, with that fertile track of
valley land for my farm, on the banks of this glorious
Kansas river J Well ; less wonderful things have
come about. But now, let us see to getting these
waggons across ! "
The crossing of the river was a work of some labour
and difficulty ; but the stream was low at the time,
and it was safely accomplished by the aid of a skew,
or flat-bottomed boat, which had just been established
here by a white trader, in anticipation of the over-
land eriiigration to California. On they tracked their
way up the valley of the Kansas ; then there was
six or eight miles of very rough travelling across a
marshy tract ; the waggon wheels, often sticking in
the soft soil, were drawn out with great difficulty.
More rivers were crossed — the Vermilion, and other
smaller streams, until at length they reached the
bank of the " Big Blue."
They were now in the midst of the country of the
thieving Pawnee Indians ; and Mark counselled the
utmost caution and watchfulness, especially during the
night, in case of attack. It fell to his turn, on this par-
ticular night, to take the middle watch. The report of
the guard whom he relieved, was, that all was right,
and that nothing had stirred during his watch, save
the howling wolves, that almost every night prowled
about their encampment. Mark took up his post exa-
mined the priming of his rifle, found that his sword
was securely by his side, and then paced the circuit
round the outside of the little encampment. An
hour passed. Suddenly there was a sound, as if of
uneasiness among the mules that were picketed in
a clump on the further side of the waggons. Mark
proceeded at once in that direction, and he thought he
discerned some dark objects crawling among the mules
— two of them had their heads turned in the direction of
a neighbouring clump of trees, and seemed to be mov-
ing from the camp. He rushed forward, and some three
or four Indians darted from amongst the mules, and
fled into the thicket. Mark fired — the sharp crack
of his rifle rang through the valley — instantly the
camp was in a bustle — men leapt from the waggons,
armed with their rifles and knives. But the thieves had
escaped — the mules were safe — and in a short space
102
ELIZA. COOK'S JOURNAL.
the little camp was again lapped in quiet. The cir-
cumstance, however, showed the necessity of increased
caution on the part of the night guard, and acted as
a salutary warning to all the party. Henceforward,
there was less wandering in search of game than had
before been usual. Small hunting parties were formed,
and signals of danger were arranged, in case of sudden
assault by the Indians.
But other, and even more alarming dangers lay in
their path, startling and unexpected. They were
journeying across a parched prairie one hot day,
peering into the west for a belt of trees which they
expected marked the course of a wide river they
were next to cross, when a low black cloud, unlike
anything they had before seen, seemed to rise up, and
stretch on all sides round the horizon before them.
It was not black, nor dense, nor storm-like. It
looked low and diffused, careering and eddying up-
wards in some parts more than in others, at the
same time a waft of warm wind came full in their
faces. "As I live," cried Mark, "it is fire! The
prairie before us is in flames, and the wind is blowing
toward us."
General alarm at once pervaded the party, and
already the mules began . to grow restive, as if con-
scious of the coming peril. But Mark's presence of
mind never failed him. In a few seconds he had
struck a light, and set fire to the parched grass
behind where they stood. The flames caught up the
dried blades, and fled away to leeward, clearing
away a wide space, which still lay glowing, hot, and
smoking. Meanwhile the fire was coming down
rapidly towards them, borne on by a steady breeze.
The now maddened mules and horses burst away, and
could not be restrained. They rushed from side to
side towards the flames, first on one side and then on
another, then back into the midst of the party. The
waggons were however moved as speedily as possible
into the cleared space behind them, and such of the
mules and horses as could be secured, were made fast
by their halters to the wheels. Nearer came the lurid
flame and smoke, curling in hot wreaths, gleaming
with murky heat, the wind driving it onward, and
hurling showers of sparks and burning straw upon
the men and waggons ; the poor horses and mules now
became infuriated ; the heat was suffocating and
intense. Mark called to the men to fall flat on their
faces, and let the hot air pass over them, — never
mind the beasts, they must be left to themselves.
The dreadful minutes passed away. Once Mark had
thought the suffocation of the party was inevitable ;
but the heat gradually subsided. They looked up
and saw that before them the fire had gone down,
and only the smoking grass was left, while behind
them, far away to leeward, the smoke and fire still
rolled along. Fortunately a drenching shower fell
shortly after, and the party, after securing the cattle,
which had not strayed far from camp, were enabled
to proceed on their weary journey.
Not far ahead, they reached a belt of timber on a
level plain, near which ran a stream of clear water,
amid which myriads of fish darted about, their scaly
sides flashing in the sun. By the river were the un-
mistakeable marks of a quite recent Indian encamp-
ment ; the grass was unconsumed thereabout, and
the secret of the fire was now discovered. Had the
Indians seen their approach, and fired the prairie
with a design of consuming their enemies, the white
men, in consequence of the loss suffered in their
rencontre of a few nights before? However, the
party crossed the river, and there encamped in
security for that night.
The next day, the travellers' route lay through a
most lovely country, by the side of a brook flowing
through a basin of the richest green land, its velvet
carpet decked out in a most gorgeous attire of floral
beauty. The larkspur, pink verbena, blue bean,
and other beautiful flowers, '-'weeds of the desert,,"
laden with perfume, garnished this lovely valley.
But what is that slinking through the long grass by
the brook-side ? A shot ! and a hungry wolf
bounded from the spot. Half-a-dozen horsemen rush
after him, — there is a discharge of revolvers, — and in
a few minutes, the shaggy monster is borne into the
camp. The wolf cannot be eaten, but his skin is
kept as a trophy, and it may yet prove useful, — who
knows ?
THE CRICKET MATCH.
OtfE fine morning last autumn, our little town of
Burley-cum-Beeston was thrown into a state of con-
siderable commotion, by the announcement of a great
cricket-match between oar players and the men of
Longley Willows. Never had there been such a
match. The stakes were enormously high ; the men
had been practising since early spring ; above all,
and this constituted the principal element of the
excitement, the ladies were expected to be present.
A spacious tent was already in the course of erection
for their accommodation ; and refreshments were to
be provided at the winners' expense, by the principal
pastry-cook in Burley.
There was little time to prepare, for the news had
not ti-anspired until the day but one before the time
fixed. The ladies rushed to their milliners ; clever
hands were at a premium ; and the night before the
eventful day, no less than six dozen pairs of journey-
women and apprentice eyes' kept their sleepless
vigils until dawn.
In a pretty dwelling in the suburbs of Burley,
covered with creepers and ivy, and ornamented by a
magnificent old porch, two sisters, Eliza and Margaret
Goldberry by name, were, from carefulness or poverty,
compelled to act as their own dressmakers. It is to
them that we more particularly desire to introduce
our readers.
The window is open, for the weather is still exceed-
ingly warm. The pretty stitchers are shaded from
the gaze of those passing before the palings of
the narrow slip of garden without by several good
plants in green pots, disposed on the old-fashioned
window-sill. The table is covered with pieces of silk
and glazed calico lining ; pins, thread, and sewing
silk, patterns, and various other accompaniments of
the dressmaker's art.
There has been a long silence, during which Eliza
has half prepared the body of a new striped silk
dress for fitting on, while Margaret has nearly
sewed the breadths of a skirt together. The latter
raises her soft blue eyes and speaks, and we think we
hear low music.
" I sincerely hope, Eliza, that he will not be there."
' ' He will, Margaret, as surely as you are pinning
that breadth of muslin to the lead pincushion."
" How extremely awkward ! My father will be
surprised if I do not speak to him ; and yet, how can
I, after the way in which he has behaved ? "
" Oh ! summon up all your resolution, and ask
unconcernedly after his wife ; whom, by-the-by, he
has not yet fetched home."
" Indeed! that is singular. Who has told you so?"
" Mrs. Bigsdale. The whole affair was patched up
in so hurried a manner, that it was thought best to
leave the new Mrs. Thomson with her friends, until
there was a place fit to receive her."
"Eliza, can you believe he can love her?"
" Why, scarcely. But there is no accounting for
the ways of these men. They must ever remain a
mystery to us poor simple women."
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL
103
Poor Margaret ! She sighed deeply, and the soft
rose paled on her cheek, as she thought of him who,
one short year previously, had evidenced his affection
in every look and tone. But some unknown and
mysterious reason had prevented a full declaration ;
and though he seemed to live but in her presence,
yet they had parted without the expected words being
spoken. She had believed that he went but to ob-
tain her parents' sanction, and in this supposition had
remained contented, if not happy ; until his continued
silence, followed by rumours, first of his attentions to
another, and subsequently of his marriage, had com-
pelled her, for very shame, to smother her anguish,
and subdue her dawning love. All this had passed
unknown to her father, who, book-worm as he was,
could scarcely be induced to enter into the common
affairs of life, and was totally unversed in those of
the heart. So much so, indeed, that his daughters
rarely ventured to invade his retirement with ideas of
that sort, and were in the habit of managing all love-
matters independently of his advice ; not as purposely
concealing anything, but deeming it hopeless to at-
tempt to attract his attention to such trivialities^.
Fathers like Mr. Goldberry, of which, happily, there
are but few, compel their daughters to take every-
thing into their own unpractised, innocent hands.
They earlier acquire the practical wisdom that is
drawn from experience ; yet many a bitter hour
would they have been spared, had they met with
sympathy and judicious advice.
The eventful day arrived, big with the fate of the
rival cricket-clubs, and also of many a young heart
that panted beneath its vestment of broad cloth, silk,
or muslin. Mr. Goldberry was gently drawn from
hi^ favourite arm-chair in his beloved study ; his
cherished books and papers were left in the sacred
confusion which it would have been treason for any
one to disturb ; and he himself was ushered into his
dressing-room, where his best suit was laid out, all
ready to put on, and urged to attire himself like a
Christian for once. Meanwhile his pretty daughters
were robing themselves in their own neat apartment.
The match had begun, and nearly all the company
were assembled, when our two young ladies and their
father arrived upon the field of action. They were
not at first able to distinguish individuals ; but after
a time, Margaret discovered, in the person of one of
the most distant "long-stoppers," the very young
man whom she dreaded to meet.
''Look, Eliza, look," she whispered, "he is there.
What shall I do ? I cannot bear it." And truly the
poor girl was pale as a lily. Her sister hastened to
her support, fearing she would faint.
" Turn your head this way, Margaret, and endea-
vour to conceal your feelings. He is looking towards
us. He recognizes us. Come, dear sister, come
along with me, a little out of the throng."
At this moment Mrs. Bigsdale waddled up to them,
and intercepted their retreat. ."Good morning, Miss
Goldberry. Good morning, Miss Margaret. Quite
well this morning ? That's well ; a beautiful day
for our cricketers. My gracious ! there is young
Thompson. How in the name of fortune did he get
into the club ? Come here a moment, William, I
want to speak to you."
A stout young fellow in a flannel jacket, who had
been lying all his length upon the grass, and drinking
out of a tall bottle, obeyed the summons.
" Can you tell us," resumed the talkative lady,
" how it happens that Henry Thompson is among the
players ? Has he his wife with him ? "
" Ask me one question at once, if you please,
mamma, and then I will endeavour to answer you."
" Well, tell me first how it is that he is here."
"Because Adams, our best bowler, fell ill yester-
day, and Thompson having arrived the night before,
they immediately pounced upon him to take his place.
You look pale, Miss Margaret. Allow me to give
you my arm to the tent."
"No, thank you," murmured Margaret, " I am not
tired."
" What nonsense, William, about her looking pale.
I never saw her with a finer colour in her life. And
now tell me, has Henry Thompson got his wife with
him ? I am just dying of curiosity to see her."
" No doubt you are, mammy. But I do not think
you are likely to have your curiosity gratified, for I
don't believe he is married."
"Then, I beg to say that you are mistaken,
William ; I was informed of the fact by a person who
saw him and his bride taking their wedding -jaunt."
" Hush ! here he comes."
Mrs. Bigsdale received her young friend with much
cordiality, but he did not appear to reciprocate her
welcome. A look of disappointment clouded his open
countenance, for just as he crossed towards the group
formed by Mrs. Bigsdale and her son, and our two
heroines, Margaret had pressed Eliza's arm, and the
latter taking the hint, they had contrived to slip away,
and were now in the midst of another group of friends.
"Soh!" said Mrs. Bigsdale, "you have conde-
scended to speak to me at last. And you are quite
well ? Indeed, you look so. Pray, when may I have
the honour of being introduced to Mrs. Henry Thomp-
son ? "
The young man opened wide his fine dark eyes.
He also blushed ; and the blush added a'new charm
to his handsome features, which were formed to ex-
press all generous emotions. Impossible that such a
being should have acted falsely or deceitfully ! But
we are anticipating.
Mrs. Bigsdale was quite thrown aback by that in-
credulous stare. "Do you not understand me?"
she inquired hastily. " I am inquiring after Mrs.
Henry Thompson."
Her interlocutor, recovering from his astonish-
ment, began to apprehend the drift of her question,
and it .appeared to amuse him much, for he laughed
heartily.
" I really think," he said, as soon as he could com-
pose himself, " I really think that all you good people
of Burley-cum-Beeston must be mad or dreaming.
This is the twelfth time that I have been asked after
a person who does not exist."
" What ! Do you mean to affirm that you are not
married ? "
" Precisely so. What could have put it into your
head ? "
"Then, pray, may I take the liberty of an old
acquaintance, and inquire who might be your travel-
ling companion on the twelfth of August ? "
The young man looked grave, and knit his brow.
"That inquiry," said he, "I must beg to be excused
from answering." And being vehemently summoned
to take his place as bowler, he bowed hurriedly and
hastened away, leaving Mrs. Bigsdale considerably
mystified.
We must now follow our pretty heroines. Their
father had left them to themselves almost from the
first, as we have seen ; and seating himself on one of
the benches that lined the sides of the cricket-ground,
had totally forgotten where he was, save when re-
minded of the fact by a loud shout, or other demon-
stration of the players. At such moments he would
raise his head and look around for his daughters;
and seeing them apparently happy, and always occu-
pied with some female friend or other, he would
relapse into his reverie. At length he remembered
a book that might throw some light upon the ques-
tion upon which his thoughts were engaged ; and
lOi
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
immediately forgetting daughters, responsibility, and
all, he walked straight out of the ground through
the little gate, and making the best of his way home,
shut himself up in his study, resumed his favourite
chair, and was soon irrecoverably buried amid his
books, to be seen no more that day.
By this time, Eliza and Margaret were each appro-
priated. Eliza's cavalier was a thriving merchant
of Long-ley Willows, who had long worshipped her at
a distance, and had only on this day succeeded in ob-
taining an introduction. He was an exceedingly
interesting companion, having read much, travelled
much, and made good use of the knowledge he had
thus acquired. She soon became so much engrossed
by his conversation, that she did not observe that she
had left her sister and the rest of her companions •
behind. As to Margaret, she felt relieved now that
Henry Thompson was, as she supposed, absorbed by
the game ; and assuming some degree of cheerfulness,
she chatted and laughed in her own sweet way with
the young man upon whose arm she was leaning, and
who was a friend of the family from boyhood. Thus
occupied, and purposely refraining from turning her
head towards the players, she did not remark the
glances cast upon her from time to time by her
former lover ; nor how, as she and her companion
gradually became separated from their friends, and
fell into more interesting conversation, the brow of
Henry Thompson darkened ; while by his inattention
and unskilfulness he exposed himself to the reproofs
of his own party, and the taunts and sneers of their
adversaries, now becoming flushed with anticipated
victory.
It so happened that Margaret had not come in con-
tact with Mrs. Bigsdale, or any of her immediate
friends, since Henry's denial of his reported marriage,
or she might have been better prepared for his abrupt
salutation ; when, being freed from the game, he
resolutely intruded himself upon her as she sat in a
corner of the tent, eating a jelly, and smiling at some
joke of her companion.
That smile, sweet and guileless as it was, was gall
and wormwood to Henry, who had returned to Bur-
ley with the express purpose of clearing up all mys-
teries, and openly securing the heart already secretly
his own. Were women really so heartless, so
capricious, so little to be depended upon ? He
asked himself this question, as he looked long
and pertinaciously upon the features so dear to
him, and which now flushed painfully beneath his
severe gaze. At length Margaret's maidenly pride
was roused by his demeanour, and she turned coldly
towards the young man who had accompanied her,
and whose name was Edward Drury.
" Come," said she, " I want to seek my sister. Mr.
Thompson, I wish you good afternoon."
And elevating her slight form with a dignity of
which she could not have been deemed capable, she
left the tent, followed by Mr. Drury.
Henry gazed after her until she was out of sight, and
then turning away with knitted brow and clenched
hand, he likewise left the 'tent by another entrance
and passed out of the cricket-ground.
Heavily wore the remaining hours away with poor
Margaret. How garish and hollow appeared the gay
scene to her distempered vision ! And when at length
her sister joined her, and escorted by Mrs. Bigsdale and
her son, and Eliza's new friend, they slowly retraced
their steps homewards, and regained their own quiet
parlour, how relieved was her poor heart to pour out
its mortification and anguish in overwhelming floods
of tears !
They retired to bed", but the balm of slumber de-
scended not upon Margaret's blue-veined eyelids that
night. Restless and feverish, she arose with the
earliest sunbeam ; and dressing herself quietly in
order not to disturb her sister, who slept the dream-
less sleep of the young and happy, she glided down
stairs, and out into the garden at the back of the
house.
This was somewhat extensive, and though chiefly
devoted to useful vegetables, was graced by a flower-
bed or two at the extremity furthest from the house.
Here, likewise, was a shady bower, where Margaret
had formerly been accustomed to take her work or
drawing on fine mornings, and where Henry Thomp-
son had usually contrived to find her out. For some
months back she had avoided this place, as reminding
her too vividly of former happiness, but this morning
she felt irresistibly attracted towards it. The dew-
drops lay glittering on the petals of the few flowers
that survived the summer show, and the breeze blew
freshly on the haggard face of the poor girl, as she
paced slowly round the narrow, winding walk, and
entered the arbour. Just then, her sandal became
untied. She paused upon the step to secure it ;
and when she again raised her head, she beheld
before her, seated upon the bench he had so often
occupied a year ago, her supposed faithless lover.
" Henry ! " was all she had power to utter, and
then she turned hastily round, and would have walked
away ; but her strength failing her, she was com-
pelled to lean against one of the supports of the
arbour.
The young man seemed struck dumb for the mo-
ment ; but quickly recovering himself, he went up to
her, and took the hand that hung listlessly by her
side.
"I did not intend to intrude upon you, Miss
Margaret," he said. "I leave that to happier indi-
viduals. I merely came here to take a last farewell
of a spot once very dear to me."
Margaret could not speak in reply. She withdrew
her hand. It was to wipe away the tears that were
flowing down her pale cheeks ; but Henry construed
it into an act of repulsion, and, standing a little
further off, he continued to speak, but in a colder
tone than before.
" Perhaps you have no remembrance of former
happy days. My memory happens to be more reten-
tive. I cannot, in one short year, forget all the looks
and tones that made this place a Paradise."
" Henry, what can you mean ? " And Margaret,
though still trembling, recovered her voice. "Why
all these reproaches ? Who has truly forgotten ?—
you or I ? I am still here, the same Margaret ; but
you — you — a married man — to dare — "
" A married man ! And you too, then, have
listened to this confounded report ? "
Margaret looked at him with astonishment. "But
you,were seen travelling with your bride."
" Which would you rather believe, Margaret, com-
mon report or my testimony ? I tell you that I am
not married, — and perhaps never shall be, now,"
added the young man, in a dejected tone of voice.
Margaret turned, and held out her hand, which he
eagerly took. "Let us sit down," said she, "and
understand one another. Tell me first, where you
were, and with whom, on the twelfth of August."
" That I can easily do. I would not condescend to
explain the affair to all the gossips who thought fit
to inquire into it ; but with you it is different. The
simple fact is, that an old friend of my father's begged
me to take charge of his daughter, a young widow,
who was travelling alone, towards the north of Scot-
land. She happened to have on a straw bonnet with
white ribbons, and at the . hotels we were invariably
taken for a newly-married couple. My companion
was by no means annoyed at this ; and being a light-
hearted, innocent sort of creature, we had many a
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
105
hearty laugh over the mistakes arising from the mis-
conception. But who could possibly have originated
the report, that at length reached this town, I can-
not imagine. We met no Burley people, nor any one
connected with the place, that I know of."
"Some friend of Mrs. Bigsdale's saw you."
" I can't bear that woman ; she is at the bottom of
everything. I wonder who it could be. There was
one young man who travelled in the same carriage
for half-a-day, and made himself very agreeable ; and
I saw him peering at the direction on my carpet-bag.
And he would hear me call my companion by her
Christian name. That is the whole mystery, depend
upon it. And now," continued the young man, press-
ing the hand that he still held, "may I, in my turn,
ask you one question ? "
We need not specify the question. Nor need we
relate how, it being, satisfactorily answered, the re-
conciled lovers sat long together, and held sweet con-
verse. So long, that an inquiry was at length made
over the house as to Margaret's whereabouts ; and
the sound of voices calling upon her name reached
the arbour. What was a bashful young lady to do
under such circumstances ? What, but dismiss her
lover for the present ; and then walk quietly in, and
pour forth floods of happy tears upon the sympathizing
bosom that was ever ready to receive a confidence.
The wedding of our lovers took place exactly that
day three months. And our friend, the merchant,
having meanwhile contrived to persuade Eliza that
one ceremony might as well serve for both sisters,
the two couples presented themselves at the altar
together.
Mr. Goldberry conducted himself tolerably well,
having been coaxed into a new suit of clothes for the
occasion, and well drilled into his part of father.
And the good folks of Burley-cum-Beeston were of
unanimous opinion, that of all the matches more or
less promoted by the gathering on the cricket-ground,
none gave so fair a promise of future happiness as
those of the two lovely Misses Goldberry.
THE LITTLE HERB-GATHERER.
IN an antiquated almshouse lived the good Dame
Margery,
Night and morning for the Donor with a fervent heart
prayed she,
For, though poor and scant the pittance, still it made
life's travail cease, —
And, if deed of good availeth, well his soul might
" rest in peace."
With her lived the gentle Amy, sunlight of her dark-
ened days,
Pleasant voice, that lightened sorrow as she went her
household ways ;
Thing of beauty in the loneness, child of Margery's
only son,
Latest remnant of the loved ones, who departed one
by one !
Through the round-recurring seasons Amy went by
woods and fields,
Gathering herbs of blessed uses, herbs that bounteous
Nature yields ;
Some were plucked beneath the gazing of the golden
summer eye,
Some when moonlight's chequered shadows in the
quiet meadows lie.
So, a meditative maiden, to sequestered nooks she'd
stray,
Gaining from Earth's gracious bosom goodly gifts
from day to day ;
And she made her glad companions of the winds and
wildling flowers,
And the birds that chanted by her through the
lengthening summer hours ;
By the reedy lake she'd wander, by the sedges tall
and slim,
By the world of water-lilies that upon the surface
swim ; —
By the woods, where lie the blue-bells in a clustering
multitude,
By the mallows, and the foxglove, nodding in their
solitude ;
And a thousand human feelings ebullant with joy
would rise,
Fluttering in her throbbing bosom, — dancing in her
liquid eyes !
Evening shadows now would warn her that her feet
110 further roam,
But, with stores of herbage laden, she must backward
to her home.
Good Dame Margery by the gateway oft would stand
and, watching, gaze,
And, afar her form discerning in the twilight's falling
haze,
Would a silent benediction from her affluent nature
pour,
And with gentle welcome bring her to the arched
massive door ;
Then, with heartfelt satisfaction, close the door upon
the night,
Feeling that her greatest blessing was in safety in her
sight.
Through the dim old lattice-window gleamed the
radiant setting sun,
And the idle wheel was standing where its latest
threads were spun ;
And the evening meal was over, and the flickering of
the fire
Sent the shadows to the ceiling, dancing ever gaunt
and higher.
"Gentle mother," so said Amy, seated in the chim-
ney nook,
" Will you read again some story from that old and
pleasant book ?
As I wandered in the hollows, sudden came a won-
drous thought,
Why each leaf and lowly floweret with such curious
care is wrought, —
Why enamelled with such colours, — why so beauteous
and fair, —
Why enriched with balmy odours to impregnate all
the air ?
Then, as if in ready answer, came the nightly words
you read,
How the bounteous God bestoweth more than satisfies
our need ;
And my heart grew overburdened with its weight of
thankfulness ^
For the perfume, and tne song-birds, and the thousand
things that bless ! *
Then, as by the lake of lilies for a moment brief I
stood,
Came the story of young Moses and King Pharaoh's
daughter good ;
And I thought of you, kind mother ! and my many
childish needs,
And I blessed you for the rescue that had borne me
from the reeds !
Somehow, in the church, on Sundays, when the par-
son reads that book,
I can never feel the story coming from his meaning
look,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
And my thoughts will get distracted, and will wander
here and there,
Mostly to the silent shadows where the flowers are
bent in prayer !
But when you, dear mother ! read it, every word like
music falls,
And I see the varying story painted on the grey
house walls ! "
Mother Margery's reverent fingers turned the conse-
crated page,
Lingering o'er the marked passage that had soothed
her silver age,
While a crowd of gentle faces rose before her mental
sight, —
Faces that had faded from her, smiling out their faint
" good night ;"
With emotion, therefore, read she, and her trembling
accents fell
Like the dying-swelling cadence of a lately swinging
bell.
Amy, with her young heart beating, peopled this old
world of ours
With the fragrance and the beauty gathered from the
golden flowers !
Lonely seemed the maid and matron, but the angels
of the good,
With their sheltering wings protecting, by their
homely threshold stood ;
Lowly, but like blue-eyed speedwell on the old wall's
stony cope,
By the thorny world's rough pathway they would
teach our hearts to hope.
MARIE.
OUR AUTUMN TRIP THEOUGH MUNSTER.
THE KILLARNEY LAKE SCENERY. — THE TOWN. — MORE
EMIGRATION. — DUNLOE CASTLE. — " KATE KEARNEY."
— THE GAP OF DUNLOE MOUNTAIN DEW. — IRISH
MUSIC. — DOWN THE LAKES. — BEGGARS. — HUTS OF
| NORTH KERRY.
DESCRIBE the Lakes of Killarney ! Who would
venture upon such a task in mere words ? When the
canvas and glowing colours of the painter have
failed, what can verbal description do to place the
scene before you ? There is always something in the
most beautiful face, as in the most beautiful scene,
which the painter fails to seize and transfer to his
canvas. It is this that has caused the despair which
has at times come upon the greatest painters. It is
the spirit and soul of the object, which no mere skilful
combination of colours can convey. The volatile
essence escapes. And after all, a picture, no matter
how beautiful it be, is but one glance of Nature copied.
It cannot give the lights and shadows of the changing
clouds ; the delicious balminess of the summer air ;
the lowing of cattle, the hurffming of bees, and the
rush of waters, in which often so much of the charm
of a beautiful view consists. The tempered light of
the woods, the sun sleeping on the broad hills and
warm fields, the peeps through forest nooks, and
along sylvan glades, the "incommunicable trees," as
Emerson calls them, the divine sky ever lighting up
new pictures, and all the ineffable beauty of Nature
— beauty which breathes out everywhere — escapes our
grasp, as we vainly endeavour to embody them in
permanent form and colour.
But if the painter fails in conveying the highest
| beauties of a scene, how much less successful must
the mere describer of it in words be ! What can he
convey of the colours of a landscape, — colours, which
are described by Leigh Hunt as " the smiles of
Nature ? " He can speak of the green grass, and the
bright skies, and the deep shadows of the woods, and
the foliage dipping into the crystal lake and reflected
in it, and of the thousand exquisite delights which
he has felt, but vainly attempts to find words to
convey to others. So I shall not attempt to describe
the scenery of Killarney. Any writer must fail in
conveying an idea of its beauties, which to be felt and
appreciated, must be seen.
The Killarney Lake district is of no great extent.
It lies among a group of hills, the highest in Kerry,
or in Ireland, — the lakes lying in a crescent form
around hills called Macgillicuddy's Reeks, and
consisting of a long and beautiful sheet of water,
studded with islands, called the Upper Lake, — a
second, broader and smaller, called Middle or Turc
Lake, — and a third (also containing numerous large
islands), by far the most extensive sheet of water in
the district, called the Lower Lake. Of the three,
the Upper Lake is by much the most beautiful,
being embosomed in lofty mountains, whereas the
greater part of the Lower Lake is surrounded by a
level and low-lying country, rich and well wooded,
but wanting in those grander features which dis-
tinguish the southern or upper portions of the
scenery.
There is one usual mode of seeing the most
beautiful portions of the scenery, which is, — to take
a car, and drive round by the back of the hills,
up the deep pass called the Gap of Dunloe, — be-
tween Macgillicuddy's Reeks and the Toomies, —
then, walking or riding round the edge of Glena
Mountain, overlooking the Coombh Dhuv or Black
Valley, you come upon the head of the Upper Lake,
where you have previously engaged a boat to meet
you, and from thence you are rowed down the lakes,
through the finest parts of the scenery. This can
be easily accomplished in one day, after which,
those who desire it, may explore the beauties of the
island scenery of the Lower Lake, and of the sur-
rounding district, as they may have the leisure and
the inclination to do so.
Leaving the Lake Hotel about noon, we drove
through the village of Killarney, — which lies about
a mile from the lake, — a long straggling place,
smelling strong of turf- smoke, with numerous people
chaffering in the street, in front of mean rickety
houses, and shops where a sixpenny order must be
considered a large one, and sundry inns and coaching-
houses, which seemed to be the principal buildings
in the place (maintained, as they are, chiefly by the
large influx of strangers and tourists). The women
were as usual in their long cloaks, and the men in
their great-coats, — some, doubtless, were from the
district around, and had come thither to sell
their 'eggs, milk, and butter, near and about the
depdts of which the women — some of them young
and good-looking, and nearly all of the dark race of
Munster — sat crouched and basking on the pavement.
Besides these, who seemed to have something to do,
though it was not much, as conversation was going
on somewhat to the detriment of trade, there were a
still larger number, both of men, women, and
children, who seemed to be lounging about with
nothing to do at all, except to join in the discourses
carried on among the groups around the baskets,
barrels, stalls, and potatoe-depdts, which lay along
the street. Like most other watering-places, Killar-
ney attracts a large proportion of this idle population,
who depend for their subsistence mainly on the
small change dropped by the stranger tourists.
The principal buildings of Killarney lie to the
west of the town, — as usual, the best is the work-
house, a handsome and capacious building ; there is
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
107
also a large monastery ; and a cathedral, designed
by Pugin, showing a very handsome beginning, but a
very miserable ending, — like many other projects in
Ireland, — the walls being erected, but the windows
remaining unglazed and the interior unfinished,
for want of money to complete it. The place has
stood so for years, and no one knows when it will
be finished : some say that before long, it will be
a very handsome ruin, though not equal to Mucross
Abbey.
When about two miles out of Killarney, on the road
to Dunloe, we met three carts, attended by several
men on foot. Children and women rode in the carts,
perched amongst boxes, large trunks, and bedding.
Two of the women had infants in their arms, one
suckling at the breast. In the third cart there was a
group of little girls round the mother, full of glee,
which contrasted strongly with her saddened counte-
nance. The men trudged behind the carts with
down-cast faces. They were decently-dressed men,
evidently of the better order of peasantry.
" Ah ! they're going too ! " said the car-driver.
"Who are they, and where are they going?" I
asked.
"A long road," said he; "they're emigrants!
they're never done going ; and we old and poor
folks will soon be all that's left in old Ireland."
" It seems like the departure of the children of
Israel out of the land of Egypt."
"Yes," said the man, "and out of the house of
bondage. Ah ! it's little good we can do here, and
it's better we'd all go at onst."
"But things are not so bad with you hereabouts as
they were two or three years ago ? "
" Oh no, indeed, your honour. There's nothin'
like the famine there was. Indeed, an' I wish the
blessins ov God on Sir Robert Peel for gettin' that
bill ran through. A third of the people hereabout
were all dead but for him. For they'd lay down
and die, afore they'd take a penny from a neighbour.
Twopence of bread now were worth fivepence afore.
Ah ! the blessins ov God on that Sir Robert Peel ! "
These were the identical words of the car-driver
(for I noted them down at the time), and I give
them here as a not uninteresting illustration of the
poor man's heart-felt gratitude for the measures of
the great deceased statesman.
We were now approaching the gap in the hills
which lay before us, — "The Gap of Dunloe," as the
driver said it was. But before reaching the moor,
we turned aside to the left, and drove down to see the
famous Castle of Dunloe. Not much of it remains, —
but enough to make a snug residence for the family
of the proprietor. It was originally a stronghold, I
think, of the Macarthy More, and must have been
built to command the river Laune, and also the
mountain-pass of Dunloe. It stands on a promontory,
steep towards the river, and approached by a neck of
land easily commanded from the castle. The place
was besieged and battered during the reigns of
Henry VIII. and Queen Elizabeth ; but the greatest
injury was done to it by the Parliamentary army
during the wars of the Commonwealth. As usual,
" Cromwell " is blamed for the mischief. A single
square tower, probably the old keep, is all that now
remains of the fortress.
Near the entrance to the Gap, is the house of the
famous "Kate Kearney," whose descendant still
occupies the premises, now a shebeen, or public-
house. - A black-faced, black-haired, and black-eyed
girl, was holding up the door-cheek as we drove up.
'.'Surely that can't be the darling Kate," said my
uncle. "No, your honour, that's Kate's grand-
daughter ! " said the driver. Certainly, the beauty
seemed not to have descended in a right line. Kate's
daughter, the mother of the black girl, approached
the car with the favourite beverage of "mountain
dew," — whiskey and goat's-milk. She was a stalwart,
dark-eyed woman, — strong-boned, — somewhat of a
gipsy in the cast of her features, and she may have
been beautiful in her youth, — for they say that, like
the women of many southern countries, Celtic beauty
does not last so well as Saxon. But in Ireland, the
poor feeding and the horrible discomfort in which the
peasantry live, may account for the rapid falling off
in the looks of the women, after they have passed
the age of twenty or twenty-five.
We peeped into Kate Kearney's cottage. Its floor
was of clay, its walls were bare, and its furnishing
of the scantiest. But it was of stone, so that it was
far above the average of Irish peasants' houses. Pigs
roamed about the doors, and hens chuckled among
the rafters overhead, so that doubtless this descendant
of Kate is a thriving woman, doing well in the world.
We now took to our feet, and toiled our way up
the Pass, which we soon entered. The Pass, or Gap
of Dunloe, is about three miles in length, and seems
to have been formed by some grand convulsion of
Nature having rent asunder the mountains at this
point, and left them standing up there on either side,
bold, rugged, and inaccessible. In some places they
overhang the footpath in stupendous masses, and the
huge blocks lying in the bottom of the narrow valley
show that from time to time they have thundered
down with a terrible crash. A tiny stream flows
along the bottom of the rift, which is crossed at two
points by rude stone bridges. Near to one of these,
the water, blocked up by some fallen rock, has
accumulated into a little lake, and furnished a
beautiful subject for the landscape painter, with its
grand background of rocks and mountains, and the
dark defile which winds between them.
Though no houses nor huts are to be seen in this
lonely defile, there are here and there a few small
patches of cultivated land, where the valley will admit
of them, indicating the determination of the Irish
peasant to encounter difficulty and sterility in the
desperate effort to make a living of some kind. Goats
skip along among the rocks, and you are from time
to time offered their milk for your "mountain dew."
There is no want of beggars either — several of these
joined us at Kate Kearney's, and trudged patiently along
by our side for five miles, cheek by jowl, very familiar,
and quite communicative. We saw a pair of lovers going
through the Pass with a company of these attendants
close alongside of them. Just think of the devoted
youth whispering into the ear of his fair one, amid
these lonely wilds, "Do you love me?" and half-a-
dozen beggars ready to answer on the instant, " I do,
sur, and long life to your honour's glory ! " The
romantic in such a case becomes rather ludicrous.
The attendants, besides " mountain dew," are ready
to sell you " Irish diamonds " of the first water, and
you may buy one any day, as big as the Koh-i-noor, for
considerably less than a shilling.
One of the young women, a retailer of " mountain
dew," my uncle had the curiosity to question about
her state. "Are you married, my good woman?"
"I am, sur." "Any family ?" "I have five, your
honour." " Why, it's impossible ! You can be little
more than twenty." " I'm twenty -three ; but I was
married at fifteen, your honour." Here my uncle
philosophized a little about early marriages, and
their tendency to degenerate a race ; but I shall not
detail his arguments. It is a popular custom in
Ireland to marry early, not because the young pair
can maintain a family, but because they fall in love
with each other, and desire to marry. And whatever
may be said of the prudence of the step, this at least
may be averred, that the Irish peasantry who indulge
108
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
in this practice of early marriage, are really amongst
the most virtuous in the world. There can be no
doubt about it.
We had sundry buglings in the Pass, and firing of
guns, to awaken the echoes, which were certainly very
fine, rolling away up the rocks, and dying in the
distance : —
Oh hark ! oh hear ! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going !
Oil ! sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing !
Blow ! let us hear the purple glens replying, —
Blow, bugle ! answer, echoes ! dying, dying, dying !
The prolonged echoes of the bugle gave the
idea of an organ played in a lofty-vaulted cathe-
dral ; and certainly those who miss the bugle per-
formance—though it may seem a little theatrical —
lose a great treat.
At length we emerged from the head of the Pass,
and climbed round the skirt of the mountain. From
the height, we looked down over the Coombh Dhuv,
which lay dark and lowering, under its mantle of
clouds, a narrow stream winding through the bottom
of the valley, far, far beneath us, and the towering
black hills stretching away on either hand. The
view up this Black Valley is certainly one of the
finest things to be seen in all the lake scenery.
We approached a little platform on the face of the
hill, where, what appeared to be two women were
somehow occupied. As we neared them, we found
they belonged to the numerous retailers of "moun-
tain dew," who abounded in the neighbourhood; and
they sprang up from their knitting, and presented
the fascinating mixture for our acceptance. Sundiy
cups of the potent (potheen) beverage were imbibed,
and the two Irish matrons (who were neither fair nor
young) condescended to entertain us with sundry
songs in their native Irish. The airs were of the
most wild and uncouth description I had ever heard,
of unquestionable native growth, and perhaps they
had never been heard beyond the limits of those
mountains, the place of their birth. They bore a
striking resemblance to the old Highland coronachs—-
and though one of them, as we were told, was a comic
song, it sounded like a lamentation. But all Irish
music is full of sorrow, defeat, and bewailing. It is
but an echo of the history of the people, and cannot
be tuned to laughter and brisk movement. Even the
gayest of Irish songs have a dash of sorrow in them.
As we were descending the hill, we met another
"mountain dew" merchant coming up, attendant
upon a party of travellers coining from the opposite
direction. This was a young girl of about twenty —
as fine a specimen of a mountain nymph as one might
see. A tall rounded figure, admirably formed ; large
dark eyes and blooming face, sparkling with glee and
full health ; a step like the young roe, quite bound-
ing, as she ran up the path, and climbed the rocks
without an effort. Yet she was clad almost in rags ;
her hair blew about her face unconstrained by cap
or bonnet ; and I rather think, from the recollec-
tion of her bounding step as she sprang up the hill,
that she was without either shoes or stockings. But
such girls as these, the finest specimens of natural
grace and beauty, are to be met with all over Munster,
wherever you go.
We at length reached the head of the Upper Lake ;
were rowed down by four stout rowers through that
lovely scenery ; lunched on Ronyn's Island, whqre a
monarch was crowned ; skimmed past many wooded
islands, and through sundry rocky channels
between the several lakes ; wakened up the echoes
of the Eagle's Rock with bugle and cannon, startlino-
the eagles from their eyrie; landed at " OT>o°-
noglme's Bed," at Itcss's Island, and Innisfallen,—
island gems of great beauty, — and saw the sun set
again in the west, amid a blaze of splendour.
Scenery such as Killarney cannot be described ;
indeed, no scenery can be placed before the mind's
eye in words, and therefore we dismiss the Lakes of
Killarney by saying : — " Go and see them, you who
take continental tours and summer journeys, for
there is no scenery in Great Britain which can
surpass that which you will find in county Kerry, at
Killarney and Glengariff."
The great nuisance at Killarney — and it is a for-
midable one — is the beggars. They are in the streets,
in the passes, among the hills, along the lakes, and
even in the most retired places ; they dog your foot-
steps, for miles together. If you crack a joke, they
join in the laugh ; but every now and then put in a
whine for "a half-penny for the love of God." The
carmen, the boatmen, the waiters, the boots, are
always asking for "a, shilling more your honour."
The landlord puts the waiters and servants down in
the bill, and you pay for them. But when you have
seated yourself on the car, thinking all is paid, the
waiter and the boots present themselves for "some-
thing from your honour." You see that the putting
of them down in the bill was a landlord's dodge.
The hire of your car is included in the coach-fare,
and you pay it ; but the car-man entreats for pay all
the same. The ragged fellow who sees you mount on
the car with your carpet-bag in hand, asks to be paid
for looking on. "The porter, your honour," wants a
sixpence, or a penny, or something. And then,
when you are seated, the ordinary town's beggars
surround you in a body, — the bleared, the halt, the
old, the young, the strong, the dirty, — and implore
your coppers in the name of all the saints in the
calendar. I confess that this nuisance forms a large
discount, to be deducted from the pleasures of en-
joying the fine scenery of the county Kerry. Were
you made of coppers they would all go ; there are
customers without end there, bespeaking a state
of the people of the land, to be mourned and lamented
over.
The road from Killarney to Tarbert is full of
misery. Every little village you come to seems made
up of wretchedness. Your car is instantly besieged all
round by imploring miserables. At Tralee, the
coachman, to keep off the rush of them, drove us
into the small inn-yard, the gate of which was imme-
diately barred, and the cries of the beggars followed
us there. At Listowel, they rushed after the car in
a body when it had started, some of the able boys
running for miles, in the hope of a small coin
being cast to them. Yet each of these towns
had large poor-houses, which the car-driver
told us were full. And Tralee seemed a thriving
busy place, with a considerable small trade in pota-
toes, apples, and such like, doing in the streets,
which were full of people. What the state of the
rural population is, as regards their " homes," let the
parish priest of Ballybunion, near Listowel, describe,
who thus writes in the Nation of a few weeks back,
in reference to a prize offered by the North Kerry
Farming Society, for "the best-kept labourer's
cottage :" —
"To speak to the labourers of North Kerry of
decent cottages, is a mockery at which fiends might
grin. In no part of Ireland has demolition been
more ruthlessly, systematically, and extensively
carried on. Neither Farney nor Mayo, Connemara nor
Kilrush, could show more monuments of extermina-
tion. The face of the country is hideous with ruins,
whose gables, black and bare, pointing to the sky,
would seem to call heaven to witness the bar-
barities perpetrated upon their unfortunate occu-
pants. And the few still remaining labourers'
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
109
habitations could certainly not be dignified with
the name of cottage, being for the most part
unfit for the lodging of brutes. Some of these
are wretched, dreary, and cheerless cabins, with
crumbling walls and falling-in roofs, which are over-
grown with weeds and moss, and pervious to every
shower ; others of them, still worse, are loathsome
and fetid hovels, constructed of sods, pieces of old
roof-rotten thatch, and green rushes, and run up,
where permission is given — which is very seldom —
against the walls of their former houses, and against
ditches and turf-banks — sometimes even within the
arches of bridges ! And yet, surrounded by such
scenes as these, the authors of desolation and misery
so widespread and appalling, had the astonishing and
unequalled hardihood to offer a prize for the ' best-
kept labourer's cottage !' "
SUMMER SONGS.
A HAPPY title for a book of Songs ; we only wonder
that it has not long since been appropriated. " Sum-
mer Songs !" there is the sound of bees in it, the
rustling of harebells, the gurgling of brooks, the
whistling of blackbirds, and the glad music of
Nature.
Song and Summer are twins. The poet revels in
the sunshine ; for the nonce he is a pantheist, and
deifies the trees, rocks, woods, and tall mountains.
He discerns a splendour in the grass, and a glory in
the flower ; the Ghebir-spirit lives again in him, and
his soul exults,
When, from the naked top
Of some bold headland, he beholds the sun
Rise up, and bathe the world hi light !
All poets love the summer ; how full is Wordsworth
of its praises ; and Keats, Shelley, and Byron never
could have enough of it. Nothing but the perennial
summer of Italy could satisfy them. Summer ! the
very word is poetry and music ; its fullness of life,
its abounding joy, Nature arrayed in all her glory,
the golden morning and the grey dawn, the green
woods and the waving corn-fields, — all combine in
doing honour to this high festival-season of the year.
The little volume whose title we quote below* will
gratify many lovers of sweet thoughts and delicate
fancies. Mr. Hibberd is a genuine admirer of Nature
in her happiest moods, and he sings like one who is
verily in love with it. His introduction is a picture
in itself ; in it he thus speaks : —
"Many grey dawns and golden mornings have
come down upon the green world while I have been
sitting under the old oaks, where the grasses were
still dew-sprent, and the daisies yet asleep. At such
times it has been my joy to hear the first whistle of
the blackbird, and the earliest love-note of the thrush.
There is something in the soft hush of daybreak,
when a human heart meets it in the green woods and
primeval solitudes of the world, which suggests feel-
ings not to be described by the pen ; and if such a
lover of green things have a relish for the graces of
verbal song, he will be tempted, as I have been, to
babble forth his love in verse. But I knew that
Chaucer and Spenser, and our dear Shakspere, had
done this, and to breathe out my weak rhymes there
would have been sacrilege.
" It was under just such emotions, however, that,
one spring morning, when earth and sky' seemed
* Summer Songs. By Shirley Hibberd. London : John
Chapman,
married in a holy harmony, and the flowers seemed
to nod music to each other, that my soul was cheered
with a vision of greater promise than that of seasonal
beauty and the growth of grass ; and while treading
the soft heather on my way to the old mossy glens, I
awoke to the consciousness that my heart, like that
of the little lark which beat against the sky above
me, had found its mate, and was already married.
Then, like one who had drunk deep at the vintage of
beauty, I wandered in my thoughts, and in the phan-
tasy of my new delirium, I broke the sacred silence
of the woods, and like one from whom reason had
departed, I sacrificed my reverence for the great
masters of song, and wrote verses to my lady-love.
' The lark sings to the dear one who nestles in the
green,' thought I, 'and if not in the golden ether,
then on the brown earth, shall my heart sing to its
chosen one.'
"Through that golden summer I warbled out these
' Songs,' and distorted the flowing harmony of Nature
with their discordant measures. But ere the autumn
I began to grow sane again ; I had had my fill of
rhymes, and knew that poetry was greater when felt
and left unwritten."
Love and Summer are good company, and the
"Supremacy of Love," of which the poet here sings,
is worthily associated with that grand season of her
reign. Love reigns alike over Death and over
Time;
For He who built up all the Worlds, and scattered pearls and
flowers,
Has shed his Love in morning light, in dews and twilight
showers.
And though, O Death ! he gave to thee an empire for an hour,
He hath decreed that I should break and shatter all thy power.
The pilgrim stars went wheeling round, and chanted, as they
rolled,
Their songs of joyous triumph, as in blissful days of old ;
Rich swelling waves of melody came rolling like a sea,
And Love's fair lustre lighted up the deep Eternity.
All things shadowed forth the joy which dwells with God
above,
And spoke in sweetest accents, the supremacy of Love.
Mr. Hibberd touches homelier subjects in even a
more thrilling strain, — such as household hopes, fireside
joys, and domestic trials. But we have a word of
objection to offer ; in the strain entitled " My Boyish
Days," he takes up the familiar topic of youthful hap-
piness, contrasting it with the sorrows and trials of
maturer years. We must confess to some degree of
scepticism on this point of popular faith ; we question
whether boyish days, especially of boys who are sent
to school, and placed under the authority of a harsh
teacher, or of boys whose parents are either incon-
siderately fond or unkind, do not suffer more then
than they do at any future period of life. We are
rather of opinion that there is a fallacy in the
prevalent notions of school-boy happiness. Boys
may enjoy the novelty of life in early years more
than they do afterwards, but they suffer as acutely as
they enjoy ; and the suffering compensates for the
enjoyment. If the heart is easily gladdened then, it
is also as easily embittered. If there be any discipline
at all, the youth feels it keenly ; whereas, at the
time, he thinks nothing of the pleasures of being ;
he has not had the experience which makes pleasures
really felt, but the curbs, restraints, and hindrances
imposed upon him, are full of bitterness. The enjoy-
ments of the man are certainly of a higher kind than
those of the boy, while the discipline in which he
lives has become habitual, and ceases to be felt. But
we know that this view of matters is heretical, and
not at all in conformity with most poetic strains on
this subject, Mr. Hibberd's among the number.
110
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
The lines entitled " Regrets " embody an idea o
another sort : —
Why come the memories of departed years,
Like spectres stalking through the midnight gloom,
To fill the heart with sadness and with tears,
And teach the soul the terrors of the tomb.
Why will the follies and the wanton wiles
Of times gone by, still march upon the thought,
Like twilight shadows, destitute of smiles,
WTith stem reprovals and with sorrows fraught ?
Oh ! I have sinned ! and in the blighting air
Of dissolution, spoiled my flowers of joy, —
My soul can never more become as fan:,
Or fresh in feeling as a fervent boy.
Here the sentiment is poetical and true, and we
offer no objection. The whole of this poem is writtei
in a fervent strain, and breathes a fine religious
feeling. But the following verses, embodying a sue
cession of household pictures, will give a better idea
of the author's tone of thought and descriptive
powers : —
A BIRTH-DAY SONG.
Addressed to S on the 30th of April, 1850.
To that fond heart whose fervent beat,
Is waiting now my song to greet ;
To that fair spirit at whose shrine
I kneel in ecstasy divine ;
To that bright eye whose starry ray
Flings light upon my toilsome way ;
To that fair girl, whose gentle voice
Of love, can bid my heart rejoice ;
To her,— of all in beauty's throng,—
I sing this humble birth-day song.
Now float the peals of merry chime
Along the twilight paths of time ;
And now I hear the sounds of mirth,
Which gladly hail an infant's birth ;
There's joy within the household wall,
And gladness greets the hearts of all :
'Twas joy indeed when thou wert born,
For I had else been all forlorn ;
You came to light my path along,
And so accept this birth-day song.
And when each round of days and hours
Has brought us back fair April's showers ;
And when the sun's increasing ray
Lights up the flowery lap of May;
Yes, then, no more to stray or roam,
We'll gather round our peaceful home ;
And sit us down in pleasing thought,
To ponder what our lot has brought ;
And then remember time so long,
Since first I sung your birth- day song.
Then, like the peace which reigns above,
We'll steep our lives in rosy love ;
We'll mingle all our joyous themes,
And live like angels bathed in dreams ;
But not such dreams as haunt us when
We feel the world's rude touch of pain ;
But dreams of bliss, as real as day,
Shall sweep our troubles far away ;
And should a cloud be borne alone
We'll think of this first birth-day song.
Perchance around your knees, some day,
The offspring of our love may play •
Perchance such angel shapes as thine
May make our home with beauty shine j
srchance from our own household hearth
Young souls may find the upward path
To higher worlds, and homes of bliss,
nd quit for aye the scenes of this ;
i!,Ut,nh(?Ueli our 8Tief m&y ^ther strong,
We'll sing for them a birth-day song.
And when we in our years decline,
And totter down the steeps of time •
We'll still with loving fondness cling,
And upwards strive our hopes to flintr •
We'll cheer each other by the way
And for a better birth-day pray ; '
And e'en upon the grave's cold brink,
We'll sit together, love, and think
How every birth-day brought along,
Some nobler theme to weave in song.
In happy description of rural scenery, and chaste
combinations of images, we may instance "Rambling-
Thoughts," " Lines to S on the Seasons of the
Year," "An Evening Sketch," and a " Dirge for the
Old Year," which latter is full of elegance, as the fol-
lowing specimen will bear witness : — •
His joys and sorrows are gone,
Vanished like mists in May,
Like the roseate colours of morn,
They blushed but to fade away.
Like the gloom of the soul in the season of love,
Like the mother's call to a nestling dove ;
Like the softened light of the purple eve,
Or the hush of the heart beneath hope's reprieve,
So gently our song, and our falling tear,
Shall be given in grief to the dying year.
For there he lies dying, dying —
Dying on his couch of leaves ;
While the months are round him sighing —
Sighing as he faintly heaves.
Like him we went forth in spring,
With hopes emblazoned and high;
But in autumn our dirge we sing,
And in winter we sicken and die.
As blossoms that glimmer in July's sun,
As dew-drops that vanish ere day is begun,
As icicles melting in morning's breath—
So frail is our fortune — our destiny, death :
As the rain-drop melts in the salt sea's wave,
So blends the heart with its earthly grave.
So the year sinks, dying, dying —
Dying on his couch of leaves ;
While the months are round him sighing —
Sighing as he faintly heaves.
In domestic feeling and the associations of home
joys and sorrows, Mr. Hibberd evinces a delicacy and
a truth of sentiment which does honour to his heart.
"First Love," "To Her I Love," "Mary," and
'^Absence," are truthful touches of nature. Several
pieces, entitled "Flower Songs," are sweetly poetical
and novel in character. The song entitled "Mary " is
tender and pathetic : —
My Mary is no longer here, —
No longer by my side,
As when of yore she gazed on me
With such a woman's pride.
She's gone to take her long, long rest, —
Her last and peaceful sleep ;
Her spirit haunts the realms above,
And I am left to weep.
I touched her cheek, 'twas cold as stone,
And I was frozen too ;
I stood all mute — umnoved — alone,
Myself I scarcely knew !
They spake to me, they bade me go, —
They told me she was dead ;
And yet without a tear I stood,
Nor heeded what they said.
I wandered on, as wandereth
A weed upon the wave ;
I gathered flowers from nooks she loved
To plant upon her grave.
I brought home buds and leaves which grew
Where she was laid to rest, ,
And as a mother clasps her babe
I clasped them to my breast.
My Mary's gone,— the flowers are here,
All withered though they be,
And if but pale and odourless,
They're priceless gems to me.
There 's still a heart within my breast,
Though faint its pulses beat, —
And those poor shrivelled herbs still seem
My Mary's smile to greet.
Such writing comes from the heart, and goes to it ;
and in those delicious little gems which embody the
ymbolical ideas of the various flowers whose songs
hey are, the same tenderness of feeling is manifest,
Jombined with a true poet's love for the innocent and
eautiful. But we must leave this little volume of
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Ill
Summer
that —
Songs, believing with Shirley Hibberd,
There are lessons all around,
From blue sky to budding ground,
Which teach the joy of kindness to our brothers in the clay,
and that while we spend our
Few and fleeting hours,
Diffusing soothing incense to each bruised and broken heart,
we shall learn that higher faith, that nobler love, that
Christian perception of a harmony between the good
man's heart and the green pictures of the world which
ever teaches us to —
Bless the grass,
And the shadows as they pass,
For many gaps of beauty we may gather for the day 5
There are not too many friends
For the soul that sorrow bends,
And the heart may still grow kinder 'mid the budding bloom
of May.
KEEP HIM OUT !
"WHAT noise is that?" said a judge, disturbed in
the hearing of a case. "It's a man, my lord," was
the answer of the doorkeeper. "What does he
want?" "He wants to get in, my lord." "Well,
keep him out ! "
The audience is comfortably seated ; the case is
going forward ; to make room for the new comer,
some must shift their seats, and perhaps be jostled
about a little ; so they are all perfectly satisfied with
the judge's dictum of " Keep him out."
You have yourself been in an omnibus when a
stout passenger has presented himself to the con-
ductor, and petitioned for a place. You are all
snugly seated — why should you be disturbed ? "The
seats are full!" "Keep him out!" But the in-
truder is in, he presses forward to the inner corner,
perhaps treading on some testy gentleman's toes.
How you hate that new comer, until you get fairly
"shook down" and settled again in your places!
The door opens again, — another passenger ! "Keep
him out ! " cry the company, and strange to say, the
loudest vociferator of the whole, is the very passenger
who last came in. He in his turn becomes conserva-
tive, after having fairly got a place inside.
It is the same through life. There is a knocking
from time to time at the door of the constitution.
" What's that noise ? " ask the men in power. " It's
a lot of men, my lords and gentlemen." "What do
they want?" "They want to come in." "Well,
keep them out ! " And those who are comfortably
seated within the pale, re-echo the cry of "Keep
them out." Why should they be disturbed in their
seats, and made uncomfortable ?
But somehow, by dint of loud knocking, the men,
or a rush of them, at length do contrive to get in ;
and after sundry shovings and jostlings, they get
seated, and begin to feel comfortable, when there is
another knocking louder than before. Would you
believe it ? the last accomodated are now the most
eager of all to keep the door closed against the new
comers ; and " Keep them out ! " is their vociferous
cry.
Here is a batch of learned men debating the good
of their order. They are considering how their
profession may be advanced. What is the gist of
their decisions ? — the enactment of laws against all
intruders upon their comfort and quiet. They make
their calling a snug monopoly, and contrive matters
so that as few as possible are admitted to share the
good things of their class. " Keep them out ! " is the
cry of all the learned professions.
" Keep them out ! " cry the barristers, when the
attorneys claim to be admitted to plead before certain
courts. " Keep them out ! " cry the attorneys, when
ordinary illegal men claim to argue a case before
the county court. "Keep her out!" cry both
barristers and attorneys, when Mrs. Cobbett claims
to be heard in her imprisoned husband's cause.
"What! a woman plead in the courts! If such
a thing be allowed, who knows where such license is
to end ? " And she is kept out accordingly.
" Keep them out ! " cry the apothecaries, when a
surgeon from beyond the Tweed or the Irish Channel
claims to prescribe and dispense medicine to English
subjects. "Keep them out ! " cry the doctors, when
the Homeopathists offer the public their millionth-
grain doses. " Keep them out ! " cry physicians and
surgeons and apothecaries of all ranks, when it is .
proposed, as in America, to throw open the profession
to the female sex.
But you find the same cry among the working
classes of every grade. Mechanics and tradesmen
insist on all applicants for admission to their calling
serving long apprenticeships. If the apprenticeships
are not served, then " Keep them out " is the word.
Shoulder to shoulder they exclude the applicants for
leave to toil. " Knob-sticks " are pelted. They must
join the union, — must be free of the craft, — must con-
form to the rules, — subscribe to the funds, — pay the
footings, and so on ; otherwise they are kept out
with a vengeance.
In the circles of fashion the same cry is frequent.
A new man appears in society. "Who is he?"
" Only So-and-so ! " He is a retired grocer, or as
Cobbett called Sadler, " a linendraper ; " and the
exclusive class immediately club together for the
purpose of "Keeping him out." He is "cut."
Even the new man of high-sounding title is
accounted as nothing among the old families who
boast of their " blue blood." Wealth goes a great
way, but still that does not compensate for the
accident of birth and connections among these classes.
Every class has its own standard. The money
classes have theirs too. Even tradesmen and their
wives go in sets, and there is always some class
outside their own set, which they contrive to "keep
out." The aristocratic contagion thus extends from
the highest to the verge of the lowest class of society
in England. Is not monopoly the rule among us,
whenever we can find an opportunity of establishing
it ? Monopoly or exclusivism in art, in theology,
in trade, in literature, in sociology. Look at the
forty Royal Academicians setting their backs up
against every new-comer in art, and combining with
one accord to "Keep him out." That is the mono-
poly of art ; and people at large call it a humbug ;
but they are not more tolerant or wise when their
own craft comes to be dealt with. Each in his turn
is found ready to combine with somebody else, to
"keep out" all intruders on their special preserves.
The "Flaming Tinman," in Lavengro, pummels and
puts to flight the poor tinker who intrudes upon his
beat ; the costers combine to keep out freshmen
from theirs ; English navvies band together to drive
Irish navvies off their contracts ; and Irish tenants
pick off, from behind a hedge, the intruders upon
their holdings. Even the searchers of the sewers
maintain a kind of monopoly of their unholy calling,
and will recognize no man as a brother who has not
been duly initiated in the mysteries of the search.
The sewer-searcher is as exclusive in his way as the
leader of fashion at Almacks. " Keep him out ! " is,
in short, the watchword of all classes, of all ranks,
of all callings, of all crafts, of all interests. We used
to "keep out" the foreign corn-grower, but though
he may now come in, there is exclusiveness and
monopoly in ten thousand other forms, which no
legislation can ever touch.
112
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
WIN AND WEAB.
THERE'S no royal road to greatness,
Men must ever climb to fame ;
All the wealth in miser's coffers
Wouldn't buy a deathless name.
Is a noble goal before you ?
Would you great achievements dare ?
Brother, then, be up and doing, —
Brother, you must " Win and Wear."
Toil and labour, —never stopping
Till you make the prize your own ;
For you know, 'tis " constant dropping
Wears away the hardest stone."
Never slack sublime endeavour,
Nor 'midst cheerless toil despair ;
If you'd rise above your fellows,
Brother ! you must " Win and Wear."
'Tis the lesson Nature teaches
All throughout her wide domain ;
And the text from which she preaches,
Is " that labour leads to gain."
Moral worth, and honest merit, —
Brighter crowns than monarchs bear,—
These you never can inherit, —
Brother ! these you "Win to Wear."
T. MILLS.
THE INTERNAL MONITOR.
According to Lucan, Cato, being urged, after the
battle of Pharsalia, to consult Jupiter Ammon how
he ought to shape his future course, he returned an
answer wiser far than could have been obtained from
the combined intelligence of all the oracles : — " On
what account," said he, " would you have me consult
Jupiter ? Shall I ask him whether it is best to lose
life or liberty ? Whether life be a real good ? We
have within us an oracle which can answer all these
things. Nothing happens but by the order of God ;
let us not require of him to repeat to us what he has
sufficiently engraven on our hearts. Truth has not
withdrawn into those deserts ; it is not engraven in
those sands. The abode of God is in heaven, in the
earth, in the sea, and in virtuous hearts. Let the
inconstant, and those who are subject to waver ac-
cording to events, have recourse to oracles. For my
part, I find in Nature everything that can inspire the
most constant resolution. The dastard, as well as
the brave, cannot avoid death. Jupiter can tell us
no more."
TRIFLES.
^ As if the natural calamities of life were not suffi-
cient for it, we turn the most indifferent circumstances
into misfortunes, and suffer as much from triflino-
accidents as from real evils. I have known the
shooting of a star spoil a night's rest ; and have seen
a man in love grow pale and lose his appetite upon
the plucking a merry-thought. A screech-owl at
midnight has alarmed a family more than a band of
robbers ; nay, the voice of a cricket hath struck more
terror than the roaring of a lion. There is nothino-
so inconsiderable which may not appear dreadful to
an imagination that is filled with omens and prognos-
tics : a rusty nail or crooked pin shoot up into prodi-
gies.—
DIAMOND DUST.
THE purest joy that we can experience in one we
love, is to see that person a source of happiness to
others.
KINDLY appreciative words may bring upon the
spirit of a man a softening dew of humility, instead of
feeding within him the boisterous flame of vanity.
PRIDE frustrates its own desire ; it will not mount
the steps of the throne, because it has not yet the
crown on.
SOUND not the vain trumpet of self-condemnation,
but forget not to remember your own imperfections.
THE thinking man has wings ; the acting man has
only feet and hands.
ODDITIES and singularities of behaviour may attend
genius ; when they do, they are its misfortunes and
its blemishes. The man of true genius will be ashamed
of them, at least he never will affect to distinguish
himself by whimsical particularities.
COMPLAINT against fortune is often a masked apo-
logy for indolence.
WE are oftener deceived by being told some truth
than no truth.
LENITY and severity are the extremes of partiality.
OUR minds are as different as our faces ; we are all
travelling to one destination — happiness, but none
are going by the same road.
WHATEVER discipline of pain or toil affects indi-
viduals, is on a gigantic scale and in ten thousand
instances, working in the world.
As we become more truly human the world becomes
to us more truly divine.
FACTS are the ore, truth the metal, and cant the
scum.
MERE learning is only a compiler, and does with the
pen what the compositor does with the type, — each
sets up a book with the hand.
MONEY will feed gluttony, flatter pride, indulge
voluptuousness, and gratify sensuality ; but, unless it
be an engine in the hands of wisdom, it will never
produce any real joy.
IT is a noble species of revenge to have the power
of a severe retaliation and not to exercise it.
HE who never relapses into sportiveness is a weari-
some companion, but beware of him who jests at
everything.
HUMOUR is the pensiveness of wit.
THERE are lying looks as well as lying words, dis-
sembling smiles, deceiving signs, and even a lying
silence.
Just published, price Two Shillings, postage free,
DEAD LEAVES,
A BALLAD ; the Words and Music by ELIZA COOK.
London: Charles Cook, Office of "Eliza Cook's Journal,"
And may be ordered of all Music-sellers in the Kingdom.
The Number for Christmas Week will contain
THE SEVEN TREES, OR A CHRISTMAS IN THE BACKWOODS,
By Percy B. St. John ; and
UNDER THE MISTLETOE, A CHRISTMAS SONG,
By Eliza Cook.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Ofiice of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 138.]
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1851.
[PRICE lid.
CUTS AT YANKEES !
EVERYBODY now-a-days has his fling at the Yankee.
"Lions" and asses run through the States, and on
their return rush to the publisher with a book,
destined, ultimately, for the trunk-maker or the
butter-retailer. Our Sibthorps inspect their House
of Assembly at Washington, and describe the oratory
as flat and insipid. Our Chowlers look at the small
plough-farming of the New England States and of
the Far West, and pronounce it of the most worth-
less description. Our sailors look at the paltry
dockyards, and boldly aver that America is no
maritime country, and could never stand a ' ' brush
with England." And so of their army, — a few raw
recruits ! — a lot of noodle militia ! — not to be com-
pared with the third-rate powers of the continent !
They have no difficulty in coming to conclusions on
such subj ects as these. Any young man who has
just left school, and is supplied with money enough
to make a run from New York to New Orleans, is
quite competent to deliver an opinion about the
slavery, cotton, agriculture, commerce, and political
movements of the United States. Any young lady
fresh from the drawing-rooms and saloons of Eng-
land ; any well-bred country gentleman, who knows
next to nothing of his own country ; any tourist in
search of six months' pleasure ; considers himself or
herself perfectly competent to deliver an ex cathedra
opinion on America, its people, and institutions, and
to set it down in print for the benefit of a discerning
British public.
Not many De Toquevilles or Mackays have yet
written books about America. The great ruck of
writers belongs to the extensive snob genus, — male
and female. We could name a host of these, —
beginning with Trollope and ending with , the
last half-dozen writers on America. The author
of "Sketches of Cantabs," and "Across the Atlantic,"
is one of the liveliest and most amusing of these.
His last book is really clever. He makes no
pretence, sets no faces, but rattles along in the most
racy style imaginable. He gives no statistics, but
professes to offer only scribblings ; and very amusing
they are. Indeed, the young Cantab not unfre-
quently throws a fresh light upon important topics,
which more "solid" writers have left immersed in
obscurity. He is met at the first port of America by
the newspapers, containing "The Confession of
Dr. Webster," with the fascinating details of the
murder he had committed. At Liverpool, he had
left the newsmongers and news-readers busy with the
details of the Mannings' and Bush's equally atrocious
crimes. There was not one straw difference, then,
between the two civilized countries, in respect of
their voracity for criminal intelligence.
Everybody who reads knows what Boston is, —
its English look, but more than English cleanli-
ness,— its green-blinded windows, rows of green
trees, and gaily-coloured buildings, giving an air
of picturesqueness to the streets, — its wealth,
prosperity, snugness, and comfort, — all these are
well enough known, and have been often enough
described. Our traveller felt almost disappointed
that he should have gone so far to meet with some-
thing so closely resembling what he had left behind at
home, excepting only the large admixture of squalid
poverty which abounds in English towns of equal size,
and which the towns of the United States certainly can-
not match. But the steamers were really something
new. "The two great funnels rising up out of the
middle, like the spires of a cathedral, — the tiers of
balconies outside, — the army of negro -waiters drawn
up to receive you as you embark, — the astounding
coup-d'ceil presented by the various saloons, into each
of which you might stow the saloons of half-a-dozen
ocean-steamers such as the Hibernia, — all this, and a
vast deal besides, strikes you with the idea of a water
village or a floating city, — two names which I
recommend to the direction, as substitutes for the
ridiculous misnomer, 'steam-boat.' "
Of New York, the romance has been entirely
taken out long ago by the tourist-host, who have
rummaged it from end to end, so that it is as well
known, from its Broadway and Astor-House down
to its lowest negro quarters, as any part of London
or Dublin. One thing, however, struck the Cantab,
— that the beautiful squares of New York were not
the exclusive resorts of the tenants of the neighbour-
ing houses, — there were no keys to the enclosures ;
but the gates swung open to the touch of nursemaids,
children, and even working people. The sovereign
people of New York are their own Commissioners of
Woods and Forests. Notwithstanding the evidences
of great prosperity, and wealth, there is an air of
democracy over all. No liveried menials are to be
11-1
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
seen about door-steps or behind carriages. In
Yankeeland the genus Flunkey seems to have
died out.
The city of New York is a collection of men from
all the ends of the earth. " Faces of every hue,
and race, and nation, shoot past you. Jew, Turk,
and Infidel jostle each other on the pavement ;
Celt, Sclave, and Anglo-Saxon tread upon each
other's heels ; here comes the Spaniard with his
tawny face and huge moustaches, — there goes the
German with hazy expression, like a cow chewing
the cud, — there the Englishman, pompous and
padded."
The taste for art is not very high in New York.
Barnum's Museum is the most important receptacle
for objects connected with the fine arts ; and a
collection of figures done in tallowy wax, with a few
giants, dwarfs, portraits of Siamese Twins, and two-
penny prints of old actors, with a sprinkling of
stuffed lions and alligators, are the principal objects.
The Sun is the portrait-painter-in-chief there, — the
Daguerreotype being much more extensively patronized
in America than at home. As for music, the Niggef
melodists everywhere carry the day ; white singers
consenting to black their faces and sing La Sonnambula
in that guise to suit the popular taste. Nigger
habitudes are extensively patronized ; a young man
who meets you in the street, and desires to be
" funny," proceeds to imitate the peculiar chuckle of
the sable race. This pitiful state of things is still
going on, and is deplored by all sensible Americans.
Barnum, as one of the celebrities of the States,
and a kind of Representative Man, as Emerson
would call him, is not unworthy of a passing notice.
" The rise of this illustrious person, like that of some
of his fellows, would seem to be veiled in obscurity.
Whether he rose to fame on a fabulous griffin, or
reached the wished- for goal on the back of an eight-
legged horse, must remain matter of conjecture.
His more recent exploits are well known. They are :
Firstly, — the discovery of an extraordinary fish.
Secondly, — the production of a Quaker giant.
Thirdly, — of a giantess to match, who married the
giant. Fourthly, ---of an old black woman, either a
nurse, or an attendant of some sort, on General
Washington, who related anecdotes of the patriot in
infancy. Fifthly, — of Tom Thumb. Sixthly, — of
Jenny Lind. Seventhly, Eighthly, and Ninthly, —
of a giantess and giant boy ; some Chinese gentlemen
and ladies of high rank ; and a negro who has
discovered a process of turning his skin from black to
white by means of a herb, which process he is now
undergoing. Independently of which, I have heard
that Mr* Barnum has a third share of some ghosts,
who are now showing off their 'mysterious rappings'
to enthusiastic audiences."
From New York to Philadelphia is an often-
travelled piece of ground, remarkably English in its
look. Indeed, New England throughout is but a
repetition of Old England, — in its houses, its inhabi-
tants, its manners; and modes of life. The difference
between the two countries is very much less than
travellers are prepared to expect. There are the
same green fields, church spires, and pretty villages ;
the same kind of manufactories, crops, and occupa-
tions. The son has but inherited his father's tastes
and mode of life ; he is, after all, but a chip of the
old block, though he does perhaps speak through his
nose more than modern Englishmen like to do. Yet
even the nasal twang is an inheritance, being lineally
descended from the Puritan fathers, who set the
fashion of speech there some two hundred years ago.
Philadelphia has ceased to be the " Quaker City."
Quakers there, as at home, have become converted to
more fashionable and dressy religions, and have gradu-
ally merged into "theworld." Yet the inhabitants, like
the city itself, .are still distinguished by the neatness
and cleanness of that most reputable and decorous
of all the sects. But the decorum of Philadelphia is
rather outraged at times by the broils which occasion-
ally break out between the Negro and the Irish
population, who indulge a mutual antipathy to each
other. In another important respect does this city
belie its Quaker origin, — being famous for its military
processions, in which the natives turn out in
ponderous caps, enormous jack - boots, weighty
muskets, thick cloth coats, and all the paraphernalia
of military life clinging to their perspiring frames
under the glare of a boiling sun, — like a regiment of
Blues exercising in a hot oven. But they endure
it all patiently, thus doing cheerful service to the god
of war. This hot atmosphere, indeed, proved too
much for our Cantab, who retreated before it
towards the sea-coast, and took up his quarters for a.
time at the sea-bathing town of Newport. Here he
enjoyed a snatch of life not very different from what
one leads at Brighton, Cheltenham, Scarborough, or
Harrowgate. But the bathing at Newport is
peculiar. The ladies there go into the water clad in
enormous woollen petticoats, thick upper clothes, and
sundry other tuckings-up. In short, they are so
cased and muffled up, that the impression prevails
that they come out of the sea as dry as they
went in.
Henry Clay pays Newport a visit at this time, and
see what is his fate : — " One evening an acquaintance
of mine came over to the Atlantic House and insisted
upon my accompanying him to the Belvue Hotel,
where he was desirous that I should catch a glimpse
of his great countryman. I assented, resolving,
however, in my own mind, that I would not thrust
myself unduly forward, and in case of an intro-
duction taking place, depart after the interchange
of a few common-place observations. On our arrival,
we found that he had gone off to his room, and I
was accordingly preparing to return to my hotel,
when my companion proposed that we should peep
through the window of the statesman's apartment,
and get a sight of him. ' It looks out upon the
verandah,' said he, 'and there are no blinds, so we
shall easily manage it.' I was on the point of
declining any participation in this manoeuvre, when,
at a little distance, I perceived a large crowd
collected in front of a couple of windows, the fore-
most of whom were pressing their noses against the
glass, like a mob before a surgeon's shop, when a
wounded man has been taken inside. Persons were
actually getting out chairs, and clambering on each
other's shoulders, to gaze at something within. On
going up, and edging my way through the throng
(th,e Cantab went like the rest), I caught sight of the
back of an arm-chair, with a few locks of grey hair
emerging from the top, and a pair of Wellington
boots visible below. I had no need to be informed
that it was the hair and' the Wellington boots of
Henry Clay that I saw before me. Whether this
was his bedroom, and the many-headed stopped to
see their representative undress, I cannot say. For
that night, at least, my curiosity was satiated."
This conduct, though confessedly rude, was no
worse than the hunt of the Queen of England,
by a fashionable mob of ladies and gentlemen,
through the streets of Brighton, which took place
only a few years ago. The Yankees have no queen
to mob, so they hunt their Clays, Websters, and Van
Burens, — the great men who make speeches.
We pass over the Cantab's remarks on the dancing
of American ladies, and of the fast young men, or
"rowdies," who have brought reproach on the waltz
and polka by the casino style in which they deport
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
115
themselves in these dances ; and proceed to Baltimore,
where the traveller dwells on "the delicious idea"
of being served in his hotel by so many pounds,
ounces, pennyweights, and grains, of human flesh
and blood, and on ''the secret glow of pride and
self-gi-atulation " which is felt at the thought that
the black servant who showed you up to your bed-
! room, — all that complicated machinery of legs and
anna, bones and sinews, — all that head, with the
ideas (if any) which it was capable of producing, —
that all this might become as effectually and
thoi-oughly your property, as the ring on your finger,
or the boots on your feet, by the passage, from your
pocket into some one else's pocket, of a few torn,
dirt - begrimed bits of paper called bank-notes.
After all, this is the dark speck upon the States,
though England is not by any means guiltless in the
matter, — England, who fastened the curse of slavery
on America, and left it to her as an inheritance. One
of the most original things in Baltimore, worthy
of the puffing ingenuity of Barnum himself, is a
monument erected in the cemetery there to a living
man, — complete, with the exception of the date
of his death. The tomb acts as an advertisement ;
for, on visiting the cemetery, and being shown the
tomb, the question is usually asked, " Who is Mr.
So-and-so ? " And the answer of course is, " Oh !
he's an extensive ship-builder, or copper- founder (as
the case may be), in such a street ! "
Washington, the capital (for there are hundreds of
other Washingtons) is distinguished by its straggling
streets and by its dulness, — by comfortable black
picaninnies running about fat and happy, though
slaves, in a land of freedom, — by the large number of
spitting members of Congress who frequent it during
uhe sittings of the legislature, — and by the long prosy
speeches which they deliver, exceeded 'only by the
lucubrations of Colquhoun, Inglis, and Anstey, in our
own highly-favoured House of Commons. One thing
which struck the Cantab in gazing at the paintings
commemorative of the great events of the American
War, which decorate the Chamber of Representatives,
was, that the English officers and soldiers of the day
there represented, were a terribly ill-formed set of
men, with countenances on which the worst passions
were plainly depicted, whereas the faces of the
Americans, on the contrary, were stamped with an
expression of manly beauty, virtue, and intellect,
which must have been, indeed, beautiful to behold, —
more especially since those qualities are not so plainly
written on the faces of their descendants. The
Cantab feels, however, that other travellers have
been before him in the American Congress as else-
where, and left nothing untold, down to the size,
weight, and measurement of each honourable mem-
ber's spittoon ; the number of representatives that
had, and that had not, neckcloths ; how many
patriots sat with their high-lows off, and their feet
up in the air ; and how many "whittled " away the
time that hung' so heavily on their hano^s. "This is
a serious misfortune," says he, "that go where we
will, there is sure to have been some meddling gossip
beforehand, to forestall us ; in the most out-of-the-
way places, we find traces of our countrymen. In
my summer excursion to Pekin, for instance, I labour
under the apprehension that I shall find some half-
dozen of my namesakes teaching the emperor
billiards and making memorandums of Court scandal.
I have even walked along Vauxhall Bridge, and
found myself not alone ! "
The Cantab did not likerthe sample of American
legislators with whom he came in contact. He
thought them rather a dirty body. His hotel was
full of the legislators.. "They poked their heads
into every conceivable sitting-room, smoking-room,
and drinking-bar ; they whittled in the hall ; they
scratched their heads in the peristyle ; they grunted
in remote passages. The odour of their chewing
tobacco mingled with the sauces coming in to
dinner, and was wafted through the keyhole, as you
turned round sick and restless in your bed, and
sought in vain, in the hot atmosphere, to get a wink
of sleep." All this must have been provoking
enough to one who had expected the ton of an
aristocratic House of Commons among men bred in
the back-woods, and probably nine out of ten of whom
had worked their way through life by the labour of
their own hands. Worse than all, were several
" most awful bores " which the House of Congress
contained, who spoke upon every motion, and had
various ways of exhibiting their folly, though he
had not heard that they had yet exhibited the bright
idea which some English legislators are so apt to
illustrate, — of dragging religion into every dis-
cussion. With the communication existing between
the countries, this may, of course soon be looked for.
One thing, however, appears plain enouga to the
Cantab, — that there is no mystery attached to either
American legislation or American legislators. The
public galleries are thrown open to all. Everything
is above board. The springs by which the political
machine is kept going are all seen. The President,
the Secretary-at-War, the Secretary of the Home
Department, are but men. There is no more
mystery hanging over their deliberations, than there
is over those of a vestry in a country town. So the
Americans come to know all about their government ;
they even watch it closely, and everybody knows
how it works. Even those "dirty" legislators, as
our clever young friend calls them, have no mean
standing at European courts. Sometimes they
venture even to do bolder things abroad than our
great mystery-men, — the foreign ministers of Britain.
The Yankee has read lessons to Austria, to Portugal,
and even to our own great country itself, before
now. You may step in and smoke a pipe with
Mr. Fillmore in a homely way ; but a wave even
of Mr. Fillmore's pipe will go further, now-a-days,
than the edicts of most of the padded dandies of
European courts. Mr. Fillmore might put a piece
of metal on his head, call his house a palace, and
surround himself by tall guardsmen in long swords
and jack-boots ; but though he might thus find
favour with Cantabs, we very much question
whether either his real dignity or power would be
augmented by the artifice. The ' ' Cantab " says
that the phrase of " Well, this is a great country,"
is the end and conclusion of every discussion with an
American. Of course, we do not say that of Eng-
land, because we do not need to say it. We are too
well satisfied of the fact already. But don't we
think it all the same ? After all, we can well afford
to let our American friends congratulate themselves
upon their country. It is great, and " that's a fact."
D.oubtless, it has no attractions for the class of
Cantabs. Yet there are thousands of people in this
highly -favoured land who do find attractions there,
and who are even now emigrating thither at the rate
of about half-a-million a year. The land is a rich
land, and in most parts it is a free land. If its
population is not so well-bred and refined as it
ought to be, it is partly because that population
is made up of the worst-bred and worst-educated
classes of Great Britain, who have emigrated thither
at sundry times and in divers manners. Give them
time, and they will improve.
To expect perfect propriety in a country only in
process of formation, and which is made out of the
rakings-up and sweepings-out of all other countries,
is as absurd as to expect groves, gardens, and shady
110
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
lanes growing up with the sludge that is being
swept together into islands at the mouth of the
Mississippi. And then for young writers from
England to go out to America, and after a six
months' run through the States come home and
write a book about American society, is as ludicrous
as it would be for a man to attempt to give a
description of a locomotive from having once seen it
pass him at the rate of sixty miles an hour. But
books must be written, and books must sell ; hence
"Cuts at Yankees," — sometimes satiric, sometimes
wooden cuts, sometimes clever, but oftener dull.
The crack yachts'-men the other day set up a laugh
at the idea of a Yankee yacht coming from America
to take the shine out of them. The idea of the
swiftest yachts of the greatest naval country in the
world being beat by Yankees ! But the " old salts,"
when once they had set eye on the " America "
schooner, knew what to expect; and they foretold
what would happen. America is yet an exceedingly
youthful country, full of life, health, and vigour.
In the course of nature, the son not unfrequently
outstrips his father in all ways ; but the father
ought to be proud, not envious, of his progeny.
Why should we regard America as a rival ? She
is our own nearest of kin. By all means, let her go
on and prosper.
THE LADY IN THE GAEDEN.
AN ANECDOTE OP EASTEEN LOVE.
IT is difficult to convey by words an idea of an
Oriental garden. There is always danger of creating
a picture too luxuriant and gorgeous, of trans-
porting the reader into the regions of Arabian
mythology, of awakening impressions, indeed, totally
different from those which one really does experience
when wandering in the places themselves. What
wealth of materials for poetical enumeration ! What
poverty of effect ! These are the first exclamations
that rise to our lips at sight of the result of the
utmost efforts of Egyptian horticulture, — for I speak
now especially of Egypt.
Palm, pomegranate, fig. sycamore, olive, orange,
and citron trees could not be disposed in a more
unpicturesque and tasteless manner than, for ex-
ample, in the garden of Moharrem Bey (near
Alexandria), — where, if any lovely group does
present itself, it is entirely the creation of accident.
Trees among the Muslims are in general regarded
simply as fruit-bearing or as shadow-giving ; and I
never could make any one of them understand the
applicability of the word Icwoyes— "beautiful"— to
anything that was not of immediate utility. Women
are Icwoyes,— good puddings are Icwoyes, — pure water,
strong coffee, fragrant tobacco, and a cool shade, are
all Icwoyes ; but the shade of a ragged tent is on a
par with that of the grandest sycamore.
The garden "belonging to Moharrem Bey," as it
is called, but which practically belongs to the public,
is a vast space of ground, part orchard, part
kitchen-garden, and in part, though as I have said
almost accidentally, ornamental. The walks are
straight, and bordered with trees, generally small and
irregular in height. Here and there is a kind of
arbour full of cobwebs and dried leaves ; and at one
point a very handsome kiosque with fountains, in
the midst of a grove planted not with any artistic
intentions, but entirely for the purpose of creating a
dense cool shade. Thither the Alexandrians repair
in crowds towards evening, in order to enjoy their
pipes and gaze at the toilettes of the fine ladies,
— European, of course, or, at any rate, Christian ;
for when a harini favours the spot with a visit,
the doors are closed, and all profane males rigidly
excluded.
One evening I went to the garden with two
friends, one a Levantine, and one, as the ladies called
him, a Muscovite. There had been rather a hot
wind, so that very few thought it comfortable to be
out of doors, and we found the walks almost
deserted. Now and then a figure would cross slowly
at the bottom of a long vista ; and once we heard
some children laughing in a thicket ; but these
circumstances only heightened the feeling of solitude
which came over us, as we strolled languidly along,
and obeyed unresistingly the impulse first to lower
our voice into a whisper, and then to relapse into
silence.
As I have said, there is no intentional beauty in
the way in which the trees are arranged ; but
accident is sometimes a great artist, and one little
avenue running east and west presents a charming
perspective, especially at that hour. We entered it
by the eastern extremity. The sun was blazing full
upon us, with its almost horizontal beams, over the
garden-wall, and made us pause to notice the curious
effect. It was like a furnace at the bottom of a cave
of verdure. Our eyes were dazzled. Not only was
it impossible to look straight a-head, but even the
forms of the trees seemed to waver before our eyes,
as a thousand beams of gold, and green, and purple,
and crimson, worked their way through them.
Presently, however, the sun sank out of view,
leaving the tips only of the trees, as it were, quick
with light, and allowing us to see the various forms
of the branches, the masses of leaves, the dark
shadows, the track of bright green. All the trees
which the garden produces were grouped there, and
at various intervals the huge ragged leaves of the
banana drooped gently across the path.
We had resumed our walk, when suddenly a group
presented itself coming down towards us, intercepting
the last rays of light. With the exception of one
old gentleman, wearing a beard of huge respect-
ability, they were all women encased in habaras, or
black silk mantles, under which were seen what may
be called aprons of blue, red, yellow, green, des-
cending from the chin to the feet. Most of them
carried their veils in their hands, showing that they
belonged to that class of Levantines which is
beginning to consider itself civilized ; and a collection
of prettier and more expressive faces it is difficult to
imagine.
There was one, however, that surpassed all the
rest in loveliness ; but loveliness of a peculiar kind.
The countenance, though apparently belonging to
one young in years, was far from holding out that
delightful promise of a first passion which is so
irresistibly attractive to whoever possesses a sensi-
tive mind. Every feature, even in its intense
repose, seemed to bear the record of having once
been kindled by powerful feeling ; the mouth was, as
it were, languid with too much smiling, the eyes
were faint with too much weeping, and the pale flag
of melancholy was hpisted in those cheeks, that
ere while had glowed with health and joy. Other
faces tell of romance to come ; this told of romance
that had passed. It was impossible for me to behold
it for a moment without desiring to know the details,
of the history of which there was a reminiscence in
every look.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
117
My companions were not remarkable for per-
spicacity, and vulgarly fell in love at first sight. I
could as soon of thought of falling in love with a
young wife weeping over the grave of her first-born.
The deep interest, however, which I felt, and which
was revealed in my manner, was mistaken by my
friends for a passion so much stronger than theirs,
that after the ceremony of introduction was over,
they instinctively allowed me to address myself to
the pensive beauty, and by degrees to monopolize her
society. But the character of my attentive notice
was not mistaken by its object, and I was rewarded
by a kindness and familiarity of behaviour, that
drew upon me a variety of nudges and several very
audible whispers to the effect that I was a " deuced
lucky fellow." I considered myself so ; though not
in the sense in which they understood the words.
Miriam was a charming person, — quite a lady among
her people, — and without being very lively, enter-
tained me, as we walked a little apart from the
company, with most amiable conversation. The
! interview lasted less than half-an-hour ; but before it
! drew quite to a close, our intimacy seemed so to have
' ripened, that I ventured to acknowledge the interest
her appearance had awakened in me. A deep cloud
of sadness instantly settled upon her features ; two
or three large tear-drops twinkled amidst her
splendid eye-lashes, and she said to me, almost with a
motherly expression : — " Young stranger, it were
a piteous tale to relate, yet if I had the strength
and courage, I would do so. Believe me, however,
the narrative would be neither amusing nor instruc-
tive. Such sorrows as mine are too common in the
world to suggest any other moral than this, —
'mankind were born to suffer,' — and perhaps you
have already lived long enough to know that the
brighter and keener are our hopes, the more bitter is
our disappointment."
We returned to town soon afterwards ; my
companions had learned that the lady had just arrived
from Syria, and proposed to remain some time —
probably for good — in Alexandria. She was said to
possess a fair fortune ; but singularly enough, no one
knew precisely whether she was married or single,
maid or widow. This was the more remarkable, as
among the Levantines everyone is related more or
less to everybody, and the most private matters are
discussed and canvassed by the whole community.
Whether the old gentleman with whom she lived
knew more than he chose to tell, or not, rny friends
could not decide. They both joined me in declaring
Lady Miriam to be a most beautiful and interesting
person, and very obstinately insisted that my curiosity
about her was not objectless. They pronounced her
an excellent match ; but with a jealousy, natural it
would seem to mankind, maliciously followed up this
declaration of opinion by suggesting that there was
something very suspicious in her history.
I subsequently learned the truth from the lips of
Miriam herself. As she had forewarned me, it was
the old story of disappointed hopes, over which the
world has wept for thousands of years, and over
which, alas ! it will ever continue to weep. But
there were some incidents that gave a peculiarly
Eastern stamp to the narrative. She was a native of
Damascus, in Syria, but had left that city when about
the age of fifteen, and gone to Constantinople, where
her father set up in business. I thought myself
transported back to the times of Haroun El-Eashid,
as I listened to how this merchant arrived in the
great city, how he took a shop and spread his goods
for sale, and how of one piece of gold he made two.
As she spoke, and seemed to cast about in the deep
recesses of her memory for facts, I made a curious
observation, the truth of which was afterwards
confirmed. It seemed as if she was older than her
appearance at first testified, and that sorrow, instead
of having induced premature decay, had, as it were,
petrified her, and caused her to retain through a
long succession of years the very aspect she wore
when misfortune fell upon her.
She had a little delicacy about telling me how she
became acquainted with him. Possibly, like many
other young girls, in some moment of idleness, she
looked out for a sentimental adventure for its own
sake. The object of her love was a youth, less
remarkable for beauty than for a certain princely
demeanour, a certain elevation of views, a certain
reckless violence of passion peculiar to himself. He
insisted that, for some time, their acquaintance
should be kept a secret from the father, — promising
when the fitting moment came to demand her hand
with such circumstances of splendour as would
insure success. When asked who and what he was,
he answered with some hesitation, that he was the
son of a prince, a king, — somewhere in the north ;
and Miriam guessed that he came from one of the
Danubian provinces, which she had heard were
Christian. Having full confidence in his honour, and
conceiving that he must have some powerful motive
for mystery, she abstained from pressing him much
on this subject.
They used to meet in a little kiosque or pavilion in
a garden behind her father's house, near the borders
of the sea. The young man used to come in a little
caique with a single attendant, who remained on
the watch. Miriam at first brought a faithful black
girl as companion and protector ; but soon disre-
garded this precaution, and confided herself entirely
to her lover. Long and sweet moonlight nights,
bright and balmy days, they passed together, whilst
the old father was at business, or in bed. It was
the season of spring, and Nature seemed to soften
and grow more beautiful to please their young
senses.
At length a little cloud gathered on the horizon.
The father announced that the time of marriage had
come, and that he had sought for and selected a
husband. There is a good deal of routine in these
love affairs. Miriam had not the courage to ac-
knowledge, and the old man had not the wit to
understand. They were neither of them more
angelic than the Capulets ; and, Eastern ideas
aiding, the sad history of that family menaced to
repeat itself. A powerful will, however, inter-
vened to force the current of events into a new
channel.
Two nights after Miriam had communicated to her
lover the proposed marriage, she was sitting in the
kiosque, looking forth upon the broad expanse of
waves that danced and kindled in the moonbeams.
She had sat there the previous night and waited in
vain for the coming of what she considered as the star
of her existence ; and that night the usual hour had
long since passed, when she beheld a large caique with
an awning or cabin approaching along the shore.
She shrank a little backwards behind the shadow of
a myrtle-bush, lest her presence might be observed
by strangers. But the caique advanced boldly to the
usual landing-place, and her lover leaped lightly
ashore, and ran to meet her. The first embrace over,
he invited her, in a wild, reckless way, to come
on board his caique, and enjoy an hour or two on
the water. Not displeased, though somewhat
puzzled by his manner, she went. He took her into
the cabin, and there, when the crew.of sixteen men
had plied their oars for some time, confessed that
he was taking her away from her home. She
expostulated at first; but he soon continued to
console her by promises that her father should know -
118
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
of her safety, and that very shortly she should
behold him again. How easy it is for a young girl to
believe in the words of a lover !
He took her to a palace with a large garden
surrounded by high walls ; and there, having become
his wife, she passed some months in a happiness
which she lacked words to describe. To her this
was the great feature, the chief incident, of her
story. She enlarged on the occupation of every
hour, on the delicious walks and exquisite meals they
enjoyed together ; on the anguish of his absence that
imperceptibly became more frequent, on the boundless
delight of his return. Her only real cause of un-
easiness, however, was that by frequent observation
she discovered that her lover always contrived to
retire from her at the Mohammedan hour of prayer,
and the dreadful suspicion entered her mind that she
had given herself up to the enemy of her race and
faith.
When this idea first presented itself, it threw
her into a perfect agony of terror and despair ; but
on contemplating the excessive devotion displayed
towards her, she contrived, with the sophistry of
woman's love, to persuade herself that she might
atone for the sin she had committed in thus quitting
her father's house, by rescuing a soul from the
hands of Satan. Thus the very motives of her
shame and grief furnished her with topics of consola-
tion.
Time passed on, and her lover began to prolong his
absences for days together. She questioned her
servants ; but they all professed perfect ignorance,
even of the locality where they were. Provisions
were brought day by day to the gate of the garden
by men who maintained an obstinate silence ; and no
one was ever permitted to go forth. At length he
came one evening, evidently in a state of great
excitement, and though he endeavoured to be
cheerful and loving, could not conceal that he was in
expectation of some great event. An hour or so
passed in moody silence. Then there was heard a
mighty murmur in the city. A crowd came to the
gates of the palace ; there was a great stirring and
bustle. "Do not ask me to say anything further,"
cried Miriam, pressing her hands to her forehead.
" I heard it said that Sultan Mahmoud was no more,
and that Abd-el-Mejid reigned in his stead. I never
saw Mm again ; but was taken back to my father's
house. I found the good old man waiting for me
with impatience. He knew all, and pardoned me.
He knew more than I did, indeed. Offers had been
made and rejected. Dire necessity, incompatible
pretensions, alone caused our separation ; and here
I am, with the revenues of a princess if I choose to
demand them, but with a heart that can never know
real joy, though it may know contentment. My
father died last year, and I have come for a change
to Egypt ; but I feel ill at ease in this country, and
shall probably return to Damascus next spring. My
house will always be open to receive you."
Such was the explanation of this lady's melan-
choly. I wept with her over her misfortunes; but
her tears were soon dried. She seemed, after all, to
derive more pleasure than pain from the contempla-
tion of her past existence ; and, indeed, the only
circumstance which gave her keen regret, was the
fact that her lover had been of a different creed.
I often went to see her, and learned to consider her
state as a very endurable one. She had exhausted
the joys of life, it is true, within a few months ; but
she could transport herself back to that period at
pleasure.
Before her departure for Damascus a nascent
embonpowt revealed the perfect tranquillity of her
mind ; and when I pay my promised visit, I expect
to talk again over all these things with the serene and
portly dame of whom the outline was then only
just beginning to fill up.
OUR AUTUMN TRIP THROUGH MUNSTER.
NORTH KERRY. — THE SHANNON. — LIMERICK. — THE
TREATY STONE. — A' SCENE IN ST. JOHN STREET.—
A TEETOTAL CARMAN'S NOTIONS. — JBENT8. — CASTLE
CONNELL.
THE drive through North Kerry is very dismal ; the
country has such a poor and broken-down look. A
great extent of land there is capable of improvement,
but little or nothing seems to have been done in that
way. Roofless hovels are lamentably numerous, and
those unroofed are of the most horrid description. In
many of them you see through the open door-way
(for they have no windows), the woman sitting knit-
ting ; in others the pig lying all its length across the
enti'ance ; and beyond these tenants you may occa-
sionally discern an ass stabled with the family in the
common parlour. The doorways of many are half
fallen down, washed away by the rain, and from
the top of some the turf-smoke is slowly floating up-
wards. You may imagine the privations and horrors
of life in such places during the cold of winter. A
midden lies in front of nearly every door, and the
approach to the hut is generally by a row of stones
laid alongside the midden, or sometimes across it ;
and even these stones are occasionally submerged in
the foul water which lies about the hovel. Can any
one wonder that fever and cholera should prove such
deadly visitants among the Irish poor ? Then, added
to all this, the fields are untilled, Tindrained, and with
very few exceptions are miserably cultivated. The
field- walls are banks of earth — the crops are chiefly of
weeds — the country seems abandoned to sterility and
decay. A lamentable, dreary drive it is, through
North Kerry.
We were not sorry when we came in sight of the
Shannon, which forms the boundary of the county on
the north. The view of this noble river from the
height above Tarbert is very fine. On the further
side stretches the bold coast of the county Clare, and
up the river lies a fine extent of beautiful country, on
botji sides of the Shannon. Tarbert seems a thriving
little place, carrying on a considerable trade in the
export of provisions ; but the only vessel lying in
the little harbour at the time was an Italian, the
men belonging to which were busily engaged in
dragging the river for fish, which we were told they
caught in considerable numbers. Not a native fisher-
man was to be seen, — indeed there are none here-
about ; the fish of the Shannon, as of Bantry Bay,
bear a "charmed life," unless when Italian or Scotch
fishermen come among them. Like the Irish soil,
the Irish seas, lakes, and rivers, are neglected.
In half-an-hour, the steamer from Kilrush came in
sight, and we got on board. We found it well filled
with passengers, a considerable number of emigrants
on board as usual, bound for Dublin and Liverpool,
and from thence to New York. There was a group
of three women, — two of them fine girls, — going out to
the States to seek service ; the third was going out
to join her husband. Their eyes were red with
weeping, for they had left their relatives at Kilrush
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
119
but an hour ago, and the first burst of grief was not
yet over.
I was rather disappointed with the Shannon. It
is a noble river ; very capacious, wide, and accessible ;
but not very picturesque. Its great width renders
its comparatively flat shores rather tame. But the
shores are green, and occasionally well wooded, with
no scarcity of old ruins of castles. The land on either
shore is very rich ; and, on the whole, the scene is
fair and generous. Though we were now steam-
ing up an estuary which forms the entrance to a river
navigation some two hundred miles in extent, we did
not see a vessel for twenty miles. Only when we
neared Limerick did we pass one, and that was all
we saw till we reached the quay of that city. Yet
£580,000 have already been expended by Parliament
on the Shannon navigation, and £170,000 in im-
proving the harbour of Limerick alone. Although
nearer to America by 300 miles, as compared with
Liverpool, the hordes of emigrants now leaving the
district have to go to Liverpool to get the means of
transport which they cannot find at Limerick ! We
found, when we reached the city, that Mr. Lawrence,
the American ambassador, had just arrived at Cruise's
Hotel, and the Limerick merchants were looking to
him and his countrymen to do that for them which
they were unwilling to do for themselves, • — make
Limerick the entrepot of American trade. Why
should Irish merchants look to others to do that
which is their own proper work, and which they
could do for themselves, if they set about it with
proper spirit and determination ?
It was dusk when our steamer reached the pier at
Limerick. There was some difficulty, and a great
deal of shouting, before the hawser could be made
fast ; and then a set of rough planks were run from
the quay on to our deck, down which rushed a crowd
of would-be porters, with a kind of wild " hurrah," as
if they were engaged in the desperate boarding of an
enemy's ship. Then there was a rush of them up the
cabin stairs, and each man seized hold of whatever lug-
gage he could capture. There were a few shrieks among
the women, who found their boxes going off in different
directions upon the backs of so many different strong
men. How they fared we knew not, as we held by
our own small luggage and kept it fast, notwith-
standing the efforts of a succession of adventurous
carriers, and succeeded at length in reaching the
omnibus, and finally Cruise's Hotel in George's .Street.
Limerick, in its newer parts, is a strikingly hand-
some city — superior to Cork, and in Ireland it is second
only to l)ublin. St. George's Street — the main street
• — is about a mile in length, wellrpaved, broad, and
full of handsome houses and shops. The quays are
also handsome, though there seems to be little business
doing there, and any hour of the day you may see
rows of ragged men lolling along the doorsteps or
on logs of wood, or basking in groups, like so many
Lazzaroni, sunning themselves, smoking, and engaged
in voluble discourse, perhaps watching a few other
men occupied in casting turf out of the boats— turf
forming the principal import trade of the city, corn
and butter being the chief exports.
In order to obtain a good bird's-eye view of the
place, we ascended the spire of the cathedral, which is
situated on a rising ground, and commands an admir-
able prospect of the city in all directions. , Of course,
the chief feature is the Shannon, winding from west
to east — the English town seated on the island
opposite, formed by two branches of the Shannon, —
the densely crowded Irish town on the high grounds
behind us ; while to the left, the handsome new
town stretches away towards the west, the fine statue
erected to Lord Monteagle (Spring Bice), the great
government benefactor of the town, rising up in the
distance. Immediately below you, standing on the
river's edge, is the old castle of King John, for many
hundred years the stronghold of Limerick, around
which many desperate battles have been fought, and
much blood lost in assailing and defending ,it. The
old Thomond Bridge, which was so often sodden
with Irish as well as English blood, has now been
removed, with the exception of a ruined pier or two
on the further side of the Shannon ; but a handsome
bridge spans the stream a little above where it stood.
On the broad platform of the castle a few companies
of soldiers were going through their exercises, and
the shrill (Jrum and fife echoed among the old walls of
the place. Still nearer us, almost under our feet,
we looked into the workhouse -yard of the city, where
a large number of old, young, and middle-aged
paupers were sitting picking oakum. This place is
always full, the half at least of the Limerick popu-
lation being usually at the pauper point.
Descending the spire, we looked into the cathedral,
which we found was undergoing a process of " reno-
vation." The barbarians who managed this business,
were positively pa2^erinff, with some common-patterned
paper, the fine cathedral walls ; and we found that
some of the old side-chapels, with their elaborately
carved crypts, altar-tables, .piscinae, &c., had been
completely hidden and boxed off by a set of pews
constructed -in the rudest and most humdrum chapel
style ! These Limerick renovators, though Goths,
have evidently no taste for the Gothic style of
architectui'e.
Of course we paid a visit to the " treaty stone "
— on which the articles of treaty were signed
between the generals of King William and King
James, on the surrender of the city to the forces
of the former, in the year 1691, — a treaty which
was almost immediately after disgracefully violated.
The stone is apparently a mass of blue granite,
rough and cornered, and but for its historic interest
would long ere this have been cleared away. But
the Limerick people are proud of showing it, and
it is regarded as, a memorial of the many wrongs
done to Ireland by her proud sister country.
The most curious quarter of Limerick is the old
Irish town, of which St. John Street is the centre.
The houses hereabout are of the most antique fashion,
many of them of great age ; and though the most
miserable of modern pauperism has here taken up its
quarters, you perceive that these old mansions must
at one time have been the abodes of wealth and
grandeur. Along this street were ranged numerous
decayed trees, with the withered leaves still hanging
on them, hastily planted there to commemorate the
recent return of Lord Arundel as member for the
city. The streets were in a move with people of the
very poorest sort ; badly clothed, badly fed, dirty,
and squalid. You wondered whether it was market-
day, or if some commotion had drawn so numerous a
population into the street. But no ! it was only the
ordinary aspect of the street, as we afterwards found.
But with such scanty comfort in-doors, what wonder
that the Irish poor should revel ip the free, pure air
without ! Not that there seemed to be any business
going on, except the sale of apples and small warep.
The people were only living out of doors, as many
southern nations do, and waiting for what might
turn up.
The appearance of strangers walking through such
a neighbourhood seemed to attract attention to our
party, — three of whom wore formidable " wide-
awakes." And as it was known that the American
ambassador was in the town that morning, curiosity
seemed to be awakened among the crowd whether
one of these "foreign-looking gentlemen " might not
be the distinguished stranger. I had turned into a
120
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
mean little shop, in the window of which I saw a
collection of cheap ballads exposed for sale, in common
with goose-feathers, tape, worsted, and old sundries,
and after completing my purchase, found that a
crowd had collected outside, some of whom were
haranguing my uncle and the other gentlemen in
eloquent speeches.
" Welcome gintlemen ! " said one rough fellow,
with shaggy, unkempt hair, maugre a coat, and with
unmentionable inexpressibles — "Welcome gintlemen
to the Emerald Isle ! Welcome from the land of the
free to poor unfortunate Ireland ! There, gintlemen
(pointing to one of the decaying trees) — there is the
glorious tree of liberty, planted by the boys of
Limerick in honour of the great Lord Arundel's
return for the city ! Three cheers for Lord Arundel ! "
Loud cheers, from men, women, and children,
followed this vigorous speech, and then one of the
women, glowing with enthusiasm, struck in with —
" Hurrah for ould Ireland ! Hurrah for the tree of
liberty ! May every tree be a priest, an' every lafe a
Catholic, — that's thrue British liberty ! " (Great
cheers.)
Of course, a considerable crowd had by this time
been attracted by all this extempore enthusiasm for
the "American ambassador;" when a gentleman,
who seemed to be familiar with the neighbourhood,
stepped up to us, and asked us if we would like to
see the " old walls near St. John's Gate, where the
Limerick women beat back the English soldiers
during the famous siege." We accepted the proffered
kindness with thanks, and while going round the
crumbling fortifications at the Black Battery, which
still bear marks of General Ginkle's cannon-balls,
were treated to a history of the siege, a descrip-
tion of the valour of the Limerick women, and an
account of the disgraceful violation of the treaty by
the English Government. But that would be too
long and uninteresting to be related here. After-
wards we went through Garry Owen — a miserable
little suburb, formerly lying outside the walls at the
end of St. John Street — full of a wretchedly poor and
dirty population. The whole Irish part of the city is
full of antique interest, and such another population
is perhaps to be seen nowhere else in Europe, except
perhaps in the Liberties of Dublin.
The environs of Limerick are very charming ; and
we found our drive to Castle Connell and the rapids
of the Shannon full of interest. We were fortunate
in falling in with a curiosity of a car-driver, a
rather steady-going teetotaller, as we afterwards
found out, and a bit of a philosopher in his way. He
gave us an entirely new view of the causes of Irish
misery.
"Why, you see," said he, "there's more causes
than one,— shoo ! git along wid ye (to his horse, who
seemed to have only three good legs),— but there's
three principal ones."
" And what are these ? "
" Why, your honour, the first and biggest is thim
poor-houses ; for Ireland, you see, is far too poor a
counthry for poor-laws. The second (arrah, now git
along ! ) is the railways, which is ruining everything
intirely. [The speaker was a car-driver you will bear
m mind.] Wherever they're druv, yer honour, the
counthry IB full of extensive piles of dilapidated ruins.
And then thurd (why, you brute, you'll be down at
your prayers this very minut ! )."
" Ay, and what's the third cause ? "
" Why, yer honour, then, it's the drink I "
"But you have plenty of teetotallers hereabouts
have you not ? " asked my uncle, pointing at the same
time to a teetotal signboard over a house by the road-
side, with Father Mathew supporting the arms on
one side and Saint Patrick on the other
"Well, thin," said he, "sure they're fallin' off
intirely. Out of thirteen hundred in my lodge, not
one hundred stand good numbers now. The others
have all gone back to the fire-wather ; an' it's the
same all over the counthry. We spent a good four
hundred pound on a temperance band, and tachin'
the spalpeens music ; but they're all broke down
(git along wid ye then ! ) an' are noght but a set ov
drunken good-for-nothing vag;
The lands lying aloner th
•abones ! "
Limerick, are exceedingly rich and productive, and
as the driver told us, yielded high rents to their
owners. Pointing to a field along the roadside,
divided into little lots, he asked, " What might
your honour guess to be the rent of that land
there ? "
" Well, it seems good land enough ; perhaps three
or four pounds an acre, and that's a high rent."
"Hallo, Dinnis!" shouted he to an old man at
work in the field, "come here and tell the gintle-
men what rent you pay for the bit of land."
" Seven pound an acre, your honours," said the old
man, " and it's too much intirely ! "
" I should think so," said my uncle, " but why pay
so exorbitant a rent as that ? " *
" Why you see, sir, if they don't pay the rint, the
landlord turns them out and adrift, and then they
must starve or go into the poors'-house. What can
a poor man do ? He is obleeged to pay the high rent,
and he must pay it, or his nose is put to the grind-
stone. They had an old thrick, the kings of England,
sir, of getting money out of the Jews by screwing
their teeth out. Begorra, sir, worse things is done
here everyday, for the landlords has neither conscience,
nor consideration, nor principle ! "
Of course we admired the beautiful lasses of
Limerick, and a larger number of handsome, and
often lovely peasant girls is nowhere to be seen, even
in Ireland. Limerick is quite famous for the beauty
of its women, — for their bewitching grace, their finely
formed features, their dark hair and eyes, their
elegance of form, and stately carriage, — and this is
characteristic even of the poorest girls. We spoke of
this matter in the hearing of our driver, but he set
down the far-famed beauty of the Limerick lasses at a
low figure —
" Fine girls I Ay, fine enough till their husbands
bate 'em ! "
' ' What, lay hands on a woman — beat 'em ? "
" Shure they do, and don't they desarve it too ?
A parcel of idle, lazy, hussies — thinking of nothing
but the boys, and getting them to marry them."
" But the boys are fond of the girls too."
" Not half so bad as the girls — they won't be aisy,
sir*. They won't let the boys alone ! If they did,
the boys 'ud never think ov them. I been in
England, sir, and seen the English girls get up in the
morning and get their house tidied befor^ breakfast,
and make everything snug at home for a poor man —
that's the kind of girl for a wife, sir, not your pretty,
idle things like thim there ! "
Perhaps the carman meant a compliment to his
fare by this latter fine speech ; though he seemed as
if he meant what he said.
At Castle Connell we shot the rapids of the
Shannon, walked through the beautiful grounds of
Sir Hugh de Burgho on the further side, visited the
Holy Well of Saint Senan's, where we found a
number of poor wome,n, cripples, blind, deaf, and
diseased, praying round the waters for a cure, which
all of them believed they should ultimately obtain ;
then we were propelled up the rapids again by the
boatmen's long poles, drank of the waters at the
Castle Connell Spa, and returned to Limerick in the
evening, amidst a cloud of September dust.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
121
RE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS,
THE ACORN.
BEAUTIFUL germ ! I have set thee low
In the dewy earth — strike, spring, and grow !
Oh ! cleave to the soil, and thou mayst be
The king of the woods, a brave, rare tree.
Acorn of England ! thou mayst bear
Thy green head high in the mountain air :
Another age, and thy mighty form
May scowl at the sun and mock at the storm.
A hundred years, and the woodman's stroke
May fiercely fall on thy heart of oak :
Let Time roll on, and thy planks may ride
In glorious state o'er the fathomless tide.
Thou mayst baffle the waters, and firmly take
The winds that sweep and waves that break ;
And thy vaunted strength shall as nobly stand
The rage of the sea as the storm on the land.
A hundred years, and in some fair hall
Thou mayst shine as the polished wainscot wall ;
And ring with the laugh, and echo the jest
Of the happy host and the feasting guest.
Acorn of England ! deep in the earth
Mayst thou live and burst in flourishing birth ;
May thy root be firm, and thy broad arms wave
When the hand that plants thee is cold in the grave.
SAY, OH ! SAY, YOU LOVE ME !
BY the gloom that shades my heart,
When, fair girl, from thee I part ;
By the deep impassioned sigh,
Half suppressed when thou art nigh ;
By the heaving of my breast,
When thy hand by mine is pressed ;
By these fervent signs betrayed,
Canst thou doubt my truth, sweet maid ?
Then say, oh ! say, you love me !
By the joy that thrills my frame
To hear another praise thy name ;
By my mingled dread the while,
Lest that one should woo thy smile ;
By the flush that dyes my cheek,
Telling what I ne'er could speak ;
By these fervent signs betrayed,
Canst thou doubt my truth, sweet maid ?
Then say, oh ! say, you love me !
Heart and soul more fond than mine,
Trust me, never can be thine ;
Heart and soul, whose passion pure,
Long as life shall thus endure.
Take, oh ! take me, — let me live
On the hope thy smiles can give ;
See me kneel before my throne, — •
Take, oh ! take me for thine own,
And say, oh ! say, you lore me !
LOVE'S FIRST DREAM.
BRIGHT is the froth of an eastern wave,
As it plays in the sun's last glow ;
Pure is the pearl in its crystal bed,
Gemming the worlds below ;
Warm is the heart that mingles its blood
In the red tide of Glory's stream,
But more flashiugly bright, more pure, more warm,
Is Love's First Dream.
Hope paints the vision with hues of her own,
In all the colours of Spring ;
While the young lip breathes like a dewy rose
Fanned by the fire-fly's wing.
'Tis a fairy scene, where the fond soul roves,
Exulting in Passion's warm beam ;
Ah ! sad 'tis to think we should wake with a chill
From Love's First Dream.
But it fades, like the rainbow's brilliant arch,
Scattered by clouds and wind,
Leaving the spirit, unrobed of light,
In darkness and tears behind.
When mortals look back on the heartfelt woes
They have met with in Life's rough stream,
That sigh will be deepest which Memory gives
To Love's First Dream.
THE SURGEON'S KNIFE.
THERE are hearts — stout hearts — that own no fear
At the whirling sword or the darting spear, —
That are eagerly ready to bleed in the dust,
'Neath the sabre's cut or the bayonet's thrust ;
They heed not the blows that Fate may deal
From the murderer's dirk, or the soldier's steel :
But lips that laugh at the dagger of strife
Turn silent and white from the surgeon's knife.
Though bright be the burnish and slender the blade,
Bring it nigh, and the bravest are strangely afraid ;
And the rope on the beam, or the axe on the block,
Have less terror to daunt, and less power to shock.
Science may wield it, and danger may ask
The hand to be quick in its gory task :
The hour with torture and death may be rife,
But death is less feared than the surgeon's knife.
It shines in the grasp — 'tis no weapon for play,
A shudder betrays it is speeding its way ;
While the quivering muscle and severing joint
Are gashed by the keen edge and probed by the point.
It has reeked in the dark and welling flood
Till purple and warm with the heart's quick blood ;
Dripping it comes from the cells of life,
While glazing eyes turn from the surgeon's knife.
Braggarts in courage, and boasters of strength,
At the cannon's mouth or the lance's length,
Ye who have struggled sword to sword,
With your wide wounds drenching the battle sward—
Oh, boast no more till your soul be found
Unmoved with a breathless silence round,
And a dread of the grave and a hope of life,
That rest on the work of the surgeon's knife !
122
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
FILL MY GLASS, BOY, FILL UP TO THE
BRIM!
I FILL my glass, boy ; fill up to the brim ;
Here's to thee, dear, my life and my love !
I Though thy truant one roved from thy side for awhile,
He's returned to thee fond as a dove.
I've wandered, and sportively sought
For another like Venus and thee ;
But found I had looked on the sun too long,
For aught else to be bright to me.
Like Adam, I mournfully sighed,
To get back to my Eden of bliss ;
For there's naught half so radiant on earth as thy
smile,
Nor so sweet as the fruit of thy kiss.
Like the mate of the glow-worm, I found
I had left one so brilliant behind,
That backward I flew, lest the gem should be lost,
Which a sultan right gladly would find.
; And truly I turn to thine eye,
As the Mussulman turns to the flame ;
I And the faith I this moment so zealously hold,
Shall in death, love, continue the same.
Fill my glass, boy ; fill up to the brim ;
Here's to thee, dear, my life and my love !
Though thy truant one roved from thy side for awhile,
He's returned to thee fond as a dove.
THE DREAM OF THE WEARY HEART.
THE Weary Heart lay restlessly on his bed, distracted
with the strife of the day. Wearied indeed was he
in heart, and wavering in the simple faith which had
blessed his childhood. The world was no more
! beautiful to him, his fellow-man was no more trust-
j worthy, and heaven was no longer regarded as his
! distant, though native, home. One thing only seemed,
to his changed heart, the same ; it was the ever-
varying, ever-constant moon, which shed her broad,
fair light as serenely on iiis aching brow as when he
nestled, a happy child, upon his mother's breast.
Soothed by this pure light, the Weary Heart slept
1 at length ; and in his sleep, his troubled and toil-
j worn mind went back, — back to the early hours of
I life, — back to the lone old hoxise, so loved in child-
hood, so seldom thought of now. In this old home
all seemed yet unchanged, and he would fain have
busied himself in tracing out memories of the past ;
but a low sweet voice bade him gaze steadfastly on
the lozenge panes of the long lattice window, where
the sun of the early spring-tide was shining gaily
through the mazy branches of the old elm tree, and
bordering its traceries with glimpses of purple and
golden light. But gradually, and even as he looked,
the sun became brighter and hotter, and as his heat
momentarily strengthened, Weary Heart saw the
green leaves creep out, one by one, and place them-
selves daily between the window and the sun, so as
to intercept his fiercest rays ; until at length, when
the sun had attained his greatest power, these leaves
were all arranged so as to shade the window, as a
bird overshadows her young ; and the room was as
much refreshed by the cool green light, as it had
formerly been gladdened by "the spring-tide beams.
Then Weary Heart was softened ; yet he feared to
breathe, least the dread winter-time should come,
when the cool leaves which brought balm to his heart
should fall away from him and die.
Gradually, however, the sun became lower in the
heavens, and his heat was less fervid upon the earth.
Then the leaves went noiselessly away, in the same
order in which they had come. One by one, they crept
silently out of sight, like earnest hearts whose mission
is fulfilled ; and yet so glad were they for the con-
sciousness of the good which they had been given
power to do, that when the Weary Heart observed
them more closely, he could see how bright a glow of
joy decked even their dying moments, and in how
frolicsome a dance many of them delighted, ere they
lay down on the cold earth to die.
The dark winter had now come on, and anxiously
poor Weary Heart watched the lozenge panes. He
saw the branches stand up bare and desolate against
the grey and chilly sky ; but soon he saw beautiful
things come and sport upon them. The snow piled
itself in fairy ridgeways along the boughs, and even
on the slenderest twigs ; then the sun would shine
brightly out for an hour at mid-day, and melt the
quiet snow, and the laughing drops would chase each
other along the branches, sometimes losing all
identity, each in the bosom of its fellow — sometimes
falling in glittei-ing showers to the ground. [And he
saw that it was from these glittering showers that the
snowdrops sprang.] Then, when the sun was gone
down, the frost would come ; and in the morning the
silver drops would be found, spell-bound in their
mirth ; some hanging in long clear pendents, full of
bright lights and beautiful thoughts, far above the
rest — and others, shorter and less brilliant, with one
part transparent, and another part looking more like
the snow of which they were born. But these last
always hung hand in hand. And when the sun came
out again by day, these wrere always the last to dis-
appear ; for they also were like faithful and kindly
hearts. They were partly raised far above their
original nature, and yet they still bore many traces
of the source from whence they sprang. And when
the beautiful crystals faded away like the brilliant
yet chilly mind, which has no sympathy or trust for
its fellows, the others would still remain, hand in
hand, to cheer and deck the naked tree.
Sometimes, too. in the early days of February, the
sun would shine fiercely out ere the green leaves had
come to shade the room at noon-day ; but then came
a winged messenger to sit on the dry branches, and
to tell the Weary Heart, in a sweet song, that the
real spring was not yet upon the earth ; but that at
the right time the leaves would most surely reappear,
and "fail not." And when he had repeated his
message, he would add another stanza, and tell how
fie needed the shady foliage even more than man
himself, but that he pined not for it, because he knew
that* to all things there was an appointed season ;
and that when his nesting-time came, so would the
green leaves come also to shelter and encircle the
frail home of his young ones.
The pale moon went down, and the day broke upon
the earth, and Weary Heart went forth to his daily
toil. But he bore not with him the fevered mind and
the throbbing pulse which had been his companions
for long and dreary months. His vision had faded,
but the green leaves were ever before his eyes. The
song of his, dream-bird rang not in his ears, but his
faith and trust were restored to him ; and he once
more took his place in creation as an elevated, yet
dependent child of Heaven~-pne in the mighty brother-
hood of human hearts — one in the band of willing
students of the teachings of the glorious sun and
stars, of the opening flowers and the sparkling
streams, of the singing birds and the ever-varying
clouds, of every form of beauty in which God has
written his message of love, and of mercy, and of
truth, for man's behoof. *
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
123
MARK TAPSCOTT'S OVERLAND ROUTE TO
CALIFORNIA.
IN TWO PARTS— PART II.
Need we detail the crossing of the rapid rivers in
the way of the caravan, — the sousings with water, —
the battering of storms, — the solitary encampments,
— the death here and there, by accident and disease,
of one member and then another of the party, and
the burial of them in the lonely waste, — the tortures
which they began to endure from the mosquitoes, as
they passed through the brakes and marshy ground, —
the terror in which they were kept by the neighbour-
hood of deadly snakes, and of the equally treacherous
and deadly Indians, who might be lurking all about
them ; — was all that California, with its golden trea-
sures, could do for them, likely to compensate for
these risks, and toils, and privations ? In the minds
of some there began to be strong misgivings ; but
Mark, saddened and burdened though his mind often
was, knew that it was too late to retreat, and his word
was constantly " Onward." So the caravan moved
I day by day still further towards the west.
The Big Blue River had been safely crossed some
I days before, when one evening, about two hours
I before sunset, the heads of two Indians were dis-
| covered over a ridge which lay right in their path.
I They were evidently watching the movements of the
caravan. Mark's eye was the first to detect them,
and he forthwith ordered all the rifles to be loaded,
j and the men to " keep close/' and be on their
I guard, as the Indians ahead must be a party of
] the thieving Pawnees, the Bedouins of the West. .
Mark knew that the best way of dealing with these
prowlers, was to put on a bold front ; so, ordering two
men into the rear, he and five others rode forward in
front, leaving the rest in a compact body round
the waggons. Advancing onwards, so soon as they
had reached the base of the rising ground, on the
summit of which they had discerned the Indians, they
spurred their steeds up the easiest part of the ascent,
and when they reached its summit, they saw a party
of some thirty Indians in full retreat on their little
horses. Spurring forward, they galloped after them ;
but at the foot of the hill there ran a stream con-
cealed in a marsh, into which Mark's horse stumbled
and fell, throwing his rider on his head. ' The Indians,
•who were quick to observe the catastrophe, turned
back and discharged a volley of arrows at the group ;
but a well-directed rifle-shot struck one of their
ponies, and lamed him in the fore-leg, on which they
turned and rapidly made off. They saw no more of
the Indians that night, but being aware that they
must be somewhere hovering about them, every
watchfulness was exercised against sudden attack.
Occasionally small parties of them were discovered,
by the aid of the glass, hovering in the distance,
watching their motions ; and one night an alarm was
given in the camp by the sudden crack of a rifle, —
one of the watch having fired at a " wolf" who was
detected cutting the halters of the mules, and
driving them off. On this alarm being given, the
watch hurried to the spot, when the rest of the pack
ran off on their two hind legs ; and on examining the
wounded wolf, which had fallen, what was their
surprise, to find the form and the scowling features of a
wounded Pawnee Indian. Without, however, inflicting
further injury on him, they left him there to the care
of his thievish tribe. Frequently did they fall in
with their traces again, but having found the mettle
of which Mark's party was made, they did not again
venture to assail them. They eveff traded and " did
business " with them on several occasions, exchanging
some spare biscuits for deerskins and mocassins.
On went the travellers across the weary waste.
Not a thousand miles out of the three thousand had
yet been passed, — one day was but a repetition of
the other, — the dangers and privations increasing
rather than diminishing with their advance. Many
rivers were crossed, — often and again were the
waggons broken and repaired, until one of them had
to be abandoned as useless. Mules fell lame, and
were left behind ; water became scarce, and when
found, it was often slimy and green, alive with
wagtails. The " Little Blue " and the Platte rivers
were crossed. In this, region, spotted and poisonous
snakes became more frequent, and fresh grass more
rare, but mosquitoes everywhere most abundant and
tormenting. They passed over the battle-grounds of
the Sioux and Pawnee Indians, where the ground is
in some places white with the sculls and bones of the
victims. Terrific thunder-storms often assailed them,
preceded by the mirage, — when their imaginations
would be fed by the aerial visions of green fields and
lakes of water lying in their way. But one of the
most singular of their adventures, was their en-
counter with a vast herd of buffalo, covering miles
upon miles of ground. To reckon their numbers was
impossible. They were first seen along the further
banks of a river, which separated them. But
Mark and a small party of hunters crossed, and as-
sailed them in flank, some three men attacking some
hundred thousand buffaloes. Think of the im-
pudence of the venture ! They advanced ; the
buffaloes pawed the ground and bellowed, alarming
their companions ; the hunters fired, and the buffaloes
fled away towai-ds the bluffs some miles ahead.
Then when the smoke cleared away, a wounded
buffalo was discovered sitting on his haunches,
bleeding to death. Another shot above the brisket*
finished him, and a store of fresh buffalo beef and
tongue was borne back to camp ; and in a few
minutes the howling of a pack of wolves, which
usually hover round the buffalo herds, showed that they
too had gathered a repast from the sportsmen's rifles.
The same night a part of the buffalo herd crossed the
river, and pushed almost close past the camp, causing
all the horses and mules to " stampede," or break their
halters and gallop off in terror. A pursuit on foot in the
clear night took place, and the beasts were followed
for more than ten miles, when they were at last all
secured again ; but not before the day was far gone,
and the party greatly fatigued, so they rested there
for another night. There was no want of buffalo
meat for some time to come. Herds of these animals
passed the camp from all sides, in amazing numbers.
The spare meat was dried in strips for future use.
But though the party had buffalo meat in abun-
dance, there was no pasture for the cattle to be had
for twenty miles ahead ; and the animals must be fed.
There was no alternative but to push on, though
some called out to Mark that they wanted to "go
back." But this was over-ruled at once, the majority
still determining to go forward ; and if they went
back, they must all go together. Showers of hail and
ice, fever, bad grass, packs of wolves, travelling
through sandhills, mosquitoes, want of firewood, cold
alternated with scorching hot winds, thirst, foul water,
lightning, whirlwinds, then a plash of rain in
torrents, covering the level ground with water for
miles together ; these formed the varieties of travel of
the party during the .next month. There was an
interview with a war party of the Sioux Indians, — a
noble race of savages, — which afforded pleasure on
both sides ; indeed, Mark had almost fallen in love
with a beautiful Sioux maiden, — a young woman of
perfect symmetry, finely-chiselled features, dark
lustrous eyes, raven hair, and pearly teeth. Had
Mark not felt the responsibility devolving on him as
124
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
the leader of the emigrant band, who knows but he
might have joined that maiden's party and shared her
lot for life ? But the war party galloped on, and the
Californian emigrants waving their adieus to them, again
moved slowly and now dispiritedly towards the west.
North Platte river was passed in a storm of hail
and ice, which battered the waggons almost to pieces.
That day they camped amidst a sheet of water, the
prairie being flooded over its whole extent. The
rain continued to pour during the night, and when
the caravan started in the morning, they splashed
their way for miles through water and mud. There
was no pasture for the cattle ; the wind was cutting
and fierce ; everything looked black and threatening.
The emigrants marched on in dripping garments,
foot-sodden and heart-weary. Sleet followed the
rain, and at night the men crowded into the waggons
for warmth, while the poor beasts shivered without,
their tails to the wind. Next day was still worse.
There was no such thing as getting on. The wheels
stuck in the ground at every step. Only by the
most desperate efforts could they be extricated and
moved to firmer ground. The men shook as if
attacked by ague, and the beasts of burden were fast
losing in health and strength.
Next morning the sun broke forth in splendour,
and affairs began to improve. A better country lay
before them, — bolder, better wooded, and with good
pasture. Fifty miles more brought them to Fort
Laramie, a quadrangular enclosure, inhabited by a
trapper, who had established it there for trading
purposes with the Indians. Here a separation of the
party took place, it being determined to send forward
a small detachment to California, for the purpose of
selecting a location, and preparing it for work against
the arrival of the main body. Mark, as before, was
appointed the leader of this advanced body, who
were selected by ballot. Each was furnished with a
saddle-horse and pack-mule, for the way was now
more difficult, and could not be easily travelled with
waggons. Away they went, with Mark at their
head, a party of five in all, to cross a waste of some
two thousand miles, part of the country prowled by
ferocious Indians, — the Crows, — unscrupulous marau-
ders and assassins. Away they went, these brave
and daring spirits, up hills and down ravines, swim-
ming rivers, crossing mountain ranges, sleeping under
the night sky wrapped in blankets, tentless and fireless,
but hardy and resolute, trusting to their quick eye
and to their ready arm for self-protection, and to
their unerring aim and the speed of their cattle, for
food, during this long journey. The prints of Indian
mocassins sometimes startled them by the river sides ;
black ants and crickets of prodigious size, and in
myriads, filled the air and covered the ground in
many places ; but still they made rapid way. They
now reached the country of the Mormons, in the
neighbourhood of the Great Salt Lake, though not
before they had a close brush with some thirty Crow
Indians, in which the latter had the worst of it, and
fled with the loss of five of their number.
The Rocky Mountains and the South Pass were
now in view ; and they journeyed on over ground
covered with artemisia, and nothing else. Next they
came upon the trail of a large family of Snake Indians,
a hospitable and generous tribe, with whom they
travelled some days, and by whom all their tempo-
rary wants were supplied.
The Pass was reached, and now they are de-
scending the western slope of the Rocky Moun-
tains, into the great valley of the Pacific
They spent the night at a great altitude, suffer-
ing severely from the cold, and some of the men
were taken with symptoms of the mountain fever ;
but there was no help, save in pressing onwards, and
they descended into the lower level. Now their
course, for the most part, lay over sandy wastes,
dotted with artemisia. The brooks descending from
the mountain sides swelled into rivulets, then into
streams, these again into rivers, and then there
was the same toil of crossing and recrossing the
swollen and turbid waters, that they had encountered
on the east of the Rocky Mountains. These were
chiefly branches of the great Rio Colorado, which
flows into the Californian Gulf. The Green River, the
most formidable of these branches, was 250 yards
wide at the point of crossing, and caused the party
much labour and peril in getting over. But with the
lossofamule, they succeeded in effecting their passage.
Half the party was now sick, and the difficulty of
proceeding had increased. Mark was taken ill of
fever, like the others, but a few days' rest on the
further bank of the Green River revived them, so that
they were enabled, though painfully, to pursue their
journey to the city of the Mormons, by the Great
Salt Lake, which they at length reached in safety,
by way of mountain passes, where the snow lay deep,
eliding down the sides of the hills, crossing torrents,
and encountering dangers from bears and Indians, for
which no load of Californian gold could ever ade-
quately compensate them.
By the Mormons, — those enthusiastic devotees,
who have fled into these remote districts, and there
founded the germs of some future State, — by these
men, Mark and his companions were received with
wonder, as the first overland emigrants to California
who had yet touched at their city of refuge, and were
treated by them with much hospitality. They were
mostly simple and industrious men — thrifty, temper-
ate, -and thriving. The scenery in the neighbourhood
of the Great Salt Lake greatly disappointed our
travellers, who saw a bare plain, parched with the
sun's heat, — reflected from the Rocky Mountains on
either side the valley — and without a bush or tree
to afford the slightest shelter. But the soil is rich,
and the settlers enjoy abundant wealth, in the shape
of corn, butter, milk, eggs, vegetables, and fruits of
all sorts. The soil also gave promise of a bountiful
harvest, exhibiting magnificent crops of maize, wheat,
and potatoes ; so that Deseret has got a thriving
nucleus, and bids fair to be a wealthy state before long.
The great abomination of the valley, is the gigantic
crickets which abound in it — crickets with a body as
large as that of a mouse, and immense long legs, which
enable them to jump to inconceivable distances. But
the Mormons manage to keep them out of their crop-
ped fields, by means of ditches filled with water, for
which these crickets have an unconquerable aversion.
After a few days' rest and enjoyment, Mark and
his party again set forth on their journey towards the
south. The heat at mid-day had now become intense,
so Mark altered his plan of travelling, resting at
noon-day and at midnight — travelling early in the
morning and late in the evening. The same perilous
adventures were undergone as the travellers plodded
southward. The Bear River was forded amidst swarms
of mosquitoes, who determined to make the most of
the fresh blood of the party. The men became fagged
with the heat, and discouraged by the toils of travel.
They reached the sandy deserts, where water failed
them. The tortures they began to endure were
frightful, — exceeding all that they had yet encountered.
Sometimes they travelled many miles out of the way
for water, and as often they were disappointed as not.
They passed through the TJtah tribe of Indians, who
attempted to steal their horses from them, but the
pluck of the men was good still, and they successfully
resisted. The dreary desolation which prevailed
around continued unbroken for days. Nothing but
sage and sand ! Nature here looked scorched and
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
125
withered, and reptiles were the only living creatures
that seemed native to the region. On the skirts of
this extensive arid country, the wretched Digger
Indians wander, in a state little better than that of
the most debased Australian savages. They rob and
slay the unsuspecting travellers, and Mark and his
now exhausted companions had oftener than once
nearly fallen their victims.
Still arid sand and disgusting sage ! On the
travellers move, dragging one foot after another — a
weary horse now stumbling to the earth — a mule
kept on the move only by incessant lashing. Hope
still ! " There is water a short way ahead," says
Mark. He knows better. It is only the mirage.
But the words restore the drooping spirits of the
party, and they jog on faster than before. Frightful
barrenness prevailed everywhere — ahead of them
and all about them. They passed through a rockier
and more uneven countiy, but it was barren still.
They crossed some little tributaries of the Humboldt
Elver — full of muddy water, sometimes salt and brack-
ish, for salt abounds in the region. Then they were
among barren sands again. They crossed Goose
Creek, and struck the Humboldt river, along which
they journeyed long, the sun toasting everything
in the valley to a cinder. The Humboldt flows
through great mountain rifts, affording no room for
transport along its margin. So the hills had to be
scaled, and new dangers surmounted, constantly
dogged as they were by Digger Indians, who ap-
proached them in the night, and shot their poisoned
arrows at them and their cattle. But the most dan-
gerous enterprise of all was now at hand — the
crossing of the great Desert beyond the Sink of the
Humboldt Eiver.
Mark knew this was the crisis of the journey, so
he called his men together. "Now, men," said he,
" everything must be abandoned that can be dis-
pensed with. We must travel speedily and light
across that burning waste before us." The messes
were overhauled — the loads were divided and appor-
tioned duly among each — everything superfluous was
left behind — bacon, biscuit, powder, shot, skins,
&c. " Now, then," said Mark, cheerfully, " this is
the last effort for California — across the desert, and
we are safe ! "
They entered on the waste of hot sand, and
struggled on. Sometimes they reached a firmer foot-
ing of vitreous gravel, but this seemed to cut into the
worn-down feet of the animals, and they ^ almost
welcomed the impalpable, drifted sand again, into
which they waded almost up to their knees. A
whirlwind caught them on their way, sucking the
sand in tall spiral columns, and whirling it about,
covering the plain with a thick cloud. The beasts
suffered severely, and water ran from their nose and
eyes. Nor did the weary men suffer less ; and they
sighed and moaned, some lamenting that they had
ever ventured on this frightful journey. But Mark's
tone was always the same — that of cheerfulness and
hope. They lay on the sand that night, on beds of
sage, whose odour had by this time become dis-
gusting to them. The horses were fed with biscuit,
and some skins of water which they had contrived to
fill from the last stagnant pool they had passed. In
the morning the travellers were parched and swollen
in the throat, and swallowed with difficulty. The
coffee with which they attempted to allay their thirst,
was scarcely drinkable. They rose, saddled the beasts,
and set out again in the early morning, like a batch
of invalids crawling in search of an hospital, rather
than a band of adventurous travellers, about to jump
into the golden valley of the Sacramento.
But the worst part of the journey was to come —
the parched, dusty, arid waste — full of drifting sand,
or light, ashy earth. The poor mules breasted
through, making the dust rise in clouds, and the
men toiled on by their sides. In every direction was
sand — sand — sand, — not even a solitary sage bush
now broke the unvaried barrenness of the waste. Even
the morning sun was intense in its heat : what would
it be by mid-day ! Occasionally, they sucked a few
drops of the stinking water from the bottles which
they carried with them, moistening also the lips of
the mules, which were greatly distressed. But they
toiled on, and this lasted for hours — how long they
scarcely knew. Time di-agged its slow length along
— every minute seemed extended by the sufferings
they endured. The mules now stopped and brayed
piteously. With the utmost difficulty they could be
got to move on. Three of the men began to display
symptoms of insanity or terrible despair, usual at such
times. They howled for water, and threw themselves,
foaming and panting, on the sand. Mark himself
was almost overcome ; but he knew that if he gave
up, all was lost, so he struggled manfully against
the demon that rose up within him. All the re-
maining water was distributed among the men and
the cattle, and the word to " Move on" was given.
Two of the men, mounted on the two freshest horses,
were ordered to ride forward for water, and Mark
remained with the small caravan. Scarcely had the
men left them, when a little black cloud rose in the
horizon, swelled, advanced, and in a few minutes the
fierce simoom swept down upon the wretched group.
Clouds of sand whirled round about them ; the mules
stood trembling with fright ; the men lay down and
groaned. But big drops began to fall, the wind
abated, a drenching deluge straightway poured down
upon them, and a new life was thus given to the
almost expiring men and animals. Thus reinvigor-
ated, they moved forward once more ; a speck ap-
peared in the distance :
" There comes Garnett," said Mark ; " he brings us
good news 1 " Garnett was one of the men who had
departed in search of water. In a few minutes he
had galloped up, and reported that the Carson Eiver
was only four miles a-head. Never did miles seem
longer before. But the miles were passed, and hope
quickened the paces of all. The mules seemed to
smell the water, and made for it with increased
strides. The river comes within sight ; and now
there is a rush of the men and animals down into the
bed of the stream. How they drank ! — the men
swallowed goblet after goblet, and one dipped his
head down into the water and drank, and drank !
The party were now safe — habitations were near
at hand— and in a few weeks Mark and the party
were busy in the diggings. But they one and all of
them agreed, that not all the gold in California would
induce them to cross the Sierra Nevada and the
Californian Desert again.
SHOET NOTES.
Water.
NOTWITHSTANDING the abundance of cold water in
this watery climate, we have yet but a limited idea
of its manifold uses as a preservative of health and
promoter of human comfort. We regard it very
much in the light of a nuisance, — as a thing to be
kept out, — out of our houses, out of our streets, out
of our dress ; and we defend ourselves against it,
by slated roofs, water-proof cloaks, umbrellas, and
impervious galoshes. We are not fond of drinking
it, except mixed with something stronger. We have
rather an aversion to its coming in contact with our
skin, except where it is unclothed. Our face and hands
126
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
may know water familiarly ; but that part of the skin
which is clothed, knows too little of it. The bath is
not habitual to us as a people. Public baths and
washhouses have done something to familiarize the
popular mind with the necessity of a more frequent
use of cold water as a general abluent ; and we are
glad to see that bathing is going on in those
establishments throughout London, at the rate of
about 700,000 a year. But this is less than one bath
annually for every second person. It is to be feared
that our people, without exception of class (for the
rich are almost as neglectful as the poor in this
respect) are to all intents and purposes " the great
unwashed." Our towns are, with very few excep-
tions, badly supplied with water. We do not
appreciate its value. We are better supplied with
beer than water. What a lesson the Romans set us
in their magnificent aqueducts, which throw the
works of our peddling water companies entirely into
the shade ! Even comparatively barbarous and rude
peoples set a higher value on the use of cold water
as an abluent than we do, with all our civilization.
A writer in the last number of The Westminister Review,
says : — " The clothes of the negro are often dirty, but
his skin is almost invariably clean ; and like all
people who eat with the fingers, he is not only
careful in washing, but avoids even soiling the right
hand. It is said, truly enough, that bathing, which
is often unpleasant in a cold country, is a luxury in a
hot, still it is a luxury in which many Europeans,
even in the tropics, do not indulge very extrava-
gantly. The natives, however, invariably do. In
fact, if people were once to accustom themselves to it
at home, they would find that it was an absolutely
necessary comfort, even on the coldest winter's day in
Europe ; and that it was quite a mistake to suppose
that when merely their hands and face were washed,
they were clean every whit. We have not the least
doubt that our American friends, who, as we can
testify from painful and dirty experience, allow on
some occasions half a pint of water a man, and a
towel and comb for the company — having concealed a
dirty skin with a clean shirt, or a dirty shirt with a
showy scarf of some kind — would consider them-
selves incomparably more cleanly fellows than the
Africans, who were guilty of covering a clean skin
with a dirty bornouse. The African is most particular
in cleansing his mouth with plentiful ablutions and a
gum stick ; the Yankee prefers merely rinsing his
mouth with a gum tickler. But far be it from us to
decide which system is to be preferred. The British
army is fortunate enough to possess a gallant officer
who would look on even Sir Charles Napier's allow-
ance of kit, as wasteful and ridiculous excess.
Dining with a friend in the country, he complained
of having caught cold. ' The village Esculapius
advised him to put his feet into hot water when going
to bed. ' Pooh ! pooh ! ' said the gallant, but un-
cleanly hero, 'that is nothing more than washing
one's feet/ < It is certainly liable to that objection,
Sir John/ remarked an eminent and witty judo-e,
lately deceased. We fear that many persons allow
considerable weight to the same objection. At this
day in Africa, washing the feet is, as of old, the
mark of regard and the assurance of cleanliness "
The story here told of the gallant officer, reminds us
of a statement made in the Report of the Commissioners
on the Health of the Labouring Population, where it
is observed that " One labourer remembered that a
particular event took place at Easter, because it ivas
then he washed his feet; and on one occasion, a pauper
on being admitted to the workhouse, was compelled
to wash himself, but protested that he considered the
process equal to robbing him of a great coat which he had
had for some years. This habit of personal uncleanli-
ness, it is to be feared, is greatly fostered by the
want of pure water which still prevails in most
populous districts, — the water being both impure and
insufficient in quantity, and, even such as it is,
confined mainly to the use of the higher and middle
classes. To remedy this evil, municipal corporations
ought to take the supply of water for their respec-
tive districts into their own hands, and no longer
leave this most important means of social well-being
to the management of private companies, who
have an eye to " dividends," rather than to the clean-
liness and health of the people at large. This was
the recommendation of the Health of Towns' Com-
mission many years ago, and we regret to perceive
that it has not yet been carried into practical
operation.
Eat People.
DE. CHAMBERS, as Gulstonian Lecturer for the
present year, has delivered a series of very inte-
resting lectures in the theatre of the Royal College
of Physicians, on the subject of " Corpulence, or the
Excess of Fat in the Human Body." * Heretofore,
we have been in the practice of associating the idea
of health with fatness ; but Dr. Chambers views it
rather in the light of a hereditary disease, handed
down from parent to offspring ; and it is this heredi-
tary transmission which has made corpulence endemic
in several countries. A striking proof of its fre-
quency among the English people is given by Dr.
Chambers. Sometimes, when detained by accident
in one of the great thoroughfares of London, he has
for ten minutes or more counted the multitudes which
streamed past ; and on such occasions, he has rarely
numbered one hundred adults without a passer-by
whose mode of walking was decidedly hampered by
obesity, and sometimes as many as two or three per
cent, went by. Indeed, the whole Anglo-Saxon race,
since the days of Erasmus, has exhibited the same
tendency, and there are no indications as yet of its
disappearance. Among other nations, the proportion
of corpulent persons is very much smaller tha.n in
England. The Irish and Scotch have comparatively few
fat persons among them. The Americans are proverbi-
ally "lanky." The French and Italians are mostly
lean. Generally speaking, fat displays itself in ex-
cess only in well-fed persons, who indulge in ease and
luxury, just as dyspepsia and gout do. But there are
many instances where fat has displayed itself without
any excess of feeding. It has even been brought on,
as in the case of Mary Queen of Scots and Napoleon
Bonaparte, by confinement and grief. In most
cases, however, mental anxiety or activity has a
thinning effect on the human system, —
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look ;
| He thinks too much : such men are dangerous.
Yet there are many instances of great mental activity
found allied with corpulency. The tendency to grow
fat seems to be habitual, and to " run in the blood."
In a healthy state, all human beings contain a
proportion of fat, — in the adult it forms about one-
twentieth part of the whole weight. Without it, we
should present a most scraggy and shrunken look, —
resembling a withered apple. The fat fills up the
interstices between the muscles, and gives a pleasing
contour to the body. It facilitates motion, and acts
as an external defence from the cold; performing
also the important chemical office of supplying fuel
to the respiration. In fact, it serves as a store-house
of carbon for the use of, the lungs, on which the
system falls back for support when deprived of its
ordinary supply of fuel in the form of food. It is
* London. Longman and Co.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
127
upon their store of surplus fat, that hybernating
animals are enabled to subsist during the long winter
months. Liebig says that the proximate condition of
the formation of fat is a deficiency of oxygen ; and this
deficiency is the result of an excess of food taken
into the system beyond the quantity of air inspired
by the lungs, and which is requisite to consume or
oxygenate such food. What is not so consumed is
deposited in the form of fat. The way to consume
the surplus fat is, to increase the quantity of oxygen
inspired, — in other words, to increase the quantity
of active physical exercise taken. No hunter, nor
hardworking artizan, nor private soldier, is ever
discovered in a fat state. Constant exercise keeps
down the accumulation of fuel, which idler men are
punished for, by being compelled continually to carry-
about with them. If they would rid themselves
of their load, they must reduce the quantity of food
taken, and increase the quantity of active exercise .;
it is only thus that they can bring the respiratory
and nutritive processes into harmony. There is
reason to believe that, as a people, the middle and
upper classes of this country eat a great deal too
much, and their moral and mental health, not less
than their physical, is seriously affected by the over-
indulgence. Look at a Lord Mayor's dinner ! A
wholesome abstinence is needed in food as well as in
drink, now-a-days. Our minds would be rendered
all the healthier and more active by the practice.
Doctors do not insist enough on this branch of
hygeine. Knowing that the weak point of most
rich patients is their stomach, they desire to "make
things pleasant," and leave the cook to do his duty,
and make more work for them. In connection with
the subject of fat, we may mention a curious practice
among the ancient Romans. When a bride entered
her house for the first time, she was accustomed to
touch the posts of the door with fat, and it is from
this circumstance that the word uxor (unxor, or
annointer) was applied to her, from which our own
uxorial, uxorious, and other similar English words,
are derived.
Thought and Feeling— Ancient Notions,
THE ancients entertained notions respecting the seats
of Thought, Passion, and Feeling, in various parts of
the human system, which now seem to us of the
queerest kind. The old philosophers were pretty
generally agreed about the seat of the nous, or mind,
which they represented to be the brain ; and this
notion has been almost universally adopted since their
times, as is sufficiently evident from our everyday ex-
pressions,— "long-headed fellow," "plenty of brains,
or nous," une grande force de tete, as the French say,
applied to intelligent persons; and "numskull,"
"thick-headed," " addle-pated, " "brainless," and so
forth, as applied to a fool. But, about the seat of the
passions and feelings, there has been the greatest
diversity of opinion. These were for the most part
planted in the viscera of the chest and belly. Thus
Hippocrates and Plato stated that, while the reason
was placed in the brain, the passions resided in the
heart and the diaphragm ; and Galen, while he
placed the animal spirits, including the reason, in
the brain, placed the vital and natural spirits, inclu-
ding the irascible feelings and the animal passions, in
the heart and liver. They spoke of the heart as being
ad vitam, (for life) and of the brain as ad beatam
vitam (for elevated or rational life). This notion
of the heart and other viscera being the seat of feeling,
has become welded into our ordinary forms of speech ;
and we speak of a " hearty " or " heartless " person,
though it is now ascertained that the heart has no
more feeling, as the word is understood, than a piece
of leather. And players and others, when they want
to express deep emotion, are still in the practice of
thumping their chests with their hands, and ap-
pealing, to their heart, or still oftener, by those
ignorant of anatomical geography, to their stomach
and liver. Some of the old writers seated affection
in the liver, and Charles Lamb, in one of his Essays,
comically imagines the case of our now popular phrase-
ology being thus altered, and a gentleman addressing
a lady thus, — •" Allow me, Madam, to make you a
tender of my hand — and liver 1 " How thoroughly ludi-
crous ! The liver was also supposed to be the .organ
of grief; Jeremiah, representing his affliction, says
that his liver is poured out. But this organ was
more ordinarily represented as the seat of fear. In
this sense Shakspere often employs it, — -
Go prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,
Thou lily-livered boy.
He speaks of cowards, " who, inward searched, have
livers white as milk." Hamlet says,—
Am I a coward ? ... it cannot be,
But I am pigeon-livered, and lack gall,
To make oppression bitter, £c.
In like manner, the spleen was regarded as the
seat of envy and malice, — hence the word still in use,
"splenetic," "shows his spleen," &c. The stomach
was the seat of desire, and to this day we speak
of " not having a stomach " for a thing. The old
Scriptural writers regarded the lower viscera as the
seat of feeling ; the phrases,—" his bowels yearned
with compassion," "his bowels were moved towards
him," are very frequent ; and Job, on one occasion,
speaks of the "belly preparing deceit." The dia-
phragm also was supposed to play an important part,
being the imagined seat of prudence. All this we
laugh at now, because we know better ; having been
enlightened by the knowledge of anatomy, — a science
comparatively unknown down to a recent period. It
is only about 200 years since Harvey discovered the
circulation of the blood ; previous to that time, the
arteries were supposed to carry air, and hence their
name. Since then, great advances have been made,
especially in the study of the nervous system, by
Bell, Hunter, and others. To this day, however, the
popular phraseology reflects the ancient notions of
the seats of the feelings and passions, though we
may not dream of this when we are appealing to '" the
heart " of man, or talking of the " spleen," or " gall,"
or " phrenzy " of his nature.
" DON'T CARE ! "
DON'T Care is a great power in the world. We do
not know but that he could command a considerable
majority of suffrages, were the nations at large to be
polled. Your busybodies, who care for everything
and everybody — who are constantly " tidying-up,"
— who would have this man's child sent to school,
and that man's sent to trade, — who pry into cellar-
dwellings and foul gully-holes, and call out for laws
to enforce cleanliness^- — who calculate wages and the
prices of food, and consider how it is that poor men
live, — these always form the small minority in every
community ; it is only their persistent activity — their
undeviating pertinacity — which gives them import-
ance ; and they are at last enabled to carry their
measures into effect, mainly because Don't Care has
grown tired of their bother, and allows them to have
their own way in order to be rid'of their importunity.
Don't Care may grumble now and then, but he will
not bestir himself. -"Things have always been so,"
"What can't be cured must be endured," and "It
will be all the same a hundred years hence." Suoh
are the maxims of Don't Care. You can scarcely
128
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
rouse him by the cry of "Fire!" "What's that to
me 1 My house is safe ! " is his answer. ' The day s
breaking," said Boots, rousing the sleeping merchant
at an inn, betimes in the morning. " Let it break,"
quoth he, lurching round in his bed ; "it owes me
nothing ! "
Don't Care is never more annoyed than by discussions
got up about the poverty, or ignorance, or suffering,
endured by others. "What have I to do with that?"
he says. " Let them work ; why should I keep them ?
Their children not taught? That's no business of
mine ! Suffering, are they ? Well, what would you
have ? There will always be suffering in the world.
Let them help themselves— that's their look-out.
What is it to me ? " " But you will have the heavier
poor-rates to pay, more crime to punish, more distress
to witness ? " "I don't care ! " It is a short answer.
True, Don't Care may not always speak so plainly as
this, — it would look heartless, and he does not care
to be obnoxious to this imputation. But this is the
drift, the English, the short and the long, of his
indifference.
Don't Care is indifferent alike to small things and
great, from his horse's shoe nail to a national bank-
ruptcy— provided, that is to say, his meat and drink
are not affected. He will not stir his little finger —
not he — to lighten any man's load, to relieve anybody's
cares. They are nothing to him. Has he not his "own
concerns to look after ? " and are they not " enough
for him ? " He is very philosophic in his indifference
about everybody.
Don't Care is generally so much engrossed by con-
siderations about himself, that he will give no heed to
the feelings or the wants of others ; sometimes even
the wants of his own family, and provision for them
in after life, are entirely neglected. Don't Care
could scarcely be roused by a voice from the dead.
The sloth is an energetic animal compared with
him. " We remember," says the author of Poor
Scotch Old Maids, "an anecdote of a clergyman who
dwelt, some thirty years ago, in a quiet rural district,
where laziness was then apt to grow upon a man,
which exemplifies that canna-be-fashed spirit that
enthralls many, even in these stirring times. His
excellent spouse remarked to him at breakfast,
'Minister, there's a bit of butter on your neckcloth.'
'Weel, weel, Janet, my dear,' slowly responded the
worthy pastor, ' when I get up it '11 fa' off ! ' "
But Don't Care is not always let off so easily as one
would imagine. The man who does not care for
others, who does not sympathize with and help
them, is very often pursued even in this life with
a just retribution. He does not care for the foul,
pestilential air breathed by the inhabitants a few
streets off ; but the fever which has been bred there
at length comes into his own household, and snatches
away those whom he loves the dearest. He does not
care for the criminality, ignorance, and poverty nursed
there ; but the burglar and the thief find him out
in his seclusion. He does not care for pauperism ;
but the heavy poors'-rates compel him to pay for it
half-yearly. He does not care for politics — pooh, pooh !
what has he to do with them ? but lo ! there is an
income tax, or an assessed tax, or a war tax, and then
he finds Don't Care is not such cheap policy after all.
Don't Care was the man who was to blame for the
well-known catastrophe, thus popularly related— " For
want of a nail the shoo was lost, for want of a shoe
the horse was lost, and for want of a horse the man
was lost."
Gallio was a Don't Care, of whom the Scriptures
say, " He cared for none of these things." And of
Don't Cares, like Gallio, it may he added in the words
of the well-known maxim, that "They come to a bad
end."
'TIS NOT FINE FEATHERS MAKE FINE
BIRDS.
BY J. E. CAEPENTEE.
A PEACOCK came, with his plumage gay,
Strutting in regal pride one day,
Where a small bird hung in a gilded cage,
Whose song might a seraph's ear engage ;
The bird sang on while the peacock stood,
Vaunting his plumes to the neighbourhood ;
And the radiant sun seem'd not more bright
Than the bird that basked in his golden light ;
But the small bird sung in his own sweet words,
" 'Tis not fine feathers make fine birds ! "
The peacock strutted, — a bird so fair
Never before had ventured there,
While the small bird hung at a cottage door, —
And what could a peacock wish for more ?
Alas ! the bird of the rainbow wing,
He wasn't contented, he tried to sing I
And they who gazed on his beauty bright,
Scared by his screaming, soon took flight ;
While the small bird sung in his own sweet words,
" 'Tis not fine feathers make fine birds I "
Then prithee take warning, maidens fair,
And still of the peacock's fate beware ;
Beauty and wealth won't win your way,
Though they're attired in plumage gay ;
Something to charm you all must know,
Apart from fine feathers and outward show ; —
A talent, a grace, a gift of mind,
Or else poor beauty is left behind !
While the small birds sing in their own true words,
" 'Tis not fine feathers make fine birds ! "
NOTE. — This Song has been set to a beautiful melody by
Mr. Sporle, and will shortly be published with the Music.
To judge men by the amount of their success is not
so unfair as it seems, for failure is an evidence that
there is a flaw somewhere. If men have a want of
facility to conform themselves to the actual circum-
stances in which they are placed they will break down
on all occasions, — they will succeed in nothing ; but
to a man of resources, and who can keep his will erect
and firm, nothing is impossible.
Justt Published, price Two Shillings, postage free.
DEAD LEAVES,
A Ballad; the Words and Music by ELIZA COOK.
London : Charles Cook, Office of " Eliza Cook's Journal.'
,And may be ordered of all Music-sellers in the Kingdom.
The next Number will contain,
THE SEVEN TKEES ; OE, A CHRISTMAS IN THE BACK- WOODS,
By Percy B. St. John ; and
UNDEE THE MISLETOE, A CHEISTMAS SONG,
By EUza Cook.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 139.]
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1851.
PRICE
THE SEVEN TREES ;
OR,
A CHRISTMAS IN THE BACK-WOODS.
BY PERCY B, ST. JOHN.
I CANNOT easily understand a warm Christmas,
that is, the time-honoured and solemn festival, season
of religious joy and delight for every young and
youthful heart — two very different things — spent in
a hot country. Christmas is a time for frost and
snow, for furs, great-coats, boas, and wrappers ; for
huge logs of wood, and fires fit to roast an ox ; a
time when cold without makes warm within ; when,
if the wind howls, if strange sounds are heard up the
great yawning chimney, when, if the shutters slam,
if the windows shake, we care not, because we have
wherewith to make our bodies warm, our hearts
elate, and because we have around us and near us
those we love. It is this makes Christmas so delight-
ful. Life's talisman is love, and on that day we have
a habit, and wonderful to tell, a good habit, of loving
one another.
But Christmas wants improving. There are thou-
sands— hundreds of thousands — millions, who have
no Christmas-day. I do not speak of blacks, of savages,
of Turks, Jews, and Infidels, but of persons almost as
badly off, and in general as little respected, — the
poor, the humble, the suffering, the working classes.
Christmas will be what it should be, only, when every
man, woman, and child, in a Christian country, shall
have his pudding and his joint of beef in his own
house, siirrounded by his clean, his happy, smiling
children, not only on that great day — the first when
the bread was cast upon the waters, which one day
shall feed the universal world, — but on all days.
How soon would that bright morn be. heralded, how
soon might every human being hold out the glad hand
of fellowship to every other human being, and all
quarrels and squabbles of race, and class, and nation,
be ended, if all who spend a happy, joyous twelve
hours on that memorable anniversary, would make up
their minds to be practically what they profess to be
on that day !
If you would see the nearest approach to such a
state of things which exists in the world, you must
take a trip with me across the Atlantic, where, with
rare exceptions, it is a man's own fault if he does not
spend his Christmas by his own fireside.
I have said that I have a weakness for cold Christ-
mases. But I have seen warm ones. The perspicacious
reader will perceive that I am about to take him to
Texas. I hope he will follow me with more pleasure
than John Waters was followed by his wife and chil-
dren, when, after a failure in England, he took a
long farewell of his native land, and sailed for Texas.
He reached the promised land in November, avoiding
thus the summer heats, and spent the rest of the year
in preparing his location. A rough and unsatisfactory
Christmas did John Waters spend this time, and good
Jane Waters grumbled, and the children asked for
plum-pudding and did not get it, and John Watei-s
himself missed his strong old ale, and fifty other
things the emigrant must make up his mind to do
without. But years passed, and with years came
great changes.
In the year 1842, John Waters, a jolly, hearty,
positive man, very industrious, and expecting in-
dustry in others, solidly educated — he was a younger
son of a great house, who had turned farmer to marry
a farmez-'s daughter, — with his homely, good, sweet
wife Jane, a charming woman of forty, still handsome,
and looking, John would facetiously declare, only the
eldest sister of her seven children, were quite settled
in their farm of Elscoate. They had a substantial
frame house, of two stories, many log huts, one a
very elegant erection, numerous out-houses, barns,
dove-cots, &c. ; many acres of land under culti-
vation, and were in a fair way to be prosperous and
happy. John looked a different man to what he did
in England. There his seven children, dearly loved
as they were, were still a cause of fear for the future,
here of joy. They were surely provided for. Land
lay around him asking to be cultivated ; the sons
could have farms when they liked, and the girls were
sure to find husbands.
Edward Bruce Waters, the eldest son, was twenty-
one ; there were three others, of whom the youngest
was five, and three girls, Alice, Fanny, and Sophia.
Below these stood numerous farm labourers, hunters,
&c., and two blacks, supposed to be slaves to con-
form to the laws of the country, but who were as free
as the air they breathed, for John Waters was a Chris-
tian, and no Christian ever owned a slave.
Elscoate, so vainly called from Lord Elscoate,
130
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
John Waters' eldest brother, was situated on the
banks of a delicious stream. To the right and left,
up and down, was the dark foliage of a cedar grove,
while behind was a clearing, fenced in, and where
was seen the rich yellow of maize and other harvests.
The river was fringed by a dense mass of peccan
bushes, cedars, live oaks, and other deep green trees,
with tall grass, and some old stumps, all covered by
Spanish moss and creeping plants, except where
about twenty yards had been cleared away as a port
or landing. On the opposite side of the stream,
about a dozen yards wide, was a grassy verdant
slope. Half-way up was a charming log hut, a two-
roomed dwelling, the united chef-d'ceuvre of the
children and servants, executed on high days and
holidays, but known as Ned's Folly, for it was ever
considered, not the house that Jack, but that Ned
built.
As soon as the house was finished, and Ned began to
make the furniture, and pay visits to Galveston,
bringing back mysterious parcels, he was noticed to
absent himself eveiy evening, he never said where,
for Ned was a serious youth in his way, a singular
combination of courage and bashfulness, and the boys
and girls would somehow connect his absence with the
little log-hut. Ned used to take his gun after dinner,
his dog Hop, and go down towards the port. There he
took to his dug-out, and sailed away nobody knew
whither ; but the children thought to some wild glen
where a magician of potent name kept enchained
eome lady fair, whom Edward was striving to rescue.
And they often asked him questions, but Ned always
laughed and blushed, and said they should know some
day. But Mr. and Mrs. Waters began after a while
to have serious thoughts about these absences, and
would sometimes sit up after the children were gone
to bed and talk about them, but they never asked
Edward any questions. He was their eldest boy,
their first proudly-welcomed child, and they could
not find in their hearts to invade the secresy of his
evenings.
It was in the month of November, a pleasant time
of year in Texas, when you keep away from swamps
and sea-coast, and Ned had made his house quite
comfortable — it would have been charming to have
lived in it. But Ned would not allow it. It was
with him quite a temple. There was a beautiful
bedstead of maple-wood, with bedding and milk-
white sheets, and curtains a Parisian coquette might
have envied, and there was a mirror, and a dressing-
table, — awful enormities in the backwoods ; and then in
the parlour next the luxurious bed-room, all carpeted
with furs, were neatly made chairs, red curtains, a table,
and ornaments on the chimney-piece, chiefly brought
from England. On Edward's birthday which was on
the first of November, the others in the family
further decorated the house with little home-made
hings, and Mr. John Waters himself planted seven
trees in front of the house, surrounding a grass-plot,
and these trees were called by the names of the
seven children, and it was further decided, that on
high days and holidays, they should henceforth be
gaily adorned by ribbons and flowers. Jane, the
fond mother, resisted awhile this act, because, she
said with a shudder, that perhaps some day, they
might be glad to cut down one of the trees, which
would be very dreadful. But John Waters reassured
her, and drove all gloomy thoughts from her head
like a right good hearty man as he was, with very
proper confidence in God, and in his children's good
So the seven trees were
constitutions and habits.
John Waters and Jane, and all the boys and
iris, were some days afterwards sitting together in
their goodly dining-room, preparing for their
evening, which was spent in sewing, in talking, in
reading, in playing chess, and in various other ways,
when Edward rose as usual and prepared to go out.
His gun was already taken down from the wall,
and he was moving away when his father spoke.
"Ned, my boy," said he, "couldn't you stay at
home for once, and read out to us. I see you have a
book in your pocket."
There was a dead silence. All the children looked
curiously towards Edward.
"My dear father," replied the young man quietly,
" I will if you particularly desire it ; but I wished
to go out."
"You go out every evening, and alone," said his
father very gravely.
"I like wandering," continued Edward, turning
very red.
" So it seems," said his father, '•' and so do I, but
not alone."
"'But I was going down to the Oak Point," observed
Edward.
" To old Thiel's ! " said his father, astounded. " Is
that where you spend your evenings ?"
"Yes, father," replied Edward.
" Why what can you find in a drunken old Dutch-
man to charm you, Edward, — an ex-pirate, a water-
rat ? "
" Old Thiel is a .steady hardworking old 'fellow.
But I do not go to see him."
" Who then ? " asked John Waters, a little
anxiously, while mother, daughters, and sons, and
serving-men, all listened gravely.
"His daughter, Caterina," said Edward, holding
down his head.
"And pray, sir," exclaimed John Waters, —
mother smiled, and sisters giggled, and brothers
stared — "with^what object do you go to see old
Thiel's daughter ? "
" Because I hope to marry her," replied Edward,
speaking very lowly, 'but very firmly.
"Never, sir ! " roared John Waters, " never shall
son of mine marry a pirate's daughter. I am sur-
prised that such an idea should have entered the
head of a nephew of the Earl of Elscoate."
" My dear father, brought up in the new world,
we have I hope no old world prejudices. Because I
am an English earl's nephew, I am none the less a
working farmer, and Caterina Thiel the sweetest girl
in all Harris county."
"Edward, I have spoken," said the emigrant, posi-
tively ; "I care not what she is, I will never receive
her as my daughter-in-law."
There was a dead silence in that room, where
usually was heard nothing but cheerful words and
jocund laughter. Jane looked surprised and pained ;
the girls and boys raised their eyes kindly to Edward,
but not a word was spoken, for John Waters, though
a good husband and a kind fond father, was master
in his own house. Edward said not a word. He
shouldered his gun, he motioned to his dog, and out
he went, afraid to stop a minute, lest he should be-
tray his deeply-wounded feelings, and the tempest of
passion which might have prompted him to reply
quickly to his father.
Out he went, another victim to pride and pre-
judice. John Waters knew nothing of Caterina
Thiel ; she might be one of heaven's own angels, for
what he knew, but ^he was the daughter of a
Dutchman \reputed, said, to be drunken and low.
And yet John Waters professed himself and believed
himself a Christian. Poor John Waters ! a Christian,
and condemn a young girl as unfit to be his son's
wife, because she was a little lower in that artificial
scale, which John Waters, an extreme radical in
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
131
politics, was striving to destroy ! But who ever yet
was consistent, who ever yet acted up to his pro-
fessions ?
"My dear John," said Jane very mildly, "that
boy will not return. Your positive tone has alarmed
him, and he will think you mean what you say."
"I do mean what I say," replied John Waters,
gravely, taking up his book.
"Well, my dear," observed Jane with her un-
varying sweetness, " we will talk of that by-and-by."
What a change in all ! Sisters and brothers spoke
in whispers for some time, — they all loved Edward so
well, — and then by general consent they went forth to
walk, leaving their parents alone. They all knew, by
experience, the influence of Jane with their father,
and they hoped much ; but whatever their hope
might have been, it was not fulfilled. Edward did
not return that night, and next morning at breakfast
no one spoke of his absence, for John Waters said
not a word about it. Everybody, however, felt the
absence of the eldest-born, the leader of the band in
all hunting, boating frolics, the protector of his
sisters, the chief guide of his brothers. Everything
seemed to go on all the same in that house ; the farm
work was attended to, Fred and William and
Thomas went out fishing and hunting, the mother
and girls spun and sewed, but the house was
changed. Nobody ever laughed or joked now.
John Waters at meal times and of an evening
would crack a joke, or say something funny, or
begin a conversation, but no one encouraged him.
Nobody, it is true, ventured openly to oppose his
will, nobody suggested that Edward should be sent
for, except Jane in secret, when they were alone at
night ; but all entered into a tacit conspiracy to make
John Waters miserable, and though he would not
let it be seen, though he never said a word about it,
yet he was miserable, for he had sent away his eldest-
born, his beloved son, he knew not where, he scarcely
knew for what.
, Time fled, the autumn rapidly passed away, and
December came round, not the cold bracing Decem-
ber, with frost and snow, and wind and sleet and hail of
the British isle, but a jolly December, with green fields,
green trees, and at times a sun as warm as that of
our summer. But there were some cold days and
nights, just to let people know that winter could be
rude and rough if he liked, but chose on the whole
to revel here in warmth and sunshine. Still De-
cember to the English family was English, because
on its twenty-fifth day came Christmas, that day big
with delicious memories of the past, with delightful
prospects for the future. Now the Waters had all
the year made up their minds to have a grand time
of it on this particular anniversary of the great birth-
day. But now, though John Waters spoke of having
a glorious festival, none seconded him, and the
morning of the twenty-fourth came with little pre-
paration that looked like that Christmas Day being
cheerful and glad.
In the morning, pretty early, the boys and girls
went forth towards the log-hut known as Ned's
Folly, and there remained some hours. Mr. and
Mrs. Waters had no conception of what they were at,
and at last, their curiosity excited, went forth to see.
They had passed the threshold of their house and
turned towards the path which led to the hut, when
John started. Leaning against a tree close at hand,
were two Indians, a warrior and a girl. The man
had all the grave mien, the solemn reflective manner
of a chief, the girl all the cairn submissive aspect of
a young Indian squaw. She was very pleasing in
face, despite her red skin, with light hair in great
abundance, drawn in tight bands across her temples ;
she had deep blue eyes, a small mouth, a tiny pretty
nose, and she wore a handsome tunic of deerskin,
leggings of the same, mocassins, and was covered by
pretty ornaments composed of beads. The chief was
clothed in a very similar manner, but he carried a
short rifle in his hand, and wore, besides, a hunting-
knife and a tomahawk.
"Where do these Indians come from?" said John
in an amazed tone to his wife, who was speechless
with terror and astonishment.
" Indian — friend, " replied the chief in deep guttural
tones, "Tuscarora."
" You are welcome," exclaimed the emigrant
quickly, knowing the importance of conciliating an
Indian at once, at the same time holding out his
hand. "What can I do for you ? "
" Indian — going down to great Salt Lake, want to
rest a day," said the Tuscarora.
" Rest," replied John, pointing to the house ; "you
and yours are welcome."
"No leave house," continued the Indian, standing
before him and placing his hand on his shoulder ;
"one, two, tree, — fifty bad red-skins in wood."
"My children," half-shrieked Jane, clasping her
hands.
"Indian," said John solemnly, "is this true,
speak girl ? "
The warrior looked somewhat offended, the girl
raised her mild blue eyes to the face of Mrs. Waters,
and then spoke.
" One, two, tree, plenty — fifty, twenty bad Indian*
in wood, — attack pale faces to night," she said in
tones very seductive from their mingled sweetness
and sadness.
" Come John," cried Jane convulsively. " Ah !
where is Edward ? "
Away they went, followed by the Indian and the
squaw, down to the port. Scarcely had they reached
the edge of the stream, when they heard singing and
laughter. Much surprised at sounds so unusual for
two months past, they listened, while unmooring a
boat. It was the negroes singing. They had just
begun what Zip — short for Scipio — called a Christmas
quarrel : —
As I sat on a soony bank, soony bank, soony bank,
As I sat on a soony bank, a Christmas Day in de mornin.
I spied tree ;ships come sailing by, come sailing by, come
sailing by,
I spied tree ships come sailing by, a Christmas Day in de
mornin.
Who should be in dese tree ships, dese tree ships, desc tree
ships,
Who should be in dese tree ships, but Joseph and him fair lady.
Him did whistle and she did sing, she did sing, she did sing,
Him did whistle and she did sing, and all the bells in the
earth did ring,
A Christmas Day in de mornin'.
"How very shocking," said Jane, looking really
very much horrified, while both the Indian and the
squaw were unable to repress a grin.
"Not at all, my dear," replied John, << the blacks
are a very peculiar people, and that song is no doubt
well meant. But we have something else to think of
now."
They were, as he spoke, on the edge of the green in
front of Ned's Folly, and a dark frown passed over
the face of John, while Jane turned pale and trem-
bled. The children, servants, and blacks, were con-
gregated on the grassy plot, and were resting after
their morning's work. They had been ornamenting
the seven trees, six of which were all gaily adorned
by bright flowers, red, pink, and white ribbons,
while the seventh, flanked on each side by three
gaudy companions, was hung with crape, and sur-
rounded by all the gloomy plants, picked in the
forest, they could find. Without appearing to notice
this act of rebellion, John addressed the group.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
" Children and servants cease all mirth. The
bloody Indians are upon us. These two friendly
red-skins, of a tribe rare in Texas, have given us
warning. Follow me and to arms."
A silence, solemn as that of death, at once pre-
vailed, and then the boys took up the cry to arms,
and followed by the servants, rushed to the stream.
The girls curiously surrounded the young and pretty
squaw, terrified and alarmed as they were, and
pressing close to their mother, followed the males.
The first thing done after crossing the stream, was
to stow away the boats in an outhouse, which was
covered by the rifles of those in the framehouse.
Then all took to the farm, and preparations were
made for an obstinate and serious defence. There
were eleven men in all, including the Indian, thus
distributed :— John, the Indian, his three boys, and
two farm servants, were appointed to defend the
residence, while four (two white and two black) men
took to the log-hut a dozen yards distant. All were
well armed and well provided with ammunition.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon when a black
gave the signal that the Indians were in sight.
John was on the roof of his house which was flat, and
surrounded by a parapet, and could thence see every-
where around. The Indians issued from the wood
with the air of men who had no hostile intentions.
They were fifty at least in number, and came on
towards the house as if friendly. But John had
heard too much of the cunning of the red-skins to
allow a surprise, he therefore checked them at once.
" Back ! " he cried "or we fire on you ; friends or
foes, keep your distance."
The Indians halted, very much surprised, for they
evidently had calculated on taking Elscoate by storm ;
and then the air resounded with the hideous war-cry,
and on that Christmas Eve the glad stillness was
broken by the crack of rifles, the reports of muskets
and fusils, and the shrill yell of the wounded.
Away scampered the Waccos, unable to compre-
hend this warm reception, and took to .the cover of
the woods., All that afternoon was spent in ex-
changing shots, but without injury to those in the
farm and log-house, John Waters having ordered the
strictest caution to be observed, and seeing personally
that every one obeyed him. About dusk the firing
ceased on both sides, and the pale faces took advan-
tage of this to sit down to their Christmas Eve dinner.
"All joy in our new home is gone from me now,"
said Jane sadly, as she helped the children.
"Tush! wife dear," exclaimed John Waters,
keeping down deep emotion with great difficulty,
"an Indian visit is rare in this part of Texas, and I
hope to give these red-skins a lesson which they will
not forget."
" Ah, John ! John ! " cried his wife, sobbing wildly,
unable any longer to repress her feelings, " I should
not fear the Indians much with a good house and
gallant men and boys around me, had I all I loved
here. But where is my eldest-born, my boy, my
Edward? How know I that he is free from the
hands of these terrible men."
John Waters held down his head and made no
reply, but struggle as he would, with his pride and his
manly strength to back him, his tears fell upon his
plate. In that hour of tribulation, in that day of
trouble, his nerves were stretched to their highest
pitch, and his feelings over-wrought acted upon him
with extreme violence.
"A song is singing in the woods, and the bird
that sings it, says that the son of the grey-beard is
safe," said the Indian girl in her sweet and musical
tones, after exchanging a curious look with her
father.
" Thank you, girl," exclaimed the mother, warmly ;
"a word of comfort is delightful, and Jane Waters
dearly blesses the Indian girl who saved her family
from slaughter by her generous warning, and who
now would seek to console."
"God bless you, girl," repeated John, "we owe
you all much. When this day of tribulation is past,
John Waters will not be slow to show his gratitude."
The Indian girl smiled sweetly and took a hand of
each so prettily, so childishly, that all were charmed
at this little act, and Fred, a good-looking boy of
nineteen, thought within himself that she was the
most beautiful lady he had ever dreamed of, and
made up his mind on the spot, to ask his father's I
consent, as soon as the fight was over, to beg the
hand of the Indian girl. So little do we take
warning in this world by the faults and misfortunes
of others. The rest of the dinner was spent in
laying plans for the night. All the rooms had thick
shutters, which had been closed ever since the
morning, and it was arranged that all the females
should take up their quarters for the night in an
upper room, while the men were to make a guard-
house of the general parlour. One sentinel was to be
placed upon the roof on the look-out, while those in
the log-house were also to be wary. John Waters
directed that all but one should lie down at an early
hour. In the mean time, however, the males went up
to the roof.
It was a beautiful night. The sky was clear and
cloudless, and the moon hung about a foot above the
summit of the deep cedars, silvering the tips of the
trees, and casting all beneath into deep black
shadows, except where here and there came a gap in
the wood, which allowed the pale cold rays of the
minor planet to penetrate below the surface. To the
right could be seen, where John stood with the
Indian, — the opening in the forest, where lay the
fields, with behind the prairie, the tall green grass
and reeds trembling, waved by the wind, silvered by
the moon, while to the left the waters of the lazy
stream, — and all streams in Texas are lazy, — shook,
rippled, and broke upon the sedgy bank, beautified
by the same influence, a sparkling sheet of molten
lead. It was a night for joy and peace and love.
It was a night fit to herald the wondrous birth of
the next day, a grand Christmas Eve, and all who
gazed felt it so.
John stood apart in a corner with the Indian. He
was very grave.
" What my brother think about 1 " said the Tusca-
rora, in low cautious tones.
" Indian, this is Christmas Eve. Do you know
what it means ? "
"To-morrow Christ born, — Tuscarora Christian, —
name John," replied the other in his guttural. tone.
"Ah!" said John Waters with considerable ani-
mation. " Then let me have a talk with you. Could
we walk to the Oak Point to-night ?"
"Yes, but say presently," replied the Indian; "no
talk now, fight, red-skins coming, see."
John looked curiously forth, and truly, along the
skirt of the wood, he saw a moving column of
Indians. John sighed. There was a stillness in 4he
air, a serene and sacred tone in the atmosphere, his
thoughts were so attuned to harmony and love, that
combat, war, violent death, always abhorrent to the
feelings of the good man, was now peculiarly so.
But there was no alternative. His wife and little
ones, his serving-men, were all there depending on
his coolness, courage, and 'vigilance, and he levelled
his gun simultaneously with the Indian, and fired.
Scarcely did the echoes of their two rifles awaken all
nature around, then those in the log followed, and
then the rest of the garrison. Loud were the
yells of the red-skins as the shot fell from above like
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
333
hail among them, and away they came scampering
across the clearing, — wildly, madly, recklessly. They
were received by a second' steady and unanimous
volley, which checked their progress, and sent them
for refuge again to the wood.
John leaned once more over the parapet to watch.
The Indians were beyond gun-shot, and his position
was not at all dangerous for the moment.
Suddenly he heard a creaking noise below. He
hung over the edge of the house just in time to see
that some one had just left it by a little side door
seldom used. It was a woman, it was quite clear,
wrapped in a large cloak. Astonished, alarmed,
filled, with vague suspicions, the emigrant, after
assuring himself that the Tuscarora was safe, watched
with breathless interest the movements of the girl.
She took care to move in the shadow of the trees,
and had evidently carefully observed the retreat
selected by the Indians. Her course was taken in a
direction quite opposite to that by which the savages
had fled. Between the house and the cedar-grove
was a hillock, as high nearly as the tops of the trees.
On its summit were a number of fagots, piled round a
tall but dead tree. The girl ascended this hillock,
usually the scene of family bonfires, and disappeared.
She remained concealed about five minutes. John
watched her with intense anxiety. Suddenly she
reappeared, running fast, and for her life. There
were evidently three Indians behind her.
"Cover the girl with your rifles, boys," roared
John, as he himself took aim at one of the pursuers.
Scarcely had he spoken, when four distant cracks
of rifles were heard. The savages had approached too
near the low log-hut, and all three fell victims to their
temerity. At the same instant a crackling sound
was heard, and then uprose high in the air a
tremendous blaze ; — the wood-pile of One Tree Hill
was on fire. The wood was dry and resinous, the
tree was dead and hollow, the faggots were lightly
piled, and up on high, wildly, madly, rose the flames.
There was crackling in the pile, there was the
roaring of a blast furnace in the hollow tree, and
then when the flames burst forth at the summit, there
was light like that of day ; the trees looked ghostly
and pale in the distance, the red-skins, moving about
close on the edge of the forest, looked like demons,
while round about the hill there was a glare and a
heat like one might find in the mouth of a volcano.
Curious to know why the girl had done this, John
descended to the general parlour, 'and found the
young squaw standing in the midst of a wondering
group, trembling a little it is true, out of breath, but
grave, earnest, solemn.
" Why did my sister go out and set fire to the wood-
pile," said John, addressing the girl gently.
" It was dark. My brothers the pale faces could
not see to fight. The Wild Eose gave them a torch
by which they can tell when the red wolves come,"
replied the girl meekly.
" I thank you once more, young girl, but I think
we could have managed without it. That pile of
wood was valuable," observed the cautious farmer.
"Life better than wood. Indian very cunning —
good — pale-face have light to see."
"Well ! well ! I dare say it will do no harm. But
now, let all retire to rest, and not a woman be seen
any more out of their quarters this night, without
orders. If they are wanted, I will summon them."
Jane set the example of obedience. She rose, and
was instantly followed by all the females, including
the Wild Hose. John first saw that every place was
well fastened, and then returned to the roof. Here
he appointed Fred sentinel, with strict orders to all
the rest to lie down and sleep, not in the common
room, but in a large apartment adjoining that occupied
by the women. He further directed the sentries to
relieve each other every hour, and then went again
below, accompanied by the Indian.
" So, you think," said John, looking fixedly at the
Indian, " that we could walk to Oak Point and back
before dawn ? "
" I have .said," replied the Indian ; "but my brother
is not wise. He wants to rest all night, and not walk
in woods."
" Indian, to-morrow is Christmas Day, the anniver-
sary of the birth of our Saviour, a time 'of charity and
love. With us it will be the hour of combat, and the
scene perhaps of dreadful things. I may die to-mor-
row, and I cannot die without seeing my boy."
"Why boy not here ?" said the Indian, who stood
with his back to the empty fireplace, while John
Waters put on his hunting clothing for the journey.
"My boy is not here, because I sent him away,"
replied the emigrant.
"Why send boy away?" continued the Indian,
curiously.
" Because he wanted to marry a girl I don't like."
" What girl do ? " said the Tuscarora.
"Nothing. But her father is not a gentleman;
there are suspicions about his character ; and I don't
like connection with low people," said John, rous-
ing himself to indignation at the thought.
"Indian understand — girl's father got old coat,
speak bad English, not so good as rich pale face.
Girl very bad."
"It is not because her father is poor," cried John
quickly. "God forbid that I should make that a
crime."
" Why, then, no like girl ? " persisted the Indian.
" Because the Dutchman is not a fit companion
for me, and I should wish my son's father-in-law to
be a brother."
" Oh ! " said the Indian drily, " I see. Son marry,
no get wife please him, brother please you."
"No, no! you do not understand," cried John,
impatiently. "Your education is different from
ours."
"John Tuscarora Christian, Moravian teach him
good men all equal. God ask no questions when
you die ; he no say, you been poor low fellow when
you live, I don't know you : — you respectable man,
come alongside of me. Why man make himself
greater than God ? "
John turned his back. He could not answer such
words. He might have objected that the difference of
education which probably existed between his son and
Caterina might make her unfit to be his wife ; but
this would have been unfair argument. He knew
nothing of the girl, he had heard rumours against
the old Dutchman, but no man can decently condemn
any living being on hearsay. The law admits no
such evidence, and no sane man will ever be influ-
enced by it. Besides, if Edward seriously loved the
young girl, it was cruel to oppose his marriage ; a
sensible, thoughtful young man, like Ned, would
scarcely choose very unwisely, and for a young girl
there is always every opportunity for improvement.
But John did not want to argue.
As soon as he was dressed, he took his hunting-
knife, a short rifle, a shot-pouch and powder-horn,
and signing to the Indian, opened a similar door to
that at which the Wild Eose had gone out. It
fastened with a key, and as soon as they were in the
open air, he locked it carefully, put the key in a hole
which let it fall inside the house, and then looked
around.
" Who de debble lurk about dese diggens?" said a
voice from the log hut. "Expwess your attentions
in considwable slick lingo, or Zip him take de berry
partiklar liberty ob exhilarating him shooting iron."
134
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
"It is I, Zip — good Zip," replied John in a low
tone. " Keep a sharp look-out, and say nothing about
my going out."
"All correct, massa. Zip possum, racoon, no
catch him 'sleep, he snore. Zip, him only obscried
de red-skin at fust, and him tink him enemy."
" Good-night, Zip. I am going to take a turn in
the wood. If I retreat, keep up a sharp fire on my
pursuers."
" Zip conclude him as a 'xeptionable red-skin who
get over him gun," began the negro, but John and
the Tuscarora were out of hearing in a minute, or
too much occupied to hear the rest of his speech.
They stooped low. John knew the ground well,
and was closely followed by the Indian* There was
a slight hollow in the ground, right down to the bayou,
by which water was carried off, and this John made
selection of as the road by which to gain the stream.
He moved very slowly, using every caution, and soon
was close to the river, under the cover of the thick
bushes that lined the bank. He then rose and held a
brief conference with the Indian. John was for taking
a canoe or dug-out, and descending the stream to Oak
Point by water, but the Indian strongly objected.
The Waccos were out lying in the wood, perhaps even
in greater force than they knew of, and they would
surely guard some of the bends in the stream, by
which reinforcements might come to the people of
Elscoate. Besides, Oak Point was not more than
two hours' walk by a wood trail, and by the winding
of the fickle stream, the navigation of which was
rendered dangerous at night by snags, it was at least
four hours' journey. To this argument John yielded
at once. He had taken the precaution of putting on
mocassins, and bidding the Tuscarora lead the way,
he followed gravely in his footsteps. Both stepped
with extreme care, avoiding even laying their feet
on a fallen bit of wood, so sharp did they know the
Indian scouts to be.
A strange Christmas Eve, thought the English
farmer as he moved along, to be spent in wild and
savage woods, surrounded by ferocious red-skins,
with rare exceptions a murderous race — those chroni-
cled by Cooper, the great painter of wild American
life, are nearly all gone, and so is he which makes
fireside travellers speak of his descriptions as false —
following a half-civilized Indian along his native
forests ; and it made him. look with regret to old
England — dear old country, with all her faults and
errors — where certainly those who have the means
can be very happy, if they never think of the under-
crust of misery, dimly veiled by the tinsel that glitters
on the surface, and where there are rare old country
homes, and rare jolly men and women, and no want
of good ones neither, with cheerful boys and girls
whom plum-pudding and roast-beef makes happy and
joyous, blushing youths and maidens, who dearly love
dancing and stories told around the hearth, and who
privately believe the original seat of Paradise to be
under a mistletoe-bough, and who begin to be moved
under these happy influences to that all-powerful
°f °Ur Sreatest happiness
h
Where Christmas and family festivals are duly
and heartily honoured, marriage is a sacred thing, at
ill events more sacred than in those countries which
know no pleasure or amusement but what is seen out
of doors. Give me the fireside, give me the merry
haPpy, joyous congregation of friends and relatives
where laughter is allowed, and men do not dance like
solemn and reflective broom-sticks, but as if there
were some humour and fun in them, and as if upon
;he whole they considered it not a mere bore but a
healthful and pleasant exercise. Perhaps when I
am too old to dance myself, I may satirize this
favourite amusement of the young, but I hope not ;
for when no longer young ourselves, we should live
in the spring-joy and spring-tide of others.
But a solemn, grave Christmas Eve was this for
John Waters, in the depth of a huge American forest,
and such he thought it as he walked along. Suddenly
the Indian came to a halt, turned slowly round, and
placed his finger on his lips. John had himself imagined
for some time that there were other steps in the forest
beside their own. He thought some one was treading
parallel to them, and so cautiously that it appeared
but the echo of their own steps. As they halted the
sound ceased. They moved a few steps again, very
steathily, very cautiously, and at once they heard
the step again, alongside, at no great distance. Who-
ever it was, stepped as they stepped, halted as they
halted, and ceased to make a sound as they did.
"Stop here," said the Indian, pointing to a thick
bush, which afforded shelter from all observers,
"Tuscarora John see what in woods."
As he spoke, the red-skin disappeared, gliding so
noiselessly away, that John heard him not depart,
and there he was alone in those woods upon an
Indian trail, surrounded in all probability by his
copper-coloured enemies, and John would have given
the world to have been surrounded at that moment
by his whole family, Edward included, and to have
trusted then to his stout defence and good walls. But
he had driven his boy away, and his punishment was
to spend his Christmas Eve in the chill night air. In
a few minutes the Indian returned. He had found
nothing. The spy upon their movements had at all
events the ability to conceal his own position, and
using still greater caution, they proceeded on their
way.
They had not gone more than five minutes longer
through the wood, when they reached the deep bed
of a stream, a torrent, full in the rainy season, but
now dry. They prepared to cross it, using the boughs
of trees to assist themselves, when Tuscarora John
suddenly drew his companion's attention. Afar off,
in the distance it appeared, in the bed of the stream,
they could see the faint glimmer of a light. There !
was a camp evidently at no great distance in the
wood. The emigrant whispered to the Indian not to
mind it, but to advance. The Tuscarora, however,
caught him violently by the arm, and pulled him
down, just as he himself caught the reflection of a
gun-barrel in the pale moon-light, followed by the
flash and report of an Indian fusil.
"The loping scoundrels," muttered John, "they
have seen us, and taken us for a sortie. WThat shall
we do ? "
"Lie still, — one minute, — two, — think," said the
Indian^ preparing, however, for desperate action, by
loosening his tomahawk and holding his rifle in his
hand ; "now, follow me."
As he spoke, stooping low, bending his head
beneath the bushes, the Tuscarora led the way down
the bed of the torrent. It was soft and clayey, there
being no pebbles in Texas, even on the sea-shore ; no
rocks, no stones, — all alluvial soil. They trod gently,
without noise, save the occasional crackling of a
twig ; but they left an evident and clear trail. This,
however, they could not avoid, and they noted it not.
Suddenly, however, they came to a bend in the tiny
gulley, — a place where the water had hewn away
a deep hollow in the earth, the roof of which had
escaped crumbling down by the presence of long
roots and parasitical plants, while across the bed of
the stream lay a dead tree, used as a bridge by stray
hunters, by red-skins, and whites, now that the
wandering tribes of Anglo-Saxons and other Euro-
pean nations have gone forth to reclaim the wilder-
ness, at the price, alas ! of the destruction, not only
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
135
of the wondrous herds of various animals that people
prairie, wood, and mountain, . but of the races that
have come from the regions of the setting sun to
meet the Eastern tribes.
At this instant they heard steps behind, the
Indians were in full chase. They had no time for
thought or reflection. They threw themselves into
the deep shadows of the hollow, leaping across a
breast-work of earth and wood, and cocking their
rifles, peered anxiously forth to spy the force of the
enemy. In a moment, six came in sight, marching
straight for the position they occupied. They fired,
and without waiting to see the effect, loaded.
Scarcely had the echoes died away in the forest, than
all lay still, placid, calm, as if never had those leafy-
woods been disturbed since that mysterious hour
when the spirit of God went forth upon the globe,
and flowers, and trees, and plants, and myriad
pleasant things burst into life for the joy and well-
being of the world. The two men could hear the
beating of their own hearts, so utterly silent was all
Nature, — not even the usual sighing of the forest-
glade being heard.
Then there came a yell, a horrid cry, a fearful
sound, as if demons had been let loose in Paradise,
and from every quarter of the wood came the flash
and the report of guns. The whole force of the
Wacco Indians was on them, — at all events, it
appeared so. But next minute, they heard the
quick exchange of shots at Elscoate, towards which
they had been returning. They knew not what to
do. They could see none of their enemies. One
looked up and one looked down the stream, watching
every tree, every stump, under cover of which a
red-skin could advance. Presently, the Indian spoke,
in a whisper so low as to be all but inaudible.
" See ! Indian very cunning, — John more cunning,
too," and he pointed up the bed of the torrent.
" What is it ? " asked the emigrant, who could
make out nothing in that faint light.
"Look! tree down yonder," said the red- skin, in
the same low tone.
" What is it ? " again repeated John, mechanically,
though he suspected the truth.
" Indian ! " replied his companion, quietly taking
aim at the apparently inanimate block.
One of the cunning men of the Waccos had slided
noiselessly down into the bed of the torrent, and
lain himself flat on his stomach. In this position he
was pushing himself along with all the stealthy
crawl of a serpent, — slowly, but without sound,
moving imperceptibly, but advancing towards the
cover of the two men in a way that promised to
place him shortly in very dangerous proximity. But
Tuscarora John fired, the motionless Indian sprang
to his feet, gave a scream, and fell head-long like a
stricken deer into the bed of the stream. Two
Waccos burst from the adjacent bushes, and drew
him out of sight.
" Wacco fool ! " said the chief, contemptuously,
" John Christian, no take soalp."
" I am delighted to hear that," replied John
Waters, earnestly and solemnly. " I feel certain
that my time is up. But it is a relief to know that
I shall die beside a Christian man, who, if he
survives, will carry my blessing to my wife and
babes. "
" No die," whispered the Tuscarora ; " fight,— kill,
— cheat red-skins."
"I hope so," said John Waters, fervently, "for it
would be sad to die without one parting word with
my Jane, my boys, my innocent, good girls."
" Let son marry Dutch squaw ? " asked the Indian,
a little sarcastically ; " no matter now, if made up
mind to die."
" No ! " exclaimed John, quickly, " I would not
consent to that. Edward is my eldest son, my
representative. He may one day return to England,
and I should like the possible heir of the Earl of
Elscoate to take a lady home for his wife."
"What him pale face brother call lady?" said
the Indian.
" A well-educated young woman, with a cultivated
mind, elevated thoughts, and a pleasing conversation
and manners," replied John, quite forgetting for an
instant his peculiar position.
" Where him find such girl in woods ? " asked
Tuscarora John.
" But there are plenty of such girls in American
towns. My daughters will, I hope, be so brought up
in the woods."
"Dutch squaw not so?" continued the Indian,
with annoying perseverance.
"I don't know," replied John, impatiently. He
could not bear these hard hits, for he felt in his
inmost heart how unjust he was.
" Well, Tuscarora John only red-skin, but him no
tell what use fine lady in woods. Wood wife make
dinner, nurse papoose, sew mocassins, take long walk
with warrior, load him gun when fight many, — town
lady wear rainbow, good to hang on wall, look at,
faint if see Indian warrior, run away from red-skin
papoose."
"There is much truth in what you say, Indian,"
said John : " but I have ideas and notions of my
own."
"Well, have notion now, — hush!" replied the
Tuscarora, pointing upwards.
Some one was moving across the torrent on the
opposite side, parting the bushes, pushing His way
along, and evidently close to them. The emigrant
cocked his gun and levelled.
"No fire yet/' said the Indian ; "plenty red-skins
come all sides. Pale face make ready. Big fight all
at once."
John distinctly heard footsteps over-head. The
earthen roof, with its fibrous rafters, shook visibly. It
was clear that some one had gained this dangerous
proximity to them. At the same instant a whole
party of the Waccos were distinctly seen crawling
under bushes in the distance, again trying to surprise
the two desperate fugitives. They levelled and fired,
and were astounded at the report of their own rifles.
One seemed repeated over-head, the other on the
opposite side of the stream. Scarcely had the smoke
cleared away, than they heard whispering above their
heads. Some one seemed speaking to them. After
assuring himself that the Waccos had been driven
back once more, John and the Indian listened
attentively. They at once discovered tha.t some one
was speaking to them through a chink in the roof.
"Massa ! massa ! dat zou? " said the voice of Zip ;
"him colour'd individual here no see where de ole
genl'm'n de refwaction ob your reports come from."
" It is I, Zip. But how, in God's name, are you
here ? Is all safe yonder ?"
" Considewable ! " replied the pompous - spoken
Scipio ; "but him Zip take a considewable scwump-
tious bet de dirty flesh-pots of E — jwip take obsession
of Elscoate by mornin'."
" Come down here ! " said John, in voice hollow
and awful, from its deep, wild, but concealed passion,
concentrated grief, and rage.
"Tuscarora John!" exclaimed a voice, cautious,
low, but distinct, from the other side of the torrent.
" Who is that ? " said the emigrant.
"One friend," replied the Tuscarora.^ "Come
down, Open Heart, — him twice welcome ! "
At this instant the butt-end of a gun was visible in
front of the opening. John, who knew it was that
130
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
of the negro, took it and drew it within the little
cavern, and instantly after the sagacious black
swung himself by his hands from the fallen tree, and
fell in front on the entrenchment that defended the
entrance of the retreat. At the same time a man
was seen crawling across the natural bridge. He
was clearly to be seen in the moonlight. It was a
tall American hunter in full woodland costume, with
rifle in hand, and peering round cautiously, as if he
came like one who knew the danger he was incurring.
But he counted too much on his being sheltered by
the circumjacent trees, for suddenly, just as he was
about to slide down into the ravine, a volley hastily
fired sent half a dozen bullets pattering around him,
and the man fell like a log to the bottom of the stream.
" All right ! " he muttered, however, as he hastily
crept into the shelter of the cave, where he com-
menced in a low tone a conversation with Tuscarora
John, the emigrant doing the same with Scipio. It
appeared that the Indians had attacked the people at
Elscoate about the same time that guns were heard in
the woods. Descending to the guard-room, as it had
been christened, it was found that the master of the
house and the Indian were out. Much alarmed, Mrs.
Waters had opened a communication with the log-
hut, the defenders of which had at once informed her
that they had seen the master of the house go out
with the Tuscarora. As no one could conceive the
object of this sortie, the alarm of the garrison was
very great. Zip volunteered at once to go out into
the woods, and see if he could find Mr. Waters, and
Jane accepting his offer with gratitude, the black, an
intelligent, active young man, who having been
originally servant to a professor and divine, had
picked up a number of fine words, which he used
without much regard to their real meaning, went
forth. Scipio declared the number of Waccos had
largely increased in the night, and was of opinion
that Elscoate would not be able to hold out another
day, especially with a decreased garrison. John, as
soon as he had received these explanations, turned
to the Indian, and expressed his determination to
return to his house, where the presence of four men
— he supposed the stranger would join them — would
be of prodigious assistance to the garrison.
"Fight Indians all the way," said Tuscarora
John ; " leave one, — two, — tree,— all four bodies on
road, perhaps."
" Tank you — indiwidually obswerving for dis child,"
exclaimed the negro, "Zip don't obtempewate to
any impwoper notion like dat. Him conceive Indian
like de stomachache better nor coloured genl'm'n,
when him talk so catawampously sharp 'bout leaving
his bones in dis ugly wood. You're a upper-crust
Injian, I dare say ; but Zip wish you a merry
Chwismas, an spect you no talk ,'bout die. Zip no
Babee how you see fun in such black joke."
No one took any notice of the negro's grumbling ;
butall prepared their fire-arms, knives, and tomahawks,
for the march, which was understood to be finally
resolved on. Time had passed so rapidly while these
events were going on, that the moon had set, and
they all knew that morning was near,— Christmas
morning. It was resolved to take advantage of the
short remaining darkness, to march quickly through
the woods. Few words were exchanged by these
four men. All knew that they were about to affront
the chance of death in its most hideous form ; but all
were brave, earnest, courageous, and not one was
without feeling the influence of the peculiar day,
which with them was one of such desperate fortunes!
They crawled forth from their concealment scarcely
venturing to breath. Not a word was spoken
-uscarora John went first. They soon reached a
small open space,— a little glade in the forest. From
this spot a path, once an Indian trail, led directly
home. All turned that way ; but just as they were
on the skirt of the wood again, with a yell, chanting
the hideous war-cry, out came half-a-dozen Indians,
bounding like panthers on their prey. The four men
closed instinctively. Not one fired. The Indian
dropped his gun, and clutched his tomahawk. The
black and the two white men raised their guns to
strike the red-skins with the butt-ends. The contest
was most uneven. John and Zip found themselves
at once attacked each by two enemies. This but
made the white man doubly cautious, but it put Zip
in a passion.
" Oh ! golly ! " he cried, " war you go to college,
you rampshanklious rascals, dat you no sabbee it
berry cowardly two to one ? Accept dat little favour
for your incorruptible ignowance."
" Hugh ! " said the Indian, as he fell senseless
from a blow that would have felled an ox.
" Teach you supewier manners the earliest oppwa-
tunity," continued the negro. " Hope de lesson
profit you. No chwage for instwuction. Dis nigger
'xpect you recommend him."
"Black man die," said the other Indian, "kill
Wacco, dog, pig, eat him father."
"Hope him meal not hut him digression," ob-
served Zip, coolly retreating after arming himself
with the stunned Indian's hatchet. "Now you
second boy, yer want him lesson too. Dis child
quite deposed to gib ebbery adwise gratis. But afore
we begins, a merry Christmas to you. But Zip don't
reckon you'll die ob a ober dose of beef and puddin.
Zip guess you die ob accidental homicide."
Meanwhile John had fought hardly with his two an-
tagonists. They were powerful men. One flung his
tomahawk at the pale face, aiming right at his head ;
but it only grazed his ear, luckily, for John darted
on one side. The Indian then drew a knife and
rushed at his foe. John aimed a tremendous blow
at him which missed his head, and struck him on
the shoulder. The Wacco gave a yell and dropped
his knife, but next instant he had grappled with
the Englishman. Down fell both, a desperate
couple, for both were strong and powerful men, but
the Wacco had clearly the advantage, being more
used to warfare. John was a man of peace, a man
of quiet habits, who had never before used weapon,
except against animals required for food ; but he
loved his life, he was resolved not to die if he could
help it, and he caught the Indian by the throat.
The Wacco was uppermost, which prevented the
other from striking Mr. Waters. But he tried to do
so. Every time John raised his eyes, he saw the
hideous painted Indian watching his opportunity
wit^ raised tomahawk. Presently he spoke some
words in his native dialect, and the other Indian
with whom he was struggling caught quickly hold of
his arms, leaped upon his breast, and held him thus
helpless. John Waters closed his eyes, breathing an
inward prayer, just as he caught the first glimpse of
rosy morn above the tips of the trees.
But no blow came, and John opened his eyes again.
The Indian with the tomahawk was nowhere to fce
seen, and the other had let his antagonist go to
defend himself against the tall American, who,
slight as he was, seemed no contemptible warrior.
But John would not be behindhand. The good man
was excited, and he leaped up, too late however to
stop the Wacco, who was now hand to hand with the
American hunter. Fierce was the contest. Both
had long knives, and both fought desperately. The
Indian fortunately was crippled slightly by the blow
he had received, and his superior woodcraft became
thus of little avail. Still he was almost more than a
match for the pale face.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
137
" Unaccwustomed as dis child is to de obatorical
line/' suddenly cried Zip, appearing in the Wacco's
rear, "and inexpewienced as he is in de awt ob public
speaking, he vventures to observe, dat dis nigger
don't approve ob fighting Christmas morning. Zip
'tickerly 'jects to a confused Wakhers interfering
| with Massa Edward. Take dat for your pains, you
saucy coppwa pot !"
" Edward," cried John Waters, as the Indian fell
under the merciless blows of the powerful negro.
" My dear father," said the tall, supposed American
youth, springing into his arms.
At that instant the birds began to sing, the still
forest became alive, the myriad sounds that herald the
dawn were heard, above, below, around, everywhere,
and all knew that it was Christmas Day, the eighteenth
hundred and forty-second anniversary of the birth of
the great Saviour of mankind. John pressed his son
fondly to his heart.
" Thank you my boy," he said with deep emotion,
" we are quits. The life I gave you owe me no
longer. You have saved mine."
" Thank God," replied Edward.
"Good," said Tuscarora with a grim smile of ap-
proval.
"Now dat's what Zip calls fortuitous and no
ironical impression. After all we shall hab Chwismas
Day, and dis child obspect kick him heels conside-
wable dis night."
"But let us Blurry home my father. All is not
over. They have been firing hard at Elscoate this
quarter of an hour."
John said nothing, but turning away with disgust
from the field of battle where lay the six dead
Indians, he hurriedly followed his son. The negro
and the Tuscarora came behind. They followed this
time a straight line, and as it became quite light,
reached the skirt of the wood in sight of Elscoate.
They halted and looked around, Zip at once preparing
for action by disposing against a tree the six fusils of
the Indians which he had picked up.
All was as usual. The house was quiet, the log-
hut was still, and the bonfire smouldered on One
Tree Hill. There was crowing of cocks, and cluck-
ing of hens, and cackling of geese, and grunting of
pigs, and neighing of horses, all wanting their early
morning meal ; but for the instant there was no
hostile demonstration. Close under a huge wood
pile, at no great distance from the four men, how-
ever, were the besiegers in council. They were
about forty in number. Presently, they moved out
in a mass, and taking their way across the clearing,
made a desperate rush at the farmhouse. From log-
hut and Elscoate itself came a quick volley, marking
that the garrison was on the alert, and then a
discharge from our four friends on the flank of the
Indians. Much surprised, the Waccos retreated a
step to reconnoitre, and then away a portion of them
scampered helter-skelter, leaving a fair proportion
helpless on the field, while high in the air rose
a hearty shout from fifty gallant voices, and forth
from the cover of the wood came rushing fifty rifle-
men to the rescue.
In five minutes more the whole family of the
Waters were outside, and Jane was sobbing wildly,
pressing to her heart with one arm the eldest son of her
love, with the other her husband. The neighbours
who had come in such good time started in chase of
the remaining red-skins. The denizens of Elscoate
were glad to rest, to talk, and to explain.
It was about an hour later, and John had told all
his adventures, and the garrison had narrated the
stoiy of their weary night, and ever-thoughtful Jane
had sat all down to a hearty, abundant breakfast,' —
the negroes had first recklessly thrown the bodies of
the Indians upon the burning pile of wood, — and
Tuscarora John and his daughter were seated with
them.
" A merry Christmas we may not have, perhaps,
but a happy Christmas we may," said Edward, rising,
" and for the future, I hope many a happy Christmas.
I pledge all here."
"Thank you, my boy," exclaimed John, warmly;
" Edward, my son, we are glad to see home again, to
stay, I hope."
" Not to stay, my .father," said Edward, gently and
sadly ; " I came not to stay. I should not have come
at all, but that I knew you were in danger. Excuse
me, my father ; but I have another home now."
"No!" thundered John; "on this day, when
God has vouchsafed to me such manifold mercies, I
cannot thwart my son. Edward, my boy, am I to
understand that you are married ?"
Jane looked gently at her boy, brothers and sisters
stared and smiled, the Indian and the Indian squaw
looked curiously at John.
" I am, my father," said Edward ; "I married the
next day after I left here. I was sorry for my haste
afterwards ; but now I have a wife, and to her must
I cleave above all others."
"No! no! bring your wife here. I promise to
like her if she be as ugly as sin, and as vulgar
as a hodman. This is Christmas Day, — this day have
you, my boy, saved my life. Where is she, bring her
to me, — she is my daughter."
" God bless you, my father ! " exclaimed the
young Indian squaw, rising, and throwing her aims
round his neck.
" Very glad to shake hands with my brother," said
Tuscarora John.
"De debble!" shouted Zip ; "here's a pretty
maccaroni. Mr. Edward married to a coppwa-
coloured girl. I obspec he ought to hab united
himself to Juno. Dat a betterer conclusion."
Dire was the astonishment. But the explanation
was simple, and when John had shaken old Thiel by
the hand, and the girls had kissed Caterina until the
copper stain nearly came off her cheeks, and Edward
had warmly thanked his father, it was given. Thiel
the Dutchman was an ex-trapper of the Rocky
Mountains, who had made money by his trade. He
had married a French girl, originally a prisoner with
the Tuscaroras, but who had been educated at
Montreal. She gave him one child, Caterina. At
her mother's death, she accompanied him to Bent's
Fort, where she saw much of Indian life, especially
as John Thiel was an Indian chief by reception. When
Texas declared itself independent, the Dutch trapper
came to the young "republic, bought land, and located
himself permanently. Being a steady, hard-working,
industrious man, he did not stay in a town, and
join in the somewhat lax amusements of Galveston
and Hotiston. This made him unpopular. Galveston
Island was the repair once of Lafitte, the pirate, and
the loafers of that locality could not devise any
better way of punishing a man for scorning their
company, than calling him an ex-pirate.
But Edward Waters met Caterina in the woods
one day, when he had lost his trail. She put him on
the right way. But it was a long journey to
Elscoate. She offered. him refreshment in her father's
house. Human nature did the rest. Old Thiel
knew nothing of Waters' father ; but he liked the
boy. Marriage in these settlements is an easy
thing, and Edward and Caterina were married ^ by
old Parr of Live Oak Point on ten minutes' notice.
They took up their quarters with the Dutchman.
One evening, an Indian, who knew the old trapper
to be a chief, came to him and proposed an attack on
Elscoate, — the richest location in Harris country.
138
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Old Thiel pretended to acquiesce, and told Edward.
Then it was agreed to take advantage of this
opportunity to make John acquainted with his
daughter-in-law. Away they went in disguise, and
their success is now known. The firing the wood-
pile was a signal agreed upon with Edward, and was
I to warn the whole neighbourhood, the young man
having ridden round the day before to summon all to
the rescue.
It was no use. The terrible night, the battle
scene, the risks all had run, were of no avail. They
must spend a merry Christmas. First the girls
washed Caterina's face, and dressed her like them-
selves, and then John Thiel the Dutchman did the
same, and he and John Waters — English John and
Dutch John, good fellows both — smoked the calumet
of peace, and Jane cooked the Christmas dinner.
There was roast-beef and plum-pudding, and mince-
pies — Zip suggested they might be made of Waccos
— and better than that, glad hearts and smiling faces,
and merry laughter. John Waters sat at the upper
end, Jane at the lower, and John had Thiel on his
right and Caterina on his left, while Jane had
Edward and astonished, disappointed Fred ; and
English John quizzed Dutch John about his quaint
Indian speeches, and Dutch John was good humour-
edly sarcastic about his own personal vulgarity, and the
fact that his daughter was not a fine lady. John Waters
earnestly replied, in solemn English — language of
truth and heartiness — that John Thiel was a man of
heart and resolution, and Caterina a little lioness for
courage, while he boldly declared not one of his
own daughters — even saucy Fanny — was half so
pretty.
" What says Zip," he added to the faithful negro.
"Him nebber fix him occular wision, on any ting
one quarter so pwetty," replied Zip.
And then the evening, — glorious Christmas evening.
Caterina was but nineteen, a mere girl, but so gentle,
so merry, so sweet, so quaint, so odd, was this little
Dutchwoman, so pompous was she when she recollected
that she was a wife, that there never was one moment
without laughter. There was dancing, there was
singing, there were jokes without end. John Waters
thought himself a youth again, and danced without
hesitation with Caterina, John. Thiel figuring away
with Jane. Edward took out all his sisters, one after
another, and Zip brought out Juno in grand style.
And then there was kissing and romping, and giggling
and laughing under the mistletoe-bough, and Zip de-
clared that he would himself have kissed the whole
company, but for fear of leaving a black mark on
such white cheeks, and in fact everybody was happy.
There was great rejoicing round the seven trees,
all now adorned with flowers and ribbons gay, and
there was much dancing on the green that evening.
Neighbours came to congratulate the Waters on
their grand escape, and every lad had his lass to
dance with, and every girl her fellow.
A happy family yet are the Waters. They are
united and joyous. Caterina proved an unexception-
able wife, and John— English John— declares that if
he himself had chosen a partner for his eldest son
he could not have chosen better. He and Dutch
John are rare friends, and now no seven trees are of
any avail to show the youth of that family. Edward's
Folly is full of little children, and Fred is married to
an American girl, and even the youngest of the boys
and girls are thinking of marriage, and children make
glad the purlieus of Elscoate, where the seven trees
give solemn promise of multiplying seven fold, and
all the members of that house are ever grateful 'unto
God for the many mercies that are daily vouchsafed
unto them, and particularly on that memorable
Christmas Day in the Back-woods.
OUR AUTUMN TRIP THROUGH MUNSTER.
TIPPEKARY. — THE 'l WILD MEN." — TIPPERARY BALLAD
POETRY. — IRISH BOOK - SHOPS. — THE HILLS OF
TIPPERARY. — LANDLORD REVERSES. — THE GOLDEN
VALLEY.— CASHEL, THE "CITY OF THE KINGS.'" —
THE ROCK OF CASHEL. — THE " CITY OF BEGGARS."
— CONCLUSION.
THE name of Tipperary recalls to mind agrarian
outrage and disturbance. When we said we were
going to Tipperary, people told us to take care of
ourselves. " Egad ! " said my uncle, " it must be a
wild place, that ! They say our English newspapers
used to keep a standing head of ' Outrage in
Tipperary.' But never mind ! Let's see what like
the place is." And so we set out for Tipperary
accordingly, by the Limerick and Waterford
Railway.
A gentleman with a heavy leathern bag joined us
at the Limerick Junction, about three miles from
Tipperary. We aske'd him some questions about the
neighbourhood. "You are strangers, then?" he
asked. " We are ; just come to take a peep at
'Wild Tipperary,' as they call it. I suppose the
place is quite safe ? " asked my uncle.
The stranger gave a loud laugh. "Excuse me,"
he answered, "but the idea of asking whether
Tipperary is safe ! I suppose, though," he added, as he
caught a merry twinkle in my uncle's eye, "that you're
joking us. Well now, I've lived, man and boy, in
Tipperary, these five and thirty years, and a safer
place, a finer people, I have never yet known or
heard of. As a banker's clerk, I have been constantly
going from town to town with large sums of money,
— such as I carry in this bag here, — and I never was
once molested, though it was quite well known what
I carried ; and I travelled, sometimes at night,
through districts where the bulk of the people were
absolutely starving for want."
"But your outrages, — agrarian murders, and so
on ? " asked my uncle.
"Ah, that's quite another matter. You must ask
the landlords and their agents the cause of that, —
they know. But for honest, well-affected people,
provided only they are done justice to, there's no
county in Ireland equal to Tipperary."
We had by this time reached the station, and
proceeded towards the town. We found it consisted of
one very long street, branching off into two straggling
outskirts at the north end. The street was full
of people of the condition of peasants. As it was
Saturday the day was rather a busy one ; though on
market-days, I was told, it was still busier. There
were" many donkey-carts, and little pony-carts, in
which butter, eggs, and bacon had been brought to
market, and many sales of these articles were doubt-
less effected ; but the greater part of the crowd
seemed to be engaged in talking to each other, and
looking at what others were doing, rather than in
any business of a more active kind.
The large, well-formed peasant men particularly
attracted my attention. They seemed an altogether
different race from the little black-haired men of
Cork and Kerry. Here they were generally fair-
haired, — many were red ; their faces bronzed by
exposure to the sun ; with prominent noses, high
cheek-bones ; and often athletic and brawny in frame.
Their long blue and grey coats, with large capes, and
long flapping tails, contributed to swell their bulk, and
apparently added to their height. The women, like
the men, were altogether different from the Cork
and Limerick beauties. Here they had quite a
rougher, sterner look, were bigger, fairer, and more
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
139
masculine, — nothing like so graceful and soft as the
women of the south ; many of them, I obsei-ved,
carried a strong down on their upper lip. This
contrast between the race of people to the south and
west, must be pronounced veiy extraordinary. How
to account for it ? Must we adopt the solution
given by an Irishman, who told us that the Tipperary
men were nearly all of Saxon descent, for that this
rich district was, some two hundred years ago,
almost entirely planted by the soldiers of Cromwell,
Tipperary being the richest and most fertile of Irish
counties.
Many small wares, such as apples (seemingly a very
favourite and abundant fruit in all Irish market-
places), brogues, nails, and such like, were being
sold on the little stalls ranged along the street.
There were some half-a-dozen cobblers mending
shoes and brogues, — the customers standing with
their shoes off (their only pair), until the job was
finished. Pigs walked at large, unmolested, among
the legs of the market-people. I saw very few
beggars, though there was no want of poverty, or
ruined huts either. At one end of the town, nearly
every second house announced " Lodgings." In one
of these streets, a beggar-woman with a child in her
arms solicited charity. " Isn't there a poorhouse
here," I asked ; " why don't you go there ? " "Ah,
yer honour," she answered, " they run us all away in
the eyes there. It's afraid of the child I is." I
afterwards found that ophthalmia had been very
prevalent as an epidemic in the workhouse, and had
blinded many of the poor inmates.
As we were sauntering down the street through
the crowd, our attention was attracted by a tattered
woman singing a ballad, with an accompaniment of
sundry winks and nods to the group listening to her
strains, which were more vigorous than sweet.
"Come," said my uncle, "let's have a specimen of
Tipperary poetry, — what's the price of the ballad ? "
addressing the minstrel. "Twopence, yer honour,"
she instantly replied, seeing that her customer was a
well-dressed stranger. "Twopence ! ballads are dear
in Tipperary ! " " Whatever yer honour likes then."
"Well, there's the twopence, and I hope the ballad 's
worth the money." "It is, yer honour, thank ye ! "
" Thank ye, sir ! " " Thank ye ! " echoed a number of
the bystanders.
The ballad was printed on a strip of damaged
tea-paper, originally intended (as would appear from
the back thereof) for blank summonses before the
county sessions ; and its title was, "A New Song in
praise of the Hon. T. Mulcahy, Ballyglass." The
poem commences by an enumeration of the beauties
of "sweet Ballyglass, near Tipperary town," where
"the lark, the linnet, and the nightingale," and all
manner of birds, including " the duck, the teal, and
widgeon, the seagull, crane, and pidgeon," do the
honours of the place. Then the poet goes on with a
swing, in the following glowing style : —
Mr. Mulcahy's place is stated to be the first in Erin.
Though some are ostentating they may as well decline.
The Orchard is the grandest the Appels sweet and largest,
The Cethron and the Hazel the Cedar and the Vine.
In this immense demesne are various kind of Game,
The Eagle mild and tame without either dread or fear
The huntsman in distraction The beagles fit for action,
His honour daily hunting the fox the doe and deer.
There's a boat for recreation men for navigation
Lords Dukes and Earls pass away their time
Thundering peals resounding subterraneous fountains
And crystal streams from mountains to the fishes gently
glide.
Then came the praises of "his honour," the great
Mulcahy himself, who is described in glowing
colours : — •
His honour is descended from the man who ships invented,
It was by God's command the building of the Ark.
The race of Christian princes which history convinces
By Homer and by Milton those lines to insart,
His ancestors originated from the bravest in this nation,
Himself a true Milesian a friend to liberty.
The convict condemnated for murder perpetrated.
His honor would liberate him from the gallows bring him free
A singular test this of a " friend to liberty ! " No
doubt the poet is a native one.
I looked for a book-shop in the town, but though
of 6,000 inhabitants, and the centre of a populous
district, I could only find one shop of this sort,
where penny saints' books, and penny collections of
ballads were sold. There were also a few cheap
emigration books amongst his stock ; and I bought his
entire stock of one of these, which was the copy
displayed in the window. The shopkeeper told me
he was " the only bookseller in the place ; but his
trade was a painter." I counted four pawnbrokers'
shops, however, in the same street.
Literature does not flourish in the other Munster
towns, any more than it does in Tipperary. A friend
tried to get Mrs. Hall's "Guide to the Lakes" at
Cork ; but there was not a copy to be had in the
city. At Limerick, in the principal street, there
were three shops where books, chiefly Catholic
primers, and cheap lives of saints, were sold ; but
neither of these had a single guide-book of any sort,
though they " expected them in shortly." At
Macroom, I could discover nothing of the book kind,
not even a penny ballad. And afterwards, at
Cashel, where strangers are constantly arriving to see
the remarkable ruins of the "City of Kings,"
nothing in the shape of a guide-book was sold by the
one bookseller (also a grocer) of the place.
"This is a fine, busy, little town," said my uncle
to one of the constabulary standing looking on at the
corner of a street. " Tipperary 's a quieter place
than I expected to find it."
"You're a stranger, sir? Ah, it's the poverty
that keeps them down, — they're quiet enough
now ! "
"But the people have very much improved
hereabouts, have they not ? Much more mild and
pacific — ."
"They can't spend as much, you see, because
they're poorer than ever they were. Let them be
able to spend money on the drink, and then you'd
see, sir."
" What ? The shillelahs going ? "
" Ay, that you would ! The Tipperary boys can't
stand drink, — it makes them mad. But they're a fine
set of fellows, for all that."
The number of constabulary stationed in Tipperary
is twenty-three ; but there are no soldiers in the
place. This number of police for so small a town,
however, seems very large.
We went up to the hills of Tipperary in the after-
noon, accompanied by a highly intelligent townsman.
These hills are not very high, being rather lofty mounds
of earth, covered with rich pasturage ; and on their
summits are seen the marks of fortifications of very
great antiquity, of which I have yet seen- no
account. Rude trenches, with a lofty mound of
earth outside, have been thrown up around the
summits of two of those hills ; and one may conceive
them to have been the fastnesses of some old Danish
invading force, if they be of even so recent a date as
this. The view from the hills is very fine, — the
beautiful range of the Gal tee Mountains stretching
along the horizon to the south ; and the rich and
luxuriant Golden Valley towards Cashel on the west.
A large, and apparently modern castle, peeped from
a wood at a little distance, — a delicious looking spot,
about which my uncle asked our friend.
140
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
" That's Castle Lloyd/' said he ; " the owner was
reputed a wealthy landed proprietor some years ago.
But Castle Lloyd is now a workhouse, and Mr. Lloyd
is one of the resident paupers in it ! "
" What a frightful fate !"
"But that's not the only case of the sort. There
was Eichard Quin Sleeman, not long since a great
landed proprietor near Limerick, into which he used
to drive four-in-hand. He got a fortune of £25,000
with his wife ; but he was a slap-up fellow, one of
our ' fast ' landlords, a gambler, and one that tried to
keep up with the aristocratic life of London. His
wife is at this moment the matron of the Limerick
workhouse, and he himself is a London hostler ! "
"You astonish me! " said my uncle, — "how is it
such things happen ? "
" Oh, it's easy to understand how it happens. You
see, these landlords of ours care nothing for their
tenantry, so their tenantry don't care for them.
They go over to London or abroad, and try to keep up
the race of fashion with English nobles a dozen
times richer than they are. They go on squeezing
their tenantry for rents, and the tenantry get poorer
and poorer. Then they mortgage their estates, and
in the midst of this, the Irish Poor Law comes down
upon them, and compels them to maintain the
pauperism which their own neglect and oppression
have caused. But the estates can't pay both the
interest on mortgages and the poor-rates, so the
landlord goes to the wall, and his estate is brought
to the hammer. Curses, like chickens, you know,
come home to roost."
" It seems to be a true saying, — their fate is a kind
of just judgment, the consequence of their own
folly and misconduct."
" Not always their own," said Mr. Hogan, " often
they have inherited their miseries, and their debts
and mortgages, from their ancestors. There was a
singular case at Waterford lately. Two gentlemen,
Mr. Butler Low and Mr. Wall, both inherited large
estates burdened with debt. They brought up their
sons as gentlemen, of course ; and you know, in
Ireland, gentlemen, or those who think they are
gentlemen, will never stoop to work, or so demean
themselves as to learn their sons any honest calling.
Well, the Poor Law caught both of them. Their
estates were sold ; and a son of each of them, —
gentlemen, — enlisted as privates about the same
time in the 6th Carbineers. They were at school
together, and hunted together ; they are now
common soldiers together ; — but a soldier's is a
gentlemanly calling, you know ! They would, both
of these young gentleman, have thought it quite a
degradation to have made even a thousand a year by
trade of any kind. Such are our fine gentlemanly
notions of things in Ireland ! "
We went on to Cashel that evening, through a
fine country, — very rich and fertile ; in fact, the road
lay through the famous Golden Valley of Tipperary,
on beholding which, from the Eock of Cashel,
Cromwell is said to have exclaimed, waving his
sword in the direction of the beautiful landscape : —
" There, my soldiers, is a country worth fighting for !
So, put your trust in God and keep your powder
dry I " We passed Golden Bridge on our way, —
a village of tumble-down, ruined huts, with the ruins
of an old stronghold almost blocking up the little
stream which runs by it. This village of Golden
Bridge has one of the worst reputations in Ireland for
its murders, — it has for a long time been the centre
of agrarian outrages, the result, for the most part, of
forcible dispossessions of tenantry from their houses
and holdings.
As we drove along, we passed a little girl with a
book in her hand, as if on her way home from school.
I beckoned to her, on which she immediately ran up
alongside the car while the horse was going at a full
trot, and taking my hand, she vaulted up alongside
of me. I found her a sprightly, intelligent little
girl, communicative and frank ; she was on her way
homeward from the roadside National School, and on
reaching the humble little hut by the wayside, where
she dwelt, she sprang off the car, bidding me a
cordial "farewell." What English or Scotch country-
girl would have exhibited so natural a cordiality and
gracefulness as this little Irish lass ?
We found the streets of Cashel full of the soldiers
of the 89th Eegiment, which had just arrived in the
"city," on their way to Clonmel, to replace a
regiment which had been ordered to the Cape. The
beds of the one inn were all occupied by the officers
of the regiment, so we were under the necessity of
sleeping out, in unclean beds, where we were assailed
by a thousand foes, who wreaked upon our Saxon
skins the vengeance of their oppressed country, and
gave us some idea of the tortures which might be
suffered Uy some Irish landlord of the neighbourhood
of Golden Bridge, oppressed by an uneasy conscience.
For such beds we were charged the moderate sum of
half-a-crown each !
Looking out from our bedroom-window in the
morning, down the main street of Cashel, the most
striking object was the tall square tower of an old
monastery, about half-way down, opposite to which
stood a house (as we were afterwards told) in which
Henry II., the first English conqueror of Ireland,
lodged on his first journey into Ireland. At that
time Cashel was one of the most important cities in
Ireland, and was called the " City of the Kings."
It is now one of the most wretched, and worthy of
being called "The City of the Beggars."
On walking through the place, we found half of the
houses in ruins, while many had tumbled down, and
lay as they had fallen. The modern huts, erected
on the site of some of the old ones, were very miser-
able tenements, being of mud walls, with one hole in
the walls, serving for door and window, and a roof
of turf or thatch, with a hole to let the smoke out.
Pigs wandered at will among ruin?, and beggars
styed themselves in the halls of former kings and
monks.
The Eock of Cashel, and the magnificent palatial
and monastic ruins which crown it, are of course
the great objects of interest in the neighbourhood.
The rock stands abruptly up amidst the level country,
and its origin has been variously accounted for by
the peasantry. The popular tradition attributes it to
an unholy origin. It is said that St. Patrick was
engnged in chasing the Devil from Ireland, and that
as the latter was flying over the crest of the Sleive
Bloom Mountains, in his hot rage he bit a great lump
out of the solid rock ; but as St. Patrick came up
with him about thirty miles to the south, in his
terror the devil dropped the bit, and it fell at Cashel,
forming the famous Eock. Certain it is, that the
Gap in the Sleive Bloom Mountains is called "The
Devil's Bit " to this day, and any passenger can
clearly discover it on passing along the Great
Southern and Western Eailway. True, the modern
geologists have thrown some discredit upon the
tradition, by ascertaining that the strata and. forma-
tion of the Eock of Cashel are altogether different
from those of the Sleive Bloom Mountain, from
which it is said to have been taken. But the
defenders -of the tradition are not so easily defeated,
for they insist that the anomaly is entirely to be
accounted for by the strength of his Satanic majesty's
saliva, which effected the geological differences in
question.
The view from the rock is very fine. Numbers
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
141
of ruins of old abbeys lie around the base of
the hill. When Cashel was in its glory, there
were no fewer than seven of these ; and a hundred
and fifty square towers of noblemen's and gentle-
men's castles were to be seen from its summit. At
that time also, before the Norman invasion, the guide
through the ruins informed us that the city contained
forty-eight wine-taverns and thirty-six breweries ;
but now not one of these remains ; in their place
stand the great workhouse, with nine auxiliary poor-
houses attached to it. The remaining prominent
objects seen from the Eock are the Episcopal and
Roman Catholic churches, with the hospital and
barracks, as usual, towering over dismal cabins and
roofless houses.
The Rock of Cashel must from a very early period
have been used as a religious site. A stone idol has
been dug up among the ruins, which closely
resembles the hideous forms of the Hindoo idols, and
most probably was an early Irish god. The antique
stone cross of St. Patrick also stands on a rising
ground in front of the chapels, said to be some eight
hundred years old. Poor people still come from a
great distance to say their prayers before this cross ;
and the guide told us that many of them come
to embrace the cross, those husbands who can
make their hands meet behind it, thereby insuring
for their wives immunity from the perils of child-
birth !
Besides these ancient relics, there is a perfect
Round Tower at the north-east corner of the pile
of buildings. Of a date of erection subsequent to
these, are the two beautiful Saxon chapels, said to be
the most ancient and perfect in Britain. The spot
is pointed out, near to this chapel, and within the
Cathedral, where the famous Synod of Cashel was
held in Henry the Second's reign, where that monarch
was first recognized as the lawful ruler of Ireland.
Then, of subsequent date to these, is the Cathedral
of Cashel, attached to which is the palatial residence
of the ancient kings, who were also the archbishops
of Cashel. These form a pile of architectural
remains of unparalleled interest, and in which you
may read the record of nearly the whole ancient his-
tory of Ireland. It is to be regretted that the central
tower of the cathedral has been destroyed, having
been battered down by Lord Inchiquin during the
Commonwealth wars ; the whole peal of twelve bells
having then fallen down through the belfry.
Cromwell's soldiers also worked great mischief to
the old building, having thrown the monuments of
the bishops into an old well behind the nave, from
which they were only very recently disinterred in a
comparatively perfect state.
I don't know what there may be in the supposition
of the guide, that Cashel originally derived its name
from being the place where the subordinate chiefs of
the district came to pay tribute to their superior, —
hence the word Cash-Mil, or by abbreviation, Cashel.
There seems a probability in the theory.
A rather startling circumstance was related by
the guide in going round the hill, which is still used
as a burying. ground. " Under this stone," he said,
" lies the body of Mr. [mentioning the name in
full] who was murdered one day on the lawn before
his own house."
" Frightful ! " said my uncle ; " but I suppose the
murderer was some desperate, dispossessed peasant ? "
"Nothing of the kind," said the guide; "the
murderer was a gentleman, and he still lives, and is
known. What is more, he enjoys the estate of the
murdered man ! "
The reader will see why we have suppressed the
name, as the mention of it would at once point —
we shall not say where. But it would seem from
this, that the men in brogues are not the only lawless
men in Tipperary.
We descended the hill, and re-entered the streets
of the city, passing along rows of wretched cottages,
in the interior of which might be seen squalid women
and children squatting on the clay floor like Indians,
or upon a few bits of turf heaped together to form a
kind of seat. Mud, manure, straw, and sticks, put
together in any way, — such are the homes of the
Irish poor in the " City of the Kings ! "
The Catholic chapel (for it was Sunday) was
emptying as we passed, and an immense crowd of
people, filling the church and the court outside,
issued from the gates. The majority of the men
were tall and well-formed, — the greater part from
five feet ten to six feet in height, but many
considerably above even this, — for the most part
decently-dressed country folks, far superior to the
miserable population of the city itself. We saw the
Episcopal church also emptying, — the congregation
consisting of a small number of respectably-dressed
people, most of them, we should venture to say, bear-
ing English names.
In the afternoon we drove over to the Thurles
Station, passing the excellently-managed estate of
Mr. Bianconi, a foreigner, one of the most thriving
men in Ireland. At Thurles Station we joined the
railway-train for Dublin, which, as usual, contained a
large number of emigrants flying from the country, —
and in a short time we were beyond the confines of
Munster, on our way to Holyhead. And so ended
our "Autumn Trip through Munster."
" BACK-SETTLEMENT " POPULATION.
A RESPECTED correspondent takes us to task for
stating, in a recent article on "The Back-settle-
ments of London," that clergymen, when visiting in
the neighbourhood of Saffron Hill and Church Lane,
are " under the necessity of being accompanied by
policemen in plain clothes." Our authority is
Mr. Peter Cunningham, who, in his Hand-book of
London, — unquestionably the ablest and most accurate
book extant on the subject, — states, under the head of
"Saffron Hill," that "the clergymen of St.
Andrew's, Holborn [the parish in which the purlieu
lies], have been obliged, when visiting it, to be
accompanied by policemen in plain clothes." Our
correspondent does not approve of such facts being
stated, even though they be correct. We are not of
this opinion, but rather think it the wiser course to
ascertain and make known the actual condition of our
neglected districts. By putting on the seeming fair
outside, and ignoring the dark facts of our social
condition, we should be but painting a false outside
picture, and deceiving our readers. To conceal truth,
is often equivalent to telling untruth. We would
rather not give a one-sided view of things, and paint
up as a " whited sepulchre" that which is full of
dead men's bones, and all uncleanness. We have
much pleasure, however, in adding what our corres-
pondent states as to his own visits in the neighbour-
hood of St. Giles's. He observes, — "For three years
I have been in the habit of visiting the poor of
St. Giles's and the Seven Dials, and never yet
thought it necessary to have the assistance of the
police. In the summer I preached the Gospel in the
open air at the Seven Dials, described by your
contributor as 'the head-qiiarters of drunkenness,'—
and met with a welcome reception. I have visited
the lodging-houses of Church Lane alone, both night
and day, and been surrounded by 'niggers,' thieves,
beggars, prostitutes, and vagabonds of all sorts ; and
they listened to my Gospel words, and thanked me
142
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
for coming to see them ; and out of those very dens
both men and women have come to hear me expound
the Scriptures in the Temperance Hall, King Street,
where more than a hundred of the very people whom
clergymen are said to be afraid to visit without a
policeman, may be seen, forming as decorous a
congregation as you can see in London. And as to
the Seven Dials, — why, the people are only sorry
that the clergy do so seldom visit them. Their
complaint is, that the clergy neglect them, ay, even
when poor, sick, troubled, and dying. They make
me welcome to their homes. Some gentlemen with
whom I am associated are able to penetrate into
many cellars and attics where want and misery
abound. I go amongst thieves, pugilists, drunkards,
dog-fighters, costermongers, and prostitutes, without
fear, insult, or injury, and why not clergymen ? No
real, loving, earnest minister of Christ need fear to
visit them, and, if there be an ' ordained ' man who
does, it is high time he was ' unfrocked.'" Another
correspondent, of much experience, and whose
opinion is to be relied on, says he does not think it
probable that any clergyman would do so foolish a
thing as take with him a policeman in plain clothes
for a protection while visiting such districts.
" These districts," he goes on to say, "are all of them
very difficult to work, but a policeman in plain
clothes would be no security. Nay, more, — I will,
from my own conviction and knowledge of these
districts, state this much, that I will visit any of
them, at any time, with any religious man, for
religious purposes ; but upon no account whatever
would I be seen there in the company of a police-
man, disguised, or otherwise. My life, in that case,
I am sure, would not be safe." There is another
pircumstance mentioned by our correspondent, which
is not without its interest, as illustrating the moral
state of the districts referred to : it is this, that
into many of them policemen never go alone, but
always in the company of one or more of their
fellows. We do not know that it is necessary to
carry this discussion further ; but if Mr. Cunning-
ham's statement in his "Hand-book of London,"
above referred to, be incorrect, it would be well to
alter it in a future edition of the work.
OUR MUSICAL CORNER.
, COME, here is a sunshiny morning, and our fingers are
! tolerably warm, so we had better turn our attention
to the pile of crotchets and quavers before us. What
a medley we have to discuss ! and, withal, what a
quantity ! We have often heard serious and conflict-
ing opinions as to what becomes of all the pins made
and lost, and really one might as readily wonder as to
what becomes of all the new music, born and buried
with such mushroom fecundity. No less than eight
" Bloomer " title-pages are on our table, flanked by
five "Crystal Palaces," commencing with the clap-
trap doggrel Song, and finishing with the bouncing
banging Grand March. The "Bloomer" pictures
amuse us vastly ; why cannot the artists give some-
thing graceful and becoming, instead of the objection-
able and flippantly coarse delineation of costume pre-
sented to us so prodigally ? Passing over the want
of elegance and consistent refinement in the general
representations of the dress itself, why do the
" colourers " insist on mixing up the fiercest parts of
the rainbow in such abrupt patches ? Let us take
one of the "very best " figures before us, and we see
a hat trimmed with blue, an outer garment of not
very retiring violet, a robe of jaundiced yellow, a
scarf of rose-pink, boots of inveterate lilac, and a
parasol of the richest apple-green fringed with pickled
cabbage ! We cannot help wishing that a little more
sense of " pleasant effect " were displayed in these
matters ; but we suppose it is not to be had, for
who ever saw a lady represented in any picture,
especially on a stage coach, without her having a red
shawl, sky-blue bonnet, gamboge dress, primrose
gloves, and very pink parasol ! But come, we must
begin our agreeable task, and give up our impertinent
gossiping. We cannot pretend to notice all the
music awaiting us ; the predominance of " bad " and
" indifferent " over " good " forbids it, but we shall
select to the best of our judgment, and at least give an
honest opinion.
The first publications we take are by Chappell,
50, New Bond Street, wherein we have some valuable
contributions to the dancing public, by that talented
composer, Charles D'Albert, consisting of Schottisches,
Valses, and Polkas ; we especially admire the " Faust
Valse a deux temps." If ladies and gentlemen can
find delight in spinning themselves like human peg-
tops until they stagger to their seats through an
atmosphere of dust, why this is certainly among the
most beautiful music they can have to accompany the
frantic evolutions : the " Dew-drop Yalse " is also
very neat and graceful. As usual with this com-
poser, the'Valses are preceded by exquisite bits of
introduction, and the fine and delicate modulations
therein fascinate us almost more than the themes do.
The "Bloomer Mania Polka" and "Hanoverian
Schottische " are very pleasing, and very easy. " Pray
for those at Sea," words and music by Mrs. Norton,
is one of those peculiar ballads, in a minor key, which
we like exceedingly, but believe that the majority of
ballad -singers might not, as the plaintive character
all through it requires that subdued yet earnest ex-
pression which is rarely possessed.
We turn now to those published by Addison &
Hollier, 210, Regent Street. "In Days of Old," by
J. L. Hatton, is a very good specimen of a class of
songs now much in request, of which "The Friar
of Orders Grey " was the modern original ; it is easy
to acquire, and very effective, therefore well adapted
for those gentlemen who do not like to bestow much
pains on the art of being useful as well as ornamental
in society. " Come when the night dews are steeping,"
by George Mount, is very sweet and unusually ele-
gant ; the style of the accompaniment gives it a new
and graceful character, and the easy yet full melody
is within a moderate compass of voice ; we can warmly
recommend this to all drawing-room cantatrici. Three
"Impromptus," by H. E. Bache, have afforded us
much pleasure ; there is a nice and popular degree of
musical science exhibited, while each Impromptu has
a distinctive character, melodiously carried out ; the
music is classically good without being intricately
complex. The "Primrose Polka," by L. Geronimo,
is very clever and well marked, but we question the
practical good taste of passing from four into five flats,
then rushing into three sharps, then jumping back
again into five flats, and concluding with the primitive
four, — such sudden changes generally disturb the ear
without charming it ; our fine old masters got
along uncommonly well without half such pantomime
tricks.
We go on to D'Almaine, 20, Soho Square. Here
we have five " Etudes " of Szekely's, for such they
really are, being more valuable to the student than
to the player, who seeks something showy and
effective ; we have worked harder to master them
than we quite like to acknowledge. There is a theme
to each but the air is very soon lost in the elaborate
instrumentation ; and though we freely admit the
great talent of this composer, we should admire him
much more if he permitted the daisies of melody to
creep over his mountains of science. To our taste,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL
143
" Reverie " is by far the most pleasing of the compo-
sitions. " Sparkling Diamonds," by A. Are*ni, is a
somewhat bold title for a set of quadrilles, but we
consider the name so well supported that we shall
enlist them into our choice volume of dance music :
we heartily recommend them as alike desirable by
the musical finger and "fantastic toe." "Jesus
wept " is a sacred song, by Mrs. Mackinlay, and
rather a delicate subject to touch, but the music,
though somewhat eccentric, goes well with the words,
and the composition admits of much pathos in expres-
sion, but the singer must be careful in not being too
fast. " The Dream of Brighter Days," by Mary Gye,
is a ballad far beyond the average of those put forth
every day, — simple, flowing, and suited to most
voices. "Thou art near me again," by G. Linley, is
an especial favourite with us, — one of those bits of
melody which haunt our brain in the most pertina-
cious manner, and we warmly recommend this song
to all who love sweet music.
Now we take those published by Hammond, 9, New
Bond Street. The "Madeline Valse," by Brinley
Richards, is showy and effective ; the substance of
the Valse pleases us very much, but is it not a pity
to insert so many passages of mere dislocated scales,
thereby giving the composition a commonplace cha-
racter ? we consider this composer so competent to
demand admiration by dint of " himself," that we
feel disappointed when he descends to borrow from
the lesson-book. " Lady de Mey," by George Linley,
is a ballad that every one would listen to, being quaint
as well as clever. "Weep for the Lonely," by the
same composer, is a somewhat melancholy ditty,
written by the gifted L. E. L., and for those who
like to sit under a cypress tree, and join measures
with some mateless ringdove, why it is a charming
specimen of melodious sentiment. "Romance sans
Paroles/' by Henri Cramer, is a very fascinating
•titfii'ceau; these " songs without words " have generally
hitherto been too much for everyday performers, and
their beauty has thus been comparatively unknown,
but hei-e we have an exquisite composition divested
of all severe difficulties, and can recommend it cor-
dially.
We now take up those issued by Campbell, Ransford,
<0 Co., Neiv Bond Street. The " Annie Laurie March"
is pretty, well marked, and suited for young players.
The " Galop de Bravura," and " Corbeille de Fleurs
Valse," by Wilhelm Kuhe, are among the most
brilliant compositions we have ever heard, — a little
" tiresome " to achieve, but well worth the trouble.
"Gertrude," by Jules Sprenger, is another "song
without words," with an expressive theme cleverly
rendered.
The "Koh-i-noor Polka," by Mrs. Andrews (Wil-
liams, 123, Cheapside), is a very charming composi-
tion ; it requires "trying over," as school-girls say,
but is well worth playing, and well worth dancing to.
And now we have five varieties of musical eulogies of
Kossuth, in the shape of Songs and Marches. Spirit
of St. Cecilia ! is this the way we blend Apollo and
patriotism ? greater trash never was published, —
bombastic doggrel, stilted sentiment, and noisy com-
monplace, form the constituents of the pages, and in
charity we decline giving the names attached to them.
What have we here? "Dead Leaves," words and
music by Eliza Cook (Charles Cook, 3, Raquet Cowt,
Fleet Street). We cannot be at the bar and on the
judgment-seat at the same time, but it may not be
uninteresting to some of our readers to tell how the
simple thing had life. We were left alone, some
time ago, in the old wood where we spent a great
portion of our childhood in the young-lady-like pur-
suits of rabbit-hunting, acorn-gathering, and squirrel-
catching, to the discomfort of an affectionate mother,
and the great delight of " Pincher " and " Dido. " The
enjoyment we had in kicking about the dead leaves
then was something of Elysium, but as we stood this
autumn among the dry and russet heaps drifting about
us, a shadow fell upon our spirit, which embodied
itself in a spontaneous lyrical fragment ; and when
our friends found us, we imagined they looked at our
eyes rather more than was pleasant. We have lately
frequently caught ourselves humming the words
to an extemporaneous tune, and at last we set the
notes down, and here is the result, — let our kind
friends think of it as they like. And now, having
had a long morning's work over our piano-forte, we
are rather glad to hear Punch's drum and pipes before
the window, fully intending to patronize him with
our personal appearance and an odd sixpence.
THE TRUE POET A GREAT GIFT.
A poet is a Heaven's gift to a generation. How
like breathing free pure mountain air is a half hour in
their atmosphere ! We love, weep, tremble for the
once without one throb of selfishness marring the
sacred, holy, and spiritualizing influence of emotion
upon our nature, — forget our sadnesses and woes, and
envies and ambitions. We are noble, tender, gene-
rous, heroic, according as the poet-mesmeriser lays
his finger on our brain ; and we rise by magnetic
sympathy to the level of his creations, and yet more
to the level of himself. The poet shrouds us in his
own divinity, and earth for a while is hidden and
forgotten. Even when we return to the sordid and
selfish, light still rests upon the countenance that has
gazed face to face upon the poet. Alas ! that it should
so soon vanish. Still, if he can divinize clay but for
a moment, the poet has not lived in vain. Why then
should the critics come and crush the beautiful-winged
Psyche in their wooden hands, impale it, — not on
pins, but pens, — to number the many eyes with which
it looks out on infinity, the spots on its wings, and
anatomize and microscopize, and tear it in pieces to
ascertain why it pleased, us ? Is it not enough that
we are pleased ? 'The most exquisite things in nature
please, we know not why ; sunset, a still lake, the
roaring rush of ocean on the rocks, the mist rolling
up a mountain, the golden and green light glancing
through the undulating leaves of a forest — flowers,
odours, music, motion graceful as a feathery acacia,
or terrible as a tempest — all in which there is beauty,
beauty alone, without the utility that at once con-
nects an object with earth, pleases with the impos-
sibility of defining wherefore. They speak to the
soul, and the soul comprehends their language, though
material organs cannot express the subtle spiritual
ideas they awaken.. It is a silent emotion of which
the dilated up-raised eye, the parted lips, and cheek
pale with the presence of the Spiritual, are the only
interpreters. So in a poet, it is only what is earthly
we can criticize. What is beautiful our souls feed on,
but it escapes all analysis. It is the vital germ which
cannot be detected, anatomize as we will. — Nation.
GLANCES.
Perhaps the short hasty gazes cast up any day in
the midst of business in a dense city at the heavens,
or at a bit of tree seen amid buildings, — gazes which
partake almost more of a sigh than a look, — have in
them more of intense appreciation of the beauties of
Nature than all that has been felt by an equal num-
ber of sight-seers enjoying large opportunities of
sight-seeing, and all their time to themselves. Like
a prayer offered up in everyday life, these short, fond
gazes at Nature have something inconceivably beau-
tiful in them. — Companions of my Solitude.
144
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
(ORIGINAL.)
UNDER THE MISTLETOE.
CHRISTMAS SONG.
UNDER the mistletoe, pearly and green,
Meet the kind lips of the young and the old ;
Under the mistletoe hearts may be seen
Glowing as though they had never been cold.
Under the mistletoe, peace and good-will
Mingle the spirits that long have been twain ;
Leaves of the olive-branch twine with it still,
While breathings of Hope fill the loud carol strain.
Yet why should this holy and festival mirth
In the reign of Old Christmas-tide only be found ?
Hang up Love's mistletoe over the earth,
And let us kiss under it all the year round !
Hang up the mistletoe over the land
Where the poor dark man is spurned by the white ;
Hang it wherever Oppression's strong hand
Wrings from the helpless Humanity's right.
Hang it on high where the starving lip sobs,
And the patrician one turneth in scorn ;
Let it be met where the purple steel robs
Child of its father and field of its corn.
Hail it with joy in our yule-lighted mirth,
But let it not fade with the festival sound ;
Hang up Love's mistletoe over the earth,
And let us kiss under it all the year round !
ELIZA COOK.
FEMALE CHARACTER AND QUALIFICATIONS.
A defender of her sex might name many whose
achievements in government, in science, in literature,
and in art, have obtained no small share of renown.
Powerful and sagacious queens the world has seen in
plenty, from Zenobia down to the Empresses Catherine
and Maria Theresa. In the exact sciences, Mrs.
Somerville, Miss Herschel, and Miss Zornlin have
gained applause ; in political economy, Miss Mar-
tineau : in general philosophy, Madame de Stael ;
in politics, Madame Roland. Poetry has its Tighes,
its Hemanses, its Landons, its Brownings ; the drama,
its Joanna Baillie ; and fiction its Austens, Bremen?,
Gores, Dudevants, &c., without end. In sculpture,
fame has been acquired by a princess ; a picture like
"The Momentous Question," is tolerable proof of
female capacity for painting ; and on the stage it is
certain that women are on a level with men, if they do
not even bear away the palm. Joining to such facts
the important consideration, that women have always
been, and are still, placed at a disadvantage in every
department of learning, thought, or skill ; seeing that
they are not admissible to the academies and uni-
versities in which men get their training ; that the
kind of life they have to look forward to does not
present so great a range of ambitions ; that they are
rarely exposed to that most powerful of all stimuli
necessity; that the education custom dictates for
them is one that leaves uncultivated many of the
higher faculties ; and that the prejudice against
blue-stockings, hitherto so prevalent amongst men
has greatly tended to deter women from the pursuit
of literary honours ;— adding these considerations to
he above facts, we shall see good reason for thinking
that the alleged inferiority of the feminine mind is by
no means self-evident. — Social Statics.
DIAMOND DUST.
NATURE makes us poor only when we want neces-
saries, but custom gives the name of poverty to the
want of superfluities.
HE who indulges his sense in any excesses renders
himself obnoxious to his own reason, and to gratify
the brute in him displeases the man, and sets his two
natures at variance.
WHATEVER is, is right, if only men are bent to
make it so, by comprehending and fulfilling its
design.
To become an able man in any profession whatever,
three things are necessary, — nature, study, and prac-
tice.
THE virtue of prosperity is temperance, the virtue
of adversity is fortitude..
A STRONG character should never have the complete
control of a weak one ; the weak cannot sympathize
with the strong, and, to conceal his weakness, enters
into a series of deceptions that often end fatally for
the weak.
A MAN'S flattery to be really good ought not only
to be as keen as his sword, but as polished.
THE love of which men sing is with women ac
eternal truth.
THE best of all good things is a good example, foj
it is the maker and multiplier of good.
IN the country of the blind the one-eyed is a king.,
THE silence of a person who loves to praise is a
censure sufficiently severe.
PAIN is the father of Wisdom, — Love, her mother.
SOME men possess means that are great, but fritter
them away in the execution of conceptions that are
little ; and there are others who can form great con-
ceptions, but who attempt to carry them into execu-
tion with little means. These two descriptions of
men might succeed if united, but as they are usually
kept asunder by jealousy, both fail.
THERE is always more error in hatred than in love.
THE ecstasy of delight, like the intensity of pain,
makes one stern and serious.
HE who has merited friends will seldom be without
them, for attachment is not so rare as the desert
which attracts and secures it.
HE that buys a house ready wrought has many a
a pin and nail for nought.
No man is always wrong ; a clock that does not go
at all is right twice in the twenty-four days.'
THE real is the Sancho Panza of the ideal.
POSITIVE decision in youth upon things which
experience only can teach, is the very credential of
vain impertinence.
IT is to live twice when we can enjoy the recollec-
tion of our former life.
Just published, price Two Shillings, postage free,
DEAD LEAVES,
A BALLAD ; the Words and Music by ELIZA COOK.
London: Charles Cook, Office of "Eliza Cook's Journal,'
And may be ordered of all Music-sellers in the Kingdom.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London ; and published by CHARLKS COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 140.]
SATURDAY, JANUARY 3, 1852.
[Pines
COURAGE AND ENDURANCE.
\VHEN the celebrated Mr. Mark Tapley announced
that he was a verb, because it was his fate " to be, to
do, and to suffer," he enumerated, after a quaint
fashion, a truth applicable to all mankind as well as
to the Tapley family. In all men, doing and suffering
seem to be the end of their being. Effort and
endurance, striving and submitting, energy and
patience, enter into every destiny. They continually
recur through all the moods and tenses of the verb
to live, which every one bora into the world is called
on practically to conjugate. Any three men might
say with perfect truth, "lam," "thou actest," "he
beareth ;" and no matter how they shifted the parts,
they would still be correct.
But though doing and suffering enter into all our
lots, the world at large has always elevated action —
perhaps above its proper position, — and depreciated
endurance. This may be caused, in some measure,
by the one being more pleasant than the other ; but
the main reason is, because with action is associated
success and glory (failures and disgraces are forgotten),
while endurance pines in the obscurity out of which
it does not endeavour to lift itself. The active is
always more attractive than the passive, because
conquest gathers about it. Just as the Future,
moving onward, usurps the place of the dying
Present, and the Present, in its turn, pushes the
dead Past into obscurity, so that which moves
triumphs over that which is still. Notwithstanding
all this, there is a virtue in passive endurance which
action seldom has, and a moral dignity which is
higher than all the glory of success. We do not say
that " 'Tis better to endure the ills we have, than fly
to others that we know not of." The spread of such a
doctrine as that in the hearts of men would produce
lethargy, and render progress impossible. To-
morrow brings its own evils, which we must bear
for their day, but that is no reason why we should
lef, the suffering of the present cling to us.
When we set up endurance as a high quality, —
higher, in some respects, than mere effort, — we do not,
of course, mean that sort of endurance which springs
from ignorance, indifference, or stubbornness. The
endurance of the boor, who puts up with dirt and
wretchedness because he knows nothing of comfort
and cleanliness, and is therefore indifferent to them,
is one of the many phases of degradation which we
see around us, and the stubbornness that suffers
needlessly in order to carry a point, or to maintain a
crotchet, or to inconvenience another, is a sort* of
brutal obstinacy ; but we mean intelligent, thoughtful,
hopeful endurance, which meets difficulties with a
smile, and strives to stand erect beneath the heaviest
burden. There is something so noble in that quality,
which the world hardly ever does justice to in its
contemporaries, as to lift it into the highest regions
of heroism. It has all the attributes which men
profess to admire. It is more arduous than exertion,
more mentally brave than reckless daring • and when
we look back upon the records of past great deeds,
we seldom fail to allow it the merit which we are
slow to recognize in the present.
Take, for example, the history of the martyrs of
old, and consider in which position of their lives
they appear in their most dignified aspect. Much as
we admire them when they stand up the fearless
advocates of what they believed to be right, — great
as they appear when they ai'e striving to pull down
wrong, — courageous as they show themselves when
their enthusiasm leads them to brave danger, it is
not then that they most fully enlist our respect and
seem to display their most eminent qualities ; but it is
when they are in their enemies' power, when they
are immured in loathsome dungeons, when they are
dragged to the stake or the block, that they attain
their greatest elevation. Truly looked at, there is
always a grandeur in real suffering patiently and
enduringly borne. Not in mere anguish, attended by
complaints and murmurs, — that is simply painful,
without being noble ; but in torment, met with
dignified patience and even cheerfulness. In all the list
of heroic deeds, there is not .perhaps a more striking
example than that of the female martyr, Anne
Askew, whose hand an ecclesiastic held in the flame
of a taper till the sinews cracked, in order to try
her courage, and she, supported by an enthusiastic
faith, uttered no cry, moved no muscle, imprecated
no vengeance, but looked her tormentor calmly in
the face, and defied his power ; and that of the old
prelate, who, when the faggot was already prepared
for his burning, instead of wailing his fate, and
beating his breast, and tearing his hair, went to his
death like a bridegroom to the altar, bidding his
companion "be of good cheer," and rejoicing that
146
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
they should that day "light up a flame in England
that should never be quenched." By the side of such
instances as these, how small by comparison seem the
deeds of active courage inciting men to rush on death,
and die in the midst of effort !
But, even in war itself, endurance is to the full as
high a virtue as courage, and much more rare ; and it
is remarkable that here, as elsewhere, the more
scientific, and so to speak, civilized, the methods, the
more valuable and necessary does endurance become.
In the olden time, when two hosts were set in battle
array, and were then hurled against each other like
two mad human blood-crested waves in an indis-
criminate melee, there was less of real moral bravery-
required than in modern warfare, the stratagems of
which render the endurance of discipline essential,
make it necessary to restrain ardour, and imperative
to brave danger, without moving, for hours together,
in order to hold an important position. It is not,
however, in ancient or modern times that we shall
find in actual battles the highest examples of cou-
rage, but in retreats rendered necessary by defeat.
It is then that higher sort of courage which is
always associated with endurance is displayed. In
the excitement and the whirl of action, with the
hope of victory, with the pulses playing madly, and
the blood rushing in hot haste through the veins,
with no time for thought, and with impulse at its
highest pitch, few men are so destitute of physical
courage as to feel like cowards. Few then even
think of running away. Panics occur either before a
battle begins or when a check brings an army to a
standstill. After entering upon a fight, and while
immersed in a conflict, the veriest vagabonds swept
from the streets, — convicts who have been captured
unresistingly, pickpockets who would fly at the sight
of the policeman's truncheon, — fight like very heroes,
because, as the vulgar saying is, "their blood 's up;"
they are as much artificially stimulated, as though
they had drowned their sense of danger in brandy ;
but when disaster hangs over them, when victory is
hopelessly lost, when they are pushed back by a
victorious foe, harassed, depressed, fatigued, and
spirit-broken, they are thrown into more perilous
circumstances, in which only the higher courage of
endurance can sustain them. Looked at in this
light, the retreat of the ten thousand in the history
of Greece outshines the conquests of Alexander, and
the retreat of Sir John Moore to Corunna was
greater than the victories of the Peninsula. It is
noticeable, however, that women, whose province it
would seem to bear and forbear, are more capable of
endurance than men ; and in the blood-stained stories
of war, there is not one perhaps that more enlists
our heartsr than that of the woman who put on male
attire to follow her lover to the fight, stood by his
side through the conflict, where he fell, and then
braved death rather than be parted from his dead
body.
The courage, however, which is exhibited in war,
though more honoured and held in greater estimation
by the mass, in the past as well as the present, is
neither the highest in point of quality, nor the
greatest in degree. There are thousands of men and
women whose whole life has been a struggle, hour by
hour, with the intensest misery. Poverty, and the
fear of poverty, has hedged them in, clothed them
" as with a garment ;" their waking hours all toil, or
seeking for toil, their nightly dreams of want in its
thousand shapes. The fear of death, or worse than
that fear, ever before their eyes, — for it is worse than
dread of death itself to have all of life occupied by
the thought of how to live, not comfortably, or
happily, but miserably,— poverty-pinched, hunger-
gnawed. Yet how many are there of these soldiers
ot the world ever fighting the up-hill battle of
existence, ever striving for a position, and never
attaining one, ever decimated by the artillery of
necessity ; beaten back, discomfited, all but hopeless,
and despairing, and yet still returning to the charge !
How 'many traversing street after street in search of
a meal, living in bare garrets, plying weary fingers
and aching eyes from before cock-crow till after dawn,
and then hurrying to the shop for more work for the
next day ! How many crowded by scores into
pestiferous rooms, breathing poison ! How many
worse still, — shelterless, and all but naked ! How
many sinking under the pressure of want into slow-
consuming disetise, and wasting away amid pain !
Courage and Endurance ! What is the risk of
battles, now and again, to the hourly risks of such
lives as these ? What the headlong rush against the
foe, to the continuous fight with the world and ever-
pressing necessity ? What the sharp sword-stroke,
or the swift bullet, or the crushing cannon-ball,
letting out the life in a moment, to vitality wearing
away through years of agony ? To bear this, as it
often is borne, — borne with constant effort, with
never-ending struggles for a better state, — and by
those, too, who have enjoyed the comforts of life,
argues a higher courage and endurance than was ever
exhibited on the " stricken field."
In domestic life, too, particularly among women,
we often see these qualities in their noblest form.
Picture the young wife, taken a blooming girl from
a home of love to found another home, which is to
become almost loveless. Fancy years to have passed
away, and the girl to have grown into a matron,
with children around her. The rosy cheek has grown
pale and sallow, the full form lank and withered,
the eyes have sunk backward into their sockets, the
mouth, once all smiles and dimples, rigid in thought-
ful grief, the once-smooth skin wrinkled and traced
with anxious lines, as though care had thrown its
veil over the countenance. What does all that tell
us of endurance which shames that of the soldier !
It speaks of her heart's choice growing indifferent,
neglectful, estranged ; of the pretty cottage, with its
patch of green and flowers, exchanged for the one
room in the dirty, thickly-inhabited lodging-house
of a close alley ; of more mouths clamouring for
the less food, and their cries making sadder music
among her heart-strings than woeful bard ever drew
from his harp ; of late tearful vigils, — ay, and
prayerful, too, — watching for the well-known footstep ;
of the coming sound being marked with as much of
fear as hope, — fear the watched-for one may come
reeking from the gin-shop, and bring from its glare
and revelry into the darkness and sadness of his
home, surly looks, harsh words, undeserved re-
proaches, and perhaps blows. We know of some
such tales, but there are enough, if written, to fill
whole libraries with the histories of these women-
martyrs, the whole life of each a perpetually recur-
ring sacrifice ; and yet, sometimes from lingering
thought of old loves, crumbling memories of past
affection, oftener perhaps from love of offspring, they
cling to their dark fate as though it were a paradise
of light and happiness.
The world sets far too much store by courage, —
active courage, braving apparent and recognized
danger, especially when that courage leads to success,
— far too little by that patiejit endurance which bears
so many of its ills, and creates so many of its joys.
It writes the lives of many soldiers and a few
prominent martyrs upon its heai't ; it glorifies them, it
lavishes upon them respect, admiration, and honour ; it
builds monuments to them, so that they may live
after death ; but it never knows of, or if it knows,
slights and forgets, the thousands of enduring spirits
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
147
who pass through life like angels of good, spreading
melodies around them, as little recognized, because
as ever present, as the hum of the woods, and buries
them beneath the lowly sod, over which rises no
memorial-stone to mark the resting-place of the
truest Courage and Endurance.
THE FACETS OF DESPOTISM.
IT is not often that despotism makes us laugh. Its
acts in general are not of a nature to excite our
risible faculties. On the contrary, disgust, indig-
nation, and sorrow, are the feelings generally aroused.
Even in the instances we are about to give, of its
more comic side, we find our sense of the humorous
certainly somewhat excited, and yet pity for the
people who endure the unmitigated evil of such a
state of things must be uppermost. Perhaps we are
going somewhat far to illustrate tyranny, but no
matter what the soil and what the climate, the
fruits of this upas-tree are always the same. We
select the centre of Africa, because the country is
new to the English reader, and because the authority
is unexceptionable.
Dar-Wadey is a state of central Africa, near Lake
Tsad, and on the confines of Bornoo and D£r-Four,
little known to Europeans. Before the days of
Burckhardt, it was scarcely heard of, and this tra-
veller only tells us enough to excite out curiosity.
Other travellers, including Browne, Hornemann,
Seetzen, Lyers, Denham, just mention it, so that,
though we knew there was a place called Dar-
Wadey, of its internal scenery, of its manners, cus-
toms, &c., we know nothing. But to an Arab
Skeikh, el-Tousni by name, previously the describer
of Dar-Four, we now owe a complete account of
Dar-Wadey,* a beautiful, fertile, and populous land,
inhabited by a brave and warlike people, of whom,
on another occasion, we may give a minute descrip-
tion. On the present occasion we wish to refer to
the government only, or rather to the head of it, the
Sultan.
The potentate who rules the black people of Dar-
Wadey inhabits a huge palace, that occupies nearly
a third of the whole city of Warah, the capital. He
is a despot, ruling wholly of his own free will, and,
observes the Sheikh, assumes that air of imposing
authority, that severe exterior, that roughness, that
frowning mien, which makes the masses tremble.
This plan succeeds, for the Wadeyans have for their
sovereign a kind of adoration. They give up to him
everything, even selecting their most beautiful daugh-
ters for his second wives. No one can wear the
same ornaments, or bear the same name, or use fans,
but him. No one must be praised before a Wadeyan
but the Sultan. Water for his drinking is obtained
from a different fountain every day, other people
being chased from it with whips. A subject appear-
ing in his presence must previously strip ; he passes
through seven doors before reaching the Sultan, and
at each leaves a part of his dress, and then he does
not see the sovereign, who sits behind a veil. It is
the same very nearly in Dar-Four, and the Sheikh
tells us, in illustration of the consequences, some
very curious anecdotes.
Sultan Mohammed-Tyr^b sent to some Bedouwin
Arabs an elephant to bring up. The elephant, once
in the Arab territory, devoured everything that
came in its way, it would even snatch the food out
of people's hands. No one, from fear of the Sultan,
* Travels in Wadey, by Skeikh Mohammed Ibn-Omar el
Tousni; translated from the Arabic by Dr. Perron. Paris.
Benjamin Duprat, 1851. l vol. pp. 762.
dared to kill the disagreeable animal. At last, how-
ever, they grew weary of this unbidden guest, and
some Bedouwius went to the Sheikh, the chief of the
tribe, and laid before him their complaints. "Ac-
cursed be the enemy," they cried, "whom you bring
us in the shape of an elephant. Why, when the
Sultan gave it to you, did you not observe to him
that we were poor people, incapable of feeding his
animal ? You received the parasite without saying
a word, and you brought him here. He devours
our provisions ; night and day he destroys everything.
Rid us of this brute, give it back to its master, or we
must kill it." "But I could never dare go and
address the Sultan, telling him of the return of his
brute." "Take me with you," said one of the Be-
douwins ; "if you are frightened, I will speak to the
Sultan. I only ask one thing ; that is, to open the
discourse thus : — 'The elephant ! ' Then the Sultan
will say — ' What about the elephant ? ' and I will
undertake to answer him, — 'The elephant behaves
so and so.'" "You come then with me to the
Facher." — the grand place in front of the palace.
"Certainly."
Our two Bedouwins prepared for their journey ;
and in due time they started. It happened that
they arrived at the Facher on a Friday, the great
audience day. Having reached the gates of the
Sultan's palace, suddenly they saw a Vizier coming
on horseback, with a grand procession. The tam-
bourines beat, the fifes played, the Vizier approached;
he was in his grand costume. " That is the Sul-
tan," said the Bedouwin orator to his companion.
" No ; it is one of his viziers." Upon this announce-
ment, the Bedouwin began to tremble, and to repent
the mission he had undertaken. "But," said he,
"if that be only a vizier, who then is the Sultan ?"
At this moment one of the great viziers, or high
dignitaries, arrived, an abadama, preceded by a con-
siderable number of soldiers, and by other viziers.
He wore a most splendid uniform ; the tambourines
and flutes sounded around him ; cavaliers and parade-
horses preceded him. "That is the Sultan ! " cried
the stupified Bedouwin. " No ! it is one of his viziers."
The neophyte was annihilated with surprise : his
heart leaped within his bosom, and the poor man
forgot the whole speech he had prepared. It was
then he calculated the peril of his position. The ab
called Abd-Allah-Our-Dikka, then came out upon the
Facher with great ceremony, surrounded by a crowd of
cavalry and parade-horses, again in the midst of the din
of music. No one could hear themselves speak. " Is
that the Sultan?" "No ! it is the greatest of his
viziers." Our Bedouwin could not breathe; his face
became livid ; he no longer knew where he was.
A moment after, the Sultan came out from the
palace. This time there was a regular crash, — an
incredible din. The earth trembled with the infernal
clatter of tambourines and the neighing of horses:
it seemed as if the earth, says our Arab, was about
to fall upon the earth. The Sultan stopped : the
soldiers ranged themselves in line. The Bedouwin
chief advanced, and said in a sonorous and loud voice :
" May God protect our master, and make him vic-
torious over all his enemies ! The elephant ! "
" What about the elephant ? " said the Sultan. Our
man made sign with his eye to his companion the
orator, winked at him with all his might, and said to
him in a low tone, " I have opened the discourse, pro-
ceed." It was in vain ; the unfortunate orator was
mute. "Well," said the Sultan, "what about the
elephant ? " The Sheikh trembled lest the Sultan
should get in a passion, and inflict on him some
punishment which would teach him to answer in
future. "The elephant," said the Sheikh eagerly,
" the elephant is still wild because he is alone. Wo
148
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
wish you to give us a second elephant to keep him
company." " Give them another elephant," said the
Sultan. And thereupon the cornac of the prince
brought another pupil and gave it to the Bedouwins.
The two poor devils marched off. The men of the
tribe seeing them coming with this new guest,
" What is this ?" cried they, " we send you to rid us
of one elephant, and you bring us a second." "My
friends," said the would-be Bedouwin orator, who
now could speak, "you have in this Sheikh the man
who, on the whole face of the earth, is the coolest
and best advised. Give thanks to God that you have
such a Sheikh." The second elephant was accepted,
and no more was said about it.
Some other anecdotes are further illustrative of the
power and disposition of the Sultan.
Sheikh el Tousni was told in Wadey, that there were
once some Wadeyans who heard, by hearsay only,
that honey was a very sweet thing. They never had
had an opportunity of tasting it, not even of seeing
it. They agreed amongst themselves to present them-
selves to the Sultan, and ask him for honey. They
went to Warah. There they waited for the Sultan,
and went straight up to him. " Who are you ? " said
the Sultan; "what do you want?" "We are un-
fortunate people, poor rayahs ! of yours ; we have
heard that honey is something admirably sweet, and
never had we the pleasure of even seeing any. We
come to ask you for some, that we may feast our-
selves." The Sultan got in a passion. "What,"
said he, " do you make fun of me ? Do you come
and ask me for anything so trifling as honey ? Bring
a skinful." He was obeyed ; the Sultan condemned
the poor devils to swallow all, under pain of death.
They could not eat much ; their heart rose with dis-
gust ; soon they could no longer touch a morsel. The
Sultan had them locked up with the skin, and pro-
hibited their being let go until they had swallowed
every morsel of the honey, which order was carried
strictly into effect.
Three peasants sowed, one onions, the other red
pimento, the third garlic. At the harvest, each took
a load of his vegetable, tied it on a camel, and all
three went to Warah to present the triple gift to
the Sultan. He, who knew nothing either of onions,
or pimento, or garlic, who had never seen or heard
of them, examined these vegetables, and asked what
they were. "They are good," said the peasants,
"to season dishes." The Sultan, charmed by the
beautiful red colour of the pimento, took a berry,
broke off a bit, and put it in his mouth. Suddenly
he felt^a burning sensation. "These people are
rascals," said he ; "they have come here to poison
us. Put them in prison, and give them their gifts to
eat ; let them eat all." The order was executed.
The three peasants were imprisoned, and their im-
prisonment lasted three years. One came out with
a white dernatore or vitiligo, the other with an
elephantiasis and leprosy, the third was in good
health.
Another example will be received with interest.
At Bar-Four, there was a numerous tribe, not of
Arabic origin, called Berty. The Berty, or Bertaouy,
are well known for their cowardice; in this thev sur-
pass all the inhabitants of the Soadan. Now," they
had a governor, or king, who tyrannized over them
who took the goods of all, and pillaged all who came
in his way ; they never dared complain to the Sultan
they feared the consequences of the governor's anger!
On the other hand, the tribe looked upon him as a
Sultan, and all were persuaded that no one had any
superior authority to his.
This king despoiled one of his people completely
and reduced him to misery. One day our Berty in
great uuhappiness, loft his tribe, and went walking
straight before him. A met a Forien of Tendetty,
who was travelling for his business, and returning to
that town. The Bertaouy apostrophized him, asked
him whence he came, and where he was going. The
traveller answered this question, and said to the
man: "Who art thou ? whence come you? where
are you going ?" "I am of the tribe of Berty, and
I do not know where I am going ! " " How is that?"
The Bertaouy related his misfortunes, depicted the
rapacity of the king, and ended by saying : "I fly,
driven away by the injustice and the spoliation of
which I have been the victim." "Why," said the
traveller, "do not you complain to the Sultan ? He
will have all that has been taken from you restored."
"There is, then, a Sultan besides our governor ?"
" Certainly." " Who will show me where this Sultan
is, who will indicate his residence ? " " I." " Is
what you say true ?" "By God, very true." They
advanced and reached the Facher.
The traveller led the Bertaouy before the Sultan
Tyrab. "What do you want?" said the Sultan to
the stranger. The Bertaouy saluted Tyrab, as to his
equal: — "Good day, father of Ishac ! I have been
told that you could frighten our king. The king has
ill-treated me, has taken all that I possess, has ruined
me. If you truly can, as they say, oblige him to give
back what belongs to me ; do so." Tyrab began to
laugh at the rustic simplicity of the good man, and
immediately sent for the king of Berfcy.
On arriving at the palace, the king perceived the
complainant, and glanced at him with a look of rage.
The Bertaouy, terrified, raised his two hands, turning
the back to his face, and the palm to the king, so as not
to see him, and at the same time, " No ! no ! " said
he, " I cover your two eyes with two cows of four
years old. It is not my fault, ... on my word of
honour, they brought nte here to make game of me."
This expression, "Icoveryourtwoeyeswithtwocows,"
means, " I give them to you," to place them between
your eyes and mine, that is to say, to calm you, to
prevent your looking on me with a malevolent eye,
and to relieve me from the effects of your rage.
As the Bertaouy spoke, the Sultan began to laugh
more than ever ; then addressing the governor,
" What ! " said he, " have you no fear of God, to
tyrannize thus over Musulmans, and leave the paths
of equity ? Your people are good simple beings,
without experience ; they know no one but you, and
even in my presence they tremble at you." Tyrab
then asked of the Bertaouy what had been taken
from him. The Bertaouy told his story, and the
Sultan at once ordered the king to give back all that
he had pillaged from him. The king restored at once all
that he had of the poor man's in his house near the
Facher, all the governors having a town residence,
during their absence always inhabited by some of their
family, probably as hostages. The Sultan gave to the
Bertaouy, as security, the governor's horse, a splendid
animal, harnessed and saddled. It was to remain in
the complainant's hands until the governor had
restored all he had taken.
The Sultan then told the Bertaouy to mount the
horse. He hesitated, he was afraid. Tyrab then said to
those who surrounded him, " Put him on the
horse." Then the Bertaouy yielded, and rode a yard
or two. Suddenly, he began to cry aloud : "Father
of Ishac, but you want to kill me ! This is not
justice. I never rode on horseback in my life." The
Sultan was now splitting with laughter. He how-
ever allowed the horseman to get down, gave him
the equivalent of all the king owed him, and added
presents. On his return to his tribe : "My friends,"
said the Bertaoxiy to his companions, " I have found
the father of Ishac : he treated our governor as a
master treats a servant : he treated me magnificently.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
149
He is my friend now : if any of you have any
complaint to make, let him go to the father of Ishac.
And if he cannot reach him, I undertake his business,
as I and the Sultan are now friends."
The worthy man had a very pretty daughter.
He took her to Tyrab. "Father of Ishac," said he,
" here is my daughter. She is my dearest possession.
Many have "asked her in marriage, but I have always
refused her. You have rendered me a great service,
find I present you my daughter. Take her for your
wife." The Sultan liked the look of the young girl,
accepted, and she at once passed through the
necessary ceremonies. She was the first Bertaouyan
girl who married a sultan. Since then, many have
had the same honour ; but Sultan Mohammed-
Fadhl, of Dar-Four, only took them as second wives.
Two other anecdotes, and we dismiss the subject
for the present.
Once upon a time there lived some Wadeyans, who
were insatiable smokers ; they had such a passion for
their pipes, that they could riot do a moment without
them. From a habit it had become a want, from a want
an insatiable passion. One day it happened that
they had not even enough money left to buy a bit
of tobacco, a circumstance very common, we fancy,
with persons who make a god of the intoxicating
weed, and after lamenting for some time their
misery, they decided, after mature deliberation, upon
going to the Sultan, and asking him for tobacco, or
the means of obtaining some. They started, and
reaching the Facher, laid their statement before him.
The Sultan became angry. '"These fellows," said he,
" have no shame ! They come and ask me, — for what ?
— Tobacco ! Well, I will give them some, and a
sufficient dose." Then, by order of the prince, his
servants made a huge bowl of earth, about three
yards high, and equal circumference. The suitors
were counted. They were ten. The vat-pipe was filled
with tobacco, a mass of hot coals was placed on the top,
and at the bottom the ten long reeds were placed in
ten holes. The king had ordered them to be placed
round the vat, and to smoke until every leaf of the
tobacco was consumed. As soon as all was ready,
the charcoal was blown to a red-heat, the ten were
seated round, and entered upon their functions of
smokers extraordinary to his majesty. Each took a
puff or two, and they had quite enough. They
wished to rise and go. They were compelled to
continue, until at last they fell to the ground in a
stupid state of intoxication. The Sultan was then
informed of this, and let them go.
There is, however, another side to the picture.
Formerly, the sultans of Wadey, or Wadai, were not
allowed to drink fresh milk, "For," said the
Wadeyans, "if the sultan drinks milk, what can his
subjects drink ? " Once a sultan ventured to have a
milch cow. The public became aware of it, crowds
collected, an insurrection was imminent, the people
cried, "You must send away the cow, and promise
to drink no milk, or we kill you ;" and the
sultan was forced to obey. The custom is now
abolished, and the sultan is free to drink milk.
It appears that, despite the despotic power of the
sultans, there are limits to their rule. Saboon
wished to modify the keyl, or corn measure, and to
introduce the moud ; but he was forced to yield
before a threatened insurrection. His attempt to
coin money had the same fate. The people said,
"The Moggrebeens made the same proposition to
Khn,rif-el-Telman, your ancestor, and he refused.
' My subjects,' said he, 'are simple people, without
ambition ; if we coin money, once they possess
money, they will leave their simplicity behind ; they
will think of nothing- but amassing wealth, and they
will become jealous and avaricious. These vices once
introduced into the country, would ruin it. I won't
have it.' We think it unreasonable you should not
be of the same opinion as your ancestor." And
Saboon abandoned his notion.
Despotism, however, has in Wada'i its awfully dark
and gloomy side. El-Tousni records fearful atro-
cities ; but we will not alter the character of our
brief note of the comic side of black tyranny,
satisfied that the reader will at once see that, even in
its sunny moments, tyranny is a thing of evil.
MRS. CHISHOLM.
•
How innumerable are the ways in which men and
women can benefit their fellow-creatures ! There is
not a human being, howsoever humble, but can
dispense help to others. It needs but the willing
heart and the ready hand. There is no want of
opportunity for good works to those who desire to
perform them. Where will you begin ? With your
next-door neighbour ? This is what John Pounds
did. But if you wish for a larger theatre for your
philanthropy, you need have no difficulty in finding
it out. Most of the genuine philanthropic workers
have, however, been directed by no particular effort
of choice. The field of labour has lain in their way,
and they have set to work forthwith. It was the
duty which lay nearest to them, and they set about
doing it. Many others had passed it by, and saw no
field for exertion there ; but the discerning eye of
the true lover of men saw the work at a glance, and
without the slightest hope or desire for fame,
without any expectation of public recognition or
eulogium, at once entered diligently and earnestly
upon the performance of the duty.
Such was the field of labour to which Mrs.
Chisholm earnestly devoted herself. She was re-
siding in Sydney, New South Wales, when she
was distressed by the sight of many yottng women
arriving at that place without guide or protector,
without any idea of the wants of the colony, or how
to set about obtaining proper situations there ; and
often these poor girls, on landing at Sydney, thousands
of miles from home, wandered about in the streets,
homeless and destitute, for days together. The heart
of this good woman was moved by the sight, and she
could not fail to see the moral evils that might arise
from such a state of things. She forthwith resolved
to place herself in loco parentis to these helpless
female emigrants, and to shelter and protect them
until they could be comfortably provided for in the
colony. She applied to the governor for the use of a
government building, which was conceded to her
with the cautious red-tape proviso, that Mrs.
Chisholm " would guarantee the government against
any expense." This she did, and the first " Female
Emigrants' Home" was opened. Mrs. Chisholm
appealed to the public for support, and her appeal
was liberally responded to. She freely devoted her
own time gratuitously to the protection of her hum-
bler sisters.
Great success attended the establishment of the
Female Emigrants' Home. It soon became crowded ;
and then she had to devote herself to obtaining
situations for them, to make room for the fresh
arrivals. As many of the female emigrants (a con-
siderable proportion of whom were Irish) were found
unsuitable for service in Sydney, but were well-
adapted for the rough country work of the interior,
Mrs. Chisholm proceeded to form branch establish-
ments in the principal towns throughout the colony,
and travelled into the interior with this view, taking a
large number of the young women with her. The great
demand for female labour which everywhere existed
150
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
enabled her to effect their settlement without much
difficulty, and by forming committees of ladies,
and opening many country depdts or homes, she
provided for the settlement of many others who were
to follow. Mrs. Chisholm's exertions were cheer-
fully aided by the inhabitants of the country districts ;
for she was doing them a great service, at the same
time that she was providing for the comfortable
settlement of her young proteges. In the first
instance, she had to defray their travelling expenses,
but these were afterwards refunded ; the inhabitants
of the districts providing supplies of the requisite
food.
Where a District Emigrants' Home was established,
handbills were distributed throughout the neighbour-
hood, announcing that "Persons requiring Servants,
are provided with them on applying at this Institu-
tion." The young women were supported at the
Emigrants' Home until places were found for them.
Shortly after, Emigrants' Homes for men were in like
manner established, and Mrs. Chisholm's operations
at length assumed a colonial importance ; and when
the success of her labours began to be apparent, she
had no want of ardent co-operators and fellow-
labourers. The following is the account which she
herself gave of the progress of her work, before the
Lords' Committee on Colonization, in the year 1848.
"I met with great assistance from the country
committees. The squatters and settlers were always
willing to give me conveyance for the people. I
never wanted for provisions of any kind ; the
country people always supplied them. A gentleman
who was examined before your lordships the other
day — Mr. William Bradley, a native of the colony —
called upon me and told me that he approved of 'my
views, and that if I required anything in carrying my
country plan into operation, I might draw upon
him for money, provisions, horses, or indeed any-
thing that I required. I had no necessity to draw
upon him for a sixpence, the people met my efforts
so readily ; but it was a great comfort for me at the
time to be thus supported. I was never put to any
expense in removing the people, except what was
unavoidable. At public inns the females were
sheltered, and I was provisioned myself, without any
charge : my personal expenses at inns during my
seven years' service amounted only to £1. 18s. 6d.
My efforts, however, were in various ways attended
with considerable loss to myself: absence from home
increased my family expenditure, and the clerical
expense fell heavy upon me ; in fact, in carrying on
this work, the pecuniary anxiety and risk were very
great. With the permission of your lordships, I will
mention one impediment in the way of forwarding
emigrants as engaged servants into the interior :
numbers of the masters were afraid if they advanced
the money for their conveyance by the steamers, &c.,
they would never reach their stations. I met this diffi-
culty— advanced the money; confiding in the good
feeling of the man that he would keep to his agree-
ment, and in the principle of the master that he would
repay me. It is most gratifying to me to state, that
although in hundreds of cases the masters were then
strangers to me, I only lost throughout £16 by
casualties. Sometimes I have paid as much as £40
for steamers and land conveyance.
"My object was always to get one placed. I
never attempted more than one at first. Having
succeeded in getting one female servant in a neigh-
bourhood, I used to leave the feeling to spread. The
first thing that gave me the idea that I could work
m this manner was this : with some persuasion I
induced a man to take a servant, who said that it
would be making a fine lady of his wife. However
1 spoke to him and told him the years his wife had
been labouring for him ; this had the desired effect.
The following morning I was told by a neighbouring
settler : ' You are quite upsetting the settlement,
Mrs. Chisholm ; my wife is uncommonly cross this
morning ; she says she is as good as her neighboiir,
and she must have a servant ; and I think she has
as much right to one.' It was amongst that class
that the girls eventually married best. If they
married one of the sons, the father and mother would
be thankful ; if not, they would be protected as
members of the family. They slept in the same
room with their own daughters.
" One of the most serious impediments I met with
in transacting business in the country, was the appli-
cation made for wives. Men came to me and said,
' Do make it known in Sydney what miserable men
we are ; do send wives to us.' The shepherds would
leave their sheep, and would come for miles with the
greatest earnestness for the purpose.
" I never did make a match, and I told them that I
could not do anything of the kind ; but the men used
to say, ' I know that, Mrs. Chisholm, but it is quite
right that you should know how very thankful we
shall be ; ' and they would offer to pay the expense
of conveyance, &c. I merely mention this to show
the demand made for wives in the interior.
" Even up to this date they are writing to me, and
begging that I will get their friends and relations to
go. I am constantly receiving letters from them ;
they say that ' If my sister was here she would do so
well.' Certainly I should not feel the interest I do
in female emigration, if I did not look beyond pro-
viding families with female servants ; if I did not
know how much they are required as wives, and
how much moral good may be done in this way."
For six years Mrs. Chisholm was engaged in this
admirable work, travelling many hundred miles to
form branch committees and depots, sometimes
convoying with her out of Sydney as many as 150
females at one time. During that period she
succeeding in settling, throughout the colony, not
fewer than 11,000 immigrants of both sexes, and
doing the work which ought properly to have been
done by the colonial government. She endeavoured
to induce the government to take upon itself the
management and superintendence of the office for the
settlement of emigrants which she established in
Sydney, but without effect. The governor and the
government emigration agent gave her great praise,
and sent home reports glowing with gratitude for her
philanthropic exertions in aid of the friendless
emigrants, but they provided her with no substantial
aid, confining themselves to empty words. The
noble woman persevered with her work, not at all
disheartened by the result of her repeated applica-
tions.
At length Mrs. Chisholm returned to England, —
not to suspend her operations, but to extend them.
Having planted her Local Committees and Emigrants'
Homes all over the colony, where they are carefully
superintended by the inhabitants of the several
districts, she could venture to leave them and visit
England with another noble purpose in view.
Having provided the machinery for locating and
settling emigrants on their arrival in New South
Wales, she desired to rouse the mother country to
send out its surplus labourers, its unemployed or
half-employed, or greatly-underpaid women, to a
country where they would be made welcome, and
experience no difficulty in securing at least the
means of comfort and physical well-being. At a
time when thousands of poor needlewomen in
London are starving on the scantiest pittance, and
while opportunities for profitable female occupation
are becoming fewer every day, Australia presents a
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
151
field of almost boundless employment. In her
evidence, already referred to, Mrs. Chisholm says: —
" The chances of settlement for a young female
are greater in the country part of the colony than in
the town. The description of young women best
suited for the settlement are well-conducted, strong,
and healthy girls, who can milk cows and attend to
a dairy, and light work about a house and
garden, because when they are married they must do
those things or teach others how to do them. They
may have the means of paying for servants, but 'they
must always direct ; it is girls of this class that do
the best. If 600 girls were sent now to Sydney —
experienced London house servants, smart girls —
they would immediately get good wages and respect-
able places, but they would not get married so
quickly as the country girls. The farmers and
shepherds prefer girls who have never been in any
service whatever ; they like girls who have been
brought up to work for their own family ; and I
think it is very desirable that that class should be
sent, because if you send them girls that have been
servants, you give them a class who have been
accustomed to many comforts which settlers' wives
could not get, and the country girls are more content
to remain in the bush than the girls from a town, so
that female emigration requires to be very cautiously
met in that way, not to send too many girls to
Sydney with the view of their becoming Sydney
servants. There is a good demand for superior
servants in the interior, but the great demand is
the matrimonial demand, and this is the demand that
gives me the greatest interest, and to which I have
devoted myself."
The most recent scheme which Mrs. Chisholm has
originated, in connection with the same movement,
is the Family Colonization Loan Society, whose
object it is to aid poor and struggling families to
emigrate, by advancing small loans for the purpose,
to be afterwards repaid by them after reaching the
colony ; and also to effect the re-union of the separa-
ted members of families, — parents and children,
brothers and sisters, wives and husbands, — in the
Australian colonies, by the same means. For
instance, by means of this society, servant girls
in Australia may remit through its agents their
weekly contributions of 2s. towards the emigration
of their parents, or for their support at home.
Assistance is also given by the society in enabling
parties to trace out and communicate with their
relatives who have emigrated, and in other ways to
keep up family relationships and restore domestic
ties. Readers of the daily papers will have observed
that a public meeting of a large body of emigrants
about to proceed to Sydney by the Athenian, was
held on board that vessel on the 22nd of September
last, the Earl of Shaftesbury in the chair. The
Athenian is the third vessel which the society has
sent out, and it is matter of gratification to know
that the emigrants sent out by Mrs. Chisholm are
more eagerly sought after and better liked in the
colony, than any that enter it. One of the notable
features of these detachments of emigrants is this :
that they are arranged into groups, each member of
which is to a certain extent responsible for every
'other, no one being admitted except after due
inquiry. Thus all immoral contamination is avoided,
and a high standard of character is maintained,
while a kind of family relation is established among
the members of the several groups.
The practical good which Mrs. Chisholm is effect-
ing by her unwearied exertions in this cause, can
scarcely be computed. She is the happy means of
introducing many worthy and industrious individuals
to positions of competency and independence, and
is engaged in the most effective Way in extending
the influence of civilization and Christian liberty to
the remote ends of the earth. What reward she
may meet with among men may be of small moment
to her, but of her greatest reward she is certain.
At the meeting of emigrants above referred to,
the Earl of Shaftesbury (late Lord Ashley) expressed
his admiration of the intelligent zeal and indefatigable
exertions of Mrs. Chisholm. The audience (said he),
had probably heard something of Bloomerism, the
highest order of which Mrs. Chisholm had attained ;
for she had the heart of a woman, and the under-
standing of a man. He wished her "God Speed,"
and prayed that she might be made more and more
instrumental in carrying out her great and beneficient
and holy purposes. To which we a
Amen.
add our hearty
THE FROG PRINCE.
FROM THE GERMAN.
IN those olden times when wishes were yet of some
avail, there lived a king, whose youngest daughter
was so surpassingly beautiful, that even the sun
himself was surprised when he shone on her face.
A great gloomy wood grew near this king's castle,
and in the wood, under an old linden-tree, there was
a well. When the weather was hot, and the young
princess felt weary of the castle walls, she would run
to the shady wood, and seated on the brink of the
cool well, play with her golden ball, — she knew no
pleasanter pastime than to throw it high into the
blue air, and catch it as it fell back again to the
earth.
It happened that once as she was amusing herself
in this manner, the golden ball slipped from her
little hand, and rolled into the well. The princess
watched it sink ; lower and lower it went, until at
last she could see it no more. Then she wept
bitterly, and it seemed as if she could not be
comforted, when suddenly she heard a voice, which
said, " Why dost thou mourn so, O king's daughter !
thy tears would move a stone to pity ! " The princess
looked in the direction of the sound, and perceived a
frog stretching his ugly little head out of the water.
" Oh, it is thou, old water-splasher ! " cried she ;
" I am weeping for my pretty ball, which has fallen
into the well."
" Cry no more then," answered the frog ; "I can
help thee ; but what wilt thou give me if I restore
thy plaything ? "
"Whatever thou wishest, dear frog!" replied the
maiden ; " my clothes, my jewels, and even the
golden crown I wear ! "
" Thy clothes, thy jewels, and thy golden crown I
care not for," said the frog; "but if thou wilt promise
to love me, to make me thy companion and play-
fellow, to let me sit near thee at thy little table, eat
from thy little golden plate, drink from thy little
golden cup, and sleep in thy little bed, then will I
go down into the well, and fetch up thy ball."
"I will promise thee all," cried the princess;
"whatever thou wilt, only bring me my ball
again ! "
But while she spoke thus, she thought to herself,
"How can a silly frog that sits in the water and
croaks, be my companion ? "
As soon as the frog had obtained her promise, he
dipped his head under the water, dived, and in a
short time rose again with the golden ball in his
mouth, and threw it on the grass.
The princess, full of joy at the sight of her pretty
toy, seized it quickly, and ran away. " Wait, wait ! "
152
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
cried the poor frog ; "take me with thee ; I cannot
run so fast ! " All his croaking and screams availed
ihim nothing, however ; she would not listen ; but
hastened home, and left him to go down again into
hi* well.
The next day, when the king and his courtiers sat
at table, eating from their golden plates, — spl'ish !
splash ! splish ! splash ! was heard ascending the
marble-steps, and presently, something knocked at
the door of the banqueting-room, and cried, "Oh,
king's daughter ! youngest and fairest, open to me ! "
The princess peeped out, and there sat the frog !
Pale, and full of fear, she returned to her place at
the table.
" Why fearest thou, my child?" asked the king,
who saw that she trembled, and that her heart was
beating fast and hard; "is there a giant come to
fetch thee at the door ? "
"Ah, no ! " replied she, "not -a giant, but a dirty
frog that brought my ball out of the water for me
yesterday, and so I promised that he should be my
companion ; but I never thought that he could leave
his well ; now he is out there, and wants to come
in to me ! "
And again the knocking was heard, and a mournful
voice, which said : —
" Oh, king's daughter ! youngest, and fairest, and best !
Pray open the door to thy promise- led guest !
Remember that yester morn, when thy ball fell
•Twos I who restored it thee from the deep well ! "
'^Thou hast given a promise, and thou must abide
by it ! " cried the king, sternly • " open the door !"
The trembling princess dared not disobey, and in
hopped the frog ; he kept close to her feet, and when
she sat down at the table, cried, " Lift me up, and
put thy little plate near me, and let us eat together ! "
The king commanded her to do all he wished ; but
while the frog ate heartily and enjoyed himself, every
morsel she swallowed nearly choked her.
" I have had enough," said he, at last, "and I am
weary, so take me to thy little chamber, and lay me
on thy silken bed, and I will sleep awhile ! "
The maiden began to weep, for she did not like to
ouch the cold wet creature, nor to lay him on her
pretty bed.
^'Despise not one who has assisted thee in thy time
af need," said the king, wrathfully ; so she seized the
poor frog with two fingers, carried him to her cham-
ber, and put him into a dark corner. But he hopped
to her again, crying, "I am tired ; I want to rest •
lay me on the bed, or I will tell thy father ! " The
princess angrily snatched him up, and flung him with
1 her might against the wall, "Rest there, then
dirty frog!" said she, when behold, instead of the
reptile, a prince stood before her ! His bright eves
looked kindly on her, as he led her by the hand to
ie old king, and asked her for his bride He then
related in what manner a wicked faiiy had changed
hnn into a frog, and had granted to none but the
princess the power to set him free
When the sun rose the next morning, there ap-
peared before the Castle gates a handsome chariol
drawn by eight white horses adorned with plumes of
SI Z£^&!&** ?°lden ***
had felt such bitter sorrow when his lord was
enchanted that he had been obliged to Und h"
i Prince entered the chariot with his
beautiful bride, to return to his country and Jcingdom
"em m°Th6' f */«**! Henry took L seat [ffi
em. They had proceeded but a short way on their
journey when the prince heard something crack • he
feared it was the chariot breaking; but
; _
cried, "Xo! it is but one of the bands I placed
round my heart, when my lord was wearily impri-
soned in the deep, cold well."
Again and again the cracking was repeated, — each
time the prince thought the chariot was broken ;
but it was indeed only the bursting of the iron hoops
that encircled the faithful servant's heart, which v/ere
useless now that his lord was free and happy.
RE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS.
THE FOREST BRAKE.
THE forest brake — the forest brake,
It must not dwell in cultured soil ;
Its dewy green imist not be seen
Where reaping pays the sower's toil.
'Tig rooted up, like noxious weed,
From gay parterres of floral grace ;
Where roses shine and jasmines twine,
The forest brake must have no place.
Its curling leaf must never spring
Where riches hold the wide domain ;
'Tis cast away, a loathsome thing,
From grassy dell and sweeping plain.
But fresh and free its tali head rears
O'er mount and moorland far and wide ;
And noble company it bears
With forest monarch side by side.
Oh, how I loved the ferny waste
That spread about my childhood's home !
I sought it with a gladder haste
Than now I seek a gilded dome :
I knew it was the dark retreat
Of lizard, frog, and speckled snake ;
But naught could keep my wandering feet
From trampling through the forest brake.
The breathing violets sprung there,
'Twas there the skylark chose to dwell ;
And hissing serpents failed to scare,
While birds and flowers were found as well.
There did I muse in lonely thought,
No book before me but the sod ;
'Twas there the simple heath-bloom taught
The wondrous glory of a GOD.
My young warm spirit yielded up
Its first intense devotion there ;
And breathed above the harebell's cup
Its grateful joy and fervent prayer.
I dreamt not that the world would hold
So much to make that spirit ache ;
The world to me then seemed to be
Fair as the sun-lit forest brake.
Once, once again I see it grow
As thick as in life's earlier day ;
And shadow falls upon my brow,
And pensive breathing fills my lay.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
153
I love tlie brake, the bonnie brake —
Yet do I almost blush to own
A soul that at so light a touch
Can yield so deep, so sad a tone.
Whatever flowers may spring around,
However bright the path I take,
My heart goes back to childhood's track
That lay amid the forest brake.
GOODNESS AND GOOD-NATURE.
you not awake yet, mamma?" said Louisa
Seyton, drawing aside the curtains of her sick
mother's bed. " It is nearly one o'clock."
"Yes, my dear, I am awake, and have been for
some time ; but I waited for you to bring me
my breakfast. I knew you would soon be back,
and perhaps I shall not have you many more morn-
ings."
" I hope not, dear mamma ; for there is a prospect
of my getting an excellent engagement. I have seen
Mrs. Todd, the lady who answered my advertisement,
and she seems quite satisfied with me. I am to call
to-morrow for her final answer. But do not look
unhappy, mamma, now our plans have succeeded,
and my long-cherished wish is about to be realized."
" I should, I dare say, have been more unhappy if
you had failed ; yet, as the prospect of losing you
draws nearer, I cannot but feel its bitterness. How
I enjoy this tea you have made me ! I shall never
take my food with the same relish when you are not
here to bring it me ; and how lonely I shall feel all
day, while your brother ig away ! "
"Dear mamma," replied Louisa, smiling faintly,
" if I were to remain here, I should soon have no food
to bring you, or to eat myself, either. I shall spend
very little of the money I earn, and send the re-
mainder to you ; then, surely you will repay me by
relishing food of my earning."
" I will try. How much are you to have ; and how
often shall I see you ? "
" I left that entirely to Mrs. Todd. I was afraid of
naming any amount, lest by saying too large a sum
I should lose the engagement ; or too small, I should
fix the salary at a lower rate than Mrs. Todd had
intended. I knew I must accept whatever she offered,
and she seemed so good-natured, that I have little
doubt of her paying me liberally, and allowing me
to give holidays twice a-year."
"She may be very good-natured, and yet do
neither ; I am sorry you made no agreement."
" I can do so to-morrow, mamma ; but I would
rather trust to her goodness."
" I see you think good -nature and goodness equi-
valent. I hope, my dear, that you will find this
good-natured lady is good, too."
In the evening, Louisa repeated the news to her
brother.
" I am s ne of having forty or fifty pounds a-year,"
said she, " if it should be fifty, I can send home thirty,
which ad Jed to mamma's annuity, will enable her to
live in to! ei able comfort."
"I think," said Robert, "you should have men-
tioned that sum, as you say Mr. and Mrs. Todd
seemed to be rich people. Ten pounds more or less
would not have lost you your situation ; and it will
be of the utmost importance to us. If you have only
forty pounds a-year we cannot remain in this house,
where mamma has such a comfortable room ; nor can
she afford to continue taking the draughts that seem
to be doing her so much good ; but you are older
than I am, and I dare say did what was best."
Louisa explained to her brother her reasons for
not having mentioned any particular amount of salary,
whereupon he declared that she was, in this case, as
usual, perfectly right.
The brother and sister spent the whole evening in
hoping and conjecturing concerning the amount of
Louisa's salary, and arranging the manner in which
each possible sum could be most wisely laid out.
" Have you fixed upon a governess yet ? " inquired
Mr. Todd of his wife, at breakfast, the morning after
the foregoing conversation.
" Yes ; " replied she. " I have seen a very nice
girl, who seems likely to suit me in every respect :
what salary ought I to offer her ? She did not
mention any sum."
" I scarcely know. What is she to teach ? "
" Music, singing, French, Italian, and drawing ;
besides English, writing, and all that which we look
for as a matter of course."
" I think fifty pounds a-year would be a fair re-
muneration."
" I do not know at all what is usual, but I will
ask my sister what she gives her governess. I was
thinking of offering forty pounds."
" Well, as you please, my dear ; ten pounds more
or less will not ruin us."
After breakfast, Mrs. Todd drove over to the house
of her sister, Mrs. Morley.
" What do you give Miss Dawson ? " asked she.
" I am going to engage a young lady, and I do not
know what to offer her."
" When she came, two years ago, I gave her twenty
pounds ; last year she had twenty-five, and for the
future will have thirty. What does your governess
teach ? "
Mrs. Todd found that Louisa Seyton's acquire-
ments were much the same as Miss Dawson's, and
that in all respects their situations would be similar.
Having originally intended to offer forty or fifty
pounds, and not much caring what the exact sum
was, she resolved on at ©nee giving thirty.
" Shall you go to Brighton this year ? " asked Mrs.
Morley.
"I scarcely know," replied Mrs. Todd. "It costs
us nearly fifty pounds, if we take all the children and
two servants, and we cannot go comfortably without
doing so."
"Oh, do go ; the Stowells are going, and we shall
enjoy it so much, all together."
" Well, I will think of it. I shall most likely make
up my mind to go."
Three weeks after this conversation, Louisa Seyton
was taking leave of her mother. " I am very, very
sorry, dear mamma," said she, "to be obliged to leave
you in these miserable lodgings, where your room is
so small that you scarcely seem to get enough air
to breathe. Perhaps I may find a better situation
some day, and be able to afford to take your old
apartments again."
"I shall get used to these soon, dear," replied her
mother. " Do not go without anything you require
yourself, for my sake. I am sure you will need all your
salary for your own clothes. When you can spare
me a little money, I shall be thankful to you, and
enjoy the luxury it procures me ; but when you can-
not, do not fret ; I shall do well enough, I dare say."
Louisa was not mistaken in thinking Mrs. Todd
good-natured. She found herself extremely happy
in her house ; so happy, indeed, that she grudged
herself the comfort and pleasures which it was im-
possible to procure for her sick mother.
Mrs. Todd had a niece living with her, between
whom and Louisa there sprang up a warm attach-
154
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
ment. After the hours allotted to study, they sat
together, working over the school-room fire ; and,
from general conversation, soon entered upon con-
fidential subjects ; so that, in a short time, each knew
the other's dearest secrets.
"I can never quite tell," said Louisa, one day, to
her new friend, " whether your aunt is really good-
natured or not. She has plenty of money, and always
seems ready to give part of it to those who need it.
Yet to me, who wants it almost more than any one
(since upon my exertions depend the very life of my
mother), she gives so small a recompense for so much
work. It cannot be because she thinks me incom-
petent to the task I undertake, for she has frequently
expressed her satisfaction at the progress your cousins
are making under my tuition. How can it be ? "
" I do not know. I am often puzzled in the same
way," returned Emma Todd. " You know she keeps
me entirely at her own expense, has given me a good
education, and is extremely angry if the servants
treat me with less respect than they do her own
children ; yet, sometimes she says and does things
which seem to have no motive but that of mortifying
me. For instance, she said the other day, before the
children and servants, — ' Oh, Emma ! it is a long
time since I gave you any money. I suppose you
have none. Here are five shillings.' It was perhaps
foolish of me to mind this ; but I could not help
feeling vexed, when the servants exchanged signi-
ficant glances, and the boys said to me afterwards,
' Do you think we shall obey you ? Why, mamma
keeps you, and gives you every penny you have.' "
When Louisa had been six months with Mrs. Todd,
and had heard no hint of holidays, she began to
despair of having them proposed to her, and resolved
to mention the subject herself.
" Shall you," said she one day to Mre. Todd, " have
any objection to my giving the children a week or
two's holidays at Christmas 1 "
Louisa dared not ask for more, and awaited in
breathless anxiety the reply that was to decide her
own and her mother's happiness for the next half-
year. Mrs. Todd was counting some stitches in
knitting, and did not answer immediately, so poor
Louisa had time to think over the disappointment
that awaited her dear, sick mother, and her affec-
tionate brother, in case of a refusal.
" What did you say, Miss Seyton ? " asked Mrs.
Todd, looking up from her work.
" Shall you have any objection to my giving the
children a few days' holidays at Christmas ? " replied
Louisa, changing the duration of the proposed holi-
days, in her fear of being refused.
" Not the least," replied Mrs. Todd. "When would
you like to go home ? "
"Will Friday- week suit you? That will give me
two days before Christmas, and I can return "
" On the following Friday, if you please."
That evening, Eobert Seyton went to his mother's
room with a ruffled brow. " Mother," exclaimed he,
" I have a letter from Loui. She is to come home ;
but only for a week. How mean and selfish Mrs.
Todd must be ! How can she expect poor Loui to
be kind to her children, and exert herself for their
improvement to the utmost every day if she takes
no more care for her happiness than this? She
knows you are ill, and that Louisa has never been
parted from you before, yet she grants her only one
week, to enjoy your society and refresh herself from
six months of hard work ! "
" What, children ! not at lessons ? " exclaimed
Mr. Todd, on entering the drawing-room on the first
evening of the holidays.
"No: Miss Seyton is gone home for a week,"
replied his wife.
" Only a week ! I thought your sister gave Miss
Dawson four weeks' holidays twice a-year.j'
" Yes ; and I had intended to do so ; but Miss Seyton
only asked for a week, so I suppose she did not want
more."
"Did you ask her ?"
"No; I was busy knitting, and I did not think
much about it, but I suppose if she had wanted more
she would have said so. I rather wished the children
to have had longer relaxation ; but it does not signify
much. Talking of Miss Seyton, why did you not
leave me out money to pay her ? "
" Do you pay Miss Seyton ? " asked John, a boy of
about twelve years of age.
" Go away, child," replied his mother, " and do not
ask impertinent questions."
" I say Tom," said John, " Miss Seyton has wages,
like a servant."
I did not know Miss Seyton was going home," said
Mr. Todd, in answer to his wife's question, " or that
it was time to pay her. I hope you got the money
by some means."
"No ; she did not seem to care much about it. I
do not suppose she wants it till she comes back, for
when I asked her to wait, she consented immedi-
ately."
" You had better send it by a money order."
Mrs. Todd took the notes her husband gave her,
and intended to send them, but was so busy in making
calls the next two days, that the money glided away
in small payments, before she again thought of
Louisa.
"Louisa, dear ! " cried Robert, entering his
mother's room an hour or two after his sister's return.
" Here is the landlord. I have put him off over and
over again, hoping to get money to pay him, and
was always disappointed. Last week he would have
turned us out of the house had I not received your
letter, which I showed him, upon which he consented
to wait till you came to pay him."
Louisa's face was scarlet in a moment. She turned
quickly, and was about to speak ; but glancing at
her sick mother, she seized her brother's hand and
led him from the room.
"Dear Robert," said she, as soon as she was out
of her mother's hearing, "I have no money, Mrs.
Todd asked me to wait for it till my return."
" Then, did you not tell her how much you should
want it while you were at home ? "
" No ; I did not think she would have asked me
to wait, unless it had been as inconvenient for her to
pay me, as she must have known it would be to me
to go home without money."
Louisa went to the landlord, and begged him to
wait once more. "I shall return in a week," said
she, "and will ask for the money immediately, and
send it to you by the first post. If I do not, my
brother will not ask you to wait any more."
After much persuasion, the landlord consented to
another delay of eight days, giving time for Louisa to
return at the end of the week, and send the money
by the next day's post. Louisa went back joyfully
to her mother's room, and said nothing of what had
passed. The little family were so happy in their
re-union, and chatted so pleasantly of their plans for
the coming week, that they forgot, for the time,
how fast it would fly away.
On the last day of Louisa's holidays would occur
the anniversary of Robert's birthday. She and her
mother busied themselves during the whole week in
preparing for the day. Thr.ee or four of the few friends
who had clung to them in their adversity were invited
to spend the evening in their little sitting-room, and
the mother and daughter made presents in needle-
work, not only for Eobert, but for each of the guests.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
155
" Mamma ! " said Louisa, coming in one morning
with a glowing face and a letter in her hand, " Mary
Stowell has accepted my invitation, and says that
her brother Charles is returned from India, and
insists on joining the party. Is it not good of him
to come to us poor people, when he is become so
rich ? "
" Charles Stowell is too good a man to let riches
or poverty interfere with his friendships," replied
Mrs. Seyton, more pleased than she chose to let her
daughter know.
On that same day, Mary Todd ran to her mother
with a letter in her hand.
"Mamma," said she, "Mr. Stowell is come from
India, and Mrs. Stowell has invited us all to go to
her house on Wednesday, and sent us tickets for the
Zoological Gardens on Thursday. May we go ? We
shall see a bird that Mr. Stowell brought to England."
" You may go to Mrs. Stowell's house on Wednes-
day, but I cannot let you go alone to the Gardens,
and there will be no one to take you. I cannot leave
the baby, and your cousin will be out."
" Will not Miss Seyton be back ? "
"No ; not till Friday."
" Then, let me write and tell her to come on
Thursday."
" No, my dear ; she will not like to return sooner
than she expected, for the sake of taking you out."
"Oh do, mamma," said Mary, pouting playfully;
"just one day cannot signify. Dear mamma, do let
me write."
"No, my dear. Now go. I am busy. You have
had your answer."
"No, no, mamma. Do say yes ; then I will go,"
continued Mary, holding her mamma by the skirts of
her dress.
" Come, Mary ; let me go. Well, anything you
like then. Yes."
Off ran Mary, and wrote the letter which rendered
useless all Louisa and her mother's work, and over-
threw in a moment the happiness of the little group,
who were talking merrily about the coming party.
" Mamma," said Louisa, as she heard the postman's
knock, on the evening preceding Robert's birthday.
" I long so much to see Mary and Charles, to see if
India has changed him, that I am afraid at the arrival
of each letter lest it should come from them, to
say that after all something will prevent their
joining us."
The letter was given her. " No, it is from H
Street. The money, no doubt," whispered she to
Robert. She was silent for a few moments, then
giving the letter to her mother, with tears in her
eyes, she said, " I wonder whether Mrs. Todd ever
remembers how entirely I depend on her for happi-
ness ! Never mind, mamma ! I must go," and she
forced herself to write a cheerful note of acquiescence.
Mr. Todd was surprised to see Louisa back on
Thursday. On ascertaining from Mary the reason,
he called his wife to his study.
" Mary," said he, " I have often thought of pointing
out to you a habit of thoughtlessness, by which you
seriously affect the happiness of others. I know you
are thoroughly kind-hearted, and would never will-
ingly pain those who depend on you ; but you do
not sufficiently consider the matter. Does it ever
occur to you, that besides myself and our children,
there are five persons in this house, whose happiness
your slightest word or action can materially affect ? "
" I have not thought much of it," replied she ;
" but I believe I am very good to Miss Seyton and
Emma, and to the servants."
" Not good, my love ; you are excessively good-
natured, but you do not think enough to let your
good-nature have its full course. Was it good of you
to deprive Miss Seyton of one of the seven days you
had granted her, for the sake of a child's whim ?
Was it good, the other day, when your nursery-
maid was to have had a holiday to see her mother,
to keep her waiting till you had finished reading the
newspaper, — in which you never take much interest,
— till the rain came on, and she could not go. When
you found that it was so, did you remember how her
poor heart must have sunk, as one half-hour after
another passed away without your ringing, as you had
promised to do, for her to bring you the baby ; and
when at last she saw the clouds gather and the rain
fall, so that all hope of seeing her mother was gone ? "
" I was interrupted in my reading ; and I shall see
that the girl goes another day."
"You speak lightly of it, Mary, because you give
the subject no thought. If little Mary were disap-
pointed of seeing you, after a separation of six months,
we should not blame her for crying bitterly, in spite
of a promise that she should see you another day.
Do you not think it is your duty to give a little
thought to these five persons, for whose happiness
you are in so great a degree responsible ? I am sure
if you had thought about it you would not have
disappointed the nurse-maid, nor deprived Miss
Seyton of her last day at home. Perhaps you some-
times make more unhappiness than you imagine, by
such carelessness. I know that few people look
upon the subject as I do ; but I consider if ft serious
responsibility to be at the head of a house, and should,
in your place, think it right to devote considerable
attention to the comfort of those under me. This,
my dear, is the only duty in which I see you fail."
Mrs. Todd promised to consider the subject, though
she did not at all see how her usual way of acting
could bring any serious unhappiness upon the
members of her household.
The next day she told her husband as she was
returning with him from a walk, that she had not
paid Louisa, who had asked her for her money, as she
particularly wished to send a part of it home by that
ten we must hasten back," said Mr. Todd, " or
we shall be too late for the post."
They walked on quickly for some time, till Mrs. Todd
was attracted by a pretty bonnet, and insisted on
going into the shop to ask its price. " I will not be
three minutes," said she.
" You must not, my love, or we shall be too late,"
answered her husband. ' ' I will wait for you outside."
Mrs. Todd tried on the bonnet. It was too small.
The milliner had another up stairs, and would get it
in a minute. Mrs. Todd followed her. This was
too large. " I cannot wait to see another," said
Mrs. Todd. "Here is an elegant thing," cried the
milliner. " Oh, that is beautiful ! I will just put it on."
This became the lady admirably. She bought it, and
hastened down stairs.
On re-entering the shop, she found her husband
inquiring for her. " You have been ten minutes,
Mary," said he.
They hastened home, and as they entered, the clock
struck six. The post was gone ; and Louisa sat
crying in her bed-room.
"How can you tell," said Mr. Todd, "to what
inconvenience the poor girl will be put by your delay ?
She would not have asked for the money unless she
had wanted it particularly."
Mrs. Todd blushed, and felt herself to blame ; but
forgot it all, as she heard her baby's crow of
recognition.
On the evening of Robert's birthday, Charles
Stowell arrived half-an-hour before any of the other
guests. He was too impatient to see Louisa to
wait even for his sister. He had been fond of her
150
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
before he left England, biit had imagined, from her
retirin^ manners, that she repulsed him. He had
however heard from his sister Mary of so many
kind words on the part of Louisa, when he had been
the subject of conversation, that he was now full of
When he had waited ten minutes, and only Robert
came, he began to feel less happy, and recall what his
guardian had told him, of Louisa's having formed
another attachment, and when Robert stammered
out — his own disappointment almost choking his
voice — that Louisa had returned to H Street a
day sooner than she had intended, Charles doubted
his mistake no longer. He concluded that Mary's
playful allusions to his fondness for Louisa had made
her take this step to prevent his making further
advances. He was gloomy all the evening, and left
with -a determination never to re-enter the house.
On the appointed day, Robert and his mother
watched anxiously for Louisa's letter, containing the
landlord's money ; but the postman went by, and
no letter came. Before twelve hours had passed,
from the time the infuriated landlord had again left
the house without his money, Mrs. Seyton was lying
on a broken sofa, — the only piece of furniture Robert
had been able to purchase from the broker who had
seized their goods, — in a small attic, without fire, and
almost without covering.
The next day Louisa told Mrs. Todd that she had
received a letter which made it necessary for her to
return home immediately. Mrs. Todd at once
granted leave, and showed a kind concern at Louisa's
evident dejection. "-Is there anything I can do for
you, Miss Seyton ? " said she. " I am sure you
know I should be ready to assist you, if it is possible
for me to do so."
Louisa thanked Mrs. Todd, but declined entering
upon any explanation. The only favour she asked
was, to be allowed to leave without giving the
customary notice.
About a week after Louisa's departure, Mrs. Stowell
called upon Mrs. Todd. "I want," said she, "to
ask you about Brighton ; whether you will take part
of a large house with me. Your sister tells me you
intend going there for a month or two next summer."
The plan was discussed and agreed upon. "There
is one thing I am afraid you will be unwilling to do,"
said Mrs. Stowell ; " that is, to go quite early in the
spring. I want to ask two friends who are in great
pecuniary distress to go with me. I have no room
for them in my house, and I know they have at
present scarcely enough to live on. By the time they
have been with me a few weeks, I hope to have
talked over some plan for their future support. The
daughter may perhaps find a good situation, for she
is very accomplished, and might get fifty or sixty
pounds a-year ; but in the mean time, you see, I am
anxious to have them with me. The lady s husband
assisted Mr. Stowell materially when we were first
married, and got Charles his post in India.
" I want a governess," said Mrs. Todd. " Mine
has just left me."
" I should be delighted for my young friend to be
with you ! I know you would treat her so kindly.
She has been with some lady, who not only gave her
BO small a salary that it would have been impossible
for her to spare any part of it for her poor mother,
who spent the whole of the little fortune her husband
left her in educating her daughter, but even this
she neglected to pay ; so that the poor creatures
have had all their furniture taken by their landlord,
and Louisa, obliged to leave her situation to wait on
her mother, has scarcely food to eat. You may judge
of the interest I take in the girl, when I tell you I
wished Charles to have married her ; but she does not
like him, and left home a day sooner than she was to
have done, evidently to avoid seeing him ; but this is
entre nous. My uncle, who, you know, was Charles's
guardian till he was of age, cannot bear the name of
Seyton, and wishes Charles to marry some one with
money."
Mrs. Todd, who during the whole narrative had
felt singularly uncomfortable, and had at each
sentence blushed more deeply, now, as she heard
the name of Seyton, turned quite pale, and made
some excuse for leaving the room. Sending her
niece to amuse Mrs. Stowell in her absence, she
hastened to her husband's study, and told him all
that had passed.
" Do not reproach me," said she, " I am enough
punished. Tell me how to undo the harm I have
done."
"We can soon do that, my love," answered her
husband ; " and Louisa Seyton is so good, that she
will rejoice in the sorrow you have caused her, when
she shall find, that by it, she has secured to all who
are for the future under your power a more careful,
and do not feel hurt if I say, a more conscientious,
treatment."
"That is indeed a hard word. Do you think I
acted unconscientiously ? I assure you I had not, in
any one instance, the least idea that I was causing
sorrow. I was only thoughtless."
" But it is unconscientious, my love, to be thought-
less about grave duties. Well ! do not look unhappy ;
I am sure you will now be perfect, and never forget
the lesson you have had."
"No ; and I see you are right. People on whose
thought the happiness of others depends, have no
right to be thoughtless."
While this conversation was going on in the study,
Emma was telling Mrs. Stowell of the loss she had
just sustained in the sudden departure of her aunt's
governess. >
"I feel it more," said she, "because I think her
family was in trouble. Though she had always told
me all her secrets, she would not explain the reason
of her leaving us so abruptly."
" Secrets ! " exclaimed Mrs. Stowell, laughing.
"Girls seem always to have secrets; or I should
wonder what secrets there could have been between
you and your aunt's governess."
" I assure you there were ; for instance, Louisa was
in love ; at least I suspect she was, with some gentle-
man who returned from India while she was at home,
and was to have seen her on the last day of her
holidays, had not my aunt written for her to come
back sooner. This made hours of secret talk, for she
was constantly conjecturing what construction he
wottld put on her .absence ; whether it pained him,
and if she should ever see him again. I have not
betrayed the secret," continued Emma, blushing,
"for I have told no names."
"You must tell me the surname of your Louisa,"
said Mrs. Stowell, in her turn frightened. " If it is
Seyton, I have made a dreadful mistake."
"Yes!" exclaimed Emma; "have I done any
harm ? "
"No; but I have. Pray, call your aunt to me
directly."
Mrs. Todd came in with the traces of tears on her
cheeks. "My dear friend," said she, "I see from
your manner that you have discovered me to be the
culprit whom you have been so justly blaming."
" Spare me, my dear Mrs. Todd," interrupted her
friend. " You must be sure I have known you
too long not to feel quite convinced that you acted
from mere thoughtlessness. Pray forgive me for
wounding you ; and let us now unite in making
Louisa Seyton and her mother happy."
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
157
The friends bade each other adieu. And Mrs.
Stowell hastened to tell her son what she knew would,
in a moment, dispel the dejection into which he had
fallen since the evening of Robert's birthday.
" I cannot/' said Mrs. Todd to her husband, "regret
: that I have had so painful a proof of the truth of
the observations you made to me some time ago. I
thought, because every one called me good-natured,
that I could not deserve your censure ; but I now see
there is a world of difference between Goodness and
Good-nature."
FROM LIVERPOOL TO NEW YORK.
BY A STEERAGE PASSENGER.
IT may be necessary in offering this Journal to the
public eye, to state a few facts concerning the writer
I and his circumstances. The following lines were not
written for publication, being intended only for
perusal by the emigrant's friends, but having come
into our hands, we have obtained permission to print
them. We think they will not only be read with
interest by all, and be productive of amusement, but
they will serve the higher purposes of utility, and
furnish some information of the utmost importance
to those, who like our friend, design to seek their
fortunes in the Western World. The very circum-
stance that the Journal is addressed by the emigrant
to his newly-married wife, is sufficient guarantee for
its genuineness, and every reader will at once discover
in each sentence, the verisimilitude of truth ; but we
may add, we know the writer well, and can be bail
for his veracity.
G. B the emigrant, is a journeyman printer, —
in precise terms, a compositor, or one whose business
it lately was to set up a portion of the type of a provin-
j \ cial newspaper. He held this situation for some time
previous to his departure from England, — which
event was hastened, if not caused, by the ill success
and stoppage of the paper on which he was em-
ployed.
Wednesday, August 13, 1851. — I have now been
two days at sea. On Sunday last, at about half-
past eight o'clock in the morning, we were hauled
out of the Waterloo Dock at Liverpool, and were
I taken by a steam-tug a little way into the Mersey,
where we dropped anchor and awaited the further
assistance of a similar help, to take us as far as the
"piloting ground." This was done on Monday,
when our sails were set and we stood down the river.
The commencement of my career on board was
certainly as uncomfortable as ^he most ardently
fireside-loving man can imagine. My berth was
appointed on Saturday by the person deputed with
that power by the agents, and a very indifferent
berth it was. It was situated at the bottom of the
ship, beneath that deck where the most favoured of
the steerage passengers were located. A burly
German shared the small space allotted to me, and
an Irish family were packed on my left, divided by a
board about nine inches in depth, and three-fourths
of an inch thick. The heat was intolerable. There
| was a continuation of the Irish family over head ; there
j was another small clan of Celts on my right, divided
i thoroughly by a whole partition ; and two Irish
! girls " from county Kerry," clambered to their
1 apartment above that of their country people. Need
I say I was disgusted at such an indiscriminate
packing of people. All sexes and ages thmst any-
how together, might have shocked the moral sensi-
bilities of any other but emigration agents, whom I
look upon as traffickers in human misery. At a
venture, I might say that seven-eights of the passen-
gers in the ship are Irish, — perhaps the proportion of
English is even smaller than one-eighth. The poor
creatures are mostly dirty in their habits, but they
know no better for want of teaching. All through
both steerage decks the same system obtains ; every-
where are the emigrants packed with no more regard
to the amenities of life or the difference of sexes, than
the fish-curers observe when packing herrings, and
placing hard roes and soft roes side by side.
My fare on Sunday was simple enough, being con-
fined to slices from a tenpenny loaf, purchased as
part of my stock of provisions on Saturday night,
said slices being moistened with draughts of cold
water, with which I had filled my small water-can,
by theft from some water-casks in the Waterloo
Dock. All the more provident passengers were
guilty of the same dishonest action ; and, as it
required two persons to extract the liquid, — one to
tilt the cask, and the other to hold the can, — at
least one half the thieves, myself included, got
drenched, which was anything but agreeable. In
concluding this little episode, I may remark that the
comments of the " Roscius's " ship's crew on our
conduct — the water belonging to those gentlemen, —
were not over -elegant, and were the reverse of com-
plimentary to myself and others. On Monday the
ship was overhauled for "stowaways." Two "gintle-
men from Ireland " were found hidden, and were
dragged through the crowd of passengers assembled
on deck, to hear their names called over. The
tender mercies of the first mate developed themselves
towards these poor devils in the form of a coat of tar,
plentifully besprinkled on their head, face, and gar-
ments. Whereabouts they had hidden in the vessel,
I don't know ; but one, an immense Irishman, who
looked very sheepish as the stout little mate dragged
him along by the collar, had got covered with saw-
dust. Two or three unfortunates were taken ashore
previously from the mouth of the Mersey in the
steam-tug ; these had really paid their money but lost
their shipping-tickets, so the provisions they would
have consumed were saved to the proprietors of the
vessel. We were kept without water till Tuesday, —
an awful punishment, for there we were within sight
of distant land, —
Water, water everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.
The fresh water was then given out, but so
late, that those who followed in order of prece-
dence, the poop and second-cabin passengers, had
to wait till ten o'clock before they could get any
breakfast. On Wednesday the same delay took
place, but there was certainly one advantage about
this otherwise bad arrangement : the lucky persons
whose numbers were first on the list, were enabled
to use the passengers' cooking-galley at once, and so
make room for those who followed to cook their
breakfasts. On Sunday night when nearly everyone
had water, and on Monday morning too, the
crowding and struggling round the fire was dreadful.
My rice on Monday got burnt to the bottom of the
saucepan, while we were herded on deck during the
searching of the vessel, and many poor creatures
were famishing, some because they could not approach
the fire to cook their food, and others because they
wanted the food itself. We were all strange to each
other. No one liked to ask another for food, or to
offer it, and if provisions had not been issued on
Tuesday morning, the consequences would have been
dreadful. When the food was served out, although
the quality was good, the quantity was very deficient.
It was measured and guessed at, and served in a
scramble. The carpenter officiated and, with his
satellites, kept up a chorus of blasphemy all the time.
158
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
The passengers felt that they were utterly at the
mercy of the " powers that were," and could enforce
nothing by legal means. I got eight biscuits for 2£
Ibs., and about 4 Ibs. of oatmeal for 5 Ibs. No one
gets what is promised. The " three quarts of
water daily, " is only two quarts at the commencement
of the voyage, — what it may be by the middle or
end of our trip, it is not very easy or profitable to
guess. I heartily wish that I had had an extra
pound to have paid at the eleventh hour, for " poop
accomodation," where the people seem pretty comfort-
able, though of course bad is the best, and my
situation provokes contrasts that may not involve
entire truth in the inferences. At any rate the
' ' poop " passengers have cabins thoroughly divided,
have their food cooked by the captain's cook, and
come much better off for provisions. It is now
blowing very hard and I can scarcely write. We
have this morning left the coast of Wales on the
east, and no land is in sight. The wind since we
left England, has been plentiful, but so contrary,
that the vessel makes little progress on her way
down the Irish Channel, although she drives at a
great speed. We have been veering and tacking
ever since the sails were set, and are not 100 miles
from Liverpool. It is a delightful day. The wind is
singing a song among the sails, the ropes are dancing
and the vessel is sailing through a sea that seems to
be a moving mass of emerald, with scintillations of
diamonds sparkling all around us in the sunlight, —
while the vessel's prow in its course, throws the
waves aside and breaks them up into spray, that
seems like animated coral net-work, and showers of
the purest pearls. Such is the aspect of nature, but
I am sitting with my back to the starboard bulwark.
The dirty little children are playing and making
a noise all round me, and doing seemingly impossible
things with dangerous means and appliances, just as
though they were still ashore. They suffer nothing
from sea-sickness, unless their stupid parents keep
them below, enjoying their lugubrious looks by a
sort of sympathy, which people seem to require
when miserable themselves. They can keep their
feet on deck while their elders are rolling and
tumbling about ; or if they do roll and tumble, it is
because they choose to do so, in memory of their
habits ashore. Poor little creatures ! They have no
regrets for homes left behind, no fears for dangers to
come. They are happy, and at any rate have enough
to eat, for parental love, that most beautiful of
human instincts, secures that to them, even though
parents themselves suffer ; God bless them, they are
full of life and spirits, because the sun is shining on
them. The rough hard sailors too, that salute their
elders with comprehensive imprecations ou their eyes
if they get in the way, lift the little children up and
put them gently aside, with an awkward grace, that
is as beautiful to see as it is comical, and altogether
the young ones are as valuable a part of the ship's
cargo as anything on board, for they keep up mv
sinking spirits, and perhaps the spirits of many a
one beside. On Monday night and this night also,
there was an attempt on the part of a few choice
spirits, to entertain an audience of part of the
passengers, with conundrum telling and singing
There were but few good original conundrums, the
selection being mostly from Punch, the Family
Herald, &c. ; but the singing was excellent : one
gentleman, a poop passenger, is a capital comic
singer ; the best good feeling seemed to animate all.
My efforts to help in the amusement were well
received. The entertainment took place on the
after deck just beneath the quarter-deck. This,
however, made no difference to me, for I was not
unpleasantly reminded of being a " steerage "
passenger. The cabin passengers are however
"roped off" from the others, and had any snob
chosen to have ordered me "forward," to my own
part of the ship, I must have obeyed, for proper
notices, tending to exclusiveness, are pasted up. A
lady broke the ice on Wednesday night, by volun-
teering a song, which was much better sung than
could have been done by most amateurs, especially
had they been suffering from sea-sickness, which has
been raging among all of us. I was very sea-sick
this morning, on an empty stomach, which made
the accompanying stomachache very acute. After-
wards, when I had eaten a biscuit, I was seized with
sickness by inhaling the heated atmosphere of the
cooking "galley," in passing, but the effect was not
so painful, and I soon recovered for the day. Sea
biscuit seems the best diet at present. My preserved
meat, when boiled with rice, seems to provoke
retching. Any preparation of oatmeal is worse. It
is mortifying to me to have so much oatmeal. I
cannot make use of it. "Stirabout," to my palate
and stomach, is horribly nauseous. Gruel is an
abomination, and always made me sick. Oatcake
is bitter and unpleasant. Two very decent Irish
girls have made me some, and baked it. I have it
now in my provision barrel, and cannot tell what to
do with that or the rest of the meal. I gave the
young ladies some soup which I made with some
preserved mutton, biscuits, rice, lemon, and salt, and
which I could not eat, because it provoked sickness.
I am glad to find that my popularity is considerable.
Some of the numbers of Punch which B gave
me, have been very thankfully accepted by one of
the cabin passengers, and I promised to lend him
some more when he had read those. He, and indeed
nearly all, are very civil. My worst annoyance is
the as yet undiscovered thieves among the steerage
passengers. Losses which would be trivial on shore, ;
are serious under present circumstances. On Tues-
day my fishing-tackle was stolen. I secured it to the ;
bulwark while I went to stir my rice, which was
cooking. I was gone about two minutes, but during ;
that time some one removed it. On Tuesday night, !
while I was asleep, my tin washing-bowl was made i
off with. This is quite a calamity, as I must now
borrow from whosoever will lend. The young Irish-
women lent my little saucepan this morning to some
boy, whom they did not see again. I thought my !
furniture was going somewhat too fast, and started
round the ship to search for it. I discovered it with
a part of the handle removed, round which I had
placed a ticket with my name and the number of my
berth. Had I not scratched my initials with my
knife on the side of it some days ago, I could riot
have identified it. It is very disagreeable to have to
lock mp all sorts of things with food, but this I am
constrained to do. I would advise any one going
from England on a long voyage, to take a separate box
or barrel for their cooking utensils, water-can, &c. I
have but one barrel, for which I paid 16d. in Liver-
pool, near the docks. There are scores to be bought
fitted for emigrants, with padlocks and keys ; they
are very suitable, being the same as those the !
Americans send their flour in, and the flour being
emptied, the barrels are left clean. A poor girl has had
a miraculous escape to-day. She tumbled down the
hatchway, a depth of fifteen feet, was taken up
swooning, but received no other hurt than a sprained
ancle and some bruises. She was in the way of the
sailors, and got an awkward push, accidentally.
The carpenter has served out the tea and sugar to-
day, and the quantity and quality are both very
satisfactory.
Thursday, August 14.— I have crawled out on
deck almost prostrated with the tremor attendant on
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
159
sea-sickness, to breathe the fresh air. I am seated
on the roof of the "hospital," which, by-the-by, is
tenanted with disabled ropes and worn-out sails, &c.
[Long may it continue so.] My back is supported
by the side of the inverted jolly-boat, and my
cushion is a coil of rope. I am very ill. The vessel
is heaving to and fro, as well as sideways, and I am
so languid that it is a great effort on my part to
write. Others, as bad or worse than myself, are
lying and sitting around me, basking in the sunshine.
We are still beating about the Irish Channel, with a
deal of canvas set, making but little real progress
through the heaving waters. It is only the sun-
shine that makes existence bearable. I went back
to my berth this morning ill, because I could neither
eat nor stay on deck. It was raining spitefully, and
the sailors were swabbing the decks. A few days
ago I got a bucketful of water dashed over my legs,
so this morning I got out of their way altogether.
In consequence of my severe illness, I lost my
allowance of water this morning, not being on deck
when my aumber was called. This is a dreadful
privation. The carpenter will give out no more till
to-morrow morning. The event of the day has been
the discovery of two more " stowaways/' — a young
man and a small lad, both of whom have been
severely rope's-ended («. e. beaten) by the first mate,
who, on catechising them, found that they had been
hidden in the forecastle, where the sailors sleep and
eat. Some of the seamen are supposed to have been
cognizant of their concealment. The elder of these
two miserable objects, upon being asked how he
should earn his living, stated that he had been to
sea before. The mate has set him to work, and the
poor wretch is scraping something or other over my
head. The boy — little more than a child — is to be
shoe-black, or anything, during the voyage. Both
were lashed with the rope till the tears started
plentifully down their cheeks. The excited mate
nearly came into collision with an Irishman, who
very imprudently took their part, and tried to justify
their concealment. It appears that the one who is
scraping above me had requested to be allowed to
work his passage, but this was refused. The mate
recognized him as a former applicant for this favour..
As I write, I am watching the curious evolutions of
some small brown birds, somewhat like ducks, on the
water, but more quaint looking. They are diving
about hither and thither, and seem to be perfectly at
home, though we are fifty miles at least from any
land. The sailors declare that they do not go near
the land at all, even to build their nests, but that
must be an error of the nautical mind. The sailors
say also that these birds may be seen when vessels
are three or four days' sail out in the Atlantic. It
is very amusing to watch the groups stretched lying,
or sitting, or lolling about the ship in all parts.
I think that the Irish have an inborn habit of
grouping themselves in picturesque forms. Several
of the clusters of them near me, would, if painted
just as they are, be faultless in what painters call
"composition."
Friday, August 15. — While we were, on the evening
of this day, amusing ourselves with singing and the like,
death was amongst us. I heard, on going to my berth,
about 9 o'clock, that a child died. It will be thrown
overboard. A sailor is sewing the corpse in sail-
cloth, while the poor unfortunate mother is
"keening," with her body nearly prostrate. Nearly
every voyage is attended with loss of life. One of
the apprentices tells me that the mortality on the
last voyage but one before this, was dreadful. No
less than fifteen people having died, — amongst them
the largest and most healthy-looking man in the ship.
The doctor whom they had, an Irishman, bled him,
but could not stop the bleeding, and so the man bled
to death. But this is a specimen of the whole
system. Passengers are not cared for so much
as cattle would be ; indeed, the loss of cattle would
lead to loss of money, while the passengers may die,
as the carpenter says, "if they like," and no jury
troubles itself about them.
[During the intervening days, between August
15th and September 2nd, our emigrant friend was so
ill, that he was unable to keep up his diary, but on
the latter day he made amends, by the entries that
immediately follow, in which he graphically pourtrays
the horrid cruelties inflicted on the poorer class of
emigrants, and the sufferings consequently endured
by them.]
September 2, 1851. — Somewhere in the Atlantic.
I sit down once more, my dear wife, to convey to
you from the scene about me, my impressions of it.
The realities surrounding the spot whence I write
will certainly make the picture more faithful than it
might be if I waited to get on shore before I
attempted it. I am among a drove of half-civilized
and more than half-starved Irish people. The
sounds, sights, and odours are all alike hideous. I
myself am as much like a skeleton as you can
conceive a living and moving person to be. I have
not eaten anything but boiled rice and sea-biscuit
for a week, and these articles by themselves are so
indigestible, that I am compelled to take medicine
every two or three days. My strength is so far
gone, that I am barely able to get anything cooked,
as I cannot compete for precedence at the cooking-
galley with some five hundred people, all striving to
prepare food in a " galley " where there is not room
for above thirty. I ge-t scarcely two quarts of water
per day, and that is mostly stolen from me by fellow-
passengers, while I am breathing fresh air on deck.
A gleam of sunshine has just struggled down the
hatchway, near the spot I write from, and exhibits
the miserable steerage-passengers in and about their
" berths," like rabbits in hutches, one set over
another. All is filth, noise, and discomfort. The
only reflection which bears up my spirits, is that you
are still in your clean and decent home, far from
the horrors of such a scene as this, — a scene
which you shall never witness. If, upon my
landing, I should not have a chance of sending
for you, so that you might come over in a
steamer, and be treated like a human being, I will
return rather than compel you to pass a single day in
such a pandemonium. There is not even a decent
separation of the sexes ; men, women, and children are
huddled pell-mell together. Three children have
now died since we embarked, and several people are
in the "hospital-cabin" on deck, sick with brain and
typhus fever. Indeed I know not whether I shall live
to send you this, for as I cannot eat oatmeal without
vomiting directly, I have to give it away to those
who can, and thus I part with half the solid food
allowed me. The water is so impure that if I make
tea I can scarcely drink it. We are sure to be
another fortnight on the sea, and it is chiefly my
fervent love for you, and unquenchable hope of
better days when you shall have joined me, that
keeps me either alive or in my senses. To make
things worse, my weakness exposes me to the
annoyances of a set of ruffians among the lowest of
the Irish passengers, from which the good will and
respect of the more decent passengers fails to protect
me. I am pelted at, hooted, and mobbed very
frequently, in malicious sport, and unless I could
bribe the ship's officers, I could not get any redress.
A woman was cruelly beaten till she was black and
blue, yesterday, by the ship's carpenter. Her
offence was refusing to go, when ordered, along with
160
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
the rest of the passengers on deck, while the ship
was being fumigated. Her children were ill of
measles, and exposure to the air was calculated to
lie fatal to them. The carpenter, however, dragged
her towards the hatchway, beating her with a stick
as he went. Another woman has since lost a child ill of
measles, in consequence, so the women say, of
exposure yesterday on deck. It is certainly
necessary that the people should be away from their
berths while the smoking is going on ; but I should
have thought that the risk of life might have been
avoided. There seems, however, no consideration
among those in authority over us, for our real
comforts or even safety. For instance :— on two
occasions, the carpenter, who gives out provisions,
chose to think it unworth the trouble to open a cask
of rice to serve the remainder of passengers with
their allowance when he had about fifteen berths
to serve — about forty or fifty people, be it observed.
I was one of those who went short, but that did not
distress me, as I brought aboard 12 Ibs. of rice with
me. We were each time promised "double allow-
ance next time." Now I could have dispensed with
medicine altogether, had I been supplied with a
little more flour. I therefore asked the carpenter
and the doctor to give me some extra flour, instead
of the double allowance of rice due to me. My
request was refused, both alleging, that if I wanted
it, I might on the next occasion have three allow-
ances of rice, but no extra flour. And thus I am
kept in bad health by them. They have served none
of the molasses. The quantities of everything served
(except tea and sugar, which is of the coarsest sort),
are grossly deficient, — not more than two-thirds of the
amount we are legally entitled to. There is, how-
ever, no redress^ unless the passengers return to
England, wait till the same captain is in that
country, and then cite him by an action at law, for
breach of contract. Such is the treatment of emi-
grants on board ships sailing under the American
flag. My decided advice is, that any person going
from England to America, shall sail if possible in a
steamer, even though the passage-money is more,
and that if they must go in a sailing vessel, they
choose one that is British, and under the British law.
The steamers go in one-half the time, or less, and
supply the passengers with more provisions, cooking
those provisions for them free of extra expense.
The remainder of our friend's Diary is nearly devoid
of general interest, but our readers who have conned
over the preceding extracts, will by this time have
acquired a sympathy for the promising young man
who penned them, that will crave some -further
information concerning him, and it affords us no
little satisfaction to be enabled to add, as a sequel to
the preceding gloomy narrative, some more pleasant
cts. On his arrival in New York he obtained work
t his trade almost immediately. His exact words
ire, I got work within twelve hours of landing,— at
good wages." And in another private letter he says
My wages are fully one-sixth more than in London,
and work is constant." We ought also perhans to
-dd that his wife 13 about to follow him. We know
not how this has been accomplished, but an old saw
amrms of all things, that » Where there's a will there's
away, and wedded love has probably suggested to
the emigrant's wife, that as she is relieved of all
ttendance on her husband-has no. dainty dinner to
serve up, or choice tea to prepare ; no shirt-buttons
sew on, and few stockings to darn, that her else
idle time might be so employed as to aid in brid<nnff
over the broad waters of the Atlantic Ocean, °and
facilitate the re-union that both of them so ardently
LOOK UP!
"LOOK up !"cried the seaman, with nerves like steel,
As skyward his glance he cast,
And beheld his own son grow giddy, and reel
On the point of the tapering mast ;
" Look up !t" and the bold boy lifted his faco,
And banished his brief alarms,—
Slid down at once from his perilous place,
And leapt in his father's arms.
"Look up !" we cry to the sorely-oppre.sscd,
Who seem from all comfort shut ;
They had better look up to the mountain crest
Than down to the precipice foot ; — -
The one offers heights they may hope to gain, •
Pure ether, and freedom, and room,
The other bewilders the aching brain
With roughness, and danger, and gloom.
" Look up ! " meek souls by affliction bout,
Nor dally with dull despair ;
Look up, and in faith, to the firmament,
For heaven and mercy are there.
The frail flower droops in the stormy shower,
And the shadows of needful night,
But it looks to the sun in the after-hour,
And takes full measure of light.
:'Look up !" sad man, by adverses brought
From high unto low estate ;
Play not with the bane of corrosive thought,
Nor murmur at chance and fate ;
Eenew thy hopes, look the world in the face,
For it helps not those who repine, —
Press on, and its voice will amend thy pace, —
Succeed, and its homage is thine.
" Look up ! " great crowd, who are foremost set
In the changeful " Battle of Life,"
Some days of calm may reward ye yet
For years of allotted strife.
Look up, and beyond, there's a guerdon there
For the humble and pure of heart ;
Fruition of joys unalloyed by care,
Of peace that can never depart.
" Look up ! " large spirit, by Heaven inspired,
Thou rare and expansive soul !
Look up with endeavour and zeal untired,
And strive for the loftiest goal.
Look up, and encourage the kindred throng,
Who toil up the slopes behind,
To follow, and hail with triumphant song
The holier regions of mind.
JOHN CEITCHLEY PRINCE.
To ask a favour of one who loves is to give more
than to receive. But why in love alone is this an
exception ? why is there no enlightened world where
all human requests would be considered favours, and
the asker be thanked rather than the benefactor ?
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAV, 74-75, Great Qneen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 141.]
SATURDAY, JANUARY 10, 1852.
[PRICE
THE PHILOSOPHY OF LUGGAGE.
BY ELIZA COOK.
"WHY, you don't mean to say that there is any
philosophy in luggage," said a very free and easy
friend of ours, as he came in and caught our roughest
of " copy " books in a state of exposure, with merely
this heading to a bit of gossiping prose which we
intended to commit. "Yes we do," was our some-
what quick reply, as we snatched the leaves out of
his hand, in not the most lady-like manner possible.
Our impertinent friend went on utterly denying that
philosophy could in any way be connected with
" luggage," and indulged in that sort of smile which
expresses a confirmed consciousness of superior
wisdom, — a sort of smile which is not pleasant,
when we know the party to be formed of metal
originally intended to be cast into a great spoon, but
that a lucky compound of gold caused to be turned
into a " great gun." We were cognizant of the
gentleman having large "Firmness," huge " Com-
bativeness," and homoeopathic quantities of "Ideality,"
and " Causality," so we prudently refrained from
offering any logical or abstruse elucidations of our
notions touching the affinity between physiological
ethics and practical packing-up, and soothed him
into a belief that we were still a rational being, by
dint of a superlative glass of Madeira and an
unusual degree of attention to his prosy dissertation
on the advantages of a war with Russia. We should
as soon have thought of bombarding the pyramids
with pop-guns, as of imbuing him with our speculative
mental analogies, so we. behaved uncommonly well
while he stayed, but thought his foot had by far the
most music in it when he went " down " the stair.
However, he had destroyed our mood, and we flung
the poor copy-book on one side until this moment,
when having vainly tried for some ten minutes to put
a dozen round apples into a square parcel, we are
induced to have our say out about the Philosophy
of Luggage.
There is much of desirable comfort, ingenious tact,
and worldly knowledge mixed up with all travelling
appurtenances, whether we move about with a large
family over the whole continent, or carry a roll of
music into the next street. We have seen more than
one united party of pleasure broken up into silent
sulks or savage opposition, for want of a little
philosophy in the luggage department.
What an immense amount of irritability and
anxiety may be spared, by the use of an extra strap
or the omission of a delicate band-box ! Let us here
declare, for the private benefit of our lady friends,
that, from all we have remarked in our locomotive
experience, we honestly believe that there exists a
natural antagonism between a man and a band-box.
It is not only a fair and open intolerance that abuses
and denounces the object of hatred before the whole
world, but it exists even in a private and vindictive
malice, that would vent itself in an unseen kick or
sinister shove, when the owner of the helpless thing
was not by to defend it. When we are collecting
a pile of luggage in the hall, ready for some marine
Paradise or inland Eden, the portmanteaus and
trunks are brought together steadily enough, but
only let us trust that varlet " Tom " to bring down a
band-box, and so sure does he insist on placing it in
most dangerous contiguity between a couple of
smashing carpet-bags, or else begins to whistle some
very lively tune, and employs the bottom of the
band-box as a sort of "staccato" accompaniment on
every stair, and when the traps are all gathered
together, somehow the band-box is sure to be the
thing that our brother tumbles over. He looks at it
with most aggravating contempt, and we hear a
muttering, in which the words " bothering rubbish "
are very audible. We are obliged to plead for it
with modest energy, and eat very humble pie, — an
edible which always disagrees with our stomach,
by-the-by, — for he might be revengeful, and the
thing is weak and unprotected. Then comes the
cabman, and with the greatest coolness, he positively
" flings " the band-box on one side, until the other
packages are fixed ; at last, he " supposes that thing
is to go inside ;" we hardly like to mention the small
private fact that we have been a sort of pendulum
between the front window and well-staircase mean-
while, in order to satisfy ourselves that the band-box
was still in existence, — but at last we see him put it
inside, and if by any chance he has any bag or
basket over half a hundredweight within reach, we
are prepared to see the said bag or basket lumped
right on it. Let the number of travellers be two or
four the poor band-box is sure to be " in the way "
on the seat ; it is the Pariah of our appendages, and
162
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
of course, must be carried on our lap. Then conies the
railway porter, who is most respectful to all that "can't
be hurt ;" but woe betide the band-box that you
entrust to him, — we are always obliged to "keep it
with ourselves," and if all the seats are full, and the
box too big to go under the seats, — which it always is,
— why our journey is not quite so unencumbered as it
might be. We seriously advise all women who value
peace and independence in their wayfaring, to abjure
band-boxes. We never think of employing such an
agent now, since our experience convinces us that
the stamp of misfortune is set upon it. We have
travelled with gim-crack toys and ornamental glass
without a derangement of the numerous family in
"Noah's Ark," or a fracture of the crystal threads,
but no sooner did we venture on a "band-box" than
" Melancholy marked it for its own." Never travel with
a band-box, ladies. Hide your evening-caps or best
bonnets in some solid, enduring frame-work,— have
an iron-chest, a plate-chest, a sea-chest, a tea chest,
an "old oak-chest," or any chest in the world, so
that it bears no relationship to the milliner's
receptacle, have nothing that resembles a band-
box, or every masculine hand laid on it will
. contrive some spiteful and insulting injury. Exercise
your philosophy on this point, and you will never
repent it.
There is often a deal of trouble and embarrassment
incurred by the very desultory and promiscuous
manner in which the extraneous articles in travelling
are expected to find their way from London to
Liverpool. There is something particularly awkward
and slightly impeding in having to arrange and carry
an unlimited number of sticks, umbrellas, parasols,
coats, rugs, and nobody knows what, about a railway-
station or pier-head. We lately met a party of three
ladies and two gentlemen, who had arrived at dusk at
Blackwall Station from Eamsgate ; their trunks and
carpet-bag were disposed of without anxiety, but the
perplexing and wild state of excitement over four um-
brellas, three parasols, two walking-sticks, three cloaks,
two coats, three Scotch plaids, one shawl, three baskets,
and a large bundle of sea-weed, was indescribable, to
say nothing of an unruly spaniel attached to a string,
who persisted in twisting and rushing about in the
most contrary directions possible. As for keeping
the things together, the attempt seemed impractic-
able. William was shouting to Emily to know if she
had his fur coat ; James interrogated William as to
the whereabouts of his silk umbrella; Ellen was
slightly frantic touching a missing Tweed ; and Sophy
was making a desperate snatch at any article looking
at all like one of their things, alternating her
vigilant activity with a sudden smack and energetic
shaking bestowed impromptu on " that tiresome dog
Fido." Half-a-dozen plums would keep tumbling out
of a basket, and the sea-weed would keep tumbling out
of the bundle, while we stood amongst them render-
ing what help we could, and thinking that a little
practical philosophy would have prevented a deal of
bad temper and considerable perturbation of mind.
It was a fine autumn day, and if William or Sophy
had secured the miscellaneous matters with a yard or
two of cord and a strap, comfort and independence
might have been preserved.
Another fallacy in which many people indulge, is
that of bringing something home with them, which
might be procured within reach of an errand-boy.
We shall never forget encumbering ourselves with
six pounds of butter from Exeter to Bayswater, and
on a frying dog-day, too ; it was no laughing matter,
— the comestible being somewhat carelessly packed,
and ourselves entertaining a natural horror of grease.
The trouble it gave us from the station to the larder
was beyond the usual small vexations of life, — what with
being almost in a melting state, the porter letting it
fall on the rail, and the friend who came to meet us
resolutely sitting down on it in the cab,— why, no
wonder that we hated the sight of butter for a
month ! We were fool enough at another time to
bring " specimens " from Derbyshire, and positively
had to purchase a portmanteau for the accommoda-
tion of lead-ore, sulphate of barytes, and " Blue
John," all of which we could have got cheaper and
finer in London. We know better now, and never
indulge any fancies likely to interfere with our
Philosophy of Luggage. We refuse " toffee " at \
Everton, cakes at Banbury, water at Cologne, and
bonnets at Paris. Talking of Paris, we lately had
some friends, consisting of three gentlemen and two
ladies, returning from that gay capital to England,
and it appeared that the gentlemen were extreme
advocates for the " philosophy " we are now discus-
sing, — they had a contempt for custom - house
annoyances, and entreated the ladies not to "smuggle"
the most trifling thing, — denounced gloves and lace
as feminine rubbish, and talked very big of the folly
of risking impertinence and detention for the sake of
useless trumpery. The ladies promised, and kept
their word, — the custom-house officers passed them
without leaving a suspicion attached ; but alas for the
strength of manhood ! each of the gentlemen was
detected with such an unwarrantable number of cigars
carefully concealed, that loud altercation and seizure
of the " useless trumpery " resulted, affording the
ladies ample room for sly allusions to masculine
weakness and masculine Philosophy of Luggage.
That there is philosophy in luggage, we are con-
vinced ; we have known people who travelled with un-
numbered boxes and bags, and yet w^re without
essential comforts, and we have held pleasant
company with those who had extremely compact'
arrangements, yet needed nothing. Some persons
are as diffuse and unmeaning in their packing, as in
tbeir conversation. We have seen a bit of top-string
put round a chest of two hundredweight ; we have
seen an address left on a valise indicating that it was
to be sent to Bristol, when the owner fully intended
it at the present time to go to Cambridge ; we have
seen hampers burst open at the most awkward
moment, and parcels " come undone," when it was
impossible to do them up again, whereat the "lords
of creation" generally "get in a way," and make
speeches as sharp as their razors. Somehow, men
seldom put up heroically with trifling annoyances.
They can look a bankruptcy in the face with the
courage of a lion, and often bear the death of a
wife, who brought them ten thousand pounds, with
Spartan resignation ; but give them an ill-cooked
dinner, ask them to wait for you five minutes, or let
a parcel, as we have stated above, run restive in
their hands, and one might think a linchpin was
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
163
coming out of the world's axle, by the fuss and fume
they make ; poor things ! they are but human, after
all. Certainly, it is very provoking to find ourselves
at a railway-station, as the reputed proprietor of
divers adjuncts, nobody knowing exactly what or
where, — trunks uncorded, bags unfastened, brown
paper bundles in most equivocal security, cloaks
here, rugs there, and umbrellas out yonder. One
gets into a heated bewilderment, that leaves us in
: our corner seat, with our "back to the horses," in
a state something between scarlet-fever and nettle-
rash.
Be assured, that philosophy and luggage have an
affinity that yields great personal comfort, and we
advise all who " pack-up " for general travelling
excursions, to do with as few packages as they can,
and keep those packages as concentrated as possible.
Strap all loose wrappers together, and tie xip all
parasols, sticks, and the like, closely and firmly, yet
so arranged that they are easily available in case
of requisition, and put plain addresses on every
package.
Eschew all the impeding animacula of locomotion,
— such as indescribable baskets filled with everything
that is never wanted, bunches of flowers that are
dead long before they reach the hands they were
intended for, — bags of biscuits which you never eat,
or if you do, only remind you of the possibility of
getting bread from saw-dust. Carry no more books
and papers than you can put in your pocket, and
above all, as the highest practical point of the
"Philosophy of Luggage," renounce Band-boxes.
A BATTLE FOR LIFE AND DEATH.
A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.
I.— THE OLD POACHER.
11 IT'S a cruel cold night," said old Joe Crouch,
stepping out from his cottage-door, and glancing up
to the sky, across which the clouds were scudding
furiously, — " it's a cruel cold night, but it will do."
"Ay," said his companion, "cold indeed, but
needs must, else there's short commons for us, you
know."
"True," said Joe, buttoning up his old velveteen
shooting-jacket, " and Christmas is close at hand,
when the great folks in Lunnon must have their
game. Matthew tells me he must have a score
brace at least by the morning's coach. So, we'll try
and fit him if we can."
And the two strode away together into the dark
night, down the back paddock, past the lane-end,
and hastily over the stile into the shelter of the
coppice which skirted the village fann-yard. The
loud barking of a dog close at hand here startled
them ; it had been roused by the crackling of some
sticks over which the men had trod, and perhaps by
the suppressed conversation of these wanderers of
the night.
" There is no danger in that dog, is there ?" asked
the younger of the two. " You know this is new
ground to me, and I don't know the beat yet."
"Danger! pshaw!" said Joe, "who thinks of
that when they go a-poachin' ? But no ; it's only
farmer Brown's whelp. It'll do me no harm, nor would
farmer Brown either. He knows his best friends."
" Best friends ! What do you mean ? "
" Why, poachers to be sure ! Talk about farmers'
friends, — there's none of them all to be compared wi'
iis. There's many on 'em would be clean eaten up
out of house and home but for us. It costs the
farmer more to keep a couple of landlords' pheasants
then it does to keep a baby of his own. And half-
a-dozen hares eat up more green crop in a year than
would find silks and satins for his wife and daughters.
Well, then, aren't we the real farmers' friends if we
help to rid him of such like varmin ? "
"Lawks, Joe ! To hear you talk, one 'ud think
we were real blessings to the country."
"To the farmers we are — I mean it as I say it.
But for us, farmer Brown there were a pauper. I
know well enough what it is to be eaten up by
game. I bin eaten up myself.
" What ? you, Joe ! How was that 1 "
"How was that ? I'll tell you soon enough. You
are but strange to this part, or you would know, what
most folks hereabout know well enough, that I was
a farmer i' my younger days, as my forefathers were
before me for hundreds of years back. Farmers
in a small way, it's true ; still, like them, I got on
well enough, and managed to make the ends meet, —
sometimes even to lay by a little matter against a
rainy day. Well, things went on bravely, — I married,
as my father did before me, and saw a young family
rising up about my hearth-stone. Little did I think
the time would ever come, when I, an old man,
should have to steal out at night like this, and go
a-poaching for a bit of bread."
" But how did it all come about ?"
"I'll tell you, quick enough. You see our old
landlord died — a kindly man, who acted as a sort
of father among his tenants, and would never disturb
any of the old families — he called them " his people,"
— and would neither see them wronged, nor suffer, if
he could help it. But who should succeed him when
he died, but a harumscarum youth, — a nephew, or
some sort of distant relation, whom we had never
before seen, and who knew nothing about any of us.
He was a regular tearer, you may be sure. He had
always about him a crew of swearing fellows, who
rode break-neck through the country after foxes, or
were drinking and carousing up at the Hall. One of
the first things he did was to bring down a lot of
keepers to preserve the game all about, which he
said had been "demnibly neglected." So preserves
were formed round our farms, and we had soon birds
and beasts enough of all sorts running about eating
up our crops.
" I was horribly nettled at this," continued Joe, " I
can tell you — but what could I do ? I complained,
but was called a fool for my pains, and told that ' the
game must be preserved.' I stood it for a year or
two, till at last the hares and the pheasants got so
rife, that scarce a green thing could rise above ground
ere it was eaten clean off. The hares ran thick under
every hedgerow, rabbits burrowed in the fields, and
pheasants and wood-pigeons ate up the beans and
peas before they were ripe. Flesh and blood could
stand this no longer ! I saw that I was but employing
myself in growing food for the landlord's vermin. At
the end of a few years I hadn't a crop that would
produce half the rent. Michaelmas came, when the
rent must be paid ; and the new landlord's steward
(an attorney) was a severe man, and would not be put
off with excuses as the old lord sometimes had been.
But I claimed compensation for the damage done by
the game. The scoundrel laughed in my face, and
told me that ' if I didn't like the farm I might leave
it.' But my roots had struck there. What ? leave
the place where I had been born and bred ! They
didn't know what a farmer's heart is made of, who
think to flit him about like a milch cow or a cart-
horse. But he returned £5 of the rent, saying he
1C4
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
didn't mind being ' generous on this occasion, but
remember it wasn't to occur again.' Five pounds
of damage was but a flea-bite to what I suffered. It
makes me mad yet, the bare thought of it."
And the old man walked on, brushing through
amidst the boughs of the wood, and seeming to be
more occupied with his inward thoughts than with
the business he had now more immediately in hand.
"Aren't we somewhere about the west cover now,
Joe ? There, across the patch of common — isn't
that the place ? "
"You are right, Jim, and now get that net from
off your shoulder and have it sorted out ready for a
plant. But here is a spot down here in a swampy
place where T have taken a woodcock before. Come
hither, and I'll show you how we set a springe in
; these parts."
The old man led the way to the left, towards a
j part of the wood through which a streamlet ran, its
little banks fringed by osiers, sedges, and tall grass.
Taking his knife from his pocket, he proceeded to cut
down a tall willow rod, which he stuck firmly into the
ground, at a place which he knew to be a familiar
woodcock run. On the other side of the run he fixed
a peg, so as to project only a few inches above the
surface. To this he fastened a slight stick, about a
foot long, attached loosely with a tough string, like
the swingel of a flail to its hand-staff. Then he took
another branch of willow, which he bent into an arch,
and drove both ends into the soft ground to a con-
siderable depth on the other side of the run, near to
the tall upright wand.
"What an odd machine is this to catch wood-
cocks," said the younger man, laughing. "Why,
in our parts we do it all by the trap."
"That maybe," said the older man, "but your
trap is not more certain than this machine — queer
though it be. You shall see."
He had now fixed a string to the top of the long
upright wand, the end of which he formed into a
large running noose ; while about half-way down, he
tied by its middle another piece of stick about six
inches long. The long willow was then bent down-
wards, when one end of the little stick was passed
under the arch, and the other placed against a notch
at the end of the stick fastened at the other side of
the run, across which it now lay, two or three inches
from the ground, and supporting the noose.
"Now," said the old man, as he placed the end of
the little stick in the notch, "there is the trigger full
cock, and when the hare or the woodcock's breast
touches it, the game is ours ! But let us go— there
is a cloud across the moon now, — so let us pass the
common quick, in case the crushers should be abroad."
The .pair emerged from the thicket, and entered
upon a piece of common covered with thick patches
of gorse, from out of which hares and rabbits sprang
at the sound of their tread, and an occasional bird
lew up on rapid wing. The younger man had once
lifted his gun, and cocked it, as if unable to resist
the temptation of a shot, but the old man's quick ear
heard the dick of the trigger, and restrained him by
an impatient movement.
"Hold Bill ! Are you mad ? Not a shot yet-
else you quite spoil our night's work "
" Well, go on I couldn't help it, Joe. See these
hares-such a shot! But I won't. See, I've made
the gun right now," said he, uncocking his piece and
rouging it under his arm as before
It was a desperately cold night-raw and gusty.
The ground was wet underfoot, and from the charged
clouds over-head, which swept across the moon, now
in her first quarter, rain or snow seemed to be im-
pending.
' I say, Joe, it's no fun, this," observed the younger
man ; "if these sporting coves had to get their game
at midnight, through mud and mire, they'd think less
of it. I suppose they'd leave it all for us to get
?"
then ?
"Ay," said Joe, bitterly, "and then farmers
mightn't have their varinin to keep. As it is, they
make the farmers pay for their sports, and dearly too ! "
"You haven't yet told me the rest of your stoiy.
How did you come on ? "
" It's too long, and it's too sad. The short and the
long of it is — I was ruined outright by the game.
I could stand it no longer. I determined to destroy
my destroyers ; but I had to do it secretly. I
destroyed nests of eggs — partridges and pheasants —
wherever I could find them. Sportsmen may call
this cruel and despicable ; but I saw no more harm
in it than in destroying rats or sparrows. I got a
prime Scotch terrier, that set to work on the rabbits
with a will. He would bring in half-a-dozen in a day.
But the keeper discovered him hunting, and shot him
on the spot. I found they began to suspect me ; but
I went on killing. I did not hesitate to bring down
a pheasant with my gun when it came within reach ;
ancl the brutes had grown so tame that they would
come flying from the coverts in troops, and light in
my meagre barn-yard, picking at my stacks as tame
as poultry.
" One day I saw a covey on the hedge, feeding in
my stubble. I fired ; and a bird fell. I leapt the
hedge to pick it up, and a keeper sprang up close at
hand — he had been on the spy, I afterwards learnt.
'Hallo farmer,' said he, 'I've caught you at last,
have I ? Lay down the bird and come with me.'
He seized me by the collar. 'Unhand me this
instant,' said I. He held on. I sprang from his
grasp, and felled him to the ground. He rose, with
the blood streaming from his mouth, and turned away
with a curse. ' You shall answer to the squire for
this,' said he. 'I defy him,' was my answer; 'he
has already ruined me, and done his worst.' But I
was mistaken. I did not know the horrible power
these game lords wield through the cursed laws
which they themselves make, as well as administer.
" I was summoned before the magistrate ; the two
who sat on the bench were both game preservers, —
poulterers on an extensive scale. They fined me
under one of their Acts for destroying the pheasant,
and under another of their Acts for sporting without
a license. I found my landlord and his attorney had
been working against me in the back-ground. In
addition, they got the tax-surveyor to surcharge me
for a certificate. They sent me from that Court-
infamously called a Court of Justice ! — with a black
speck upon my heart. These men do not know what
a devil they plant in many strong men's minds, by
the abominable tyranny of these game laws. But
here we are, at the spot I told you of! Off with
your net !"
It was a dense cover that they had now reached,
at the skirt of the piece of gorse-covered common
which they had just passed ; and the pair now pro-
ceeded to make their preparations at an opening of
the wood. Shaking loose the light net which the
younger of the two men had carried across his
shoulders, they proceeded to sling it across the open-
ing in the wood which we have just alluded to. The
youth climbed the trees on either side,- and attached
the upper corners of the net firmly to the branches,
so that it hung suspended directly across the opening.
The old man meanwhilfe had pegged down the lower
edge of the net, so that all birds or hares running
against it while wandering in search of food during
the night, must inevitably be caught in its meshes.
The two then proceeded into the deeper recesses of
the wood.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
165
"They call that assassination, — these sportsmen,"
said the old man, pointing back with his thumb to-
wards the extended net ; " but did you ever see a
batter (battue) ? That I call wholesale murder. And
yet it is their crack sport. I had once some fifty of
these gentry striding over my winter's wTheat, which
they worked into a puddle, killing and slaughtering
pheasants and hares ; while such as I, who saw their
year's profits destroyed by this 'sport,' could only
look on and groan."
" Ah ! tell me now, what was the end of that affair
of the farm ? "
" The end ? Why, it's easy to see. I was ruined ;
and then I turned poacher. I was expelled my
holding, my stock was sold to pay the rent ; and I
was a beggar, with a beggared wife, and three beg-
gared children. I took shelter in a wretched hut ; but
I must do something to live by. There was some-
times labourers' work in summer, which enabled us
barely to live, as you know. I was scowled upon,
and could not always get work. But what was I to
do in winter, when work failed altogether ? Nothing
in the wet, nothing in the frost ; and yet wife and
children to be fed. There was only one thing re-
mained— I could be a poacher as my neighbours were.
So I took to the woods, and learnt all the arts of the
craft. I became expert and successful ; but I could
not help being caught now and then — of course we
made up our minds to that. I was imprisoned, — but
always came out of prison a better poacher than I
went in, and a more confirmed one. I had no alter-
native left but to poach — it was my trade, my calling,
my living. Well, here we are. Out with the powder
and shot. Remember, it must be short work, and
killing too ! "
They were now in the midst of a group of larch
trees, in a thick part of the wood, — the old poacher
knowing that the pheasants prefer roosting on this
kind of tree to any other — the branches growing at
nearly right angles to the stem, enabling the birds to
roost with ease.
Looking up into the boughs overhead, through which
the wind whispered and sighed in the darkness, and
against the faint light of the sky, the accustomed eye
might discern here and there some dark objects roost-
ing on the long, outstretched branches overhead.
"Now," said the old man, "take sure aim, and
blaze away ! "
So saying, he approached close under one of those
dark objects, and taking aim, fired. The solitude of
the wood was broken, and a pang, as it were, shot
through the darkness. There was a fluttering of
wings, and a heavy bird fell to the ground. Almost
at the same instant the young man fired, with equal
success. The old man bagged the birds, proceeding
to load his piece with remarkable dexterity, and he
followed the trail of the pheasants — the report of a
gun in the night causing these birds to crow, and thus
revealing their whereabouts to the poacher. On
they went, into the deep wood, firing as they went
with general success. Joe's shots were the more
successful of the two. " Go ahead," said the young
man, "and I'll bag them as they fall."
A great oak, which stood in their way, seemed to
raise its naked arms before them, as if to warn them
back. The black pines on either side stretched out
their branches and frowned upon the midnight in-
truders on their quiet. The birches waved their
slim taper rods, through which the night wind wailed
in whispers ; and the tall beeches shook their crests,
as if in anger at the lawless men who roamed under
their shade. The alder pushed its bare branches
through the covert, and seemed to peer into the dark
to discern who they were whose feet were tramping
over the sodden leaves and the decaying twigs shaken
down by the winter blasts. Along these paths, which
in the flush of stimmer were so many bowery cloisters
roofed with green, kindled oft-times by the sun into
gold, the trees now stood ranged like grizly skeletons,
spectral and grim ; and over all stretched the black
sky, threatening wind and storm. Indeed, it is no
such thing as pleasure or love of spoi't that attracts
the midnight poacher to scenes and occupations like
this in the depth of winter.
The old man stopped. " It grows dark," said he,
"the sky gets blacker, and we shall have a storm,
if not of rain, then of snow — so we must make haste.
There's another favourite roost somewhere here-
abouts. I think we are at the right place. Look
about you, and see if you can discern anything over-
head. Your eye-sight is better than mine."
The youth peered into the trees overhead for some
seconds, and then approaching old Joe, said, —
"You are right. Look there! See where the
cloud is scudding across the moon's face, — on that
bough there, between us and the bit of light ! You
see where they sit — one, two, three ! "
Joe fired again, and two birds fell ; their heavy
bodies falling fluttering through the air, upon the
ground beneath, where they were bagged with all
haste. Ten minutes' work enabled them nearly to
clear the roost.
"Now we must be off," said Joe ; "the noise we
have made may bring down the Philistines on us,
unless we look sharp ! We have done a fairish
night's work ; and what with the woodcocks and
hares we shall find in our net, we shall have enough
for a fortnight forward. So let's return, and beat the
bushes on our way back. You fetch a circuit in that
direction, and I shall take the other. Beat your
way as you go. You'll find the hares leaping up before
you, for they are thick all over the wood."
And off they went, beating their way. Half an
hour after, they met at the opening of the wood.
The old man was already there, and had knocked
some eight hares on the head, after drawing them
from the meshes of the net where they had been
caught in trying to struggle their way through. A
number of woodcocks in like manner had been taken
in the upper meshes, and when the game was put
into the bag, it was nearly full, and was a good load
for one man to carry.
" Now, my lad,"said the old poacher, "do you carry
the game, and I'll take care of the net. Let us make
over to the other side, where we left our springe set.
You'll find something there, I reckon, though we're
almost loaded as it is."
But they did not see the springe again that night.
They were crossing the bit of common, when not far
off the loud baying of a dog fell upon their ear.
" Curse them," said old Joe — " it's the keepers,
and that's their blood-hound — I know his voice !
Push on, we may escape them yet."
The youth now ran as fast as he could, but laden
as he was he made comparatively small progress,
stumbling occasionally against the gorse bushes which
lay in their path. The old man then led the way,
knowing the ground better, and thus piloted his
companion across the heath, until they had nearly
reached the fringe of the young plantation along
which they had first come. The baying of the dog
came nearer, — it was close at hand.
"We can't escape them, I fear," said Joe, "but
one of us can at least ; and the game must be secured.
You must make the best of your road back — you
know where to meet the carrier, at the cross roads.
Haste then, and I'll endeavour to stop the pursuit.
—Off ! "
" But I cannot consent to leave you behind. You
are old, I arn young. I am a match for any one of
166
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
them— perhaps two of them. And then there's the
guns."
" Leave that matter to me ; I'm used to this work,
and you are not. Your life, besides, is more precious
than mine. I am old and used up, and have little to
live for. Away then, and waste no more time — my
mind 's made up. Hear, the dog is close at hand —
Go!"
The youth turned, and made off through the copse,
with the remark, — " Blow me, Joe, if you aren't a
real trump after all ! "
A sudden crack of the piece, and the dying howl
of a dog, near where the old man stood commanding
a gap in the hedge, showed that he had disposed of
at least one of his pursuers. But the men who
accompanied the dog were close at hand. There
were three of them — tall, strong keepers — one of whom
made a sudden dash at the gap, but the old man
swung his gun round his head, and brought the full
weight of its heavy stock against the chest of his
pursuer, who fell back into the ditch with a groan.
"There's only one of them," whispered one of the
men to the other ; "do you leap the hedge a little
lower down, and I'll keep him at bay here. But the
old man quitted his post at the hedge-gap, and ran
hastily along the wood, in the direction of his com-
panion, who must by this time have got a good start
ahead. But both of the keepers had now dashed
through the hedge, and were coming up close at his
heels. He was old, he was tired, he was almost ready
to drop down with fatigue ; but still he held on, and
ran as fast as his feeble legs could carry him.
" Stand ! " said a loud voice behind him, " or take
that ! " and a blow was aimed with a bludgeon at
his head ; but Joe had turned round at the moment,
and knocked up the stick with his gun, bringing its
butt down on the keeper's head, who stumbled and
fell. Before Joe could recover himself, the third
had sprung in upon him, and seized him ; and Joe
Crouch was a prisoner !
ANCIENT FABLES AND NATURAL FACTS.
BERNICLE, OR CLAIK GEESE.
THE fabulous origin of these northern breeding geese
is so entirely of British growth, that the naturalists
of the continent have somewhat significantly desig-
nated them "The British Bird," as if by way of
pre-eminence.
It is true, that so early as the thirteenth century,
it was declared by Albertus Magnus,* that these
stories of birds propagated from trees were "alto-
gether absurd," as he had himself seen the parent-
birds lay their eggs and rear up their young, — yet
such evidence could have no weight with writers
who profess to have been eye-witnesses of the marvels
they relate.
A difference of opinion appears to have existed,
however, between these witnesses ; some asserting
that the birds grew on living trees, while others,
with a greater show of plausibility, traced them
to timber rotted in the sea, the latter regarding
the others as ignorant and greatly prejudiced ; for,
in the words of Boece, — " because the rude and
ignorance people saw oft-times the fruit that fell off
the trees [quhilkis stood near the sea] converted
within short time into geese, they believed that yir
geese grew upon the trees, hanging by their nebbis
[bills] suchlike as apples and other fruits hangs by
their stalks, but their opinion is nought to be
sustained. For as soon as thir apples or fruits falls
* Hist. Anim.
off the tree into the sea-flood, they grow first
worm-eaten, and by short process of time are
altered into geese." To the belief of this despiser of
ignorance, we shall again have occasion to refer.
Munster, in his " Cosmographie," has enlarged on the
great fertility of England and Scotland ; "for, in the
last," he says, "are found trees which produce fruit
rolled up in leaves, and this, in due time, falling into
water, which it overhangs, is converted into a living
bird, and hence the tree is called the goose-tree.
The same tree grows in the island of Pomona. Lest
you should imagine that this is a fiction devised by
modern writers, I may mention that all cosmo-
graphists, particularly Saxo Grammaticus, take notice
of this tree." "Montbeillard," says Prof. Kennio,
" seems inclined to derive the name of Pomona, from
its being the orchard of these goose-bearing trees."
Fulgosus depicts the trees themselves as resembling
willows, "as those who had seen them in Ireland and
Scotland " had informed him. While Count Mayer,
who wrote a "Treatise on the Tree- bird [without
father or mother] of the Orkney Isles," gravely
argues the possibility of the thing, by making a
reference to the existence of hobgoblins ! And
Cardan remarks that the circumstance, "is not a
whit more marvellous than that mice, on the
authority of Aristotle,* should be generated from
the ground," &c. To these tales, Bauhin adds that,
if the leaves of this tree fall upon the land, they
become birds, but if into the water, then they are
transmuted into fishes.
Aldrovandus gives a woodcut of these trees, in
which the foliage resembles that of myrtles, while
the strange fruit is large and heart-shaped. Gerarde,
too, figures one, but it is without leaves, and bears
on its extended branches five large pods, from the
more advanced of which protrude the heads and
necks of birds, one of the pods having two such
heads and necks contained within it. And although
he speaks of the goose as springing from decayed
wood, &c., the act of his introducing the tree into
the catalogue of his " Herbal," shows that he was, at
least, divided between the above-named opinions.
"What our eyes have seen," he says, ''and what
our hands have touched, we shall declare. There is
a small island in Lancashire, called the Pile of
Fouldres, wherein are found broken pieces of old
ships, some whereof have been thrown thither by
shipwreck, and also the trunks and bodies, with the
branches, of old and rotten trees cast up there
likewise ; whereon is found a certain spume or froth,
that in certaine time breedeth into certaine sheila,
in shape, like to those of the mussel, but sharper
pointed, and of a whitish colour, wherein is contained
a thing in form like a lace of silk finely woven, as it
were, together, of a whitish colour ; one end wereof
is fastened unto the inside of the shell, even as the fish
of oisters and mussels are ; the other end is made fast
unto the belly of a rude mass or lump, which, in
time, cometh to the shape and form of a bird : when
it is perfectly formed, the shell gapeth open, and the
first thing that appeareth is the aforesaid lace or
string ; next come the legs of the bird hanging out,
and as it groweth greater it openeth the shell by
degrees, till at length it has all come forth, and
hangeth only by the bill ; in short space after it
cometh to maturity, and falleth into the sea, where
it gathereth feathers, and groweth .to a fowl bigger
than a mallard and lesser than a goose, having black
legs and bill or beak, and feathers black and white,
spotted in such manner as our magpie ; called in
some places pie-annet, which the people of Lancashire
call by no other name than tree-goose ; which place
* De Veritate Rerum.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
1G7
aforesaid, and of all those adjoining, do so much
abound therewith, that one of the best is bought for
threepence. For the truth hereof, if any doubt, may
it please them to repaire to me, and I shall satisfy
them by the testimony of good witnesses."*
Martin assures us that he had seen many of these
fowls in the shells, sticking to the trees by the bill,
but acknowledges that he had never descried any of
them with life upon the tree, though the natives [of
the Orkney Isles] had seen them move in the heat
of the sun. And Turner says, " nobody has ever
seen the nest or egg of the bernicle ; nor is this
marvellous, inasmuch as it is without parents, and is
spontaneously generated. * * * * All of which,
being affirmed by men of credit, f I not only dare
believe myself, but also persuade others to believe."
But to return to Boece, who "made no little
labour and diligence to search the truth and verity
thereof," and having "sailed through the seas where
thir claiks are bred," found "by great experience that
the nature of the seas is more relevant to their
creation than any other thing. And howbeit thir
geese are bred sundry ways, they are bred allanerly*
by nature of the seas. For all trees that are cassin
into the seas, by process of time appears at first
worm-eaten, and in the small holes or bores thereof
grows small worms. First they show their head and
neck, and last of all they show their feet and wings.
Finally, when they are come to the just measure and
quantity of geese, they fly in the air, as other fowls
wont, as was notably proven in the year of God one
thousand iiii. hundred Ixxx. in sight of many people
beside the castle of Pitslego." He then goes on to
describe how a tree having been cast up by the sea,
and split by saws, was found full of these geese, in
different stages of their growth, some being "perfect
shapen fowls," and how the people, " having ylk day
this tree in more admiration," at length deposited it
in the kirk of St. Andrew's, near Tyre. And
further, how a ship named Christopher was " broken
down," when "incontinent appeared, as afore, all the
inward parts of her worm-eaten, and all the holes
thereof full of geese, on the same manner as we have
shown. Attoure, if any man would allege by vain
argument, that this Christopher was made of such
trees as grow allanerly in the isles, and that all the
roots and trees that grows in the said isles, are of
that nature to be finally, by nature of seas, resolved
into geese; we prove the contrary thereof by one
notable example, showen afore our ene. Master
Alexander Galloway, parson of Kinkell, was with us
in thir isles, giving his mind with most earnest
business to search the verity of thir obscure and
misty doubts. And by adventure lifted up one
sea- tangle, hanging full of mussel shells from the
root to the branches. Soon after he opened one of
thir shells, but then he was astonished more than
afore. For he saw no fish in it, but one perfect
shapen fowl, small and great, ay efferyng to the
quantity of the shell. This clerk, knowing us right
desirous of such oncouth things, came hastily with
the tangle, and opened it to us with all circumstances
afore rehearsed. By thir and many other reasons,
therefore, and examples, we can not believe that thir
claiks are produced by any nature of trees or roots
thereof, but allanerly by the nature of the ocean sea,
quhilk is the cause and production of many wonderful
things. "§
Perhaps the most modern instance, — given on
ocular testimony, — is that by Sir Robert Moray, in
* Gerarde's Herbal.
t See Avium Prsecip, Hist, and Gesner, De Avibus.
* Only.
$ Cosmographise of Albioun.
the Philosophical Transactions, where after a very-
good and clear description of the bernicle, — as it
really exists, • — we are informed that on opening the
shells, he found " a perfect sea-fowl ; the little bill
like that of a goose, the eyes marked, the head,
neck, breast, wings, tail, and feet formed, the
feathers everywhere perfectly shaped, and blackish
coloured, and the feet like those of other water-fowl,"
to the best of his remembrance !
Bingley mentions that, "even of late years," a
large collection of the bernicle shells was exhibited in
London, as the shells from which geese were
produced. And there is yet, says Rennie, an
opinion among the more uninformed of the Scotch
peasantry, that the Soland goose, or gannet, and not
the bernicle, grows by the bill on the cliffs of Bass,
of Ailsa, and of St. Kilda.
Belon [1555] saw these birds lay their eggs, and
laughs at the fable concerning them. And Piccolo-
mini, — afterwards Pius the Second, — made eager
inquiry after the truth of the miracle ; which,
however, as he says, "fled to remoter regions, and
the goose-tree was not to be found in Scotland, but
only in the Orkney Isles."
Such of our readers as wish for further fabulous
accounts of these birds, — whose production is
ascribed by Count Mayer, " to the immediate
influence of the stars," — may be referred to the
works of Giraldus, of Gesner, Johnson, Bishop
Leslie, Scaliger, Majolus, Odoric, Baptista Porta,
and others. The first of these writers traces their
origin to the gelatinous drops [of turpentine] which
appear on the branches of fir-trees.
That true-hearted naturalist, Ray, published his
edition of Willughby forty-two years after Gerarde
had given such an astonishing account of bernicle-
birth in his "Herbal," and it is not a little singular,
— while it is yet as striking a comment on the
progress of science as is any history of philosophy
that has ever been given to the world, — that while
he shows the absurdity of the whole notion, remark-
ing " that the greater animals and perfect in* their
kind, such as is among birds the goose," could never
be supposed by any " philosopher " to be thus
produced, adding that in the whole genus of birds
there "is not any one example of spontaneous or
equivocal generation;" he yet continues, "Among
other animals, indeed, the lesser and more imperfect,
as for example many insects and frogs, are commonly
thought either to be of spontaneous original, or to
come of different seeds and principles ! " Strange and
wondrous thoughts must these early naturalists have
had, and yet to them we owe the gratitude which
the flourishing colonist feels towards the intrepid
pioneer who first forced his way through the pathless
and untamed forests which of old encumbered his
now smiling plains.
Such is the fable, which unites a cirrhapod mollusc
and a sea-bird into one wonderful animal ; but we
must now separate them, and visit each in its own
accustomed haunts ; turning our attention first of all
to the fish, which we shall find dwelling quietly and
composedly on some stray piece of timber, fringing
with its living tassels the hull of some gallant old
barque, or assisting the coralines, the flustrse, and
the dripping sea-plants to deck with beauty the once
ghastly fragments of some disjointed wreck. There
we shall find it gathered in a goodly company, for it
is a sociable gregarious creature, as are all the
bernicle [Lepas] tribe ; but we have now only to do
with the L. Anatifera, or goose-bearing bernicle, as it
was named by the great Linnseus ; who, we may
observe, has been blamed for thus distinguishing the
animal, under the idea that, by so doing, he was
giving encouragement to the fables, which every true
108
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
naturalist endeavours to exterminate ; the objection,
however, can, we think, scarcely hold good,* as the
name merely recalls a quaint old phantasy. But to
return to our little friend ; we find him dwelling
happily in one of the prettiest of our multivalve
shells ; his house composed of five distinct plates,
assuming a form somewhat like that of a heart,
and elevated on a cartilaginous footstalk, which
varies in length according to the circumstances of its
locality. It is true that he lives and dies unalterably
attached to his house and home, but we may reason-
ably doubt whether, in this locomotive age, it might
not conduce to the happiness of the many if this
attachment were extended to some other tribes of
creatures besides a few shell-fishes ; and it is no less
true that he lives with his head downwards, but then
he does so for a good and efficient reason, so that
none has any right to dispute his fancy, or to term
him eccentric, because his habits are not the same as
their own. He stands on his head for the double
purpose of displaying, through the orifice of his shell,
the exquisite and delicate tentaculcc, of which he
possesses six pair, and which are ranged along his
body, and for the more important obj ect of procuring
his daily food ; for the small marine animals on
which he feeds have their own life of enjoyment and
happiness, and they will not " come and be killed "
without something more urgent than a mere invita-
tion. This exquisite and lace-like appurtenance,
therefore, which but now we deemed was merely
displayed for the purpose of ornament, we discover to
be the fishing apparatus of the bernicle, and if we
watch him, we shall see him perpetually waving his
feather-like tentacles backwards and forwards, so as
to produce a continual current, or diminutive whirl-
pool, which sweeps a continued supply of his prey
into his shell. Doubtless, it was these appendages
which assisted the imagination which could descry a
resemblance between these animals and a " perfectly
formed bird," for we have not been able to find any
other kind of likeness between them.
Intense, however, as is the interest with which we
watch him, we must now fix our gaze on the bird ;
the bernicle goose [Anas JBernicla] whose nesting-
place is far away on the eastern shores of the White
Sea ; whose scarcely tinted green eggs are hatched in
the brief bright summer of the north ; and whose
young could, for aught that we can tell, solve to us
mysteries of the long-sought North-west Passage, or
confirm to us hopes and fears for its gallant seekers,
which we scarce dare breathe in the depths of our
own hearts. The beak of the bird is black, as is a
streak which extends along the cheek as far as the
dark brown eye ; — a mark which, perhaps, from its
peculiar appearance, gave rise to the jocular name of
barnacles, as applied to spectacles ; the back of the
head, the neck, and the upper portion of the breast
are also black, as well as the tail feathers, and the
feet and legs ; the face,— if we may so express it,— is
m the full-grown bird, pure white, while the under
parts of the body are of the very lightest grey : the
r,1"^ S6 1French grey' t'PP6*1 with a crescent of
bluish black and an outer edge of white. The
young birds have their faces speckled with black and
the tips of the feathers, both of the back and of the
wings, are tinged with red. The full-grown bird
measures about twenty-five inches in length and
even when seen in our poulterers' shops in the winter
months,— for it is an excellent bird for the table —he
is a handsome fellow ; when seen in all his docility
quiet wives on the canal in St
with his four
* The popular name of both mollusc and bird,
dcnved from the Icelandic L.arn, a sou or chil
bairn,— and ac, aac, or acle, an oak.
James's Park, he is handsomer far ; but to see him in
his pride and beauty, we must see him riding on the
boiling waves, tossed ever and again up towards the
darkening sky, or downwards in the deep ; we must
see the quiet ease and trust with which he appears to
be literally sleeping on the waters ; or we must see
him with his somewhat bulky form, with outstretched
wings, and with eager gesture, leaving our rocky
shores to wander "over land, over sea," to his far-off
northern birth-place, and we shall with all emphasis
confess that he is a bird of beauty, rarer far than
in idea we were wont to associate with the name
of GOOSE.
One word about its habitats, and we have done.
In our own land, it occurs from November to
February, all along our western coasts, and more
sparingly along the eastern shores. To its breeding-
places we have already referred, though there is
every reason to suppose that the locality is not so
circumscribed as is usually stated. In the summer
months it is said to visit the Faroe Islands, and
Polydore Eoux mentions it as occurring among the
birds of "fair Provence."
It is a sociable and easily -tamed creature, and an
instance is given by Dr. Buckworth of one which
had been comfortably domesticated in his family for
forty years.
EE-ISSTTE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS.
SONG OF THE GOBLET.
I HAVE kept my place at the rich man's board
For many a waning night,
Where streams of dazzling splendour poured
Their galaxy of light :
No wilder revelry has wrung
Than where my home has been ;
All that the bard of Teos sung,
Has the golden goblet seen ;
And what I could tell, full many might deem
A fable of fancy, or tale of a dream.
I have beheld a courteous band
Sit round in bright array ;
Their voices firm, their words all bland,
And brows like a cloudless day :
But soon the guests were led by the host
To dash out Reason's lamp ;
And then GOD'S noble image had lost
The fineness of its stamp :
And their sober cheeks have blushed to hear
What they told o'er to me without shame or fear.
Their loud and tuneless laugh would tell
Of a hot and reeling brain ;
Their right arms trembled, and red wine fell
Like blood on a battle-plain.
The youth would play the chattering ape,
And the grey-haired one would let
The foul and sickening jest escape,
Till I've loathed the lips I've met ;
And the swine in the dust, or the wolf on its prey.
Gave less of sheer disgust than they.
The drunkard has filled me again aud again
'Mid the roar of a frantic din,
Till the startling eyeballs told his brain
Was an Etna pile within.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
169
Oh ! sad is the work that I have done
In the hands of the sot and fool ;
Cursed and dark is the fame I have won,
As Death's most powerful tool :
And I own that those who greet my rim
Too oft will find their bane on the brim.
But all the golden goblet has wrought
Is not of the evil kind ;
I have helped the creature of mighty thought,
And quickened the godlike mind.
As gems of first water may lie in the shade,
And no lustre be known to live,
Till the kiss of the noontide beam has betrayed
What a glorious sheen they can give :
So, the breast may hold fire that none can see,
Till it meet the sun-ray shed by me.
I have burst the spirit's moody trance,
And woke it to mirth and wit,
Till the soul would dance in every glance
Of eyes that were rapture lit.
I have heard the bosom, all warm and rife
With friendship, offer up
Its faith in heaven, its hope on earth,
With the name it breathed in the cup !
And I was proud to seal the bond
Of the truly great and the firmly fond.
I have served to raise the shivering form
That sunk in the driving gale ;
I have fanned the flame that famine and storm
Had done their worst to pale :
The stagnant vein has been curdled and cold
As the marble's icy streak ;
But I have come, and the tide hath rolled
Right on to the heart and cheek ;
And bursting words from a grateful breast
Have told the golden goblet was blest.
Oh ! Heaven forbid that bar or ban
Should be thrown on the draught I bear ;
But woeful it is that senseless man
Will brand me with sin and despair.
Use me wisely, and I will lend
A joy ye may cherish and praise ;
But love me too well, and my potion shall send
A burning blight on your days.
This is the strain I sing as ye fill —
" Beware ! the goblet can cheer or kill."
" THE RUSSIANS ! "
I EVERY now and then we are haunted by an epi-
j demical fright in this country. Some one starts up
I and calls out, "Old Bogy! It's coming !" At this,
i great alarm spreads abroad, and the newspaper press
I joins in the panic. Some years ago it was " The
i Russians ! " " They are coming," said some, " through
i the Kattegat!" Others, "They are coming by the
< Dardanelles!" Others, "They are about to strike
! a blow at our Indian Empire ! They are coining
i through the Khyber Pass ! " And then, the Russo-
j phobia alarmingly set in, until it was replaced by the
! Franco-phobia, which seized upon the nation so soon
j as the Duke of Wellington and Sir Francis Head had
j penned their famous "alarms." Then the cry
changed to "The French are coining ! They are
coming across from Boulogne ! From Harfleur !
From Calais ! We shall be invaded ; the Kent
yeomanry will be defeated, and London stormed and
taken before the Honourable Lumber troop have had
time to rub their eyes and doff their night-caps ! "
That alarm, too, passed by, and it has been
stilled for a time by the pacific influence of the
Great Exhibition. What the next alarm may be,
who knows? Perhaps "The Russians" again!
Something in the Old Bogy style from afar off.
Yet " The Russians " are among us, and we know
it not ; or, if not Russians or Cossacks, then some-
thing even more dangerous. They are in our midst !
In the streets ! In the by-lanes ! In the market-
places ! In prisons ! Everywhere ! We mean the
dangerous classes ; in other words, the uncared-for
classes, — whom well-conditioned people shun, whom
few but policemen and police-courts know anything
or care anything about. These are " the Russians "
who have already invaded our great towns and cities,
and who are to be found in even remote country-places,
scouring the woods at midnight for game. Many of
them occasionally find their way into the workhouse,
but, hating restraint as they do, these Cossacks of
civilization prefer wandering abioad in all the
freedom of vicious ignorance. These dangerous
classes are yearly increased in their numbers by
recruits drawn from the young ; and the rapidity of
their increase may be judged of by the rapid strides
which juvenile crime is now making. It is only
when the individuals belonging to the dangerous
classes have committed some overt act of crime, that
the influence of society is brought to bear upon
them ; and then there are policemen in blue coats
and glazed hats, Courts of Assize built in the Grecian
style of architecture, judges with horse-hair wigs,
jurors to lay their heads together, castellated gaols of
the extent of palaces, with governors and turnkeys,
all eager to do their duty by the " Russian/' — first,
in punishing him for his criminal act ; but chiefly, as
is professed, to reclaim the dangerous person to
the society against whose laws he had temporarily
rebelled.
But "too late " is the only word applicable to this
desperate effort at reclaimment. The . dangerous
person's habits have been formed, his character has
already been fixed. He returns to the dangerous
class again, and recommences his overt acts against
society, most probably with increased determination
and cunning. The Ragged School teachers, however,
have dealt with this question practically. They have
begun at the beginning, — at the roots of the evil,— or
at least as near the roots as they could get. And
this is the true method of reclaiming the dangerous
classes, — namely, to instruct and humanize the out-
casts of society before they have become adepts in
the arts of vice. But we have all been so busy in
looking after the getting of money, as the one thing
needful in life, so keenly pursuing the "Wealth of
Nations" and "Industrial Progress," that we have
cared but little, even though one-half of the nation
were doomed to ignorance and all the vices conse-
quent upon it. Yet somehow, there is a vague
notion floating about among us, that man is an
immortal being, and that the very worst of these
dangerous classes is destined to an undying future.
Do not our life and our acts most strongly belie such
a belief? Is not our real faith, without any
hypocrisy, this : — that wealth is the be-all and end-
all of life ? Do we not work as if we had a genuine,
practical, faith in this creed ?
The dangerous classes include all those whom vice,
poverty, or ignorance, have placed in a state of war-
fare with social order. They are almost invariably in a
soured and brutalized state, even though they do not
come within the ranks of the actually criminal class.
170
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
They may even be externally decent in their conduct,
and yet vicious at heart, without any settled
principle to guide them. These men cling to society
so loosely, — feeling that society has done nothing but
•wrong and injustice to them, — that it would give
them no concern, — on the contrary, it would probably
excite as much joy in them as they are capable of
feeling, — if the whole fabric of society were laid in
ruins to-morrow. They are not rich, they are not
respectable, and they have nothing whatever to lose
by the overthrow. Mr. May hew, who has devoted
himself, with praiseworthy zeal, to the thorough
investigation of this subject of the Dangerous Classes,
— following the example of M. Frieger of Paris, —
has spoken strongly and decidedly on this point.
He speaks of one "class in London, consisting of
about 30,000 individuals, in an appalling state of
physical, mental, and moral degradation, — of which
only one-tenth of the couples living together are
married, — not more than three in every hundred of
them have ever been in the interior of a church, or
any place of worship, or know what is meant by
Christianity or a future state. Mr. Mayhew says,
"that a class numbering 30,000 should be permitted
to remain in a state of almost brutish ignorance, is a
national disgrace." "The fate of children brought
up amid the influence of such scenes, — with parents
starving one week and drunk the next, — turned loose
into the streets as soon as they are old enough to run
alone, — sent out to sell in public-houses almost
before they know how to put two halfpence together,
— their tastes trained to libidinism, long before
puberty, at the penny concert, and their passions
inflamed with the unrestrained intercourse of the
twopenny hops, — the fate of such children, abandoned
to the blight of such associations as these, cannot
well be otherwise than it is." Mr. Mayhew is very
indignant at our making and sending out bishops to
Jerusalem, the Cape, and New Zealand, at a time
when we are abandoning these 30,000 individuals, in
one of our great cities, — an ^utterly creedless,
mindless, and principleless class, — a moral dungheap
of ignorance and vice, — to seethe and fust, breeding
a social pestilence in the very heart of our land.
And yet, with a population such as this, prepared,
and eager, it may be, for "general overturn," we
reserve our fears for the Russians and the French !
Go to Manchester, Liverpool, or any other of our
large towns, and you find a similar state of things.
Mr. Neal, the chief constable of Salford (Man-
chester), in a late report says, — "I know many
children, who wander daily about the streets in
ragged clothes, committing moral, and frequently
criminal offences, and gradually becoming more
depraved and vicious, and who appear literally as
outcasts and vagabonds, unknown and uncared for."
These children, in common with nearly all offenders
against the laws everywhere, are almost entirely
uninstructed, either at home or at school. Mr. Neal
shows that out of 8,730 persons apprehended in his
district, in the course of five years, 7,656 were
almost wholly uneducated ; and it is a frightful fact,
strikingly illustrative of the neglect of these young
Cossacks, that although the young persons of this
country aged fifteen and under twenty, form not
quite one-tenth of the population, they nevertheless
are guilty of nearly one-fourth of its crime !
Not less than £4, 074 is, on the average, spent on drink
every Saturday-night in Salford and Manchester, or
in the year upwards of £200,000 ! Though actual
crime, as indicated by the criminal returns, has
decreased in that district during the last few years,
general laxity, disorder, and dissoluteness of conduct,
are alleged to have spread to a great extent ;
encouraged and fostered by low theatres and music-
saloons, at which licentious ribaldry, disobedience to
parents, indulgence in sensual gratifications, and
other debasing actions, are held up to the admiration
of the juvenile auditories, as worthy of being imitated
by them. At Preston, as at most of the large towns
in the manufacturing districts, the same hot-beds of
vice are assiduously at work. The Eev. Mr. Clay
describes one of these singing-rooms in that town,
where seven hundred boys and girls were found
collected one evening, to have their bodies polluted
with smoke and drink, and their minds poisoned with
ribaldry and obscenity. "Can any one," he asks,
"have a doubt that the evil wrought in such a '
' singing- room ' in a single night, outweighs all the
good that can be effected by a dozen Sunday-schools !
in a year ? " While the boys and girls are in the
singing-room, their fathers are usually at the beer-
shop or public-house ; and the mothers, alone, by
their often cold hearths, are waiting for the miserable
pittance which remains when the husband's debauch
is over.
But Liverpool is the great seat of home heathenism
in Lancashire. Its miscellaneous population, — Welsh
poor, Irish poor, sailors, dock labourers, and such
like, — furnish a far larger proportion of criminals
than any other town in that district. Though its
population is about equal to that of Manchester and
Salford, the total number of apprehensions there in
the year is three times greater. Home missionaries and
others give lamentable accounts of Us condition.
Mr. Francis Bishop, the amiable minister of the
Liverpool Domestic Mission, thus speaks of the
homes of the poor in Liverpool : —
" In no respect are the gradations from barbarism
to civilization more clearly traced than in the homes
of a people. Each step a community makes from
the savage state to the most refined, is marked by the
advancing improvement of its private habitations.
Judged by this test, how low would vast masses of
our population have to be placed ! In wandering
amid the wilds of Connemara, and visiting the lairs
in which the wretched people of that district crouch,
I could scarcely realize the idea that I was in a
civilized land. But there no startling social contrasts
deepened the painfulness of the view. The vast and
frowning piles of mountains, shadowing valleys,
untouched by spade or plough, were in mournful
keeping with the scene. Now, however, my duties
lead me daily to human abodes, almost as foul and
wretched, standing close upon all the evidences of a
high state of civilization, and the marks of social
wealth and grandeur. In the former case, too, the
pure wind of heaven blew round the miserable
abodes, and, in some measure, abated their health-
destroying power, but to many of the noisome courts
and damp cellars of our town, only pestilent breezes
can find their way."
Singing- rooms abound in Liverpool more than they
do in any other town in England ; indeed, they were
first introduced there many years ago. A large
proportion of the audiences consist of youths of both
sexes, and as the proprietors of the rooms rely on the
sale of drink for their remuneration, the results may
be imagined. Public-houses abound in Liverpool.
In nine streets specified by Mr. Bishop, there are
107 drinking-houses to only twenty four bread-shops!
As Mr. Bishop stood one Saturday evening, watching
with sickening heart the droves of people thronging
the portals of one of these Pandemoniums, or
singing- rooms, just opened, a working man said to
him, — " Ah ! Mr. Bishop, these are the places where
our children are ruined. I should like to see this
o-ne destroyed by fire."
Another clergyman, the Rev. Dr. Hume, incum-
bent of Vauxhall, Liverpool, enables us to add a
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
171
few remarkable facts. Of a population of 5,850,
embracing whole streets, and all the courts of other
streets, in Yauxhall district, not one attends church.
And of a similar population of 2,308 in St. Stephen's,
not one attends church.* But in Vauxhall there are
127 public-houses and beer-shops, or one to every
twenty -five families ! and these houses are supported
as much by females as by males. The consequences
may be inferred : property squandered, domestic
comfort destroyed, children neglected, propriety
outraged, industry suspended, virtue despised. "In
particular streets," says Dr. Hume, "the absence of
the marriage-tie is so frequent, that its existence
would seem to be the exception and not the rule."
Take now, as a concluding commentary on this state
of things, the Rev. Mr. Clay's remarks on the dangers
arising from the dismally neglected state of our own
population : —
" The great English Institution for the conversion
of the distant heathen [says he, — and remember he
is a clergyman of the Established Church], which
has existed half a century, and has expended in the
work more than a, million and a half sterling, now
reckons, as the fruit of its labours, 13,000 'communi-
cants' (Church Missionary Report, 1847-48). Last
year about the same number of our domestic heathens
were summarily punished in one town, Liverpool, for
offences more or less arising from their unregarded
irreligion. What might have been the cost of
measures taken in time to prevent such a scandal
to a Christian country, it is difficult to say ; but
there is no presumption in thinking that 13,000
sincere converts from ignorance and sin might be
made, in one year, in this, or any other English
country, at one hundredth part of the cost incurred,
during fifty years' labour, in winning the same
number of converts abroad ; and unless it is affirmed
that souls in China are a hundred times more
precious than souls in England, the wisdom and
duty of commencing operations at home must be
undeniable."
" Historians have concluded, in treating of the fall
of a past civilization under the attacks of barbarians
impelled from distant regions, that the recurrence of
a similar catastrophe is scarcely within the bounds
of probability. From the irruption of external
barbarism, doubtless, this country has little to fear.
But, internally ?— Providence frequently offers signifi-
cant and weighty lessons to human thought in the
fate of ' the poor insect that we tread upon.'
Observant naturalists often perceive the summer
caterpillar, while feeding amidst abundance, and
apparently enjoying its humble existence, suddenly
undergo a change. No enemy threatens from
without, but the creature is manifestly suffering ;
and after a time of torture, at length it expires,
devoured from within. Destroyers, generated in the
body of the victim, had been permitted to acquire
their power unheeded, — until TOO LATE ! "
Since writing the above article, the excellent work
by Mary Carpenter on " Reformatory Schools for the
Children of the Perishing and Dangerous Classes,
and for Juvenile Offenders, "f" has come under our
notice ; and the detail which it gives of the numbers
of "City Arabs" who are allowed to live among us
in frightful vice, and perish in barbarous ignorance,
is truly appaling. The most frightful fact brought to
light by Miss Carpenter, is the rapid increase of
juvenile crime of recent years, in a ratio far exceeding
that of the population, this increase displaying
* Incredible though these facts may appear, they are pub-
lished by Dr. Hume himself. We take them from a Report
published by him in the Liverpool Mercury.
t London. C. Gilpin. 1851.
itself among the desperately ignorant and the
miserably poor. We cannot here venture upon a
review of the facts given in Miss Carpenter's book,
which abundantly confirm all that we have above
said ; but strongly recommend it for perusal by all
philanthropic labourers in this wide field of Christian
work.
In connection with the same subject, we may refer
to an important conference and public meeting held
at Birmingham, a few weeks ago, to promote the
same objects contemplated by Miss Carpenter, —
namely, the establishment of Free Schools for the
children of the perishing and dangerous classes,
including also reformatory and industrial schools.
The facts brought out by various gentlemen of
high character attending that meeting, were very
sad. Take what Mr. Bishop, the Liverpool Home
Missionary, said of that town. In one street
inhabited by the working classes, he found 176
children, out of 411, receiving no day-school instruc-
tion whatever ; and in another (Brick Street), which
supplied the greatest number of inmates to the
prison, out of 436 children, he found 385 receiving
no instruction of any kind, except what they
gathered in the streets, and in their vicious homes !
Many facts of this kind were stated.
We shall conclude by quoting an anecdote related
by Mr. M. D. Hill, the Recorder of Birmingham, at
the public meeting. "It was told him by a lady a
few days since. She was talking to the mother of a
boy who belonged to the miserable and dangerous
class ; and whatever the mother's misconduct might
be, she had that accurate perception of right and
wrong which the most ignorant could apply to the
conduct of others. The mother said, ' My son is a
very bad boy, indeed, — he knows more wickedness
than a man ; he is almost as bad [she continued]
as a husband ! ' The first effect on the mind, of the
mother's complaint, was to produce a feeling of the
ludicrous ; but see what a depth of misery was
disclosed ! She only knew of husbands as those who
inflict injury on their wives and families, — she spoke
not of an exception, she stated what she believed to
be the rule. It was impossible, in his belief, to open,
in so few words, such a vista of human suffering and
human degradation. Perhaps if a husband had been
the painter, a portrait of a wife might have been
drawn not much less hideous. When such are
the sentiments of husband towards wife, and wife
towards husband, and such the mental appreciation,
as the reflective mind would infer, even from the
glimpse into the state of families given in this brief
anecdote, who could wonder at the abundant sources
of crime spreading their bitter waters through the
land ? Who could feel surprise at the numbers or
the depravity of the classes, whose vices and whose
ignorance they met to encounter by some well-
devised remedy, fit to cope with the evil in all its
magnitude ? "
PATRICK SCOTT'S POEMS.*
THE volume before us is the production of an author
of great promise. We are especially pleased to note
the unpretending tone which pervades the preface
and introductions prefixed to the two principal poems,
— a quality too scarce now-a-days in the literary world,
with young authors in particular. The necessary
effect, however, of this virtue is to draw more promi-
nent attention in the end to the merits of its pos-
sessor ; and, in good truth, there is much to com-
* Lelio, a Vision of Reality; Hervor; and other Poems.
By Patrick Scott. London : Chapman & Hall.
372
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
mend in the poems of Patrick Scott. It is difficult
to find a near parallel to the muse of our author ; the
true poet is always characterized by a marked indi-
viduality ; but although the resemblance is by ri*o
means so close as to amount to a positive imitation,
there is in some respects a resemblance between
Patrick Scott and Tennyson. There is the same calm
and unruffled temper, and a profound mysticism in
each, that associate the two not unworthily together
in our minds. A modern writer, or lecturer — George
Dawson, we believe — denies the creative faculty of
the poet, and compares his muse to a mirror, which
reflects the results of its experience, and holds them
up to the gaze of the reader. Knowing nothing of
the writer of the little volume now under considera-
tion, we are nevertheless inclined to account for the
peculiar characteristics of his verse by this theory,
and think we discover in his dedication a confirmation
of the truth of the theory itself. Intimate acquaint-
ance with the author of " Manners and Customs of
Ancient Greece," to whom his volume is inscribed, and
much reading of ancient writers, seem to have tinged
his thought and expression with an oriental gran-
deur and mysteriousness. What Bulwer, in his
" Last Days of Pompeii," says of the religious faith
of Glaucus is true of the poetry of Patrick Scott ;
there is a deep-toned religious fervour in all he has
written, but the sublime ethics and broad philosophy
of the Christian system, mingle somewhat curiously
with the wild and fanciful notions of the Grecian and
other ancient mythologies. In this we see no ground
for objection, it is an indication rather, of the identity
of the religious feelings of educated humanity at all
periods of the world's history. But we anticipate the
evidence on which our hypothesis is built, and we
pass to a description of the poems in detail.
Lelio, a Vision of Reality, is a dramatic poem,
designed to represent the psychological views of the
author. These opinions are singularly quaint, and,
to say the least of them, startling, as the method by
which they are wrought out is also clever. The
design of this poem can, however, be best stated in
Mr. Scott's own words. He says : —
" The pictures which I have called up are not the
mere creations of sentiment, which have a satisfying
hold on the fancy, but no influence on the formation
of character. They are the embodiments of an evil
conscience, put forward in poetical garb and promi-
nence, and which I suppose to be forced upon the
reflective part of man's nature, while he is still carry-
ing on his schemes of worldly pleasure and aggrandise-
ment. I imagine, also, the possibility of such means
being adopted as correctives, after the dissolution
between body and soul,— the latter, for the sake of
adding force to the lesson, being at the same time
exposed to the influence of the feelings and passions
to which it was subjected in its tabernacle of flesh."
To pourtray scenes like those in this poem, so
nearly akin in its leading idea to that of Milton's
Paradise Lost and Regained," requires a magician's
power. By contrast with the great poet we have
just mentioned, our author is perhaps seen to disad-
vantage, and we confess that we should have coun-
selled him to^have selected a more familiar and less
ambitious subject for the exercise of his powers had
we been permitted to address a word of advice to him
sufficiently early to be of use. The construction of
an ordinary drama is surely task enough for any but
a most extraordinary capacity : to preserve all the uni-
ties of time, circumstance, and situation, and withal
to combine incident enough to awaken and keep alive
e interest attaching to a given subject, is a difficult
atter, even when the dramatist deals with human
tions and passions in relation to the every-day
business of life ; but when the scenes are laid in the
unknown regions of the spirit-world, and the actors
are " disembodied souls," these difficulties are in- j
creased a hundred-fold, and the poet must be, a mortal !
of rare discretion who can duly counterpoise his reason 1
and his imagination, so as to prevent his " vaultino-
ambition " from "o'erleaping itself." It is therefore \
no slight praise to say of our author, although he has !
not attained the loftiest pinnacle of success, and can- ;
not at present claim companionship with some of the I
highest minds of these modern days, that he has !
acquitted himself of his arduous undertaking with j
credit and honour, while he gives hope of even better
things to come. The banquet scene between Leone, '
Lelio, and Ridolfo is well sustained, and is thickly !
bestrewn with rich gems of thought. The reverie of !
Lelio, in the commencement of the second scene, is I
also exceedingly fine — that scene in which his earnest |
soul mourns to behold —
So many noble spirits fall in worship
At the earth's feet of clay, who might have trod
The useful soil, yet raised their heads above it !
There is much in this poem of true mental philo-
sophy aptly embodied in language, some familiar
thoughts clothed in beautiful phraseology, and some
ideas perfectly unique ; as, for instance, Lelio tells us
in this same soliloquy that —
What meets the eye at once, is seldom truth ;
Earth's outward substances cast shadows which
There is no thrift in grasping ; yet the sphere
Of moral being hath its shadows too,
But better than the substance !
We chiefly admire the former part of the drama ;
it is here that the supernatural machinery commences,
and although there is great beauty in the dialogues,
and power in the delineations of female beauty, yet
the reader feels ever and anon a vague dissatisfaction,
— a craving after more solid and impassioned food for
his mental appetite.
We cannot trace the poem throughout, as our space
is inadequate for this purpose, arid we desire to say a
few words on the other portions of the volume. The
necessity of evil, as an agent in the moral economy oi
the world, is a leading idea of the author, and one
that he endeavours to demonstrate by metaphysical
argumentation and analogy.
There is another reason that restrains us from
quoting at length from this poem ; it is a sense that
such a course would involve an injustice to our author ;
we will therefore only cull a few short passages as
evidences of his style and power of wedding fact and
fancy, argument and imagination. Here is an idea,
spoken by an angel's lips, who directs Lelio —
Survey thy threefold nature — Something thou
Sharest with plants, and something with the life
Of animal being, while in part thou seem'st
An angel, though unplumed, and by the slow
And mystic fusion of these triple elements
Thou yet mayst be exalted.
Further on, the angel again tells the hero of the
drama this grand but obvious truth : —
Thy faith were vain,
Vainer than pagan offering, though thy heart
Were big enough to hold all Heaven within it,
But had no room for man !
Some of Mr. Scott's analogies are exceedingly
forcible ; the law of universal progress, and the con-
nection between time and space — thought and mat-
ter— the past, the present, and the future — are thus
stated :—
Man is not placed at once, nor nature bids
The gradual seed spring instant to a tree.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
173
The spirits of all time
Are but the swelling waves of one vast ocean.
The meanest mind that thinks, but forms a part
Of an eternal whole; the faintest flash
Flows in to aggregate the living sun
Of glory, less than God's !
Like all true poets, Patrick Scott has a lively faith
in " the good time coming." There is an eloquent
apostrophe descriptive of this world in the future, —
defecated of its prolific sources of misery and woe,
and trodden by a new and holier race of men and
women, from which we are tempted to select a brief
sentence or two, and shall then close our notice of
this poem.
I see the sunless earth lit up with rays
From the light-crowned heads of million things
That tread its soil aspiringly, as if
Each were a king, and every spot a throne ;
While for the unsympathizing stars, bright eyes
Flash from the nearer heaven of woman's face.
And now I view cast down from his old throne
The unholy god of gold ; upon his neck
Poverty that lacks nothing plants its foot,
And raising its clear forehead from the earth,
Looks in the world's broad face without a blush.
The lowly cottage
Becomes a palace of the kingly soul ;
And the strong faith that ties two hearts in one,
Refining passion into feeling, spreads
Its vital links around, and binds together
Man with his Maker, and his fellow-man.
The other principal poem, Hervor, Mr. Scott in-
forms us, is based upon an ancient Scandinavian tale,
in Keightley's " Fairy Mythology," but that he has
erected his own superstructure thereon, and he has
certainly, in that case, made very free with his model,
for this poem is written in a serio-comic vein, some-
what after the fashion of the " Ingoldsby Legends."
It is largely made up of political references, and as
such things are unsuited to our columns, we pass
this poem by with the remark, that it furnishes an
illustration of the fertile powers of our author, and is
well written.
The minor poems at the end of the volume must
not be passed over in silence. "The Soul and its
Dwelling," "Life and Death," and "Phases of
Being," are all of them full of esoteric meaning and
beauty ; each of them might serve as the theme of a
long discourse, and would yield a profitable return
for the thought so consumed. We, however, can
only point them out, and direct the thoughtful reader,
anxious to cultivate a further acquaintance with
the author, to the volume itself. A poem, headed
" England," also claims to be, at all events, men-
tioned for its merit.
We take our leave then, for the .^present, of
Patrick Scott, with the hope that we may soon meet
him again. His volume entitles him to be ranked
among the worthiest candidates for the Valhalla of
England, when that institution is erected. A little
more experience in the active world of life will entitle
him to the fuller honours of his high calling. We
urge him to continue his labours, for; in his poems we
recognize a heart brim-full of beauty and truth ;
he has an earnest spirit, of which in the volume
before us we trace results here and there ; and we
would entreat him to give these impulses ample scope,
— scorning what poor Thomas Hood called the
" rust of antiquity ;" we would have him identify
himself with the wants and necessities, the hopes and
aspirations, which move within the breasts of the men
of the present generation. Here is a large field for
the most useful exercise of the poet's powers, and
Patrick Scott is certainly a poet.
POOR GENTEEL WOMEN.
A VOICE on behalf of the genteel poor has issued
from the Scottish metropolis, which is well worthy of
being listened to.* It pleads for the large and
perhaps increasing class of single women, brought up
in genteel habits, accustomed in their youth to
comfort, and perhaps affluence, but who are left in
their mature years to poverty and want. The
number of such women, in proportion to the rest of
the population, is perhaps greater in Scotland than
in England, and for this reason — that a large number
of the well-educated young men, belonging to the
middle classes of that country, emigrate to other
lands in pursuit of fortune, leaving their sisters and
female relatives at home. Some go to the States,
some to Australia, and many enter the East-Indian
Service as soldiers, as surgeons, and in other capaci-
ties. But the young women cannot emigrate as
their brothers do ; and thus it happens that you
often find in large families there, the sons have
gone abroad, and the daughters are left at home.f
Some of these may be chosen as wives ; but many
remain " Old maids," or as this writer expresses it,
" Poor Scotch old maids."
As things go now, women are educated into the
notion that marriage is their destiny, their
" mission ; " and certain it is, that except in the
cases of women of stronger character than the
average, one who has not succeeded in drawing the
prize of a husband (sad blanks some of them turn
out in the end), is regarded as a sort of failure in
life, and she cannot help regarding herself in some-
thing of the same light. We have not yet got into
the way of looking on woman as a self-dependent
being, created to stand, and act, and live alone,
with powers of self-help and of independent life and
progress within herself ; but regard her as a kind of
appendage of man, — an accessory, an ornament, —
subject to man, contingent upon him, living for and
through him, and dependent on his good pleasure for
the means "of comfort, happiness, and well-being.
Doubtless, this arises in a great measure from the
exceedingly imperfect intellectual culture of our
women, whom we sedulously educate into weakness
because it is "interesting," and cram with all
manner of useless accomplishments, because they
are showy and "attractive." But whatever the
cause, certain it is, that there is a larger amount of
struggling poverty among the genteel classes, as they
are called, in this country, than most people dream
of, or perhaps than they would like to encounter.
Look around your own circle. You know of
many cases such as this : A seemingly prosperous
man is engaged in the full tide of successful business ;
he drives a large trade, and counts his gains by
thousands. He has a family of sons and daughters,
whom he educates at boarding-schools, in all the
current knowledge and trifling of the day. They
are carefully tended and kept. They know no want.
They are thoroughly genteel, and have a large
visiting acquaintance. Their characters, such as
they are, become fashioned and formed after the
most approved notions. But suddenly a reverse
occurs — an unfortunate speculation, a bad season ;
great losses fall suddenly upon the merchant, and
he finds himself a ruined man. You have a genteel
family reduced at once to a state of the most galling
* Poor Old Scotch Maids, and how to avoid becoming one
Edinburgh : Johnstone and Hunter.
t Thus the last census of Edinburgh shows, that there is
an excess of females over males in the New Town of Edin-
burgh (the genteel quarter), of 28 per cent, while the excess
in the Old Town (the poor quarter), is only 74.
174
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
poverty ; not merely the poverty of the poor, but the
poverty of the genteel, an infinitely sadder and more
intolerable thing.
Or, a professional man dies suddenly, and when his
affairs are wound up, it is found that he had lived
fully up to his income ; that those gay parties of
his had absorbed all his spare gains ; and that he had
not insured his life, or if so, then for a very incon-
siderable amount. His widow and daughters fall at
once into the ranks of the poor genteel. As for the
sons, in such cases they can usually shift for them-
selves ; but how long is it before they can do anything
towards helping their poor female relatives. By the
time they reach manhood they have contracted ties of
their own, most probably got married, and can do
very little to relieve the straits of their poor sisters,
who quietly subside into the state of threadbare poor
gentlewomen.
You perhaps suggest that they might bestir
themselves, and make a living by entering upon
some business pursuit. Not they, indeed ! You
must remember that they were genteelly educated
and brought up, and genteel notions never cease to
cling to them, — often the more closely the smaller
their means of living. They are disposed to be most
industrious, too ; they are ready to work their fingers
off at plain sewing, crochet, netting, or needlework
of any kind, but to keep a shop f Goodness gracious !
how could you ever dream of anything so horribly
ungenteel !
This reluctance to enter upon any of the pursuits
of trade, by persons suffering the keenest pangs of
distress, may seem ludicrous ; but it is strictly true,
as the experience of most persons will confirm.
Here is the kind of retreat of the decayed gentle-
woman : —
" We could enter with you their little room, with
its too-often fireless fire-place, its bare floor, or at
best wprn carpet, its old table, and two or three
chairs. We find all scrupulously clean, but some-
what bare and comfortless. We perceive an old
lady, perhaps fifty or sixty, or even seventy years of
age, quite alone. Possibly she seems rather startled
as we enter, not being accustomed to visitors. Her
minister looks in upon her now and then, and save
he, no one ever troubles her. For days she sits in
her little room, without seeing a human being, or
having addressed to her a human voice, never
going out, except occasionally in the evening, to
purchase her marvellously few necessaries, or to her
employer with her bit of work. She has neither
relatives nor friends who do provide for her, what-
ever they ought to do. It is wonderful how the
Scotch mist hangs midway on the hill, at the bottom
of which dwell poor relations. They cam\ot from
their altitude see through it. She works on with
quietness there, and eats her own bread, having
been often made to feel, by bitter experience, the
wisdom of the warning, ' Neither go thou in thy
brother's house in the day of thy calamity, for better is
a neighbour that is near than a brother that is far
off.'
" Perhaps we have called about term time ; this
may well account for her looking somewhat scared.
The rent — that great and terrible thought of the
virtuous poor ! — is never out of her mind, and she
may not have got it scraped together. Well does
she know that disappointed landlords' emissaries are
somewhat unpolished, and that house agents are in
noways obsequious to such as she ; and wonderful to
say, spite of all she has undergone in her rough
passage through the world, as the daughter of a gen-
tleman, she shrinks somewhat still from vulgar
abuse.
"The old lady, we observe, is neat even to pre-
ciseness, though her garments are somewhat thread-
bare. She is probably dressed in mourning, for
black looks long respectable. We have known a
black shawl last such a one for ten years, and be
thereafter re-dyed nearly as many times. As for a
black gown, why it turns with them so often, one
gets giddy to think of it. She has the manners and
speech of a lady ; and no wonder, for her father was
probably an officer in the army or navy, mayhap a
clergyman, and she was reared and educated as the
daughter of a gentleman. She is very old, you see,
and apparently half-blind, but still she has work
in her hands. Her needle has long stitched j
her body and soul together, as it has done to \
many a poor sufferer ; and its monotonous stitch, j
stitch, is often the only sound that breaks on her ear j
for days. She can't, of course, afford to be idle j
while we remain so ; as we converse with her, her •
old fingers tremble on at their task. She lives by her !
labour. Little as she can earn, she would starve if
she could not earn it. She is busy while we stay,
having learnt the poor's lesson, to talk and work
together.
" Does she bore us with a story of her sufferings,
telling us that, like Gideon's fleece, she is left dry,
while the fertilizing dew falls on all around her ?
No ; you are a stranger to her (though she knows us
of old), and you may leave her little room and say,
as we attempt to shut her clattering old door,
which will not sneck, ' What a nice old lady, so
cheerful and contented ! ' and you may conclude
that the nice old lady is not in very straitened
circumstances, even though she is in such an
inaccessible crow's-nest. You were quite right in
saying she was contented, but grievously wrong as
to her circumstances. She pays £4 a year for her
little room, and in the depth of winter she has a bit
of fire to maintain in her tiny grate, and she requires
gas or candle light ; and, proh pudor ! must pay her
taxes. And all this she does out of about 4s. a
week, which she earns by sewing or knitting from
seven o'clock in the morning till eleven o'clock at
night. And after meeting all demands, she has,
really we cannot tell what, to keep soul and body
together. Bread and water, you suggest ? Why, she
may get sufficient of the latter, but of the former,
alas ! cheap as is the loaf, we fear her quota exceeds '
not that of the gross knight's proportion to his pottles
of sack."
An over-coloured picture, does the reader exclaim ?
Not at all. There are thousands of such in all great
towns, and especially in the older and more aristo-
cratic ones ; some of these poor ladies literally
starving, because they are too proud to beg. Our
author states it as a fact, that not fewer than 600
application s^br aid had been made to one charitable
institution m three years, by ladies, most of whose
incomes were positively and literally under £10 per
annum. That there are multitudes of young women
in a similarly poor condition, let the hosts of
applications for every advertised situation of go-
verness— no matter how miserable the remuneration
offered — be the answer. In one case mentioned by
our author, a Home Missionary discovers two ladies,
both governesses, competent to teach French,
drawing, &c., who had sold every disposable article
of furniture, and were actually without food, hav-
ing passed one entire day without a morsel to i
eat! Another old single , lady, the daughter of a j
major in the army, who had served with distinction j
in the American wars and on the continent, was !
found among the starving and destitute applicants to
a benevolent society. She had been destitute since
the death of the last of her brothers, who was an
admiral. Another was a squire's daughter, brought up
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
175
a lady, but reduced to destitution, yet managing
somehow to maintain herself and an imbecile brother.
Here is another case, described by the sufferer
herself, in her application to the benevolent institu-
tion : —
" I am above fifty years of age ; my father was
• Esq., a West Indian planter, whose
income, at one time, amounted to £3,000 a year ;
but who, in consequence of sad reverses of fortune,
died insolvent. I was a governess for a period of
sixteen years, teaching the usual plain branches of
education, with French, music, drawing, and the
elements of Latin. For seven years past I have
been afflicted with an incurable illness, which renders
me utterly unable to contribute to my own support ;
and for the last four years I have been constantly con-
fined to bed. I live with a sister, whose income,
barely sufficing to meet her own wants, is dependent
on a very precarious source, viz., on private teaching.
To no other relative can I look for help in my
straitened circumstances, the few relatives I have
being unable to render me any assistance. I have
no annuity or income of any kind from any source
whatever." Her minister testifies of this applicant,
that " all the statements made by her are true : she is
quite a lady in education and feeling." Lamentable
issue of £3,000 a year !
How is this state of things to be remedied ? The
author of this pithy little brochure submits a scheme for
the public consideration, and it is well worthy of
attention. He proposes the adoption of a system of
annuities for single women on an extensive scale, by
which the survivors at fifty years of age shall be
placed beyond the reach of want. He insists that
parents should, from the birth of every female child,
provide against their being abandoned to destitution
in their old age. He argues, and with some force,
that Life Assurance does not meet the difficulties of
the case ; for it is out of the power of most parents
whose incomes range from £150 to £300 a year to
pay the heavy premiums of insurance, necessaiy to
provide even a trifle, at their death, for each mem-
ber of their family ; and even where they do this, at
the sacrifice possibly of the education of the children,
the provision for old age of the daughters would not
be thereby secured. He proposes, therefore, that
parents should enter their female children, at birth, in
the books of a Female Mutual Aid Society, where the
payment of less than a penny a day for each child
would secure a provision of £225 on reaching the age
of fifty years ; and for less than 2d. a day, £450,
thus quadrupling the sum paid. By increasing the
payment, of course the provision would be propor-
tionably increased. Should the nominee die before
the age of fifty, all interest in the fund, so far as that
member was concerned, would be lost ; but then all
who survived beyond fifty, would secure the benefits
intended. There are certain details in the scheme
which it would take too much space to describe
here. We merely give the outline idea of the
author's plan. If it could be earned into effect, and
our impression is that the plan is one 'that will work,
it would certainly prove an infinite source of comfort,
both to parents and female children. It would
cultivate the habit of providence and forethought, and
tend to elevate the moral and social condition of men,
not less than of women, cheer many lonely hours
now dark and troubled, and rob old age of one of its
greatest terrors ; and by directing the thoughts of
parents to the future of their female children, such
a scheme as this would ultimately encourage
them to improve the culture of their minds, in
whose neglected or perverted education, much
of the so-called " Woman's weakness " has its real
origin.
POSSESSIONS.
What are possessions ? To an individual, the stores
of his own heart and mind pre-eminently. His truth
and valour are amongst the first ; his contentedness, or
his resignation may be put next. Then his sense of
beauty, surely a possession of great moment to him.
Then all those mixed possessions which result from
the social affections, — great possessions, unspeakable
delights, much greater than the gift last mentioned
in the former class, but held on more uncertain tenure.
Lastly, what are generally called possessions. How-
ever often we have heard of the vanity, uncertainty,
and vexation that beset these last, we must not let
this repetition deaden our minds to the fact. Now,
national possessions must be estimated by the same
gradation that we have applied to individual posses-
sions. If we consider national luxury, we shall see
how small a part it may add to national happiness.
Men of deserved renown and peerless women lived
upon what we should now call the coarsest fare, and
paced the rushes in their rooms with as high or as
contented thoughts as their better-fed and better-
clothed descendants can boast of. Man is limited in
this direction, I mean in the things that concern his
personal gratification ; but when you come to the
higher enjoyments, the expansive power both in him
and them is greater. As Keats says, —
A thing1 of beauty is a joy for ever :
Its loveliness increases ; it will never
Pass into nothingness, but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, arid health, and quiet breathing.
What then are a nation's possessions ? The great
words that have been said in it ; the great deeds that
have been done in it ; the great buildings and the
great works of art that have been made in it. A
man says a noble saying, — it is a possession, first to
his own race, then to mankind. A people get a
noble building built for them ; it is an honour to
them, also a daily delight and instruction ; it perishes,
the remembrance of it is still a possession. If it was
indeed pre-eminent, there will be more pleasure in
thinking of it than in being with others of inferior
order and design. On the other hand, a thing of
ugliness is potent for evil ; it deforms the taste of the
thoughtless, it frets the man who knows how bad it
is, it is a disgrace to the nation who raised it, an
example and an occasion for more monstrosities. If
it is a great building in a great city, thousands of
people pass it daily, and are the worse for it, or at
least not the better : it must be done away with.
Next to the folly of doing a bad thing is that of
fearing to undo it : we must not look at what it has
cost, but at what it is. Millions may be spent upon
some foolish device, which will not the more make it
into a possession, but only a more noticeable detri-
ment. It must not be supposed that works of art
are the only or the chief public improvements needed
in any country. Wherever men congregate, the ele-
ments become scarce : the supply of air, light, and
water is then a matter of the highest public import-
ance ; and the magnificent utilitarianism of the
Romans should precede the nice sense of beauty of
the Greeks, or rather, the former should be worked
out in the latter. Sanatory improvements, like most
good works, may be made to fulfil many of the best
human objects ; charity, social order, conveniency of
living, and the love of the beautiful, may all be fur-
thered by such improvements. A people is seldom
so well employed as when, not suffering their attention
to be absorbed by foreign quarrels and domestic
broils, they bethink themselves of winning back those
blessings of nature which assemblages of men mostly
vitiate, exclude, or destroy. — Friends in Council,
176
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
TEUTH BEFORE WEALTH.
Go, bask in the sunshine of pleasure,
Where riches and plenty abound,
But think not that Life's greatest treasure
In riches can ever be found.
The charms of the court may awaken
A smile 'midst the cares of the gay,
But Honour too oft is forsaken
Where Wealth is the sceptre of sway. .
The fortunes of birth may engender
Bright moments unchequered by fears,
But hearts that are captive to splendour
Are saddened too often by tears.
Then grieve not, but hope for the morrow,
When darkness o'ershadows the day ;
And despair not in anguish and sorrow
While Truth is your sceptre of sway.
G. H.
ANTIPATHIES.
Our antipathies and sympathies are most unaccount-
able manifestations of our nervous impressionability
affecting our judgment, and uncontrollable by will or
reason. Certain antipathies seem to depend upon a
peculiarity of the senses. The horror inspired by the
odour of certain flowers may be referred to this cause —
an antipathy so powerful as to realize the poetic
allusion, to
Die of a rose in aromatic pain,
For Amatus Lusitanus relates the case of a monk who
fainted when he beheld a rose, and never quitted his
cell while that flower was blooming. Orfila (a less
questionable authority) gives the accotmt of the painter
Vincent, who was seized with violent vertigo, and
swooned, when there were roses in the room.
Valtain gives the history of an officer who was
thrown into convulsions, and lost his senses, by
having pinks in his chamber. Orfila also relates the
instance of a lady, forty-six years of age, of a hale con-
stitution, who could never be present when a decoc-
tion of linseed was preparing, without being troubled
in the course of a few minutes with a general swel-
ling of the face, followed by fainting and a loss of the
intellectual faculties, which symptoms continued for
four-and-twenty hours. Montaigne remarks, on this
subject, that there were men who dreaded an apple
more than a cannon-ball. Zimmerman tells us of a
lady who could not endure the feeling of silk and
satin, and shuddered when touching the velvety skin
of a peach : other ladies cannot bear the feel of fur.
Boyle records the case of a man who experienced a
natural abhorrence of honey ; a young man invariably
fainted when the servant swept his room. Hippocrates
mentions one Nicanor who swooned whenever he
heard a flute, and Shakspere has alluded to the
strange effect of the bagpipe. Boyle fell into a
syncope when he heard the splashing of water ;
Scaliger turned pale at the sight of water-cresses ;
Erasmus experienced febrile symptoms when smelling
fish ; the Duke d'Epernon swooned on beholding a
leveret, although a hare did not produce the same
effect ; Tycho Briihe fainted at the sight of a fox ;
Henry III., of France, at that of a cat ; and Marshal
d'Albret at a pig. The horror that whole families
entertain of cheesejs well known. — Dr. Millingen.
DIAMOND DUST.
IF you take a great deal of pains to serve the world
and to benefit your fellow creatures, and if, after all,
the world scarcely thanks you for the trouble you have
taken, do not be angry and make a loud talking about
the world's ingratitude, for if you do, it will seem that
you cared more about the thanks you were to receive
than about the blessings which you professed to
bestow.
FLATTERY is like a flail, which, if not adroitly used,
will box your own ears instead of tickling those of
the corn.
EVERY one is at least in one thing, against his will,
original ; — in his manner of sneezing.
WOMAN'S silence, although it is leas frequent, sig-
nifies much more than man's.
EEALITY plants a thorny hedge around our dream-
ing, while the sporting-ground of the possible is ever
free and open.
THERE is much novelty that is without hope, much
antiquity without sacredness.
WE should use a book as the bee does a flower.
THAT charity is bad which takes from independence
its proper pride, from mendicity its salutary shame.
POMPOUS fools may be compared to alembics, for in
their slowness of speech, ancldulness of apprehension,
they give you, drop by drop, an extract of the simples
they contain.
IT is a peculiar felicity to be praised by a person
who is himself eminently a subject of praise.
NOTHING makes one so indifferent to the pin and
mosquito thrusts of life as the consciousness of grow-
ing better.
THE intoxication of anger, like that of the grape,
shows us to others, but hides us from ourselves.
WHOLESOME sentiment is rain, which makes the
fields of daily life fresh and odorous.
THE improbabilities of experience are many, the
impossibilities are few.
PEOPLE should travel, if for no other reason than
to receive every now and then a letter from home ;
the place of our birth never appears so beautiful as
when it is out of sight.
ROMANCE is the truth of imagination and boyhood.
LITERATURE is a garden, books are particular views
of it, and readers are visitors.
MEN are made to be eternally shaken about, but
women are flowers that lose their beautiful colours in
the noise and tumult of life.
i
THE triumphs of truth are the most glorious, chiefly
because they are the most bloodless of all victories,
deriving their highest lustre from the number of
saved, not of the slain. t
IF we examine the subject, it is not pride that
makes us angry,, but the want of foundation for pride ;
and for this reason humility often displeases us as
much.
LET every one protect himself from a sullen, egotis-
tical spirit, for there can be none worse.
BIOGRAPHY is useless which is not true. The weak-
nesses of character must be preserved, however insig-
nificant or humbling ; they are the errata of genius,
and clear up the text.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 142.]
SATURDAY, JANUARY 17, 1852.
[PRICE
MACHINES AND MEN.
" SHE can do everything but speak ! " said an admiring
mechanist, pointing to the steam-engine. " She can
drive spindles, pump water, plough land, print books,
saw timber, impel ships, draw long trains of passen-
gers, excavate docks, beat and weld iron, hammer
gold-leaf, draw copper wire, make pins, weave cotton,
twine thread, carve wood, mould bricks, — in short,
there's nothing she can't do, except speak. There
isn't a machine but she can drive. This steam-engine
is the wonder of the world ! "
Look at the machines to which steam is linked as
the grand moving power. Their number is endless.
Coal and water is all the food the steam-engine
requires ; and she goes on without ceasing, by night
and day, never wearied, never jaded, needing no rest,
nor sleep, nor recreation — only a little cleaning now
and then, and a little oil. Her bowels are iron, her
heart is fire, and her blood water. There is something
almost sublime in her movements, reminding one of
the wheelings of the world in space — supremely
indifferent to all human considerations of weal' or
woe. She goes on in her majestic course with the
power of a giant, and yet a child can control her. But
the steam-engine is linked with human destinies, —
very closely so indeed. Man has invented this wonder-
ful machine, and she works and rests at his bidding.-
With all her power, the steam-engine is the slave of
our race — more devoted and powerful by far than all
the slaves that Aladdin could conjure up by the aid of
his wonderful lamp.
That the age has grown mechanical, has become a
trite saying. There are machines now in existence,
and almost daily invented, into which man seems to
have put his own powers of thinking. We can per-
form nearly every kind of labour by means of mechan-
ism. The last invention of the American reaping-
machine is an illustration of the progress we are
making in this respect. We have machines to weave
cotton fabrics, to make cloth, to spin thread, to
manufacture all sorts of iron and wood ; indeed there
is scarcely a department of industry to which ma-
chinery is not extensively and increasingly applied.
It is calculated that the machinery of Great Britain
is at this day equal to not fewer than one thousand
millions of human beings with only their naked
hands to aid them ! Machinery has reached every
department of labour. We even sweep our streets
by its aid. By machines we can fold newspapers
and envelopes, and make gloves, shirts, boots, and
shoes. The chimney-sweeping machine goes up our
chimneys. The calculating machine works our log-
arithms for us. So far has this mechanical progress
gone, that Carlyle has even proposed to erect cast-
metal machines to be placed at the corners of our
streets, to preach sermons !
One of the most extensive and prosperous of our
branches of industry now-a-days is that of machine-
making. The raw material of iron goes into the
machine-shop, and is there made into machines by
other machines, — machines that hammer the iron,
weld it into various forms, turn it, bore it, rivet the
pieces together, the man acting chiefly as a watcher
and a fitter. Thus machines go on infinitely multi-
plying machines, and capital multiplying capital.
The prodigious power of machinery, however, is yet
but in its infancy ; and the time seems to be fast
approaching when nearly the whole labour of the
world will be done by machinery, — when iron, coal,
and water, will be the great workers or drudges in
the production of all the fabrics and commodities
required for the sustenance, the clothing, and the
housing, of the great family of man. In England,
our powers of producing wearing fabrics of cotton,
woollen, and flax, are such, that there is no conceivable
demand that we could not more than overtake, — the
only limit being in the supply of the raw materials.
Every now and then we hear of the markets of the
world being "glutted" with British goods, the
product of our enormous mechanical power. And
' machinery is in like manner capable of being applied
to the operations of agriculture — as the steam-plough,
the American reaping-machine, and the steam thrash-
ing machine — only the commencemeat of mechanical
improvements in this wide field, — have recently
shown. The same power is equally capable of appli-
cation in all other branches of industry.
Among the many interesting articles shown in the
late Exhibition, were the "labour-saving machines."
Some of these were of the most curious description.
There was one for forming hemispherical, or dome-
shaped, paper shades for lamps ! Another for folding
pamphlets and newspapers ! Another for packing
dry substances in paper, printing the labels for such
packages, and subsequently pasting the labels thereon;
178
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
the only human labour required being the turning
of a handle ! There was another for composing type,
and afterwards distributing it, the machine being
played on like a pianoforte, and almost as rapidly !
Another was a machine for designing patterns in
stripes, checks, and tartans! Another machine for
manufacturing soups ! Several machines for sifting
cinders ! Another for scraping surgeon's lint ! Many
machines for cutting out materials for gloves, boots,
and shoes ! A machine for sewing linen cloths and
sacks ! Others for sewing and embroidering fabrics
of various sorts, from muslin to woollen cloth ! And
a machine for making wigs ! Not to speak of the
machine for making carding machines, the reaping-
machine, brick and tile-making machines, and numer-
ous others better known.
Where is this to end ? It would seem as if mere
manual labour were ultimately to be displaced by
machine-labour, and that man's function in course of
time would come to be that of a contriver, maker,
and watcher of machines. All these machines are
economizers of labour — they are correctly described
as "labour-saving machines," enabling man to pro-
duce wealth with less of muscular effort and toil, and
in far more abundant quantity than he could do by
means of his hands and the simple tools formerly in
use. The increase of machinery also points to the
rapid increase of "wealth" so called; that is, an
abundance of all the comforts, luxuries, and neces-
saries of life, and an accumulation of wealth in the
shape of stored-up " capital." It must also inevitably
lead to a large reduction in the number of persons
employed in actual labour, and a proportionate
increase of the independent classes on the one hand,
and of the disemployed classes on the other. This
increase has been going on steadily in this country
for many years past, — the number of " independent "
persons, living on the interest of money, on the
revenue derived from the funds, railways, joint-stock
companies, partnerships in concerns wherein their
capital is invested, having largely increased during
the last twenty years or more.
This question has a very wide bearing as regards
those of the labouring classes whom the invention of
new and improved machinery may dislodge from
their former occupations. How the working classes
are to obtain the full benefits and advantages of the
"labour-saving" processes, is a problem which we
have not yet seen satisfactorily solved, but it is one
that will press for solution with increasing urgency
from day to day. One would naturally infer that the
improvement of machinery, by which the drudgery
and hard work of the world is performed, should give
greater leisure, greater comforts, and improved
facilities for culture of the higher powers of man's
nature. The machine which liberates so much of
mere human drudgery ought to be a great blessing ;
it ought to give to the working classes more time
that they can call their own ; more leisure for self-
culture, for domestic intercourse, for social and
political action. We fear this matter has not yet
been seen to ; and if we listen to the discussions
going on around us on every side, we find that it is
the source of much of the disquiet and unrest which
pervade modern society. This it is which gives power
to the party called "Socialist," now so extensively
pervading the civilized world. How are the working
people— the inventors and improvers— the makers
and the watchers of machines— to reap the advantages
arising from their discovery and adoption ? This
is the question now waiting solution, and it is a most
serious and knotty one.
We do not propose to discuss this question here •
but would merely point out the remarkable fact, that
Le we are doing so much to improve and perfect
our machinery — as if infusing into them the intelli-
gence, skill, and handicraft, of the most cunning
workman, we are doing so little to improve men j
themselves ! What is a dead machine to a living i
man, — to a thinking, rational, immortal being, capable \
of large apprehension, of looking before and after, J
and destined for immortality ? Yet see what pains, j
what labour, what resources of "capital" are bestowed
upon machines, and how little upon the mass of man- j
kind ! Look at the agricultural man, and then at the j
agricultural thrashing machine ! The former is any- '
thing but " improved." Civilization has scarcely j
touched him yet. He is little more than "a poor,
bare, forked animal,"— just as he was in the Saxon
era. Is he not as worthy of improvement, and as
capable of improvement, as the drilling or thrashing
machine? Why not try "an improved mode of
culture " in his case ? Would not " subsoil ploughing "
bring up some of the rich qualities of his nature,
which have long been left deep hid among weeds,
and stones, and stiff clay ? Look at him now ! the
most unimproved of all human machines ; and the
most of all standing in need of it ! Why not improve
men, we again ask, as well as machines ?
Take again the artizan or the factory worker.
There is a vast field for improvement there ! The
machines they tend are of the most elaborate and
complex description ; they can card, spin, wind, and
weave ; they can bore, hammer, cut, and plane ; they
can, as the mechanist said, "do everything but speak."
But the workers who tend them — in what respect have
they been " improved ? " They have meat and drink
enough, it may be. But look into their minds. Ask
what has been their intellectual culture, what their |
moral training, what their domestic life ; and alas !
you will find that it is machines we have been think-
ing of, machines we have been improving, and not
men, women, and children. Have they not, in many
cases, become like the machines they tend — unthink-
ing, mechanical — like mere parts of the machines,
having no higher aspirations than merely doing
their work, and consuming their food and drink as
the machine does its oil — their mental eyes blinded i
or unopened, and with all their large capacities for i
good and for happiness uncared for, undeveloped,
and unimproved ?
We might carry these observations much further,
but we leave them at this point. What we mean
to convey is this, — that while we have been im-
proving machinery, we have neglected man, — while
we have greatly economized and multiplied labour by
superior machines, we have not given the labourer
the due benefit of these grand inventions, — while we
have enormously multiplied wealth by mechanical
contrivances of all kinds, we have left the bulk of
o\ir people in an unimproved arid uncultivated state,
and that, while it is right to carry the improvement
of machinery to the highest point in order to set free
human toil, the time so liberated ought to be devoted
to the advancement of man's spiritual and intellectual
culture, which unhappily is not as yet the case, and
is but too little thought of.
THE MIDNIGHT MOWER.
ONE morning in the summer of 1814, a party of four j
individuals left the little town of Pucuaro for ||
Tehuacan, in the state of Oaxaca, more than 200 j
leagues distant. At' that time travelling was i
attended by more than ordinary risk, for it was
one of the most critical periods in the Mexican War of
Independence, when the effort to throw off the
Spanish yoke seemed likely to be defeated, and the
fierce passions and animosities called into existence
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
179
by the struggle had produced a degree of insecurity
highly alarming to timid travellers, and involving
positive danger. The party, however, set out on
their journey ; two of them were women, mother
and daughter, the latter called Luz la cigarrera, from
her occupation of cigar-making, — a pretty and
sprightly damsel, the belle of the town, and the object
of intense admiration on the part of the two horse-
men by whom she and her parent were accompanied.
Of the men, one was Gamboa, a daring guerillero of
the revolutionary army, the other, Andres Tapia,
was better known as the track-seeker ; each con-
sidered himself destined to receive the hand of the
maiden at the end of the journey, as a reward for
their vows of attachment and protection by the way.
Had it not been for the sagacity and promptitude
of the track-seeker in avoiding the posts occupied
by Spanish troops, and in making detours where a
direct route was impracticable, the fate of the party
would soon have been decided. Night after night,
taking advantage of the darkness, he led them by
paths known only to himself, until but one more
stage lay between them and their destination. Here
they fell in with an Indian who had halted to feed his
horses, and after reposing for a time, were preparing
to resume their route, when the cigarrera's mother,
hastily approaching the two men in much alarm,
expressed her desire, as Tehuacan was so near, to
finish the journey by daylight.
11 And why so ? " asked the track-seeker, greatly
surprised.
" Why," answered the lady, making the sign of
the cross, "our entertainer, the Indian, says that
last night he saw the Midnight Mower, and that we
shall most likely see him mowing the fields of alfalfa
(lucerne) by moonlight, with his great shears. By
all the saints in heaven ! " she continued, trembling
with fear, "the sight of him would make me die
of fright."
"Well ! and if we do see him?" rejoined Andres ;
' ( the Midnight Mower never harms any one. The
traveller whose horse is tired, is very glad to meet
with grass of his mowing. So there's no danger,
and we might come upon something in the daytime
much more terrible than a night adventure. I can't
answer for you by daylight."
This consideration prevailed, and the party having
mounted, betook themselves once more to the route.
The belief in the Midnight Mower is one of the old
superstitions accredited in the state of Oaxaca, where
it is reported that, at the commencement of the
conquest, — an event dishonoured by so many cruelties,
— a Spanish cavalier, who had signalized himself by
his ferocity towards the natives, riding one day at full
speed, inquired of an Indian whom he saw mowing
lucerne in a field, — " Hola ! amigo, how soon will
this pace take me to Oaxaca ? "
" Never ! " was the answer ; and as it turned out,
a little further on, the over-ridden horse died of
fatigue. The Spaniard not understanding that t e
Indian meant he would never arrive with that horse,
returned furious with rage, under the impression
that a spell had been cast upon the animal, and
killed the native with a thrust of his sword. This
last murder put the finishing- stroke to his iniquities ;
he disappeared the same evening, condemned, as the
Indians say, to mow lucerne eternally, in order to
terrify those who would maltreat them.
The travellers kept on their way in silence ;
another hour or two, and they would emerge from
the by-path upon the main-road to Tehuacan, when
suddenly, two pistol-shots were heard in quick
succession, followed by the galloping of a horse,
from which, as it approached the party, a Spanish
soldier fell dead to the ground.
The track-seeker gazed intently forward into the
gloom ; " Those two pistol-shots," he said, "gave the
same sound, they were both loaded by the same
hand, and with equal measures of powder, and the
same hand has fired both. Now I hear only the
clash of swords ; it is evident that some one is to
be disarmed, and taken alive ; I hear his cry for help ;
he is a foreigner."
Andres, darted off at a gallop in the direction
of the sounds, and Gamboa was preparing to follow,
when the cries of the duenna held him back ; "Maria
Santissima f " she exclaimed, "are yo\i going to
leave us alone ? "
The guerillero remained ; meantime the voice
renewed its cries for succour. The track-seeker
urged his horse the more, and fortunately the soft
sand deadened the sound of the hoofs, and it was
without being perceived that he became aware of
three soldiers stooping over a man lying on the
ground, and binding him with cords. He fell upon
them unexpected. It was too late, when they
attempted to put themselves on the defensive. They
were three Spanish dragoons, a sufficient reason to
Andres for not waiting to consider whether he was
wrong or right ; in them he saw only enemies, and a
poor wretch yielding to their number, and with two
shots of his pistols he brought down two of the
aggressors, ready to come to an explanation after-
wards with the third. But the Spaniard, flew to
his horse, and plied the spurs so desperately, that in
a minute he was out of sight.
The track-seeker, remaining master of the field,
hastened to liberate the captive from his bonds, and
^seizing the horse belonging to one of the vanquished
dragoons, placed the rein in the hands of the
stranger, who sprang lightly into the saddle. Luz
murmured a fervent thanksgiving as she saw them
approach. The individual who had been so happily
rescued was an Englishman, named Robinson.
"Thanks," he said to Andres, " you have rendered a
more important service to your country's cause
and to General Teran, than you might imagine ;"
and after this formal acknowledgment in mys-
terious terms, he shut himself up in imperturbable
silence.
A few miles further, the cavalcade were at last
about to see the houses of Tehuacan in the moonlight,
when the track-seeker, pointing with his finger,
indicated a ,sight to his companions that sent a
shudder of horror through their veins.
In a field adjoining the road, amidst a thick carpet
of alfalfa, across which the moon threw the shadow
of a few pale-leaved olive-trees, they saw a man
bending over the ground, and mowing, or pretending
to mow, the herbage around him. An old grey felt-
hat, looped up behind and ornamented with a long
feather, concealed his features, while a shirt with
puffed sleeves, and short pantaloons tight at the hips,
gave him a resemblance to the old portraits by Murillo,
of the time of the conquest. The travellers were,
however, too much agitated to look with composure
on this singular apparition of the Midnight Mower.
The two blades of his huge shears shone between his
hands in the moonlight, as he opened and reclosed
them without noise ; and when a swath of lucerne
fell at his feet, it seemed that he searched in his
pocket, and then described a mysterious half circle in
the air with outstretched hand. After that, he again
went on with his shears, and ever as before the
alfalfa fell beneath his strokes.
It seemed for a moment, in the pale light of the
moon, that the track-seeker turned pale ; but his
expanding nostril and the fire of his eye showed that
if fear had taken possession of him, it was at least
not to the detriment of his infallible sagacity.
180
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
"Madre di Dios!" he said at^length, in a low
voice, " it's the Midnight Mower ! "
" Indeed ! " answered the Englishman, who com-
prehended nothing of the sense of the words.
The track-seeker shook his head, and made no
reply ; but motioning to his companions to remain
still, he slid quietly down from his saddle, and flung
the bridle to Gamboa.
" What are you going to do ? " asked Luz,
terrified.
" Hush ! " he answered ; the next moment he was
creeping behind the bushes which bordered the road,
until he found himself in a line parallel with the
mower. The road was hollow, and the ground on
either side on a level with the heads of the travellers
so that by a little precaution they could see all that
took place on the slope, without being observed
themselves.
While Andres, from the place of his concealment,
kept his eye fixed on the mower, the latter again
interrupted his labour to describe the strange circle
in the air. Then, in a low and stifled voice, he was
heard to hum some mysterious chorus of the other
world. All at once the track-seeker disappeared ;
at the same moment the mower became invisible in
the shadow, and behind the trunk of a tree, and
nothing more was seen but the silent field and swaths
of dewy herbage.
Robinson being altogether ignorant of the legend,
remained perfectly unmoved ; presently, Andres came
back with a slow and measured step, and said, as he
took his horse's bridle, — " I did wrong not to take
my rifle with me ; I should now know what to think
of it."
" Of what use are balls against phantoms ? "
retorted the guerillero, in a low tone. "Did you
not see how this one disappeared in spite of all your
precautions and skill ? "
" Ah ! if I had but time, I could follow on his trail,
even were he a spirit of the air ; but to stop here
would be exposing ourselves to shipwreck in sight of
port, for in a few minutes we shall see the towers of
Tehuacan." As he said this, Andres remounted his
horse, and the party rode onwards at a pace that
made up for lost time. The track-seeker, however,
remained silent, and seemed to be deeply absorbed in
thought.
"You do not believe, then, in the Midnight
Mower ? " said Luz, interrupting his meditations.
" It is a mower of flesh and bone as we ! " replied
Andres ; " but what was he really doing there ? "
" Per Dios!" answered the guerillero," "he was
mowing ; accomplishing his eternal expiation. Did
you not remark the hat with the feather, in the
fashion of three hundred years ago ? "
" It is playing a part," rejoined the track-seeker,
" and when any one plays a part, he always tries to
take the right costume ; but why this comedy ? that
is what I say to myself. I will know," he exclaimed,
what this man or this phantom was doing ! In an
hour's time you will be safe in Tehuacan ; I shall be
there two hours after you." And deaf to the remon-
strances of the two women and Gamboa, who
continued to see a supernatural apparition in the
Midnight Mower, the track-seeker retraced his steps
at a gallop, and soon disappeared a second time.
Shortly afterwards, the party drew near to the
town, a few minutes more and all danger would be
over, when a troop of twenty soldiers who had mat
issued from the gate, stopped their way. Day was
beginning to dawn, and the nets which each rider
carried showed that they were out in search of forage.
Such in fact was their design. The leader of the
letachment questioned the travellers; and in the
dragoon's horse, still mounted by Robinson, he saw
confirmation of the report furnished by Gamboa, in
reply to his questions.
After this incident, the cavalcade entered Tehua-
can without further interruption. While they are
seeking quarters, we may say a few words respecting i
the stranger who had come so unexpectedly into
their company. Robinson was owner of a consider-
able freight of muskets on board of a brig anchored .
outside the bar of the Goazacoalcos, and had sailed '
with the intention of selling them to the first
customer, royalist or insurgent. He had fallen in j
with a Spanish commandant, who, after hearing
and agreeing to his propositions, contrived a scheme
for obtaining possession of the cargo of arms without
payment. The Englishman was thereupon seized, '
shut up in prison, and given to understand that the ,
price of his liberty would be an order for the delivery
of the muskets, — a practical illustration of might
makes right, — against which he remonstrated
vigorously but in vain. Robinson then bethought
himself of the insurgent general Teran, and bribed
his keepers to let him escape. They feigned com-
pliance, received the stipulated sum ; but their
prisoner had scai-cely left the fort behind, than they
attempted to re-capture him, and would have suc-
ceeded, but for the happy intervention of Andres, as i
has been related.
Notwithstanding his recent elevation, the insurgent
chief was accessible at all hours, as well by night as
by day. Robinson took no further time than to
lodge his horse at the posada, to eat a mouthful,
and at the moment that the bugles sounded the
reveille, he presented himself at the gates of the
palace. He was at once admitted, and found himself
face to face with a young man, whose visage denoted
at once distinction, affability, and high intelligence.
It was the independent general, Don Manuel de
Mier y Teran ; he was seated before a table covered
with papers and maps, for the business of the day
had already commenced. Cash was then plentiful
with the revolutionary leader, and he received
Robinson's ofler of the freight of muskets with the
greatest satisfaction. They were settling the terms
of the purchase, when a noise was heard in the
square outside, where the rising sun shone on two
regiments encamped in the open air for want of
barracks. The general approached the window to see
the cause of the disturbance.
"Ah," he said, " our foragers, — they have come
back still more abundantly laden than yesterday ; but
what does that man want with them ? "
"That man," answered the Englishman, "is
Andres Tapia, the track-seeker. It is he who
rescued me so bravely from the hands of the
Spaniards, and if your cause triumphs by the aid of
the «arms I supply you with, it is to that man your
thanks will be due."
Andres was gesticulating and speaking vehemently,
but his words were answered by laughter. "If it
pleased you to listen to him," said Robinson to the
general, "I am convinced you will be of his
opinion."
" Well, we will see," replied the chief, and he
ordered the track-seeker to be admitted. The latter
cried as soon as he entered, — "Will it please your
excellency (vueza ezencia) to give orders to burn as
quickly as possible all the forage that your men have
just brought in ? "
"And why, if you please ? "
" Because our enemies ,use all sorts of arms against
xis, and they have profited by a superstition believed
all over our province, to poison the forage supposed
to be cut by the Midnight Mower, and of which the
quality is not suspected. This forage, I say, will cost
us the horses of a whole regiment."
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
181
Andres seemed persuaded of the fact. The
general, therefore, gave orders for a temporary
sequestration of the forage, — too rare to be lightly
sacrificed, — until a worn-out horse had been fed with
the lucerne, and the result ascertained. The order
was obeyed.
" So," said the guerillero to the track-seeker,
when they found themselves alone, " this Midnight
Mower — "
"Was only a knave who played the part that had
been marked out for him, but who was not clever
enough for a match with me."
"Then he confessed that the forage was poi-
soned ? "
" He did not tell me a word about it ; we only
spoke of the fine weather and the late rains,"
answered Andres, as he finished taking the bridle off
his horse*
" And did that satisfy you ? "
" Oaramba, I have guessed the thought of many a
man from fewer words than those. I had watched
him for some time without his seeing me, and when
I accosted him, I already knew what to expect.
Friend, I said, I am sent as extraordinary courier
to the commandant of Fort Villegas, on a message
of life or death ; my horse is dead beat, and if you
will let me take a bundle of lucerne it will set
him up again ; otherwise the fort will be taken. I
foresaw the answer : the Mower said that my horse
would arrive much sooner if he fed elsewhere,
because, — because the lucerne was green and damp
with the night-dew. Very well, I replied, I carry off
a fool's hat. So saying, I snatched his masquerading
beaver from his head, and he had not recovered from
his astonishment when I galloped off to overtake
you, and to convince you that the Midnight Mower
is only a man employed to poison the fields of
alfalfa in the neighbourhood of the insurgent posts.
In half an hour's time we will go and see how the
horse is that has eaten the forage."
The event confirmed in every point the assertions
of the track-seeker. The poor animal died in
convulsions produced by the poison, and soon a huge
fire had destroyed the last stalks of the lucerne,
which but for Andres would have been fatal to the
cavalry of General Teran.
TO ONE WHO SAID "WE MEET AT LAST."
" WE meet at last ! " that smile, that voice,
Those words so sweetly spoken,
Are treasured with my spirit gems, —
A never-dying token.
" We meet at last ! " a life of joy
Was in that moment living,
Although thy bosom could not feel
The pleasure it was giving.
" We meet at last ! " a spell is there
Which never can be broken ;
Love's volume, writ upon my heart,
Was in that sentence spoken.
" We meet at last ! "—"we'll meet again,"
Another world of pleasure
Seems promised in those gentle words,
To add to Life's sweet treasure.
WILLIAM WEIGHTSON.
ON WINDOWS AND WINDOW CURTAINS.
UNSUGGESTIVE as our title may at first sight appear,
yet, upon further examination, it will be found to
contain the germs of much that bears upon our social
condition, and links itself almost indissolubly with
our joys and our sorrows.
The existence of happiness, whether in a com-
munity or private family, is not to be concealed. As
the morning sun, mounting up the clear heavens,
diffuses its light, its cheerfulness, and brightness
through all parts of the earth, so happiness
penetrates through every restraint, and makes itself
felt by all things within its reach. All that we do,
even the smallest action of our lives, is tinctured by
the condition of our minds. If we are sad at heart,
those things which we have been accustomed to
perform with cheerfulness and alacrity, are done
merely because we feel a sort of necessity for their
performance, and the observant eye will soon detect
whether or not the heart accompanies the duty. As
the desire of happiness is one of our strongest
passions, — born with us, and never quitting us to our
dying hour, since it leads directly or indirectly to the
performance of every action of our lives, so is it one
of the most evident. We trace its course through
the current of each man's daily existence, we feel it
in our hearts, we know that even under the crushing
influence of disappointment, we constantly yearn
for it, even while we feel the impossibility of its
possession. As long as we are happy, we seem eager
to announce it to the whole world, by our smiles,
our bright looks, our cheerfulness, our energy, and
activity. We think of a hundred means of awaken-
ing delight, which could not have suggested them-
selves to less contented minds. And even material
things are brought into play, to indicate our mental
condition. Our houses are more brightly kept, our*
gardens bloom with flowers, and withered leaves, and
broken branches, and noisome weeds, — all, in fact,
that can awaken gloom in the heart, are carefully
removed from sight. The sunshine that is in the
heart tinges everything with a nameless brightness,
that can only be understood by those that have
experienced or witnessed happiness in the true sense
of the word.
And of all the ordinary channels through which
the condition of a house may be arrived at, none
speaks so fully to us as its windows. Constructed
for the purpose of admitting light, they also serve to
show the light that is within. For some years this
thought has been flitting to and fro through our minds,
as we have traversed the broad and narrow streets of the
metropolis, have seen the indications of neatness and
neglect, the sure accompaniment of dirt and rags
with sin and degradation ; and all our subsequent
observations have tended to the same result. In the
higher walks of life, perhaps, this is more faintly
developed. The mental condition of the occupants
exercises little influence upon the adornment of
their homes ; they trust to menial hands the execu-
tion of certain commands, and as it is one of the
duties of the household to superintend the furnitura,
to see that each room is properly fitted up, to place in
them such adornments as suggest themselves to their
unpoetical and uncultivated tastes, there is little
opportunity or necessity for the wife or daughter to
exercise her elevating influence, even supposing her
to possess the inclination to do so.
In the middle classes, and among the poor, we
may mark the various stages of content and happiness,
by trifles, light in themselves, but which signify
much. The careless cottager, who lives, as it seems,
but to gossip with her neighbour, to prepare a certain
182
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
number of meals for her husband, rudely and coarsely
done, to bring up wild boys and girls to the same
slatternly condition as herself, may be readily distin-
giished as we stroll along the lanes of each village,
er window is dirty, and a broken pane supplied
with a ragged cloth stuffed tightly in, a torn curtain
flaps above, covered with dirt and cobwebs. Enter,
and you will find the interior to correspond with
the outward manifestation ; chairs in confusion, tables
piled with litters, children**' torn frocks, old shoes, and
the chairs also are covered ; rubbish strewn on the floor,
the cinders and ashes crushing under your feet, and
squalid faces of children with matted hair and ragged
clothes, crowd upon your view. Noise and confusion
resound, and the same disorder seems to prevail in
the woman's own mind. She is possessed of but one
clear idea, — that she must still the hubbub before her
husband comes home to his ill-served, half-charred
dinner. From day to day the same thing takes
place, the week's wages are muddled away in the
same manner, little debts have always to be stopped,
not paid, and as the children increase in number, and
more mouths have to be filled, the state of affairs
becomes continually worse.
Next door, — the same sized cottage, the same half-
open door, the same small window, but how bright
its panes glitter in front of three half-blown
geraniums in their bright red pots, and that snow-
white strip of homely muslin gathered into tiny
folds ! Then that fringed dimity that hangs above in
old fashioned festoons, and its long plain curtains
depending on either side, — how much it reveals
of what is within ! With no higher wages than the
husband of her next-door neighbour, she contrives that
the father of her children shall come home each day
to a smiling welcome. The brightness of the mind
of the cottager's wife is reflected in the polished
furniture, that old oak table that has descended as a
sort of heft-loom from father to son, those high-
backed chairs, and the glittering of a few tins and
coppers upon the mantelpiece. There is no confusion
here. With six little children requiring care and
constant vigilance, she still knows how to accommo-
date a small room to the comforts of many.
The well-stored cupboards are in strict order, the
mantelpiece looks as if each thing had almost grown
to it, the chairs as though they were always replaced
when done with ; pegs receive the children's hats and
bonnets, and the father when he enters knows where
to hang his coat or cap, without burdening the back
of chairs or obstructing a table. The hearth is clean,
and though the fare is humble, something cheerful
seems to fill the room, like forms of joyous angels
hovering unseen above them all.
Quitting the country, and transporting ourselves to
the town, let us wander through the streets, and gaze
upward. Here fresh bright muslin sweeps down in
the drawing-rooms, and every window above is
decorated with something white and tasteful • here
something more elegant, in the shape of lace, makes
its appearance, more conformable with modern taste •
the luxurious moneyed tradesman, in his Hampstead
vilk, glorifies his windows with bright amber, or deep
rich, warm crimson; here the sober fawn displays a
ta8temorebusines8-like,whilethegay,butold-fashioned
chintz betrays a lingering clinging to old times and
habits. Betwixt their heavy folds, shadowed by a
lighter curtain, a flower-stand, rich in its bright red
flowers its hyacinths and geraniums of many hues
peeps forth. These curtains ofttimes shadow more
happiness, and faintly darken scenes of more ioy
than those who stroll along, watching their varied hues
d dumb significance, can imagine. Interspersed
>etween are houses where the home deity of comfort
33 not. Some notion of imitating their neigh-
bours, or perhaps some faint outburst of home love,
once caused the same draperies to be hung around,
but that spirit, if ever awakened, evidently, has long
slumbered. Faded curtains, that hang as it were
neglected and unheeded, as they list, bare windows
and yellow blinds, strike us in strong contrast with
those that we have above noticed. There is some-
thing wrong, — depend on it, — within ; some blighting
influence, be it poverty, callousness, indifference to
the duties of life, absence of affection, or other
feelings. For, otherwise, the very possession of
happiness leads us to notice everything, to awaken
our taste for the beautiful, which may be displayed in
the humblest cottage as well as the proudest castle.
Many a home story has been written on the window
of a house, many a domestic wreck has strewn its
shattered fragments over its outward adornments.
Yon house is large and grand. Broad steps lead up
to a splendid hall. Rich and massive furniture,
heavy framed pictures decorate the walls, but some-
thing cold and desolate strikes the visitor. No spirit
hand of joy seems to have passed over everything, no
earnest desire to make the possessor feet his to be the
brightest home in the whole world, has caused
material things to wear a welcome aspect. Here a
dingy blind, carelessly hung, creeps down a stair-
head window ; there a curtain is a little damaged, or
yellow by time. Nothing of the poesy of the heart
comes over us as we gaze upon the home of one, who
doubtless had all the
Appliances and means to boot,
that could make his dwelling happy. Not a flower
decorates the neglected balconies, which seem as if '
they had no business there, so dirty are they, and ill-
cared for. Reader, the story of this home is a
melancholy one, but unknown to the world. A
husband and wife inhabited it, but there was some-
thing wrong between them. Distant, yet civil to
each other when they met, which was but rarely ;
they were too proud to quit each other publicly, as
they should have done, years ago. One child voice
was sometimes heard to break the dread silence ;
one little cry, unconsciously, as it were, expressed
some of the agony that was in that household ; but
when it had passed, and been hushed upon the
stranger bosom of a nurse, all was still as the waters
of those two hearts who had awakened its existence,
— those two hearts that once throbbed but for each
other, and now were silent and passionless. We
never could elucidate this story. We lived near this
house, we watched the grand silence of its move-
ments. Once we thought that something was about
to change it ; for one summer night, the husband
was pacing to and fro in the garden, when his wife,
still young, emerged from the hall door. She was
dressed in white, and stood gazing upon him whenever
his back was turned to her, with earnestness, but as
soon as his face was again towards the house, hers
was instantly averted, and she continued gazing
apparently at vacancy. Then, as if overcome by a
sudden impulse, we saw her clasp her hands, and
run down the steps ; then, as if some cold blast of
pride or memory had rushed over her, she paused,
drew up her frame, retreated, and proudly entered
the house. It was a foolish thing to feel so interested
in this couple, but we could not help it. We
felt as though we should like to solve the mystery,
and reconcile these hearts, severed only perhaps,
by some unfortunate misunderstanding or over-
abundant pride. We heard afterwards that, even
in death, this did not end. However, we know not,
and would fain hope that the prolonged wretchedness
of the unhappy wife was revealed to him who must
have had some share in causing it, ere she was borne
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
183
forth in all the pomp of splendid mourning to her
last resting-place. This story, however, spoke in
every window, in the stately but unlovable garden,
in tne undecorated room, in the bare aspect of the
house. We could multiply instances of this kind ;
we could tell a hundred stories, discovered, in the
first instance, by the appearance of the house, but it
would be out of our province here to narrate them.
We pass on to another portion of our subject.
When we gaze upon some ruined castle, where
some ivied tower still rises with its narrow orifices,
some barred with heavy rods of iron, we cannot
refrain from thinking of the miseries of those who
in times gone by have clung to that narrow strip of
light, and loved it more than those that have not
known what the loss of freedom is, — have loved the
broad blue sky, which it has never been denied them
to gaze upon. What thoughts, what memories have
been conjured up by the captive, as gazing from his
high-raised turret-window, he has looked up to the
narrow patch of sky that constitutes his only link
with the moving world ! He watches the monotonous
course of the clouds, from day to day, as they sweep
past ; sometimes, for hours, a deep blue patch re-
mains unchanged in its steadfast azure, and then
the captive conjures up a. thousand thoughts of what
is passing in the busy world below, whose beauties
he can but imagine, and increases his pain by reflecting
upon. The barred turret-window seems to plunge
its iron into our soul as we gaze upon it, and conjure
all the sorrows that have been borne beneath it.
The decoration of our windows with the bright
holly berries at Christmas, the dressing up its frosted
panes with evergreen, has been an old and long-
loved custom, which we grieve to see is dying out,
though perhaps slowly. We behold less of it than in
former times, and fear that it will soon pass away,
along with those other sweet and time-honoured
customs, which, if they signified little in themselves,
still formed a sort of link between home and home,
and gave individual expression to feelings and
memories which were experienced by thousands.
The joy of a birth, or a wedding, or a f$te day
of any description, is generally expressed through
the windows. We behold fresh curtains, bright
hangings, take the place of old ones ; we see the
polished panes shining like crystal, looking bright, as
if in unison with the happy hearts within. We have
seen a bridal face peeping timidly through the
draperies of a window, snatching a hurried look at
scenes she is about to leave, with a tinge of regret,
even while joy fills her heart ; we have seen the
young mother raise her first-born in her arms at the
window, still bright with the decorations that were
prepared for its arrival, smiling through the window,
as if the world around must also share her joy ; and
we have seen the young beauty, dazzling in her
loveliness and fairy attire, gaze proudly forth, as
if involuntarily, through the curtain. Each glimpse
we obtained spoke to our hearts, and revealed an
episode in the "life of each individual, all important
to them. But we have watched a window also,
whose shadowy looks told a life history. The blind
for a long time was half raised, and the curtains
closely drawn, except when occasionally the window
was opened for about an inch, for the admission of
air. Something that seemed constantly obstructing
the window engaged our attention. We thought it
must be a woman's form, since eternally and for ever
a white drapery hung down, and raised our curiosity
to the highest pitch. Sometimes we thought it must
be a baby ; but months passed on, and still the same
everlasting white. No one seemed, as far as we
could discern, ever to leave or enter the room.
There was a light there, — very often all night,
sometimes burning steadily near the window, some-
times only casting a faint glimmer on the blind, on
which occasionally rested the shadow of a frail form ;
but only for a moment. We determined this time to
discover the true story ; but one day that we ventured
to ask the landlady opposite who her second-floor lodger
might be, we were snappishly answered, that it was
a poor sempstress and her sick husband, who had
been dying of consumption a long time. And true
enough, one morning, that we cast our customary
glance towards the little window, there was no sign
of movement, all light was shut out, — for a week it
was never raised ; and then, a black procession wehded
its way down the street, and the blind was raised
once more, but the form that had sat near it, waiting
so patiently, was gone. We were not satisfied with
the landlady's version of the story, we felt there was
more behind it, and we have since heard that, born
to riches, the husband had lost all, by one of those
reverses of fortune that come ; that he had been
an artist, and in the intervals of sickness, had been
labouring at a loved picture, that his wife, born
to the indulgence of every pleasure and accomplish-
ment, had, rather than quit his side, taken to the
occupation of a sempstress, that she might never
leave his side, and encourage him in his work, and
lure him on to health by her sweet consolation and
hopes for the future ; but who, while she spoke
those words of comfort, knew that it could not be, —
that though she might slave on with smiling unre-
piningness now, it could not be for long, and that
then her self-devotion must soon end. This then
was the poor sempstress so slightingly spoken of,
she, whose noble sacrifice of self, whose unselfish
devotion had elevated her in our eyes to the rank of
a being superior to ourselves, whom we might admire,
without perhaps feeling ourselves capable of imitating
her. We always loved that .window, and could not
bear to see it desecrated by colder and more vulgar
forms, — which soon after made their appearance,
smoking pipes, as they leant across the window-sill, —
hallowed, in our fancy, by the former presence of the
sweet wife that had left it.
Then it is that, when death enters into a house,
the inhabitants instantly shut out all light; they
dismiss the glare of day, forget the sunshine, while
the period of mourning lasts, that is, until the loved
one has been borne forth, and laid where nor sound
nor light shall reach him more. The survivors seem,
while they seclude themselves in darkness, to imply
to the world the silence and desolation within.
Many a time and oft, when this solemn appeal has
struck us as we have passed through the giddy
metropolis on our way to some gay and exciting
scene, we have checked the current of our happy
thoughts, to ponder upon the feelings of those shut
up to commune with sorrow and tomb-like silence,
while the joyous and unthinking are journeying on to
merriment and thoughtless gaiety in the great and
crowded city. Such impressions are soon forgotten,
and fortunately, too, since it would be but a morbid
condition of mind to sorrow everlastingly for the
misfortunes and loves of those who are unknown to
us. The world has enough of misery to every one,
and the possession of it, while it should make us
more compassionate to others, should also lead us to
consider how we can make the burden as light as
possible, by striving to preserve in our misfortunes
something of habitual serenity, if not cheerfulness,
which shall enable us to perform our round of duties
with credit and pleasure to ourselves and others.
We should not be neglectful of outward signs,
which are, let our readers believe, noticed more by
the world than we are aware of, though many reason
with themselves that the opinion of others is a
184
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
matter of no consequence. Let us not be misunder-
stood in our remarks. We do not intend to assert
that in every house where untidy windows are to be
seen unhappy tempers or differences exist, that
misery and misfortune prevail, since we frequently
observe that the homes of literary men and artists
are woefully deficient in outward manifestation.
They seem to rivet their minds so deeply upon the
beautiful in Art and Nature, that they despise the
little shows of comfort and elegance which others love
to display. But as a general rule, we will undertake
to say that, where dirty windows, dirty curtains, or
neglected blinds make their appearance, there is
poverty, misfortune, sorrow, disappointment, or some
other blighting influence at work upon the social
hearth. The bright window is an index of some
happy heart within, and we gaze upon the cheerful
abode with pleasure, as though we shared a part of
that joy which must dwell in the heart of those who
find delight and pleasure in their daily round of
duties, and are as yet so far removed from the
reach of sorrow, as to study to preserve the bright
looks of their home and let out some portion of their
happy spirit upon the outward world.
A BATTLE FOE LIFE AND DEATH.
A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.
II.— THE COURT-HOUSE.
" You made him a poacher yourself, squire,
When you'd give neither work nor meat ;
And your barley -fed hares robbed the garden
At his starving children's feet ! "
Rev. C. Kingsley.~In " Yeast."
THE County Court of the little town of Mudley was
crowded with an audience consisting mostly of the
poorest order of labourers. The space allotted to
the public was very limited, and it was railed off
from the more hallowed precincts, within which sat
attorneys, landlords' agents, and others ; and on the
bench, at the upper end of the room, were ranged
the right worshipful magistrates of the Court them-
selves.
The mass of heads and faces packed into the
space without the railing would have afforded an
interesting study to the phrenologist or physiogno-
mist. It is a curious fact, that almost the only portion
of the " public " that takes such an interest in the
proceedings of the courts of law as to induce them
to attend there as spectators of their great lessons,
are those who are themselves always hovering on the
borders of crime. Ten to one but you see some of
those identical personages who are now without the
rail, to-morrow standing within it. Have the lessons
taught them anything but familiarity with crime «
8 of going to iearn
Look at these heads-mostly shaggy and unkempt,
rough and large ; some of them bullet-heads pro-
tuberant and massive ; others « with foreheads vilkn-
ously low/' exhibiting in the regions of the moral
m±gS™ / l6Ct' ^ i™* W™ of ^elop-
ment. The faces are mostly unwashed ; perspiration
bedews them 5 some are red and fleshy, open-mouthed
large-nostnlled, and large-eared. Others are pallid
and sharpened, as if by want ; and they exhibit a
keenness of look, watching every word which falls
from the bench as if their own life and liberty were
the thing at stake. When any more than ordinarily
severe remark falls from some magistrate ?Tt£
d to do his duty," murmurs rise from the heated
-rowd, and a commotion stirs them from side to side
which is stilled by the loud cry of the policeman
within the bar, of " Order in the Court ! — Silence ! "
On the day in question, the crowd without the
rails seemed more than usually interested in the
proceedings ; there were some smock-frocked men
among them, — evidently labourers out of employment,
who had come there because they had nothing else
to do, or perhaps because they felt some anxious
interest in the fate of the prisoner at the bar. You
might also here and there catch a glimpse of a shaggy
fellow in a fustian or velveteen shooting-jacket —
bearing on his face the marks of exposure to rough
weather — scarred and blurred, tanned by the sun
and the wind, — and through which you could detect
but little indication of the workings of the soul within.
Only the eye, which sometimes glared with a kind
of savage light, and at other times drooped below the
lashes with an expression of subdued cunning, gave
evidences that human passions and feelings worked
within. These you had little difficulty in recognizing
as poachers, who swarmed in the neighbourhood,
both in the town of Mudley and in the surrounding
villages.
"Now, fellow," said the chairman of the bench,
a wealthy squire in the district, who kept several
keepers on his estate, " we have heard the evidence,
and a more aggravated case of assault I do not
remember to have met with. There you are, found at
midnight, armed with a gun, and sundry apparatus
of poaching about your person ; you are committing
a trespass upon a preserve at that suspicious hour,
and are challenged to stand. You aim your weapon,
doubtless with deadly intent, at the men appointed
to guard their master's property. You might have
stood there before us a murderer, but happily your
purpose failed, and only a dog fell your victim.
You then proceeded to commit a most brutal assault
on these men, grievously wounding and maltreating
two of the party, until you were captured by the
gallantry of the third, after a desperate resistance.
Have you anything to say why you should not now
be committed to prison ?"
The old man stood up —
" I have, your worship, and here I wish to say it ! "
A murmur of approbation ran through the Court,
among the crowd packed below the bar.
"Silence!" cried the magistrate; "otherwise I
shall at once order the Court to be cleared. Go on
now, and cut it short. Nothing you can say can
remove the impression made by the evidence we have
just heard."
"I don't expect it will," said the man, "but still
I have something I wish to say, for all that."
We need scarcely say that the prisoner was old
Joe, Crouch, the poacher whom we had seen taken a
prisoner a few nights before. He stood there not
for the first time. He had become familiar enough
with those very magistrates, and they with him. In
the full daylight of the Court, we can now discern
the features and aspect of the man. He had been
tall and well-formed in his youth, but now he stooped
with premature old age, brought on by hardships,
privations, and the make-shift life of a half-starved
labourer. Shaggy grey hair grew round his temples,
but the top of his head was bald, and exhibited a
good mass of brain in the upper region. A cotton
kerchief, which had been red, but now was of an
undistinguishable colour, was tied loosely round his
neck ; he wore an old velveteen shooting-coat,
patched at all corners ; and leathern breeches and
gaiters, -which showed the marks sof many a brush
through briar and brake, completed his attire. His
face was sad, but full of firmness. Though he stooped,
there was an air of almost dignity about the old man ;
and you could not help feeling, that sunken though
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
185
he now was in social position, — a prisoner standing at
the bar, tried on a charge of poaching and aggravated
assault, — he was one who must have seen better days.
Even the air of old gentility seemed yet to hover
about him.
"I stand here," said he, drawing himself up erect,
" I stand here of your own making and bringing up.
If I am a criminal now, I am just what you have
made me."
" What can the fellow mean ? " said the chairman
to one of his brethren, a clerical game-preserver seated
by his side.
" I suppose we are in for a speech," was the reply.
"He's an impudent old dog. I've heard him before.
Quite incorrigible — quite ; I do assure you ! "
"Yes," continued old Joe, "I am what you have
made me. I am a poacher because you drove me to
poaching. I took to the woods for a living, because
you harried me out of house and home ; and the
appetites implanted by God are stronger by far than
the tyrannous laws inflicted by man."
" Why, this is flat blasphemy, fellow, — we cannot
allow this sort of atrocious rigmarole to go on. It
has nothing to do with the charge before us."
" It has everything to do with it, and I shall show
you it has. I was a hard-working farmer, able to
make an honest living, and to pay my rent as rent-
days came round, up to the time that you turned
my farm into a preserve and a rabbit-warren. You
sent your pheasants to eat up my grains, and I
daren't disturb them, because you gentry would not
have your sports interfered with. I grew turnips,
with which I meant to feed sheep, but your hares
came and ate them up. Thus it was you ruined me,
— you gentlemen who judge me from that bench
there, — and I had no redress."
" My good man," said the magistrate, interrupting
him, " we have nothing to do with this. The arrange-
ments as to game ought all to be provided for by
covenants in the lease. If you did not see to that,
it is no business of ours ; and the fact cannot be of
the slightest consequence to the case in hand."
" It may or it may not, but hear me out neverthe-
less. I wish to make a clean breast of this business,
here where I stand. I shall not keep you long."
" Go on, Joe ! " " Speak up ! " " Tell them all
about it ! " was eagerly whispered to him from the
crowd behind, and the auditors edged up still nearer
to where he stood.
" Silence in the Court ! " shouted the policeman
within the rails.
"You see, gentlemen, how it was — you fed your
hares and pheasants on my young wheat, beans, and
turnips ; it was your vermin that ate me up, and
ruined me ; and then there was nothing left for me
to do but to shoot and live upon the hares and
pheasants that had so long lived upon me."
" In short, you confess openly what has long been
too well known, that you lived the desperate life of
a poacher," said the magistrate.
" Call it poaching if you will. Call it what you like.
It was the life you have carved out for me, and for
thousands like me. I sought work, and you would
not give it me, because I was a poacher. I sought to
rent a cottage from you, and I was refused, because I
was a poacher. I had children without food, and had
none to give them : I tried the workhouse, and was
scowled at there again by your creatures, because I
was a poacher. Where was I to seek for food but
of the wild creatures that roam the fields, — creatures
which no man can mark with his brand and claim as
his own, but which you have banded together as a
class to preserve as the sacred property of your
order 1 "
"I tell you again that all this is nothing to the
purpose. You have broken the laws, and now it
remains for us to "
" A word more. You say I have broken the laws !
True ! I have poached. Your law is a tyrant's law,
— a law against the poor man without money, — a
law altogether of the rich man's making, who can
buy its privileges for money, — a law which condemns
a destitute man to the horrors of a goal because he kills
a wild animal for food, but says nothing to the rich
man who can buy a game license and kills for sport,
— a man who is already surfeited with food. That,
I say is a tyrant's law, made only to be broken.
Such a law makes your other laws hated, and stamps
them as the handiwork of the oppressor."
" Really, sir," here broke in one of the magistrates,
" I cannot sit here to listen to this seditious and
revolutionary language any longer. Let the prisoner
be committed at once. There are other cases still to
be disposed of."
" I have done, gentlemen," said Joe, " I have said
what I had to say, and now you can do with me what
you like. But let me tell you, that though not many,
brought here as I am, find a voice to tell you the
thoughts that are burning in their hearts, they are
not the less bitter that they remain pent up there.
You may treat us like brutes, as you have made us
and kept us, but you may find yet to your cost that
the brutes have fangs, and venomed ones, too."
"Take him away ! " said the chairman, and looking
down to the clerk underneath him, " make out his
committal ; he is a brazen scoundrel, that's quite
clear ! "
Old Joe was led from his place at the bar, to the
lock-up, amid the sympathizing glances of the audi-
ence, who evidently thought him a victim, and
admired him for the stand he had made against the
" tyranny " — as they did not hesitate to term it — •
which presided on that worshipful bench.
In describing this scene, we have merely chronicled
a state of things which prevails more or less in every
county in England. We may shut our eyes to the
poacher's origin, education, discipline, and destiny ;
but there he is — every gaol knows him familiarly.
The majority of the prisoners in many provincial
prisons are poachers. The game laws breed poachers,
and the poachers ripen into criminals. Thus is
poverty nursed into desperation. Poachers are
punched on the head wherever they are found, are
hunted down by blood-hounds in some places, and
in others shot down when found engaged in their
unlicensed craft. We wonder at the recklessness and
criminality of the class, but care not to think of the
conditions out of which they rise. Every phenome-
non has its cause, did we but seek it. Do the
magistrates of our land ever think of the path they
are treading, and of the end of the exasperation and
sulky ferocity which broods among the labouring
classes all over the agricultural districts? Why
wonder that reason should fly the helm when mercy
and justice are disregarded ; and that thoughts dark
and wild take possession of the heart, which under
more genial circumstances had been warmed with
virtue, and filled with generous and kindly sympa-
thies ? We never heard of a poacher's fate — ending
in transportation or on the scaffold — without thinking
of Thorn the Scotch weaver, who in describing the
state of mind which, in his own person, destitution
and the sight of his starving family engendered,
eloquently remarked :—
" I felt myself, as it were, shut out from mankind
— enclosed — prisoned in misery — no outlook — none !
My miserable wife and little ones, who alone cared for
me — what would I not have done for their sakes at that
hour ! Here let me speak out — and be heard too,
while I tell it — that the world does not at all times
186
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
know how unsafely it sits — when Despair has loosed
Honour's last hold upon the heart — when transcendent
Wretchedness lays weeping Reason in the dust — when
every unsympathizing onlooker is deemed an enemy
— who THEN can limit the consequences ? For my
own part, I confess that, ever since that dreadful
night, I can never hear of an extraordinary criminal,
without the wish to pierce through the mere judicial
view of his career, under which, I am persuaded,
there would often be found to exist an unseen im-
pulse— a chain, with one end fixed in Nature's holiest
ground, that drew him on to his destiny."
You cannot make a man believe that a wild beast,
\yhich feeds to-day on my field, to-morrow on yours, —
or a wild bird, which winters in Norway and summers
in England, — is any man's exclusive property more
than another's. You cannot tell on whose fields they
have been born ; they are wanderers of the earth,
and no proprietor can make out a title to them.
They are found eating-up the farmer's crops, and
destroying the fruits of his labour, yet the farmer
dares not kill them — that would be poaching ! — so
says law ! But such a law is only a delusion — a
snare ! Your labouring man thinks nothing of the
law. Even a scrupulously honest labourer in other
respects, who would shudder at the idea of robbing
a hen-roost, or stealing a goose, thinks it nothing
venal to knock over a hare, boil it, and eat it. In-
dustry fails him, and he takes to the covers without
any compunctions of conscience. The game-keeper
catches him — he is tried as a poacher — and he is made
a criminal. The poacher feels that he has been cruelly
dealt with ; and he is made more desperate. He
harbours revenge, and hesitates not to retaliate.
He poaches again more desperately than before ; he
is ready to defend the game he takes with his life ;
he becomes a desperado, a marauder, and at length a
thoroughly bad and corrupted member of society.
Thus do our Game Laws work !
A CATALOGUE OF QUERIES.
WHEN a person calls his dwelling " Willow Grove,"
or "Rose Bower/' is it not a sure sign that neither
willows nor roses flourish in its vicinity? Has
" Prospect Place " ever any view ? and does not
"Mount Pleasant" stand in a hollow, redolent of
bad fish and decayed vegetables ? What godfathers
and godmothers ever endowed an infant with the
name of Blanche, that the contradictious child did
not grow up a sparkling brunette ? Is not Miss
Dove sure to be a vixen ? and Mr. Smart the dullest
dog in creation ? Was there ever a red-haired man
that did not affect green coats and blue ties, or a
young lady similarly adorned by Nature who did not
invariably choose robes of a cerulean hue ? Does the
milliner ever send your wife's new dress home in time
for the party ; does she not always contrive that it
shall arrive half an hour after you have sat down to
dinner ? Does not a man who is never in time for
anything almost always pride himself on his punctu-
ality ? Did you ever know a very bad horseman who
did not believe himself a second Ducrow ? Did you
ever meet with a man willing to confess he felt sea-
sick until concealment of his inward sensations
has become beyond his power ? Is not the young lady
who turns up her eyes, and professes to adore music,
sure to talk incessantly the whole time you are
improvising in your best style, at her particular
request ? Does not your housemaid always make a
blazing fire on a close, muggy day, and do you not
find on a bitter winter's morning that the coals
are hardly ignited ? When you have some very
particular caller, don't your three youngest always
escape from the nurse, and rush into the drawing-
room with dirty pinafores, indications of treacle on
their countenances, and their socks swallowed by
their shoes ? Is not the lest of babies sure to roar
violently when first introduced to his rich maiden
aunt, and refuse vehemently to *go to her, thereby
offending her past redemption ? If you have a slight
cough, is it not sure to become uncontrollable at
church during the sermon ? Will any one ever believe
your pet Rembrandt to be an original, though you know
the fact is beyond a doubt ; do not your friends always
smile dubiously, and murmur "Indeed?" Can the
kettle ever be persuaded to boil when you are iu
a great hurry for breakfast, and going by the train
5-50 ? Does it not happen nine times out of ten that
your servants forget to make mustard when you have
beef for your dinner, though there was an abundance
the day before, when your meal consisted' of a fillet
of veal ? Is it not a moral impossibility to persuade
people to shut the door after them, when you have a
cold, and every puff of air makes you creep ? Are
not the children ever more cross, naughty, and
turbulent, when preparations for a party, or a "great
cleaning " render the household unusually busy ?
Doesn't the camphine lamp always smell when you've
an evening entertainment, though ever so inodorous
at other times ? On a wet day, when you cannot get
out, does it not always happen that the very novel
you have set your heart upon, as the only thing
capable of keeping off the blue devils and making
you comparatively happy, is " just gone out half an
hour since " from the library ? When in a great
hurry, and desirous of making a short cut, don't you
invariably take a wrong turn, and being brought up
suddenly by a dead wall, lose twice the time in
retracing your steps that would have taken you to
your destination by the road you knew ? When a
country friend and his wife bring their three visitors
"Just to do a little shopping, and take a family
snack -with you " at two, — are they not sure to select
the day on which you have a large dinner-party at
six, to which you have not (of course) invited them ?
Having sat up to read until past midnight, you
inadvertently snuff out your candle in the middle
of undressing ; are not your lucifers sure to be damp
or mislaid, and has not the housemaid of a certainty
chosen this particular occasion for hiding your night
gear, and omitting to turn down your bed ? When
you are telling a story you consider one of your best,
to the mother of a family, may'you not calculate on
her interrupting you (just when the climax is coming)
with, " Don't you think my little Willie looks pale to-
day ? " When your wife goes to take tea with her
maiden sister, and a friend drops in, whom you per-
suade to solace you in your temporary widowerhood,
does it not always turn out thajb the keys of the
sideboard are absent along with your spouse ? Can
you ever persuade your wife to have the drawing-
room fire lighted until half an hour before the guests
arrive, and then, don't you find it has a habit of
going out two or three times, smoking violently, and
thus betraying the neglect ? When you have been
watching three-quarters of an hour for the reversion
of a newspaper at your club, are you not sure to be
seized by the button and detained just as its per-
severing reader lays it down, while it is carried off iu
triumph by a rival watcher ? Above all, when you
sit down with the firm determination of striking- off
a lively article for next month's journal, don't you
find it uttei-ly impossible to catch an idea that has not
already been worn to a perfect shred ?
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
187
DR. CHANGING.
THE study of such a life as that of the late Dr.
Channing, tends insensibly to elevate and purify the
nature of him who studies it. The good man lives
always, — not only in the acts of his daily life, which
are perpetually reproduced in other forms, but also
in his daily example, which others aspire to imitate,
these again influencing in like manner the future
lives of children, friends, and associates ; and still
more in their recorded utterances, which live in the
written and printed page, and are ever going on
repeating themselves, multiplying themselves in
books, and receiving new illustration and development
through the labours of their successors in all time
coming. Thus, even on earth, is the good man
immortal. We still look up to him, and grow nearer
to him as we gaze. His life is still to us an enduring
source of greatness. In our lives, he is reproduced
after a sort ; and into his beautiful spirit are we
insensibly transformed.
Dr. Channing was not "great," in the sense in
which that word is ordinarily used. He was neither
a genius nor a hero. He was simply a pure-minded,
loving, generous, earnest man, with a heart beating
for his kind, and a mind bent on all practicable
methods for their illumination, advancement, and
happiness in the highest sense. Labouring in a pure
and fervent spirit, his voice was never heard raised
above the din and melee of social strife, but it soothed,
cheered, and softened men. His utterance was
always lofty — his temper quite unruffled — his aims
invariably noble and manly. He spoke out boldly
the highest views of life — he represented the most
advanced civilization of our time. His words rang
through the Christian world for twenty years, like
the tones of a silver trumpet, never giving forth
an uncertain sound. For about twenty years he was
our greatest teacher on public questions, — on war, on
temperance, on slavery, on education, on self-culture,
on political and social action, on social rightp and
duties. His works have been disseminated in all
forms, in hundreds of thousands, in England and
America, and his influence among us is still very
great.
Dr. Channing's life presents few stirring incidents.
He was born at Newport, a town in Rhode Island,
separated by an arm of the sea from the mainland
of the United States. The country round about is
very charming, — green, rural, and picturesque, and to
this day abounds in agricultural riches. Channing
sprang from a thorough old English stock — rather
stern in their Puritanical rigidity, but sound, hearty,
and well-principled at bottom. Both his parents were
worthy persons, highly respected ; his father practised
in the courts as a lawyer, and stood well in the
profession ; and his mother was a woman of singular
sweetness, sensibility, enthusiasm, conscientiousness,
and strong good sense. Her son gives the following
fine picture of her : —
" The most remarkable trait in my mother's cha-
racter was the rectitude and simplicity of her mind.
Perhaps I have never known her equal in this
respect. She was true in thought, word, and life.
She had the firmness to see the truth, to speak it,
to act upon it. She was direct in judgment and
conversation ; and in my long intercourse with her,
I cannot recall one word or action betraying the
slightest inconsistency. She had keen insight into
character. She was not to be imposed upon by
others, and, what is rarer, she practised no imposi-
tion on her own mind. She saw things, persons,
events, as they were, and spoke of them by their
right names. Her partialities did not blind her,
even to her children. Her love was without illusion.
She recognized unerringly, and with delight, fair-
ness, honesty, genuine uprightness, and shrunk as by
instinct from everything specious, — the factitious in
character, and plausible manners."
Such a mother as this is worth untold gold to a
rising family. The mother rarely gets her due share
in the glory of her children, and yet how much of it
belongs to her — to her example, to her culture, to
her care, and to her principles ? In Channing the
best virtues of his mother lived, and they are now
the legacy of the world. Thus the good woman, the
mother, lives for ever, not less than the good man,
for he is her fruit and her offspring.
The boy was delicate, but full of life. He was
cited as a model of character and conduct in the
school ; he was patient and diligent at his tasks, but
rather dull. He could scarcely get over the difficulties
of the Latin tongue, until an assistant in his father's
office, taking pity on the plodding boy, said to him
one evening, " Come, Bill. They say you are a fool!
but I know better. Bring me your grammar, and
I'll soon teach you Latin." He set to work under
his new master with a hearty will, and soon after
became distinguished for his classical attainments.
All the while, his mother watched over his progress
with scrupulous care. From her " thoroughness " he
derived practical habits of the highest use. She was
the boys' overseer in the care of the garden, when,
as they grew strong enough, they were intrusted
with tools ; and she was a judge difficult to please.
In the plain but expressive phrase, she would have
no " shirking." The boys could not fail to be all the
better for such a disciplinarian as this. Would that
all children could have one like to her !
From his father's position as a leading lawyer,
he was brought -into contact with many of the
public men of the time. The greatest of them all,
WASHINGTON, the Father of the Nation, once dined
at his house, and the rapt boy gazed upon his face,
which he never forgot. Even at an early age, he
seems to have been marked out for the profession of
his after life, and was known by the title of the
"Little Minister." He used to assemble his play-
fellows, by strokes on the warming-pan instead of a
bell, and then preached to them seriously. His
parents were Calvinists. Some anecdotes are given
of the religious impressions made upon him in early
years, showing the thoughtfulness of the boy, of
which the following may be quoted as most illus-
trative : —
" His father, with the view of giving him a ride,
took William in his chaise one day, as he was going
to hear a famous preacher in the neighbourhood.
Impressed with the notion that he might learn glad
tidings from the unseen world, he listened attentively
to the sermon. With very glowing rhetoric, the
lost state of man was described, — his abandonment to
evil, helplessness, dependence on sovereign grace,
and the need of earnest prayer as the condition of
receiving this divine aid. In the view of the speaker,
a curse seemed to rest upon the earth, and darkness
and horror to veil the face of nature. William, for
his part, supposed that thenceforth those Avho believed
would abandon all other things to seek this salvation,
and that amusement and earthly business would no
longer occupy a moment. The service over, they
went out of the church, and his father, in answer to
the remark of some person, said, with a decisive
tone, — 'Sound doctrine, sir.' 'It is all ti-ue, then,'
was the boy's inward reflection. A heavy weight
fell on his heart. He wanted to speak to his father.
He expected his father would speak to him in relation
to this tremendous crisis of things. They got into
the chaise, arid rode along, but, absorbed in awful
188
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
thoughts, he could not raise his voice. Presently
his father began to whistle ! At length they reached
home ; but instead of calling the family together,
and telling them of the appalling intelligence which
the preacher had given, his father took off his boots,
put his feet upon the fender, and read a newspaper !
All things went on as usual. At first he was sur-
prised ; but not being given to talking, he asked no
explanations. Soon, however, the question rose, —
' Could what he heard be true ? No ! His father
did not believe it ; people did not believe it ! It was
not true ! ' He felt that he had been trifled with ;
that the preacher had deceived him ; and from that
time he became inclined to distrust everything ora-
torical, and to measure exactly the meaning of words.
He received a profound lesson on the worth of
sincerity."
Such influences as these made him early reflective,
serious, and often sad at heart ; life looked desolate,
and he was oppressed by a sense of want of virtue
and knowledge. Probably most children of ideal
temperament have suffered in the same way. But
he never lost his native character of mingled strength
and sweetness ; and stood his ground manfully among
his schoolfellows. Washington Alston, the painter,
who was at school with him, describes him there as
an "open, brave, and generous boy," and says that
"he had the same large heart when a boy, that
distinguished him when a man." At twelve he was
sent to New London seminary, to prepare for college.
While there, his father died, and he was sent home.
The circumstances of the family were now scanty,
and the mother, though wise and resolute, found all
her energies needed to bring up, on very small means,
a family of nine children. They had for many years
to struggle against comparative poverty. William
returned, however, to his uncle at New London, and
proceeded with his studies, and from thence was sent
to Harvard College, where he entered as freshman, in
his fifteenth year. There his mind grew, and became
well stored with knowledge. In the class with him
were Judge Storey, Dr. Tuckerman, and Joseph
Emerson. The former afterwards said of him — " So
blameless was his life, so conciliatory his manners,
and so unobtrusive his conduct, that he enjoyed the
rare felicity of being universally esteemed by all his
class-mates, even by those to whom he was least known,
except in the lecture -room as a fellow -student."
At this place of study, he already extorted general
admiration for his varied and sustained written com-
positions, which were racy, glowing with life, vigorous
in structure, and beautiful in finish.
In his nineteenth year, his resolution to enter the
ministry was formed, and he looked round him for
some occupation by which he might subsist in the
mean time. He found such in the family of a Mr.
Randolph, of Richmond, in Virginia, which he
entered as a tutor. While here, he was charmed by
the hospitality and intelligence of the Virginian
citizens, but he was horrified at the slavery which then
existed there, and does still. This slavery caused him
great depression of mind, and in his letters written at
the time, he expresses his utter detestation of it— this
alone, he says, would prevent him from ever settling
in Virginia.
Absorbed in the duty of teaching during the day,
he passed most of his nights in study, often seein^
the day break before he retired to rest. He also
practised self-denial, and almost asceticism, for the
purpose of " hardening " his physical nature ; sleeping
at nights on the bare floor, and springing up at any
hour to walk about in the cold. The result was
that an originally fine constitution was broken, and
the seeds of disease were planted in his system
which years of scrupulous regard to health could
never root out. At the same time, he was very poor
and ill-clothed, spending his salary chiefly in the
purchase of books. He could not even raise an over-
coat in winter, but when he used one had to borrow
it. Speaking of his life at this time in a letter to a
friend, he says, — "I am tired of the fashionable
nonsense which dins my ear in every circle, and I
am driven to my book and pen for relief and pleasure.
With my book and my pen in my hand, I am always
happy. Nature or education has given this bent to
my mind, and I esteem it as the richest blessing
Heaven ever sent me. 1 am independent of the
world. Above all things cultivate this independence."
At this time he was deeply studying divinity, and
gave a thorough review to the evidences of Christian-
ity, writing out at the same time a voluminous
commentary on the New Testament, which he after-
wards destroyed.
He returned to Newport with one of his young
pupils, who remained under his care for some time.
His friends were grieved to see the vigorous, healthy
young man, as he had been when he left them eighteen
months before, changed into a thin and pallid invalid.
Thenceforward his organization continued of the most
delicate and fragile kind. He pursued his theological
studies under his mother's roof for a year and a-half,
writing a great deal, and following out his trains of
thought pen in hand. Writing was indeed to him
always the great means of making clear to himself his
own thoughts. In this way he acquired the habit of
methodical thinking, and was proceeding steadily
in a course of spiritual discipline. It was no un-
troubled course, for he had to steer his way through
many doubts and perplexities, and it was long
before he got clear light. Towards the close of his
theological studies, he became a member of Dr.
Holmes's congregation, at the Church of Christ,
Cambridge. Dr. Holmes was what was called " a
moderate Calvinist," and Dr. Channing afterwards
became a preacher and minister to a congregation of
the same denomination in Boston.
But opinion in religious matters was undergoing
a rapid change in the States at that time, and before
many years had passed, both the minister and con-
gregation of Federal Street, Boston, became Uni-
tarian in their views. The spirit, however, of the
man never changed, but grew purer and brighter to
the end of his career. As the Earl of Carlisle said
of Dr. Channing in his recent lecture at Leeds, — "In
his presence you found nothing that was impure, base,
or selfish, and could breathe at ease." We can admire
the noble spirit and character of a true man through
the vesture of any creed — Fenelon, Pascal, Massillon,
and Bossuet, though Catholics, — and Milton, Locke,
Ne*wton, and Channing, though Unitarians.
It is not, however, necessary for us here to describe
the process of argumentation, nor the controversial
battle, through which Channing passed at this period
of his life, though it doubtless had no slight influence
in bringing forth his moral energies and developing
his character. All the while he was cultivating his
mind indefatigably and carefully. The voluminous
papers he has left behind him show a habit of un-
varying self- scrutiny, and prove by what toil his
character and mind were formed. He laboured to
root out even the smallest defects which he found
remaining, clinging as it were to the very outskirts of
his nature. He still dressed very humbly, almost
poorly, and the only luxury he allowed himself was
the occasional addition of a few books to his library.
His earnings went to help to maintain his mother
and her household, and in course of time she removed
to Boston, where he lived with her. "Most beau-
tiful," says one of his sisters, "was his thoughtfulness
to avoid being a burthen to others. His patience
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
189
was unvarying. I can recall one instance of a feverish
attack during the heat of summer. We had been
fanning him during the day, and he seemed as
tranquil as a sleeping infant ; but to our great surprise,
when the physician came in towards the evening, he
entreated him to give him something to allay the
restlessness, which was almost beyond his bearing or
power of control. But when was he other than
gentle ? " These little traits show the beautiful cha-
racter of the man better than any lengthened descrip-
tion could do.
While thus suffering from habitual ill-health, he
was constantly full of projects of public usefulness, —
such as comfortable and wholesome cheap houses
for the poor, innocent and improving amusements,
benefit societies for mechanics, instruction of youth,
extension of public education, reform in penitential
discipline, temperance, circulation of tracts, ministry
for the poor, bible circulation, encouragement of
self-dependence among the working-classes, and all
measures calculated to improve the comfort and
elevate the condition of the people. He also took
an active part in the politics of his time, believing
this to be an important part of the duty of every
Christian man. He was unfaltering in his principles,
at once temperate and bold, perhaps slow to form his
opinions, but once formed, he was quite fearless in
maintaining them ; he was thoroughly to be depended
on in the most trying scenes, and ready to follow
through good or evil report his conviction of right ;
— a man who always
walked attended
By a strong-aiding champion, — Conscience.
The happy family of the Channings gradually
became thinned by time. One brother had married
and removed ; a sister, Ann, married Washington
Alston, the painter, but died shortly after in London,
whither she had gone with her husband ; another
brother, William, was carried off by consumption —
all within a short period. Then Dr. Channing
married, in mature years, Euth Gibbs, his cousin,
who proved a good and affectionate wife. With her
he made a voyage to Europe in 1822, visited England,
the Lakes (where he saw Wordsworth), London (where
he made the acquaintance of Coleridge and other
celebrated men), then extended his travels to France,
Italy, and Switzerland, returning to Boston in
August, 1823.
From this time forward, a new and wider sphere
of usefulness opened upon him. His heart expanded,
apd took in all his race ; his wisdom enlarged, and
it was increasingly pervaded by holiness and humanity.
He took a warm and active interest in all social
reforms, temperance, an ti- slavery, free schools, and
all public movements calculated to advance the people
in the dignity of thinking beings. He was never a
moment idle. He lamented that his time was so
limited, so numerous were the useful labours of -love
demanding his aid. His sympathies were drawn forth
by every good work, abroad and at home. He had an
abounding hope in the ultimate perfectibility of man,
and encouraged all true labourers by his cheering
words. Yet he spoke of himself with diffidence and
humbleness. "What is my function ? " he said. " Striv-
ing humbly, and not impatiently striving, to penetrate
the clouds which encompass us, and to catch some
new glimpses of the Uncreated Light, the Infinite
Beauty, the Perfection of the Parent Mind, and
of the Human Soul ; and through this, to understand
myself and other beings, — to turn all things to their
true and noblest ends."
He threw himself into the anti-slavery movement —
once he was fairly satisfied as to his duty — with
remarkable earnestness, though he alienated many
of his warmest admirers by so doing. But when
duty called, he was never found backward. At the
time \vhen he joined Garrison and the few emancipa-
tionists, they could scarcely appear in public without
risk of being mobbed. He published his stirring
address on the subject, which made a great impres-
sion. A public meeting was called in Boston, to
vindicate the right of free public discussion on the
subject, and Dr. Channing led the proceedings in a
thrilling speech. He only consented to occupy this
place, because so few other speakers could be got, on
account of the violent opposition. He was met by
the most terrific outcry from the anti-abolitionists ;
and the chainnan, turning to him, asked with a smile,
— "Can you stand thunder?" "Such thunder as
this," was the answer, " in any measure." He looked
down on the surging crowd with undisturbed serenity.
The resolutions were carried. And so free discussion
in Boston was secured ! " Stout men, my husband
for one," wrote a spectator of the scene, " came home
that day and 'lifted up their voices and wept.' Dr.
Channing did not know how dangerous an experi-
ment— as people count danger — he adventured. We
knew that we must send the children out of town,
and sleep in our day -garments that night, unless free
discussion prevailed ! "
Dr. Channing always took a warm interest in the
progress of liberal opinions and movements in Europe.
He was in constant correspondence with some of the
most active public men, — the movers of opinion in
England, Scotland, and France, — and never was
wanting in his hearty and enthusiastic encourage-
ment of them to "go onward." When the French
revolution of 1830 took place, his heart leapt within
him in exulting hope, and he was full of bright antici-
pations of the future. A graduate called upon him
one evening about this time. "Well," said Dr.
Channing to him, "are you, too, so old and so wise,
like the young men of Harvard, as to have no foolish
enthusiasm to throw away upon the heroes of the
Polytechnic school ? " " Sir," answered the graduate,
"you seem to me to be the only young man I know."
"Always young f&r liberty" replied Dr. Channing,
with a bright smile and a ringing tone, as he grasped
his friend warmly by the hand.
With respect to his writings, influential though
these have been in the formation and extension of
sound opinion on many subjects, Dr. Channing never
contemplated success as an author. He used to say
of his writings, that they had been the result of
accident, not of professional purpose ; and he himself
was surprised at the favourable reception they had
received. He did, however, contemplate writing a
work on Man, — his nature, relations, destinies, and
duties, but his numerous engagements, as well as his
constant ill-health, prevented him completing it,
though he left behind him a considerable mass of
manuscript on the subject.
This good man died at Bennington, in Vermont,
on the 2nd of October, 1842. He was on his way
home to Boston, and intended to proceed through
the romantic passes of the Green Mountains. He
lay ill of typhus fever for twenty-six days, but during
that time not a complaint escaped him. His only
wish was, to be able to reach home, "to die there."
But it was not permitted. He died where he lay,
amidst his nearest friends, full of hope, happily and
peacefully. One who was there gives this account
of his parting — " As the day declined, his countenance
fell, and he grew fainter and fainter. With our aid
he turned himself towards the window, which looked
over valley and wooded summits to the east. We
drew back the curtains, and the light fell upon his face.
The sun had just set, and the clouds and sky were
bright with gold and crimson. He breathed more
190
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
and more gently, and without a struggle or a sigh
the body fell asleep. We knew not when the spirit
Of Dr. Channing it may emphatically be said, and
the words might stand written on his tombstone — •
His life was gentle ; and the elements
So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up,
And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN !
ADVENTURES WITH BEARS.
ON the first occasion of my encountering a bear I
was seven or eight years of age. In the summer,
you know, our people withdraw to the mountains
with their herds of cattle, which they lead to the
pastures discovered by the melting of the snows.
My parents were gone with the rest, and had left me
alone in the house, confided to the care of a domestic.
One day I escaped, and took the road to rejoin them.
I was sauntering along, eating my usual breakfast of
bread and cheese, when I distinguished at some
distance what appeared to me a black dog of enor-
mous size lying across the road, and fast asleep. I
was' at first afraid to approach it, but being sure of a
beating if I returned home, and finding myself nearer
to my° father, who willingly allowed himself to be
moved by my tears when a correction was meditated,
I made a detour, and passed the animal at a distance,
holding towards him a piece of my breakfast, to
manifest my amicable intentions. Little noise as I
made, as he was but half asleep, he perceived me,
and, rising, came towards me. Then I threw him a
morsel of bread, which he smelt at, and appeared to
swallow with much satisfaction ; for he approached
me to ask for a second, allowing me to caress him,
though growling all the time. Crumbling my break-
fast behind me, and thus affording an occupation to
my strange companion, in whose society I did not
feel quite easy, I traversed the mountain, and
attained the edge of the wood bordering upon our
pasture. There he ceased to follow me; and, I
entered the meadow, where I found my father, to
whom I related what had befallen me. He left me
for an- instant, returned, took his fusil, and in the
evening, after a useless pursuit, told me that I had
made acquaintance with a bear. The name and the
features of the animal remained deeply impressed
upon my memory ; and I was for a long time careful
not to expose myself to a similar encounter.
In my twentieth year I dwelt in La Maurienne, —
a famous haunt of bears. Happening one day to
read an account of those formidable hunts of olden
times, by which the nations who colonized the
northern regions and Africa gained their subsistence,
it excited in me so great a thirst for adventures, that
when a neighbour named Raymond, a furious hunter
of bears and of chamois, renewed his invitation to
me to join him, he found to his great astonishment
.that I eagerly accepted it. Now the brave fellow's
reason for inviting me had been that he knew me
to be the least disposed of all the village to accede to
his request, and he liked to have a joke against me
on this account. As soon as he became convinced
that I was in my senses, — or rather that I was not ;
for, would to God that I had remained at home !—
he took upon himself to provide me with the
necessary weapons. A quarter of an hour after, we
were among the mountains, our carabines upon our
shoulders, and little hatchets, with, well-sharpened
edges, passed through our belts. You shall shortly
know why we took these last, and how I owe my life
to mine.
It was a beautiful autumnal day. Towards five
o'clock in the evening, after having encountered
nothing, save a heath-cock and two quails, which
Raymond poached and lodged in his bag, we began to
think of returning home. The unaccustomed exercise
had thoroughly fatigued me, and I could not refrain
from an occasional murmur. Still, my self-love was
satisfied : during an entire day I had bravely run
the chance of finding myself face to face with some
terrible guest of those savage solitudes. I con-
gratulated myself on the noise my courage would
make in the valley, where certain impertinences had
put it in doubt, and which low estimation of it and
me had had much to do, I freely own it, with my
determination of the morning.
In traversing an immense wood, almost impervious
to the rays of the setting sun, Raymond, who was
annoyed by the ill success of our chase, remembered
that there was, at a short distance among the rocks,
a kind of little meadow, where chamois were in the
habit of grazing. They were nearly certain to be
absent, 011 account of the advanced hour ; but he
wished, at any rate, to try for them. He placed me
on the look-out, recommended me to employ both eye
and ear, to prevent their escape, and left me ;
advising me to descend the mountain, if at the end
of half an hour I had perceived nothing, and he was
not returned. I saw him bury himself in the wood,
then lie down upon his face and crawl like a serpent
along a rock, behind which he disappeared.
As soon as I found myself alone, my first move-
ment was to inspect my position, in order not to be
surprised. Twilight already extended its floating
shadows beneath the fir-trees, though it was scarcely
six o'clock. The fatigues of the day, which had
deprived me of a portion of my physical power, had
had less effect upon rny mental faculties, and I was
now accustomed to prepare for danger. I commenced
instinctively by choosing a fir- tree, whose trunk, less
garnished with branches than ordinarily, held out to
me a refuge in reserve. Then I coolly prepared my
carabine, and remained in an attitude of expectation.
During a quarter of an hour my eyes wandered
alternately towards the two extremities of the path
that traversed the wood. Nothing appeared. The
second quarter of an hour slipped in like manner,
while the increasing shadows invaded, little by little,
the space around me, though the sun's rays yet
illumined the horizon.
The half-hour being at an end, I prepared to
retreat. As I was about to lower my carabine and
hastily quit the solitary wood, where I felt but half
assured, a noise that could not be caused by the flight of
a chamois sounded along the path. I said to myself
that it must be Raymond, and I advanced as I thought
towards him, while the noise likewise approached. It
wag evident that something was trampling under foot
the boughs detached by autumn from the fir-trees ;
but the tread appeared too slow and too heavy for
Raymond. I began to be afraid, — a universal
tremor seized me, — and by a last ray of the setting
sun that penetrated brokenly into the wood, I
recognized the new-comer. He was a bear of large
size, with little fiery eyes and fallow hair, and
gained upon me gravely with lowered head, not yet
suspecting my neighbourhood.
At this moment, though without strength to fly, I
had shouldered the butt-end of my weapon, and
urged by fear, my finger instinctively pressed the
trigger. I know not how it happened that I
possessed this day an a<kiress which would certainly
not have belonged to me on any other ; my bullet
reached the animal, and he uttered a frightful roar.
I have always thought that I deprived him of an ear.
In two bounds he was beside me. I had by this
time disembarrassed myself of my carabine ; and
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
191
when he leaned his two fore-paws upon the trunk
o± the tree which I had chosen beforehand for a
refuge, I was already established upon a pretty-
strong branch ten feet from him. I know not if
terror gave me wings and courage, or if my character,
once delivered from its every-day trammels, were
urged by danger to the heroism of an extreme energy ;
but I bravely and with firm foot awaited the enemy,
my eye fixed upon his, and my hatchet in my fist.
At first he remained standing against the tree,
devouring me with his eyes, and breathing through
his nostrils with a horrible rumbling noise ; then he
began to mount. When he arrived near me, I lifted
the hatchet and struck at him. I did it too pre-
cipitately, for the blow glided over one of his paws
that was in advance, and made an incision in the
skin, without cutting off the limb. With the bear-
hunter this method. is decisive; when his carabine
becomes useless, and danger presses, he takes refuge
in the nearest tree, making of his hatchet a defensive
weapon. If he cannot reach the animal's head, he
endeavours to detach a paw ; it is rarely after this
check that the bear does not bury himself howling
among the mountains.
But my friend, too slightly wounded to abandon
the pursuit) and considering it due to his honour to
have his revenge, remained undecided for a short
time, uttering stifled howlings that lost themselves in
the depth of the wood. In the end, after having re-
commenced climbing towards me, he all at once
stopped, appeared to change his determination, and
re-descended. Then I saw him smell the earth
around the fir-tree. When he had finished, he
looked towards me a last time, as if to assure
himself that I was still there, and addressed himself
to his work.
His intention was, — the remembrance alone makes
me tremble, — to dig around the tree, that it might
fall. For a bear, the idea was not ill-conceived ; and
I soon learnt that these animals are not wanting
in perseverance. Happily, in examining the .tree
which had afforded me an asylum, I had acquired
the certainty that it was strong enough to make a
long resistance ; or I believe that I should have pre-
cipitated myself at once, so horrible was it thus to
face the perspective of inevitable death. But I
hoped that Raymond might have heard the howlings
of the bear, and that Heaven would not entirely
abandon me.
Minutes passed like centuries ; the night came on,
and my courage began to fail. I could no longer see
my frightful enemy ; his rumbling respiration and the
dull sound of his indefatigable labour alone reached
my ears with the last sounds of the valley, where I
reflected that every one, happy and tranquil, slept in
peace, while I was delivered to a torment of which
nothing can give any idea. After having listened for
a long time, without hearing any one coming to my
aid, I thought that it was all over me, and that the
hour had arrived to regulate with God the affairs of
my conscience.
I passed the night in prayer. The dawn appeared,
— the bear yet laboured. The tree began to reel.
At this moment I closed my eyes.
All at once the bear ceased to dig, and began to
snuff windward. It appeared to me that a distant
sound came through the fir-trees. The bear, lower-
ing his head, listened with me. The noise ap-
proached, and I distinguished my own name called
upon through all the mountain by tumultuous voices.
Apparently my ferocious adversary became aware
that powerful succour arrived ; for after having again
sniffed the breeze, which brought to his ears Aeries
from every side, he looked at me with an expression of
profound regret, and went his way through the wood.
Five minutes afterwards Raymond was at the foot
of .the tree. It was time ; it fell as I descended.
The evening before, Raymond, not having suc-
ceeded in tracing a single chamois, and believing
that I had returned to the village, as he had
recommended me, had descended thither himself, and
retired to bed, without troubling himself further about
me. In the morning having learned that I had not
reappeared, he had immediately retaken the way to
the mountain to search for me, and all the village
had followed him.
" IT WILL DO ! "
THIS is the cry of the lazy, the careless, and the
indifferent. It was a favourite remark of Mrs Mac-
Clarty's, — the woman who "could na be fashed." It
is the excuse of mediocrity, the barrier of progress,
and the enemy of all true excellence.
When you hear a servant saying " It will do," you
may be pretty sure she is one who is given to
" slobber over " her work, on any pretence to get it
out of hand.
In the household, " It will do " makes a candle-
stick of a bottle-neck, and a soup-stick of the besom-
handle. It uses the copper pot alike for holding
soup or vinegar, and at an emergency uses the milk-
dish as a wash-hand basin. It sticks a chair-leg in
the window-frame to hold the window up, and papers
up a broken pane with a piece of old newspaper, or
at a pinch stuffs a pair of stockings or an old
shirt through the hole.
" It will do" stirs the fire with the tongs or the
bellows-nozzle ; extinguishes the candle by inversion,
— drowning it in its own grease ; and snuffs it
between the finger and thumb, or against the table
with a knife. It uses a teacup for an ink-pud, and a
preserve-jar for a drinking-horn. If paper is wanted
for a taper, it is torn from the fly-leaves of the book
next at hand.
If a cork cannot be readily got out of a bottle,
" It will do " shoves it in with the finger. If the
knives want cleaning, there is the foul linen store at
hand, and napkins and table-cloths enough for the
purpose. If a fork is wanted for cooking, there
is a silver one at hand, ready for use. If "the
mistress " should find out any of these faux pas, there
is "the cat," or "nobody," to serve as scape-goat.
" It will do " kindles fires most ingeniously.
There is the child's toy, that " will do " for kindling,
or the box of tapers, which answer as well, — or corks
in great store, — perhaps the cover of a book, or
" master's " daily ^newspaper. If grease is wanted,
there is the box of lip-salve, or the drippings of the
castor-oil bottle, or the furniture-paste ; but for
"kindling," nothing can equal the saltpetre got in
yesterday for curing beef and bacon.
" It will do " is the motto of the slattern. Does
her hair hang loose over the bread which she is-
kneading, " It will do " is justification enough. Are
her hands guiltless of clean water, " It will do " is
her excuse. Does she use unmentionable napkins
and towels to wipe her pans and dishes, still "It will
do " must satisfy you.
See that prim maiden in silk, — how comely she
looks ! Observe a little more narrowly ; her black
stockings are darned with grey ! her shawl is
fastened with a hair-pin ! and though she has rings
on her fingers, her nails are not clean !
There are slattern men, too, — gents who stick a
big-headed gold pin into a dirty shirt, — wear a
" spicy " Albert-tie over a dickey, with the strings
dangling behind, — and sport a "National Guard"
192
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
cloak over a pair of very dirty Bluchers. " It will
do " is always the excuse.
"It will do," says the boy, when he has learnt
his lesson badly, and feels that he cannot say it. " It
will do," says the mother, when her daughter plays a
showy sonata, — though she has not yet learnt to spell
correctly. "It will do," says the wife, when her
husband has bought her a new satin dress, but has
not taken the precaution to insure his life. " It will
do," says the husband, when his wife tells him she
has " promised" to pay the grocer's bill, which has
been running up for more than two years.
" It will do ! " has blighted many a character,
blasted many a fortune, sunk many a ship, burnt
down many a house, and irretrievably ruined thou-
sands of hopeful projects of human good. It always
means stopping short of the right thing. It is a
makeshift. It is a failure and defeat. Not what
"will do," but what is the best possible, — that is the
point to be aimed at! Let a man once adopt this
motto of " It will do," and he is given over to the
enemy, — he is on the side of incompetency and
defeat, — and we give him up as a hopeless subject !
S. SMILES.
MARRIED LIFE.
Whenever society shall have become civilized enough
to recognize the equality of rights between the sexes,
— when women shall have attained to a clear percep-
tion of what is due to them, and men to a nobility of
feeling which shall make them concede to women the
freedom which they themselves claim, — humanity
will have undergone such a modification as to render
an equality of rights practicable. Married life under
this ultimate state of things will not be characterized
by perpetual squabbles, but by mutual concessions.
Instead of a desire on the part of the husband to assert
his claims to the uttermost, regardless of those of his
wife ; or, on the part of the wife, to do the like,
there will be a watchful desire on both sides not to
transgress. Neither will have to stand on the defen-
sive, because each will be solicitous for the rights of
the other. Not encroachment, but self-sacrifice, will
be the ruling principle ; the struggle will not be
which shall gain the mastery, but which shall give
way. Committing a trespass will be the thing feared
and not the being trespassed against. And thus,
instead of domestic discord, will come a higher har-
mony than any we yet know. There is nothing
Utopian in this, — we may already trace the beginnings
of it ; an attitude like that described is not uncom-
monly maintained in the dealings of honourable men
with each other ; and if so, why should it not exist
between the sexes ? Here and there, indeed, may
be found, even now, a wedded pair who preserve such
a relationship, and what is at present the exception
may one day be the rule. We are told, however,
that woman's mission is a domestic one, — that her
character and position do not admit of her taking a
part in the decision of public questions, — that politics
are beyond her sphere ; but this raises the question,
Who shall say what her sphere is ? Among the
Pawnees and the Sioux it is that of a beast of burden ;
she has to carry the baggage, to drag home fuel from
the woods, and to do everything that is menial and
laborious. In slave countries it is within woman's
sphere to work side by side with men, under the
lash of the task-master. Clerkships, cashierships,
and other responsible business situations, are com-
prised in her sphere in modern France ; whilst, on
the other hand, the sphere of a Turkish or Egyptian
lady extends scarcely an inch beyond the walls of the
harem.— Social Statics.
(ORIGINAL.)
WINTER'S WILD FLOWERS.
'Tis dark and dreary winter-time,
The snow is on the ground ;
No roses trail, no woodbines climb,
No poppies flaunt around.
The earth is hard, the trees are bare,
The frozen robin drops ;
The wind is whistling everywhere, — •
The crystal brooklet stops ;
But I have found a grassy mound,
A green and sheltered spot,
And there peeps up a primrose cup,
With blue "Forget-me-not."
Oh ! great to me the joy to see
The spring-buds opening now,
To find the leaves that May-day weaves
On old December's brow.
They say the world does much to make
The heart a frosted thing, —
That selfish age will kill and break
The garlands of our spring, —
That stark and cold we wail and sigh
When wintry snows begin, —
That all Hope's lovely blossoms die,
And chilling winds set in.
But let me pray, that come what may
To desolate this breast,
Some wild flower's bloom will yet illume,
And be its angel guest ;
For who would live when Life could give
No feeling touched with youth,—
No May-day gleams to light with dreams
December's freezing truth ?
ELIZA COOK.
YOUTH, MANHOOD, AGE.
I was struck by what seemed to me a beautiful
analogy which I once heard him draw, and which
was new to me, — that the individual characters of
mankind showed themselves distinctively in childhood
and youth, as those of trees in spring ; • that of both,
of trees in summer and of human kind in middle life,
they were then alike to a great degree merged in a
dull uniformity ; and that again, in autumn and in
declining age, there appeared afresh all their original
and Inherent variety brought out into view with
deeper marking of character, with more vivid con-
trast, and with great accession of interest and beauty.
— Wordsworth, the Poet.
Bernard Barton, the Quaker poet, remarks of the
use of Poetry : — "We have abundant need of every
counteracting impulse of which we can avail our-
selves to keep in check the worldliness of our hearts ;
we require the aid of every lever on which we can
lay our hands to lift us out of ourselves, of every
incentive which may lead us to look beyond ourselves,
of every connecting link which binds us to the great
family of human beings." '
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, GreatxQueen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 14.°,.]
SATURDAY, JANUARY 24, 1852.
[PRICE
THE GOOD AND EVIL OF PRAISE.
WHATEVER philosophers may say or write, it is more
than probable that the tendency to praise what
appears to be good, and blame what appears to be
evil, will continue to exist in the human mind. We
cannot even imagine a state of things in which it
shall not be so. The presence of sympathies and
feelings in our nature seems to necessitate it. We
can no more help having a sensation of approval or
disapproval, than we can produce insensibility to
physical influences ; and we are just as unable, of
ourselves, to determine of what kind they shall be, as
we are to choose to feel cold when the glaring sun
draws perspiration from every pore, or to feel hot
when a biting north-easter is chilling the very
marrow in our bones. Likes and dislikes are al-
together involuntary feelings, and the natural
language of one is praise, and of the other blame. It
may be wise, as things are, sometimes to suppress, at
others to govern those expressions ; but it is not
always possible for us to do. Emotion, unlike the
effects of reason, comes upon us so suddenly that it
takes us by surprise ; we can neither calculate upon
it, nor prepare for it. We see a virtuous or a noble
act, or a deed of brutality or meanness, and
straightway up springs the appropriate feeling in the
hearts of most of us ; and though we may set a
guard over our tongues, and speak no word, yet by
look or gesture it will show itself. We come to the
conclusion, then, that because the causes of praise and
blame are involuntary, and therefore beyond our
control, they will always continue to be, until some
change takes place in the constitution of human
nature which it is impossible to foresee.
We must treat praise, then, as a natural fact,
grounded in the order of things ; and, like other
natural facts, we are disposed to look upon it as
mainly good; but as unquestionably praise is made
to do a vast deal of harm, a little quiet gossip about
the why and the wherefore, may be useful. Praise
exercises a certain power over the mind, and a
power is a source of good or evil, according to the
manner in which it is applied. If praise does any
harm, then it must be, not because it is bad in itself,
but because it is injudiciously used, and of injudi-
cious praise we will speak first. Few of our
readers, we presume, have lived to the years of
discretion, — or rather, we should say, to the years at
which discretion is supposed to come, — without
discovei-ing that wholesale conceit is often produced
by injudicious praise ; and it is generally, we fear, to
mothers that the prevalence of that disagreeable
quality is to be attributed. A fond mother is nine
times out of ten the best illustration which could be
selected of loving " not wisely, but too well." In
her darling she sees nothing bxit beauties, and she
praises in season and out of season. When the poet
said that "Love is blind," he only told a half truth,
for Love is blind only to imperfections, but acutely
sensible of beauties ; and so the mother praises the
babe for its beauty and for its temper, before the
babe begins to be sensible of praise, and then she
does neither good nor harm. She may love her
friends, who do not love the little cooing creature a
thousandth part so much as she does ; she may form a
bad habit of bestowing indiscriminate praise in her
own mind ; but the baby is unconscious, and, so far
as it is concerned, the praise might as well be given
to a block, or a stone, or anything else incapable of
appreciating it.
By-and-by, the senses ot the child grow, and its
consciousness expands, and eulogy begins to have its
effect. It hears its beauty admired, till it begins to
think not only that beauty is a very fine thing, which
is true, but that some merit attaches to the mere
possession of beauty, which is false. Children
estimate things at the value their elders set upon
them, and when they see mere form exalted above
all else, they often come to prize it more than
things of greater importance. Many a well-
organized boy and lovely girl have had their heads
turned by adulation of this sort, and been trained up
into empty fops or heartless coquettes. Sometimes,
however, instead of personal beauties, mental powers
are exalted, and it is perhaps true that praise of this
sort does more harm than the other we have just
noticed. A boy is petted and indulged for his sharp-
ness, and a girl for her sweetness of temper, till at
last an egotism is produced, which destroys the very
qualities upon which it assumes to be founded. The
sharp lad gets so accustomed to hear himself called
sharp, — he grows so used to hear papa say, "What a
clever boy it is ! " and to hear mamma predict what
a great man he will grow, that he thinks at last that
shai-pness necessarily belongs to him, — that he
194
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
cannot be otherwise than sharp, — that he need not
bore, and bother, and study, that he is sure to be
able to do \vithout all that, — and so he grows lazy,
and unenergetic, and vacillating, and the compara-
tively dull but industrious student goes by him. In
the case of the girl, good temper often suffers just
the same injury, for she is so habituated to consider
herself good-tempered, that she takes no pains to
control her feelings, and gives way more readily to
pettishness and anger. Thousands of men who
might have been honourable and useful members of
society have thus been driven out of a reliance upon
the exercise of their own natural powers, by admi-
ration of them ; and thousands of women qualified
to make home happy, have been bred up untameable
shrews, who could not bear to have their own
paramount goodness questioned.
Is this praise, then, which works so much harm,
which stunts down powers, which transforms sweet-
ness of character into a vinegar-like acerbity, really
a bad thing ? Is it true that we must judge of it as
of a tree, — by its fruits ? Should we give over
praising altogether ? Not all. Praise is really not
necessarily either good or bad, — it may be either or
both. It is, as we said before, an expression of those
same feelings which have produced so much of joy and
happiness, — have worked so much of woe and misery.
If we cannot control it, we may regulate it. If we
ought not to stifle it, we ought to give it a right
direction. How is that to be done ? Without at the
time intending it, we think the observations we have
made furnish a clue to the answer. We must praise
qualities rather than persons, — the exercise of quali-
ties rather than the qualities themselves. This may
appear, to the generality of readers, as rather
abstruse. Perhaps it is, and we had better try
to illustrate it by a reference to actual circumstances.
We praise a boy for having courage, — that breeds
conceit. If we were to praise courage itself as a
quality, though the possessor might be conscious that
he was courageous, the same result would not follow.
Still less likely would it be to ensue, if instead of
lauding the quality we were to admire any great and
noble action which proceeded from it, — that would
be teaching practical virtue, and making praise an
incentive to effort. Men should praise that which
does good to men, not the man who may possess the
qualities which it is possible to apply to good, without
exercising them. It is action the world wants, of a
high and noble character, — action which may be held
up as example, — action which may teach more dis-
tinctly, and with a louder voice, than mere precept ;
but to assume in a person qualities which it is
possible may exist in him, and to praise him for the
mere possession, is to breed in his mind a feeling
likely to prevent their being effectually used.
When praise does that, it is not only diverted from
its proper object, but applied to defeat it. Its only
use, after it has gratified the nature of the praiser
by expressing his involuntary feelings, is to stimulate
the person praised to be yet more deserving, and to
incite others to follow his example ; but when it is
misapplied, so as to make a man feel that the
admiration is due to him, and not to the deed, and to
make the lookers-on believe that it is rendered not
for good done, but to the capability for doing good left
undone, it becomes a positive nuisance to the right-
minded, and a barrier to further progress. Let us
understand, then, that we are not called upon to
smother and stifle praise ; the cause of truth and
goodness is the cause of Nature, and never requires
that any natural feeling should be obliterated from
the human mind, or its expression concealed
The proper application of praise will form a test —
a sort of barometer,— of the mental and moral im-
provement of the world. The higher men advance
toward true civilization, the more impersonal will
their praise become. The more really cultivated they
are, the more truthful and useful will be its expression.
It would be an evil day for the world, when admiration
— upon which praise is founded — faded from men's
hearts. It would indicate either the want of power
to appreciate goodness, or the absence of goodness to
appreciate. Such a world, inhabited by such beings,
would be a moral and mental desert. But fortunately
that can never happen. Enough of nobility of nature
will always be left to cause thousands of hearts to
beat high at some act of heroism or generosity.
Enough of sympathy will always remain to call the
tear-drop to the eye for human suffering, and to
foster admiration for the charity which relieves it ;
all we want is that those emotions should be directed
aright, that praise should not descend into syco-
phancy or adulation, that the practice of virtue
should be reverenced more than the reputation of
virtue, and the reputation of virtue more than the
person on whom it rests. Our great error is, that we
make our likes and dislikes, our approbation or our
depreciation, far too personal. The contemplation of
abstract qualities is beyond the range of the mass of
minds. They must adore a fact, not a theory ; an
embodiment, not an essence. They will have some-
thing tangible to rest upon, — something visible and
substantial to bow down to. For this reason, they
. do not estimate impalpable qualities. We cannot,
therefore, practically make them the bases of either
praise or blame. We must choose between the
individual doing and the thing done, — between a
great work and the man who has accomplished it ;
and though we would not wish to hold back honour
from those to whom honour is due, yet we are
convinced that both for the sake of the man who
has benefited his kind, and all the rest of the world,
the best application of praise is to deeds and things,
rather than to persons.
If that could be made a rule, — if a feeling capable
of good could be subjected to that legitimate control,
if it could be made amenable to that kind of intel-
lectual cultivation, we should banish one of the main
sources of personal arrogance and individual conceit,
and stimulate each to rely not upon the reputation or
the fact of possessing great faculties, but upon their
exercise for the general good. Then a great past
would be necessarily followed by a greater future.
Then beauty might be loved, good temper praised,
courage admired, intellect respected, and virtue
reverenced, without detriment to the individuals
possessing them, and with advantage to all. Then
effort would be the fruit of power. That time,
however, demands for its realization a higher range of
thought than the world at large has yet attained, and
in the mean time, we shall go on, sometimes praising
judiciously, sometimes injudiciously, and oftener,
perhaps, doing harm than good. The period will
arrive, however, when men will not let their delight
at qualities upon which effort might successfully be
founded, prevent the development of those qualities
to their highest power, and then praise will become
as impersonal as fame, and men will be esteemed in
their life, as well as after their death, — not so much
for what they are, as for what they have done ; not
so much for the capabilities they possess for serving
humanity, as for the real improvements they have
bestowed upon the world. And when praise takes
its true place, then blame will also assume its proper
dominion, — that, too, will cease to apply to the
individual. We shall not hate sinners, but sin, and
shall detest the crime instead of the criminal.
Perhaps upon nothing so much as the just application
of rewards and punishments, — the legitimate conse-
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
195
quents of praise and blame, — does the future of the
world depend. The perfection of their action will
only be approached when reward is made to
stimulate onward, — not to blunt exertion, — and
punishment is rendered subservient to reformation,
instead of revenge. That can never happen where
praise and blame are purely personal ; and it is in
the hope of inducing thought upon a subject so
important, rather than elucidating it, we have
ventured upon this essay.
A BATTLE FOR LIFE AND DEATH.
A STOEY IN FOUR CHAPTEES.
III.— THE RUNT FOR LIFE.
THE cottage of the poacher stood on the outskirts of
the little village at which our story opened. A
common lay behind it, out of which the old poacher
had cut a temporary garden, but he was liable to be
dislodged from the place any day by the lord of the
manor, who was a non-resident. The hut itself was
of the rudest description — its walls were of mud and
turf, mixed with furze gathered from the common.
The roof was thatched with bulrushes and sedges
drawn from a neighbouring slimy pool. Through
the walls, and through the roof, the wind blew in
gusts when the weather was stormy, and in wet days
and nights the rain trickled down through the roof
and gathered into little pools on the clay floor. The
place was scarcely big enough to swing a cat in. In
the dryest bit, raised on stones, over which some old
boards were laid, a kind of rude couch had been
erected, where lay a straw bed covered with what
might once have been blankets, but now looked very
like old rags. Two logs of wood served as seats —
table there was none ; an old kettle, and a few bits
of dishes completed the furniture. Some wood
burned in the rude fireplace, the smoke of which
half filled the hut, the remainder struggling up the
mud chimney, or through the numerous crevices in
the roof. Such was the wretched house to which
the poacher returned on his liberation from goal.
No wonder the old man should hold so loosely to a
society which had brought him to a home like this.
The homeless are rarely good subjects — generally
they belong to the " dangerous classes," but it is too
often society's own fault that they are so.
This wretched dwelling had another occupant
besides the poacher himself — a woman ! She was
his wife — had shared his early prosperity, and now
shared the wetchedness of his old age. Kingsley has
painted that poor woman's life in these graphic* lines
in his " Yeast ; " —
I am long past wailing and whining-—
I have wept too much in my life ;
I've had twenty years of pining
As an English labourer's wife.
A labourer in Christian England,
Where they cant of a Saviour's name,
And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's
For a few more brace of game.
There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire
There's blood on your pointers' feet ;
There's blood on the game you sell, squire.
And there's blood on the game you eat !
You have sold the labouring man, squire,
Body and soul to shame
To pay for your seat in the House, squire.
And to pay for the feed of your game.
How she had lived through it all, heaven knows !
Her two daughters had gone into service somewhere
in London, but she heard from them rarely. What
could they do for her ? They had little to spare for
her wants, and their own hardships were almost
enough for them. Her one son — ah ! what a dark
history attached to him, and how his mother's
heart had been wrung by his fate ! Her son had
been sent beyond the seas — a convict — in the
company of convicts. He, like his father, had been
a poacher. A strong, athletic youth, he formed one
of a band of poachers associated for mutual defence.
In one of their midnight maraudings, they were
assailed by a body of gamekeepers ; a fight took place,
in which young Crouch was a prominent actor. The
keepers were beaten off, and one of their number
was left on the field for dead. Young Crouch was
apprehended after a severe contest with the police ;
he was tried, and sentenced to transportation for
seven years. But Crouch, always bold and daring,
had not remained long at Sydney. Somehow or
othei-, he managed to escape into the bush, and after-
wards got on board an American ship off the coast of
Gippsland, in which he worked his passage before
the mast to the United States. He had written
home to his old and solitary parents, and they had
just read his letter when we venture in upon them.
"It might ha' been worse," said old Joe. "The
lad will do well yet. He's got the right stuff in him,
has Bill."
" God bless him ! " said the woman ! " How I pine
to see him again before I die. He was aye a g^od
and dutiful boy, though a venturesome one. But
what was the poor lad to do, but seek for a bit of
bread in the way his neighbours did 1 "
" Ay, it's a hard life we have led, Kitty, and thou
hast suffered more than either he or I ha' done. It's but
a black, raw hole, this I've put you in," casting his
eyes about the hut ; "but it's all that was left,' and
even from this we are bound to go. The squire 's
just come home, and I bin told the old place is to be
torn down over our heads unless we decamp. Where
to go next ? Into the workhouse ?
"Nay, Heaven forbid," said the woman, "we've
lived together all through ; and it isn't the overseer
that'll part us now."
"So be it," said Joe ; " but we're gettin' old. My
blood is growing thin, and my back stiff. Even
poaching won't keep us alive now. What say you
to Bill's offer — to pay our passage out. Would
you go ? "
" Ay, indeed ! To look on him again I'd go on my
knees, if strength were left me, over half the earth.
I'll go, indeed I will. What is there to keep us
here ? Do you know how I lived, Joe, while you
were in the place ? Why, I clemmed — I scarcely
lived — I starved ! What is there to keep either you
or me here, Joe ? "
" For me," answered Joe, " I'm an old wreck —
battered to a hulk,— but I'll go ! And it'll be the
happiest day I've seen for a long time, the day that
sees me out of this cursed land, where honest men
have no chance against lords, and where we're
badgered and baited by them police and keepers,
bailiffs, overseers, and attorneys, on whichever hand
we turn. Hear again what Bill says in this letter of
his : —
" 'A man has a fair chance here. Even the poor
man may be rich if he will work. There is room
for all — wide plains and rich valleys, but they
are yet solitudes for want of men. It needs not
wealth to secure a footing here, but willing hands
and a stout back. There are no huge landlords,
half-a-dozen of them owning a country, and keeping
the labourers serfs, as at home ; but the tillers of the
soil are its owners too, and the land is open to
tens of thousands more, would they but come. The
earth seems to call out, ' Till me, put the seed into
me, and the harvest will be great.' There are no
196
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
poor, no starving, no poachers, no gamekeepers ; the
wild animals are free to all men, and man himself is
free. It is a glorious land, fresh as it came from
the hand of God, yet uncursed by man's selfish laws ;
still young', hopeful, vigorous, rind thriving. Come
here, then, and under your son's roof spend your
old age in peace, and in such comfort as I can provide
for you.'
" Well, now, Kitty, it's a settled point — who could
stand that ? He knew we must go — that we couldn't
stay here and he wishing us to join him. But we'll
be of little use in that great new land of his. Our
hair is grey, and our hands grown feeble. Yet our
failing years may be made smooth and easy, compared
with the miserable times we have seen."
" He was aye a good-hearted lad,, was Bill. And
this bit of bras 3 he has sent will keep the wolf from
the door for a bit, till he comes for us as he speaks of."
"I'd rather he didn't come," said Joe; "he's in
danger here, and might be nabbed. I wonder he
didn't think of that."
"What do you mean ? " asked the wife, with a face
of anxiety.
" He's an escaped convict, and if the police laid
hold on him, he'd be sent to Norfolk Island ; arid his
home in America would never see him more. I'd
rather we set out now, and run all risks, winter
thotigh it be."
But it was not to be so. The funds which had
been sent to the old couple would not suffice to pay
their passage to America, so they were under the
necessity of awaiting their son's promised visit with
what patience they could.
Months passed; and long they seemed to those
who waited. Long days and long nights. The weary
hours were weighted with misery, through which
hope but faintly gleamed. The very minutes had
each one of them their separate sorrow arid priva-
tion— privation of clothing, privation of warmth,
privation of food. That pallid, wrinkled, worn-out
couple, why should they live, if only to endure ?
Indeed they desired not life ; only the hope of
seeing^ their son buoyed them up. "When will he
come," they asked of each other, until they became
weary of devising an answer. " Oh ! would that he
were here," said the mother, "would that I saw his
face again — my own son ! "
The poor couple managed, however, to live. Though
the old man had lost his gun, which had been seized
and carried off in his last midnight struggle, he could
still springe a bird or a hare as deftly as any poacher
about the village. Nor were friendly neighbours
wanting, though these were of the very poorest —
most of them of old Joe's own outlawed class, as
familiar with the inside of the county gaol as with
that of their own wretched huts. But the poor have
a sympathy with each other which the rich know
little of; they help each other across many gaps,
are always ready with a handful of meal, or a hunch
of bread, or a spare blanket, when all other means
fail. So old Joe and his wife managed to live, though
they avoided exposing their privations to their equally
poor neighbours. Knowing what these other poor
people suffered, the old pair would rather suffer on
patiently than increase the privations of others less
able to bear them.
One evening towards the end of winter, or rather
at the beginning of spring,— for the buds were already
bursting into green leaves— a third person was seated
m the hut, on the edge of the miserable bed in the
corner— the choice place in the chamber.
" God help you," said Bill, for it was he —"what
y™ ^st have suffered through these lon<^ years !
And that you should have come to this ! Oh mother !
it s a sad coming home ! "
"Ah lad ! " said she, " the worst 's over ; for you
are with us, and we go with you now to that great
new land of yours, where we shall henceforth live
together, till we lay down our heads in peace — your
poor old father and me."
" I'm good for naught," said Joe ; "biit I'd like to
do an honest stroke of work on your own farm, Bill,
before I die."
" And that you shall, father ! " said Bill, dashing
a tear off his cheek ; " you shall have of the best, and
if my log-house is not a palace, it is at least an honest
man's home. You shall be a fanner once more, and
your own master — with no screwing landlord, nor
tyrannical agent to oppress you, and eat up your crops
with the vermin which they make poor farmers keep
here for their pleasure and sport."
" And is it really all as you said in that letter of
yours, about the new land ? Are there no landlords,
nor gamekeepers, nor rural police there ? "
"None," said Bill, his eye brightening. "What I
said was all true, every word of it. The land there is
the people's who till it. The working men of America
are the owners of its soil. They reap its fruits, and
enjoy them too. As for game, pshaw ! there's better
means of living than that — no need for poaching for a
livelihood, I assure you. But you shall see ! You shall
share my home and my land. Not another day shall
you stay here — to-morrow morning we all set out
together for the Free Land ! "
A rush at the frail door of the hut here startled
the party, and Bill sprang from the bed on which he
was seated. He remembered on the instant that in
England he was not free !
Two men burst into the hut — they were police !
" You are my prisoner," said one of them, advancing
towards the young man. " Yield yourself up peace-
ably, and go with me."
"Hold off! " said Bill ; "stand back ! I am no
prisoner of yours ; nor shall I be, while life 's in me."
The policeman drew from his pocket a pistol, which
he cocked, and advanced presenting it at the prisoner.
The mother, feeble though she might be, was quick
to perceive this movement, and sprang upon the
policeman with a suddenness that took him off his
guard ; she dashed the pistol up, and it harmlessly ex-
ploded, sending the bullet through the shingle roof.
The youth at the same instant rushed at him, and
dashed him prostrate to the earth.
Meanwhile the old man, who felt all the fierce
vigour of his youth renewed at this sudden invasion
of his household, had seized a cudgel and rushed upon
the second policeman, who vainly endeavoured to
ward off with his baton the blows aimed at him by
the old poacher. He thus defended himself, retreat-
ing, but an inequality in the floor caught his heel,
and pushed vigorously at the same time by Joe, he
lost his balance, on which the old man's hand was in
an instant at his throat.
" Hold him fast," cried Bill, "but don't hurt him ;
they are our prisoners, and must be so for the night.
You must submit, men, to a little overhauling now ;
but no resistance, no noise, — else — "
Proceeding to explore the men's pockets, Bill took
from each a pair of stout handcuffs, intended for his
own and his father's wrists, in event of the latter
making resistance, and in a trice had the policemen
securely fastened, so far as their hands were con-
cerned.
"Now for ropes," said Bill. "Out with them,
mother."
"There's no such thing about the house, lad;
nothing of the sort."
"There's the old nets," said Joe, "I'll warrant
they'll do ; and I guess we have no more use for
them now."
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
197
"The very thing ! " said Bill ; " let's harness them
with the old poacher's nets, by all means ; they may
wear them for trophies, and carry them back to the
enemy's camp, as warriors do the colours they have
taken ! "
The old nets were at once brought from under-
neath the truss of straw on the rude bed, were twisted
into the form of ropes, and bound tightly round the
prisoners' legs. They were then lashed back to back ;
a bit of the rag which formed the bed-coverlet was
wrapped round each of their mouths, and the job
was finished — the prisoners were secure.
"Now," said Bill, "you're safe for the night. You
thought to take me, did you ? But no ! I'm free
still, and will be so — though not in this cursed land.
No ! In another ! with a wide sea between ; God
be thanked ! Farewell, men ; I bear no ill-will to
you. You but tried to do the work you are paid for
doing ; though the work 's dirty — faugh ! But we'll
take care you're seen to ; you'll be sought up in time
to-morrow. You'll have only one night of the fare
which this old couple have had for years. Now,
father and mother, let's off ! "
The old beggared pair had nothing to carry with
them — no money, no clothes, save what they wore,
no furniture — not even any of those kindly memories
\vhich usually cling even about a poor man's home.
They carried with them nothing but the memory of
hardship and sorrow !
So they went, not venturing one single look back.
They turned their faces across the bleak moor, to-
wards a star which shone bright in the west, the
herald, it might be, of a brighter day. The world
was again before this old pair, but Hope strode by
their side, and better days, aged and bankrupt
though they were, might yet dawn upon them.
As they crossed the covert, to reach the lane
which skirted its further side, the partridge flew
from his nest and the hare skipped from his seat ;
but the old poacher turned not his head to notice
them. He had done with all that. His face was
towards the wind, which blew from the west.
" An hour will bring us to Tipton," said the old
man, "where I know a friend, who, like me, has
seen better days, and he will give us a lift on with
his cart to the nearest station."
So they plodded on through the dark night — dark,
but brighter far than the nights of many past years
had been to them.
We return for a moment to the two men left
pinned together on the floor of the hut. By dint of
wriggling, they succeeded in working their mouths
above the cloths which had been bound, not very
tightly, about their faces ; but all attempts to free
their hands and feet proved unavailing. The poacher
and his son had so effectually wrapped and tied them
about with the nets, that they lay fixed there as in
a vice. They could only moan and long eagerly for
the return of the daylight. The grey dawn at
length struggled through the window-hole and under
the door of the hut, revealing to them its bare clay
walls, through whose crannies the light also here
and there peeped. The fire had now burnt down to
the embers, and cold gusts of wind blew the ashes
about the floor.
"A horrid dog-hole this," said one of the men,
speaking in a muffled tone. "A horrid dog-hole to
spend a night in."
"Ay, it is," said the other, "but those beggars
who have left it, have lived here for years ! "
" Served 'em right, they deserved no better. That
old scoundrel was the most desperate poacher in the
county. I wish we had taken that son of his — it
would have been a feather in our cap."
" Better as it is, perhaps ! "
" What do you say ? "
"Why, I mean, it's 1
better he's gone, and taken
that old poacher with him. Depend upon't, the
country will see no more of the lot. They're clean
off!"
" But we'll raise the hue and cry agen 'em ; they've
not escaped as yet, by ."
" For my part, I don't see the good of keeping
such a lot amongst us. They only breed poachers
and paupers. Besides, what can they turn to but
poaching ? "
"We've naught to do wi' that. They must be
taken, and punished — "
" If they can be caught, that's to say. Hallo ! "
A step was heard passing the hut. The men
shouted again ; and a labourer, with a mattock on
his shotilder, approached the door, pushed it open,
and looked in.
" What, Joe, what's wrong ? What's the matter ? "
"Joe, indeed! There's no Joe here. Come and
undo these abominable nets."
"What! Is this thee, Muffles ? Police! Why,
what art thou doing in the poacher's nets ? Has old
Joe springed thee ? A clever fellow is old Joe ! "
" Off with them ! Quick ! No parleying ! — there !
now ! I feel a little more easy, but my arms and
legs are like lead, and as cold as ice ! This con-
founded poacher's dog hole ! "
The men were now on their feet, but could scarcely
stand through the numbness of their limbs. They
rubbed and stretched themselves, the labourer stand-
ing looking on them open-mouthed, with pretended
obtuse gravity, and asking questions to which the
policemen however deigned no reply. They moved
to the door.
" What ! no thanks ? " said the man. " Not sulky,
I hope ? I done my best, ye know, to let you out
of limbo."
" Well, thank you then, if that's what you want.
But I'm mistaken if you don't know as well about
this business as we do ; it's nothing but a conspiracy
— you are all alike in league against law and justice ;
and see if you haven't to answer yet before the
justices for your share in this night's work."
" Humph ! " said the labourer, turning away, " I
almost wish I had left them to dinner and supper in
the hut. They richly deserved another twenty-four
hours in the poacher's dog-hole."
RECOLLECTIONS OF SOME FAMILIAR
ACQUAINTANCES.
IT has been pointed out that amongst the indications
of knowledge to be discerned in European literature,
may be fairly reckoned the comparative accuracy in
the draughts of Eastern manners furnished in our
Oriental tales and fictions. Fifty years ago these
vehicles of romance were anything but what they
professed to be. An Eastern tale was scarcely j
Eastern, even in the mere names of the actors ; its ,
machinery was at best a preposterous caricature of
Oriental manners and modes of thought, but in most
cases an absurd jumble of those of all nations ;
whatever was not European could be readily passed I
off as Asiatic. The portraiture of Eastern society
was disfigured not only in .fugitive productions, but
in so-called classical works, which are still read as
manuals of social ethics and models of English
composition. Strange, too, as it may appear, the
later of these productions are the least correct ; there
is far more truth in the Oriental tales of Addison,
who seems to have had access to genuine materials,
than in those of Johnson or Hawkesworth, where
198
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
the justness of the sentiments and the elegance^ of
the style offer a strong contrast to the false, puerile,
and ridiculous manners of the fable, which they
scarcely redeem from one's contempt.
We propose in this paper to popularly discuss
the origin and sources whence Europe has derived
her familiar transcripts of the Arabian and Fairy
tales. It is a fact that we have, after all, but two or
three really good models of this class of composition ;
viz. the celebrated "Arabian Nights' Entertain-
ments," and the best known collections of Fairy
Tales. Everybody is acquainted with the delightful
stories with which the princess beguiled the sultan
for one thousand and one nights ; but few persons
have troubled themselves to inquire into the author-
ship of these most engaging tales. Beyond a vague
notion that they are, like the subjects of them, of
Oriental origin, nothing is popularly known. It has
been left to mufti and pundits to trace back to the
particular country and the period in which Eastern
romance first appeared. The student is aware of the
numberless editions in every language of that unperish-
able chef-d'ceuvre, — the " Arabian Nights' Entertain-
ments,"— perpetuated by the matrices of every
nation, from the hieroglyphical Sanscrit to the clear
plain types of the disciples of Caxton ; but, we
repeat, the people only know that there is a delight-
ful book in existence, which charmed their senses in
boyhood, yet on whose title-page the modest author's
name does not appear.
Therefore it is that we are emboldened to ask
Whence came these best of stories ? It will afford
some amusement and instruction to institute an exa-
mination that will answer this question.
Shall we be letting out the secret at once by stating
that these wondrous tales are derived from an Indian
source ? But to tell thus much fe, indeed, to tell but
little ; to utter a merely uninteresting truism. We
will, if you please, go a little further.
A catalogue of Oriental books is capable of im-
parting certain hints and guiding to some information,
relating to our theme. However, the investigator
must expect to be bewildered by the out-of-the-way
nouns proper, or seemingly improper, he will meet
with. The catalogue will place before his eyes
patronymics and nomenclatures of a very unpro-
nouncible order ; he will have to ponder over what
can possibly be meant by terms like A bu-Bekr, J)'Su'-l-
Rumma, Ali Tckelefi, Ben Saleh, Bedpai, Al Sokman,
Omar ben Fcredh, Fererdak Hamadani, Hariri, Mon-
tennabbi, and Eokhlwi ; and he will be induced to
fancy that he is becoming the victim to more of
Mahomet's impostures. Yet these are in reality
the names of the authors and translators of the
Arabian stories, — the Arabian poets of the Caliphat.
The works of some of these venerable gentlemen are
to be recognized under such furthermore mythical-
looking titles as the HadeTcat al Afrah, the Mooalakab,
Kalila ul Dmina, &c.
We are afraid that we have not pointed out the
most interesting way for readers to arrive at the
information we would lead them to. Suppose then
we make another tack, and call biography to our
assistance. The European author of the delightful
fictions under consideration, was a Frenchman.
Doctor Antoine Galland, a famous Orientalist of the
seventeenth century, introduced the Persian or
Arabian tales to a European existence. The life of
this writer is an interesting one. He was born in
the year 1646, in the village of Rollot, in Picardy.
Galland, by great perseverance, triumphed over
difficulties to which an ordinary man would have
succumbed. He was the seventh child of extremely
poor parents. His studious nature early showed
itself, but his parents, when they succeeded in
placing the boy on the foundation of a provincial
college in France, were actuated in the course they
took, it would appear, more by ideas of economy,
than any special consideration for their son's intellec-
tual aptitude. Soon after his introduction to the
college, Antoine fortunately found a good and
valuable preceptor in one of the poor alumni of the
school. He overcame the rudimental difficulties of
the dead languages under the tuition of his friend
the monk, besides imbibing a taste for letters, such
as the untoward circumstances of his yo\ith were not
able to eradicate. His choice was early made for a
collegiate life ; but the penury of his parents
rendered it imperative that he should employ the
labour of his hands towards procuring the subsistence
of the family. Galland seemed destined at this
juncture to the lot of the peasant ; but his spirit
rebelled against so obscure a station. With a heart
bleeding for a mother's distresses, Galland suddenly
quitted his native village, proposing to go to Paris
in search of more congenial employment than that of
tilling the soil. He started without funds, and was
furnished only with the addresses of a distant
relative and of a friend of his college teacher. It is
not our intention to trace every particular of the life
of this author. Suffice it, that after undergoing all
the hardships of a destitute wanderer, we find the
boy again a student, with the principal of the
college of Du Plessis for his patron. Galland was by
this humane individual placed in a position to con-
tinue his studies, and at the school of Du Plessis
Antoine mastered those Oriental languages with
which he had, from the first, evinced so deep a
curiosity to become intimately acquainted. For his
introduction to the above college he was indebted to
his first tutor, and it formed the stepping-stone to a
paid scholarship. Having been intrusted with the
cataloguing of the Sorbonne library, he gave such
satisfaction by the manner in which he accomplished
this labour, that he attracted the notice of the savans
of the age. And about this time the government
of Louis XIV. finding itself called upon by political
events to appoint an embassy to Constantinople,
Galland was selected to accompany it, on account
of his knowledge of the Eastern languages. He
proceeded with the embassy to Jerusalem, where
his talents proved extremely useful. The subsequent
negotiations with the Sublime Porte having con-
cluded, he returned to France, travelling through
Syria. But no sooner had he arrived at Paris, than
he was again despatched to the East. Upon this
occasion, he made a choice numismatic collection for
the king's library. In 1679 he performed a third
journey, charged by the minister Colbert with the
completion of the collection of Oriental coins, medals,
&c., above alluded to. His researches obtained for
him the lucrative appointment of Antiquary to the
king.
While sojourning at Smyrna on his last journey,
Galland met with an adventure, which, but for
the interposition of Providence, would have deprived
the world of no • less an acquisition than the
favourite "Arabian Nights' Entertainments." The
house he occupied in Smyrna was razed to the
ground by an earthquake, and the luckless traveller
buried beneath the ruins. He was rescued from his
perilous position with great difficulty.
We next find Galland at Paris in prosperous
circumstances, possessed of a valuable library and a
superb collection of medals. He had by his travels
acquired colloquial as well as philological proficiency
in the Oriental languages.
While in the enjoyment of his learned retirement,
Gailand produced the work which has redounded so
much to his fame. " Les Mille et Une Nuits," was
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
199
the product of the hours of leisure and recreation
of a man long past the meridian of life. It is
avowedly a free translation of a Persian version of
the Oriental tales of Bidpai. Galland's work first
appeared in the year 1704, in twelve volumes 12mo.
This and succeeding editions have been resorted to for
all the English versions that have appeared. French
critics have reproached Galland with faults of
manner or vulgarisms in his work, and, moreover, do
not agree in opinion as to the date of the appearance
of the Arabic original ; some placing the date in the
third and fourth Hegiras, and others in the eighth.
With regard to the style of the French author of
the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments," it may not
be critically correct, but the language is certainly
most natural, and admirable for its simplicity.
The following anecdote is related as an illustration
of the defect in Galland's translation : —
In the two first volumes of the French work, the
commencement of each story runs thus : — " Ma chere
sceur, si vous ne dormez pas, faites-nous un de ces contes
que vous savez." (My dear sister, if you are not
asleep, do tell me one of those pretty stories you
know so well.)
Now, a party of young fellows of the period
having read the new romance which was then the
rage, and knowing its author, took it into their
heads to subject him to a knavish practical joke,
suggested by the passage above quoted. One night
in the depth of winter, a party of convivials pro-
ceeded to the abode of the inoffensive doctor, and set
up a loud knocking at his door at a very unusual
hour. Galland had gone to bed, but awoke by the
noise, he got up, and hurried to his window. The
luckless author was immediately recognized, notwith-
standing his frieze nightcap, and his tormentors
persisted in pestering him with irrelevant questions,
ending their annoyance by exclaiming, — " Ah !
Monsieur Galland, if you are not asleep, do tell us
one of those nice stories you know so well ! "
The author's good sense allowed him to profit
by the joke, for succeeding editions of his tales,
ignored the insipid exordium so rudely satirized.
Besides the "Thousand and One Nights," Galland
produced another work, assuming to be the sequel.
The tales under the title of "Kalila el Dimna," which
appeared a few years after the celebrated work, are
ascribed to Bidpai as the original Arabian author.
They consist of a series of ethical and apothegmic
tales on Eastern manners ; the principal story
describing (to popularly translate the title) the
"Adventures of Prince Intelligent and his wise
Minister." Lafontaine has employed the work to far
better purpose than the novelist in his celebrated
" Fables." It is a curious circumstance, that the
sequel to the "Thousand and One Nights," by
Galland, proved a failure, and that the same work in
the form of Lafontaine's Fables achieved great
popularity, and is known as a book of high classical
repute. Some of the savans, indeed, have pronounced
" Kalila and Dimna " an imposture ; but, if such be
the case, it is, at the least, an extraordinarily clever one.
The only complete English translation that we have
ever heard of, was executed by a Mr. Knatchbull,
between thirty and forty years ago ; but it does not
appear that it attracted any notice, and it has become
one of those scarce things in literature that live only
in the crazy memories of bibliomaniacs. To return to
the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments," it is considered
that the most perfect and interesting French edition
is that by De Sacy, \^hile the the best English one
is that by Mr. Lane. However, the work that is
popularly referred to, is Dr. Forster's, which was
first published in 1802. We must now conclude our
notice of Galland and his one successful book, by
repeating the remark, that to him is due the memor-
able honour of having enriched European literature
with the most delightful tales to be found in any
language.
If Antoine Galland was the prince of story
tellers, the queen of that kind of literature was
Mary Catherine Jumelle de Berneville, Countess
D'Anois, a contemporaneous authoress. This lady,
daughter of the witty Countess De la Roche, a choice
spirit of the court of Louis XIV. and wife of
that Count D'Anois (D'Aulnoy) who was by Colbert's
administration unjustly accused of high treason, —
passed a life of feverish excitement, romance, and
vicissitude. Before her marriage, Mademoiselle De
la Roche accompanied her mother to the Spanish
court, and there enjoyed opportunities, for some
years, of observing the manners of Hidalgos, Cas-
tilians, and Spanish rakes in perfection. The public
and private life of the court found an observant
dissector in Mademoiselle De la Roche, and she
recorded her impressions with freedom and ability,
unusual as it was for women, in those days, to turn
authoresses. Madame D'Anois' " Fairy Tales " were
composed after her marriage, and when she had
settled down into the quietude of domestic life.
They were, doubtless, modernized from the precursor
and archetype of romances, the old French romaunt
of Heron de Bordeaux, in which latter we first find
Oberon and the fair Esclairmonde. It may be
noticed, en passant, that even Heron de Bordeaux is
not original ; it is known to have been taken from
the German of Elberich.
Madame D'Anois' " Fairy Tales " attained soon
after their appearance to a general popularity in
France. The collection has been repeatedly trans-
lated into English, and every one is aware how
popular the name of D'Anois is at the present day,
as identified with the spectacular drama of Madame
Vestris's Lyceum Theatre. Madame D'Anois died at
Paris in the year 1707.
We are not content to part with our " weak and
idle theme," at this point, for it is a topic we linger
over as if spell-bound. The question forces itself
upon our attention, how the fairies were first called
into existence. What says their mythology, accord-
ing to the most . orthodox historian? It was the
Crusaders who carried back to Europe the marvellous
tales of Asia, and introduced into the West the'
Arabico-Persian word Peri, pronounced by the Arab
Fero, or Fairy. The Morgana is the same with the
Merjan Peri, celebrated all over the East. But
besides the classic and Oriental prototypes, fairy
romance had a homelier one in the Celtic mythology,
Remember the demoiselles who bestowed their favours
upon Lanvel and Graelent, — demoiselles with very si-
milar attributes to those that we meet with in the work
of our favourite Madame D'Anois. Mr. Keightley has
an ingenious explanation of the cause of the unity of
fairy tales. It is this : that some of the legends are
transmitted, and that others are, to speak geologi-
cally, independent formations. "Who knows not
how valiant Jack the Giant Killer outwitted the
giant who thought to slay him in the night with his
club. The god Thor was, on his journey to Utgard,
deluded in the same way by his guide Scrymner ; and
that sly rogue Ahmed of Ispahan played the very
same trick on the stupid Ghoul." Mr. Morier heard
" Whittington and his Cat " in Persia ! And
Montalba's recently published collection of " Fairy
Tales from all Nations," shows clearly enough their
affinity to one another.
Our lucubrations on fairy literature would be un-
pardonably imperfect, if we omitted to mention one
of the most beautiful conceptions that ever visited
the mind of any poet, — "The Midsummer Night's
209
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Dream " of Shakspere. " The fairy machinery, the
sportive, beneficent, invisible population of the air
and earth [writes Mr. Hallam], long since established
in the creed of childhood, and of those simple as
children, had never for a moment been blended with
human mortals among the personages of the Drama,
until the Immortal Bard attempted the task in the
Midsummer Nigkfg J)ream." The enchanting subject
of fairy romance might be pursued through a wide
range of dissertation ; but we have been able to do
no more than to throw a rapid glance at a charming
illusive pageant.
RE-ISSTJE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS,
WASHINGTON.
LAND of the West ! though passing brief the record of
thine age,
Thou hast a name that darkens all on History's wide
page !
Let all the blasts of fame ring out — thine shall be
loudest far,
Let others boast their satellites— thou hast the planet
star.
Thou hast a name whose characters of light shall ne'er
depart ;
'Tis stamped upon the dullest brain, and warms the
coldest heart ;
A war-cry fit for any land where Freedom '« to be
won :
Land of the West! it stands alone— it is thy
Washington !
Rome had its Coesar, great and brave ; but stain was
on his wreath :
He lived the heartless conqueror, and died the tyrant's
death.
France had its eagle ; but his wings, though lofty they
might soar,
Were spread in false ambition's flight, and dipped in
murder's gore.
Those hero-gods, whose mighty sway would fain have
chained the waves—-
Who fleshed their blades with tiger zeal, to make a
world of slaves —
Who, though their kindred barred the path, still
fiercely waded on.
Oh, where shall be their "glory" by the side of
Washington !
He fought, but not with love of strife ; he struck but
to defend ;
And ere he turned a people's foe, he sought to -be a
friend.
He strove to keep his country's right by Reason's
gentle word,
And sighed when fell Injustice threw the challenge-
sword to sword.
He stood the firm, the calm, the wise, the patriot and
sage ;
He showed no deep avenging hate-no burst of despot
rage ;
He stood for Liberty and Truth, and daringly led on,
Till shouts of Victo,y gave forth the name of
Washington !
No car of triumph bore him through a city filled with
grief ;
No groaning captives at the wheels proclaimed him
victor-chief :
He broke the gyves of Slavery with strong and high
disdain,
And cast no sceptre from the links when he had
crushed the chain.
He saved his land, but did not lay his soldier trappings
down,
To change them for a regal vest, and don a kingly
crown.
Fame was too earnest in her joy, too proud of such a
son —
To let a robe and title mask her noble Washington.
England, my" heart is truly thine — my loved, my
native earth —
The land that holds a mother's grave, and gave that
mother birth !
Oh, keenly sad would be the fate that thrust me from
thy shore,
And faltering my breath that sighed, " Fare well for
evermore ! "
But did I meet such adverse lot, I would not seek to
dwell
Where olden heroes wrought the deeds for Homer's
song to tell.
Away, thou gallant ship ! I'd cry, and bear me swiftly
on ;
But bear me from my own fair land to that of
Washington !
HARVEST SONG.
I LOVE, I love to see
Bright steel gleam through the land,
'Tis a goodly sight, but it must be
In the reaper's tawny hand.
The helmet and the spear
Are twined with the laurel wreath,
But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear,
And blood-spots rest beneath.
I love to see the field
, That is moist with purple stain,
But not where bullet, sword, and shield
Lie sti-ewn with the gory slain.
No, no ; 'tis where the sun
Shoots down his cloudless beams,
Till rich and bursting juice-drops run
On the vineyard earth in streams.
My glowing heart beats high
At the sight of shining gold,
But it is not that which the miser's eye
Delighteth to behold.
A brighter wealth by far,
Than the deep mine's yellow vein,
I? seen around in the fair hills crowned
With sheaves of burnished grain.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
201
Look forth thou thoughtless one,
Whose proud knee never bends ;
Take thou the bread that's daily spread,
But think on Him who sends.
Look forth, ye toiling men,
Though little ye possess ;
Be glad that dearth is not on earth
To make that little less.
Let the song of praise be poured
In gratitude and joy,
By the rich man with his garners stored
And the ragged gleaner-boy.
The feast that Nature gives
Is not for one alone,
'Tis shared by the meanest slave that lives
And the tenant of a throne.
Then glory to the steel
That shines in the reaper's hand,
And thanks to a GOD who has blest the sod.
And crowned the harvest land.
THE PLEDGE.
FULL oft we breathe and echo round,
With cheering shout and minstrel sound,
A name that Honesty would write
In colours anything but bright ;
But shame be on the hands that hold
The wine-cup at the shrine of gold !
Shame on the slavish lips that part
To utter what belies the heart !
Fill high, fill high, while Truth stands by
To echo back the lauding cry ;
But gall be on the goblet's edge
For him who yields the worthless pledge.
However rich the stream that's poured
In homage at the banquet board,
To coward, fool, or wealthy knave,
Let, let us spurn the tainted wave.
Far sweeter is the foaming ale
That circles with the fire-side tale ;
While sacred words and beaming eyes
Proclaim we pledge the souls we prize.
Fill high, fill high, while Truth stands by
To echo back the lauding cry ;
But let the glad libation prove
The meed of friendship, worth, and love.
Let warm Affection light the draught,
Then be the nectar deeply quaffed ;
Let Genius claim it, — gift divine !
And all shall drain the hallowed wine ;
Let Goodness have the honour due,
Drink to the poor man, if he's true,
And ne'er forget that star's the best
That's worn not on but in the breast.
Fill high, fill high, while Truth stands by
To echo back the lauding cry ;
But gall be on the goblet's edge
For him who yields the worthless pledge.
THE BLIGHTED TROTH.
" Lay her i' the earth ; —
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh,
May violets spring! "
THE ivy-covered old church lay full in the eye of our
little village. Two rows of neat cottages, with the
village green between, converged near the church-
gate, where stood an humble brick cottage, rather
better than the rest, in which dwelt Mary Dale and
her parents. Her father had been a farmer, and
had here retired on his small gains to spend the
evening of his life.
Mary Dale was the village favourite. No one had
an evil word to say of her. All the neighbours
agreed that she was purity, sweetness, and virtue
itself. She was the eye of her parents, and the pride
of the old curate, who watched over her growth with
a most tender care. She grew up under the shadow
of the old ivy-covered Norman church in which the
good man ministered ; and he never failed, in passing
the cottage-door of the Dales, to step in and kindly
inquire after his darling Mary.
From a child she had been delicate. Her tempera-
ment was of that spiritual kind which early manifests
itself in a precocious and acutely sensative nature.
She took no part in the sports of the children on the
green, but in the summer evenings, when the sun
was slowly sinking in the west, and tinging with its
roseate hues the old church spire, you would find her
seated in the white-washed porch of the cottage,
poring over the leaves of the Bible, or the Pilgrim's
Progress, a heavenly glow shining in her thoughtful
and innocent face.
She was not strikingly handsome in person ;
she wTas small and fragile ; yet there wras something
so extremely fascinating in the expression of her eyes
when she smiled, that it lit up her whole countenance
with beauty. Her skin was of an extreme trans-
parency, and you could almost trace the passing
shades of thought by the varying expression of her
face. Her heart shone through her features, which
indexed the joy, the hope, the innocence, and the
devotion of her character. She was extremely retir-
ing, and shrank from intercourse with strangers. It
was only to people older than herself — familiar
friends — to whom she would unbosom herself. She
seemed indeed scarcely a being of this world, but as
if lent to it for a brief season from the skies. Thus
did Mary Dale grow sinlessly up to girlhood, in the
eye of God, amid the prayers of Tier parents, and the
deep love of all who knew her.
One day that the curate called to inquire after
Mary, he was accompanied by a stranger — a youth
who had been committed to his charge, in order to
prepare him for the university. Harry Maxwell was
as fine a specimen of the English youth as you could
see. He was tall, manly, and well-formed ; bright-
eyed, frank, and hearty ; full of life, intelligence,
and good-humour. Nor was he without some senti-
ment ; for he had approached the first poetic period
of youth, still unselfish, when the eye sees golden
visions, and the soul dreams dreams, and the heart
longs for a closer communion with its kind. The
youth did not shrink from entering the humble
cottage of the Dales ; and he at once made himself
at home with the inmates, who were delighted by his
frankness and urbanity. The shrinking Mary felt
even more confused than usual ; sudden blushes from
time to time mantled her transparent cheeks, as her
202
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
eyes met those of the brilliant young stranger ; and
unwonted sensations of joy thrilled her frame as she
perceived that his remarks were more especially
addressed to herself. When the curate and his
young charge left, a light seemed to have gone out
from the place, and Mary Dale felt sad at heart.
Why should a casual visit of this nature have so
affected her ? Who can tell ? What do we know of
the mysterious agencies which cause hearts to thrill
at the tones of a voice, or at the glance of an eye ?
These are secrets far beyond the reach of our philo-
sophy, which cannot, and never will, unravel them.
But this young man was far above her rank — true !
He was the son of a noble, and she was a cottager's
daughter ; but has not Nature over and again set at
defiance, and overleapt at a bound, the artificial and
conventional distinctions which society has set up ?
! There may be, and there have been, electric flashes
which served to reveal kindred natures to each other,
no matter what their respective rank or social dis-
tinction. We have no desire to excite any foolish
ambitions in saying this much, but are only repeating
in other words the verdict of the poet, so often
illustrated in actual life, that " One touch of nature
makes the whole world kin."
The curate revisited the cottage, and his steps
were often led thither by his young charge, oftener
indeed than he was aware of ; for the simple-
minded man suspected nothing in Harry Maxwell's
admiration for poor Mary Dale, whom everybody
loved ; nor could he have imagined that the noble-
born boy, so full of healthy full-blooded life, could
have allowed his mind, sleeping and waking, to be
possessed as it was by the angelic smile, and sweet
face, and artless manner, of the humble cottage girl.
Their life at the parsonage was but a dull one.
After lessons were over, how was the lad to occupy
himself? The old serving-man was lame, and the
equally old maid was rather deaf. The village con-
tained one or two farmers, and a surgeon, but the
sons of the former were louts, and Esculapius was a
bachelor. What more natural than for Harry to
revisit the cottage of the Dales, where he saw that
his presence imparted so much joy ?
He took to carrying with him books of poetry
thither — Thomson, Keats, Shelley, and Byron. Head-
ing these, he opened a new and enchanting world to
his ravished listener, who drank in the delicious
utterances of the poets with deep joy. She made
him read over and over Keats' exquisite "Ode to
a Nightingale," until she had it by heart, and
then she could warble it to the night upon her pillow.
She lived a new life, and saw the beauty of earth as
with new eyes. Her heart beat responsive to the
thoughts of the gre^it poets, whom she now dwelt
with in spirit, and worshipped as gods.
And what a debt of gratitude she felt growing
towards him who ministered to her such unutterable
delight! As he read with deep feeling, and in
mellifluous voice, — which seng in her ears all the
night through, like some rariegated melody of en-
chanting beauty, — she sat and listened, her ears intent
on every tone, her eyes ofttimes swimming in tears.
She drank in bliss, the like of which she had never
before known. She knew no danger in all this.
She suspected no agonizing issue. This great joy
had come to her unsought, unexpected, like the visits
of angels, and it was enough for her to live, and feel
and enjoy.
Autumn and winter had thus passed by, and
spring was advancing with rapid pace. The trees
were putting on their garb of tender green, the lanes
about the village were vocal with the melody of birds,
and flowers were springing from the mossy turf and
hedge-bottoms, lading the air with their fragrance.
Along the green shade of these lanes might now be
seen a loving pair tripping along, linked arm in arm,
joy and affection beaming in their happy faces, all in
all to each other. The glow of health now mantles
in her cheeks, and she seems to have grown taller
and stronger, — indeed you could scarcely recognize in
that cheerful maiden, with her tripping step, the pale
and fragile Mary Dale of last autumn. Yet it is she,
and Harry Maxwell looks more manly and handsome
than ever — full of glowing health and life. She is
listening to his gay talk of the world, and of his
anticipated future, and turns her gaze wistfully and
affectionately upon his, not without a shade of alarm,
for she begins to feel that this cannot always last.
But who ever refused to listen to the voice of the
charmer when he comes in such a form, and with
such winning words ? Follow them, and you will
find they have reached a favourite haunt, where they
sit down upon the turf, and he pours out all his store
of love in her ear, the chorus of the birds warbling
in unison from the green shades around them. Is
she not happy ; and does not her heart bound respon-
sive to his, as he plights his troth to her there, and
vows to love her to his latest breath ? Did her heart
misgive her ? How could it ? Her life was one of
trust and belief ; and her faith in him was absolute.
She loved with a whole heart, and like one who has
never known deceit or guile.
And Tie ? Alas ! Ardent though was his expres-
sion of love, it was not his life, his existence, as it
was hers. Was there not The World before him, to
which he was to wed himself, — its business, its com-
petition, its honours, its gains ? The love of a man,
in most cases, forms but a small part of his being ;
the love of a woman includes her whole being — it is
her all. Harry was doubtless sincere in loving her,
though unthinking and regardless of consequences.
He had only given way to the impulse of the time,
and to the fascination of this innocent girl, whom he
had so fortuitously encountered in this retired village.
It was fate, his chance, his destiny, which he could
not account for ; and though he had misgivings as to
the issue, he did not encourage them, for " sufficient
for the day was the evil thereof." As for Mary, she
knew nothing of the world beyond her village, and
had yet all the sadder experiences of life to learn.
A letter from Harry's father arrived ! Some good-
natured friend had whispered to him that his son
was intriguing with a village girl, by the connivance
of the curate ; and this letter arrived, ordering
Harry's instant return home. The intelligence came
upon the simple curate like a thunder-stroke. He
never dreamt of such a thing as an attachment
between his little Mary and his noble pupil ; nor did
he believe it now. But events speedily undeceived
him. He visited the cottage and found Mary in an
agony of tears. Harry had been there before him,
but had left. He was to set out that very night, and
the confidential servant who had brought the message,
waited to accompany him.
" What sorrow is this ? " inquired the kind curate,
taking the hand of the weeping girl. " I had not
thought you would have taken to heart so the
departure of our young friend ; but he is a good and
brave boy,— though, by the way, his father seems to
be labouring under some frightful delusion about
him."
" How ? " asked Mary, gazing inquiringly into
his face.
" About some love affair of his in the village !
Why, he knows nobody here, except myself and you ;
and he is scarcely out of my sight, except when he is
with you. His father must be undeceived."
" And would it be wrong to love Harry Maxwell,
dear sir ? " she asked.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
203
The curate looked in her face ; it was suffused with
blushes, which she vainly tried to hide with her
hands, and then burst into fresh crying.
A new light seemed to break upon the curate.
He saw before him a face that most people would
pronounce beautiful, and a figure which, though
petite, was faultlessly proportioned and full of
sprightly grace. The girl had wonderfully improved
of late ; and the development of her intelligence had
more than kept pace with the improvement in her
personal appearance.
" Ah ! " he thought, "and is it then so ? Indeed I
never dreamt of this ! But we must know how far
matters have gone."
" You ask," he said aloud, " if it be wrong to love
Harry Maxwell ? Surely no ! One cannot help
loving the lad. I do with all my heart ; and while
I live he shall never want a friend."
"A friend/ Ah! the word does not express a
thousandth part of the love which I feel."
"No? But the word friend includes everything;
the signification you give to it must be a too limited
one."
" Not so. With you the word friend may include
everything — you may feel towards him as a parent,
as a brother ; but with me, how different ! "
"WithyoM? How?"
"To love/' she said, and her eyes sparkled, and
her voice trembled as she spoke — " to love is some-
thing more than friendship ; it is to be two beings,
and yet only one, blended into an angel — it is the
paradise regained, which we had lost ! "
" Well, my dear girl, this is a beautiful feeling to
encourage in the right place, and towards the right
person ; but as for Harry Maxwell, — "
" What of him ? Is he not formed for affection —
for love ? "
" But his rank ; his expectations ; his position ; —
you do not think of these. There is a great gulf
fixed between him and such as you, good and loving
creature though you be ; and you must think no
more about him — dismiss him from your memory,
tinless you can think of him as I do, only as a tender
friend."
The girl could contain herself no longer. A shriek
had been pent up in her breast for long, and it broke
forth now ; and she fell back in her chair, senseless,
cold, and as if dead.
The curate saw the extent of the mischief that had
been done, and he blamed himself for his thoughtless
conduct, in not watching more closely the interviews
between these two susceptible young people.
He returned to the parsonage, where Harry, with a
heavy heart, was packing up for his departure. The
curate expostulated with him, argued with him, en-
treated him, to abandon this foolish business ; for the old
never understand the young in such matters. Harry
was melted ; yet he energetically protested his love for'
Mary, and that no compulsion on earth should make
him abandon her. He would obey his parent's com-
mand now, but the time would come when he would
be free to act for himself, and Mary would never be
forgotten — she would live in his heart's core. Ah !
the young man knows not what he says : he may be
in earnest now, — but the world will have him yet.
There was a bitter leave-taking at the cottage.
The curate tried to prevent it, but in vain. Harry
poured out all his strength of love in words, —
vowed he would be true to her — would return and
make her his own — that no power should sever those
whom God had joined in the holiest bonds of affec-
tion. She listened, with beating heart and swimming
eyes. She could say but little ; she was overpowered
and confused ; and the scene rose up before her in
after time as it had been a dream. She struggled to
speak, but could not. He pressed her to his heart, and
imprinting a burning kiss on her lips, and taking a last
tender look — it was the last ! — he tore himself away.
She raised herself up, as if drawn by a magnetic power,
and fixed her eyes on his retiring figure ; and then
she fell back in her mother's arms, exhausted, heart-
stricken, and prostrate. The youth mounted the
vehicle now waiting for him, and drove off at a rapid
pace from the village.
The thought of that pale face long haunted Harry
Maxwell's mind. It rose up before him by night,
and often by day he could not help contrasting it
with the insipid faces around him. But time has a
wonderfully healing power ; it effaces even the bright
pictures of the heart. Harry was often bantered for
his milk-sop attachment, and he at length began to
think he had been as foolish as he was described.
Field-sports for a time amused him ; then he went
to college, where he plunged into the society of dis-
sipated and gay young men, almost each of whom
had his adventure with some rural coquette to boast
of. So, in course of time, Mary Dale was next to for-
gotten, or if thought of, then only as a simple village
girl, with whom he had been wonderfully smitten for a
season, and towards whom he had conducted himself
very like a fool.
And what of her ? Her life went on as quietly
and beautifully as ever ; but the light of her life had
departed. Her brief dream of joy was over. Her
heart was blighted at the core. She no more ex-
pected to see her still-beloved Harry. Once, when
the postman knocked, her heart beat, and her face
flushed, as if she for an instant expected a letter
from him. But the curate had warned her against
the indulgence of all hopes on this head, and she was
resigned. She was not disappointed. She submitted
in patience though in sorrow. She spent her time
with her Bible, to which she had again returned, and
gathered a rich store of consolation from its pages.
It was clear to all who saw her, that her life was
fast ebbing out, and that her stainless spirit was
longing for rest with the eternal blessed. While she
slept, divine dreams floated through her mind ; as
her parents hung over her to catch her feeble accents,
broken sentences of prayer were heard, and she
smiled ineffably as the visions floated by. She was
not long for this world, and she knew she was about
to die. None needed to tell her to prepare ; she
was prepared. She spoke of it as rest, blessedness,
peace ; and while those about her were in tears, she
alone smiled, and was the only happy there. The
curate was with her to the last, and she told him
where she would be laid — under the shadow of the
yew-tree that stood at the eastern window, where
the hymnings of the choir would faintly float over
her grave. Her spirit passed, but from the smile
which still lingered about her mouth, the saddened
group knew not when, and it was only by the stillness
and the settled calm that they knew it was Death.
A small headstone marks the place where she was
laid, under the shade of her favourite yew-tree ; and
the villagers still speak of her with tenderness and
love, as of a saint that has passed away in her bright
purity into heaven.
"WASHING OUT."
"PLEASE, mum, here's Mrs. Gaddle, and there's the
book, and she thinks it's all right mum," said Mary
the housemaid, placing "the book" before me on the
table, and falling back a step or two.
"All right," I replied, somewhat contemptuously;
"nonsense, it never has been all right, and never will
be."
204
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
"Will you come and look them over, please,
mum?" resumed Mary, supporting herself by the
handle of the door.
"Well, I suppose I must," replied I, feeling
inwardly irritated, and almost hating Mary for being
the harbinger of the Avoe I knew well from weekly
experience was in store for me up stairs in the
clothes'-basket.
The foregoing colloquy bore reference to the family
linen, just arrived from the wash, and awaiting my
inspection.
We used to wash at home every three weeks.
Dinah (I don't know if she had any other name), a
tall, raw-boned woman, came two days to help. On
those days the house was always in a steam, ths
servants in a stew, the children naughty, the tables
dusty, and the dinner cold, or badly cooked, or both.
Much chattering and laughter, spite of intermediate
doors (which, by-the-by, never could be kept shut at
these times), made themselves audible from the depths
of the kitchen, where an enormous quantity of pro-
vision was consumed, unlimited beer looked for, and
a trifle of Geneva expected at night, "just to keep
the cold out." My excellent husband was invariably
irritable on washing-days. He was wont to declare
that other people had no such nuisance in their
houses. I combated this theory, and assured him
of his mistake. He stuck to his assertion. "When,"
said he, "do you ever enter the dwellings of Smith or
Jones, and encounter the vile odour of soda and soap-
suds that assailed my olfactory organ to-day the mo-
ment I came home ? Never, madam, never. I am
ready to risk this golden coin of the realm," he con-
tinued (balancing a sovereign on his "centre digit,")
— on the truth of my assertion. Alas ! Mrs. Wurrit,
I much fear I have united my fate to that of a lady
incapable of advantageously directing the economy of
her household."
"Now, as to that, Richard," I replied, somewhat
nettled (for I know I'm a good manager), "it is
entirely for economy's sake that I have the washing
done at home. Smith and Jones have no children,
and wash out ; but with our family, I can tell you,
you would find a considerable difference in our weekly
expenditure if we did the same."
If it comes to a mere matter of finance, Mrs.
Wurrit," said he, "I am ready to advance the
sum required, in preference to submitting to what I
have now to bear. Human fortitude and endurance
have their limits ; either we must ' wash-out,' as you
somewhat inelegantly term it, or I must become a
member of the club recently established in this town.
As a matter of expense, the thing is, I apprehend,
pretty equally balanced. It is for you, madam, to
decide."
I need not say on which alternative I fixed ; every
woman and wife in the kingdom will divine. The
washing went out ; and I confess, at the time (as Mr.
Wurrit did not mind the expense), not entirely to
my dissatisfaction. Little did I dream of the conse-
quences ! From that morning to this I have been a
perfect martyr to a race of ogresses in the shape
of washerwomen, whose whole energies appear to me
to be directed to the rending, piece-meal, every
rendable article that is allowed to enter the humid
regions over which they preside ; and where, amidst
the click of pattens, the clack of tongues, and the
sound of "the copper" boiling, they perform opera-
tions upon unlucky arms, legs, and bodies, from which
the unfortunates never recover.
Not that Mrs. Gaddle, or any of her class, confine
themselves to mere tearing, — oh no ! — they have a
thousand ways of exciting your housewifely indigna-
tion beyond that, as I prove to my co.Jt, while, assisted
by Mary, I " look over " those clothes, totally unable
to overlook their shattered and damaged condition,
to control my own feelings, or Mary's incessant
tongue.
"Washing machines ii dreadful things to tear,"
commences the aforesaid umuly member of Mary ;
" I tells Mrs. Gaddle so whenever I sees her, tho'
she says I'd better mind my clustin' and leave her
business to them as understands it. This dress, mum, in
awful tore ; do but look ! " and Mary holds up my sweet
new lilac muslin, the pocket-hole of which I perceived
to be continued through flounces and all— down to
the very hem. " And only see ! if here isn't master's
last new embroidled shirt, all iron-mouldered right
down the front ! Them other shirts is all right,
mum, I think, except the buttons, which in
course is scrunched to hattoms as usual. Three
pairs of socks, eight towels, six pair o' sheets," con-
tinues Mary, going deeper into the basket, "•/•> right,
—lor, if here isn't more damages ; — two night-caps
with never a string among them, — left hanging on the
line, I'll be bound. Master Dick's little trowsers in
two separate legs ; and why, here's that pretty new
frock that went covered with buttons, and comes
back with them all hanging by threads, and rows of
little holes where they was ! The pocket-hands is
terrible scorched this week, mum," Mary proceeds,
passing me a handful — " and baby's cap borders
crimped all to smithereens ; and that's all I can see,
that you've not put by."
" All ! " I exclaim, " and plenty too to try the
patience of the most stoical."
" Yes, mum, that's what I say," remarks Mary;
" and if Job had had to do with Mrs. Gaddle, he never
could have kept his temper, — no one could." And
Mary shoulders the clothes'-basket and departs,
leaving me to meditate on my misfortunes, and
repair them as best I may ; with the pleasant reflec-
tion that I can see no end to them in the future,
since there is invariably something amiss. Qne week
my collars go to the wash entire, and come back
shattered fragments — wrung to shreds by the nervous
hands of Mrs. Gaddle herself, who, I know very well,
exerts just as much force in that process, whether the
article she practises upon be a jack-towel or a lace
veil. Another time Mr. Wurrit's pocket-hand-
kerchiefs (about which he is very particular, always
selecting exceedingly pretty colours and designs)
return to him covered by indistinct clouds of blue
or rose tint, or, at best, bearing but faint traces of
their former glories in a shadowy pattern.
Of course, he blames me ; says / ought to see to
these things, to remonstrate with, to change my
laundress. I have changed several times ; but where
is the use, when by fatal experience I know they
are all alike ? I declare, I have gone from bad to
wdrse all through.
Why, one woman, in spite of anything I could say.
of threatening or persuasion, would send the sheets
home so rough, it was plain the mangle and they had
never met, — sleep in them was out of the question.
Last week the colour was entirely extracted from the
children's frocks, and transferred to their socks in
delicate streaks of iron-mould. Often, the whole
wash comes home a wretched colour ; I complain,
and find the remedy worse than the disease ; the hue
amends, but I could put my fingers through tho.
things ; they are perfectly tender, — done to rags by
being stewed up with somebody's " Washing Pow-
der," while Mrs. Gaddle will coolly confront me with,
-" It must have been aa unperfect piece of linen, for,
as I've just been sayin' to Maiy, ' I never uses
nothin' that could abjure them clothes, and nobody
should ever make me."
Then the flannels ! Oh those flannels ! Mr.
Wurrit wears flannel summer and winter ; and they are
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
205
never out of ray work-basket ; they shrink like magic;
I am always adding strips to widen them somewhere ;
the children's little petticoats become mere frilts, as
hard as a board, and as yellow as a nabob with a
diseased liver. Mrs. Gaddle has the effrontery to
libel the material again in this instance. " Flannels
is made so shrinky and bad, now-a-days, " she says ;
" I'm sxire I pulls 'em out careful ; but it's to no
use."
Another annoyance from which I suffer, is the
constant mis-sending of things ; nine times out of
ten, either everything that went does not return
from the wash, or an over number comes belonging
to some one else, or an exchange is effected between
myself and some other unlucky one. Scarcely a fort-
night passes but I am assailed by, — "Please mum
(Mary's invariable commencement), Mrs. Gaddle has
sent to see if you've any little shirts belonging to
Mrs. Brown's baby," or "Please mum, them two
towels is Mrs. Jones's."
I often wish horse-hair shirts were considered good
for the constitution, and worn as such, and could
almost be brought to regret the costume of our
respectable ancestors,— the ancient Britons. As I
dive into my " mending basket," I am driven to envy
the birds their feathers, the animals their fur, and the
very hedge-hogs their quills. They never even heard
of a Mrs. Gaddle ; while what with buttons, strings,
ironmould, scorching, tearing, blacking, shrinking,
mis-sending, and the hopeless loss of garments sup-
posed to have become a prey to the winds, I declare
I am every week driven nearer and nearer to
desperation.
If Mr. Wurrit were but a Parliament man, I
would never allow him a moment's rest until he had
brought in a bill, — a washing bill, — to enact that all
laundresses found in the possession of implements or
machines calculated to destroy their employers'
habiliments, should be heavily fined, immersed in
uncomfortably hot soda and soapsuds for a given
number of hours, and stretched out on a stiff holly-
hedge to dry ; I would have no mercy on them.
Moreover, I would insist on the article or articles
they destroyed being replaced, upon proof being
brought, that the said article or articles had been new
within a given time, which time should be regulated
by the texture and quality of the demolished
garment. If it touched the Lords of the Creation as
nearly, and they were as much inconvenienced by it
as we weaker vessels are, something, I feel assured,
would have been long since done in this matter ;
active steps would be taken to improve the present
state of things, and, at least, to alleviate, if it be
impossible altogether to do away with, the troubles
attendant upon "Washing Out."
THE BOER'S FETE.
I HAD trudged across a weary flat country from early
noon till reddening eve. Nothing can be duller
than a walking tour through the monotonous district
which forms the eastern boundary of Holland. You
see nothing before you but long lines of trees, square
green fields, with here arid there a windmill, a boer's
village, or a distant church. But I had lost my way,
and thought of little else but finding it again. I had
started from Arnheim betimes in the morning,
intending to cross the Prussian frontier near the
Rhine before nightfall ; but my ignorance of the
patois of the district had led me into a mistake about
the true direction of the road to Zevenaar, and I was
far on the route to Zutphen before I discovered my
error. I hailed a soldier who lay by the roadside
eating bread and cheese out of a napkin, and asked
him if this were the road to Zevenaar ? " Duivels-
beet niet ! " said the soldier, starting up. I
understood enough of this, to know that this was not
the road to Zevenaar. He proceeded to explain,
pointing across the fields towards a village-spire in
the far distance, in which direction I understood my
road to lie, and I at once set off on my way thither,
bidding him a " Goed morgen."
The road I took was a mere by-road leading to a
little farm, which I soon passed, and then my way lay
through fields and along ditches, until at last all
traces of road disappeared, and I had only the
distant village-spire lying far across the plain to
guide me. I leaped the ditches, scrambling up the
banks on the other side, and disturbing many
sonorous bull-frogs, as I sped over them. Fortu-
nately, the fields were in pasture, and I had little
difficulty in making my way across them, still
keeping my face directed towards the village-spire.
At last, when fagged and wearied by the long
scramble through hedges, over ditches, and across
grass-fields, I found myself on the banks of a canal,
across which a rustic bridge was thrown, and within
sight was a little public-house, with the sign of
"Bier te Koop," or "Beer to Sell." What cus-
tomers this remote house, which I had reached with
such difficulty, could supply, puzzled me at first ; but
my surprise ceased when I saw a canal-boat shortly
after draw up alongside the door, and the boatman
seated himself, without uttering a word, at the
bench in front of the window, and on giving a nod,
the woman of the house seemed to interpret its
meaning in an instant, for she at once set before him
a jug of beer and a substantial "bootram."
I had found the word " bootram " to serve my pur-
pose well on previous occasions, so I entered the house
and seated myself, calling " bootram." The landlady
soon placed before me bread, cheese, and butter,
with a draught of delicious home-brewed, and I
enjoyed the meal with a gusto I should vainly
attempt to describe. The little house was clean to
perfection ; the copper dishes ranged along the
shelves were so brightly scoured, that they might
have served as mirrors ; and when the elderly
woman, who seemed the sole person about the house,
had got me and the other customer served with
" bootram," she settled herself down on a stool by
the open window, and commenced plying her knitting.
Io was a picture of retired country life, — still-life it
might be called, — on the verge of Holland.
An hour's rest revived my spirits and strength, and
again shouldering my knapsack, I bade the good
woman adieu, and crossing the wooden bridge,
walked on, still with the village-spire in view. I
was now proceeding along a frequented road, and an
hour's walking brought me to the village, — called
Duisburg. I pushed through the village, and was
now on the high road to the Prussian frontier, which
I was anxious to reach that night. But the setting
sun was already throwing long shadows upon the
ground ; I was becoming wearied and footsore, and
dragged my feet heavily along. My knapsack
weighed like lead, and its straps fretted my shoulders.
Nature wanted rest ; and it must be confessed, that
some twenty or more miles walking across fields and
ditches, was no bad day's work ; so I resolved to
rest for the night at the first house of entertainment
I might fall in with.
For a few miles more I trudged along the dusty
road, until a sound of dancing music suddenly fell upon
my ears. I looked a-head, and a little road-side
auberye lay in my way, a group of Dutch boers,
humbly dressed, standing and sitting about the door.
Here, then, was a house of entertainment ; and I
206
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
resolved to rest here, if possible. I entered ; but the
floor was filled with dancers. A rude stage was
erected at one end of the clay-floored chamber, and
on it stood a player on the clarionet, another on the
violin, and a third was seated at a violoncello. The
music was spirited, but not first-rate ; the players
were evidently amateurs, and only of the rank of
field-labourers. The dancers were flying across
the floor, many of them with the pipe in their
mouth, beating time with their feet, men and
women mixed, and they worked as hard at their
amusement as if they had been paid for it, — perhaps
harder. The step and the figures were entirely new,
— something quite unknown at Almacks. Occasion-
ally a youthful dancer would give a great leap and
caper, as he sprang to his female partner, whom he
whirled about and handled in the most ferocious
manner, "she nothing loth." The elder and more
staid couples, of course, danced more decorously, and
suitably to their age. There were some aged,
browned, and wrinkled peasants, who went across
the floor as measuredly and seriously as if they had
been engaged in a religious exercise. The people
were all of the order of peasants, and they were j
holding their Keremus, or annual fair, — having
resorted hither for their evening dance.
Seizing an opportunity of a lull in the dance, amid
which a considerable clatter of glasses was heard, I
walked across the floor towards an inner room, from
which I had seen an apparent landlady issue during
the dance with glasses and drinkables, and entered.
The lady of the house was up to the ears in business,
importuned first by one for "schnaps," by another
for "bier," by a third for "swartz brod," until she
looked the picture of distraction. In this dilemma,
I suddenly entered upon the scene, and appealed to
her for "coffee." I proved a godsend to the poor
woman, for at once all eyes were turned on me and my
travel-stained dress, and the men were silent, waiting
till my question was answered. They saw I was a
stranger, and a general politeness induced them, by a
kind of unanimous consent, at once to give way.
I explained my plight, — that I had travelled far, —
wished to rest there for the night, but first wanted
refreshment. I spoke in a mixture of bad German and
worse Dutch, aided by some rather expressive panto-
mime, in which any man put to his wits' end will not
fail to make himself understood ; and I succeeded.
Of course, they saw I was a stranger, but the land-
lady put the question, " Een Vreemd ? " and I
nodded. " Een Franschman ? " All strangers abroad
are thought to be French, especially when beyond
the ordinary English high-routes ; but my answer
was, " No, — English ! " What a stare ! Then the
customers for brandewein dispersed among their
friends to tell them of the singular stranger who had
appeared among them, — and the Englishman became
to them the wonder of the minute. The landlady
bustled about to get the coffee ready, but vowed she
could not accommodate me for the night. I insisted,
nevertheless, on staying there, though it were only
across two chairs ; and at last she was persuaded, and
agreed to make up a shakedown for me in a little
chamber adjoining the clay-floored ball-room. I
found the villagers aided me in my appeals, and so the
thing was satisfactorily arranged.
By the time I had finished my coffee, the dancing
had again waxed fast and furious. The brandywine
was now beginning to tell, and some of the more
lusty of the party began to grow rebellious and
quarrelsome. There were a few bickers, in one of
which the musicians' platform was upset, and the
performers were spilt on the floor amid a crash of
timber. But the boers never came to blows ; the
utmoet extent to which they proceeded was in
inflicting a few ugly scratches, and throwing each
other down. The dancing still went on, never-
theless, and the bulk of the party seemed to think
nothing of these affrays. The entire scene reminded
one of the Boer's F6tes, so well painted by Teniers
and Ostade, and showed that after the lapse of
centuries, village life, in the remoter parts of
Holland, had very little altered.
I strolled out into the field outside the house, —
away from the noise and the fumes of gin ami
brandywine, which the villagers seemed to drink
unreasonably often, though the glasses were of very
moderate dimensions. On some, the effects were not
apparent, and the more drunken gradually dis-
appeared, having been led home by their wives or
friends. It was now dusk ; the sun had gone down,
and a faint streak of light marked the place of his
setting. The air was warm, and yet felt sweet and
refreshing after the heated bustle of the hut. I
observed, on looking behind me, that a young man,
whom I had noticed among the dancers, followed
my steps ; I waited till he came up, and he proceeded
to address me in good English. I found him an
intelligent, well-educated youth, and he proceeded to
tell me how he had acquired his knowledge of
English.
" It all arose out of a bit of jealousy," said he.
"Jealousy, indeed, how could that be ?"
" Very easy to be explained, sir. It was just on
such another night as this, six years ago, that we held
our dance in the cottage there. My Gretchen was
the partner whom I had brought with me for the
night ; and though we were not betrothed, we were
lovers then. But girls, you know, will give them-
selves airs now and then, and I thought she
displayed too great a liking for a young fellow who
was present at the fete, — a kind of hero among the
women, for he had been a soldier, and could talk by
the hour, without any one getting in a word. I was
provoked at his boasting talk, and still more so,
when I once turned my back, to find he had led
Gretchen to the floor, where the two were wheeling
briskly away in the dance. I think I lost my reason
for the moment, for I forget all that happened,
except that, when my senses returned, I saw the
fellow laid all his length on the floor, the blood
running from his nose, and the people ai-ound calling
out that he was killed ! I fled, — pursued by jealousy
and remorse, — and every moment feared that the
gendarmes would be at my heels, and that I should
be taken and punished as a murderer. I ran all that
night along the road to Prussia. When tired out, I
at length sat down by the road-side to rest, and fell
fast asleep. How long I might have lain there, I
know not ; but I was suddenly startled by loud noise
and ejaculations, and looking up, I saw that the
horses attached to a travelling-carriage, which had
come up, had been startled, most probably by my
appearance there, and the foremost horse had thrown
his rider, who was beneath his feet. I at once jumped
up, and seized him by the reins ; but the rider was dis-
abled. They said his leg was broken, — at all event she
could not proceed further, so he was carried into the
nearest house and left there. But how was the
carriage to be got forward? I at once volunteered
my services, which, in the emergency, were accepted,
and being a good rider, we reached the next post-
town in safety. It was a godsend to me, this
accident. I found the party consisted of a wealthy
English gentleman and his family on their way to the
Rhine ; they knew nothing of the language, and
having no valet de place, they felt the want of some
native who could act as their interpreter. In short,
they engaged me ; I travelled as their servant, and
returned with them to England. There I stayed
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
207
some five years, and while there, I wrote home to my
friends. What was my joy to find that the man
whom I fancied I had killed, still lived, and was
married, — but not to my Gretchen ! No ! she, the
dear creature, had remained faithful to me, and in
sorrow had mourned my absence. I could not stay
longer in England. I had saved some money, and so,
after writing to Gretchen, I started to return home.
I was received with open arms, like a son that had
been lost and was found again — "
" And Gretchen ? "
" I think you may guess. We were married two
months ago, and are exceedingly happy. But to tell
you the truth, I find this remote little place horribly
dull ; after England, I feel it to be insupportable.
I am now making preparations to emigrate ; and I have
followed you for the purpose of asking about the
great new land in the South, called Australia. I had
thought of America, but somehow I am attracted
towards the new colony of Port Philip. Can you tell
me anything respecting it ? "
Fortunately, I had a brother who had not long
before set off for the colony, and I was enabled to put
him in possession of a good deal of useful informa-
tion. But whether he went to Australia or to the
United States, I have not since had an opportunity
of ascertaining.
We returned to the cottage. The dancing had
now ceased, and the last of the party, among whom
I was not slow to discern my young friend's wife,
Gretchen, — a blooming lass, ripe as a peach, — had
betaken themselves to the seats placed in front of
the cottage, and were now engaged in singing
country songs in musical chorus. There was a good
deal of prattle and lively talk. One of the females
was a buxom widow, who seemed to take to
flirtation like a second nature, and she was the live-
liest of the party. She -induced one of the young
men to sing with her the German song of " Du, du,
liegst mir im Herzen" which she did on her part with
considerable empressement, and with an obvious desire
to achieve the realization of the burthen of the song.
It was late when the party left ; but there was still
light enough remaining to enable them to trace their
way by a path across the corn-fields to their little
village, which lay beyond ; and for some time I could
hear their voices, made melodious by distance, singing
in good time and rhythm, the beautiful barcarole in
Masaniello, "Whisper Low."
I spent the night in sound repose, in a shake-down
bed, as comfortably as circumstances would admifc*
and next morning my friend of the precedirfe^
evening accompanied me about two miles on m^r
road, still full of Australia and his preparations for
emigrating.
After about an hour's w-alking, I reached the
double-headed black eagle of Prussia, set up by the
wayside, and crossing the frontier, was in Germany.
OUE MUSICAL CORNER.
IF any unusual degree of acerbity mark our opinions
in this "Musical Corner," do not be astonished,
amiable reader. We can account for it thus. We
had opened the piano, and modulated ourselves into
seraphic temper, before pronouncing sentence on
the Songs and Pieces under trial, when in walked a
young lady — a neighbour's daughter — who has been
"taught music" fourteen years, but who being
destitute of every natural qualification for the divine
art, is a very unpromising pupil still. " Well, Maria,
you are out early," said we, with a shake of the hand.
"Yes," replied she ; " I have run round with a couple
of sets of quadrilles which I shall have ---to play to-
night at Mrs. Gordon's party. Mamma says it always
makes her so horribly nervous if I stay long at the
piano, so I thought I would come here and have a
regular good practice." Hereupon the " Lancers "
and "English" quadrilles were produced. We had a
slight qualm come over us, but were as courteous as
possible, and after a little discursive chat, down she
sat to attain time and tune, with an ear that can
scarcely distinguish between " God Save the Queen,"
and " Luther's Hymn." What we suffered during
the two hours of her devotion can never be expressed.
When we mention the simple facts, that she played
" Lodoiska " in two sharps instead of two flats, and
thumped five particular bars of Jullien's arrangement
of the " College Hornpipe " thirteen distinct times,
why, a guess may be made as to our martyrdom.
We got irritated beyond endurance, — -kicked our
favourite dog, rang the bell twice and forgot what
we wanted, poked the fire incessantly — and we verily
believe we used the bright poker, — attempted to
read a leader in The Sun upside-down, and were on
the point of rushing down to the cellar, when fortu-
nately the young lady declared herself competent to
astonish the Terpsichoreans at the Gordons' select
party. Thank heaven we shall not be among them !
Maria Howard has gone, having suddenly remem-
bered being " out of white gloves," and here we are,
slowly recovering from the most serious discords
ever inflicted on us. Should we be a little " touchy "
in our temper, attribute it to the effects of hearing
the " Finale to the Lancers " in a chromatic key, and
the " College Hornpipe " in convulsive preludes.
Now to our task. — Publications by Leoni Lee
& Coxhead, 48, Albemarle Street. "We are Mes-
sengers from the Fairy Land," by Edwin Flood.
There is a class of singers to whom this duet will be
acceptable, being easy and within moderate compass
of voice, but there is no originality in the composi-
tion. "The Prince of Cambria's March," by Brinley
Richards, is well adapted for young players, being
distinct, effective, and simple.
And now we come to Ollivier, 19, Old Bond Street.
" Nocturni," by Virginia Gabriel, is a very clever
production. The air strikes us as being unusually
original, and is capable of great expression, being
withal far from difficult. The part rendered by triplets
is particularly graceful. " Barcarolle," by C. F.
Desanges, requires careful and delicate playing, to
rightly interpret the composer's meaning, — the peculiar
accentuation making it difficult to preserve the flow-
ing character of the piece ; but we admii-e it exceed-
ingly. " Vocal Exotics," comprising in the first s/m
"Songs of Germany," are valuable, as introducing
us some German composers whose names are no
familiar, but whose gprks see:
especially recommencr " Joys
Flowers," but they are all good
the words is done in a masterly
and deserves great praise. " When thou gav'st
the Rose," a canzonet by C. Grenville, is very
We now take from those published by
123, Cheapside. Two songs, — "Oh bring me Pearls,"
and "The Spirit of Evei»ng," by Maria Cavendish,
are far beyond the average order of ballads — even
those sent out with "names known in the market"
attached ; there is great promise in them, and they
have refreshed us muck after some half-dozen things
in the genuine " twido¥e-cum-twink " style. " Happy
the Maid whose Heart is Free," by Nelson, is just
the song for a saucy girl to sing. She could shake
her ringlets over it with infinite danger to the gentle-
men around, and make a great deal of it, doubtless.
We choose from those published by Boosey c€- Co.,
28, Holies Street, Oxford Street. The "Floris Qua-
drilles," by W. Kiihner, are very cleverly arranged,
meritorious.
Life,** and "The
translation of
poetic manner,
208
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
but we fear too elaborate for general playing < The
Ostrich Polka," "The Queen's Schottische, "The
Electric Gallop," and the " Konisberg Polka, are
all very effective as dancing music ; the latter is
excellently marked, and far superior to the million
and one polkas around us. " Chide no more/ by G.
Linley, is not at all equal to Mr. Linley's general com-
positions ; itstrikes us as being "commonplace," a fault
seldom to be attributed to this gentleman. " Awake
from thy Dream," by Guglielmo, labours under the
same imputation, and as Ave read over the "words" of
songs, how we are struck by the general powerful
expression of "nothingness" in them ! The majority
of the stanzas are little above mere rhyme, and we
involuntarily smile as we think of " music " wedded
to "IMMORTAL verse." Any one who can put
"heart" and "part" into measured length, alternated
with "love" and "prove," seems competent to
write a "song," a&l forthwith an unlimited quantity
of rubbish is printed. We find "love" dreadfully
overdone ; the vows, professions, and regrets, in
serenades and tender ballads, are far beyond the
texture that "washes and wears." Here is a random
specimen : —
" Oh, look from thy lattice, my lady love, look
The moon 's on the hill, there is light on the brook ;
But the sky and the water are darkness to me,
While I see not the night-star that rises in thee."
Don't let any confiding heart be deceived by such
declarations ; take our word for it, that Cupid is an
impudent, hearty, bread and-butter -eating little boy
when he is at home, and won't put up with glow-
worms and dew-drops for supper — not a bit of it !
Within a short period the above devotion would
change to this —
Don't sit up for me Sophy, I'm going to meet
Two or three pleasant fellows, in Arundel Street ;
And as 'tis uncertain how late it may be,
Why, perhaps I had better come in with the key.
Here is another protestation from a lady —
" I love thy broad and noble brow ;
I love thy raven hair ;
And never, never shalt thou miss
Thy faithful Mary's care."
Don't believe it, young man ; be fully prepared to
miss a shirt-button now and then, and don't consider
yourself unnaturally wronged if you hear something
in this strain —
'Tis true I made the sky-blue stock
^Nu now have round your throat ;
liiit a- iVr this, I won't, indeed,
! u-ilf not mead your coat !
S<nm;body said f^jThe charaWer of a nation is ex-
hibited by its songs m' if so, we think, for the credit of
England, its songwriters should be a little more
pcorticular in their effusions. " The Pilgrim's Kepose,"
bJFMarschner, is a curious and somewhat solemn com-
p<OTroon in five flats ; the character of the song is well
preserved, and though it might not suit the general
run of ballad-sing^5t£, we fqjl sure it has a peculiar
excellence, which Will improve on acquaintance. The
valse "Summer Flowers/' by F. G. Tinney, Coole
* cO Tin-net/, 17, Duke Street, Manchester Square, is a
very effective and pleasing composition, easy and
melodious, and we can reconMiend it to our musical
friends with cordial confidence. There ! we have done,
and do not think we have been very illnatured, after
all ; we have tried to be extra amiable, but if the
cloven foot lias peeped out, lay the deformity at the
door of r\I ;uu;i Howard's " practising." With thanks
for the polite attention bestowed on our own strum-
ming, we make our bow and retire.
DEAD LEAVES.*
I NEVER cared for autumn in the happy days gone by,
When all the leaves came whirling down that cur-
tained out the sky ;
The lady-birch might lose her charms, so wooed in
summer's prime,
And every giant arm be stripped that I had loved to
climb ;
But merry was my loud laugh, and joyously I stood
Ankle-deep in dead leaves amid the misty wood,
Dancing with the spectre things, — Autumn preached
in vain,
For I knew that green leaves would soon come again.
Now T stand and see the boughs of human life got
bare,
I hear the wail of Sorrow's breath through branches
bright and fair ;
And down come leaves of J oy and Love, all thickly
strewn around,
And blossoms that were topmost borne are on the
lowest ground.
But no laugh is on my lip, no light is on my brow,
I cannot smile as once I did, — I am not dancing now.
Heart deep in dead leaves, Spring will come in vain ;
For the trees that now are bare, will ne'er be green
again.
ELIZA COOK.
* DKAD LEAVES, a Ballad; the Words and Music by Eliza
Cook. Published at the Office of the Journal.
ART AND FORTUNE.
Whatever happens, do not be dissatisfied with your
worldly fortunes, lest that speech be justly made to
you which was once made to a repining person much
given to talk of how great she and hers had been ;
" Yes, madam," was the crushing rjlhtp, " we all find
our lerel at last f " Eternally that irole is true, of a
choice being given to men on their entrance into life.
Two majestic women stand before you ; one in rich
vesture, superb, with what seems like a rural crown
her head, and Plenty in her hand, and something
triumph, I will not say of boldness, in her eye ;
d she, the queen of this world, can give you many
things. The other is beautiful, but not alluring, nor
rich, nor powerful ; and there are traces of care, and
shame, and sorrow in her face, — and, marvellous to
say, her look is downcast and yet noble. She can
give you nothing, but she can make you somebody.
If you cannot bear to part from her sweet sublime
countenance, which hardly veils with sorrow its infi-
nity, follow her ; follow her, I say, if you are really
minded so to do ; but do not, while you are on this
track, look back with ill-concealed envy on the glit-
tering things which fall in the path of those who prefer
to follow the rich dame, and to pick up the riches
and honours which fall from her cornucopia. This is,
in substance, what a true artist said to me only the
other day, impatient, as he told me, of the complaints
of those who would pursue art, and yet would have
fortune. — Companions of my Solitude.
a v
I
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-/5, Great Queen
Street, Londjm; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of tixe Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 144.]
SATURDAY, JANUARY 31, 1852.
[PRICE
MUSIC IN THE HOUSE.
"JOHN," said a father to his son, "I can stand thia
no longer ! Your squeaking fiddle I tried to put up
with, and it was bad enough, — exercises, exercises !
• — running up and down the gamut and the chromatic
scale from morn till night ! — that was an infliction, I
can tell you ; but as for this trombone, I really can't
endure it. It splits the ears of the groundlings. If
you want to ' study ' the thing, you must take to the
stable, or go into the woods, where nobody can hear
you ! The trombone is certainly no music for the
house ! "
We don't know what "John did," but the argu-
ment of the father was good. The trombone is
certainly not adapted for parlour instrumentation.
Neither is the bassoon ; though we have a distant
recollection of once blowing as far as "God save the
King " (for there was a king in those days to
practise our musical loyalty upon), — puffing and
hugging that unwieldy instrument till our young cheeks
were fit to crack ; but at last we were driven from
our " earnest purpose " of mastering that bassoon,
by a whole whirlwind of sisters, aunts, and other
women folks, vbmise - birds, who denounced our
innocent bassoon as an altogether Satanic instrument,
and banished us from the house, so long as we
persisted in blowing it. So, the black instrument
was laid on the shelf, and lies there.
Not less successful was our attack on the double
bass. We had heard Dragonetti, and were fascinated
by the dulcet, flute-like tones which he drew from
the formidable monster. It was an emblem of
power, liKe ^Eolus subdued by the harp, — the lion
pacified by Love,— the rocks made Terpsichorean by
Orpheus.' But alas! we found too soon that it
would take a life-time of practice, not to speak of
the in-born genius, which in us perhaps was wanting,
to rival the feats»of Dragonetti, — so, induced by the
enti-eaties of those of our household who could not
wait for the fruits of our labours, and did not like to
be deafened in the meanwhile, we abandoned the
double bass, and subsided into the violoncello, and
finally into the fiddle !
We do not know but that the practice of the violin
is useful as a piece of moral as well as musical
training. " Can you play the fiddle 1 " asked some
one of an Irishman. " Sure," was the answer, " how
can I know till 1 ihry t " Well, try ! Try again !
What sound is that ? The squeaking of a thousand
midnight cats were music to it ! Try again, — G A B.
There it is again ! The bow slides, — and there is a
voice, half scream and half grunt. "Go away into
a back-room, my dear, or go up stairs into the garret.
I cannot bide that music ! " is the admonition of some
querulous fair one, knitting or netting in the room
beside you. Well, you banish yourself, and try
again ! G A B C. You begin to know your
alphabet, and get the use of your bow hand. At
the end of a month you can hammer through
" God save the Queen," — though you excite no
admiration ; still, you are getting on. In another
month, you are at " Lieber Augustin." You know
you have years of practice, — hard practice, — before
you, — simple exercises, chromatic exercises, on one
string, on two strings, on all the strings, arpeggio,
pizzicatto, and tremolo exercises, without end. And
this you must persevere with for years before you
can play to your own or any one else's satisfaction.
The violin school is thus, to our mind, a capital
school of perseverance. It trains one to repetition of
effort, — it disciplines in patience, — it practically
teaches the grand lesson that difficulty is to be
overcome by perseverance, for " Labour conquers all
things."
But it is long, indeed, before any one, however
perseverant, can acquire such dexterity on the violin
as to give pleasure to a home-audience. Like the
trombone and the double bass, it is more useful as an
accompaniment than as a solo-performing instrument.
Not that we would regard the trombone as a proper
instrument for a house, under any circumstances, —
far from it ! We have a savoury recollection of a
country wight, who, during the days of the Great
Exhibition, entered a musical instrument shop in
Oxford Street, "to buy a trombone." He was,
doubtless, a great basso in his own sphere ; probably
he had never been in London before, and wished to
take home with him some lasting memorial of the
Exhibition trip. What more appropriate than a
trombone ? And so he entered the music-shop.
" Let's see your trombones," said the basso to the
shopman, in a deep voice, — "a bass trombone, and a
good one." "Yes sir." An instrument was handed
to the amateur, on which he blew several preliminary
snorts, and then he tried a flourish, which however
210
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
exploded. "Let's see a bit of music," said he, "and
try whether she's true," (all musical instruments, it
must be known, are of the feminine gender). "What
would you like, sir ? " "A bit of Handel : nothing
like Handel." "No sir, nothing." "Let's have the
trombone part of the Hallelujah Chorus, then." The
sheets were handed to him. "Ah, that will do,"
j said he, joyfully, as he saw the well-known notes.
He then collected all the wind he could muster into
I his chest, and commenced blowing.
"Blow wind, and crack your cheeks," cried Lear,
in the tempest, but we dare say Lear never heard a
trombone. The shop was now becoming filled, and a
respectable audience was mustered. The music was
ir-iirly afoot. Snort, snort ! Then he went on
counting, — " One, two, three, four, — one, two, three,
four," — there were two bars' rest. Snort, snort !
Snort, snort! Sno-o-o-ort ! Sno-o-o-ort ! "One,
two, three, four." He went on quite steady. But
all this was child's play, till he came to the Hallelu-
jahs ! Then it was that he made the trombone speak.
He was like to have blown the windows out of their
frames, and the shopman through them ! Shopmen
are proverbially polite, and when a customer is
buying, they do not like to stop his examination of
their wares, so they let him blow on, the more so
as the other buyers in the shop seemed to enjoy the
| joke. Some of them were like to expire under the
I operation, at seeing a vigorous man from the country
blowing the Hallelujah Chorus in a trombone solo.
At last he got through it, — to the very end ; and
wiping the perspiration from his brow with a red
pocket-handkerchief, he asked the price of the
instrument. We did not feel interested in that part
of the performance, but shortly after saw the man,
with a face full of glee, issuing from the door with a
long green bag, containing the much -desired trom-
bone. We can imagine the endless bass solos blown
in that honest man's house when he reached his
country home !
But what say you to a piano ? Ah ! that's the
instrument for the house and the home. Would that
every household could have one ! But pianos are still
dear, perhaps because the demand of " the million "
for them has not yet set in. We should like to see
the inventive genius of the age somewhat directed
to this point. The man who shall succeed in
inventing an instrument with the musical power and
compass of the piano-forte, and which shall, by the
moderateness of its price, be placed within the reach
of the mass of the people, will confer a benefit and
blessing on the Homes of England, and provide an
instrument of human progress and happiness, scarcely
to be surpassed by any other that could be named.
We have great faith in the humanizing power of
music, and especially of music in the house and the
home. Even in a moral point of view, it is
thoroughly harmonizing in its influence. To see a
family grouped round the piano-forte in an evening
blending their voices together in the strains of
Haydn or Mozart, or in the better known and loved
melodies of our native land, is a beautiful sight,
—a graceful and joyous picture of domestic satis-
faction and enjoyment. The mother takes the piano-
forte accompaniment, the father leads with a violin or
flute, or supports the melody with his bass (we could
even excuse his trombone in such a cause), while the
young group furnish the sopranos and alto parts in
their most musical and harmonious style What is
there that could be named likely to make home more
attractive, or to make children grow up in love with
domestic life, than such a practice as this ?
We have left the attractions of music far too much
> the public-house, the casino, the singing-room the
concert-room, and the theatre. The directors of
these places cultivate the popular taste, and in music
they have laid hold of one of the strongest of all
attractions. Why should not this same attraction be
cultivated in the house and for the uses of the home ?
It is really a shame that our finest songs should be so
rarely heard now-a-days, except in houses of public
entertainment, where the young are brought into
association with much that is contaminating and
injurious. It is thus that music has so often been
made the ally of intemperance, and in many minds
become associated with it. Bring music into the
Home, and then you will see its beneficent action.
Father Mathew was quick to perceive its uses, and
early pressed it into his Temperance movement,
organizing bands of music wherever he went. He
saw that, having taken from the people one stimu-
lant, and that a mischievous one, he must supplant it
with another and better, — healthy, exhilarating, and
improving ; and in music he found the very substitute
that he wanted.
But even temperance reformers have greatly
neglected this practical ally to their cause. They
have not exerted themselves as they ought, to throw
such attractions about the poor man's home as should
overcome the attractions of the public-house. Every
temperance society ought to be a musical class. The
young ought to be sedulously taught music, so that
when they grow up, no youth, no operative, no man,
nor woman, may be without the solace of a song.
Let a taste for home music be cultivated in the rising
generation, and we shall answer for the good effects.
Let music once fairly grapple with whiskey and gin,
and we fear not for the issue.
"But I have got no voice," says one, and " I have
got no ear for music," says another. Could you read
before you learnt ? Could you write without
travelling the crooked path of pot-hooks ? You can
speak, because you learnt. And you can sing,
provided you learn too. But you can no more sing
without learning, than the Irishman could play the
fiddle who had never "tried." Every human being
possesses the gift and faculty of music, to a greater
or less extent. Every human being has an organ,
through which he can make that faculty musical ; but
the gift must be cultivated, and not allowed to " fust
in us unused." It was doubtless conferred on man
for a wise purpose, and like all our other faculties,
intended to be exercised for our pleasure and well-
being.
In our schemes of education in England, this di-
vine gift of song has been almost entirely overlooked.
Very rarely, indeed, does the schoolmaster dream of
the necessity for cultivating it, and so the gift lies
waste. Germany has been far before us in this
respect ; there, music and singing form a part of the
school-education of every child ; hence the homes of
Germany are musical and temperate. Music has
positively banished drunkenness from Germany ; and
from being one of the most drunken, the Germans,
since the general cultivation of music by the people,
have become among one of the most temperate of
nations.
The late Rev. Rowland Hill, among his rough,
but quaint sayings, uttered this in reference to music,
" We must steal a page out of the Devil's book,
and enlist his best tunes in a better service." So he
pressed all noble airs, such as the "The Marseillaise
Hymn," "Rule Britannia," Haydn's " God preserve
the Empire," and such like, into the services of
religion. We must do the same work for the Home.
Our teachers, our temperance reformers, must see to
it, that the children of the%>eople are taught to sing ;
parents must have their children taught, and teach
them themselves to sing in family chorus ; for all
agencies ought to be employed in throwing around
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
211
the Home as much, of beauty, grace, harmony, and
innocent happiness as may be. And as a means of
refining the tastes, softening the manners, diffusing
time pleasure, and humanizing the great mass of the
people, we know of no agency comparable to music,
— music in all its forms, — vocal, choral, and
instrumental.
S. SMILES.
THE PASSIONS OF ANIMALS.
IT would be one of the most profitable, and certainly
one of the most curious inquiries, to trace out the
gradations of reason or intelligence in the Animal
Kingdom, as the gradations of structure have been
already tracked, studied, and reduced to classification.
It would be a still bolder, though more speculative
adventure to endeavour to show how the gradations
of intellect and structure ascend side by side, and are
dependent ,and related to each other. It would be
the phrenology — if we may so use the term, — of
Nature, — the relation of outward form and anatomi-
cal structure to intellectual character and power.
Up the scale, if we could once make a beginning, we
should see blind instinct gradually unfolding itself as
the nervous system became more complex, and as we
approached a higher development of the nervous
centres, intellect would be seen to push instinct
aside, and exhibit itself by variety of action as
distinct from instinct, which produces imiform
results. The broadest and most general inquiries
would suffice to elucidate the intimate connection
which exists between the degree of intelligence and
the degree of complexity of the nervous system.
In- the pike we find a brain one thousand three
hundred and five times smaller than the body ; but
in the elephant the body is only five hundred times
larger than the brain, while in the simia capuchin,
one of the orangs, the brain is equal to one-twenty-
fifth of the whole bulk. We know that those
creatures which have a large development of brain
are less dependent on instinct, and hence are more
various in their actions, more susceptible of outward
influences, and more capable of being taught than
those in whom the brain is small, and hence it is
natural to conclude that there is at least a connection
between the mental manifestation and the physical
condition.
The subject, however, is as wide as it is vague,
and while it is one of the most difficult, it is at the
same time, one of the most enchanting, and perhaps
more replete with entertaining and profitable anec-
dote than any other branch of physico-mental inquiry.
As a medium for anecdotal philosophy, we would
wish to consider it here, rather than involve our-
selves and our readers in metaphysical details, and it
happens fortunately that the excellent work just
published by Mr. E. P. Thompson,* is as well
adapted to furnish us with materials for our imme-
diate purpose as it is for the more recondite and
abstruse question of metaphysics.
Mr. Thompson sets out by showing that animals
evince faculties of the same kind precisely as those of
man, differing frdft. him in degree only. From the
simple fact that a dog will recognize his master, he
argues that the dog possesses the power of recogni-
tion, which to a certain extent involves memory also.
The dog will recollect, too, any person who has
inflicted on him an injury, and this implies not only
recognition, but the association with the person of
the ill-treatment suffered* at his hand. "These
faculties," says Mr. Thompson, " are distinct from
* The Passions of Animals. By E. P. Thompson. London :
Chapman and Hall.
instinct," which may serve to teach them self-
preservation, migration, concealment, and the con-
trivances for sheltering their young, but cannot
prompt them to action, when circumstances occur of
a different nature to those which specially belong to
the history and habit of the animal itself. " Reason
has an object in view, founded on some mental
calculation or desire ; but instinct is a blind impulse,
which, by its operations, compels the animal to
certain actions, and which can be modified or suited
to circumstances, without depending on them."
The races of animals which stand highest in intelli-
gence are the monkeys, and carnivorous animals, next
the thick-skinned pachydermata, such as the elephant,
afterwards those that chew the cud, comprising the
docile and familiar cattle of the fields ; next the
rodentia, or gnawing animals, as the squirrel, the
beaver, and the hare, which, except in a few
instances, have not sufficient intelligence to recog-
nize the hand that feeds them. In the ruminants
the intelligence is very limited, and the phrase
"sheepish " justly implies obtusity of intellect.
Cattle frequently fail to recognize their masters,
when they happen to have changed their dress. A
buffalo in the Garden of Plants, in Paris, was
extremely docile to its keeper, till he ventured near
it one day in a dress different to his accustomed one,
when the beast ran furiously at him, and he with
difficulty saved himself, but having resumed his
ordinary apparel, the animal became immediately
submissive.
In the lower order of animals all traces of intelli-
gence seem to disappear, and are supplied by a
wonderful instinct, which directs all their actions,
although some insects appear to possess a power of
judgment, which is independent of instinct, as the
burying sylphs, which, to reach a dead animal
fastened on the top of a stick, bring it to the ground
by undermining the stick. Mr. Turner gives an
instance of an ant which he saw drawing a straw
from her nest, which she alternately pushed, sidled,
dragged, and wriggled, according as the grass ob-
structed her, or the level gravel favoured her
exertions. Dr. Darwin relates a story, which Mr.
Thompson copies, to the effect that a wasp carrying
the body of a fly, found the pressure of the breeze
upon the fly's wings too great for her strength, when
she descended, cut off the wings with her mandibles,
and flew away with the body. In spite of the many
writers of high character who have adopted this from
Darwin, we ourselves have never had sufficient
courage to believe it, for the simple reason that
wasps feed on vegetable, and not on animal juices.
Reaumur describes a sphex cutting away the legs
and elytra of a cockroach that was too big for
its hole.
Here are instances which inevitably imply some-
thing more than instinctive impulse, and which
exhibit the working of a principle akin to that
which guides our own feet, and gives us purpose,
and energy, and character. It is instinct which
impels the swallow to migrate, — instinct which with
mysterious finger points the eye of the helpless
flutterer to the luxurious swamps of Africa, where
its insect food may be found in plenty, when winter
has locked up the forests of its home, and cast to
earth the winged dust of their summer atmosphere.
It is instinct, too, which brings it back unerringly to
its native clime, but it is something higher which
leads it to the self-same nest in which it reared its
former brood, which teaches it to adjust that nest to
new circumstances of exposure or shelter, and which
prompts it to bury alive, in a mausoleum of clay, an
untitled tenant, or sparrow, which has usurped the
occupation of its nest.
212
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
These deviations from instinctive action, observed
I so frequently in the history of the lower animals, are
at the same time the most entertaining, and the most
conclusive on the point of the possession of intellect.
Mr. Blythe relates the story of a fox who personated
a defunct carcase when surprised one day in a hen-
house, and played the part so well as to suffer
himself to be taken by the brush and thrown on a
dunghill, when carefully opening one eye, and seeing
the coast clear, he took to his heels and escaped,
leaving his human dupe to speculate on the artistic
perfection of the performance. Several instances
are on record where this animal has " played dead
man," and has submitted to be carried for more than
a mile, till at length, getting weary of his uncomfort-
able position, or reasoning that escape was both
possible and advisable, he has suddenly effected it by
a vigorous snap at the hand which held him. Cats
have been known to feign dead on a grass-plot while
swallows were skimming across it, and by this ruse
succeed in capturing some unfortunate bird who
chanced to come too near. We have read somewhere
of a cat who captured fish by lowering her tail into a
pond until she felt the fish nibbling at it, when she
immediately drew it forth, and made a prize of the
unlucky adventurer ; but considering the number of
well-attested instances which do not tax the powers
of belief immoderately, we think we may afford to
treat that as a mere joke. There is a notorious
instance on record, relates Mr. Thompson, of a dog,
which, slipping its collar at night, roamed round the
adjoining fields and worried the sheep, and after-
wards washing its jaws in a stream, returned home,
readjusted its collar, and keeping within its kennel,
threw off suspicion. Here we have not only impulse,
but also a multiplication of actions arising from
jnward power and intelligence, unaccompanied by
perception, or the operation of any outward agency.
An orang-outang-, in Paris, when left alone, always
tried to escape, and as he could not reach the lock of
the door, he carried a stool to the spot, which being
removed, he took another, and mounting on it re-
newed his efforts. Reason alone could have prompted
this act ; and besides, there must have been a com-
bination of ideas to have enabled it to get the stool to
assist itself in opening the lock, to copy what it had
seen its keeper do, namely, to unlock the door, and
to move a stool about as he wanted it.
So far we see a beautifully marked resemblance
between man and the brute, and it must be but a hollow
vanity which shuts the ear against the acceptance of
these truths, and seeks to exclude from the participa-
tion of reason, creatures whose faculties, though less
perfect than those of man, are yet but links in one
great chain of gradation, successive steps in the
unfolding of one great and general spirit, whose
essence is equally beyond all, though working under
so many modifications.
The inquiry, however, having arrived at this stage,
needs to be enlarged ; so that, having gained a
general index to the assimilations between the human
and inferior races, we may be enabled in the prose-
cution of details, to see still more clearly the points
of resemblance and distinction between them.
Sense is the doorway of the mind, the vestibule
through which pass the pictures of the world. It is
sense which puts us in communication with Nature,
and marries the mind to the material world. So far
as sense opens up, by virtue of its own completeness
and activity, a channel for the flux of thought, so far
are animals superior to man ; but as the mind is the
primary, and sense the secondary instrument, so with
acuteness of sense in the lower tribes, we do not find
an equivalent acuteness of reason, and by so much as
the senses of man are cultivated, by so much is the
mental reasoning faculty robbed of its intrinsic
power. It is not the keenness of the sight which
gives character and tone to the idea, but rather the
power of mind which gives a positive character to
the picture. Hence, although sense is the medium
of the mind's communications, it is not the instru-
ment of its processes of reason, not the measure of
its intrinsic force. Pritchard says that the Calmucks
can tell, by their sense of smell, whether a fox is in
his earth or not ; and it is well known that the
Bedouins of the desert ascertain, by placing one ear
on the sand, the approach of a caravan, although it
may then be at the distance of many leagues. But
even this acuteness of sense in man is as nothing
compared with the fact that without eyes or apertures
of any kind for the admission of light, the polypus
will always distinguish the animacula on which it
feeds, or that bats will thread their way accurately
through innumerable meshes and complicated threads
even after their eyes have been put out. Camels
passing through a desert can scent wa^er at the
distance of two or three miles ; the mules in South
America scent it at the distance of two or three
leagues. The carrier-horses of Switzerland hear the
fall of an avalanche, and warn their masters by their
terror, of the impending danger. The dog, keenly
alive to the merest rustle, distinguishes between the
familiar footstep and that of intrusion, however
distant. It is related of a dog, that in the dead of
night he heard a cry, and flying to the spot, suc-
ceeded in extricating his master from a pond into
which he had fallen from intoxication. In this case
the distance was so great that the dog can only be
supposed to have become aware of his master's
position by the earth acting as a conductor of the
sound ; but yet there is the remarkable point of
perception, which enabled the animal to recognize his
master's voice, or, at least, to distinguish the nature
of the cry.
So far, the animal takes precedence of the man,
sense beginning and ending with its exercise. In
man, sensation is made subservient to thought, and a
weaker image or a fainter impression becomes to
him the material out of which he elaborates new
systems of science, new codes of morals and new
relations of matter and spirit. In the animal the
mental exercise, where it is even vivid and striking,
is still confined, limited, and subservient to but one
end. The dog remembers his master and the members
of the family after the lapse of many years, and it is
perhaps owing to the absence of mental sequence, the
comparative negation of any connected process of
thought, which gives him that tenacity of memory
and extraordinary perfection of the senses — according
to the old law, that power being checked in one I
direction, will develope itself in another. Mr.
Thompson tells of a dog which M. D'Obsonville took i
with him from Pondicherry on a journey of upwards i
of three hundred miles, through a country almost I
destitute of roads, which occupied three weeks to
traverse. The dog lost his master, and in spite of the
vast distance found his way back at once to Pondi-
cherry. The dog of a little Savoyard being sold
and carried to Rome, was shut up for safety, but it
soon succeeded in making its esc£f>e, and reached its !
former home, after a few days, in a most emaciated
state. Mr. Brockedon, in his " Journal of Excursions
in the Alps," cites the history of a famous dog at
Lanslebourg, which had thrice been sold and taken
away, and had each time returned, the first time about
two hundred miles, the second time five hundred,
and the third a greater distance still. Lindley
Murray relates that he once offended an elephant at
Buckingham House, by taking from it some of its
hay, and on returning six weeks after, the animal
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
213
recognized him, and struck at him with its proboscis,
and almost succeeded in killing him with the blow.
In the Isle of Egina the shepherds attach names to
their sheep, and on being called they instantly leave
the flock with the most prompt obedience. In
Cumberland the shepherds regularly gather the sheep
for the nightly fold by a peculiar whistle, and the
flocks which were scattered like spots of snow over
the stupendous heights, collect together at the well-
known signal, and approach the shepherd in regular
order. But manifestations of the mental faculty are
not limited to mere memory and the capabilities of
teaching : the ideal has its representatives even
amongst speechless brutes, and imagination gives
some token of existence even in their simple histories.
Pigs and dogs frequently dream, as the low growling
and grunting, and twitching of the ears would seem
to indicate. Mr. Thompson says that crocodiles
dream, — it would be strange if they did not, when
the very mud in which they wallow is sacred to the
traditions and memories of three thousand years ;
and in their reptilian ideality may even carry back
the crocodile mind to the patriarchal ages, centuries
before Memphis was founded, thousands of years
before Israel went into bondage, when Osiris and
Isis were themselves but the ideas of a simple and
devotional generation, and when nature was still
arrayed with beauty, and out of the slime which the
Nile cast up the creatures of the earth and air found
sustenance. We said just now that cogitation and
sensuous observation stood separate in the animal,
and that the inward power bore no comparison with
the outward sense, and in confirmation we read that
an ideal dog which had refused dry bread, and was in
the habit of receiving little morsels dipped in the
gravy of his master's meat, snapped eagerly after dry
bread if he saw it rubbed round the plate ; and as by
way of experiment this was repeatedly done till its
appetite was satisfied, it was evident that the imagi-
nation of the animal conquered for a time its faculties
of smell and taste.
But perhaps the most decisive test of the posses-
sion of mental sequence would be some tangible
evidence of a creature profiting by experience, because
here we have not merely memory exhibiting itself,
but reasoning power asserting the law that " similar
causes under similar circumstances produce similar
results." Borlase says he saw a lobster attack an
oyster, who persisted in closing his shell as often as
the lobster attempted to intrude within it. After
many failures the lobster took a small stone and
placed between the shells as soon as they were
separated, and then devoured the fish. Mr. Gardner,
in his " Curiosities of Natural History," states that
he once watched a crab enlarging its burrow on the
sand ; and about every two minutes it came up to
the surface with a quantity of sand in its left claw,
and by a sudden jerk, threw it to the distance of
about six inches. Having a few shells in his pocket,
he endeavoured to throw one into the hole : three of
them fell near the hole, and the fourth rolled into it.
Five minutes afterwards the animal made its appear-
ance, bringing with it the shell, which had gone
down, and carrying it to the distance of a foot from
its burrow, there deposited it. Seeing the others
lying near the mouth of the hole, it immediately
carried them, one by one, to the place where the first
had been deposited, and then resumed its original
labour. Gilbert White tells of an old hunting mare
which ran on the common, and which, being taken
ill, came down into the village, as it were, to implore
the help of men, and died the following night in the
streets. A writer in "Fraser" relates of a hen
which had hatched several broods of ducklings, that
from experience she lost all the anxiety usually borne
by these foster mothers by the indomitable perseve-
rance with which the young palmipedes take to the
water as soon as they are born, and quietly led them
to the brink of the pond, calmly watching them as
they floated on the surface, or dusting herself on the
sunny bank to wait unconcernedly their return.
Duges saw a spider which had seized a bee by the
back, and effectually prevented it from taking flight ;
but the legs being at liberty, it dragged the spider
along, which presently suspended it by a thread
from its web, leaving it to dangle in the air, till it
was dead, when it was drawn up and devoured.
The pigeons at Venice exhibit a most interesting
trait which combines with experience the faculty of
anticipation. An individual living in the square of
St. Marc's has been in the habit of scattering grain
every day at two o'clock, previous to which hour the
birds assemble in one place on the cathedral ; and as
the clock strikes, they all take wing and hover round
his window in small circles, till he appears and
distributes a few handfuls of food. This, at all
events, indicates the faculty of noting time, and
may be placed on a parallel with the story of the
dog who went to church regularly every Sunday at
the proper hour to meet his master. Animals are
prompt at using their experience in reference to
things from which they have suffered pain or annoy-
ance. Grant mentions an orang-outang which, having
had when ill, some medicine administered in an egg,
could never be induced to take one afterwards. Le
Vaillant's monkey was extremely fond of brandy,
but would not be prevailed on to touch it again after
a lighted match had been applied to some it was
drinking. A dog had been beaten while some musk
was held to its nose, and ever after fled whenever it
accidentally smelt the drug, and was so susceptible
that it was used in some physiological experiments
to discover whether any portion of musk had been
received by the body through the organs of digestion,
— a severe test of the dog's sense of smell and
capability of profiting by experience. Strend of
Prague had a cat on which he wished to make some
experiments with an aii'-pump ; but as soon as the
creature felt the exhaustion of the air, it rapidly
placed its foot on the valve, and thus stopped the
action. A dog having great antipathy to the sound
of a violin always sought to get the bow and conceal
it. Plutai'ch tells of an artful mule, which, when laden
with salt, fell into a stream, and finding its load
thereby sensibly lightened, adopted the expedient
afterwards, and whenever it crossed a stream, slipped
souse into the water with its panniers ; and to cure it
of the trick, the panniers were filled with sponge,
under which, when fully saturated, it could barely
stagger.
The intelligence is most remarkable when expe-
rience seems to prompt a plan of action, or where
the animal devises a connected scheme to effect
some desirable object ; as in the case of a cow,
which having strayed into an open granary, continued
its visits by drawing the bolt with its horn. The
arctic wolves hunt together in companies, and if they
meet an animal which they have not the courage to
attack openly, they form into a semicircle or crescent,
and rush down upon it, till the creature, terrified by
the numbers of its enemies, hurries over a precipice
and is dashed to pieces, when they search out the
body and enjoy the feast. Halliday mentions a
mason-bee which had built its nest close to a window
generally fastened with a shutter, but which, when
thrown back, lay so close to the wall, that its nest
was completely shut in. To prevent this occurrence,
it formed a little lump of clay, which hindered the
shutter from fitting tight to the wall, and left room
for its own ingress and egress. Jesse recounts the
214
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
circumstance of some rats destroying the bladder
fastened over the nose of an oil-bottle, and making
free with the oil, by dipping their tails into it and
licking it off. Dr. Pelican saw some rats engaged in
the same manner round the bung-hole of a cask of
wine, into which, if the hole had been large enough,
they would doubtless have fallen from intoxication.
The same principle was carried still further, and
with an evident knowledge of the law which pro-
hibits the occupancy of the same place by two bodies
at one and the same time, by the dog which threw
stones into the well, and the fox which dropped them
into the neck of a pitcher, in order to get at the
water. Degrandpre* put a monkey to the proof by
leaving on a table an open bottle of aniseed brandy,
from which the monkey extracted with its fingers as
much as it could manage to reach, and then poured
sand into the bottle till the liquor ran over. Cuvier tells
of an orang-outang which unlocked a door by trying
every key in a bunch till it found the right one, and
if the lock was too high, it fetched a stool and
mounted on it. Le Vaillant's monkey, when tired,
used to jump on the backs of his dogs for a ride ; but
one of them objecting to this mode of treatment,
stood still the moment the monkey had taken its seat,
and thus got rid of the nuisance. This reminds us of
the horses which are ran without riders in the Corso
at Rome, and which are harnessed with loaded spurs,
which goad them as they run ; the older horses having
experienced that their own speed causes the spurs to
play, have the sagacity to stop, leaving the younger
and less experienced beasts to decide the race without
them. These instances, cited from a work which
literally brims over with facts of a kindred nature,
abundantly testify that those creatures on which man
has too often looked with scorn, and on which he has
heaped indignity and multiplied suffering, have mental
faculties, emotions, and sympathies, which give them
a claim upon our most tender regard, and render
them equally the subjects of profitable study and the
fit recipients of human kindness. It was the voice
of pride proclaimed that brutes were the instruments
of a blind impulse, the creatures of an instinct, which
stood apart from intelligence, and modelled all their
ways according to an inevitable plan, shutting them
out from all participation of feeling or of thought.
Let man be content with the prerogative of supe-
riority, obtained by virtue of his upright attitude, his
capacious brain, and his exquisitely constructed hand,
which, indeed, is unparalleled in the history of created
things, and no more deny to the humbler tribes of
creatures a participation in the privilege of thinking.
Besides mental, man has moral and spiritual attri-
butes, and if these separate him by a wide interval
from the lower tribes around him, let him accept the
distinction with reverence and thankfulness, and not
the arrogance of empty pride, and while he is privi-
leged to worship and believe, maintain, at the same
time, a kindly relation with those creatures whose
inward faculties are perhaps limited to the less ample
spheres of thought.
THE STOLEN BANK NOTES.
THE newspapers of 1810 contain a few brief para-
graphs, — cold, bare, and partial as a tombstone
relative to a singular, and to my thinking, instructive
passage m the domestic annals of this country with
which I happened to be very intimately acquainted
The impression it produced on me at the time was
vivid and profound, and a couple of lines in a Liverpool
journal the other day, curtly announcing the death
of a Madame L'Estrange, recalled each incident as
eshly to memory as if graven there but yesterday •
and moreover induced me to pen the following narra-
tive, in which, now that I can do so without the
risk of giving pain or offence to any one, I have
given the whole affair, divested of colouring, disguise,
or concealment.
My father, who had influence with the late Lord
Bexley, then Mr. Vansittart, procured me, three
weeks after I came of age, a junior clerkship in one
of the best paid of our Government offices. In the
same department were two young men, my seniors
by about six or seven years only, of the names of
Martin Travers and Edward Capel. Their salaries
were the same — three hundred pounds a-year, — and
both had an equal chance of promotion to the vacancy
likely soon to occur, either by the death or super-
annuation of Mr. Kowdell, an aged and ailing chief-
clerk. I had known them slightly before I entered
the office, inasmuch as our families visited in the
same society, and we were very soon especially inti-
mate with each other. They were, I found, fast
friends, though differing greatly in character and
temperament. I liked Martin Travers much the
best of the two. He was a handsome, well-grown,
frank-spoken, generous young man, and never have I i
known a person so full of buoyant life as he, — of
a temper so constantly gay and cheerful. Capel was
of a graver, more saturnine disposition, with lines
about the mouth indicative of iron inflexibility of
nerve and will ; yet withal a hearty fellow enough,
and living, it was suspected, quite up to his income,
if not to something considerably over. I had not
been more than about three months in the office,
when a marked change was perceptible in both.
Gradually they had become cold, distant, and at last
utterly estranged from each other ; and it was
suggested by several amongst us, that 'jealousy as to
who should succeed to Rowdell's snug salary of six
hundred a-year, might have produced the evidently bad
feeling between them. This might, I thought, have
generated the lowering cloud hourly darkening and
thickening upon Capel's brow, but could scarcely
account for the change in Martin Travers. He
whose contagious gaiety used to render dullness and
ill -humour impossible in his presence, was now fitful,
moody, irascible ; his daily tasks were no longer
gone through with the old cheerful alacrity ; and
finally — for he was morbidly impatient of being
questioned, — I jumped to the conclusion- — partly
from some half words dropped, and partly from know-
ing where they both occasionally visited, — that the
subtle influence which from the days of Helen down-
wards— and I suppose upwards — has pleased and
plagued mankind, was at the bottom of the matter.
I was quite right, and proof was not long waited for.
I, was walking early one evening along Piccadilly
with Travers — who appeared by-the-by to wish me
further, though he was too polite to say so, — when
we came suddenly upon Capel. I caught his arm,
and insisted that he should take a turn with us as
he used to do. I thought that possibly a quiet word
or two on the beauty and excellence of kindly
brotherhood amongst men, might lead to a better
feeling between them. I was deucedly mistaken.
My efforts in that line, — awkwardly enough made, I
dare say, — proved utterly abortive. Capel indeed
turned back, rather than, as I supposed, fussily
persist in going on ; but both he and Travers strode
on as stiffly as grenadiers on parade, — their cheeks
flushed, their eyes alight with angry emotion, and
altogether sullen and savage as bears. What seemed
odd too, when Travers turned sharply round within
a short distance of Hyde Park Corner, with a scarcely
disguised intention of shaking us off, Capel whirled
round as quickly, as if quite as resolutely determined
not to be shaken off; whilst I, considerably alarmed
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
215
by the result of the pacific overture I had ventured
upon, did, of coui-se, the same. We stalked on in
silence, till just as we reached Hoby's, and a Mr.
Hervey, with his daughter Constance, turned suddenly
out of St. James's Street. I was fiery hot to the
tips of my ears in an instant. Travers and Capel
stopped abruptly, stared fiercely at each other, and
barely recovered presence of mind in sufficient time
to lift their hats in acknowledgment of Mr. Hervey's
brief greeting, and the lady's slight bow, as, after
half -pausing, they passed on. It was all clear enough
now. My two gentlemen had come to Piccadilly in
the hope of meeting with Constance Hervey, and
accompanying her home ; frustrated in this, they had
determined not to lose sight of each other ; nor did
they for three mortal hours, during which, anxiety
lest their rancorous ill-humour should break out
into open quarrel, kept me banging about from post
to pillar with them, — a sullen companionship, so
utterly wearisome that I had several times half a
mind to propose that they should fight it out at once,
or toss up which should jump for the other's benefit
into the Thames. At length ten o'clock struck, and
it appearing to be mutually concluded that a visit to
Kensington was no longer possible, a sour expression
of relief escaped them, and our very agreeable party
separated.
A very dangerous person in such a crisis was, I
knew, this Constance Hervey, though by no means a
catch in a pecuniary sense for well-connected young
men with present salaries of three hundred a-year,
and twice as much in near expectancy. Her father,
who had once held his head pretty high in the com-
mercial world, had not long since become bankrupt,
and they were now living upon an annuity of little
more, I understood, than a hundred pounds, so
secured to Mr. Hervey that his creditors could not
touch it. This consideration, however, is one that
weighs very little with men in the condition of mind
of Capel and Travers, and I felt that once enthralled
by Constance Hervey's singular beauty, escape, or
resignation to disappointment was very difficult and
hard to bear. She .was no favourite of mine, just
then, by the way. I had first seen her about three
years previously, — and even then, whilst yet the
light, the simplicity, the candour, of young girlhood
lingered over, and softened the rising graces of the
woman, I read in the full depths of her dark eyes
an exultant consciousness of beauty, and the secret
instinct of its power. Let me, however, in fairness
state that I had myself — moon-calf that I must have
been — made sundry booby, blushing advances to the
youthful beauty, and the half- amused, half-derisive
merriment with which they were received, gave a twist,
no doubt, to my opinion of the merits of a person so pro •
vokingly blind to mine. Be this, however, as it may,
there could be no question that Constance Hervey
was now a very charming woman, and I was grieved
only, not surprised, at the bitter rivalry that had
sprung up between Travers and Capel, — a rivalry
which each successive day but fed and strengthened !
Capel appeared to be fast losing all control over his
temper and mode of life. He drank freely — that
was quite clear ; gambled, it was said, and rumours
of debt, protested bills, ready money raised at exor-
bitant interest on the faith of his succeeding to
Rowdell's post, flew thick as hail about the office.
Should he obtain the coveted six hundred a-year,
Constance Hervey would, I doubted not — first
favourite as Travers now seemed to be, — condescend
to be Mrs. Capel. This, not very complimentary
opinion, I had been mentally repeating some dozen
times with more than ordinary bitterness as I sat
alone one evening after dinner in our little dining-
room in Golden Square, when the decision came.
The Governor being out, I had perhaps taken a few
extra glasses of wine, and nothing, in my experience,
so lights up and inflames tender or exasperating
reminiscences as fine old port.
" Rat-tat- tat-tat." It was unmistakeably Travers's
knock, and boisterously-hilarious too as in the old
time, before any Constance Herveys had emerged from
pinafores and tuckers to distract and torment man-
kind, and more especially well-to-do Government
clerks. The startled maid-servant hastened to the
door, and I had barely gained my feet and stretched
myself, when in bounced Travers — radiant, — ablaze
with triumph.
" Hollo, Travers ! Why, where the deuce do
you spring from, eh ? "
"From Heaven! Paradise! — the presence of an
angel at all events ! "
"There, there, that will do ; I quite understand."
"No you don't, Ned. Nobody but myself can
understand, imagine, guess, dream of the extent,
the vastness of the change that has come over my
life. Firstly, then — but this is nothing, — Rowdell
is at length superannuated, and I am to have his
place."
He paused a moment ; and I, with certainly a
more than half-envious sneer, said, — " And upon the
strength of that piece of luck you have proposed to
Constance Hervey, and been accepted — of course."
" Jubilate — yes ! Feel how my pulse throbs ! It
is four hours since, and still my brain lightens and
my eyes dazzle with the tumultuous joy. Do not
light the candles ; I shall grow calmer in this twi-
light."
" Confound his raptures," was my internal ejacula-
tion. "Why the mischief couldn't he take them
somewhere else ? " I however said nothing, and he
presently resumed the grateful theme. "You will
be at the wedding, of course. And by-the-by, now
I think of it, haven't I heard Constance say she
especially remembers you for something — I forget
exactly what, — but something pleasant and amusing —
very ! "
My face kindled to flame, and I savagely whirled
the easy chair in which I sat two or three yards back
from the fire-light before speaking. " I am extremely
obliged te the lady, and so I dare say is poor Capel,
who, it seems, has been so carelessly thrown over."
"Carelessly thrown over !" rejoined Travers, sharply.
1 ' That is a very improper expression. If he has, as I
fear, indulged in illusions, he has been only _ self-
deceived. Still, his double disappointment grieves
me. It seems to cast — though there is no valid
reason that it should do so — a shadow on my con-
science."
We were both silent for some time. I was in no
mood for talking, and he sat gazing dreamily at the
fire. I knew very well whose face he saw there. I
have seen itfmyself in the same place a hundred times.
"There is another drawback, Ned," he at length
resumed. " Our marriage must be deferred six
months at the least. I have but about two hundred
pounds in ready money, and the lease and furniture
of the house we shall require, would cost at least
double that."
" Any respectable establishment would credit you
for the furniture upon the strength of your greatly-
increased salary."
" So I urged ; but Constance has such a perfect
horror of debt — arising no doubt from her father's
misfortunes, — that she positively insists we must wait
till everything required in our new establishment can
be paid for when purchased. I could, I think, raise
the money upon my own acceptance, but should
Constance hear that I had done so, she would, I fear,
withdraw her promise."
216
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
" Stuff and nonsense ! Six hundred a-year cannot
be picked up every day."
"You do not know Constance Hervey. But
come ; I must have patience ! Six — nine months are
not a lifetime. Good-by. I knew you would be
rejoiced to hear of my good fortune."
"Oh, of course, — particularly delighted, in fact!
Good evening." I have slept better than I did
that night.
It was Sunday evening when Travers called on
me, and Capel did not make his appearance at the
office till the Friday following, his excuse being
urgent private business. Harassing business, if
that were so, it must have been, for a sharp fever
could scarcely have produced a greater change for
the worse in his personal appearance. He was
mentally changed as greatly. He very heartily con-
gratulated Travers on his promotion, and took more-
over the first opportunity of privately assuring him
that his (Capel's) transient fancy for Miss Hervey had
entirely passed away, and he cordially complimented
his former rival on having succeeded in that quarter
also. This was all remarkably queer, / thought ;
but Travers, from whose mind a great load seemed
taken, willingly believed him, and they were better
friends than ever ; Capel, the more thoroughly, it
seemed, to mark his acquiescent indifference, accom-
panying Travers once or twice to the Herveys. So
did I ; though I would have given something the
first time to have been anywhere else ; for if a
certain kneeling down, garden-arbour scene did
not play about the lady's coral lips, and gleam for a
moment from the corners of her bewildering eyes,
my pulse was as steady and temperate just then, as
it is now, after the frosts of more than sixty winters
have chilled its beatings. She was however very
kind and courteous, a shade too considerately gentle
and patronizing, perhaps, and I became a rather fre-
quent visitor. An ancient aunt, and very worthy
soul lived with them, with whom I now and then
took a turn at backgammon, whilst the affianced
couple amused themselves with chess — such chess !
Travers was, I knew, a superior player, but on these
occasions he hardly appeared to know a queen from
a rook, or a bishop from a pawn. They were thus
absurdly engaged one evening, when I made a dis-
covery which, if it did not much surprise, greatly
pained and somewhat alarmed me. Aunt Jane had
left the room on some household intent, and I,
partly concealed in the recess where I sat, by the
window-curtain, silently contemplated the queer chess-
playing, the entranced delight of the lover, and the
calm, smiling graciousness of the lady. I have felt
in a more enviable frame of mind, — more composed,
more comfortable than I did just then, but, good lord !
what was my innocent little pit-pat compared with
the storm of hate, and fury, and despair, which found
terrific expression in the countenance that, as at-
tracted by a slight noise I hastily looked up, met my
view ! It was Capel's. He had entered the room, the
door being ajar, unobserved, and was gazing, as he
supposed, unmarked, at the chess-players. I was so
startled that I, mechanically as it were, sprang to
my feet, and as I did so, Capel's features, by a strong
effort of will, resumed their ordinary expression
"Save for the deathly pallor that remained, and a
nervous quivering of the upper lip which could not
be instantly mastered. I was more than satisfied
as to the true nature of smooth-seeming Mr. Capel's
sentiments towards the contracted couple, but as
they had observed nothing, I thought it wisest to hold
my peace. I could not, however, help smiling at the
confiding simplicity with which Travers, as we all
three walked homewards together, sought counsel of
Capel as to the readiest means of raising,— -unknown
to Miss Hervey, — the funds necessary to be obtained
before Prudence, as interpreted by that lady, would
permit his marriage. Slight help, thought I, for such
a purpose, will be afforded by the owner of the
amiable countenance I saw just now.
It was just a week after this that thunder fell upon
our office by the discovery that sixteen hundred
pounds in Bank of England notes, sent in by different
parties, late on the previous day, had disappeared,
together with a memorandum- book containing the
numbers and dates. Great, it may be imagined, was
the consternation amongst us all, and a rigorous
investigation, which however led to nothing, was
immediately instituted. Capel, who showed extra-
ordinary zeal in the matter, went, accompanied by
one of the chief-clerks, to the parties from whom the
notes had been received, for fresh lists, in order that
payment might be stopped. On their return, it was
given out that no accurate, reliable list could be
obtained. This, it was afterwards found, was a ruse
adopted in order to induce the thief or thieves to
more readily attempt getting the notes into circulation.
This occurred in the beginning of September, and
about the middle of October, Travers suddenly in-
formed me that he was to be married on the following
Monday, — this was Tuesday. The lease of a house
at Hammersmith had, he said, been agreed for, the
furniture ordered, and everything was to be com-
pleted and paid for by the end of the present week.
" And the money — the extra two hundred and odd
pounds required — how has that been obtained ? "
" Of my uncle, Woolridge, a marriage-^jft, though
he won't, I believe, be present at the v/edding,"
returned the bridegroom-elect with a joyous chuckle.
I was quite sure from his manner, as well as from my
knowledge of his uncle's penurious character, that
this was a deception. Constance Hervey's scruples,
I had always thought, now that it was certain his
next quarter's salary would be one hundred and fifty
pounds, were somewhat overstrained and unreason-
able,— still I was vexed that he had stooped to
deceive her by such a subterfuge. It was, however,
no especial affair of mine, and I reluctantly accepted
his invitation to dine at the Herveys with him on the
last day of his bachelorhood, that is, on the following
Sunday. Capel was invited, but he refused. I
also declined, and resolutely, to attend the wedding.
That would, I felt, be un peu trop fort just then.
A very pleasant party assembled at Mr. Hervey's
on the afternoon of that terrible Sunday, and we
were cheerfully chatting over the dessert, when the
servant-girl announced that four gentlemen were at
the door who said they mu$t see Mr. Travers in-
stantly.
" Must see me ! " exclaimed Travers. " Very
peremptory upon my word. With your leave, sir, —
yours Constance, I will see these very determined
gentlemen here. Bid them walk in, Susan."
Before Susan could do so, the door opened, and in
walked the strangers without invitation. One of
them, a square, thick-set, bullet-headed man it in-
stantly struck me I had been in company with before.
Oh ! to be sure ! — he was the officer who conducted
the investigation in the matter of the stolen notes.
What on earth could he want there — or with
Travers ?
*' You paid, Mr. Travers, "said he bluntly, "some-
thing over four hundred pounds to these two gentle-
men yesterday ? "
" Yes, certainly I did ; no doubt about it."
" Will you tell us, then, if you please, where you
obtained the notes in which you made those pay-
ments ? "
" Obtained them — where I obtained them ? " said
Travers, who did not, I think, immediately recognize
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
217
the officer. " To be sure. Four of them — four fifties,
• — I have had by me for some time ; — and — and
''"The two one-hundred pound notes, — how about
them ? " quietly suggested the man, seeing Travers
hesitate.
Travers, more confused than alarmed, perhaps,
but white as the paper on which I am writing,
glanced hurriedly round, — we had all impulsively
risen to our feet — till his eye rested upon Constance
Hervey's eagerly-attentive countenance. " I re-
ceived them/' he stammered, repeating, I was sure, a
falsehood, " from my uncle, Mr. Woolridge, of
Tottenham."
" Then, of course you will have no objection to
accompany us to your uncle, Mr. Woolridge, of
Tottenham?"
" Certainly not ;• but not now. To-morrow, — you
see I am engaged now."
" I am sorry to say, Mr. Travers, that you must go
with us. Those two notes were amongst those stolen
from the office to which you belong."
There was a half-stifled scream — a broken sob, and
but for me, Constance Hervey would have fallen
senseless on the floor. Travers was in the merciless
grasp of the officers, who needlessly hurried him oif,
spite of his frantic entreaties for a brief delay. The
confusion and terror of such a scene may be imagined,
not described. Although at first somewhat staggered,
five minutes had not passed before I felt thoroughly
satisfied that Travers was the victim of some diabolical
plot ; and I pretty well guessed of whose concoction.
An untruth, he had no doubt been guilty of, through
fear of displeasing his betrothed, — but guilty of steal-
ing money — of plundering the office ! — bah ! — the
bare supposition was an absurdity.
As soon as Miss Hervey was sufficiently recovered
to listen, I endeavoured to reason with her in this
sense, but she could not sufficiently command her
attention. " My brain is dizzy and confused as yet,"
she said; "do you follow, and ascertain, as far as
possible, all the truth. — the worst truth. I shall be
calmer when you return."
" I did so, and in less than two hours I was again
at Kensington. Travers was locked up, after con-
fessing that his statement of having received the
hundred-pound notes of his uncle, Woolridge, was
untrue. He would probably be examined at Bow
Street the next day — his wedding-day, as he had
fondly dreamed !
I found Constance Hervey — unlike her father and
aunt, who were moaning and lamenting about the
place like distracted creatures — perfectly calm and
self-possessed, though pale as Parian marble. I told
her all, — all I had heard and seen, and all that I sus-
pected. Her eyes kindled to intensest lustre as I
spoke. " I have no doubt," she said, " that your
suspicions point the right way, but proof, confronted
I as we shall be by that wretched falsehood, will, I fear
be difficult. But I will not despair i the truth will, I
trust, ultimately prevail. And remember, Thornton,"
she added, " that we count entirely upon you." She
gave me her hand on saying this ; I clutched it with
ridiculous enthusiasm, and blurted out, — as if I had
been a warlike knight instead of a peaceable clerk, —
" You may, Miss Hervey, to the death ! " In fact,
at that particular moment, although by no means
naturally pugnacious, and moreover of a somewhat
delicate constitution, I think I should have proved
an ugly customer had there been anybody in the way
to fight with. This, however, not being the case, I
consulted with Mr. Hervey as to what legal assistance
ought to be secured, and it was finally determined
that I should request Mr. Elkins, a solicitor residing
in Lothbury, to take Travers's instructions, and that
Mr. Alley, the barrister, should be retained to attend
at Bow Street. This matter settled, I took my
leave.
I had a very unsatisfactory account to render on
the morrow evening to the anxious family at Kensing-
ton. Travers's appearance at Bow Street had been
deferred at the request of his solicitor to Wednesday,
in order that the individual from whom the prisoner
now declared he had received the stolen notes might
be communicated with. The explanation given by
Travers to the solicitor was briefly this : — About
seven months previously he had amassed a consider-
able sum in guineas, — then bearing a high premium,
although it was an offence at law to dispose of them
for more in silver or notes than their nominal value.
Somebody, — Mr. Capel, he was pretty sure, but
would not be positive — mentioned to him the name of
one Louis Brocard, of No. 18, Brewer Street, as a
man who would be likely to give him a good price
for his gold. Travers accordingly saw Brocard, who,
after considerable haggling, paid him two hundred
pounds in Bank of England notes — four fifties, — for
(me hundred and sixty-two guineas. That lately he,
Travers, had often mentioned to Capel, that he
wished to raise, as secretly as possible, on his own
personal security, a sum of at least two hundred
pounds, and that Capel — this he was sure of, as not
more than a month had since elapsed — Capel had
advised him to apply to Louis Brocard for assistance.
He had done so, and Brocard had given him the two
one-hundred pound notes in exchange for a note of
hand, at six months' date, for two hundred and
twenty pounds. I had obtained temporary leave
of absence from the office, and at the solicitor's
request I accompanied him to Brewer Street. Brocard,
— a strong-featured, swarthy emiyre from the south
of France, Languedoc, I believe, who had been in
this country since '92, and spoke English fluently,
was at home, and I could not help thinking from his
manner, expecting, and prepared for some such visit.
There was a young woman with him, his niece, he
said, Marie Deschamps, of the same cast of features
as himself, but much handsomer, and with dark fiery
eyes, that upon the least excitement seemed to burn
like lightning. Brocard confirmed Travers's state-
ment without hesitation as to the purchase of the
gold and the discount of the bill. "In v/hat money
did you pay the two hundred pounds for which you
received the acceptance ? " asked the solicitor.
" I will tell you," replied Brocard, coolly. " Marie,
give me the pocket-book from the desk — the red
one. September 26th," he continued, after adjusting
his spectacles, " Martin Travers, four fifty Bank of
England notes," — and he read off the dates and
numbers, of which I possess no memoranda.
" Why, those are the notes, "exclaimed Mr. Elkins,
very much startled, and glancing at a list in his hand,
"which you paid Mr. Travers for the gold, and
which you and others I could name, knew he had
not since parted with ! "
A slight flush crossed the Frenchman's brow, and
the niece's eyes gleamed with fierce expression at
these words. The emotion thus displayed was but
momentary.
" You are misinformed," said Brocard. " Here is
a memorandum made at the time (March 3rd) of
the notes paid for the gold. You can read it your-
self. The largest in amount, you will see, was a
twenty."
"Do you mean to persist in asserting," said Mr.
Elkins, after several moments of dead silence, " that
you did not pay Mr. Travers for his bill of exchange
in two one-hundred pound notes ? "
"Persist," exclaimed the Frenchman. "I don't
understand your ' persist ! ' I have told you the
plain truth. Persist — -parbleu ! "
218
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
I was dumbfounded. "Pray, Monsieur Brocard,"
said the solicitor, suddenly; "Do you know Mr.
Capel ? "
The swarthy flush was plainer now, and not so
transitory. " Capel — Capel," he muttered, averting
his face towards his niece. " Do we know Capel,
Marie ? "
"No doubt your niece does, Mr. Brocard," said
the solicitor, with a sharp sneer, " or that eloquent
face of hers belies her."
In truth, Marie Deschamps' features were aflame
with confused and angry consciousness ; and her
brilliant eyes sparkled with quick ire, as she retorted,
— " And if I do, what then ? "
" Nothing, perhaps, young lady ; but my question
was addressed to your uncle."
"I have nothing more to say," rejoined Brocard.
" I know nothing of the hundred pound notes ; very
little of Mr. Capel, whom now, however, I remember.
And pray, sir," he added, with a cold, malignant
smile, — " did I not hear this morning, that Martin
Travers informed the officers that it was a relation,
an uncle, I believe, from whom he received the said
notes, — stolen notes, it seems ? He will endeavour to
inculpate some one else by-and-by, I dare say."
There was no parrying this thrust, and we came
away, much disturbed and discouraged. I remained
late that evening at Kensington, talking the unfor-
tunate matter over ; but hope, alas ! of a safe deliver-
ance for poor Travers appeared impossible, should
Brocard persist in his statement. The prisoner's
lodgings had been minutely searched, but no trace of
the still missing fourteen hundred pounds had been
discovered there. Constance Hervey appeared to be
greatly struck with my account of Marie Deschamps'
appearance and demeanour, and made me repeat each
circumstance over and over again. I could not com-
prehend how this could so much interest her at such
a time.
Brocard repeated his statement, on oath, at Bow
Street, and Mr. Alley's cross-examination failed to
shake his testimony. The first declaration made by
Travers necessarily deprived his after protestations,
vehement as they were, of all respect ; but I could
not help feeling surprise that the barrister's suggestion
that it was absurd to suppose that a man in possesion
of the very large sum that had been stolen, would
have borrowed two hundred pounds at an exorbitant
interest, was treated with contempt. All that, it was
hinted, was a mere colourable contrivance to be used
in case of detection. The prisoner feared to put too
many of the notes in circulation at once, and the
acceptance would have been paid for in the stolen
moneys, and so on. Finally, Travers was committed
for trial, and bail was refused.
As the star of the unfortunate Travers sank in
disastrous eclipse, that of Capel shone more brilliantly.
There was no doubt that he would succeed, on his
rival's conviction, to the vacated post ; and some eight
or nine weeks after Travers had been committed, cir-
cumstances occurred which induced me to believe that
he would be equally successful in another respect.
I must also say that Capel evinced from the first much
sorrow for his old friend's lamentable fall ; he treated
the notion of his being guiltless with disdain, and
taking me one day aside, he said he should endeavour
to get Brocard out of the country before the day of
trial either by fair means or by tipping him the Alien
Act. "In fact," he added, with some confusion of
manner, "I have faithfully promised Miss Hervey,
that for Jier sake, though she can have no more doubt
of his guilt than I have, that no effort shall be spared
to prevent his legal conviction ; albeit, life, without
character will be, I should think, no great boon to
him."
" For her sake ! You, Edward Capel, have faith-
fully p'romised Miss Hervey to attempt this for lier
sake ! " I exclaimed, as soon as I could speak for
sheer astonishment.
" Ay, truly ; does that surprise you, Thornton ? " he
added with a half-bitter, half-Malvolio smile.
"Supremely ; and if it be as your manner intimates,
why then, Frailty, thy name in very truth is —
"Woman ! " broke in Capel, taking the word out
of my mouth. "No doubt of it, from the days of Eve
till ours. But come, let us return to business."
I had been for some time grievously perplexed by
the behaviour of Constance Hervey. Whenever I had
called at Kensington, I found, that though at times
she appeared to be on the point of breaking through a
self-imposed restraint, all mention of Travers, as far as
possible, was avoided, and that some new object
engrossed the mind of Constance, to the exclusion of
every other. What a light did this revelation of
Capel's throw on her conduct and its motives ! And
it was such a woman as that, was it, that I had
enshrined in the inmost recesses of my heart, and
worshipped as almost a divinity ! Great God !
These thoughts were trembling on my lips, when a
brief note was brought me : — " Miss Hervey's com-
pliments to Mr. Edward Thornton, and she will be
obliged if, late as it is, he will hasten to Kensington
immediately." I had never seen a line of her's before
in my life, and it was wonderful how all my anger,
suspicion, scorn, vanished, — exhaled, before those
little fly-stroke characters ; so much so that — but no,
I won't expose myself. A hack soon conveyed me to
Kensington ; Mr. Hervey, Constance, and good Aunt
Jane were all there in the parlour, evidently in expec-
tation of my arrival. Miss Hervey proceeded to
business at once.
" You have not seen Marie Deschamps lately, I
believe?"
" Not I ! The last time I saw her was in Bow Street,
whither she accompanied her scoundrel of an uncle."
" Well, you must see her again to-morrow. She is
deeply attached to Mr. Capel, and expects that he
will marry her as soon as Martin Travers is convicted ;
and he, Capel, has secured the vacant place."
"Ha!"
"Mr. Capel," continued Miss Hervey, and a glint
of sparkling sunlight shot from her charming eyes,
"has been foolish enough to prefer another person, — -
at least so I am instructed by Papa, with whom the
gentleman left this note, not yet opened, addressed
to me, some three hours since. I can imagine its
contents, but let us see."
I cannot depict in words the scorn, contempt, pride,
— triumph, too, — that swept over that beautiful coun-
tenance. " Very impassioned, and eloquent, upon
my word," she said ; "I only wonder such burning
words did not fire the paper. Now, Mr. Thornton,
you must see this forsaken damsel, Marie Deschamps,
and acquaint her with Mr. Capel's inconstancy. She
will require proof, — it shall be afforded her. In
answer to this missive, I shall appoint Mr. Capel to
see me here to-morrow evening at seven o'clock. Do
you bring her by half-past six, and place yourselves
in yon little ante-room, where everything done here,
and every word spoken, can be distinctly seen and
heard. This well managed, I am greatly deceived in
those southern eyes of hers if the iniquitous plot, of
which there can be no doubt she holds the clue, will
not receive an unlooked-for solution."
" Charming ! glorious ! beautiful ! " I was break-
ing into Eclats of enthusiastic admiration, but Miss
Hervey, who was too earnest and excited to listen
patiently to rhapsodies, cut me short with "My dear
sir, it's getting very late ; and there is, you know,
much to be done to-morrow." It's no't pleasant to be
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
219
let down so suddenly when you are particularly stilty,
but as I was by this time pretty well used to it, I
submitted with the best possible grace, and, after
receiving some other explanations and directions, took
leave.
I obtained an interview without difficulty, on the
following morning, with Marie Deschamps, just
before office hours, and in her uncle's absence. She
was curious to know the object of my visit ; but her
manner, though free and gay, was carefully guarded
and unrelenting, till I gradually and cautiously intro-
duced the subject of Capel's infidelity. It was mar-
vellous how, as each sentence fell upon her ear, her
figure stiffened into statue-like rigidity, and her eyes
kindled with fiery passion. " If this be so," she said,
when I ceased speaking, "he is playing with his life !
Is she the lady I passed a fortnight since, when with
him in the Park ?" "Describe the lady, and I will
tell you." She did so ; it was the exact portrait of
Miss Hervey, and so I told her. " I had a misgiving
at the time," she said ; "if it prove true, — but I will
believe, after what has passed, only my own eyes and
ears."
This was all we desired ; a satisfactory arrangement
was agreed upon, and I left her, not without hugging
self-gratulation that / was not the recreant sweet-
heart about to be caught in flagrante delicto by such a
damsel.
I watched Capel that day with keen attention.
He was much excited it was evident, and withal ill at
ease : there was a nervous apprehensiveness in his man-
ner and aspect I had never before noticed, over which,
however, from time to time quick flashes of exultation
flimmered, sparkled, and then vanished. Is it, thought
, the shadow of a sinister catastrophe that already
projects over and awes, appals him ? It might be.
Marie Deschamps and I were ensconced punctually
at the hour named in the little slip of a closet com-
municating with the Hervey s' up- stairs sitting-room.
Nobody appeared there till about five minutes to
seven, when Constance, charmingly attired, and look-
ing divinely, — though much agitated I could see
through all her assumed firmness, — entered, and
seated herself upon a small couch, directly in front
of the tiny window through which we cautiously
peered. "No wonder," I mentally exclaimed, "that
Capel has been beguiled of all sense or discretion ! "
In reply to Marie Deschamps' look of jealous yet
admiring surprise, I whispered, pointing to the neat
but poor furniture, " Capel expects, you know, soon
to have six hundred a year." " Ah," she rejoined, in
the same tone, " and in this country gold is God ! "
" And all the Saints in your's, I believe ; but hark !
there is a knock at the door ; it is he, no doubt."
Comparatively dark as the closet was, I could see
the red, swarthy colour come and go on the young
woman's cheeks and forehead ; and I fancied I could
hear the violent and hurried beating of her heart.
Presently Mr. Capel entered the apartment ; his
features were flushed as with fever, and his whole
manner exhibited uncontrollable agitation. His first
words were unintelligible, albeit their purport might
be guessed. Miss Hervey, though much disturbed
also, managed to say, after a few moments' awkward
silence, and with a half-ironical yet fascinating smile,
taking up as she spoke a letter which lay upon the
table, " Upon my word, Mr. Capel, this abrupt pro-
posal of your's appears to me, under the circum-
stances, to be singularly ill-timed and premature,
besides — '
The lady's discomposure had, it struck me, dissi-
pated a half-formed suspicion in Capel's mind that
some trap or mystification was prepai'ing for him,
and, throwing himself at the feet of Constance, he
gave way to a torrent of fervent, headlong protesta-
tion, which there could be no question was the
utterance of genuine passion. Marie Deschamps
felt this, and but that I forcibly held her back, she
would have burst into the room at once : as it was
she pressed her arms across her bosom with her
utmost force, as if to compress, keep down, the wild
rage by which she was, I saw, shaken and convulsed.
Miss Hervey appeared affected by Capel's vehemence,
and she insisted that he should rise and seat himself.
He did so, and after a minute or so of silence,
Constance again resolutely addressed herself to the
task she had determined to perform.
" But the lady, Mr. Capel, whom we saw you con-
versing with not long since in the Park ; one Marie — •
Marie, something?" —
"The name of such a person as Marie Deschamps
should not sully Miss Hervey's lips, even in jest ;
ha ! — "
No wonder he stopped abruptly, and turned round
with quick alarm. Till that moment I had with
difficulty succeeded in holding the said Marie, but no
sooner was her name thus contemptuously pro-
nounced, than she plucked a small, glittering instru-
ment from her bodice, — the half of a pair of scissors,
it seemed to me, but pointed and sharp as a dagger,
— and drove it into my arm with such hearty good-
will, that I loosed her in a twinkling. In she burst
upon the utterly astounded Capel with a ciy of
rage and vengeance, and struck furiously at him
right and left, at the same time hurling in
his face the epithets of " liar ! " " traitor ! "
"robber!" "villain!" and so on, as thick as hail,
and with maniacal fury. I had instantly followed,
and at the same moment Mr. Hervey, and the officer
who arrested Travers, came in by another door.
I and Mr. Hervey placed ourselves before Constance,
who was terribly scared, for this stabbing business
was more than we had looked or bargained for. The
officer seized Marie Deschamps' arm, and with some
difficulty wrenched the dangerous weapon she wielded
with such deadly ferocity from her grasp. It was as
I supposed, a sharpened scissors-blade, and keen, as a
large scar on my arm still testifies, as a poniard.
Capel, paralyzed, bewildered by so unexpected and
furious an attack, and bleeding in several places,
though not seriously hurt, staggered back to the wall,
against which he supported himself, as he gazed with
haggard fear and astonishment at the menacing scene
before him.
"And so you would marry that lady, thief and
villain that you are ! " continued the relentless young
fury ; " she shall know, then, what you are ; that it
was you contrived the stealing of the bank notes,
which — "
" Marie ! " shrieked Capel, " dear Marie ! for your
own sake, stop ! I will do anything — '
"Dog! traitor!" she broke in, with even yet
wilder passion than before, if that were possible ;
"it is too late. I know you now, and spit at both
you and your promises ! It was you, I say, who
brought my uncle the one hundred pound notes by
which your friend, Martin Travers, has been entrap-
ped ! "
" 'Tis false ! the passionate, mad, jealous fool lies !"
shouted Capel, with frantic terror.
" Lie, do I ? Then there is not a thousand pounds
worth of the stolen notes concealed at this moment
beneath the floor of your sitting-room, till an oppor-
tunity can be found of sending them abroad ! That,
unmatched villain that you are ! is false too, per-
haps ? "
She paused from sheer exhaustion, and for a brief
space no one spoke, so suddenly had the blow fallen.
Presently the officer said, " The game is up, you see,
at last, Mr. Capel ; you will go with me ;" and he
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
stepped towards the unhappy culprit. Capel, tho-.
roughly desperate, turned, sprang with surprising
agility over a dining-table, threw up a window-sash,
and leapt into the street. The height was not so much,
but his feet caught in some iron railing, and he fell
head foremost on the pavement, fracturing his skull
frightfully. Before an hour had passed, he was dead.
Brocard contrived to escape, but the evidence of
Marie Deschamps and the finding of the stolen notes,
in accordance with her statement, fully established
the innocence of Travers, and he was restored to
freedom and his former position in the world. He
and Constance Hervey, to whom he owed so much,
were married three months after ihis liberation, and
I officiated, by particular desire, as bride's father.
I had lost sight of Marie Deschamps for some
twelve or thirteen years, when I accidentally met her
in Liverpool. She was a widow, having married and
buried a M. L'Estrange, a well-to-do person there,
who left her in decent circumstances. We spoke
together of the events I have briefly but faithfully
narrated, and she expressed much contrition for the
share she had taken in the conspiracy against Travers.
I fancied, too, — it was perhaps an unjust fancy, —
that, knowing I had lately been promoted to four
hundred a year, she wished to dazzle me with those
still bright eyes of hers, — a bootless effort, by whom-
soever attempted. The talismanic image daguerreo-
typed upon my heart in the bright sunlight of young
manhood could have no rival there, and is even now
as fresh and radiant as when first impressed, albeit
the strong years have done their work, yet very
gently, upon the original. It could scarcely be other-
wise, living visibly, as she still does, in youthful grace
and beauty in the person of the gay gipsy I am,
please God, soon to "give away," at St. Pancras
Church, as I did her grandmama, more than forty
years ago, at Kensington. Constance, this Constance
is, as she well knows, to be my heiress. Travers,
her grandfather, is now a silver-haired, yet hale,
jocund, old man ; and so tenderly, I repeat, has Time
dealt with his wife, — the Constance Hervey of this
narrative, — that I can sometimes hardly believe her
to be more than about three or four and forty years
of age. This is, however, perhaps only an illusion of
the long and, whatever fools or sceptics may think or
say, elevating dream that has pursued me through
youth and middle age, even unto confirmed old bache-
lorhood. ^ Madame L'Estrange, as before stated, died
a short time since at Liverpool ; her death, by in-
fluenza, the paper noticed was sudden and unex-
pected.
SHORT NOTES.
Assurance of Railway Servants.
THE men who work our railways must be regarded
as amongst the most important and useful of the
operative classes. Thousands of lives are daily com-
mitted to their charge. The internal communications
of the country are worked by them. Passengers, on
manifold messages of business, of pleasure, of duty,
and of affection, are indebted to their skill, punctu-
ality, and sobriety, for their safe transit from station
to station, sometimes hundreds of miles apart. The
duties, for instance, of an engine-driver, are of a
most onerous kind ; requiring constant outlook and
untiring wakefulness, exposed though he be, in these
severe winter months, to frost, snow, hail, and biting
winds, through which he cuts at the rate of thirty
miles an hour. Of course, if there be danger, he is
the first to encounter it ; but apart from the risk of
overturns and collisions, the engine-driver is always
encountering danger from exposure to excessive colds
in one part of his body, and high heats in another.
While his head is exposed to the driving blast, his
body is heated by the boiler against which he leans,
or by the blazing furnace into which the stoker
shovels coke from time to time. Hence, both
engine-drivers and stokers are extremely subject to
diseases of the throat and chest ; and many of them
are subject to constant hoarseness, indicating inflam-
matory affections of the windpipe and larynx. We
say this by way of introduction to the brief notice of
a scheme which we have seen promulgated for the
insurance of the lives of this useful class of operatives,
as well as of all other servants employed in the work-
ing of railways. The Railway Passengers' Assurance
Company has formed a scale of premiums at which
it offers to insure them, in case of death or accident,
caused by railway traffic ; and the Lancashire and
Yorkshire Company have already entered in a
contract with the Assurance Company for this pur-
pose, for the insurance of upwards of 1,400 of their
servants. By the arrangement made, the men are
required to pay a certain weekly contribution as
follows, and the Company makes up the deficiency
out of its own funds, — thus : —
Weekly.
Each engine-driver pays . . 4d.
Each stoker, guard, and
breaksman 2d.
Each porter, policeman,
switchman, mechanic,
&c id.
Annually.
The Company pay 8s. 8d.
Ditto
Ditto
10s. lOd.
Os. lid.
For which the following benefits are secured —
Engine-drivers receive 25s. a week, for 15 weeks, in event of
injury from accidents; and their survivors, in event of their
death, ^60.
Stokers, guards, and breaksmen receive 18s. 9d. a week; and
their survivors, ^'50.
Porters, policemen, &c. &c. receive 12s. a week ; and their
survivors, ^40.
We certainly do think that the Lancashire and
Yorkshire Railway Directors have adopted an en-
lightened policy in the course they have thus taken.
Every one will admit the importance of encouraging
operatives of all classes in habits of forethought and
provident economy, and in making a provision for
their families in event of death or accident. And a
public body such as a railway company can really do
their operatives a real service by aiding them after
such a plan as the above. They have the power of
educating their men into provident habits in such a
way, and we need scarcely say that the thoughtful
and provident man will usually be found all the
better as an operative because of his thoughtfulness.
Leave «the men to provide for themselves, each in
his own club, and probably not one half would, from
sheer thoughtlessness, adopt the precaution of insur-
ing themselves against accidents. And where they
so, they may invest their earnings with clubs
do
framed on an insecure basis, and whose funds are
unable to fulfil the promises of relief which they hold
out to their members in their time of need. And
finally, there is the economy as regards the railway
company itself, which in case of accidents is usually
required to contribute largely towards the main-
tenance of the injured servant, or the help of his
survivors if he is killed, — a source of expense
which will in future be avoided by this wise adoption
of the assurance principle ,on a large and liberal
system.
Spelling Eeform.
IN a recent memoir of the Able St. Pierre, we stated
that he "anticipated the Messrs. Pitman of Bath in
the advocacy of a Phonetic Language." An intelli-
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
221
gent correspondent informs us that the Abbe himself
was anticipated by several other spelling reformers.
For instance, by Sir Thomas Smith, in 1542 ; by
John Hart, in 1569 ; and by Bishop Wilkins, in
16G8. Tiie object of such proposed reform, as our
readers are aware, is to improve the orthography of
our lang ; age, by appropriating a sign to each sound
employed by us. We are not disposed to under-
estimate the value of the proposed reform ; but we
cannot help thinking it to be somewhat exaggerated.
Our opinion is, that more would be lost than gained
by having it carried into effect. We should lose the
peculiar character, and the historical associations of
many words, which give to them so vivid an interest ;
and which the existing method of spelling enables us
at a glance to detect. Indeed, the peculiar manner of
spelling words by all nations (though their sound be
the same) is a venerable memorial of the past ; it is
full of historic interest, and often strikingly illustra-
tive of national character. We should greatly regret
to lose the lineaments which indicate the origin of
words, their birthplace, growth, and the traditions
associated with them. To alter the spelling with
every conventional alteration in the mode of pro-
nunciation, would be to obliterate the distinction and
hereditary features of words, and to destroy their
living principle, making them mere sounds and
nothing more. As Mr. Trench finely observes, in
his recent Lectures on the Study of Words, — "Words
have now an ancestry ; and the ancestry of words, as
of men, is often a very noble part of them, making
them capable of great things, because those from
whom they were derived have done great things for
them. Words are now a nation, grouped into
families, some larger, some smaller ; and this change
[the phonetic] would go far to reduce them to a wild
and barbarous horde." Doubtless children might be
easier taught to read phonetic language ; but there
is no difficulty in teaching children to read the non-pho-
netic language. What is wanted to enable our rising
generation to be educated, is not a new and easy
mode of spelling, but sufficient schools and teachers,
adequately supported. The learning to read is the
easiest part of learning ; and even infants can master
the existing alphabet, and acquire the art of reading,
without any difficulty worthy of mention. And if
there be a difficulty, we hold that the child's having
to overcome it is a most valuable training. On the
whole, however we may admire the energy of the
Spelling Reformers in pressing their views on the
attention of the public, and the unquestionable
sincerity of their motives, — we cannot help feeling
that they have engaged in a hopeless task, and that
the fact of the existence of the non-phonetic language,
in which all existing literature is written, is of itself
a valid and insurmountable objection with most living,
reading men, against the adoption of a system which
would revolutionise the spelling of all the books on
our shelves, and necessitate our being sent back to
school again to acquire the art of reading them. And
just fancy reading Shakspere or Burns in the pho-
netic language !
Law of Partnership.
THE present imperfect state of the Law of Partnership
having been found to operate to the great disadvan-
tage of industrial associations of the working classes,
by deterring persons of capital from joining or aiding
them, a Committee of the House of Commons sat to take
evidence on the subject last session, and their report is
now before us. At present every person joining one
of such associations, is liable to an unlimited extent.
The evidence taken before the committee went to show
that it would be of great public advantage, were a
general law passed, enabling associations to be earned.
on, in which the liability of the individual partners
should be limited. In Italy, Belgium, France, and
other continental countries, such a law has been
found to work very advantageously, as well as in
various states of the American Union. It is merely
an extension of the joint stock system, enabling
persons to invest their spare capital with advantage
to themselves, as well as for the promotion of the
general prosperity. Such facilities for the invest-
ment of surplus capital seemed very greatly to be
desired ; and the rate at which capital has increased
in this country during the last thirty years has been
very extraordinary. For instance, the assessments
to the property tax show that the annual value of
land has during that period increased from £39, 405, 000
in 1815, to £47,981,000 in 1848 ; of houses in towns.
from £16,259,000 to £43,314,000; and of railways,
gas-works, &c., from £636,000 to £8,885,000. Mr.
Phillimore gave it as his opinion that much of the
wild speculation in railways a few years ago, arose
in a great measure from no safe investment being
open to parties of the middle classes who had money
to lay out. It seems but fair that a person, for
instance, who has £100 to lay out, should be able to
say, — " Here is £100 which I am ready to invest in
your association or undertaking, and to the extent of
that £100 I will be responsible, but not beyond it."
At present he cannot do this, but is responsible, if
he enter upon an associative undertaking, to the
whole amount of his means. In America and
Switzerland, many manufactories are carried on by
small capitalists and working people on the system
of limited responsibility, and in the former country,
whale-fishing is almost entirely carried on upon
the small partnership system ; the practice tend-
ing greatly to the encouragement of industrious
and persevering habits among the people. The
substance of the recommendations of the com-
mittee is contained in these clauses of the report,
recommending, — First. That charters of limited lia-
bility, for useful undertakings, should be granted by
the Crown with due caution, but at a far more
reasonable cost than at present. And Secondly.
That where several industrious men work together,
with a small capital, the law should provide a remedy
against fraud on the part of any dishonest partner,
and a summary mode of enforcing the rules agreed
to for mutual government. So that a law on this
important subject may be expected shortly, providing
increased facilities for the establishment of industrial
associations.
Emigration.
THE Eleventh general Report of the Land and
Emigration Commissioners, just published, contains
some interesting facts relative to the progress of
emigration. It appears that the United States of
America are still the favourite emigration fields ;
after them, ranks British North America ; then the
Australian Colonies, including New Zealand ; and
lastly, Port Natal and the Cape. The number of
people leaving the country still goes on increasing.
In the three years ending 1849, 805,000 persons left
Great Britain to seek homes in other countries ; but
in the present year the tfumber is still greater, Irish
emigrants alone going forth from their country to the
United States at the rate of about a thousand a-day.
The emigration from Great Britain during the first
four months of last year, exceeded that of 1848 by
not less than 37 per cent. ! As a general rule, the
Irish go to the United States and British North
America; and the English and Scotch to Australia
and New Zealand. But strangely enough, the
Scotch, notorious for their wandering propensity,
have latterly ceased to emigrate in any considerable
222
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
numbers ; the thriving state of trade and manufac-
tures in that country serving to keep them at home.
Emigration direct from the Irish ports has decreased ;
which is doubtless attributable to the superior quality
and cheapness of the Liverpool ships ; and as the
Liverpool shipowners are about to put on a line of
screw steamers for the conveyance of emigrants, the
flow of emigration through that town may be
expected to increase rather than diminish. How
have the means been found to enable so large a body
of emigrants as we have named, to pay their passage
to America ? By the help of their friends who had
§one out before them. The money paid in the
tates for passages, or transmitted to this country
for the same purpose, amounted in 1849, to £540,000 ;
and in 1850, the sums sent, principally to Ireland,
to help poor relatives to emigrate, amounted to little
short of a million of pounds sterling ! It is impossible
to withhold admiration from so striking a proof of
the generosity and affectionate relationship which
exist among the Irish poor. The funds for the
removal of emigrants to Australia, have been pro-
vided in a great measure out of the land funds of the
Australian Colonies, and partly also by the British
Government, and by the emigrants themselves. Of
£570,000 expended on Australian emigration, from
1847 to 1850, not less than £460,000 was provided
from the Australian land funds, and the general
revenue of the Cape of Good Hope. Increasing-
pains are taken by the Commissioners of Emigration
to provide comfortable homes for the emigrants
before sailing from their port of debarkation, in pro-
tecting them against fraud, and also in improving
the accommodation, lighting, and ventilation of emi-
grant ships. It does not seem improbable • that a
large increase will take place in the emigration to
the Australian colonies during the next few years,
in consequence of the discovery of gold there ; to
meet which, a line of ocean steamers is shortly to
be put on. And if, as is very probable, gold regions
be discovered in Van Dieman's Land and New
Zealand, these colonies will also partake of the
increase. We have not yet seen the . beginning of
the "exodus" of the English agricultural population;
it will begin when they have become better educated
— perhaps not till then.
A BATTLE FOE LIFE AND DEATH.
A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.
IV.— THE VOYAGE AND THE LANDING.
THE emigrants got safe on board, and a fair wind
earned them out of the Mersey and away to sea.
It was evening : and the decks were full of
passengers, gazing towards the land, which was still in
sight. To many it was the last glimpse of Old
England which they were destined to enjoy. Their
looks lingered about the dear old land,— the home of
their childhood, the country of their birth, the
land of their fathers. There were few on board
who did not feel a thrill through their frame, as
they thought of that glorious old mother-country,
cruel stepmother though she had been to many of
them. They were flying from the shores that they
loved, towards the unreclaimed wilds of the Far
West, across a wide ocean, to find that bountiful
subsistence which their own land had denied them.
This was but one of a thousand ships steering across
that stormy ocean, freighted with the life-blood of
the old country; for it is not lords and princes
which make a land rich and powerful, but hard-
working, industrious men, and it was with this class
that these emigrant ships were chiefly laden.
They continued to gaze towards the land, which
was now fast receding from their sight. The sun
still shone upon the Welsh hills, and tipped them
with his golden radiance. The ship's bulwarks were
crowded on the side next the shore, and men and
women looked their last at the old country. Families
stood in groups, whispering to each other, — some
sobbing and weeping, others gazing in sad and
sorrowful silence. One group contained a manly
youth and his mother, whosB widow's weeds told of
her recent bereavement, and the children who stood
round her showed that their appeal for life in a land
of plenty, now that their bread-winner had been
taken from them, had not been in vain. There were
many young couples there, obviously not long
married ; some with an infant at the breast as
their only charge, others with a small group of
little children about them. In the case of others,
the union had been still more recent ; they had
married, and embarked. Emigration was their first
step in life, and a voyage across the Atlantic their
venturous wedding- trip. There were many young men
there, — mechanics, ploughmen, labourers, blacksmiths,
all bronzed with the hue of labour ; these men were
of the kind that forms the true stamina of a nation,
— hard-working men, thoughtful and foreseeing, who
did not shrink from braving perils, storms, and hard-
ships, for the sake of ultimate good and eventual
well-being. Among them stood old Joe the poacher,
his aged wife, and their son, who led them on the way
towards the land of his adoption.
"You take it sore to heart," said Joe, in a
sympathizing tone of voice, addressing the widow ;
" cheer up, better times are coming for you and all
of us ! "
" Ah sad, indeed ! And isn't it a sad thing to
leave the land that has bred and nursed us ? "
" Not so very sad if the nursing has been starva-
tion," said Joe.
"Ah!" said she, "you speak bitterly; perhaps
you have cause. For myself, it is like tearing my
very life from me to leave England ; for I was born
there, was kindly nursed there, bore my children
there, listened to Sabbath bells there, and alas ! I
have left the dear partner of my married life under
the green sod there ! "
" But you have joys in store still," said Bill ; " in
the country whither you are going, the future of these
fine fellows about you will be a bright one."
"It is the hope of that alone which has led me
thus far : I thought of them, and consented to go.
It was a sad struggle ; but I must not look back now."
"Eight!" said Bill. "Look forward, and with
hope. ^ America is wide enough for all the dis-
possessed of Britain and of Europe. Her lands are
rich enough to feed the starved of all nations. See !
there is a group who seem to owe little love to the
land they are leaving behind them ! "
It was a group of Irish emigrants, — the lines of
hunger traced deep in their cheeks. They were
miserably clad, — a few of them wore the tattered
great-coat, which seems almost to form the national
uniform of the country, and their shapeless hats were
many of them shorn of the rim, or patched, so that
the original form had entirely disappeared.
"Yet those wretched-looking fellows make our
best and most industrious emigrants," continued he.
" In a few years, these men will have exchanged the
look of the slave for that of the free man. They will
have saved money and bought land, besides paying
the passage of ever so many of their relations, old
and young, from Ireland to America, who thrive and
get on like the rest, but never give up their burning
hatred of the oppression and cruelty which has driven
them from their own country."
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
223
" Why, for that matter," said Joe, " there are thou-
sands now going from England, who carry out no
otner freight than hatred to the old country, which
has hunted them forth from it. What do I owe to the
men who ruined me, who drove me to poaching,
made my wife a beggar, and my son a "
"Hold, father!" said Bill, "let bygones be
bygones. Settling in a new country is like a new
leaf turned over in a man's life, — let's say no more of
the previous ones. But the land 's now out of sight, and
it grows dark and cold. Let's below ! "
The ship sailed on ; the little specks of light upon
the rocks and headlands along the English coast
came out in the dark one by one, but these, too,
disappeared, and there was nothing but the crowded
emigrant- ship and the wide waste of waters on
every side.
Morning came, and now might be seen the Irish
emigrants peering into the north-west, whereabout
their Old Ireland lay. They hailed it by the most
loving names ; all day the shore was seen on the lee-
bow, like a low-lying cloud, — the outlines of the
land but faintly visible. Still it was Ireland, — dear Old
Ireland, — the Green Island, — the land that had starved
and beggared those men and women who had loved it
so, and whose hearts clung about it still ! The country
that had scourged them, dishoused them, driven them
forth as outcasts, and which they yet loved ! The old
women sat rocking themselves to and fro, with their
faces towards the land ; the girls uttered loud laments ;
the men wept. One Irish girl there was, of about
fourteen, who was alone on board, — she seemed the
most indifferent of the party. Her relations were
all in America, — she was the last of the family that
had been sent for ; and now, her passage paid by her
brother, who had sent home the funds, she looked
forward with joy to the new land. Ireland was
nothing to her. She had no kindly memories
clinging about it. Ireland had been only sorrow,
disaster, and privation of friends to her. All her
hopes and joys lay across the wide ocean.
But Ireland, too, faded from sight, and now the
emigrant-ship was "alone, all alone on the bound-
less sea."
Dull and wearisome, indeed, passed those long six
weeks upon the ocean. Adverse winds, then calms,
then a storm, then a favourable breeze, then a calm
again. The crowded, uncomfortable steerage ; the
wet decks ; the sickening roll of the ship ; the
imsavoury, ill-cooked victuals ; the same round of
faces, some complaining, many melancholy, a few
merry and sad by turns, but all at length tiresome.
Bilge-water, hard biscuit, musty flour, bad coffee,
hard hammocks, nausea, foul air, dead timber, tarred
ropes, wind, and wet, — the emigrant must brave all
these horrors, and suffer them, before he can reach
his far-off home across the deep.
But there are dangers greater even than these to
be encountered by our emigrants, — the perils of the
storm raging off a rock-bound shore ! One day, about
noon, the wind began to freshen, it gradually in-
creased to a gale, and the night closed in black and
stormy. The wind howled as it blew through the
rigging ; the vessel heaved and pitched in the
trough of the sea, and then went careering over
the summits of the uplifted billows. Occasionally a
wave would break against the ship, and make it
shake and shiver through all its timbers. But the
labouring vessel gallantly recovered herself, and on
she went, plunging through the fierce waters.
The morning dawned ; the weather was still dark
and rough, and no solar observation could be taken.
The captain believed himself to be somewhere off the
main-land of America, nearing the coast of Nova
Scotia ; but he had lost reckoning, and all that he
could do was to keep the ship before the wind, under
double reefed top-sails. While he was pacing the
deck in great anxiety, the look-out man on the mast-
head cried out, "Breakers a-head ! " "Where a-
way ? " " On the lee-bow ! " Those who still dared
to brave the storm on deck, among whom was our old
friend the poacher and his son, could see through the
gloom the line of white breakers a-head, stretching
away right and left. There was but little time to
tack, and, indeed, it was scarcely possible in such a
storm. In a few seconds the vessel struck with a
grinding crash upon a rock, with all her weight.
She then swung round broadside on the rock, and fell
over to windward.
The passengers had by this time rushed on deck,
in a frightful state of terror. The water was already
rushing in below. Now was heard the voice of
prayer from those who had never prayed before.
Some shrieked, some moaned, and some cursed.
"Clear away the boats ! " shouted the captain ; and
one by one the boats were lowered into the water on
the lee-side of the ship, where the water was the
smoothest, though the long waves dashed angrily over
the doomed vessel. There was a rush to the boats,
but old Joe stood forward, and called out, — " Not a
man stir from on board, until the women and
children are safe ! " The captain insisted on this
order being observed, and the women and children
were lowered into the boats. The sea was terrible ;
yet the boats, tossed as they were on the boiling
surf like so many pieces of cork, managed to live.
The boats neared the land, — they were safe !
"Now," said the captain, "we must manage to
save ourselves as we can, — the ship is going to
pieces ! " Almost while he spoke a wave broke
heavily on the stern part of the vessel, and she
parted amid-ships. Some clung to pieces of the
wreck, and were carried away on the advancing
waves. Joe and his son found themselves clinging
to a part of the ship's bulwarks and netting,
struggling to keep themselves above water, for
neither could swim. Suddenly, Joe called out, —
" We are safe ! I feel the bottom ! " They had been
washed inside the reef of rocks, and were but a
score fathoms from land. The women and children
who had been saved, piteously wailed along the
shore, some crying for brothers, others for husbands,
whom they dreaded were among the lost. They cried
and shrieked amidst the shreds of the wreck, which,
by this time lay strewn along the shore, — timbers,
planks, boats, beds, barrels, emigrants' chests and bag-
gage. The ill-fated vessel had now entirely disappeared.
Joe and his son reached the strand, and clambered
upon dry land. Old Kitty was the first to welcome
them. She clung round her old husband, and wept
sweet tears for his safety.
" It's a rough landing in the new land," said Joe to
his son ; " but I hope the worst is over. Now, let us
see if we can help the others."
They walked along the strand, upon which the
surf was still dashing its spray, washing ashore bits
of the wreck, emigrants' trunks, bedding, bulk-
heads, and furniture. Little was saved, except the
lives of the passengers and crew, and it now seemed
almost miraculous that so many should have escaped.
But about twenty emigrants and seamen were
missing, and occasionally a body was thrown ashore,
round which a group would gather hastily, to see
whether in its features they could discern some
missing friend and relative. Among one of these
groups was seen the poor widow, mourning over
her second son, whom a spent wave had just washed
upon the beach. Her grief was not loud, but
deep. It was another heavy stroke of Providence ;
before which she bowed her head and wept. But she
224
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
was not childless. Her other sons were preserved to
her, and as she looked upon those who had so merci-
fully been saved, her mourning was mingled with
thankfulness and praise.
The wreck was nearly a total one. A few things
were saved, — a few boxes, and a little money which
the emigrants carried about their persons ; but for
the most part they had been made destitute by the
calamity which had befallen them. The part of the
shore on which they had been cast was on the main-
land of Nova Scotia, near the town of Shelbourne,
not far from Cape Sable. The inhabitants of the
neighbourhood soon obtained intelligence of the
disaster, and the people of Halifax, and the other
towns along the same coast, extended their aid to the
wrecked emigrants with praiseworthy alacrity ; and
not many weeks had elapsed before the greater part
of them were enabled by this kindly help to proceed
on their way to their various destinations in Canada
and the States.
A year and more passed, and the old poacher is
seen sitting under the porch of a timber-built cottage
on the verge of one of the great prairies in Illinois.
He is mending one of the implements of the farm, of
which, with his son, he is the owner. Before him
spreads a fertile and well-cropped farm, beyond which
lies the rolling prairie, with here and there a cottage
roof peeping up, — pastures, cornfields, little indepen-
dent holdings, as far as the eye can reach. Behind
extends the deep shelter of the primeval forest, from
which the sound of a woodman's axe proceeds, — for
his son had gone forth in the evening to cut a fresh
store of wood. Old Kitty, the wife, stands by the
door-cheek looking out on the smiling landscape.
"Well, Joe," she said, "it's worth coming all this
weary way, to rest here in peace and plenty ! "
" Rest, wife ? " said Joe, looking up. " There's no
pleasure in rest ; no, no, — work, work ! I never felt
more willing and able to work in my life. Bringing
down a bird on the wing 's nothing to farming one's
own estate. Think of old Joe the poacher, a landed
proprietor in the great Republic ! Isn't 'it enough
to turn a poor man's head ? "
" Ah ! it was a bright day that brought us here,
Joe, and we never can be too thankful. But here's
Bill coming laden with chips ; and I must e'en go in
and have the supper ready."
And so we leave the poacher's family to peace,
plenty, and rough comfort, earned by honest industry,
in their far-off home in the West.
TEACHING OF WOMEN.
Surely the mission of woman demands a higher
teaching than modern instruction usually affords.
It is an adjustment of mechanism rather than a
shaping of mind. One might imagine that the ulti-
mate aim and result of her creation was to be realized,
in the pursuit of some flying composer of visionary
swiftness ; in 'pasturing uncomfortable cows upon
thirsty fields of red chalk ; or exhibiting the Great
Mogul scowling frightfully in worsted. In this
respect the 19th century will gain little applause by
a parallel with the 16th, when the brightest eyes
were familiar with Greek as now with Rossini, and a
Latin letter to Ascham about Plato was run off with
the fluent grace of an invitation to a wedding. Some
thinkers will perceive in these decorations of the
mind a lasting fascination not always found in later
accomplishments, and consider them more likely to
win unquiet hearts from wandering and turmoil
To fireside happiness and hours of ease
Blest with that charm— the certainty to please.
Wilmott'a Pleasures of Literature,
DIAMOND DTTST.
IT shows much more stupidity to be grave at a,
good thing than to be merry at a bad one ; and of all
ignorance that which is silent is the least pi*oductive,
for praters may suggest an idea if they cannot start
one.
WIT and work are the two wheels of the world's
chariot ; they need to be equal, and each fixed fast.
MUCH may be clone in those little shreds and
patches of time, which every day produces, and
which most men throw away, but which nevertheless
will make at the end of it no small deduction from
the life of man.
WE need ever to remember, for thankfulness and
for hope, that what is now easy and natural for a
man and for the world, may have become so only
after many labours, cares, and experiences.
THE nose of a mob is its imagination ; by this, at
any time, it can be quietly led.
To converse well, we need the cool tact of talent ;
to talk well, the glowing abandon of genius.
A BEAUTIFUL external life symbolizes a beautiful
internal life.
MORAL truths are prophecies of ends, but not of
the forms and succession of events.
No two things differ more than hurry and despatch ;
hurry is the mark of a weak mind, despatch of a
strong one.
THE virtue which requires to be ever guarded is
scarcely worth the sentinel.
THOUGH we travel the world over to find the Beau-
tiful, we must carry it within us, or we find it not.
THE soul clings in the midst of the infinity of worlds
and planets to the little space that an eyelid covers, —
to a vanishing, a scarcely discerned glance ; and upon
this celestial nothing rests its earthly paradise, with
all its perfumed flowers, with all its waving trees.
LET in the light on a nest of young owls, and they
directly complain of the injury you have done them.
WHERE judgment has wit to express it, there is the
best orator.
THE presence, even, of a person who has a fixed
dislike to one, oppresses and constrains a loving
spirit, like the heavy atmosphere of a thunderstorm,
whose real shock disturbs us less than its approach.
No promenade with men is ever so delightful as
that a child takes with his parents.
IT is a Spanish maxim, He who loseth wealth, loseth
much ; he who loseth a friend, loseth more ; but he
who loseth his spirits, loseth all.
SIN is the fruitful parent of distempers, and ill lives i
occasion good physicians.
WE may accept from others sacrifices to save us \
from martyrdom, but never to purchase a joy.
THE passions are at least bold, generous, although
destroying lions ; egotism is a quiet, deep-biting, ever-
sucking, venomous bug.
CUSTOM is the law of one description of fools and
fashion of another ; but the two parties often clash, !
for precedent is the legislator of the first, and novelty ;
of the last.
THE highest luxury of which the human mind is
sensible is to call smiles upon the face of misery.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 145.]
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 1852.
[PRICE
SMALL TALK— CHIT CHAT.
WE do not despise what is called " small talk " any
more than we do small change. We are very thank-
ful for it, when better is not to be had. And indeed
society, even of the best kind, would be a very dull
affair without it. One cannot always be talking
philosophy, or discussing heavy matters of state.
Sometimes, when we have found ourselves in com-
panies where the majority consisted of the excessively
rational kind, we have often longed for a little palat-
able nonsense as a relief. We can excuse the "lion,"
for he is generally expected to roar ; but lions are
very tiresome, and we make a point of avoiding them,
— we cheerfully leave them to " bestow their tedi-
ousness " on those who love lions. Let us confess it,
that we prefer a smaller description of talk, in which
all can take part, — which all can understand.
Of all other men in society, we dislike the pompous
— those who are constantly riding the high horse,
and who will not condescend to utter a joke, far less
to laugh at one ; men who are extremely oracular
about the state of the weather, and will tell you that
"it's a fine day," in a tone of the most awful philo-
sophic profundity, but who regard a pun as Johnson
did (perhaps they cannot utter one), and are always
quoting his alliterative aphorism, that " he who per-
petrates a pun would pick a pocket."
Without freedom, ease, humour,, warmth, and
geniality, there can be no genuine, social conversation.
It "is more a thing of impulse than of reason, and is
not a matter of dignity, but of unconstrainedness.
It abhors all mystery, sentiment, and profundity.
It is a succession of flashes of light playing upon a
brilliant surface. Metaphysics are out of place in
social converse, as much so as a death's head would
be on the drawing-room table. Here tact, discrimina-
tion, and elegance, are in their element, — such, for
instance, as you meet with in the best female society.
A little froth now and then there may be, but always
infinite grace. Readiness, too, is indispensable. In
conversation, you cannot excuse yourself like the
gentleman described in the Spectator, who had a great
fund at home, but no small change in his pocket !
For light, sparkling, vivacious talking, the French
excel all other people. The Germans are amongst
the heaviest and most phlegmatic ; Englishmen stand
somewhere about midway between. The story is even
told of a dull German count who had made acquaint-
ance with some young Englishmen abroad, and would
fain catch something of their vivacity ; with this
view he began jumping over his chairs and tables for
some time, and when surprised by a young Mend in
the act, explained, with a becoming simplicity, " Oh !
I am just learning to be lively I "
Any effort is injurious to pleasant conversation.
Some men who flatter themselves that they shine as
talkers, are never satisfied unless they say a witty
thing when they open their mouths. They are
perpetually on the rack of invention, and in a state
of restraint, which is no less tormenting to themselves
than to their hearers. Swift says, the dullest conver-
sation he ever listeued to was that at Will's Coffee-
house, where the wits (as they were called) used
formerly to assemble — five or six men who had writ-
ten plays or prologues, or had a share in a miscellany,
and resorted thither to entertain one another with
their trifling composures, in as important an air as if
they had been the noblest efforts of human nature,
and that the fate of kingdoms depended on them.
No ! There must be ease and freedom to make
talking palatable at all times. And for small talk —
the daily talk of society, these are indispensable. It
is well indeed, if there be a good fountain of power as
a motive source, with knowledge, sympathy, and savoir
vivre ; — but even where the knowledge is small, let
there be cordial, kindly sympathy, and small talk
will be pleasant still — not the " small talk that dies
in agonies," but cheerful, hearty, brisk, effervescent,
rattling small talk, full of good nature and kindly
banter, if of nothing else. We would even brave the
folly of the Wag on such occasions, rather than endure
the " cold water " of your tremendously sensible and
common-place weather-wise people.
Of course you know the Wag. He is a very
popular character, especially in country parts, where
a bit of sharp fun is a rare thing, and is valued
accordingly. Is he not pronounced " the life of the
party," — great at a pic-nic, — and at evening soirees
the hero of the night ? None so well up as he is, in
Punch and Joe Miller; and as for puns and conun-
drums, he can rattle them off by the score. The
Wag may not always be successful in his observations ;
he sometimes stumbles terribly, and when he has
made a false summerset, he has to be picked up, and
then looks foolish.
226
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
When the Wag is good-natured, he is by no means
useless. Society would often be hideous without
him. For English people have a tendency to "enjoy
themselves sadly, after the manner of their country."
But the Wag rescues many an evening from the blues.
Inspired by Joe, he braves the heaviest of Smiths and
Browns, and sports his light fun in their faces. He
will pun upon any subject, despising Johnson's apho-
rism above quoted. The Wag is really an honest
fellow, though his wit may be of the stupidest, and
his puns of the most excruciating character.
The skilled and cultivated wag talks ingenious
nonsense. Pompous, stupid persons despise non-
sense. That is, because they cannot talk it. There
is nothing so difficult as talking good nonsense ; and
no person can do it except one of first-rate ability.
The Wag studies it as an art, and sometimes reaches
to great heights. There is a genius of waggery
which he strives to reach.
The Wag is sometimes bored by a young lady
observing of him — "Ah, here comes Bumby — now,
do tell us something funny ! " He thinks the young
lady is quizzing him, but he doesn't care, and puffs
along in short breaths.
Here is a story-teller going to relate one of his
long anecdotes. The Wag cuts him short by — " Oh !
you have told us that before, fifty times ! " The
story-teller is floored.
A great arguer tries to fasten a discussion on the
Wag, who at once gives in to all his assertions, and
agrees with him in everything, making the most
ludicrous admissions, very soon putting a stop to the
argument. Puffins, in Jerrold's comedy of Retired
from Business, sets the wag down at a low figure,
thus : —
Puffins. — " Mr. Fitzpennyweight, you are not
what is called a wag ? "
Penny.—" Bless you ! Not I."
Puffins. — "Because — you'll pardon me — we en-
courage nothing of that sort at Pumpkinfield. As
much wit as you like, but waggery is low."
Penny.—11 Eh ? What's the difference ? "
Puffins. — "The difference? Why, wit, I have
heard called a merchant prince trading with the
whole world, while waggery is a — a — in fact, a green-
grocer, making up small penn'orths for the local
vulgar."
But the Wag cares as little for this dictum of
Puffins, as he does for Samuel Johnson's famous
dogma. He fulfils his mission, and is the " life of the
party." We cannot always be talking heavy, in the
lexicographer's style. Johnson must have been a
great bore at times, with his heavy speeches. Poor
Goldsmith could scarcely get in a word for his big
bow-wow ! Goldsmith was a bit of a wag, and a
clever one, too.
Philosophers are all very well in their way, but
sometimes they are out of place — especially when
they would convert the parlour into a lecture-room.
It is sometimes amusing to see their condescending
efforts in the way of small talk— an elephant attempt-
ing a minuet is nothing to it. The lesser wit has
the advantage of him in that field, and gives us the
small change which we look for. The philosopher
cannot be everything ; he cannot be gifted with the
fascination of light and heavy talk. It is enough
that he is a philosopher ; let him leave sharp-shooting
to the tirailleurs.
How much would you give for the "bit of a wag,"
when you find that a fogy, fond of talking about the
price of shares, or the effects of free trade, has
fastened on you ! You have had enough of business
during your working hours ; you want to unbend ;
and lo! here is the philosophy of the shop, the
counter, and the exchange, dogging your steps, and
seated by your side. Your friend will bestow his
tediousness upon you, which you are privily wishing
were a very long way off. What you want is talk,
conversation, chat, instead of which you are treated
to this solid man's uppermost thoughts — about
money.
Some such person the author of Companions of my
Solitude says, he once met, as follows : — " I was
travelling," says he, " in a railway carriage with a
most precise-looking formal person — the arch-Quaker,
if there be such a person. His countenance was very
noble, or had been so, before it was frozen up. He
said nothing. I felt a great respect for him. At
last he opened his mouth. I listened with attention.
I had hitherto lived with foolish, gad-about, dinner-
eating, dancing, people ; now I was going to hear
the words of retired wisdom ; when he thus addressed
his young daughter sitting opposite : — ' Hast thee
heard how Southamptons went lately ? ' [In those
days Southampton railway shares were called South-
amptons,] and she replied, with like gravity, giving
him some information that she had picked up about
Southamptons yesterday evening. I leant back
rather sickened, as I thought what was probably the
daily talk, and the daily thoughts in that family,
from which I conjectured that all amusement was
banished, save that connected with intense money-
getting."
Light conversation — what we call graceful chat —
is really an art — the gay, ornamental art of intellect.
Society is nothing without it. You may call it
trifling, but it is very agreeable, "and it is very useful.
The world is made up of trifles, and he who can
trifle elegantly and gracefully, is a valuable acquisi-
tion to society.
Don't think that the man or woman who chats
gracefully about trifles, can do nothing else. Under
those light sallies of wit and humour, you may often
discern qualities of penetrating sagacity, and a
learned spirit of observation, such as may be looked
for vainly in persons of more solemn pretensions.
Even the wag now-a-days draws his illustrations
from books, and is well up with the current literature
of the day. Perhaps he runs as he reads, but read
he does.
A genial wit is indeed a great treasure, and is a
constant source of happiness to others. He is a
general favourite ; his words are watched, and his
sayings are repeated. He lightens care, diffuses
cheerfulness, quickens the thoughts of others, and
multiplies harmless enjoyment.
It is possible, however, to have too much of a good
thing. Even waggery becomes tedious. It loses
its savour, and palls upon the taste, unless varied by
morte sober converse. It is good in its place, as a
condiment ; but one cannot live altogether on pepper
and cinnamon.
There are some kinds of wit that blister — malevo-
lent wit, that will lose a friend sponer than a joke at
his expense. This is a fool's fire, and ought not to
be followed nor encouraged. "To be captious and
contradictory," says Sharpe, "is offensive enough,
but not so provoking — so unbearable — as the spirit
of mockery affected by witlings and coxcombs ; for
that, like a blighting east wind, withers up every
living and heart-felt sentiment springing up in con-
versation, and especially chills and disheartens the
young, in their earliest intercourse with the world.
The weapon inflicting the wound is so fine as to be
scarcely perceptible, but the point has been dipped
in poison. A breeze, itself invisible, often makes
a whole lake to shudder. Yet one would rather be
cut by a keen, than by a blunt lancet, and a coarse
supercilious way is almost as hateful as the freezing
irony of more subtle ill-humour."
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
227
Our wag, therefore, must be a good-natured one,
else the flavour of his conversation is lost. Wit is
nothing without kindliness ; though such an observa-
tion as Lamb's is to be excused, who once cut short
a family dispute over elder wine, by saying — " I
wonder what it is that makes elder wine so very
pleasant, when elder brothers are so extremely disagree-
able." None, indeed, so happy in flinging about his
light shafts of mirthful, humorous wit, as Charles
Lamb — the soul of good company wherever he went.
The following occurrence, which took place on his
way home to Enfield one day, is full of waggeiy, and
may well bring to a close this paper.
"We travelled," says he, "with one of those
troublesome fellow-passengers in a stage-coach, that is
called a "well-informed man." For twenty miles, we
discoursed about the properties of steam, probabilities
of carriage by ditto, till all my science, and more than
all, were exhausted, and I was thinking of escaping
my torment by getting up on the outside, when,
getting into Bishops Stortford, my gentleman, spying
some farming land, put an unlucky question to me.
' What sort of a crop of turnips I thought we should
have this year ? ' Emma's eyes turned to me, to
know what in the world I could have to say ; and
she burst into a violent fit of laughter, maugre her
pale, seiious cheeks, when, with the greatest gravity,
I replied, that ' it depended, I believed, upon boiled legs
of mutton ! ' This clenched our conversation, and
my gentleman, with a face half wise, half in scorn,
troubled us with no more conversation — scientific or
philosophical, for the remainder of the journey."
LAMP-LIGHTING; OR, GLIMPSES OF
POETRY.
BY TWO STUDENTS.
THE LAMP-BURNER.— I.
THERE is a crowd of children playing, and a strange
man standing near beckons one out of the throng,
who, leaving his companions and their play, goes to
him. The man has something to be done, which none
but the boy can do, and taking him by the hand he
leads him out from the town and the dusty highways,
into the fresh green country, —
Into the blithe and breathing air,
Into the solemn wood,
Solemn and silent everywhere ;
and having gifted him with a magic ring, which
makes a spirit of power his slave, he takes him to
the entrance of a garden of enchantment, and sends
him thence, to seek and bring forth a certain wonder-
ful lamp, which renders the owner of it richer than a
caliph and more powerful than a sultan.
This is the story of Aladdin : it is also the story
of the Poet, — a close typification, whether or not so
intended, of the life of genius. " The magician " is
that world-circling spirit, which, through the lips of
learning, "the old man eloquent," claims kin with
his; "the still country," dreamland; "the en-
chanted garden," the in-world, where immortal mind
ripens, — " those marvels which are at once fruit and
gem upon the tree ;" "the lamp," the master power
by which genius is commanded, and made to work at
will, to call up some matchless "fabric of a vision,"
— "a dome of thought, and palace of the soul."
That learning is not all-powerful, that, great
magician as it is, there are some, and these the very
greatest things to which it cannot of itself attain, the
moral of this story well declares. It has a large
dominion. Whatsoever judgment or common sense
can grasp or appreciate, is beneath its sway ; what
man's labour can accomplish it commands. It rules
the world of ordinary life. But there is much
beyond, whence it is, from its nature, shut out, —
another world (which the garden represents),
Where blossom more freshly the flowers, shines a more
beautiful sun,
into which none may enter, having other than a
child- like heart, which, like holy wisdom, " reacheth
everywhere by reason of its extreme purity." And
thus, in man and child, learning and genius, we
recognize types of the two intelligences which enter
into the rule of either world ; the intelligence of the
man is the reason common to mankind ; the intelli-
gence of the child that which is common to purer
spirits, — to man not an inheritance, but a gift.
We are told that man is "wiser in his generation
than the children of light." But who shall declare
that such is so good a wisdom ? As far as truth and
simplicity are above lying and crookedness, so far is
the wisdom of the heart above the cunning of the
world ; and it is in this wisdom of love that the
Poet is wise. It is to teach him this that the magic
land is opened to him ; that even from childhood he
is permitted to behold, to hear, to feel, and to
commune with shapes, sounds, sensations, — beings of
another creation, which are beyond the perception
of the multitude. The woods to him are eloquent,
the streams speak a sweet language, and appeal to
him as with a living voice : —
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades";
For them there was an eloquent voice in all,—
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds ; —
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope at evening goes ; —
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in ;
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind j
for we know from the collected experience, each
of himself, of many of his class, that the Poet is such
before school-time ; a poet in grain not in polish
only, — " Poeta nascitur, non fit" From the time his
intellect has passed its infancy, learned to stand
upright and walk ; when it is loosed from the bands
of weakness, grown out of the swaddling-clothes of
inajction, — from the time when it first goes abroad,
the child is unconsciously devising poetry, gathering
from all he beholds, all he is taught, — from whatever
impresses him, new* and strange meanings ; tracing
vaguely at first, more decisively as he proceeds, the
analogies of passing things and circumstances with
his own being and his fate. A flower does not droop
by the wayside as he passes, nor a blossom fall, a
bird or a shadow does not flit, without yielding some-
thing with which fancy may make its own more
delightful play than that which is the common joy of
boyhood.
The paradoxical mode of being active and yet
passive, by confining pleasures and passions to
intellectual operations and imaginary results, gives
a more than ordinarily amiable aspect to the child-
hood of the poet. "The child in general," says a
foreign physiologist (Broussais), " prefers evil to good,
because it ministers better to his vanity. It creates
greater commotion, — an enjoyment which mus£ at
any hazard be procured. It is for this reason that
he prides himself on breaking lifeless objects, for he
finds therein the two-fold pleasure— founded on the
necessity of self-satisfaction — of destroying resist-
ance, and of exciting the rage "of rational creatures,
220
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
which Is equivalent to a victory, and so becomes a
source of gratification when he has eluded punish-
ment." This frightful phase is wanting, or at least
(like that side of the moon which the world never sees),
is not visible in the poet's life. The " general necessity
of self-satisfaction " tends in him towards quietude
and silence, as in these the elements of his self-
indulgence are most easily employed ; hence his
pleasures rarely cause unpleasantness to others. A
negative annoyance is the worst to which he is apt to
give occasion. " The neighbours stare and sigh,
yet bless the lad." He is almost invariably, whether
or not unconsciously, " no vulgar boy ;" —
Nor cares to mingle in the clamorous fray
Of squabbling imps.
His own peculiar enjoyments suffice, and they "grow
with his growth." They lose their vagueness,
become definite and positive, in taking an outline from
advancing knowledge. They mark out for him a
pleasure-ground, where heart and spirit can walk
hand in hand, where his fancies can revel, and his
passions struggle uncontrolled, — where none can
check, none bully them, where his hopes reach
their accomplishment, where exquisite enjoyment is
every new hour to be found in intensifying anticipa-
tion, which more than realizes victory. The idea of
punishment, past or to come, is no more than a
shadow on his path, as he seeks some favourite haunt,
where
Lapped in dreams to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds go by
Like ships upon the sea ;
or hurries from the book-stall to the garret or the
tree-top, to spend the stolen hours in tremulous
delight over some old romaunt : —
Some tale which hath the rime of age
Or chronicle of oJd.
If caught, the deep-drawn sigh with which the
book is closed, but sets the seal of Solomon on his
enjoyment, — " Stolen waters are sweetest." Before
the volume is under lock and key, he has re-
animated for himself the pictured glories ; and tale-
teller and chronicler are left so far behind as to be
almost "nowhere." He is aroused, but however
rudely, his fall is without shock. There being no
real element in the composition of his airy edifice,
the realities he finds around him suspend, without
breaking, the enchantment. An interruption only
marks that a triumph is to come. The striking of the
hours that terminate his dream, seem but the sounds
of his steps towards reality. Boyish friendship and
love (ardent to a proverb), often are in him only
portions of these dreams embodied, by accident of
association, in the form and person of perhaps some
common-thoughted booby of a school-fellow, or of
any with pretty face and graceful manner, in whom
he can make to himself an interest. But the dreams
themselves were real, and dear. Whatever happen
they leave no bitterness behind. Smiles and tears,—
sun and shadow, — make his season : there is no frost-
blight or sun-stroke in the weather of his spring -.
Sweet April ! many a thought
Is wedded unto thee as hearts are wed ;
Nor shall they fail till, to its autumn brought
Life's golden fruit is shed.
The Poet, no longer a child, must no longer be a
dreamer. Dreams, and toil, and triumph, are
incompatible. He must give up the vacant gaze on
victory,— relax the empty grasp at laurels, which he
has not grown. He does not find it easy to do this •
and it is not easy to yield up, after long indulgence'
a habit of enjoyment. Sometimes he does not do it
soon enough ; sometimes not sufficiently ; and some-
times not at all. Many of the gifted have, in moral
constitution, never out-grown this childishness ; they
fed upon the sweetmeats of imagination, and made
its syllabubs their drink, — refused men's food. No
wonder they lacked strength to do men's work,
and died — wanting. The world has generally over-
looked their failings in their fate. Its weakness
claiming kin with theirs, though of a different kind,
has granted to them an immunity, which has proved
a bane to others. But to make up for exaggerated
leniency on one hand, it has scattered ill-considered
imputations on the other ; referring the faults of a
few to an inferiority in ordinary, equivalent to their
superiority in extraordinary powers, and assuming
this to be a class-characteristic, it has used the
name of poet as a synonyme for simpleton or sot.
The conclusion thus unfairly deduced has been
founded not upon a fact, but the fraction of a
fact.
It is true that the poet is, from organization,
peculiarly susceptible to those influences which
endanger moral strength, but what human being is
exempted from temptation, — the allotted trial ? It is
true, too, that some few, yielding to those influences,
have still attained to wonderful intellectual success,
— have grasped the lamp often, or long enough to
call up palaces for their own imperial thought, and
bring subject souls to do homage to their sway, —
and that a larger number have, in the endeavour to
follow in their steps, failed utterly upon the way.
But both together do not represent the Poet. We
must include the many examples of the truly great, —
remarkable for common as for uncommon sense, —
" Strong as a man, yet pure as a child," — men who
knew and did their duty, not withdrawing into a
region intended to be visited, not dwelt in, but
bringing forth their means, and pursuing their
labours in this world of daily matter, in which all
men's lot is cast, and in which all must do or die, —
that is, die to its good ; men who went through life,
not with hands behind their backs and gaze on
nothing, but with quick eye to see, heart to feel, and
hand to help the prosaic things and people around
them ; who did not despise the endowments God
gave them in common with the multitude, but
employed them jxidiciously, though not the less sub-
serviently to their own peculiar inspiration ; — we
affirm that of such has been the majority of those
gifted in the highest degree with creative power.
We are to remember, too, that all who may be called
are not chosen, — the latter condition requiring a
correspondence of the will to the vocation of the
faculties ; — and that every one who has been a
dreamer, and who knowing the false, pitiful judg-
ment of society on the eccentricities of high intelli-
gence, presumes upon his yenius —
The name that triflers give
To their strong wishes without pains to live,—
so far as to disregard the laws and customs which
rule inferior mind, is not thence, and necessarily, to
be ranked with or confounded amongst those who
have approved themselves in head and heart before
earth and heaven.
The earliest temptation of the Poet is a desire to
evade the universal burden, — labour ; his most
dangerous, and sometimes most enduring delusion, a
belief that he may do so with impunity. Subtle as the
serpent, it comes in as many varying shapes and
ways, adapts itself to change and circumstance, but
leads always towards the same conclusion, — that
because he is borne aloft upon his way by a heaven-
winged messenger, his mode of being may be
wholly exceptional to that of those who, moving in a
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
229
lower sphere, unsupported by this elevating influence,
unimpelled by an inspiring ardour, pass
In want and in cheerless discomfort,
Bleeding barefooted over the shards and the thorns of
existence,
that he is not to have his own task to perform, which
often is the hardest task of any.
How is he rescued from the seducing fancies which,
pointing at an impossible career, divert him from real
progress in the way of practically possible, and
possibly glorious endeavour ? Reason is seldom of
itself sufficient. He requires some strong desire, or
other more powerful influence. He wants an aim
also, in the pursuit pf which he may expend his
energies. There is no steady action without aim ;
least of all will dreamy youth labour without
purpose. With an aim which it believes attainable ;
one, the desire of gaining which is an ever-recurring
impulse, there is no impossible to genius. Without
such an aim, — and without the living incitement of
desire, energy and sustained action there will not
be ; and without, attainment of good in word or deed
is not possible.
In youth there is a concurrent, not always co-
progressive, growth of body and mind. When this
upward tendence ceases, each having attained a
certain height, no further natural elevation can be
reached. The understanding may gain strength and
breadth, as the body fulness ; the art of the craft's-
man may raise him upon high-heeled boots ; but
thenceforward the man is amongst his fellows tall or
small, high or low minded, whilst he walks the world.
There may thus occur one epoch or two in his life ;
one, when the fulness of each growth is arrived to at
one time ; two, when it is not so. Manhood is
marked by the attainment to both, — the dual matu-
rity. The passage of this period, no matter how
desired, is solemn. It is an era of awe to him
who comprehends his own responsibilities. It
is then that, standing by the stile passed over,
looking back upon the airy past, and forward to the
misty future, while
Falling on his weary brain,
Like a fast-falling shower,
The dreams of youth come back again,—
Low lispings of the summer rain
Dropping on the ripened grain,
As once upon the flower.
It is then that he recognizes his vocation. It is then,
too, that while the child-like yearning, with which
the " head acheth " to rest again upon the lap of
indolence, bears witness to a want, the heart arises to
supply it. Whilst he is swayed hither and thither
by his vague but conflicting inclinations, a master
feeling up-springing, as the leading spirit from a
crowd, comes to take the vacant place of power
within him. In other words, no sooner does he need
a motive, than the motion of life supplies it ; a
" predominant desire comes to marshal and put in
order all the rest." Passion, then, is the motive ;
energy is but the instrument put forth for the
attainment of the aim.
" It is a poor centre of one's actions, himself the
highest earth," — in Bacon's sense, for elsewhere he
says, ' ' Merit and good works is the end of man's
motion ; and conscience of the same, is the accom-
plishment of man's rest ; for if a man can be a
partaker of God's theatre, he shall likewise be
partaker of God's rest." The lowest incentive, and
the least (though it seem not so), is self-love. He
who labours from this incentive only (however great
his capabilities), will, tried by the true standard, be
little to the end. The highest incentive, that which
has carried human energies to the limits of exertion,
I is marked by the absence of self-seeking. It is that
all-mastering influence which withdraws the spirit
from the centre of self, — the source of its worldly
attraction, — to the unseen centre of universal motion,
— God. Of this influence each particular spirit is at
one time made sensible ; and in that moment of
vision beholds space without horizon, through an
atmosphere in which is diffused a supernatural light,
to which the daylight of the heart is as darkness.
It was from a knowledge of this, which to many has
been but a feeling, that Mr. Ruskin has shown
Sacrifice to be a lamp of Art. Each being attracted
by those two principles, — the love of God and of
self, — pursues a course, the scope and tendency of
which is determined by the predominating force ;
until, having reached its term, it is drawn to the
source of light and life or cast into exterior
darkness.
By both these motives the Poet is more than
ordinarily influenced. If his genius come sufficiently
under the sway of either, it is saved from its early
eccentricity, — vague and aimless impulses, and con- i
flicting desires, — and given a regular career, which is \
wide or contracted, great or little, as its ultimate
motive is the larger or the smaller, its centre God or
self. At best, the progress is oblique, and the course
half run, before the graver influence attains its
maximum. Genius itself is slow of conviction, that
what so nearly affects it is no finality of feeling ;
that the point on which its energies are closely bent
is no immutability of fame or fortune, but an aim
within an aim, — itself insensibly gravitating towards
God.
THE FIRST SORROW.
BY FKANCES DEANE.
THERE are in life a thousand events which cause us
grief and pain, a hundred ills which strike us when
least expected, ample causes for regret, but rarely
does any one make as much impression on us as our
First Sorrow. Life before this hour is a bed of
flowers, bespangled with violets, jacinths, and sweet-
brier, and all odoriferous plants and shrubs, that
shed fragrance as we tread ; each event is a joy, each
hour a pleasure, the very air we breath is redolent
of perfume and happiness, when comes some sudden
blow, some check, to remind us that there are stones
in the path of life, sources of sorrow, but also of
reflection to the pious heart, which feels how
transitory is this world, how hollow in general its
felicity, how chastening and full of teaching its
sorrows. Man would indeed be a haughty and self-
satisfied being were there nothing but gladness in the
universe, and were there no dark cloud ever to
traverse the deep, blue sky of humanity ; and yet a
beautiful poet is right when he says, " Every man can
flower, or thorn his pathway by his own conduct."
In part he can, but not wholly : sometimes he must
be the creature of circumstances.
Augusta Nicholson was born in Park' Place,
Greenwich. Her father was a merchant of the city
of London, though a native of the ancient city where
he habitually resided. At seventeen Augusta was
the pride and joy of her parents. She had been
educated with extreme care, and her education had
benefited her. She had not been to school. A
teacher, a lady of superior mind, and gifted by rare
and elevating qualities, with all the more superficial
accomplishments, had taken her in hand at eight
years old. She resided with her still, and was justly
proud of her pupil. Very pleasing in face, a good
musician, well read, adorned by knowledge, full of
taste and feeling, Augusta Nicholson was a favourite
230
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
with all who knew her. Her parents, naturally
enough, worshipped her. She was their only child.
Mr. Nicholson, though not very fond of seeking
society without, was extremely pleased to see around
him friends and acquaintances. Amongst those who
were oftenest seen round the smoking tea-urn were
young relatives or friends, the associates and com-
panions of Augusta. At seventeen she had already
three suitors : — a young man aged twenty-five, who
was expected every day to be appointed to a curacy
in the neighbourhood, a pleasant, thoughtful, good-
looking young man ; a doctor, about thirty, established
in the town, a well-informed, agreeable personage ; and
a handsome officer in the navy. The Kev. Herbert
Hose, Dr. Williams, and Lieut. Edward Cartwright
presented themselves before Augusta almost simulta-
neously, but there was no doubt from the first who
was about to carry the day. A handsome uniform
and a handsome face, a lively character, frank and
open manners, three and twenty years of age, and an
untiring power of conversation and narration, made
Lieut. Edward at once the favoured lover. Augusta
had too much good sense not to admire the unaffected
piety, the absence of all cant and pretension, the
agreeable manners and pleasant talk of the young
clergyman, as well as the talents and sterling
qualities of the medical practitioner, but she was
young, and a woman. The naval officer, therefore,
was evidently preferred. Her parents, too, liked
him best. He was the son of a rich merchant, who
had allowed him to follow this profession, while his
two elder brothers carried on their father's business.
A young wife who was a rich heiress, was all he
wanted to fit him to compete with his fellows. It
dispensed with the necessity, too, of leaving him a
fortune. " Mr. Nicholson having no son, had taken
as partner a young man, who, when his elder
retired, was to give a large sum and have the whole
business. It was generally believed that Mr.
Nicholson would retire worth at least a couple of
hundred thousand pounds, and having no other
children, this would all be hers.
Mr. Nicholson, however, had requested his
daughter to give no final answer until her eigh-
teenth birth-day, as he conceived a year, at least, at
her age, necessaiy before she could decide in so
important a matter that involved the happiness of
her whole life. Meanwhile the three lovers were
constant visitors. The young clergyman, being as
yet unemployed, was the most frequent, while Lieut.
Edward was occasionally a couple of months away,
and Dr. Williams, who also began to get good practice,
only came in for an hour or two occasionally. Every
month Mrs. Nicholson gave a grand ball, to which all
their friends were invited, and on these occasions the
three lovers always made an effort to be present.
Towards the end of the year of probation, the rivals
assumed a different position. Rose and Williams
seemed to cease their pretensions as lovers, and
assumed the attitude of friends. They yielded on
all occasions to the man whom they foresaw would be
surely selected, and at once resigned their hopes. The
young clergyman was profoundly affected. He loved
Augusta sincerely. He saw in her the woman fit to
be the sweet companion of his days, the ornament
of the happiest home in the world, that of a good and
true minister of God. But because he saw no hope,
he could not give up the pleasure of seeing her. He
was, as it were, as yet only an aspirant for the
honours of the ministry, having no living, though
one was likely to be his in a few months. His
father was the only brother of the late Earl of P
and himself was a venerable and venerated clergy-
man. His cousin was in the House of Lords,
having recently come of age. The young man had
desired himself to enter the navy, but at the
wish of his father, had yielded, and entered the
church. He was not exactly suited for his minis-
try, because though sincerely religious, he had what
would have been called political notions very much
too liberal for his profession, that is, too strongly
opposed to making religion a trade, while he
dreamed of making his church practically a poor
man's church. But Herbert loved his father above
all, and stifled, to please him, his aspirations, his
hopes, his ideas, his thoughts. He had, with Augusta
and her governess, Miss Shrifton, often spoken out,
when they were alone after tea, as happened now often,
Lieut. Edward being away, and Mr. Nicholson often
detained in town, while Mrs. Nicholson scarcely ever
left her bedroom.
Augusta's birth-day would now be in three weeks,
and her parents had issued cards for a grand ball.
Lieut. Cartwright was coming home on a three
months' leave of absence. It was generally believed
that he was to be married during that time. Augusta
and he perfectly understood each other, though they
had not had any formal explanation. That they
loved each other no one could doubt a moment, and
both young and handsome, they appeared made for
each other. He came home about a week before the
ball, and hurried to pay his respects to the family,
who received him in a way which settled any doubt
lie might have had in his own mind relative to his
being accepted by Mr. Nicholson.
"Have you any objections to give up the navy ? "
said that gentleman, when alone with his presumed
son-in-law after dinner.
"None whatever, sir," replied Lieut. Cartwright,
" provided you do me the honour to accept me as a
son-in-law. Your charming daughter is ample com-
pensation for even a profession I love."
" I suppose it's pretty well understood that I must
give you Augusta," said the merchant, smiling ;
"you seem to have settled it amongst yourselves."
" But, sir, your consent overwhelms me with
happiness," exclaimed Lieut. Edward Cartwright.
" I shall give my daughter fifty thousand pounds
on her marriage, and I dare say something handsome
when I die."
" You are aware, sir, that I have nothing but my
pay, and an allowance of four hundred a-year, with
ten thousand pounds at my father's death," said the
young naval officer, a little timidly, when he heard
the words, "fifty thousand pounds."
" My daughter," replied Mr. Nicholson, laughing,
" is rich enough to marry for love, and to do without
very much money with a husband."
The young naval officer filled up his glass, and
dramk the health of Augusta.
That evening Lieut. Cartwright sat down beside
Augusta, leaving Mr. Nicholson and Miss Shrifton
playing at backgammon. Augusta had approached
the piano, and put her music out ready to play.
"My dear Miss Nicholson," said the young man,
in a low tone, "are you disposed to confirm your
father's promise ? "
" What promise ! " replied Augusta, feigning to
be very much puzzled.
"Your father has agreed to our marriage. If I
can obtain your consent it is a settled thing."
" And pray, sir, how dare you say anything to my
father before my birth-day, and without having my
consent first ? "
" My dear Miss Nicholson, my dear Augusta, it
was your father who first spoke to me on the subject.
I assure you, otherwise I should have strictly obeyed
your orders."
"Ah! that is better," said Augusta, " and I
excuse you. But I shall keep to my original resolu-
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
231
tion, and only finally promise to enter upon my
bondage, when I attain my eighteenth year."
As in duty bound, Lieut. Cartwright was delighted
with this half promise. Both were happy, for Augusta
was strongly attached to the young man, and he was
intoxicated with delight.
On the day but one before Augusta's birth-day,
Mr. Nicholson did not come home. He was to
attend a public dinner, where the young lieutenant,
who was never away from either his future father-in-law,
or from Augusta's side, was to accompany him. They
were to come to tea ; but at eleven o'clock neither
had arrived. Augusta, though uneasy and annoyed,
as young ladies are apt to be at such a piece of
rebellion in a lover, went to bed at the persuasion of
her governess. She did not sleep very well, and rose
early. Curious to see her father, and to hear an
explanation from him of Lieut. Edward's non-arrival,
she hurried down stairs to the breakfast-room. It
was but six o'clock she saw, on looking at the clock.
She was about to return to her bedroom, when she
saw the faint light of a candle peering from under
the door of the small parlour, where her father
transacted any business which happened to occur out
of office-hours.
Much surprised, she opened the door softly, and
went in. The table was covered by papers, a lamp
almost out for want of attention stood on the table,
while her father, a pen in his hand, was fast asleep
in an arm-chair. He was very pale, and started as
she entered.
" Who is that ? " he cried.
"I, father," replied Augusta.
" Oh, you, my child. I am glad to see you. My
dear girl, something very terrible has happened to
me. I know you are a good and courageous soul. I
am afraid that ruin stares me in the face. At all
events I shall be reduced to struggle for existence.
You have heard me speak of the mania for railway
speculation, in which I have always refused to
indulge, and yet I perish, commercially speaking, a
victim to speculation. A house, whose bills I had
taken for £180,000, has failed, and I must pay them
or be a bankrupt. My partner, Lawson, has fled to
avoid sharing these liabilities. He yesterday sold
out his stock, and is now in Boulogne. My dear
girl, with industry and perseverance, I shall yet be
able to make your mother and you comfortable, but
you must give up much of your expectations, and
first of all, you must have a quiet evening party
instead of a ball on your birth-day."
" But why did not Edward come last night ? "
asked Augusta.
" I don't know, I did not go to the dinner. If he
went alone, I dare say he drank too much wine.
You must not think much of that for once. He is a
sailor."
" So I can ask him, then, to-morrow ? " said
Augusta.
"Certainly, my dear. But go on. I have still
some accounts to go over, and I must be at the office
before nine."
The day passed gloomily. Lieut. Cartwright did
not call, and Augusta heard casually that the charity
dinner he had gone to had been followed by a ball,
•which had been prolonged until morning. This
made the young girl very unhappy. But she reflected
that it was his first offence, that he had gone with
the idea of meeting her father, had been disappointed,
and in all probability had only been induced to stop
by the persuasion of friends. She reflected that she
had a charming way of punishing him the next
evening, by accepting his offer of marriage with
unusual suavity.
In the evening her father explained the whole extent
of his misfortunes. He had sold £180,000 worth
of goods to a vast establishment in Manchester, and
had taken their bills for that amount. This was his
whole fortune. He was about to meet every im-
mediate liability, but by almost beggaring himself.
He did not hesitate one moment. He was not an
old man ; he was respected, he might scarcely hope
to realize his once vast fortune again, but he might
once more earn competence and independence.
Neither Mrs. Nicholson nor Augusta showed the
least sign of the grief and regret which they naturally
felt. They strove to encourage and rouse the noble-
minded merchant, and they succeeded so well, that
the next day, after wishing Augusta many happy
returns of the day, he went into the city for a couple
of hours as calm and collected as ever. The failure
of Messrs. , of Manchester, was well known,
and so were the liabilities of Messrs. Nicholson and
Lawson, with the latter's flight, and general alarm
was felt; It soon got abroad that a bill for £30,000
was over due that day. It was the talk on 'change.
About two o'clock it became known that it had been
presented by the holders, after being refused at
Manchester, and paid at once. Mr. Nicholson took
care to intimate that every bill of the kind would be
paid on the day, and even offered, under the circum-
stances, to pay all at once, though only due a month
hence. Every one refused, and Mr. Nicholson
returned home, half inclined to be cheerful. But on
his arrival he found a letter, which did not surprise
him, though he was pained. It contained a cold
apology from Lieut. Cartwright for not being present
that evening. On reflection he had decided on joining
his ship, as his father considered him not exactly in a
position to marry.
The father called his child on one side, and bade
her have as much courage for herself as she had
shown for him.
" I will have more, my dear father ! " she said
quietly, though her eyes were red and her cheeks
pals.
" You know then, my dear child," he exclaimed.
"I know that Lieut. Cartwright is a selfish and
interested young man, who saw only in me my
money, and who, supposing you ruined, has at once
retreated. I am glad of my escape."
" It is the way of the world, Augusta," he said,
shaking his head, and answering the summons to
dinner.
That evening was very quiet and very serious.
Augusta conversed nearly all the time with the Rev.
Herbert Rose, who delicately referred to the rumour,
with regard to her father's losses, which was afloat.
Augusta told him the truth. He expressed his
admiration of the merchant's sterling honour, and
hoped that time would soon avenge him for the
slipperiness of fortune. He never once alluded to the
absence of the young naval officer.
It was ten months later. The Nicholsons still
lived in Park Place, Greenwich, but in a very quiet
way. * They received a few friends, but gave no
parties. Miss Shrifton, after ten years' residence
with the family, could not be prevailed on to seek
anything better, and had become a friend of the
family. It was in the evening. Mrs. Nicholson had
just gone to bed, Mr. Nicholson was absent in
Manchester. Augusta sat again near her piano, and
her governess was reading. A young man once more
was whispering words of affection in the ears of that
young girl.
"Miss Nicholson," said he, in a low tone, "when
you were rich, surrounded by a host of friends, it
would have been pretension on the part of a poor
232
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
curate to aim at your hand, to disclose the deep and
earnest affection which beat within his bosom. But
now you are no longer so alarmingly wealthy, and I
can, at all events, risk an avowal of my sincere and
devoted love."
" But you are aware of my former love for Edward
Cartwright," replied Augusta, bowing her head, and
blushing deeply.
"There is no former love, my dear Miss Nicholson,"
said Herbert, warmly ; " love never passes away. If
you consider that caprice for a handsome and pleasant
young man as passed, it never existed. Love is too
bright, too holy, too pure, too noble a thing to be
anything but eternal, like Him who created it. Love
for the one being destined to be our earthly com-
panion can never be destroyed, by even absence or
death. It is a feeling co-existent with ourselves, a
part of our life, and it can no more die, than our soul
can vanish without the departure of reason or
without death."
" And do you love me thus ? " cried Augusta.
" I do, my dear friend. I love you, I have always
loved you, since I have known you. I always shall,
while there is within me a heart to feel ! "
"And you think love, then, something which
absorbs our whole being, which fills the air around
us, which makes us live a new life — ."
" Exactly."
"Then I never loved Lieut. Cartwright," said
Augusta, thoughtfully.
" May I then hope — ? " asked the clergyman,
timidly.
"You may more than hope," replied A.ugusta,
warmly ; " what a blind fool I must have been to
prefer a selfish lover of money to one so generous and
disinterested."
"Oh, my beloved! how happy and joyous you
make me ! " cried Herbert.
About an hour after, Mr. Nicholson entered. He
was very excited ; he shook the young clergyman by
the hand, he kissed Augusta, he did the same with
Miss Shrifton.
" Send out invitations for a grand ball," cried he,
"my Augusta, now. The Manchester house has
resumed payments ; in six months they will pay all
they owe in full, and I am better off than ever ! "
"Oh, papa ! I am so pleased for your sake — ," cried
Augusta.
"And for your own," said he, anxiously.
" Why, papa, I was thinking how happy I should
be as a poor curate's wife. I am afraid if I get rich,
I cannot even sham poverty."
"A curate's wife!" cried Mr. Nicholson, while
the young clergyman timidly began to speak.
"My dear father," said Augusta, quickly, "Mr.
Rose won me, thinking me poor ; he shall wed me, if
you please, now that I am again rich."
"He shall!" cried the merchant, solemnly; "he
did not desert us at the false rumour of our fall.
Friends in adversity are those whom we cannot afford
to lose."
HaIW> indeed, were all that evening, and Augusta
happiest of all. She had near her one whom sHe felt
she could look up to, whom she could admire and
respect. She had long known his good qualities. She
could now show her feelings openly.
***** *
About ten days later Herbert Rose was called
away suddenly for more than a week. He did not
write, and Augusta was uneasy. One morning she
was speaking of him, when the door opened, and a
servant announced the Right Rev. the Earl of P
and Lord Herbert Rose. It was her future husband
and his father. They were in deep mourning. The
young man had just lost his cousin. The sudden
elevation made no change in him, but he gave up the
church to follow a political career. They were
married in due time, and they were happy, and
Augusta found that which many find in this world,
that her First Sorrow was the beginning of great
joy. Had her father not temporarily lost his fortune,
she would have married the mercenary young naval
officer, and probably her life would have been one
great grief. * Augusta is now Countess of P , and
bowed very politely the other evening as Captain
Edward Cartwright, with his wife, a rich West-
Indian, was presented to her, on the occasion of one
of her grand receptions. He turned very pale as he
recognized her, but she smiled her usual affable
welcome, as if quite unconscious they had ever met
before. She had forgotten her First and Last
Sorrow.
THE BROKEN CLUB.
BY A SURGEON.
IT was a poor house, in a poor quarter, to which my
steps were professionally directed one cold December
morning but a short time ago.
It was the house of a poor workman — an industri-
ous man as I had reason to believe, — who was laid up
by an accident which had occurred io him in the
course of his laborious calling.
He was quite disabled from working by this
accident. He had been lying in bed about a fort-
night, and as he was a married man with a family of
children, of course the same expenditure was required
for properly feeding that family, paying house rent,
and euch like, as if the poor man, the head of his
household, had been well and in the receipt of his
regular weekly wages.
As a rule, medical men like myself refrain from
prying into the pecuniary circumstances of their
patients. Indeed, they have neither time nor incli-
nation for this, and generally know little or nothing
of the ways and means of living of the poor
folks whom they visit, unless where such information
is in some measure forced upon their notice.
Yet it must be admitted that the opportunities
of medical men for observing the social condition of
poor families is very great. The surgeon, in an
immense number of cases, is the only link that
connects the working with the middle classes.
Excepting an occasional visit from a town-missionary
or a clergyman, no middle-class man enters the houses
of the poor. And whereas these pay their visits only
casually, and at distant intervals, the surgeon in
times of illness visits them daily, and has thus very
frequent opportunities of observing and ascertaining
their condition and circumstances. Then, the clergy-
man or missionary comes as a mere visitor ; whereas
the surgeon generally appears among the poor as a
familiar friend. The wife enters into conversation
with him ; the children know him familiarly ; he has
been with them in their times of suffering and trial ;
sorrow has opened their hearts to him ; and " the
doctor " is usually cited by them in terms of high
praise and commendation.
Now, I am not about to reveal any poor man's
secrets in what I am going to relate ; but I cannot
refrain from making the public my confidant on this
occasion, feeling it to be my duty to direct the
attention of readers generally to an evil of great
magnitude, which bears very heavily upon the
working-class, when unhappily disabled from work
by disease or accident. I may also here state that
cases similar to that which I am about to relate, have
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
233
recently occurred in such numbers, within the
range of my own experience, that I am satisfied
this instance is by no means exceptional, but illus-
trative of the prevailing state of things among the
working-classes similarly situated to my poor pa-
tient.
I found from the certificate of his illness and in-
ability to work, which he asked from me, that he was
a member of some Benefit society, though I did not
inquire which, nor is it material here to specify the
particular society. I gave him the certificate, and
the application for the promised relief was made,
with what success you shall see.
On visiting him on the day in question, I found
him in a state of melancholy depression, which the
nature of his accident, — for he was then doing well,
- — could not account for. I inquired, — "What is
the matter, Richard ? You seem in low spirits ?
What is it about ? "
" Well, to tell you the truth, sir, we're very badly
off here. You see these children must live, God help
'em ! And I cannot see them clem, without feeling
sad at heart — ."
" But you have surely some savings from your
former wages, — eh ?"
"Don't speak of that, sir," said he. "You see
there's six of us, and when the income is so small, one
does not think of saving."
" No, until it's too late ; but there is the Club, for
which you got my certificate ? "
" Ah, sir, that's what troubles me ! You see we
had been trusting to that, and did not think of laying
by anything against sickness or accident. I always
calculated on the Club, and never dreamt it could
have failed us."
" Well, and what has come of your application ?
Surely, they cannot refuse you ? "
" Why, sir, you see the box is closed, and I fear
the Club's broken ! "
" Ah ! the old story, I see. But you applied ? And
what did they say ? "
" Why, Jane there went on to the lodge last night,
and saw the Past Grand : he told her the claims on
the funds had been so heavy of late, that the
subscriptions of the members were not sufficient to
enable them to pay the sick allowances, and so, you
see, she had to come back without a farthing. And
how to provide for the children till I am well again,
that's what troubles me now."
" I don't wonder at the result of your application,
my good fellow. How long have you paid into the
lodge in question ? "
" Why, for the best part of twelve years, fourpence
halfpenny a week, besides occasional levies for
widows and orphans' fund."
" And how often have you applied for relief during
; that time ? "
" Never until now, and the box is dosed, — it's
I really heart-breaking."
" It is lamentable, indeed ; but it is only what was
| to expected. It is next to inevitable that these lodges
• should fail, and disappoint the hopes of their oldest
members."
" How do you make that out, sir ? I have never
heard of that before."
"In this way," said I; "these lodges promise
| benefits which it is impossible they can make good
| to all the members, and especially to those members
i who grow old. The contributions are either too
small, or the relief given is too large in proportion to
the contributions. It is all very well so long as the
members of a lodge are young and comparatively free
from sickness ; but as they became old (and young
members learn to avoid those which contain a
majority of old men), the rate of dckness increases,
the funds are drained by sick allowances, then they
run short, and the box is closed."
" I never thought of that before. I never supposed
that when my turn for help came, I should have to
go empty away."
" But you think of it now, when it is too late ;
when you are forced to think of it. You see,
Richard, there is a laiv of sickness, as there is a law
of life ; nothing occurs by accident in the world, — not
even accident itself. If you take a sufficiently large
number of men in a particular class, and extend your
observations of them over a sufficiently long period
of time, you will be able to determine with something
approaching to accuracy, the average number of
those who will each year be laid up by sickness and
accident, and consequently who will have to be
provided for, by relief during sickness. For instance,
it has been ascertained by an extensive series of
observations, that young men suffer nothing like the
same amount of average sickness that old men do. j
Indeed, this is in conformity with all experience. |
Thus, take all working men of the ages of from !
twenty to thirty-five years, and it is found that the j
average sickness experienced by them, taking one
person with another, is less than one iveek in the year ; \
take them at forty years, and it is found to be more j
than one week; at fifty years of age, the average
sickness of the survivors has increased to about two \
weeks in the year ; at fifty-five, to nearly two weeks and \
a half ; at sixty, to three weeks and a half ; at sixty- j
five, to Jive weeks and a half ; and at seventy to about |
twelve weeks' sickness to each surviving member on the \
average"
" Well, sir, it may be so ; but how can that affect
what I am now so distressed about, — the closing of I
our Lodge Box ? "
"I will soon show you, Richard. You see that
sickness is governed by a law, which law is as- ;
certained by extensive experience and observation.
Now, men have been endowed by God with judgment
and observation, that they may discover and apply
the laws by which life and its well-being are \
governed. In determining the rates and contribu- !
tions required from members of benefit societies, for
instance, it is necessary we should keep the law of \
sickness in mind, for if we disregard it, we shall
surely run into error. It is no excuse for us, — nor
shall we escape the consequences of our neglect of
the law of sickness and mortality, though we should
have meant well. Whatever may be the goodness of [
our intentions — no matter how benevolent, — our ;
conduct must be in conformity with the laws of !
Nature and of God, otherwise we shall certainly fail.
For the Creator does not modify or alter his own
laws to accommodate them to our ignorance or
neglect. It is necessary that we should use our own
judgment and observation ; discover the true law in
each case, and act in conformity to it ; otherwise we
shall eventually reap the consequences in failure and
suffering. Now, the secret of your failure and disap-
pointment in the present instance, — the closing of
this Club-box, and the consequent loss and suffering
to yourself and family, — all arise from neglect of the
law of sickness, in fixing the weekly rates of contribu-
tion, which are altogether insufficient to enable the Club
to fulfill the promises of sick relief which it holds out
to its members. I am afraid I tire you, Richard ? "
"No, no, go on, sir, — you see I've got nothing else
to do, — only the thought of those poor children and
their mother there, makes my mind wander ; so that
I'm afraid I don't follow you very closely. But go on
if you please, sir ? "
"I have not much to add; and I would not have
troubled you with my notions on the subject of
benefit societies, if I had not thought them of some
234
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
moment ; for I wish working men would themselves
think seriously of the whole subject, as they are the
persons chiefly injured by their existing imperfec-
tions."
" You see, sir, we don't like to trouble ourselves
about such things ; as long as we get the relief
promised us, we don't think about the rates and
contributions, beyond whether we can pay them or
not. The cheapest lodges are the greatest favourites
with us, those which charge us the least amount of
weekly subscription."
"Yes, I dare say, Richard, but they are far the
dearest to you in the end. Of all cheap things,
the most dangerous are cheap benefit societies. It
is easy to see how they work. They offer to pay the
members back in sick relief more than they receive in
weekly contributions ! And how can they end other-
wise than in the closings of the box, and in ultimate
breakings up ? It is like a merchant who adopts the
ruinous plan of selling under prime cost : of course
he is soon a bankrupt."
"Well, to tell you the truth," said Kichard, "I
never thought much about the matter. But I hoped
all was right, and in that hope I regularly paid my
weekly contribution. It seems I might as well have
thrown the money into the Thames."
" No, not quite that. Your money has helped some
poor families no doubt, who happened to fall ill before
you. The first come have been first served, and they
have cleaned out the box funds. But so far as you
are concerned, the lodge has been a lamentable
failure, — a delusion and a snare. It ought to do you
this good, — teach you to trust no longer to unsound
schemes."
"But I do not know that they are unsound,"
replied my friend ; " we have only been unfortunate
this once, — next time my application may succeed."
" No, no, Richard, don't trust to the chapter of
accidents. Your lodge has grown old; young men,
whose average rate of sickness is still low, take care
not to join old men's clubs ; so most of the old lodges
break up and die out, leaving those who have paid
the longest to the funds destitute and unaided when
their time of suffering comes. I am afraid not one in
a hundred of the working-class benefit societies is
on a sound basis."
"Nonsense, nonsense," broke in Richard, half
raising himself up in bed; "you're surely prejudiced,
sir."
" No, my friend, I am not prejudiced. The cases
of failure of Benefit Societies, of positive bank-
ruptcy, which have come under my own eyes have
been very numerous. And I see that Mr. Ansell, an
able actuary, examined not fewer than two thousand
of such societies in the course of three years, and
found the whole of them in an insolvent state, in
consequence of deficient rates of contribution."
"What! And have we been all upon the wrong
tack, then?"
"Yes, I fear that is the case. Mr. Neison,
another actuary, has shown that, in the case of the
Manchester Unity of Odd Fellows — the most exten-
sive benefit society in the world, — the contributions
are quite insufficient to maintain the societies in a
state of solvency. He has shown satisfactorily, I
think, that whereas the annual contribution to realize
the benefits of ten shillings a week during a member's
sickness, £10 at a member's death, and £5 at the
death of a member's wife, ought to be £1 19s. 5d. a
year, it actually is only £1 2s. 9d. That is, your
average payments are more than one-third less than
what they ought to be ! And that is the secret of
the closing of the box in so many cases, — that is the
reason why your Broken Club cannot pay you any
allowance in your time of need. You will excuse me
speaking thus plainly to you, my friend, — it is best
that you should know that you have been relying for
so many years only upon a broken reed."
"Surely, surely, sir, it is better we should know
the truth, even though it should be bitter ; and the
poverty of my little family makes me feel it to be so
now. We must try a new tack, — I see how it is,
sir."
" That's the way of it, Richard. You must try a
new tacJc ; I'm glad to see you view the thing in the
right light. In the meantime, your family shall not
want. Farewell ! "
I had fortunately the means of relieving the poor
but deserving family, out of the bounty of a
benevolent lady, for whom, to some extent, I acted as
almoner.
What was the result of my conversation with the
unfortunate member of the "Broken Club," I have
not yet learnt. I trust he has been induced to join
himself to some benefit society whose funds may be
relied upon as a source of relief in time of sickness.
But I am persuaded, as I have before observed, that
the existing benefit societies of the working classes,
however benevolent may be the intentions of their
founders and promoters, are on the whole financially
unsound, that they are not placed upon an equitable
foundation, and that by far the greater number of them
must at one time or another fail in fulfilling the
promises of relief which they hold out to their
members. The whole subject is one of great import-
ance, deserving the immediate attention of the friends
of the working classes. As cultivating and fostering
pi'ovident habits among the people, these benefit
societies are of great value ; but it is absolutely neces-
sary they should be based upon sound scientific
principles, — upon the ascertained laws of vital
statistics, — and that the rates of contributions should
be sufficient to enable them to pay back to the
members in their time of sickness, the relief for
which they have contributed out of their hard-earned
wages during their time of health, — otherwise
working men may justly turn round upon them with
bitterness when their day of trouble comes, and no
relief is to be had because the "box is closed," or
the "Club is Broken," and pronounce them, as we
have heard some do, as a fraud, a delusion, and a
snare.
THE OFFICIOUS BIRD.
FROM AN OLD FRENCH TRANSLATION OF THE ARABIC.
One cold dark night at the commencement of the
rainy season some monkeys congregated under a tree
to sleep. Presently they saw shining near them the
bright light of a glow-worm, which they supposed to
be a spark of burning wood. They therefore covered
it carefully with dry leaves and took turns at blowing
it, hoping to raise a flame at which they could warm
themselves.
A number of little birds, roosting in the spreading
branches above, watched these proceedings, for a time,
with infinite amusement; at length, one of them, more
officious than the rest, descended from his perch to
remonstrate with the monkeys on their folly.
" I could not sit up there patiently any longer,"
said he ; "I was obliged to come down to tell you
that you are only losing your time. It's of no use to
blow, I assure you ; that fire will never kindle the
leaves."
" Who asked you to meddle with our business,
friend bird ? " replied one of the monkeys angrily,
" pray go back to bed, and remember that only fools
give advice to those who ask for none."
The little bird remained silent for a few moments,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
235
but as the monkeys continued to waste their breath
on the glow- worm, he felt obliged to speak again.
"What you see shining/' said he, " is no fire at all;
it is nothing but a worm, upon my honour."
" If your uneasy little brain prevents you shutting
your eyes," answered the monkey, " you had better,
at any rate, shut your impertinent prating beak, or it
will be the worse for you ! "
Instead of going away quietly at once, as he would
have done had he not been so exceedingly simple, the
officious bird repeated, " it's only a worm, I assure
you ! I ought to know, for I have eaten many a one."
'Twas vain to hope to convince the monkeys of
their mistake ; enraged by his chattering the patriarch
of the assembly seized him, as he finished these words,
and in an instant wrung his head off.
WIVES OF GREAT LAWYERS.
LAWYERS do not marry with the impulsiveness of
poets. For they are a prudent class — mostly shrewd,
practical men — anything but dreamers ; and though
they may admire a handsome figure, and like a pretty
face as other men do, they have not usually allowed
those adventitious gifts of nature to divert their
attention from the " main chance " in choosing a
wife. Lawyers are, take them as a whole, a marrying
class, and they not unfrequently enjoy that "lawyer's
blessing," a large family. Take the Lord Chancellors,
for instance. Lord Clarendon, Lords-Keeper Cov-
entry, Lyttleton, Bridgeman, Judge Jeffries, Lord
York, Lord Bathurst, Lord Loughborough, and Lord
Erskine, were twice married ; Lord Shaftesbury,
Lord Maynard, and Lord Harcourt, were three times
married. The wives whom they chose were usually
heiresses, or rich widows ; those who remained
bachelors, or who married "for love," seem to have
formed the exceptions. And yet, on the whole, the
married life of the Lord Chancellors, judging from
Lord Campbell's Lives, seems to have been comfort-
able and happy.
The great Lord Bacon, when a young man plodding
at the bar, but with a very small practice, cast about
his eyes among the desirable matches of the day, and
selected the handsome widow of Sir William Hutton
(nephew and heir of Lord Chancellor Hutton), who
had a large fortune at her own disposal. But another
legal gentleman had been beforehand with him ; and
when he proposed he was rejected. His favoured
rival was Sir Edward Coke, a crabbed widower, but
attorney-general, rich and of large estate, as well as
of large family. The widow, who valued wealth as
much as Bacon did, married the old man, running off
with him, and entering into an irregular marriage,
for which they were both prosecuted in the Ecclesi-
astical Court. Bacon had reason to rejoice at his
escape, for the widow was of capricious and violent
temper, and led Coke a most wretched life, refusing
to take his name, separating from him, doing every-
thing to vex and annoy him, and teaching his child
to rebel against him. Bacon was however shortly
after consoled by a rich and handsome wife, in the
daughter of Alderman Barnham, whom he married.
But the marriage seems at best to have been one of
convenience on his part. They did not live happily
together ; she never was a companion to him ; and
not long before his death, a final separation took
place, and the great Lord Chancellor died without
the consolations of female tenderness in his last
moments. When the separation took place, " for
great and just causes," as he expresses it in his Will,
he "utterly revoked" all testamentary dispositions
in her favour. But she lost nothing by this, for his
costly style of living during his official career left
him without a penny, and he died insolvent.
Sir Thomas More, when twenty-one, married the
eldest daughter of one "Maister Coult a gentleman of
Essex," a country girl, very ill-educated, but fair and
well-formed. Erasmus says of the marriage — " He
wedded a young girl of respectable family, but who
had hitherto lived in the country with her parents
and sisters ; and was so uneducated, that he could
mould her to his own tastes and manners. He caused
her to be instructed in letters ; and she became a very
skilful musician, which peculiarly pleased him." The
union was a happy one, but short, the wife dying,
and leaving behind her a son and three daughters ;
shortly after which, however, More married again, this
time a widow named Alice Middleton, seven years
older than himself, and not by any means handsome.
Indeed, More indulged himself in a jest on her want
of youth and beauty — " nee bella nee puella." He
had first wooed her, it seems, for a friend, but ended
by marrying her himself. Erasmus, who was often
an inmate of the family, speaks of her as * l a keen
and watchful manager." "No husband," continues
Erasmus, " ever gained so much obedience from a
wife by authority and severity, as More won by
gentleness and pleasantry. Though verging on old
age, and not of a yielding temper, he prevailed on
her to take lessons on the lute, the viol, the mono-
chord, and the flute, which she daily practised to
him." Her ordinary and rather vulgar apprehen-
sion could not fathom the conscientious scruples of
her husband in his refusal to take the oath dictated
to him by Henry VIII. ; and when he was at length
cast by that bad monarch into the Tower, then the
grave of so many royal victims, his wife strongly
expostulated with him on his squeamishness. "How
can a man," she said to him. on one occasion, " taken
for wise, like you, play the fool in this close filthy
prison, when you might be abroad at your liberty,
if you would but do as the bishops have done ? "
She dilated upon his fine house at Chelsea, his
library, gallery, garden, and orchard, together with
the company of his wife and children. But to all he
opposed the mild force of his conscience and religious
feelings. "Is not this house," he asked, "as nigh
heaven as my own ? " to which her contemptuous
ejaculation was — "Tilly rally, tilly rally/" He
persisted in his course, and was executed, after which
we hear no more of his wife.
Among the few great lawyers who have married
"for love," Hyde, Lord Clarendon, deserves a place.
While yet a young man, he became desperately
enamoured of the daughter of Sir George Aycliffe,
a Wiltshire gentleman of good family, though of small
fortune. A marriage was the result, but the beautiful
young wife died only six months after, of the malignant
small-pox (then a frightful scourge in this country),
and Hyde was for some time so inconsolable, that he
could scarcely be restrained from throwing up his
piofession and going abroad. Two years after, how-
ever, he manned again into a good family, his second
wife being the daughter of Sir Thomas Aylesbury,
Master of the Mint ; and the marriage proved highly
auspicious. This worthy lady was his companion in
all his vicissitudes of fortune — lived "with him for
many years in exile — shared all his dangers and
privations, when at times the parents could with diffi-
culty provide food and raiment for their children ;
but the wife was yet preserved to see her husband
Earl of Clarendon, Lord Chancellor, and Prime
Minister of England. As an instance of the straits
to which the family was occasionally reduced, we
may quote the following extract from a letter written
by Hyde to a friend, when at Madrid in 1650, m
which lie says — " All our money is gone, and let me
236
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
never prosper, if I know or can imagine how we can
get bread a month longer;" and again — "Greater
necessities are hardly felt by any men than we for
the present undergo, such as have almost made me
foolish. I have not for my life been able to supply
the miserable distress of my poor wife."
Francis North, afterwards Lord-Keeper Guildford,
went about marrying in a business-like way. He
was a reader at Lincoln's Inn, but much desired to
wed, because he had " grown tired of dining in the
hall, and eating a costelet and salad at Chateline's in
the evening with a friend." Besides, he wished to
mend his fortune in the most summary way. He
first tried a rich, coquetish young widow, but she
jilted him. Then he found out an alderman who
was reputed to be rich, and had three marriageable
daughters with a fortune of £6,000 each. He made
his approaches, was favourably received, and proceeded
to broach the money question to the alderman. The
sum named as the young lady's portion was £5,000 ;
but as North had set his heart on the £6,000, he was
disappointed, and at once took his leave. The alder-
man, running after him (at least so relates Lord
Campbell) offered him to boot £500 on the birth of
the first child. But North would not take a penny
under the sum he had fixed upon, and the match fell
| through. At last he found a lady with £14,000,
one of the daughters of the Earl of Devon, whom he
courted in a business style, and ultimately married.
Judge Jeffries, when a dissolute youth, courted an
heiress, and in spite of her father's interdict, the
young lady encouraged Jeffries, and corresponded
with him. The father fell upon a heap of love-
letters which had passed between Jeffries and
his daughter, and in a savage manner turned the
young lady from his doors. She was suffering great
distress in some house in Holborn, in which she had
taken shelter, and where Jeffries sought her out.
Perhaps his marrying her under such circumstances
was the one generous act of that infamous man's life.
She made him an excellent wife while she lived, but
before she died, Jeffries was already courting another
wife, and married her three months after ; and in
about three months after that, his new wife pre-
sented him with certain marital fruits rather pre-
maturely. This woman caused much scandal during
her life, and seems to have been as great a disgrace
to the domestic conditions of life, as her husband was
to the bench he occupied.
Neither Lord Somers nor Lord Thurlow were
married — both having been disappointed in attach-
ments in their younger years. The latter proposed
to a young Lincolnshire lady, a Miss Gouch, but she
protested " she would not have him — she was
positively afraid of him ; " so he forswore matrimony
thenceforward. We do not remember any other of
the Lord Chancellors who have led a single life.
Strange that Lord Chancellor Eldon — a man of so
much caution and worldly providence, should have
been one of the few great lawyers who married " for
love ; " but it was so. His choice was nearly a
penniless beauty, and he had nothing ; she was only
eighteen, and he twenty-one. Scott induced the
fair damsel to elope with him ; she stole away from her
father's home by night, descending from her window
by a ladder planted there by her impatient lover ;
they fled across the border, and got married at Black-
shiels. The step was an important one for Scott
fraught with great consequences ; for it diverted him
from the church, for which he had been studying,
and forced him to the bar, thus compelling him to
enter upon a career which ended in the highest
honours. William Scott, his elder brother, afterwards
Lord Stowell, helped the young couple on, and the
young lawyer worked with a will. " I have married
rashly," said he, in a letter to a friend, "and I have
neither house nor home to offer to my wife ; but it
is my determination to work hard to provide for the
woman I love, as soon as I can find the means of so
doing." He was shortly after engaged by Sir Robert
Chambers, as his deputy, to read lectures on law at
Oxford ; and in after yeai-s he used to relate the
following story respecting his first appearance in the
character of a lecturer. "The most awkward thing
that ever occurred to me was this : — -Immediately after
I was married, I was appointed Deputy Professor of
Law, at Oxford ; and the law professor sent me the
first lecture, which I had to read immediately to the '
students, and which I began without knowing a word j
that was in it. It was upon the statute of young men \
running away with maidens. Fancy me reading, with !
about one hundred and forty boys and young men I
giggling at the professor ! Such a tittering audience j
no one ever had."
It remains for us to notice the wives of two other •
great lawyers, who, though not equal in rank to
those we have named, were equal to any of them in
professional merit, and in true nobility of character.
We allude to the late Sir Samuel Eomilly and Sir
James Mackintosh, both of whom were blessed in
their married state, and have left behind them
memorials of the most touching kind in memory of
their wives.
"For fifteen years," says Sir Samuel Romilly,
writing in 1813, "my happiness has been the con-
stant study of the most excellent of wives ; a woman
in whom a strong understanding, the noblest and I
most elevated sentiments, and the most courageous
virtue, are united to the warmest affection, and to
the utmost delicacy of mind and tenderness of heart ;
and all those intellectual perfections are graced and
adorned by the most splendid beauty that human
eyes ever beheld. She has borne to me seven chil-
dren, who are living, and in all of whom I persuade
myself that I discover the promise of their, one day,
proving themselves not unworthy of such a mother."
The noble woman here referred to was Anne, the I
eldest daughter of Francis Garbett, Esq., of Knill j
Court, Herefordshire, whom Romilly married in j
January, 1798. He first accidentally met the young j
lady when on a visit to the Marquis of Lansdowne, |
at Bowood. He gives the following charming
account of the circumstance in his diaiy : — " The
amiable disposition of Lord and Lady Lansdowne
always renders the place delightful to their guests.
To me, besides the enjoyment of the present moment, :
there is always added, when I am at Bowood, a
thousand pleasing recollections of past times ; of the
happy days I have spent, of the various society of
distinguished persons I have enjoyed, of the friend-
ships I have formed here ; and above all, that it was
here that I first saw and became known to my dearest
Anne. If I had not chanced to meet with her here,
there is no probability that I should ever have seen
her ; for she had never been, nor was likely, un-
married, to have been in London. To what acci-
dental causes are the most important occurrences of our
lives sometimes to be traced ! Some miles from Bo wood !
is the form of a white horse, grotesquely cut out upon
the downs, and forming a landmark to a wide extent
of country. To that object it is that I owe all the
real happiness of my life. In the year 1796 I made ;
a visit to Bowood. My dear Anne, who had been |
staying there some weeks, /with her father and her !
sisters, was about to leave it. The day fixed for their
departure was the eve of that on which I arrived ;
and if nothing had occurred to disappoint their pur-
pose, I never should have seen her. But it happened
that, on the preceding day, she was one of an eques-
trian party which was made to visit this curious
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
object ; ahe overheated herself by her ride ; a violent
cold and pain in her face was the consequence. Her
father found it indispensably necessary to defer his
and her journey for several days, and in the meantime
I arrived. I saw in her the most beautiful and
accomplished creature that ever blessed the sight and
understanding of man, — a most intelligent mind, an
uncommonly correct judgment, a lively imagination,
a cheerful disposition, a noble and generous way of
thinking, an elevation and heroism of character, and
a warmth and tenderness of affection, such as is
rarely found even in her sex, were among her extra-
ordinary endowments. I was captivated alike by the
beauties of her person, and the charms of her mind.
A mutual attachment was formed between us, which,
at the end of a little more than a year, was conse-
crated by marriage. All the happiness I have known
in her beloved society, all the many and exquisite
enjoyments which my dear children have afforded
me, even my extraordinary success in my profession,
the labours of which, if my life had not been so
cheered and exhilarated, I never could have under-
gone,— all are to be traced to this trivial cause."
LadyRomilly died on the 29th of October, 1818,
and the bereaved husband was unable to bear up
under this terrible loss. The shock occasioned by her
death deprived him of his senses, and in his despair
he committed the fatal act which laid him in the same
grave with his devoted wife. In life they were united,
and in death they would not be separated.
Mackintosh married when only a young man in
great pecuniary straits. He was living in the family
of Dr. Fraser, London, where Miss Catherine Stuart,
a young Scotch lady, was a frequent visitor. She
was distinguished by a rich fund of good sense, and
an affectionate heart, rather than for her personal
attractions. An affection sprang up between them,
and they got privately married at Marylebone Church,
on February 18th, 1789, greatly to the offence of
the relatives of both parties.
When composing his Vindicice Gallicce at Little
Ealing, his wife sat by him in the room ; he could toler-
ate no one else, and he required her to be perfectly
quiet-'-not even to write or work — as the slightest
movement disturbed him. In the evening, by way
of recreation, he walked out with his wife, reading
to her as he went along. This amiable wife died in
1797, when slowly recovering from the birth of a
child, and she left three daughters behind her.
Mackintosh thus spoke of his departed wife, in a letter
to Dr. Parr, written shortly after his sad bereavement,
and we do not remember ever to have met with a
more beautiful testimony to a deceased wife than
this is : —
" In the state of deep, but quiet melancholy, which
has succeeded to the first violent agitations of my
sorrow, my greatest pleasure is to look back with
gratitude and pious affection on the memory of my
beloved wife ; and my chief consolation is the soothing
recollection of her virtues. Allow me, in justice to
her memory, to tell you what she was, and what I
owed her. I was guided in my choice only by the
blind affection of my youth. I found an intelligent
companion and a tender friend, a prudent moni tress,
the most faithful of wives, and a mother as tender as
children ever had the misfortune to lose. I met a
woman who, by the tender management of my weak-
nesses, gradually corrected the most pernicious of
them. She became prudent from affection ; and
though of the most generous nature, she was taught
frugality and economy by her love for me. During
the most critical period of my life, she preserved
order in my affairs, from the care of which she re-
lieved me. She gently reclaimed me from dissipation ;
she propped my weak and irresolute nature ; she
urged my indolence to all the exertions that have
been useful or creditable to me ; and she was per-
petually at hand to admonish my heedlessness or
improvidence. To her I owe whatever I am ; to her,
Avhatever I shall be. In her solicitude for my interest,
she never for a moment forgot my feelings, or my
character. Even in her occasional resentment, for
which I but too often gave her cause (would to God
I could recall those moments), she had no sullenness
or acrimony. Her feelings were warm and impetuous,
but she was placable, tender, and constant. Such
was she whom I have lost ; and I have lost her when
her excellent natural sense was rapidly improving,
after eight years of struggle and distress had bound
us fast together, and moulded our tempers to each
other, — when a knowledge of her worth had refined
my youthful love into friendship, before age had
deprived it of much of its original ardour. I lost
her, alas ! (the choice of my youth, the partner of my
misfortunes) at a moment when I had the prospect of
her sharing my better days. If I had lost the giddy
and thoughtless companion of prosperity, the world
could easily repair the loss ; but I have lost the
faithful and tender partner of my misfortunes, and
my only consolation is in that Being, under whose
severe, but paternal chastisement, I am bent down
to the ground."
Mackintosh married about a year after the death
of his first wife, Catherine, the second daughter of
John Allen, of Cresselly, Co. Pembroke. She was
an amiable and accomplished woman, and greatly
contributed to his happiness in after life. She died
in 1830, at Chene, near Geneva, after a short illness ;
and her husband, speaking of her afterwards, " in
the deep sincerity of deliberate conviction," calls her
" an upright and pious woman, formed for devoted
affection, who employed a strong understanding and
resolute spirit in unwearied attempts to relieve every
suffering under her view."
THE PINK SATIN DRESS.
A STORY FOR YOUNG READERS.
" Ruth, come and dress me immediately, or I shall
be too late," called out in an imperious tone a young
girl of fourteen years of age.
' ' It is only five o'clock, Miss," answered the servant
from the bottom of the stairs, " I must finish ironing
these few things before I can attend to you."
" It is very tiresome, Ruth, you have always some-
thing else to do when / want you. You know that I
shall wish my hair dressed very nicely, and the ruche
sewing on the top of my dress."
Ruth did not immediately answer, but having des-
patched her ironing, she went into her young mistress'
bed-room, who was, by that time, fuming with
impatience.
" Your dress is all ready, Miss Janet ; your mamma
took care of that before she went out."
And going to the little chest of drawers, Ruth took
from one of them a pretty simple book muslin dress,
made high up to the throat, and trimmed with cherry-
coloured ribbons.
"That dress! Ruth," exclaimed the Miss Janet,
scornfully tossing her head. " You are much' mistaken
if you think I will go in such a thing. Why, do you
know that I expect to meet Sir Gordon Forbes'
daughters, and the Misses Delaval, and ever so many
more grand people ? "
" But, Miss Janet, your mamma left strict orders
with me that you were to wear this dress and your
black kid shoes and your little black mits."
" Nonsense ! I think mamma must have been
dreaming."
238
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
" For shame, Miss, to speak so disrespectfully of her,
and -she looking so ill and unhappy too. Your papa
and she were talking very serious after dinner. I am
afraid something is going wrong. There was a queer
man came to see your papa yesterday morning, and
talked so loud, as if they were quarrelling."
" What ideas you have, Ruth ! I dare say it was
some business dispute ; but you know papa is so rich
and respectable, that nothing can go wrong."
"Well, Miss, I hope you will find it so. But indeed
you had much better put on the dress your mamma
left for you."
"Ruth, listen to me. Mamma is gone out to drink
tea, and will not return until late, and then she has a
long way to come. I am sure to be home before her,
and if you tidy everything away, she will never know
anything about my dress, if you only keep your own
counsel. So make haste and get out my pretty pink
satin that aunt Grace gave me on my birthday, and you
can put on the ruche in a minute. Look ! I have all
ready."
And the wilful girl took a box out of a drawer,
and produced the materials for the ruche together with
some pink satin ribbons, including a long wide sash,
and a pair of white kid gloves trimmed with pink.
" Why ! you will be a pink bird altogether, Miss,"
said Ruth, beginning to sew on the ruche, for she saw
it would be of no use disputing the point.
" Yes, Ruth, all but the shoes. Oh ! how I wish I
had a pair of white satin ones ! " said the vain girl ; " I
should be complete then."
When Janet arrived at Beech Villa, she found even
a more numerous party than she expected. The large
back drawing-room was cleared out and chalked for
dancing, while festoons of flowers and evergreens
adorned the walls. Just as Janet entered, the young
gentlemen chose their partners, and dancing com-
menced ; so she crossed the room, and sat down by
the eldest Miss Gilmore.
The girls began chatting as girls will, and Janet
asked the names of many of the company whom she
had never seen before.
"And who," said she, "is that very awkward girl
with her hair cut so short, and dressed in plain book
muslin without even a sash ?
"That," said Lucy Gilmore, "is Miss Delaval.
Excepting the Gordon Forbeses, they are quite the
highest people of the neighbourhood. But Mrs. Delaval
is such an odd creature."
" I think so indeed, when one sees the way in
which her daughter is dressed. But here is a very
fine-looking girl, this one in the blue crape and long
gold chain, with her hair braided so beautifully."
Lucy turned towards the young lady pointed out,
and saw a conceited, dressed-out doll, who appeared
as if she could scarcely dance for very affectation.
" Oh ! " she said, laughing, " that girl is, — who do
you think ? the only daughter and heiress of the quack
doctor in High Street, who married his cook. She is
now invited everywhere, because her father is so rich,
but people can't help laughing at her, she is so con-
ceited. To look at her, you might fancy her Miss
Gordon Forbes herself."
Janet was ashamed to say that she had fixed upon
her as Miss Forbes, so she proceeded in her inquiries.
"Are the Misses Forbes here tonight? I heard
that they were invited."
" Yes, there they are, just entering the room. They
are later than usual."
And Miss Gilmore hastened towards them, and
taking a hand of each brought them to sit by her,
introducing Janet at the same time.
The baronet's daughters were very sweet gentle-
looking girls, with soft brown curls falling about their
necks, and, to Janet's despair, wore plain cambric
muslin dresses. She began to look at her gaudy pink
satin, so unsuitable to a young girl of her age, with
shame and disgust, and to wish heartily that she had
depended upon her mamma's taste instead of her own ;
for she saw that only those who were laughed at for
their bad taste were equally fine with herself. Weary
of remaining to form a contrast with the simply-
elegant girls beside her, she rose and walked to a
recess in a bay-window, that looked very snug and
tempting.
She had not been very long in this retreat, before
two young ladies whom she knew very well, as they
lived in the next street to her papa, sat down on a
bench close by, but concealed from Janet's view by
an angle in the wall.
"What a merry quadrille this last was," said one
of them. " I suppose we shall have a polka next."
" I hope so, indeed," replied the other. "Have you
spoken to Janet Haigh yet ?
"No, how fine she is in her pink satin ! I wonder
her mamma will allow her to go out so over-dressed,
especially at this time."
" What do you mean ? " said the other, " Mr. Haigh
is very rich, is he not ? "
" Why, I heard my papa talking about him, and he
said, 'I thought what would be the end of it all,
Haigh will be in the Gazette next week.' That means
being a bankrupt you know."
Here there was an interruption in the shape of
" Will you allow me the pleasure ? " And one of the
young ladies got up and walked away with her part-
ner. The other did not remain long behind, and Janet
was free to leave her corner without the awkward-
ness of appearing to have overheard the conversation.
But she did not stir, for though she could not realize
the full meaning of being a bankrupt, her fears told
her that it was something very dreadful. She began
to connect what she had just heard with Ruth's hints
about her mamma being in low spirits, and the rude
man who had called upon her papa. Oh ! how she
wished that eleven o'clock was come, the hour at
which Ruth was to fetch her. She was sure that she
dared not walk across the room again, in that gay pink
satin, which was now her detestation.
Time wore wearily on, and Lucy Gilmore, missing
her young friend, sought her out ; and at length dis-
covered her half hidden by the window curtain.
" Why, Janet," said she, " what are you doing here
all by yourself? Have you not danced yet? No, that
is odd. Wait a moment, and I will introduce you to
a partner."
And hurrying away, she brought a young gentleman
of about sixteen years of age back with her ; and
Janet, not knowing what excuse to frame for refusing
to dance, was obliged to take her place in the quad-
rille then forming.
"Oh ! Ruth," said the miserable girl, as at length,
eleven o'clock having arrived and brought her atten-
dant along with it, she found herself walking rapidly
homewards, — Oh ! "Ruth, howl wishl had taken your
advice, and put on the muslin dress mamma left out
for me."
"Why, Miss ! What is the matter?"
" You were quite right, Ruth, you were quite right,
and I was very naughty. But I wish I had never
gone at all." And Janet burst into tears.
Ruth endeavoured to soothe her. "Tell me all
about it, Miss Janet. Did any one say anything
wrong about your dress ? "
Janet, as well as she could between her sobs, now
related the conversation she had overheard. While
she was still doing this, they arrived at home, and
scarcely had they been admitted, when another knock
announced the return of Mrs. Haigh. The disobedient
Janet, fearing her mamma's displeasure, made all
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
239
haste into bed ; and scarcely had she laid her head on
the pillow, while Ruth huddled her gay costume into
the nearest drawer, than the mother entered to say
good night to her only and darling child.
How remorseful felt the young deceiver as her
mamma bent over her, and even while kindly asking
how she had enjoyed herself, looked so haggard and
care-worn that Janet could not avoid anxiously in-
quiring if she were ill.
" No, my dear. I have been engaged in unpleasant
business, that is all. I trust your papa may be home
to-morrow. Good night, love."
Janet clasped her arms about her mamma's neck,
and it was with difficulty she could refrain from con-
fessing the fault she had been guilty of, and begging
her mamma's forgiveness. But she thought to herself,
— She is already unhappy, and it would only distress
her further to find her daughter so naughty a child.
And perhaps she will never hear of it from other
people.
Janet was mistaken in this last supposition. The
very next day, a gentleman having called upon her
papa immediately upon Mr. Haigh's return, the
latter sent to say that he desired to see his daughter
immediately. The girl obeyed, trembling, for con-
science had made a coward of her ; and her fears were
by no means relieved when she saw her papa's face,
and the stern knitting of his brows.
"Come here, Janet," he said, "and answer me
truthfully. Among other unpleasant information,
this gentleman, Mr. Freeman, has been assuring me
that my young daughter appeared last night at a ball
attired in a manner more befitting the Princess Royal
than a plain and now ruined merchant's daughter, but
with a gaudiness that the attendants of the Princess
would have too much good taste to permit. Is it
true, Janet ? Were you dressed in pink satin last
night ? "
Janet began to cry violently. " Yes — papa. I —
I — Mamma did not know about it — I — I would put it
on."
"Oh ! " said Mr. Haigh, and his brow cleared.
" You see, Mr. Freeman," he went on to say to his
visitor, " it was no extravagant or injudicious pro-
ceeding on the part of my wife, but a mere piece of
childish vanity. I trust you will clear me with all
those who have been pleased to say hard things about
this slight indiscretion. As for allowing Janet to
attend such an entertainment at all, no man likes to
expose his affairs before it is inevitable. Speculation
would have been excited by Janet's non-appearance
at a party given by her most intimate friend, and
where all the young people of the neighbourhood were
assembled."
" I comprehend your reasoning, Mr. Haigh," said
Mr. Freeman, " though I may not entirely agree with
it. And I trust this occurrence may be a lasting
warning to Miss Janet. If it had not been explained,
she would have done her father more harm than she
has any idea of."
And the visitor rose to take his leave. As soon as
he was gone, Mr. Haigh turned towards his daugh-
ter, who was still sobbing and crying violently.
"Come, Janet, give over crying, and tell me all
about it. I will not punish you. Your own feelings
will be ample retribution. You have perilled your
poor father's certificate."
When Janet had told- her papa, with many bitter
tears, all about her obstinacy and disobedience, con-
chiding her account with the relation of her mortifi-
cation at the ball ; he, in his turn, confided to her the
position of his affairs. He told her how all their
furniture would have to be sold, and that they would
have to remove into a smaller house with one servant,
or perhaps no servant at all ; and how she must be a
very good and helpful litttle girl, and do all in her
power to lighten her poor mother's burdens.
"I will, indeed, indeed, papa," said Janet, holding
up her face for a kiss. "But, — papa," — said she,
hesitatingly.
" What, my child."
"We need not tell mamma about my — my dis-
obedience."
" No, dearest, probably no one will ever mention it
to her now, and she has sorrow enough without that.
Only, Janet, if I spare you this exposure, you must
not go and forget your fault immediately, as if you
had never committed it."
" Oh ! Papa, do you think I could do that ? "
NOTHING LIKE LEATHER !
ONCE upon a time, when the city of Liege was
threatened with an attack from without, it was
strongly urged by some of the most respectable
burgesses of the place, that fortifications should be
immediately erected, and that they should be of
leather ! Reader, do you laugh ? Know that the
principal burgesses of Liege were tanners, curriers,
and leather merchants! The proposal was not so
ludicrous after all ; certainly not more so than many
of our modern schemes, in which the nothing like
leather policy is equally apparent.
We have got the trick of pushing things to lu-
dicrous extremes at this time of day. Some theory
has been broached, is applied, and found to answer ;
and immediately it is sought to be applied in all
manner of ways — fitting and unfitting. You may
see this in such small matters as caoutchouc and
gutta percha, which are now sought to be applied
to all imaginable purposes. We have India-rubber
cloaks, shoes, boots, trowsers, boats, umbrellas, beds,
bands, and buffers ; and we have gutta-percha balls,
ropes, shoe-soles, boxes, picture-frames, and side-
boards !
But the " nothing like leather " principle is more
strikingly exemplified in the current movements of
the day. Not long ago Free Trade was the great
question ; and Free Trade became the law. Forth-
with a host of projectors sprang up, who proposed
applying it to everything. Free Trade in law, Free
Trade in banking, Free Trade in religion, Free Trade in
carrying letters, Free Trade in education, Free Trade
to the extent of doing nothing for nobody, but letting
everybody d > everything for themselves. We were to
let everything alone. To leave towns uncleansed,
streets unsewered, children uneducated, criminals un-
reformed, paupers unfed, letters uncarried, because to
attempt to do these things by means of a law, would
be an "interference with the free trade principle."
In short, it meant nothing like leather !
Look at the plans of social and national reform
which are afoot. There are fifty different move-
ments, each of which, according to its special advo-
cates, is the only thing to save society. Listen to
the multitude of cries: "More church," cry the
clergy; "The charter," cry the working classes;
"National schools," cry the educators; "Total ab-
stinence," cry the teetotallers; "No war," cry the
peace advocates ; "No state schools and churches,"
cry the voluntaries; "No flesh meat," cry the
vegetarians ; " Co-operation and communism," cry
the socialists ; and so on with a host of other move-
ments. We need not say that we sympathize with
many of them, though we cannot disguise from our-
selves that they strikingly illustrate the nothing like
leather principle.
Every man sees in his own panacea the one thing
needful to make men as they ought to be. He will
240
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
see no virtue in another man's project. He treats it
with indifference, if not with scorn ; or, at all events,
lie does as Tom Codlin did, tries to persuade us that
"Codlin's the friend — not Short ; Short 's very well as
far as he goes, but the real friend is Codlin — not Short."
A man who has once fairly laid hold of a panacea
sees no difficulties in the way — he will hear of no
objections to its practicability. The worth that there
may be in some other man's panacea he will not hear
of. His is the only genuine thing — the true remedy
— the infallible nostrum — the universal medicine.
He has perfect faith in it — he is even willing to be a
bigot in its defence. Nothing like leather !
Morrison's pills — old Parr — homeopathy — hydro-
• pathy — metallic traction — medical galvanism — mes-
merism,— a host of illustrations spring to view in
this wide field. It makes the fortune of many a
quack — nothing like leather !
Don't you hear it in religions ? Are you not told
of certain pales, beyond which, &c., &c. ? Then, you
hear every day of the misery of certain nations being
set down to the account of their religion, and the
prosperity of certain other nations of a different
religion, to the account of theirs. There is no end
of this "jawing." It means — nothing like leather!
The same with political institutions. If a usurper
upturns a government, and puts it under foot of
military despotism, you hear the cry — "see the
working of democracy ! " The lesson that would thus
be taught is obvious.
Then, how often do we hear of the end of all things
approaching ! The sun of Britain's glory set ! The
last roar of the British Lion ! or, as the Times put it
the other day — " the last yeoman, the last peasant,
the last country's pride, the last farmer's friend, the
last sheaf of English wheat, the last loaf of home-
made bread, the last barrel of good October ale, the
last ship, the last bit of English oak." You know
what it all means — that there is only one thing that
will save us, and that is — a tax upon our bread !
Nothing like leather!
As men grow older and wiser they cease to have
perfect faith in any panacea. They find a little of
good in everything. They are ready to welcome
good from whatever quarter it may come, for they
begin to find out that truth and patriotism are not
confined to any particular cliques, or parties, or fac-
tions. And after all, we do manage to advance,
notwithstanding the cries which proceed from some
quarters, that we are ruined because we do not go
fast enough, and from others, that we are ruined
because we are moving in any degree at all. The
mass is really advancing, and who knows but that
the nothing like leather men are doing their own part
towards helping the world onward !
S. SMILES.
(ORIGINAL.)
SONG OF THE BED MAN.
I SAW thee a stranger when low thou wert lying,
Thou mightst have been sleeping, thou mightst have
been dying ;
The pallor of anguish was over thy cheek,
I found thou wert lonely, and wounded, and weak.
This right hand in charity bound up thy breast, •
My home in the mountains gave shelter and rest •
And my well of sweet waters, my flask of rich wine,
My bread and my goat's-flesh unasked-for were thine.
You saw me a stranger content with a home
Where the wandering white man but rarely has come j
You saw me content with my rifle and hounds,
With my date-shadowed roof, and my maize-covered
grounds ;
You saw me possessed of one exquisite thing, —
A pure daughter as bright as the prairie in spring ;
You saw me kneel down when the lightnings were
wild,
And ask God for naught else but my beautiful child.
Three moons have run out since we met by the river,
Your life has been spared by the bountiful Giver,
Your health has returned with its strength and its
grace,
With its flash in your eye and its tinge on yoiir face.
You can tread like a deer up the rugged hill side, —
You can swim where the stream is as rapid as wide.
There is nerve in your grasp, there is pride on your
brow ;
I can help you no longer, oh ! go from me how.
To my milk and my fruit, to my corn and my meat,
You are welcome as light, — you may drink, you may
eat ;
But I heard you last night whisper softly and low
With my child in the leafy savannah below ;
I saw you bend gracefully over her hand
As you told her the south was a lovelier land ;
You made vows of deep love with a smile and a sigh,
And with treachery lured my young nestling to fly.
Oh, white man ! the blood may well redden your skin,
For the theft you design is the meanest of sin ;
You have shared all I have till you need it no more,
Yet would take from me that which no hand can
restore.
I've been robbed by the panther, he comes to my fold
In his desperate fierceness, defying and bold ;
I have seen him go forth with fresh blood on his
tongue,
But he left me my honour, — he took not my young.
The gaunt wolf crouches low to spring out on the lamb,
And, if hunger be on him, he spares not the dam ;
The great buffalo seizes the colt and the steer,
And the wild dogs at noontide will harass my deer.
There's the snake in the jungle, the hawk in the sky,
Let them strike what they may, it is doomed, and
must die ;
But fthe boa and vulture declare what they seek,
And conceal not with flowers the coils or the beak.
Go, leave me, false man ! while my child is secure ;
Away ! for I chafe, and my rifle is sure.
There's the whip-snake and jaguar few leagues to the
Herd with them, for thou'lt match with the reptile
and beast.
Should a lily-skinned daughter e'er cling to thy neck,
Then remember the father whose peace thou would'st
wreck ;
Away then, base coward ! there's guilt in thine eye,
And there's lead in my barrel, — away ! or thou'lt die !
ELIZA COOK.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 146.]
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1852.
[PRICE
YOUNG WOMEN IN THE COLONIES.
EMIGRATION heretofore has been too one-sided. It
has been held up as a means by which young men
might better themselves in the world, and lay the
foundations of good fortune. And, generally speaking,
emigration has greatly improved their circumstances,
and made life comparatively easy, comfortable, and
prosperous, for them. In a good colony, a young
man gets out of the sphere of intense competition,
arid enters upon a new and untilled field, where
ability and industry have full and free play. There
the steadiest worker invariably succeeds the best.
The young man labours in constant hope, for he
knows that his reward is sure. He not only lives
well, but accumulates property for his children, whom
he leaves behind him without any fear or anxiety as
to their future, so far as worldly means are concerned.
It is indeed a subject of complaint with many pros-
perous emigrants, that they have no wives or families
to whom to leave their worldly goods. After all,
life without woman is "stale, barren, and unprofit-
able." Do as he will, man's happiness is, to a very
large extent, dependent upon woman's presence, —
in the Australian bush, as in the crowded cities of the
old world. That most cherished part of a man's life,
— which centres in home, — can scarcely have an exist-
ence but for her. The poet, addressing woman, says
— " We had been brutes without you ; " and 'tis true.
Where she is not, a gross low life of the senses is apt
to set itself up. Woman softens man's nature and
sweetens the breath of his home. He is thus
humanized and civilized. And then comes responsi-
bility, with fatherly joys and cares, attendant upon
the introduction of first one, and then another, little
being into the family circle. In the home of the
emigrant, children are the greatest of treasures.
Their prattle is music to the father's ear ; their love
makes his life glad and joyous ; and as they grow up,
their hopeful aid makes his old age contented and
happy. Every fresh pair of arms in the household of
a colonist is an addition to his fortune ; never a
burden or a hindrance to him, as is too often the
case in the old country.
Now, in consequence of emigration being so " one-
sided " as we have said it is, — and embraced as a
means of " getting on," by young men much more
frequently than it is by young women, — serious
inconveniences arise, first to society at home, and next
to society in the colonies. Look at the emigration,
for example, which took place from the United King-
dom to the United States in the year 1850. From the
returns, we find that the men who emigrated thither
in that year exceeded the women by not less than
twenty thousand ! The same disproportion is observed
in the numbers of the sexes who emigrate to the
colonies ; and the general result is, that there is a
large surplus population of women left at home — the
excess of women over men in Great Britain, chiefly
in consequence of the excess of male emigration,
amounting at the present time to not less than half-a-
million ! It is easy to see what the consequence is.
All the walks of female labour are crowded ; com-
petition, already far too keen, is greatly intensified.
Employment for young women becomes more and
more painful and difficult. Suffering of needle-
women increases, genteel poverty becomes more
unbearable, and the ranks of the destitute and the
helpless are crowded with victims.
Emigration to the Australian and African colonies
is of a similar character. The emigrants are chiefly
men ; whereas the young women who oiight to
accompany them, are left at home ; and while the
brothers are thriving, the sisters are often starving.
In New South Wales, at the last census, there were
118,927 men, and only 77,777 women. It is obvious
that serious evils must arise out of such a disparity
in the numbers of the sexes, which need not be
specified here. We have somewhere seen it stated,
that in some districts, the number of women was so
small, that when it became known that a new woman
was coming into the district, men would come from
distant stations to see her pass along the road !
, Whether this be a joke or not, certain it is that in
the more remote districts the want of female help is
greatly felt. Men act as hutkeepers, dairymen, and
household servants ; thus, homes in the bush are
often no homes ; they want the cheering voice and
the tidy help of women to make them cozy, clean,
and comfortable, as homes should be. But where
women are so scarce a commodity, they often cannot
be had either as servants, or, what is still more
wanted, as wives; and thus the colonial well-being
seriously suffers.
Fancy a colony of men only ! What a pandemonium
it would be ! It must not only live miserably, but
242
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
die without issue. It could not exist but for a
generation, and then expire, unless kept up by new
draughts of men from the old country. The evils of
such a state of things are now actually experienced
in several of our colonies, — at Natal and New Zea-
land for instance, — though in the latter colony, we
observe, from the last Report of the Emigration
Commissioners, the white men are accommodating
themselves to circumstances, by intermarrying with
the natives ; and already a considerable number of
English settlers have married Maori women. Captain
Stokes, in a despatch to the Lieutenant Governor of
New Zealand, of date the 1st September, 1850, thus
describes Stewart's Island, near to Otago colony, and
its inhabitants : — " The eastern and northern sides
have several good harbours ; of these, Paterson's
Inlet deserves particular notice, being nowhere sur-
passed in New Zealand. It has many convenient
bearing down coves, and is generally surrounded by
fine timber, such as rimee, rata, black pine, totara,
&c. This inlet seems very eligible for a small permanent
settlement. On a narrow tongue of land, forming its
eastern shore, are congregated twelve, out of the one
hundred and seven European inhabitants of Foveaux
Strait. They have a few cattle. The other white
men live scattered over the north and south shores.
Some have passed twenty-two years in this solitude ;
and, with few exceptions, are married to Maori
women, and their daughters are married to Europeans
also."
Mrs. Chisholm was in no small degree stimulated
to her philanthropic exertions in New South Wales,
by the inconvenience and manifold evils arising from
the scarcity of female labourers of good character in
that colony. She has been over and over again im-
portuned by settlers in the bush, to send them not
only servants but wives. To supply the latter com-
modity involves a very serious responsibility, which
Mrs. Chisholm was slow to undertake ; but without
directly acting as a uniting agent between the lone
bachelor in the bush, and the equally lonely and
miserably remunerated single woman in the old
country, she has indirectly, and without prominently
appearing in the transaction, been the happy means
of shedding joys and blessings on many a solitary
home in the back settlements, and thus veritably
made the "wilderness rejoice and blossom as the
rose."
The Female Emigration Fund originated in the
philanthropic exertions of Mrs. Chisholm. The Hon.
Sidney Herbert has been the moving spirit of this
association ; and already it has been the instrument
of much good. Its more immediate object was to
relieve the sufferings of the poor needlewomen of the
metropolis— a most deserving, though helpless class.
This society offered them the means of escape from a
country where their only possible calling brings them
rum, to a land which offers them the prospect of a
home, and where they may dwell in comfort and in
honour. The poorest, most respectable, industrious de-
serving, and suitable in point of age, were selected from
the crowd of applicants who made their appearance • and
about 700 young women have already been snatched
from the perils and miseries which, in the mother
country, are almost the inevitable lot of persons of
welcn™ r* "52 S6nt °Ut t0 Australia> ^here they are
welcomed as a blessing. The intense competition of
needlewomen at home has thus been relieved, at the
same time that the evils arising from the dispropor-
tion of the sexes in the colonies have been mitigated.
But a large number of servants have also been sent
out — a class extremely wanted in all the Australian
colonies. Many of the applicants of this class were
in a state of great distress at the period of their
respective applications, and it is matter for thankful-
ness, that the Society was enabled to rescue them
from the dismal fate which so often befalls unem-
ployed young women in large towns. The operations
of the Society include the provision of an Emigrants'
Home in London, up to the period of emigration ;
education for those who require it ; a passage out,
during which the emigrants are kept under strict
moral discipline ; and their reception in an Emigrants'
Home on their arrival in the colonies, up to the
period of their engagement as servants, or in other
capacities.
It is gratifying to be enabled to add, that all the
female emigrants were employed at good wages,
varying from £14 to £25 per annum, with board,
almost immediately on their arrival. The emigration
agent at Adelaide says, writing to the committee, —
" I think, if the same care in the selection is observed,
as in those who have already come out, you may
safely continue to forward any reasonable number — a
few at a time is the surest way of getting them good
situations. Good cooks, housemaids, laundrymaids,
and particularly servants of all toork, will never find
any difficulty in obtaining situations, provided they
do not look for unreasonably high wages." The cases
are numerous of young women who were accustomed
to starve in London as needlewomen, on from two
to five shillings a week, being immediately engaged,
on their arrival at Port Philip, at £25 a-year. Con-
ceive the Elysium of such a change !
The Rev. Mr. Bodenham, of Sydney, in writing
home, offers the following sensible remarks : — " Of
course, to send out these young women under the
idea that they will all obtain a living in the colony
by needlework, would be unreasonable, and end in
disappointment ; they must take to domestic service,
as nursemaids, housemaids, cooks, laundresses, or
general servants, in which employments they will
obtain at starting (even while they are comparatively
inefficient), from £10 to £12 a-year wages, with excel-
lent board and lodging in the family ; and when they
become practised servants, and can act as parlour-
maids, &c., higher still. For some years hence, from
eight hundred to a thousand per annum of such
young women, if arriving at moderate intervals in the
colony — say six to eight weeks — will easily obtain
employment. _ I may mention, too, that all kinds of
women's clothing being exceedingly cheap, girls of a
saving disposition are enabled to make deposits from
their wages in the Savings' Bank, while those of a
less valuable sort dress from it extravagantly fine.
The opportunities here for young women to get
married cause a constant change of servants ; and
this prospect should not be hidden from the parties
in whose behalf you have taken so kind an interest."
What the " opportunities " referred to are, may be
briefly illustrated by facts. For instance, of one lot
of thirty-six needlewomen who landed at Melbourne,
three were married on the day after their arrival.
The following are selected from the cases of emigrants
by the ships named : —
Emigrants per ship " William Stevenson."
E.D.W., — Formerly assistant to a dressmaker ;
obtained a situation as servant at Sydney, was married
in Jannary, 1851, to a very respectable man con-
nected with a mercantile house at Hobart Town, and
is now in comfortable circumstances.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
243
S.C., — Landed at Sydney, where a brother and two
sisters reside — one being married to a police serjeant
and the other to a plumber; in the house of the latter
the emigrant found a comfortable home, and has
greatly improved her position in life. »
A.R., — Was servant to a family in somewhat
humble circumstances in London ; landed at Adelaide,
and obtained a situation as domestic servant, which
she retained for a few months ; and was then married
to Mr. R. W., a coppersmith, now residing at Burra
Burra, Kooringa ; states that she is doing well, and
only regrets that her English friends are not with
her, as they would not fail in obtaining plenty of
good work.
E.M., — Servant in a small family in London;
entered into service at Adelaide, from whence she
married ; states that her husband, who is a shepherd,
has a good home, and is doing well, and is anxious
that her mother and sister should join her in the
colony.
M.A.B., — Engaged in London at needlework ;
procured employment at Adelaide as a servant ; was
married on Christmas-day, 1850, to a clergyman
residing at Taronga.
J.A.J., — Formerly engaged at the east end of
London, at slop-work ; joined a brother at Sydney,
who is master of a trading vessel, as his house-
keeper.
M.S., — At the east end of London, a needle-woman;
informs her friends she intends to write as soon as
she has finished making her fortune.
Emigrants per "Duke of Portland."
C.T., — Worked in London at her needle, earning
about three shillings per week ; landed at Adelaide,
where she was received by friends ; about being married
to one of the mounted police force, who are con-
sidered a respectable body of men, much interest
being required to obtain employment in that
corps.
M.H., — Employed in London as an occasional
servant ; was married at Port Philip to a farmer in
comfortable means.
S.W., — Engaged on landing by Mr. Chitty, of
Melbourne, in whose service she still remains, and is
much pleased with her situation.
Emigrants per "Northumberland."
A.G., — Resided with her mother, a widow, having
a small business in one of the alleys in Aldgate ; ob-
tained a situation at Gardener's Creek, near Port
Philip, where she was married to the gardener of the
house in which she was engaged ; and acquaints her
friends, that her husband, although not rich, is not
without a few pounds.
S.H., — Formerly a milliner ; engaged on landing
by a family at Melbourne, where she still continues,
and informs her friends that she has an excellent
situation.
C.C., — Servant in London at £6 a-year ; has written
to her friends that she is married to a person in easy
circumstances.
These illustrations of well-doing are eminently
satisfactory, and afford every encouragement to the
Female Emigration Fund Society to persevere in
their philanthropic labours. To rescue even one
poor starving woman from penury and distress, if not
from the jaws of destruction, is worthy of an effort.
How much more so to save them by hundreds, and
place the sufferers in positions of respectability,
comfort, and well-being, as this Society is now en-
gaged in doing. By all means, let them go on and
prosper.
LAMP-LIGHTING ; OR, GLIMPSES OF
POETRY.
BY TWO STUDENTS.
THE LAMP-BURNE R.— II.
Passion is the primuin mobile of youth , — the
first incentive, swaying or swayed, by which each, j
individually, works out more or less the will of
heaven. It supplies agencies as various as the moral
complexions ; vicious by accident, good inherently,
because in the order of that Providence which
Shapes our ends
Rough hew them how we may,
they one and all can be but proximate motives, —
secondary influences proceeding from the ultimate
origin of good ; and if not wholly misapplied upon the
way to it, more or less directly tending to return
through the many threads " that knit the ravelled
sleeve of Care."
Love is generally the earliest, universally the most
powerful, of those nearer agencies ; for it stirs into
active life all its kindred impulses, which, rising
wave-like within his heart, act one upon another, and
long after the first strong feeling has subsided, carry
its force onward through ever - widening circles
towards the great horizon where earth meets heaven
in charity.
The organization of the Poet (by whom we mean
one who apprehends the poetic light of life, and
transmits it through any sensuous medium to others)
renders him peculiarly impressible by beauty in either
world, — of spirit or of matter ; and, as a consequence,
most sensible of it in the unity of both worlds, the
human forms which in essence presents the one, in
accident the other.
Quickly and strongly affected by exterior beauty,
and still more so by interior, the reality of which he
often fancies, the Poet, during the \yarm weather of
his days, is continually falling in love, as it is
phrased. Reasoning upon the tendencies of his
nature, it would seem strange to us if it were other-
wise. Hence he is but too apt to reflect on others
the impressions received through them. He says in
his heart, " Shall I thank God for the green summer
and the mild air, and the flowers and stars, and all
that makes this world so beautiful, and not for the
good and beautiful beings I have known in it ? Has
not their presence been sweeter to me than the
flowers ? Are they not higher and holier than the
stars? Are they not more to me than all things
else ? " And he is continually impelled to offer his
heart in sacrifice of thanksgiving upon some living
shrine of loveliness ; often forgetful that that which
in him is but passing worship, may long disturb " the
quiet of the sanctuary." From this inclination, sung
and exhibited by so many poets, principle is the only
preservative until true passion comes : —
ENDYMION.
It comes ! the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,
In silence arid alone,
To seek the elected one.
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion,— the soul's sleep ;
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him who slumbering lies.
Oh, weary hearts ! oh, slumbering eyes !
Oh, drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again !
244
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
No one is so accursed by fate,—
No one so utterly desolate,—
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own ;
Responds as if, with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings,
And whispers in its song,
" Where hast thou stayed so long ?
When young men fall in love they make verses.
The world has noticed this tendency of the passion to
approximate the common to the poetic nature, as it
were by the heat and force which the fire, kindled on
the "hearth-stone of the heart," produces, burning
or purging away its baser elements ; the spirit
expanding through its influence fills a larger space j
at what then may we estimate its effect upon the
born-poet ! It affects him as it affects no other. ^ It
influences all in calling forth such qualities as bring
to another nature that consciousness of the presence
of its complement, which is known as sympathy. It
makes practical men poetic through sensibility to the
beautiful, which is itself poetic. It makes the poet
practical, for he must prove his power, in order to
make it appreciable by another. And not this only,
—it makes him twice the poet. The wonder worked
upon his own nature he repeats upon that of the
iuferior things around. The inanimate word ex-
presses new beauty to his eyes ; not that he sees
what is not, but that his sense is more awakened to
what is. When he seeks types and similitudes,
under which to convey a feeling too natural to speak
out plainly, that which inspired him becomes his
assistant and interpreter. It is more earthly and
more heavenly than the fanciful loves of his boyhood,
as angels are less akin than man to God. " When he
hears the sound of wind in the trees, and the sound
of sabbath bells ascending up to heaven, wishes
and prayers are ascending with them from his inmost
soul, beseeching that he may not love in vain." And if
he do apparently, — outwardly, — in the flesh, it is not
really in vain : —
EVANGELINE.
Talk not of wasted affection, — affection never was wasted ;
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning
Back to their springs, like the rains, shall fill them full to
refreshment :
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the
fountain.
When Love has once fed the fire on the altar of
Art, it does not smoulder uselessly away, because
conscience, or honour, or adversity, or death forbids
a stay to fan the flame. Like Canova, when in
generous self-abnegation he gave up the object of
his early affection to his likelier fellow-student, the
Poet perseveres, —
To accomplish the labour of love, till the heart is made god-
Purified, strengthened, perfected, and made more worthy
of Heaven.
Thenceforth all the emanations of his genius, " like
the sparks fly upwards." He is the better artist, and
not of necessity the unhappier man : —
THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR.
A youth, light-hearted and content,
I wander through the world ;
Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent,
And straight again is furled.
Yet oft I dream that once a wife
Close in my heart was locked j
And in the sweet repose of life,
A blessed child I rocked.
I wake ! Away ! that dream— away !
Too long did it remain !
So long, that both by night and day
It ever comes again.
The end lies ever in my thought,—
To a grave, so cold and deep,
The mother, beautiful, was brought,
Then dropped the child asleep.
But now the dream is wholly o'er,
I bathe mine eyes and see,
And wander through the world once more
A youth so light and free.
Two locks,— and they are wondrous fair,—
Left me that vision mild ;
The brown is from the mother's hair,
The blond is from the child.
And when I see that lock of gold,
Pale grows the evening-red ;
And when the dark lock I behold,
I wish that I were dead.
This wish, no doubt, often arises in many a poet's
leart, and sometimes speaks out, but speaks gently.
le feels, and makes us feel with him, that passion
las performed its purpose, and that, in poetical
ustice, he has no right to require of it more. For
n the garden of the soul, as in the gardens of the
earth, few and favoured are the instances in which
the blossom lives to witness the ripening of the fruit.
But whether happy or unhappy in his earthly love,
the Poet is, day by day, more attracted to that which
lie seeks in the wedlock of the spirit. He comes to
[ove his art. He woos in her, sometimes the fame
through which the world knows her, or the power of
which, through her, he may become the heritor ;
sometimes the true mate of his genius, of whom, as
of woman, are to be born his works, — children of life-
giving intelligence. The wooing of her is the test of
his capability, and of his virtue. He must wait, as
the young man at the gate of Wisdom must watch,
for a revelation of her loveliness, until the face of the
beautiful is without veil before him. He must bring
forth for her adornment "the pure and precious pearls
of splendid thought." He must task his spirit to the
utmost to build a palace for her dwelling, — a palace
so artful, so wonderful, that the smallest portion of it
left incomplete (as the unfinished window in the
palace of Aladdin), wealth of worlds cannot perfect.
In the work of eveiy genius there is such a gap, in
the enterprise of every slave of the lamp there is a
short-coming of performance, that no strange hand
can supply. And through this void in that which so
long was the habitation of his spirit, in which he has
re-created himself, do we judge him ; but not whilst
the poet holds festival, —whilst " thick-coming fancies
are revelling within." It is when the creative spirit
is departed, when the lamp is withdrawn, that the
curious gazer comes and peers into the inner struc-
ture, and through the want takes measure of the
work. Through every other inlet the light falls
broken in the varied colouring of fancy. Through
the ,void comes daylight ; and through this the critic
discerns what was wrought for show, and what for
use, — what in the face of heaven is beautiful, and
through it, speculates upon the scope and infers the
uses of every chamber of the airy hall. So it is
often from the worth of the omission that we come
to estimate the wondrous excellence of what has been
done. This omission, the testament of human frailty
bequeathed by human glory, is in part from the
essential imperfection consequent upon the nature of
man, — the inefficiency of the instrument ; in part
from defects which are accidental to the artist,
resulting from the misapplianoe or negligence of
means.
The first impetus bears a hurry with it. The
impulse supplied by passion is too urgent to accom-
plish painfully. And this inconsiderate motion is
often kept up through life by the spirit of society, if
the poet allows himself to be subjected by its
influence. Signs of a hurried hand appear in the
working out of many a noble plan. This applies
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
245
exclusively to the modern artist ; for in ancient times
the man, such as he was, developed himself in his
work. Now, he fears that if he stay to elaborate, —
to work in all his materials, to remove the scaffold-
marks of school-craft, — another will have built him
out of sight. Thus is given to view many a fair, but
incompleted edifice, in which the "crannying wind "
of criticism makes aesthetic music, as it searches
through. Wherefore it is that, "perhaps the
greatest lesson which the lives of artists teach us
is told in a single word, — Wait ! Every man must
patiently bide his time. He must wait. More
particularly," says Longfellow, " in lands like my
native land, where the pulse of life beats with
feverish and impatient throbs, is the lesson needful."
This is true of the entire republic of letters, as of its
American province, taken singly. It is not the
national, but the poetic character which everywhere
wants the refreshment, not less than the "dignity of
repose." The midnight of meditation has become
another and a gaudier noon, in which speculation
multiplies its inexact impressions, and exhausts its
garish colouring in broken and exaggerated imagery.
We do, indeed, " seem to live in the midst of a
battle, — there is such a din, — such a hurrying to and
fro. In the streets of a crowded city it is difficult
to walk slowly. You feel the rushing of the crowd,
and rush with it onward. In the press of our life it
is difficult to be calm. In this stress of wind and
tide, all professions seem to drag their anchors, and
are swept out in the main. The voices of the
present say Come ! But the voices of past say
Wait ! " The voices of the present say Come ! Whither ?
Into this whirl of existence, — not life, it is but the
animation of corruption ! Into this maelstrom of
human make, to consort with the " monsters of the
lower deep," to feed amidst this mischievous con-
fusion ! to meet the lost anchor and unshipped
rudder of many a venture, and be buried and
forgotten amongst the undistinguishable wreck !
Surely no, — for the voices of the past say Wait ; and
it is to these that the Poet should hearken. They
speak so eloqiiently, so sweetly, so successfully, that
he is well-nigh constrained to listen ; and when they
have ceased, something in the silence says to him, —
" So may you, too, one day be heard ! "• — the greatness
of the master being best proved by the greatness of
the scholar. While "pleasant and cool upon his
soul lie the shadows of the trees under which Plato
taught," does he not feel that Plato spoke slowly,
and thought much before he spoke ? These "voices
of the past " reveal the secret of its excellence. We
rarely find a modern performance taken by the wise
without objection to faults at least as striking as its
beauties. How easily might the author of a work of
worth have avoided defects, obvious to eyes less
discriminating than his own! Pity that the critic
and the artist were not one ! Its faults, then,
certainly would have been corrected. Amongst the
ancients this actually was the case. The artist and
the critic were in one. The best results of criticism
are obtained from the scrutiny of a spirit kindred to
the creative, placed by separate individuality at the
distance requisite for entire and discriminating view,
and thus the artist becomes his own best critic if he
pleases. None can be so anxious to espy defect
whilst yet it can be supplied ; none so well able to
make up the short-coming, if the work already
done is truly great. Let him wait, and he becomes
also this separate individual. The prejudices, feel-
ings, &c., which, years ago, belonged to our thought,
are as distinct from us to-day as the atoms which
then made up our bodies, but which now are
assimilated to the various natures of the surrounding
world. They have been ours, are parts of what was
we; but no longer hold the same close connection
with us. The same sympathetic current no longer
I'uns through us and them. We are not the same
self. And we stand with relation to the works of our
former self, in the position the most favourable for a
right examination. The passage of this interval that
makes the artist critic, enabled the great men of
antiquity to render themselves models in every
branch of art. The stylus that wrote erased ; the
mind that created corrected. The chisel and the
pencil were many a time resumed. The tile lay an
entire season over the vase, before the Corinthian
chaplet wreathed itself around ; so, too, does genius,
placed under the pressure of a wise restraint,
develop itself in new and artful forms. The ancient
poets were well aware of this. The path of Art
became polished by the friction of their feet passing
slowly to and fro. They knew how to wait, — to
" bide their time ;" — a lesson which modern intellect
has forgotten, is loath to re-learn, and yet sorely needs.
The smoke and steam that make an artificial atmo-
sphere around our sweltering social frame, are suffo-
cating to the sense of genius. It is forced to pant and
to puff, or, for a time, be left far behind ; to stammer
forth unfinished expressions of its noblest concep-
tions, or for a season be unheard. Our age is like a
child enacting gravely the pastimes of its elders.
Our race for small distinction is like that of the
Athenian youth for sport ; each " gives the lamp to
another," let what will befall the sacred light of
sacrifice ; each employs it but for a moment, to light a
link, with which he runs a few paces through the crowd ;
and resigning, goes home empty-handed in the dark.
Ordinary training does not prepare the Poet to resist
the influences of the time ; he must school himself.
When the crowd rushes on, he must learn to draw
back, persuaded that he loses nothing thus ; that it
is a recoil to reach further. " With calm and solemn
footsteps the rising tide bears against the torrent up
stream, and pushes back the hurrying waters. With
no less calm and solemn footsteps, nor less certainty,
does a great mind bear up against public opinion, and
push back its hurrying stream. Therefore should
every man wait ; — should bide his time. Not in
listless idleness, — not in useless pastime, — not in
querulous dejection ; but in constant, steady, cheer-
ful endeavours, always willing and fulfilling, and
accomplishing his task, that when the occasion comes
he may be equal to the occasion. And if it never
comes, what matters it to the world whether I, or
you, or another man, did such a deed, or wrote
such a book, so be it the deed and book were well
done ? It is the part of an indiscreet and troublesome
ambition to care too much about fame, — about what
the world says of us ; — to be always looking into the
faces of others for approval ; — to be always anxious for
the effect of what we do and say ; — to be always
shouting to hear the echo of our own voices ! If you
look about you, you will see men who are wearing
life away in feverish anxiety of fame, and the last we
shall ever hear of them will be the funeral-bell that
tolls them to their early graves ! Unhappy men, and
unsuccessful ; because their purpose is, not to accom-
plish well their task, but to clutch 'the trick and
fantasy of fame,' and they go to their graves with
purposes unaccomplished and wishes unfulfilled.
Better for them, and for the world in their example,
had they known how to wait! Believe me, the
talent of success is nothing more than doing what
you can do well ; — and doing well whatever you do,
— without a thought of fame. If it come at all, it
will come because it is deserved, not because it is
sought after. And moreover, there will be no mis-
givings,— no disappointment, — no hasty, feverish,
exhausting excitement." In other words, the talent of
246
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
success is that which is wrought out with a worthy
motive. The very worthiest is needed to "do well
without a thought of fame." It is he only whose
eyes are steadily turned towards the source of light,
on whose path his own shadow never falls. The nobler
the purpose of the Artist, the nicer he is, from his
own harmonious organization, compelled to be in the
choice and handling of his means. The more remote
his ultimate aim, the more easy of exercise is
patience in the progress towards it. The great idea,
in dwelling constantly before him, may, through
familiarity, become a presence rather than any
impulse, but the adapting of all good things to its
service will have become habitual before them. All
things unworthy of it are, by the second stronger
nature, then excluded as irreconcilable. The germ of
the beautiful, referred to its origin, seems to acquire
organic life and to develop itself to perfection.
Thus, —
When Art was still Religion, with a simple, reverent heart,
Lived and laboured Albrecht Dftrer, the evangelist of Art ;
Hence, in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand,
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land.
Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies;
Dead he is not, but departed, for the Artist never dies !
Hence the truth, the beauty of the passage just
quoted from one of the most learned lessons delivered
to our age, — Longfellow's chapter upon "Literary
Fame." It is a fact, perhaps even more suggestive
than strange, that in the enforcement in a yet more
popular form of his all-completing precept, the Poet
is himself at fault : in the "Psalm of Life," every
accent of which should befit the voice of a true
minister to mind, he who had pointed out the
proneness of others to fall into this error, has
himself slipped, in unconsciously emulative haste : —
THE PSALM OF LIFE.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
" Life is but an empty dream,"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
This is a grave, fine beginning, and it rises in force
naturally :
Life is real,— Life is earnest, —
And the grave is not its goal ;
" Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.
This is truly, as the Poet has entitled it, "What the
heart of the young man said to the Psalmist," — said
and still says. If a man remember what, at this
period of his life, his own heart said to him, its bold,
strong defiance of an older wisdom, he will remem-
ber this ; even thought by thought, almost, it will
recur to us who could not well express it : —
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way,
But to act that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long arid Time is fleeting,
is but a version of the saying of Hippocrates, so farni-
! liar in its Latinized garb, An lonya, vita brevis ; but it
j is not on this account we fault it. For it is the re-
| newal of well-worn thought, — the calling in of the
utterances of the "great predecessors," and the
sending of them forth with the stamp of another
"kingly soul," which gives them extending and
continuous currency ; but it is far less antithetic than
the original, and the image which called in the word
"fleeting " to do rhyme-service, carried the Poet still
further from his usual correctness : —
And our hearts, though stout and brave.
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
This is a striking illustration of the thought ; and the
funeral-march coming naturally after the battle, to
this the Poet recurs, and is borne away into the melee
of mixed metaphor : —
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
for here thought has not suggested thought, but
" one word borrowed another," and to little purpose.
" Bivouac " cannot convey the meaning which we
must presume the Poet to have in view, — the
struggle without which no field would be "of
battle." In lieu of the stubborn brunt of strife with
the allied foes of Man, — the World, the Devil, and
the Flesh, — we are presented with smouldering
watch-fires and sleepy sentinels — a pleasant and
picturesque, if not very animating scene in a
campaign. Taken by itself, it is a fine expression.
If the Poet meant to represent Man in an inter-
reign of war, when, though not actually called to
combat, he is constrained to rest under arms, " until
the day dawn," we should be compelled to praise, not
censure. But from the context we cannot so construe
it. It seems plain that it was meant as a synophrase
to the precedent line ; and we should be almost
tempted to inquire if a side-thought towards its real
meaning did not, in the subsequent lines, produce a
reference to the sort of slaughter casual to such
occasion :
Be not like dumb, driven cattle, —
Be a hero in the strife !
for here is committed a double offence against grace
and grammar ! The jump from the address to man-
kind,— " be not like cattle," to that to the individual
man, — " be a hero," is equally awkward and in-
correct. Every man who writes because, like Richter,
he has a call to do so, whose is the " sure instinct
which prompts him to tell his brother what he
thinks," who knows within him the capacity of
excellence, must be aware that it behoves him to
labour that no carelessness mar his work. Correct-
ness is not the most striking of beauties, but it is
the best keeping, it is that which brings Art home
to us : —
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant,
Let the dead Past bury its dead j
Act, act in the living Present ; —
Heart within, and God o'erhead !
This is the expression of the revealed law which
recognizes not yesterday nor to-morrow, only to-
day : —
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of Time ;
Footprints that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er Life's solemn main,
' A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate }
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.
Here, excepting the last verse, we are conscious of
some confusion of ideas. We are offered portions of
distinct pictures so far of a piece as to pass for one
until looked into, but then the mind is perplexed in
the endeavour to join them, so as to bring out an
entire conception. Thus, at first we are shown
ourself walking over the " sands of Time," which we
are to suppose lie
• on the silent, solemn shore
Of that vast ocean we must sail so soon;
and then we are presented with our brother as " the
Mariner Man," sailing over "the solemn main of
Life ;" and, when "forlorn and shipwrecked," "taking
heart " at seeing our "footprints in the sands." But
the sentiment is so instinct with human love, that we
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
247
are inclined to merge the feeling of the critic in the
feeling of the man. Hence it is doubly requisite to
distinguish between, lest, in identifying ourselves so
completely as we do with the genial spirit of his
inspiration, we be willing to fall with him in his slips
of style. Palpable oversights in the works of artists
such as this are comparatively rare, but their increase
in number in his more recent poems, whether
original or translated, — e. y. " Afternoon in Feb-
i ruary," and "Annie of Tharaw," cannot but impress
the reader with the difficulty of escaping the influ-
ence of an age of hurry, whose "everburning lampes
I are supplied with the oilyness of golde."
THE EUSSIAN BROTHERS.
TOWARDS the middle of the eighteenth century, there,
lived in a small village of the Ukraine, two poor
orphan children, who subsisted entirely on public
charity. Their whole property consisted of a tam-
bourine, which served to accompany their singing on
holidays in the neighbouring town of Kharkow.
They were both handsome boys, but dissimilar in
their appearance. Ivan, the eldest, wore his miser-
able rags with a certain air of dignity, and arranged
his beautiful hair in long and graceful curls. The
second, Plato, was a simple, rustic child, who enjoyed
the noisy games of his village comrades, as much as
Ivan did an hour of proudly pensive solitude. Both
possessed rich and powerful voices, whose sound
gained them a scanty subsistence.
One night as they lay down together on their straw
bed in the corner of a farmer's stable, Ivan said
suddenly — " Brother, people say that St. Petersburgh
is very large ! "
"Brother," replied Plato gravely, "don't people
also say that Paradise is very fine ? "
"I will go to St. Petersburgh, and see all the
grandeur and glory of the court," murmured Ivan ;
"may God and St. Nicholas assist me ! "
Next morning when Plato awoke, he found his
brother's place empty. Greatly alarmed, he followed
his track on the new-fallen snow for several miles,
until, fatigued and dispirited, he returned to Kharkow
weeping and alone.
Ivan, meanwhile, pushed on bravely, singing as
he went, and regardless of fatigue and privation.
At the end of six weeks he descried the white build-
ings of the capital. Hungry and faint, without a
single kopeck in his pocket, he entered its stately
streets, and during the ensuing five years, no one
I has traced a record of the vicissitudes which marked
j his lot. At the end of that period, we find him a
handsome youth of one-and-twenty, singing as
r chorister in the chapel of the Empress Elizabeth.
| By degrees he rose to be the prime favourite of the
Empress of all the Russias. He was installed in
the palace as grand chamberlain, andvit was ascer-
tained that he belonged to the ancient house of
Rasoumowski, in Podolia.
Two years passed on. Ivan increased in favour,
until he enjoyed at St. Petersburgh an almost un-
limited power. He seemed to have completely for-
gotten his brother, who remained at Kharkow, as
poor and ragged as ever. Plato, however, often
thought of him, and longed to ascertain the fate of
his dear Ivan. The fame of the rising favourite at
length penetrated into the far Ukraine. The name
of Prince Ivan Rasoumowski struck the ear of the
poor village singer, and the seemingly wild idea
occurred that this Ivan might possibly be his own
lost brother. " I will go and see him ! " he exclaimed.
" Beware, my son," said an old man to whom he had
confided his intentions. " Even if this prince should
prove to be thy brother, thou art only going in search
of captivity and death. Royal favourites have no
relations." Plato, however, set out on his journey,
and arrived at St. Petersburgh as hungry and
poor as his brother had done. He hastened to
the palace, and tried to enter, proclaiming to the
guards that he was the prince's brother. They, very
naturally, thought him mad, and thrust him, with
very scant ceremony, into the street. During three
days he continued to hover around the palace, but
without being able to intimate his presence to his
brother. Faint and foodless on the third evening,
he felt ready to sink from exhaustion. The night
was calm and lovely. Russia seemed trying to
emulate the sky of Italy, and soft odours gushed
from the open windows of the palace. Presently
some one stepped out on the t>alcony, and the poor
wanderer, making a last effort, took his tambourine,
and sang, in a plaintive tone, one of the airs which
he and his brother were wont to sing long ago through
the streets of Kharkow.
An exclamation came from the balcony, the window
was quickly shut, and Plato, murmuring the words,
— "My brother, my beloved Ivan!" sank on the
ground.
Four men came out of the palace, seized the
unhappy Plato, and despite his feeble resistance,
carried him off, and placed him in a close travelling
chariot. Four swift Livonian horses soon left St.
Petersburgh far behind them, and Plato, thoroughly
overcome by hunger, fatigue, and sorrow, sank down
in a state of insensibility.
When he recovered his consciousness, he found
himself in a small, low room, lighted only from the
roof, by a window of a foot square.
"Ah, brother!" he exclaimed, "imprisonment is
easier to bear than thy forgetfulness ! "
" Will your excellency choose to take some refresh-
ment ? " said an obsequious voice beside him.
Plato stared with astonishment at the speaker,
who wore a splendid uniform, and whose name, as
he afterwards learned, was Colonel Spranuskoi.
" Perhaps," continued the latter, "your excellency
would wish to put on a more suitable costume. This
costume "
The colonel was interrupted by Plato, who, casting
a proud glance over his own rags, exclaimed, his
thin face crimson with indignation : —
"Vassal, go tell thy master, Prince Rasoumowski,
that Plato Alexiewitch, in a dungeon, is ashamed to
call him brother ! "
"A dungeon ! " repeated the other with astonish-
ment.
" A truce to insult ! " cried Plato ; " you have said
your say — begone ! "
Without another word, Spranuskoi bowed respect-
fully and retired.
Left alone, Plato remained for some time plunged
in a sorrowful reverie. He remarked with surprise
that his cell moved visibly, and began to think that
he was to be assassinated by an explosion. Four
heidues entered, bearing a table covered with delicious
food and wine. Bowing profoundly, one of them
said —
" Colonel Spranuskoi begs respectfully to know if
your excellency will permit him to wait on your
repast."
The dishes exhaled a delicious odour. Plato cast
a longing look at the table.
" I suppose," thought he, " they're going to poison
me — no matter, I'll eat my dinner."
He answered the heidue by an affirmative gesture,
and immediately attacked the food with a marvellous
appetite.
248
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Meantime, Ivan Easoumowski continued to do
the honours of his ball at St. Petersburgh with the
most perfect self-possession. The Empress herself
had honoured him with her presence, and it was
while conversing with her on the balcony, that he
recognised his brother's voice. The favourite was
not a depraved man. Like many others, he had been
forgetful in prosperity, but the sight of his long
absent brother touched his heart, and his first impulse
was to run and clasp him in his arms. But then
came the fear — terrible fear for a parvenu! — that
Plato, rude, uneducated, and dressed in rags, would
disgrace him amongst the courtiers. A thought
struck him. Making some excuse to the Empress, he
went out, and calling Colonel Spranuskoi, said to him —
"You will find a man lying beneath the balcony ;
take him instantly to Narua, put him on board a
vessel, and convey him to France."
After giving some other directions, he added —
" This man is not quite right in his mind, but'treat
him with all possible respect, for he is my brother,
Plato, Count Basoumowski ! "
The moving prison, therefore, was the cabin of the
brig ; and Plato himself soon became aware of his
mistake. He was easily induced to put on the rich
dress prepared for him, yet he could not help feeling
disappointed at his brother's conduct.
At length the vessel reached the coast of France.
Spranuskoi entered the cabin, and asked if his excel-
lency would please to land.
" Where are we ? " asked Plato.
" At Dunkirk."
" Dunkirk— where is that ? "
" His Excellency is pleased to be merry," said the
colonel, with a respectful smile," but of course it is
my duty to reply — Dunkirk belongs to the king of
France."
_" Farewell, then, my country ! " cried Plato. "Do
with me what you will. I care not."
When they landed, Spranuskoi presented him with
a letter, which with some difficulty he read : —
"Brother,— I thank thee for having sought me.
Go to Paris ; the Eussian ambassador there .will
introduce thee at court. I trust we shall soon meet
to part no more, and then I will explain to thee every-
thing- IVAN."
Half wild with joy, Plato began to dance about,
and sing his wild songs of the Ukraine.
The colonel tried his best to calm him, and Plato,
embracing him, said — " You are a capital fellow !
Tell Ivan I am quite satisfied with him, and— lend
me a few kopecks for my journey."
Colonel Spranuskoi escorted him to a carriage, and
on parting, handed him a large sum in gold.
In Paris, Plato soon became noticed at court ; his
simplicity delighted the wits of the age. Voltaire
named him Candide, and M. de la Harpe composed
some dithyrambics in his praise. It was wonderful
with what speed and facility he assumed the language
and manners of a nobleman. Ivan confided his secret
to Spranuskoi, and at the end of a year the colonel
came to Pans for the purpose of judging whether
the quondam singer was as yet fitted to appear at the
Muscovite court. His report was highly satisfactory
and poor Plato once more danced and sang for joy
when told that he might now return to his native
country. The meeting of the two brothers was very
touching. The Empress received Plato with marked
iistmction, and speedily conferred on him several
decorations, together with the rank of field-marshal
All these honours, however, did not alter the simple
goodness of his character. He preserved in a box his
peasant's rags, and freely showed them to his visitors
Many traits of unaffected generosity are recorded of
him.
Court sarcasms, of course, were not wanting at
this sudden elevation. Elizabeth sent the newly-
made field-marshal to Prussia on a diplomatic mission.
Frederick II., a satirist by profession, and knowing
the history of the Easoumowskis, affected during the
first day to speak of nothing but music. He extolled
the popular airs of the Ukraine, and begged that Her
Imperial Majesty's ambassador would sing some of
them. The Count bowed respectfully, and quietly
declined. On the morrow, Frederick invited him to
a grand review of his troops, and spoke to him of
nothing but military manoeuvres. Plato bowed to
everything, but said as little as he had done on the
preceding day.
" Well, M. le Comte," said Frederick, at last, " will
you not give us your opinion ? "
"I trust your Majesty will excuse me," replied
Plato, " I have forgotten music, and I have not yet
learned the art of war."
Ivan died without heirs male. Plato left five sons,
of whom one, Gregory, was well known and esteemed
in Eussia, as a writer on natural history.
The eldest of the five, Andrea, enjoyed in a high
degree the favour of Paul I. After the death of that
king, he settled in Vienna, and played an important
part in the political drama of 1811, and the following
years. Since the accession of the Emperor Nicholas,
the glory of the house of Easoumowski has gradually
faded away.
RE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS.
STANZAS.
" GOD speed the plough ! " be this a prayer
To find its echo everywhere ;
But curses on the iron hand
That grasps one rood of ' ' common " land.
Sure there's enough of earth beside
Held by the sons of Wealth and Pride ;
Their glebe is wide enough without
Our " commons " being fenced about !
We guard the spot where steeples rise
In stately grandeur to the skies ;
We mark the place where altars shine,
As hallowed, sainted, and divine ;
And just as sacred should we hold
The sod where peasants, blithe and bold,
'Can plant their footsteps day or night,
In free, unquestioned native right.
The common range — the common range —
Oh ! guard it from invading change ;
Though rough, 'tis rich— though poor, 'tis blest,
And will be while the skylark's nest
And early violets are there,
Filling with sweetness earth and air.
It glads the eye, — it warms the soul,
To gaze upon the rugged knoll ;
Where tangled brushwood twines across
The straggling brake and sedgy moss.
Oh ! who would give the blackthorn leaves
For harvest's full and rustling sheaves ?
Oh ! who would have the grain spring up
Where now we find the daisy's cup ;
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
249
Where clumps of dark red heather gleam,
With beauty in the summer beam —
And yellow furze-bloom laughs to scorn
Your ripened hops and bursting corn ?
" God speed the plough ! " but let us trace
Something of Nature's infant face ;
Let us behold some spot where man
Has not yet set his "bar and ban ;"
Leave us the green wastes, fresh and wild,
For poor man's beast and poor man's child !
Tis well to turn our trusty steeds
In chosen stalls and clover meads ;
We like to see our " gallant grey "
Snuff daintily his fragrant hay ;
But the poor sandman's " Blind old Ball "
Lacks grooms and clover, oats and stall.
With tired limbs and bleeding back
He takes his steady homeward track ;
The hovel gained, he neighs with glee,
From burthen, whip, and bridle free :
Turned forth, he flings his bony length,
And rolls with all his waning strength.
Up on his trembling legs again,
He shakes himself from tail to mane,
And, nibbling with a grateful zest,
Finds on "the common " food and rest.
Hark to the shouts of peasant boys,
With ill-carved bats, and unchecked noise !
While " cricket," with its light-heeled mirth,
Leaves scars upon the grassy earth
Too deeply lined, by Summer's play,
For Winter's storms to wear away.
Spent by the game, they rove apart,
With lounging form and careless heart ;
One by the rushing pond will float
Old "Dil worth " in a paper boat ;
Another wades, with legs all bare,
To pluck the water-lily fair ;
Others will sit and chatter o'er
The village fund of cricket lore —
Quote this rare "catch," and that bold "run,"
Till, having gossiped down the sun,
They promise, with a loud " Good night ! "
That, if to-morrow's sky be bright,
They'll be again where they have been
For years — upon the " common green."
The chicken tribe — the duckling brood,
Go there to scratch their daily food ;
The woodman's colt — the widow's cows,
Unwatched — untethered — there may browse ;
And, though the pasturage be scant,
It saves from keen and starving want.
" God speed the plough ! " let fields be tilled,
Let ricks be heaped and garners filled ;
'Tis good to count the Autumn gold,
And try how much our barns can hold ;
But every English heart will tell
It loves an " English common " well ;
And curse the hard and griping hand
That wrests away such " hallowed " land ;
That shuts the green waste fresh and wild
From poor man's beast and poor man's child !
TO THE SPIRIT OF SONG.
SPIRIT OF SONG, thou hast left me awhile
To find my joy in the world's false smile ;
Thou hast left me to prove that world to be
A dull, sad desert, uncheered by thee.
Oh ! my heart has been a shivering thing,
Like a young bird missing its mother's wing :
It has ached in secret, and pined away
Through the festive night and the weary day.
Spirit of Song, when thou art fled,
No light is left on my earthly track ;
We must not part till I sleep with the dead —
Spirit of Song, I'll woo thee back !
And yet I know 'tis kind and best
That thou for awhile shouldst leave my breast ;
Strings tuned so highly must soon be snapt,
Though the tone may be rich and the minstrel rapt ;
The heart that kindles a flame so strong
Can never feed that flame for long ;
It would burn as a sacred incense pyre,
And be consumed by its own wild fire.
Spirit of Song, thou hast wrung the tear,
Thou hast tortured with joy and maddened with pain ;
Yet shine, thou star of a holier sphere,
Spirit of Song, be mine again !
I'll seek thee, but not in the midnight crowd,
Where revels are kept by the gay and proud ;
Not in the city's clamorous mart,
Where wealth is the idol of each cold heart ;
Not at the sculptured palace gate,
That bars out peace with towering state ;
Not in the region of a throne,
Where truth and repose are things unknown.
Spirit of Song, thou dost not dwell
With the sons of pomp or the slaves of care :
Their homes may hold the glories of gold,
But, Spirit of Song, thou art not there !
I'll seek thee when the night winds blow,
Warming the bosom and cooling the brow,
When the moon climbs over the misty hill,
When the steed is unyoked, and the hamlet still ;
When the flowers are sleeping, and dripping gems
Hang like pearls on their emerald stems ;
When the cawing rook has gone to rest,
And the lark is hid in his lowly nest.
Spirit of Song, this, this is the time
When wisp-lights dance on the moor and fen ;
When the watch-dog bays to the curfew chime —
Spirit of Song, I'll woo thee then !
I'll seek thee where the moonshine falls
On ivied towers and crumbling walls ;
Where the frog leaps on in the rising dew,
And the owl hoots out with his loud " too-whoo ;"
Where the arms of the clustering elders moan,
Where the tall larch straggles dark and lone,
Where black pines crown the rugged steep,
Where heather blooms and lichens creep-
Spirit of Song, 'tis there thou art,
By the desolate shore and heaving sea ;
Oh ! come, thou rainbow of my heart,
Spirit of Song, come back to me !
250
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Thou comest ! I hear thy voice once more
In the waters laving the pebbly shore ;
Thou comest with breathing deep and sweet,
Where the fitful breeze and the willows meet.
Thou comest ! I feel thy presence around,
My harp and my soul are alike unbound ;
The world is wearing the self-same hue
Of fairy tinge it was wont to do.
Spirit of Song, thou hast left me long,
But the prayer of thy child has not been vain ;
Thou hast come in the might of thy glory and light,
Spirit of Song, thou art mine again !
E STHEK.
A TALE OF THE BAUEE.
I HAD often passed through the plains of the Bauee
— or rather above them, by means of the cause v\ ay
along which the rails are laid from Estampes to
Orleans — but assuredly the most transient desire to
pause there for a moment never disturbed me. There
is not, I believe, on the face of the globe, a more
repulsive tract of country to a person of taste. It
has but one element of grandeur, namely, size.
From horizon to horizon, not a single deviation
from the dead level is perceptible. There are no
hedges, no ditches, no trees scarcely. At regular
intervals, towns, villages, hamlets — if this variety
of nomenclature be permissible in speaking of agglo-
merations of wretched houses, differing only in extent
— alone afford some resting-place for the eye. In
fine, there is but one consideration that could induce
people voluntarily to settle in those monotonous
plains — namely, their gross, fat fertility.
The advanced season had found me still in
Paris. I felt disinclined to vulgar locomotion that
year. Several enthusiastic comrades, it is true, in
anticipation of the unbounded freedom of the vaca-
tions, proposed magnificent schemes of foreign travel.
We were to visit Switzerland, Italy, Greece, Con-
stantinople, Syria, Egypt, Timbuctoo ; but just as
my fancy began to warm, they each in turn dis-
covered pressing reasons why they should go into the
country to see their relations, and put off their grand
voyages to the next year.
In this frame of mind I received a letter from
an old friend — a worthy Paris tradesman, whose
acquaintance I had made over the counter, and into
whose back parlour I had penetrated by degrees.
The letter was dated from near the town of P ,
in the Bauee ; and ran as follows : — " My dear young
friend, — I remind you of your promise to spend a few
weeks with me in the sporting season. This is a
delightful place, and we are as happy as the day is
long. My estate is situated in the centre of a mag-
nificent plain. There is plenty of game ; and I
assure you I have already baited several hares,
though my gun always goes off too soon or too late.
We amuse ourselves all day. I lay eel-traps; but
the peasants, who are very humorous people, take
out the fish, and put in great pieces of rotten rope
instead. Sometimes I wield the angler's rod ; but it
is very tiresome to sit for hours and catch nothing —
I fall asleep ; and on waking find something at the
end of the line. Imagine my delight. I give a
scientific whisk ; and lo ! there is a red herring on
the hook, and I hear my wife and children giggling
behind the trees. Ah ! this is a jolly life. Bo come
and see us. We are already preparing several prac-
tical jokes for your reception. Ever yours, — Hercule
Camus."
This was exactly what I wanted ; and although not
very easy in my mind as to the practical jokes pro-
mised, I resolved to accept the invitation. In due
course, therefore, I arrived at Estampes by rail, got
into the diligence, and found myself one fine morning
landed by the roadside, a couple of leagues this side
of the town of P . The diligence was already off
before I had time to reconnoitre my position. In a
very elaborate postscriptum, my friend had requested
me to stop at a place called La Perche, and to follow
the banks of a willow stream, until I saw a large red
villa, with a variety of gable-ends. This certainly
indicated a pedestrian conclusion to my journey. I
had not realized to myself a place with a name, and
without the remotest sign of human habitation. There
I was, then, on the banks of the willow stream, by
the side of my ponderous portmanteau, gazing round
in mute despair. The town of P was certainly
in sight, but — if a nautical expression may be used,
— hull-down in the distance. Only its single spire,
some roofs, and a few trees broke the surface of the
monotonous horizon. I might as well, I thought,
have been left in the centre of an African desert.
However, having waited about a quarter of an hour,
I felt it necessary to make an exertion. So, hiding
my portmanteau amidst some bushes, I set out in
search of the red house — somewhat incredulous, it is
true, as to its existence.
The willows were thinly scattered along the banks
of a sluggish stream that wound over the plain,
accompanying my steps with an almost imperceptible
whisper. Vast fields without the semblance of a
hedge, but laden with exuberant harvests, spread on
either hand. I discovered that there were some
long undulations in the ground ; for the town of
P was soon lost to \iew, although I tried to
catch a glimpse of it by standing on a fallen trunk.
This gave me some hope ; I walked freshly on, until
the willows ceased, and the stream — more winding
and sluggish than ever — entered -upon a vast level
piece of ground, slightly dotted with thickets. Here
naturally I paused, hesitating whether I should
pursue my walk. Positively a-head there could be
no human habitation within several miles. I began
to think I had mistaken the direction, and was fum-
bling in my pocket for the letter, when a loud laugh
drew my attention ; and M. Hercule Camus, and
his family, who were in ambuscade in a path that led
through a corn-field to my left, came out and sur-
rounded me.
" I thought you would be a little bothered," cried
my friend ; " nobody ever found the way ; we have
been here waiting to see your dismayed and wel-
come countenance. Come along ; come along."
We went back some distance, and over the undula-
tiorf that had hid the town of P from my view,
and here, sure enough, behind a small grove, was not
only the red villa, but a little hamlet, and a very
ostentatious farm-house. A man was sent for my
portmanteau, and I was soon comfortably installed.
I have been somewhat prolix in dealing with the
very unimportant incidents that led to, and diversified
this journey, partly because I know not how other-
wise to convey the impression of my perfectly tran-
quil state of mind, partly because I feel an instinctive
unwillingness to approach the narrative of an event
which will potently influence the whole course of my
existence. But I have undertaken a confession, and
must go through with it. For a whole day after my
arrival at the Bed House-, I enjoyed a state of com-
plete material happiness. My friend was jovial ; his
v/ife, and his two daughters, charming without being
dangerous ; and his young son, a perfect incarna-
tion of fun and mischief.
In the evening after my second dinner at the
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
251
Red House, we went out to pay a visit to farmer
Thomas, a wealthy neighbour whom we had met in
the fields, and who had insisted on our coming to
join "in a little music" with his family. I was
delighted at the prospect of a musical party among
these unromantic peasants of the Bauee, and looked
forward to entertaining a variety of Paris virtuosoes
with my caustic reflections. At dinner I was par-
ticularly gay ; and became perfectly jolly when
Madeleine — the elder of my friend's daughters —
gravely warned me to be on my guard, unless my
heart was already engaged beyond recall, for that
Mademoiselle Esther Thomas was the most dangerous
coquette she had ever beheld. I roared with laughter
at the idea of being entangled, and, coxcomb that I was,
secretly chuckled at the idea that Madeleine's warning
was but the absurd suggestion of an unwarranted
jealousy.
"Pleased to the last," I went forward to my
destiny. Let me endeavour to recall the scene. It was
in a large sombre room of the ground-floor — sombre
because the candles were not yet lighted. The
furniture was antique, but arranged with taste. Large
curtains warmly closed in the windows. By the side
of a vast fireplace, where blazed, as the poets would
cautiously say, half a forest, a large piano was placed,
and upon it a solitary lamp. Mademoiselle Esther
sat before it, in the mingled glow of the flames and
the lamp. She was alone, and appeared to be absorbed
in studying a piece of music, some fragments of which
occasionally burst from beneath her fingers, as they
mechanically moved. I had time to gaze at her thus
for a moment, whilst my companions got rid of hats,
bonnets, shawls, and cloaks. She was exquisitely
beautiful, but of sickly delicacy ; and I have never
been able thoroughly to decide whether there was
any theatrical preparation in her attitude, or the
circumstances by which she was surrounded.
I feel that I have not yet fully explained what there
was remarkable in Esther's first appearance, to my eyes,
and why a suspicious person might have imagined a
design to produce an eifect. There is nothing very
strange in a young lady's being found, even in a
farm-house, in a well-furnished apartment, before
a piano, by a fireside, and under the pearly glow of
a single lamp. But, certainly, if this lovely creature
had determined beforehand to produce an ineffaceable
impression on my mind, her taste would not other-
wise have guided her. She seemed to me, with her
long golden hair, dress of virgin white, countenance
of immaculate purity, form of inimitable grace — thus
surrounded at the extremity of a vast apartment with
a halo of light — more like an angel shown to me
through a rent in the skies, than a being of this
earth.
I am recording one of the frigid extravagan-
cies of youth — one of those fits of misdirected
devotion — which so often precede the serious affec-
tions of life, to which novelists alone give a prac-
tical denouement, but in which, unfortunately, we
waste so much of that vitality — the hope, the faith,
bestowed on us for better purposes. How few men
reach maturity without one of these debauches of
the heart, which injure the moral constitution quite
as irremediably as wine debauches injure the physical !
That evening was too exquisite to be remembered in
detail ; I know only that Esther was there — always there
— that she played, talked, and sang ; was alternately
gay and reserved, but always with apparent simplicity ;
that Madeleine — just before we broke up — plunged
me in mighty misery, by whispering that Esther had
more genius than she had believed ; but that all
doubts and suspicions were scattered to the winds,
when Esther frankly gave me her hand at parting,
and by speech as well as by looks, besought me not
to return to Paris without once more coming to see
them.
Return to Paris ! I no longer cared if that Babylon
was in existence. I escaped from my friends, who
manifested some intention to quiz me ; and went home
through the fields, exalted to the seventh heaven of
delight. Madeleine gave me my bedroom candlestick,
casting at the same time upon me a look of pity.
"It is not yet too late," she whispered, affecting a
melo-dramatic tone ; " but if you remain here a day
longer, you are a lost man." I was absurd enough
to be offended, and express my unwillingness " to
trespass upon the hospitality of her father." She
looked surprised and hurt, and went away without
saying good night. " Poor thing," I thought, "it is
a pity ; but could she have expected to stand a
competition with the sublime Esther ! "
It is a positive fact that an extravagant passion
makes a man not only miserable himself, but puts in
peril the peace of all who know him. I have a
notion on these matters, which I think will bear the
test of examination. It is this — that the catastrophe
of a passion can be predicted with almost unerring
accuracy, from the effect it produces on the temper
of a patient. If a lover is more benign, more gentle,
more serene, than usual, good things may be argued ;
but if he become morose, savage, quarrelsome, way-
ward, depend upon it he is booked for misery and
misfortune. I had formed this theory already from
observation ; but, as usual, did not apply it to my
own case ; and though next morning I felt inexpres-
sibly wicked, inclined to be cross with my worthy
host, and impertinent to Madeleine, I was mad
enough to build castles in the air, with Esther for
inhabitant.
I went to breakfast at the farmhouse — sure of a
welcome. The master had already gone to the fields,
and his only daughter remained — possibly expecting
my coming, although I had not been invited. She
was in a charming neglige — worthy a Parisian petite
maitresse — and so infatuated was I, that I did not
notice the incongruity of the circumstance. "You
see," said she, apologetically, " I am quite a spoiled
child, and exempt from all the cares which perhaps
my station require of me. But our fortune is suffi-
cient ; and papa is indulgent to his only child, in
whom education, and the opportunities of ill-health,
have developed a taste and habits more befitting a
fine lady — you will think — than the daughter of a
farmer. However, let us hope that I have not lost
the more genuine feelings of our country girls —
among which is hospitality."
All this was said in so unaffected a manner — and
explained so naturally the circumstances that might
disquiet me — that I gave myself up, without reserve,
to the delight of her society. In spite of all subse-
quent discoveries, I shall ever remember that morning
as one of the happiest of my existence. We break-
fasted en tete-a-tete, passed an hour at music, walked
in the garden, and in a little meadow beyond, and
lingered long past noon, in a charming bower on the
banks of the stream that bathed its lower extremity.
In the state of mind in which I was, it was im-
possible that some kind of declaration should not pass
my lips. Esther, however, would not listen seriously
at first, turning off the subject in a very becoming
manner; but when I became eloquent and absurd,
she put on a severe expression — though tears, real
tears, for I saw them roll, came to her eyes — and
begged that I would forget my Parisian habits, and
not trifle with a person so humble as she. I pro-
tested my sincerity ; but with infernal art, as I now
know, she again checked me, and rising, returned
towards the house.
I remember well, that sincerely humiliated, I re-
252
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
mained a moment behind ; and that when she had taken
a few steps, she half stopped, and seemed to hesitate
whether or not she should beckon to me to follow.
Had I remained a moment longer immoveable, that
proud beauty, fearing she had played her part too
well, would have revealed her intention to maintain
a hold upon me. But I did not give her time. I
sprang to her side, and accompanied her back to the
garden, pouring into her attentive ear, with ridiculous
naivet^, a renewed declaration of my impassioned
love, and my profound sincerity. Just as we were
about to enter the house, Esther plucked a rose-bud
and gave it to me in silence. " Does this mean
pardon and hope?" I said, eagerly seizing it. She
did not reply, but preceded me pensively, whilst I
hid away the precious gift.
On returning to the Eed House, I found a new
arrival, a grave, respectable-looking young man, who
was formally introduced to me as the betrothed of
Madeleine. I could not refrain from biting my lips,
and from feeling a little ashamed, especially when I
observed that Madeleine made no secret of her affec-
tion for him. In the course of the afternoon, this
frank, straightforward girl took me aside. " I for-
give you," said she, "for the thoughts which I have
divined. Let us say no more about them. But let
me assure you, that if you have any serious ideas
with reference to Esther, either you are much to be
pitied, or I am much mistaken. She has long been
promised to a wealthy young farmer of the neighbour-
hood ; but in spite of this, she allows every new
comer to make love to her. Already a young lawyer
of P has committed suicide on her account ; her
cousin, to whom she had given hopes, has enlisted in
despair ; she is said to be in correspondence with the
Viscomte de F ; and in fact, has as many lovers
as there are young men in the country. Nothing
can appease her insatiable desire of conquest ; and I
am perfectly persuaded, that as soon as she heard of
the coming of a Parisian, she resolved to captivate
and deceive him. I might have spared myself this
long speech — which may look like malice— but you
are an old friend of the family, and I must do my
best to prevent you — pardon the expression — from
being made a fool of."
"My good Madeleine," replied I, taking her hand,
" if I had heard all this before seeing Mademoiselle
Esther, I might have been on my guard. It is now
too late. I may be blind ; but I cannot bring myself
to believe that these flirtations you mention arise
from anything else than from the love of admiration
natural to one so young, so beautiful, so highly
educated. All women of her rare qualifications begin
the world as coquettes ; but they often become the
steadiest wives, when once their affections are fixed."
"Then you are not exempt from the usual vanity
of men," cried Madeleine, laughing. " You expect to
fix this fugitive being. Well, my— there is nothino-
impossible to love. What, however, will you sav to
the betrothed ? "
"If we are both agreed, that obstacle may be
easily overcome. There are fifty ways of disposing
of an aspirant who relies only on the privilege of a
promise."
From that time forward I gave myself up without
reserve to my courtship. Esther and I were rarely
asunder. I spent most of my time at the farm-house
We played together, walked together, studied to-
gether. By degrees in the evening, whilst the farmer
dozed by the fireside, I was allowed to touch, to
press, to retain a hand of transparent delicacy/ to
play with a wandering curl, to breathe uninterrupted
vows of affection. No positive answer, it is true
was ever vouchsafed ; but did it require even so much
to warrant me in believing myself beloved ?
Three weeks passed away in a state of uneasy
happiness. One evening, against all rule, farmer
Thomas, instead of dozing, remained quite wide awake
by the fireside, and seemed to observe us. We felt a
little awkward under this inspection, and went to the
piano, in order to appear to be doing something.
To our surprise he called us back, and addressing
himself to me very abruptly, and in somewhat coarse
terms, asked me what my views and intentions
respecting his daughter were, and whether I was
aware that she was engaged. Instead of meeting him in
an equally matter-of-fact style, I launched out into a
description of my attachment that lasted at least half
an hour, and ended by intimating good reason for
believing it to be returned.
"I beg, sir," said Esther, who had sat by listening
very quietly, — "I beg, sir," and as she repeated the
words, her marvellously sweet voice took a wrathful
intonation, — " I beg you will say no such thing. I
have never regarded you in any other light than
as a friend ! "
It is usual to say in such cases that, if a thunder-
bolt had fallen at the listener's feet, he could not
have been more siirprisad. This commonplace
exactly describes my sensations. I remained with
my mouth half opened for a reply, whilst farmer
Thomas observed :
" I am very glad to hear you say so, child, especially
after what I told you this morning. Our young friend,
as I learn, does not occupy a position in the world that
would authorize him to aspire to my daughter's hand.
Yes," he continued, turning to me, "you have not
enough money, my dear sir ; and under these
circumstances, you will understand the propriety of
discontinuing your visits to a house, where, how-
ever, at a future period you will always be wel-
come."
Esther had disappeared. I was stupified, over-
whelmed. I muttered some curses, and groped my
way, for I could not see, and could scarcely walk, to
the door. As I opened it, a little hand pressed
mine, and a well-known voice whispered : " Do not
misjudge me ; what I said was necessary to prevent an
eternal separation. Oh, do forgive me ! and come to
the arbour by the stream-side to-morrow, to hear the
truth." What there was theatrical in this scene, I did
not see. There stood Esther before me in the moon-
light, voluntarily now, for the first time, speaking tome
as a favoured lover. With a playful gesture, she threw
forward over her face, as a veil, a mass of golden
curls ; but I put them aside, and imprinted my first,
last kiss on her pure, white forehead. With an
exertion of muscle, of which I did not think her
capable, she then threw me from her, and left me in
ecstasies of delight. I wandered I knew not whither,
laid plans of elopement without number, longed
impatiently for the interview in the arbour, and
meditated with great complacency, on a repetition of
the sweet offence of that evening.
Instead of returning to the Red House, I continued,
with the fond inanity of love, to go round and round
the farm-house, gazing especially at the windows of
Esther's apartment. Suddenly I saw a man holding
a horse by the bridle, cautiously approach the garden-
fence. _ Instinctively I concealed myself and watched.
He imitated in a peculiar manner the cry of some
bird ; and presently I heard a footstep on the
gravelled walk, and Esther herself appeared looking
over the fence. The conversation which I overheard
was short but unequivocal'. " Here is another letter,"
said the man. "The Viscount tells me to wait for
an answer." — "I have no time to write," was the
reply> " nor indeed to read ; but I know beforehand
the contents of this letter. Tell your master that I
have made up my mind. Let him wait with his
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
253
carriage at La Perche at ten o'clock to-morrow
morning. I accept his offers."
I understood at once what I afterwards learned in
detail. The unfortunate girl had been fascinated by
the addresses of the son of a wealthy proprietor of
the neighbourhood ; and pressed, no doubt, by her
father to marry, had resolved to close her career of
coquetry by giving herself up without conditions. I
am not quite satisfied with my subsequent conduct in
this affair, although colder heads have told me I
could not have done better. At half-past nine next
morning I confessed all to Madeleine, and walked off
to La Perche, where I arrived in time to give an
ironical salute to the astonished Esther, as she
started in the viscount's carriage.
Here my part ended ; but Madeleine had hastened
down to the farm, and informed the astonished father
of what was going on. Without hesitating he called
for a good horse, and went in pursuit. As good luck
would have it, he reached Estampes just as the
fugitives were about to take their places by the
express train. Without any ceremony, he knocked
the viscount into a heap in the corner of the waiting-
room, and taking his daughter under his arm, dragged
her off to an hotel surrounded by an immense crowd.
In a very short time afterwards Esther was
married, with apparent good will to her betrothed,
j who very easily, being a positive man, forgave what
he called a youthful escapade. I have never visited the
Bauee since ; but Madeleine, now also a wife, writes to
me that Madame has very rapidly settled down
into a bustling, active, shrewish, but rather sluttish
farm-house dame, and that when she happens to be in
good humour, which is not often, she relates to her
husband and others the history of her flirtations
and conquests. For my part, as I have already
intimated, although no woman-hater, I have been a
little shaken in my faith by this adventure ; and
Emilie sometimes tells me that she perceives the
difference between first and second love.
SACRED POETRY OF SCOTLAND.
IT is a frequent remark, that all attempt to turn
sacred subjects into rhyme has signally failed, and in
most instances, almost entirely deprived the words of
the poetry every one must feel belongs to the majestic
simplicity of Scripture language ; but even in the
doggrel of Sternhold and Hopkins, we find an old
world quaintness and sweetness about some of the
lines infinitely preferable to the dull, dry, disagreeable,
but more correct metre of Brady and Tate, and still
oftener do we meet with pleasing touches in the set
of psalms commonly used in the Kirk of Scotland,
which are more in the style of the first than the last,
for instance, in the 23rd Psalm : —
The Lord's my Shepherd ! I'll not want :
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green. He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.
How calming to the mind is the little picture here
so simply worded ! — " The quiet waters by." Whereas
Brady and Tate render it much after the manner a
gifted young lady might do inditing a sonnet upon
summer : —
In tender grass he makes me feed,
And gently there repose,
Then leads me to cool shades, and where
Refreshing water flows.
In the paraphrase commonly sung in the Kirk of
Scotland, there is so much unpretending beauty,
that we are sure those to whom these sacred songs
are not familiar, will thank us for directing their
attention towards what is so little known on this side
We select, from many, the following
of the Tweed,
at random : —
How still and peaceful is the grave,
Where life's vain tumults past !
Tli' appointed house by Heaven decreed,
Receives us all at last.
The wicked there from troubling cease,
Their passions rage no more ;
And there the weary pilgrim rests
From all the toils he bore.
There rest the pris'ners, now releas'd
From slavery's sad abode ;
No more they hear th' oppressor's voice,
Nor dread the tyrant's rod.
There servants, masters, small and great,
Partake the same repose ;
And there in peace the ashes mix
Of those who once were foes.
All levelled by the hand of Death,
Lie sleeping in the tomb,
Till God in judgment call them forth
To meet then* final doom.
The above, which are from Job, chap iii., have been
done into poetry often, but never so prettily, so
simply, or so easily, — a proof that ideas are not quite
all in all, or how could the same beautiful impressive
words be so differently rendered ? Logan, known as
the composer of the "Ode to the Cuckoo," found in
almost all collections of short pieces, was the writer
of the greater part of the paraphrases ; but those who
assisted him. are scarcely inferior. Take the follow-
ing : —
Though trouble springs not from the dust,
Nor sorrow from the ground,
Yet ills on ills by Heav'n's decree
In man's estate are found.
As sparks in close succession rise,
So man, the child of woe,
Is doomed to endless cares and toils
Through all his life below.
Great God ! afflict not in thy wrath
The short allotted span
That bounds the few and weary days
Of pilgrimage to man !
All Nature dies and lives again, —
The flower that paints the field,
The trees that crown the mountain's brow,
And boughs and blossoms yield.
Yet soon reviving plants and flowers
Anew shall deck the plain,
And woods shall hear the voice of spring,
And flourish green again.
But man forsakes this earthly scene,
Ah ! never to return !
Shall any following spring revive
The ashes of the urn ?
Ah ! may the grave become to me
The bed of peaceful rest ;
Whence I shall gladly rise at length,
And mingle with the blest.
We well remember learning, as a punishment, the
following from Ecclesiastes, and thinking it " quite
nonsense ;" as what woes could grown-up people
have comparable to ours, who, on a fine summer's
day, were kept in the house learning a hymn,
when we longed to be playing in the sunshine with
the birds and butterflies. Alas ! we have, like all
who live, learnt their truth : —
In life's gay morn, when hopeful youth
With vital ardour glows,
And shines in all the varied charms
Which beauty can disclose,
Deep on thy soul before its powers
Are yet by vice enslaved,
Be thy Creator's glorious name
And character engraved.
2.54
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
For soon the shades of grief shall cloud
The sunshine of thy clays,
And cares, and toils in endless round
Encompass all thy ways.
Soon shall thy heart the woes of age
In mournful sighs deplore,
And sadly muse on former joys,
That now retum no more.
It is somewhat strange that at first there was much
opposition, when these selections from Scripture
were attempted to be introduced ; but now every
good Presbyterian points with pride to his para-
phrases, and contrasts them with the psalms and
hymns generally sung in the service of the Church
of England.
It is unnecessary to lengthen this article, by adding
more quotations, still less further observations, for
the specimens here given will no doubt induce many
to read the whole fifty-seven paraphrases, which, if
bound up with that comparatively little-known poem,
"Grahame's Sabbath," — one of the most truthful
descriptive pieces we are acquainted with — lovers of
sacred poetry will possess a small volume containing
comfort for "many a long and dreary night and many
an anxious day."
MAECH OF CIVILIZATION— BACKWAEDS ?
WE have not yet arrived at the period of the Golden
Age ; no, not quite. We may ask the wolf to lie
down with the lamb, but he won't. The Old Adam
is still uppermost. Ask Louis Napoleon, or King
Bomba, or Kaizer Francis, or Czar Nicholas, or
Constitution-promising Frederick, to convert their
dragoons' swords into sickles, and their lancers' spears
into pruning-hooks, and they will tell you the time
has not come yet, — indeed it never will, if they can
prevent its coming.
You remember how Commodore Trunnion picked
up a gipsy girl on the highway, and sent her by
Pipes to Lieutenant Hatchway, to have her cultivated
into a polite, genteel young lady ; but how the old
inbred nature still survived, until on one occasion, at
a first-class card party, it fairly broke out, and the
" young lady," who fancied that foul play was going
on, assailed the astonished fashionables of the party in
the roughest possible style as a parcel of thieves and
vagabonds ! In fact, the gipsy nature was still
uppermost.
You have possibly seen a parcel of trained dogs
deporting themselves after the guise of a set of
rational beings, dressed up as barristers, judge, and
Jury,— Paying at cards, and doing many wonderful
things, — when some mischievous rogue has thrown a
beef bone amongst them, and instantly their high
drill was forgotten, and they were like to worry each
other to death for the possession of the beef ! In fact
however you may disguise it, the dog-nature trill get
uppermost.
So, when the nations of Europe are all engaged in
the most beautiful international discourse about the
blessings of peace and the bond of human brotherhood,
a bone of contention is suddenly thrown in among
them ; and lo, they are all at the old loggerheads
again !
Strange, that the year of the Great Exhibition ends
by the nations of Europe setting up their backs at
each other ;— that the Great Peace Congress of nations
should be followed by an increase in standing armies •
—that the first grand result of it should be the adoption
of " Colt's Revolver" by the British government for
the destruction of Caffres engaged in the defence of
their native Africa I^Thus does the old fighting
propensity of man again and again come undermost
uppermost,
even in the midst of advancing civilization and
extending Christianity.
What is the prominent topic of discussion in the
public papers of England now ? The comparatively
non-destructive properties of the British Soldier's
musket ! Our troops are not properly equipped !
" Lights " are found very heavy, and guns won't kill !
The muskets want range, and the rounds of cartridge
are too few, — only 30 for a whole year's practice, — and
only 40 for going into action ! Only 33 out of every
300 shots take effect, and "knock over" their object !
There is a stain upon our boasted civilization !
Then, as to those great six-foot heavy dragoons,
who are converted into "light " by merely changing
their jackets from red to blue, and mounting them on
Cape ponies, — did you ever hear of anything more
unchristian ? And yet the getting-up of these fellows
costs at least £150 a piece, or as much as any National
Schoolmaster ! The killing of those Caffres at the
Cape is costing us at the rate of £1,350,000 per
annum ; or nine times more than the government is
yearly expending in the work of educating the people !
And yet it is not enough ! We must have our
missionaries at the Cape clothed in grey coats and
armed with Colt's Revolvers, else the Caffres may be
able to make good their title to their own country
yet ! This would be horrible. We must kill 'em !
We must have the fire of our soldiers made at least
as deadly as that of the Tirailleurs ofVincennes, who
so cleverly shot down some hundreds of unresisting
people along the Paris Boulevards the other day —
"Louis Napoleon's Shambles," as they have since
been called. Nothing but rifles will do ! Sir Charles
Shaw recommends the carabine-a-tige, by means of
which a man can be "knocked over" at three-quarters
of a mile off! Think of that ! There's a mark of
civilization for you. Here is Sir Charles Shaw's own
account of the deadly weapon : —
"There are now in the French army a force
of 14,000 men armed with this '1846 model rifle '
— this unerring and murderous weapon, with its
cylindro-conique hollow ball. This ball resembles
a large acorn, with its point like the top of a
Gothic arch (Ogive). It always enters with the
point, and if fired at a distance of 1,500 yards,
will penetrate two inches into poplar-wood. Until
recently I myself was incredulous, but personal
acquaintance with one of the earliest and best in-
structors in the Ecole de Tir, and I having gone over
the practice -ground with him, make me feel quite
certain of the truth of what I assert. The ground is
marked out for the recruits, beginning at 200 yards
from the target, and increasing by 100 yards, finishes
at 1,150 yards. It is found by calculation that at
82£ yards a man has the appearance of one-third his
heighth, at 437 yards one-fourth, at 546 one-fifth.
By a very simple instrument of the size of a penknife,
called a stadia, distances can be measured accurately
to 500 yards, and the sights of the rifle can be adjusted
to the space indicated by the stadia. At a distance
of 765 yards, this rifle would to a certainty knock
down a life-guardsman in spite of his cuirass, and a
front of 10 men at 1,100 yards. I cannot pretend to
give a scientific description of this carabine- a tige and
its ammunition. The barrel is about 2 feet 10 inches
long. The breech is smooth, with a small piece of
steel of cylindrical form screwed into its centre, and
on the proper adjustment of this piece of steel (tige)
depends the precision of the firing. When the bayonet
is fixed, the length is about 6 feet, and its weight
about lOlb. The interior of the barrel has four spiral
grooves, deeper at the breech than at the mouth.
The ball is of lead, of cylindro-conique shape, but
hollow towards the thicker end, into which hollow is
put a piece of iron (culot) slightly fixed in the ball,
r
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
255
and resting on the powder. When fired, this piece
of circular iron (culot) is forced into the interior of the
leaden ball, and consequently presses its parts out-
wards against the sides of the barrel, and produces a
more certain aim than if the ball had been forced
down with a heavy ramrod and mallet. This rifle
can be loaded with the same quickness as the common
musket. This hollow ball appears the great improve-
ment. The efficacy of this arm is daily proved in
Algeria, and at the late siege of Rome not an artillery-
man could stand at his gun, and Garibaldi's officers
in scarlet were regularly shot down without seeing or
| hearing from what quarter the shot came. On the
I practice- ground, on a very clear calm day, I could see
the smoke at a distance of 1,150 yards, but could
i scarcely hear the report. At the late election of the
! President of France, on the Boulevards of Paris, one
! of these new balls entered the forehead of a Socialist
Representative the moment he appeared on the
barricade with his red flag ; in short, disguise it as
; one may, 500 men so armed are more than a match
I for any 3,000 men armed with the present British
musket."
There now ! that is a proper text for cur alarmists
to preach about. And they have done so. Colt's
arms are accordingly sought after, and a cargo
has been sent out to the Cape. The man -killing pro-
perties of guns, — that is now the great question of
the day. We have long been sending Bibles and
Missionaries to the Caffres, but now Colt is in the
ascendant, and everything else is to give place to his
rifles, not the messengers of Life but of Death. Well !
" It's a mad world my masters !"
Where the killing mania may break out next, no
one can tell. But Europe looks anything but pacific
at the present time. Not less than two millions of
armed men are waiting to fall on, — men, whose pro-
fession and calling is fighting ! Such is modern
civilization !
Really, the triumph of the peace principles seems
very far off. The Olive-branch is hidden by a flight
of war-eagles. But the people may grow wiser by-
and-by ; and then their chiefs will not dare to go to
war. Possibly, when weapons have reached their
maximum of destructive power, men will begin to
look upon themselves as a pack of fools to rush upon
certain death.
BEAUTY NATURAL TO WOMAN.
With her is associated a separate idea, that of
beauty as proper to her — to the fair sex. The Loves
and the Graces are felt to reside naturally in a woman's
countenance, but to be quite out of place in a man's ;
his face is bound to he clean, and may be allowed to
be picturesque, but it is a woman's business to be
beautiful. Beauty of some kind is so much the attri-
bute of the sex, that a woman can hardly be said to
feel herself a woman who has not, at one time of her
life at all events, felt herself to be fair. Beauty con-
fers an education of its own, and that always a
feminine one. Most celebrated beauties have owed
their highest charms to the refining education which
their native ones have given them. It was the wisdom
as well as the poetry of the age of chivalry, that it
supposed all women to be beautiful, and treated
them as such. A woman is not fully furnished for
her part in life whose heart has not occasionally
swelled with the sense of possessing some natural
abilities in the great art of pleasing, opening to her
knowledge secrets of strength, wonderfully intended
to balance her muscular, or, if you will, her general
weakness. And herein we see how truly this attri-
bute belongs to woman alone ; man does not need
such a consciousness, and seldom has it without ren-
dering himself most extremely ridiculous, while, to a
woman, it is one of the chief weapons in her armoury,
deprived of which she is comparatively powerless.
And it is not nature which thus deprives her ; few,
and solitary as sad, are the cases when a woman is
stamped by nature as an outcast from her people, and
such a one is understood not to enter the lists. But
it is rather a perverse system of education which
starts with the avowed principle of stifling nature.
What can be more false or cruel than the common
plan of forcing upon a young girl the withering con-
viction of her own plainness ? If this be only a foolish
sham to counteract the supposed demoralizing con-
sciousness of beauty, the world will soon counteract
that ; but if the victim have really but a scanty
supply of charms, it will, in addition to incalculable
anguish of mind, only diminish those further still.
To such a system alone can we ascribe an unhappy
anomalous style of young woman, occasionally met
with, who seems to have taken on herself the vows of
voluntary ugliness, — who neither eats enough to keep
her complexion clear, nor smiles enough to set her
pleasing muscles in action, — who prides herself on a
skinny parsimony of attire, which she calls neatness, —
thinks that alone respectable which is most unbe-
coming,— is always thin, and seldom well, and passes
through the society of the lovely, the graceful, and
the happy with the vanity that apes humility on her
poor disappointed countenance, as if to say, " Stand
back ! I am uncomelier than thou." * * * Let
those who are intrusted with the sweet but very dis-
creet office of educating young girls, be careful how
they give ear to that sophistry which associates the
nurture of vanity with the instinctive hope, belief,
consciousness, — call it what they will, — of beauty.
What other consciousness, it may be asked, would
they put in its place ? Is a young girl more attrac-
tive, or less vain, for depending upon any other secret
consciousness of pleasing, — for believing, not that she
is fair, but that she is accomplished, learned, wealthy,
or fashionable ? Is the stale exhortation, that she
must study to be thought good rather than good-
looking, possible in practice, or rather the most mon-
strous paradox that she can be puzzled with ? No,
we may be sure that nature not only intended this
feminine consciousness as a support in that age of
ineffable self-mictrust, when a girl cannot with true
simplicity or modesty believe herself to have any i
other powers of pleasing, but has also ordained this '
to be the only belief in her own attractiveness which
can be obtained without vanity ; for there is no real
instinct of feminine charms without an increase rather
than diminution of true feminine modesty, and those
who endeavour to quench this instinct will find that
they have only fostered a much worse kind of vanity,
and extinguished that best part of beauty, which is
grace. — Quarterly Review, Dec. 1851.
WHAT A WIFE SHOULD BE.
Burns, the poet, in one of his letters, sets forth the
following as the true qualifications of a good wife : —
"The scale of good wifeship I divide into ten parts :
Good nature, four ; Good sense, two ; Wit, one ;
Personal charms, viz., a sweet face, eloquent eyes,
fine limbs, graceful carriage (I would add a fine waist,
too, but that is soon spoilt, you know), all these, one ;
as for the other qualities belonging to, or attending
011, a wife, such as fortune, connexions, education
(I mean education extraordinary), family blood, &c.,
divide the two remaining degrees among them as you
please, only remember, that all these minor propor-
tions must be expressed by fractions, for there is not
any one of them in the aforesaid scale entitled to the
dignity of an integer."
256
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
THE ORIGIN OF DIMPLES.
A FAtfCY.
ONE morning in the blossoming May
A child was sporting 'rnongst the flowers,
Till, wearied out with his restless play,
He laid him down to dream away
The long and scorching noon-tide hours.
At length an Angel's unseen form
Parted the air with a conscious thrill,
And poised itself, like a presence warm,
Above the boy, who was slumbering still.
Never before had so fair a thing
Stayed the swift speed of his shining wing ;
And gazing down, with a wonder rare,
On the beautiful face of the dreamer there,
The Angel stooped to kiss the child,
When lo ! at the touch the baby smiled, —
And just where the unseen lips had prest,
A dimple lay in its sweet unrest,
Sporting upon his cheek of rose
Like a ripple waked from its light repose
On a streamlet's breast when the soft wind blows.
And the Angel passed from the sleeping one,
For his mission to earth that day was done.
A fair face bent above the boy, —
It must have been the boy's own mother,
For never would such pride and joy
Have lit the face of any other.
And while she gazed, the quiet air
Grew tremulous with a whispered prayer ;
Anon it ceased, and the boy awoke,
And a smile of love o'er his features broke.
The mother marked, with a holy joy,
The dimpling cheek of her darling boy,
And caught him up, while a warm surprise
Stole like a star to her midnight eyes !
And she whispered low as she gently smiled,
"I know an angel has kissed my child !"
[The above is from a volume of Poems just published in
America, by Caroline A. Briggs, which gives promise of better
things.]
DANGEROUS GARDENING.
The most deadly plant ever possessed by Kew, the
jatropha urens, is no longer to be found there ; it has
either been killed off like a mad dog, or starved to
death in isolation like a leper. Its possession nearly
cost one valuable life, that of Mr. Smith, the present
respected curator. Some five and twenty years ago,
he was reaching over the jatropha, when its fine
bristly stings touched his wrist. The first sensation
was a numbness and swelling of the lips ; the action
of the poison was on the heart, circulation was stop-
ped, and Mr. Smith soon fell unconscious, the last
thing he remembered being cries of " Run for the
doctor." Either the doctor was skilful, or the dose
of poison injected not quite, though nearly, enough ;
but afterwards, the man in whose house it was got it
shoved up in a corner, and would not come within
arm's length of it : he watered the diabolical plant
with a pot having an indefinitely long spout. If the
vase itself contained a quid pro quo he is not to be
greatly blamed. Another not much less fearful spe-
cies of jatropha has appeared at Kew, and disappeared
— Quartei-ly Review, Dec. 1851.
DIAMOND DUST.
HAVE not to do with any man in a passion, for
men are not like iron, to be wrought upon when they
are hot.
SHIPS and fishes may make their way when steered
by the tail ; but when we attempt to guide or impel
youngsters by a similar process, we only retard or
turn them out of the right line.
A LEGACY is the posthumous despatch Affection
sends to Gratitude to inform us we have lost a kind
friend.
THE man of middle rank believes that the man
above him stands one step higher on the social ladder
merely to overlook him. This one, however, has his
eye less upon the man beneath than upon the back of
the one preceding him ; and thus it is, up and down.
The middle man receives from the higher no other
forgetfulness than he again throws upon the one
beneath him.
A POOK spirit is poorer than a poor purse ; a very
few pounds a year would ease a man of the scandal
of avarice.
ENVY is fixed only on merit, and, like a sore eye,
is offended with everything that is bright.
INFANCY is lovable, notwithstanding fretfulness and
the hooping-cough.
ONE doubt solved by yourself will open your mind
more, by exercising its powers, than the solution of
many by another.
FOND as man is of sight-seeing, Life is the great
show for every man, — the show always wonderful and
new to the thoughtful.
WISDOM is the olive which springeth from the
heart, bloometh on the tongue, and beareth fruit iu
the actions.
IT is characteristic of youth and life, that we first
learn to see through the tactics when the campaign is
over.
FOR children there is no leave-taking, for they
acknowledge no past, only the present, that to them
is full of the future.
OUR achievements and our productions are our
intellectual progeny, and he who is engaged in pro-
viding that those immortal children of his mind shall
inherit fame, is far more nobly occupied than he who
is industrious in order that the perishable children
of his body should inherit wealth.
CONQUEST is the child of hearts which trust them-
selves.
MEN are never placed in such extremes but there
is a right to guide them.
THE means of improvement consist not in projects,
or in any violent designs, for these cool, and cool
very soon, but in a patient practising for whole long
days.
IT is dangerous to take liberties with great men,
unless we know them thoroughly ; the keeper will
hardly put his head into the lion's mouth upon a short
acquaintance.
SIN and punishment, like the shadow and the body,
are never apart.
SOCIETY, like shaded , silk, must be viewed in all
situations, or its colours will deceive us.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAX, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLBS COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 147.]
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 1852.
[PRICE
STIRRING THE FIRE.
BY ELIZA COOK.
THE simple act of stirring the fire has ever appeared
to us to be one of those operations in domestic life
which everybody has a peculiar and individual conceit
about.
It is curious to observe how testy and obstinate
people become if interfered with in the process, how
they will cavil and dispute as to whether it is best to
"rake out the lower bar," or "break up the coals at
top ; " whether it shall be effected by a pell-mell, " up
guards and at 'em" sort of attack, or by steady and
skilful manoeuvring. We confess, for our own part,
that we are very unfortunate in the affair gener-
ally, but then the fact stands thus : being in the
habit of abstracting ourselves from external goings-
on, and mooning over our desk in a sort of dormant
existence, we suddenly turn round and see the grate
with a body of something in it about as light and
cheerful as the face of a stage bandit. We start up
in a great hurry, and make three or four rapid thrusts
into the very heai't of the dying Etna. We perform
a desperate piece of duty, and make a convulsive
effoi't — often too late — to escape the charge com-
monly levelled at us, of " sitting and letting the fire
out." Somehow we have acquired such a bad name
in this department of household stokerism, that if
any who have a private knowledge of our character
be by when we meditate an essay in this line, the
pofcer is invariably snatched from our hand by some
competent volunteer, who looks at us in much the
same way that one would at an infant who flourished
an open razor with incipient notions of shaving ; so, we
seldom attempt it now, but having had our own pride
completely mortified on the subject, we frequently
amuse ourselves by observing the method and manner
people generally adopt when stirring a fire, and are
quite convinced that each particular party has a
particular way, and will advocate that particular
way with considerable active demonstration.
It was only the other day that we took tea with
some respected members of society, who still retain
the old-fashioned style of having the kettle on the
hob ; — and talk as we may about the "bubbling urn"
and "steaming column," there is something much
more cozy and comfortable in hearing the kettle sing
its quaint ^Eolian harp sort of tune, and see the
brazen spout puffing away whole clouds hard and fast,
reminding one of a small boy with a large Havannah.
The old gentleman had just finshed his siesta, and
the fire had declined considerably, as the servant
came in with the kettle, and commenced literally
threshing the sulky embers, when up started the
mistress, exclaiming against such stupid violence, as
being sure to extinguish the domestic planet. She
had grasped the poker, and just contemplated an
insinuating "putting together," when a young gentle-
man— a "fast nephew" — averred that he could
manage it best, and began knocking, raking, and
jamming in desperate fashion, as if he were anxious
to prove the greatest possible amount of dust and
noise attending the operation. The host was entirely
aroused thereby, and jumping from his arm chair,
pushed the youth beyond the confines of the rug,
saying, in not the most placid tone, — " There, get
away if you can't do it better than that ; this is the
way to poke a fire," and forthwith he systematically
ministered to the nearly exhausted carbon with
scientific devotion, delivering himself meanwhile of
numerous causes and effects as to the "draught
being admitted here," and that " coal placed up
there," while an old lady relative whispered con-
temptuously in our ear — " Not one of them know
anything about poking a fire, they'll only put it out,"
and sure enough, despite the grand knowledge of
chemistry and mechanics employed by the last stoker,
the fire did go out, while we sat demurely " snigger-
ing " at the scene ; but we believe it is the same
wherever there are fires to stir, — a wilful conceit
belongs to many sound-headed people on this point,
— and we have known a gentleman fling down Paley
in order to attest his being more competent to stir
the fire than his amiable better half, and we have
seen a doting grandmother put her most tiresome,
and consequently most petted grandchild on the floor,
while she taught a new domestic how to stir a fire,
and we are ready to hold strong odds, that if a dozen
people are seated within sight of the fire, when one
of the party essays to stir it, that the other eleven
will each hold a powerful private opinion that he or
she could do it much better ; and to such a height
does this private opinion sometimes rise, that a word
or two of public expression will ooze out in the shape
of a practical hint or oblique reproof, whereon the
258
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
person in action gets slightly uppish, and indulges
in a few extra bangs and flourishes over the task,
just to show that he has a perfect knowledge of his
business, and stands in need of no superfluous com-
ments or advice, and perhaps the greatest insult you
can offer persons — in a small way — is to take the
poker when they have resigned it, and show them
how it should be used. This is a mortification we
constantly endure ourselves, but more usually the
poker is taken from our hand before we use it, and
we are peremptorily told to sit down. We have a
sad trick though, which we indulge in whenever we
are left alone in the twilight of a winter evening, —
it is that of getting as much flare as we can from the
heap of " Hartley's Main," showered on by that most
profuse of coal heavers, "our boy Tom." We smash,
and crack, and bang away, among the " nubbly bits "
to our great delight, as we see the red gleam satanic-
ally illumining the placid face of "Washington," and
flinging a greater depth of tone on " Dignity and
Impudence." No sooner does the flame diminish,
than we begin and evoke a fresh supply of gas, until
we leave nothing but a bank of exhausted, sulky-
looking embers ; but there is something so cheery
in seeing the firelight dance about us on the walls
and pictures, and we can think, so easily under its
influence, and talk so glibly to the Past. We often
find ourselves going back to the time when we used
to sit upon the footstool on the hearthrug, and watch
the red light flickering about until we got quiet, and
were frequently detected at full length, fast asleep, in
the delicate arms of Pincher ; but come, the footstool
is chopped up, the fire-place is pulled down, the old
terrier is dead, and " the place thereof knows tis no
more ; " — so much for bygones. Now for a few more
words on our subject of gossip, and we have done.
Our " comparison " is rather large, and we occa-
sionally rove and range into the strangest of fancies
under its vagaries. We have often thought the
sea-coal pile very like the caloric of political govern-
ment, originally intended to promote healthy warmth,
but which, under bad management, often presents
very little heat, and a great deal of smoke, the
carboniferous grossness of which at last chokes up
the chimney of the people, until the chimney becomes
on fire, and a revolutionary reform notion, in some
shape or other, gives it a temporary "clear-out ;" and
most certain it is, that every honourable member
thinks he can stir the political fire better than any
other honourable member. One believes that the
vital heat can only be preserved by a worrying stir,
given with that hard cast-iron poker, " The Better
Observance of the Sabbath ;" another imagines that it
entirely depends on a bold raking with a " Catholic
Question ; " a third has an implicit faith in breaking-
up the close sulky coals at top, and letting in the
draught of "Free Trade ;" a fourth begins at the bot-
tom of the grate with an "Education Bill ;" a fifth
declares that the vitality rests solely on certain one-
sided thrusts with the crooked lever forged by "Pro-
tectionists," while the majority, like ourselves, are
anxious to make as much flare as possible, merely to
gratify their own petty conceits. We beg pardon,
ladies must not mention politics, though it may be a
question whether there is not as much nonsense
talked by old women .in the house, as by old women
out of the house — taking bad grammar and dis-
located sentences into the bargain. But, see, there
is the old state of things, — the fire going out while
we have been scribbling this. It is very cold, and
two friends present themselves ; the lady is about to
seize the poker to resuscitate the dying fuel, but the
gentleman advances rapidly, — "My dear," says he,
"allow me, you know you never can poke a fire
properly ; I'll do it." We are afraid we are laughing
behind our teeth, — where many genteel people swear —
but it only tends to convince us, that every born being,
where there is a fire to stir, thinks he or she can do
it best, and if our readers will take the trouble to
enter into their own private feelings on the subject,
we are quite sure that these desultory remarks will
be pronounced "perfectly true."
NEWSPAPERS.
"The true Church of England," says Carlyle, "at
this moment, lies in the Editors of its newspapers.
These preach to the people, daily, weekly ; admon-
ishing kings themselves ; advising peace or war, with
an authority which only the first Reformers, and a
long past class of Popes, were possessed of; inflicting
moral censure, imparting moral encouragement, j
consolation, edification ; in all ways diligently "ad- !
ministering the discipline of the Church."
This is looking at the bright side of the Press ; but '
it has a seedy side too. Eor hear the very same
writer in another place : — -
"The most unaccountable ready-writer of all is,
probably, the Editor of a daily newspaper. Consider
his leading articles ; what they treat of, how passably
they are done. Straw that has been thrashed a
thousand times without wheat ; ephemeral sound of
a sound ; such portent of the hour as all men have
seen a hundred times turn out inane ; how a man,
with merely human faculty, buckles himself nightly
with new vigour and interest to this thrashed straw,
nightly thrashes it anew, nightly gets up new thunders
about it ; and so goes on thrashing and thundering
for a considerable series of years ; this is a fact re-
maining still to be accounted for in human physiology.
The vitality of man is great."
We shall not attempt to define the exact influence of
newspapers, but assuredly it is very extensive. A book
lives longer than a newspaper, but the newspaper is
constantly at work. The book circulates by thousands,
the newspaper by tens of thousands. The book is
read by the few, the newspaper by the million. As
a photographic impression of the lights and shadows
of passing life, everybody takes an interest in the
newspaper. It is a record of the daily history of our
own time, — it is the history of England for the day.
Its columns contain a transcript of the deaths, the
marriages, the accidents, the complaints, the calami ties,
the excitements, the fears, the enthusiasms, the re-
joicings, the sorrows, and the wants, of living men.
How, then, can the newspaper fail to be generally
interesting ?
But the newspaper does more than this : — it forms
opinions — sometimes leading, sometimes following
opinion. It cannot go too far ahead, nor can it lag
too far behind. It acts and is acted on. Perhaps it
is oftener an echo of what the majority of newspaper
readers think, and feel, and desire, than anything
else. This, indeed, is a necessity of the newspaper's
existence. But it often leads opinion too, by reiter-
ation, by repetition, by line upon line, and precept
upon precept. Like as the water-drop at length wears
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
259
hollows in the hardest stone, so does the newspaper
at length form into definite shape the social and
political opinions of men, and bring about important
and extensive changes. It does not necessarily follow
that these opinions are always good. The newspaper
may form false views as well as true, may defend
injustice, strengthen prejudices, and propagate
error. The only corrective that we know of is
freedom; for the true must eventually overcome
the false. "Let Truth and Falsehood grapple," said
Milton ; " who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a
free and open encounter ? "
The power of the press was remarkably illustrated
by the establishment of the Penny Postage system in
this country. It was the newspapers that carried
the measure. Within a few months from the pro-
mulgation of the plan by Rowland Hill, it was seized
upon and advocated by the entire press of the empire ;
and within an incredibly short period, it was firmly
1 1 established by the consent of all parties on a per-
! manent foundation. There are many other measures
, of more recent date, bringing in their train important
consequences, the success of which was greatly owing
to the activity of the press in their support. But
upon these we cannot here venture to dwell.
The qualities of a successful Editor are of a higher
kind than Carlyle defines them to be. It is not mere
" thrashing straw without wheat " that is required of
him. He must have ability, energy, and tact. His
illustrations and arguments must be always within
call. The best newspaper writing is only brilliant
talking ; but what a rare gift is that ! Let any
person who thinks it an easy thing to write a news-
paper article, try it. But one article would be no
test of success. An Editor must be able, like the
celebrated French cook, to prepare twelve courses of
fish, flesh, and fowl, from one square lump of veal.
He must be ever sparkling and fresh ; never flagging
nor dull for a moment. He must mingle the grave
with the gay, the lively with the severe, fact with
comment, speculation with experience. He must
have a versatile taste, a well-stored memory, a light
and playful imagination, a logical mind, and an un-
i swerving judgment. "It is an easy thing to write
leading articles ! " Is it indeed ? try, my friend, try !
We do not wonder that minds of the very largest
calibre have so often been attracted into the columns
of a newspaper. A celebrated Lord Chancellor is
said to have written on the Bench the famous leader
in the Times, intimating that "the Queen has done it
all." And it is not saying too much to aver that to
have the direction of the columns of the Times is worth
more as a political power, than holding in one's pockets
the proxies of half of the House of Lords. The poli-
tician, the merchant, the philosopher, the artist, the
shopkeeper, the mechanic, all look to the newspaper,
and are more or less influenced by it. We wonder
not, therefore, that such men as Brougham, Coleridge,
Hunt; Mill, Bentham, Roebuck, Smythe, Bulwer,
Macaulay, Fonblanque, Hazlitt, Scott, Sou they,
Campbell, and many other distinguished men, should
so often, and many of them so continuously, have pro-
mulgated their thoughts to the world in this popular
Every-day Book.
One thing to be noted is, the circulation of news-
papers. This has greatly extended shice 1830, pro-
bably because a much greater number of persons are
now interested in politics than was the case previous
to that date. Taking the aggregate number of news-
paper stamps issued in Great Britain, the increase has
been in round numbers as follows : — From thirty
millions of stamps in 1830 to fifty -four millions in
1840, and eighty-five millions in 1850. It ought to
be mentioned that the newspaper stamp was reduced
to Id in the year 1836. As the newspaper lives in a
great measure on the breath of public opinion, it will
easily be understood how the issue of stamps should
be so much greater in times of political agitation,
and even in times of great national distress, than in
quieter, more pacific, and prosperous times. Hence,
in the severe year of 1839, there was an increase of five
millions, this being also the Chartist year. Then in
the distressed year of 1845, there was an increase of
nearly ten millions, and in the following year of five
millions more, these being also the years of the League
agitation. In the comparatively prosperous year of
1847 there was a falling off of a million, but in the
revolutionary year of 1848 this was more than made
up, and three millions more were added to the number
of stamps issued in 1846. Thus the number of news-
paper readers has been going on steadily increasing,
and national calamities and agitations seem at least
to have this good effect, of increasing the number of
readers of newspapers, and exciting an increasing
interest among the people in public affairs.
The number of newspapers circulating in this
country, however great, is very much less than that
of the United States. The press there is quite free
and untaxed ; and the whole native population being
able to read, the number and circulation of newspapers
is very great. There are some 250 daily newspapers
in the States, whereas in Great Britain, with a larger
population, there are only ten. New York alone has
fifteen daily papers, Boston ten (for about 140,000
inhabitants), and so on with the other cities of the
Union. The daily New York Sun circulates 50,000
of each publication, and the united issue of all the
daily papers in the States is npt short of a million,
besides their weekly and semiweekly papers. So
soon as a new county is formed in America a
newspaper is started, together with the school, the
church, and court house. The average is about one
local journal to every 10,000 inhabitants, and there
are few towns in the free States with a population of
15,000, that have not one daily newspaper. From
their great cheapness, nearly every mechanic takes
a paper for himself, often a daily one. Indeed,
Mr. Horace Greely states that not fewer than three-
fourths of all the adult population of New York take
in a daily paper of some kind. It need scai'cely be
added, that this extensive circulation of newspapers
in the States acts as an admirable supplementary
education to that furnished in the common day-schools
of the country ; and keeps up the habit of reading
and acquiring knowledge during the whole period of
life. In the Slave States newspapers are few, and
the slaves are neither taught to read, nor, if they
have learnt, are they allowed to read newspapers.
Lynch law is found only in the Slave States and
remote districts, where newspapers do not exist.
An interesting Parliamentary Report has recently
been published by the Select Committee of the House
of Commons appointed to inquire into the present
state and operation of the law relative to newspaper
stamps, from which much information may be gathered
as to the present state of the newspaper press in
England. We shall not venture upon the discussion
of the main question involved in the report, further
than to say, that the present system is full of manifold
inconsistencies. The Officials of the Stamp Office
seemed sadly bewildered in their replies to the
questions put to them, and contradicted each other
in most important particulars. It is clear that the line
distinguishing news from not news cannot be drawn.
For instance, the Solicitor for the Board of Stamps
declared the Queen's Speech to be news, but the
Chancellor of the Exchequer's Speech not to be news ;
and that any person selling the former printed on a
slip of paper without a stamp, was liable to a penalty
of £10 for each copy he sold, but that no liability
260
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
whatever attached to printing and selling the other.
A report of a railway trial published in a newspaper
is news, but published in a legal journal it is not news.
Then a paper such as the Freeholder, not containing
ordinary newspaper news any more than the Legal
Observer, is threatened with a prosecution, and drops ;
while the latter not only goes unmolested without the
stamp, but is allowed to affix the stamp to a small
portion of its circulation sent through the post. Such
wide scope in the interpretation of a law shows that it
is wanting in the first element of justice — consistency ;
and it certainly gives a great latitude to caprice,
whim, and perhaps political hostility in a small way.
Indeed, one of the witnesses examined declared that
the penny stamp on newspapers amounted to a censor-
ship of the press of a very grievous kind.
It appears also, that the Penny Stamp contrivance
is employed largely for the circulation of publications
which have not a particle of news in them ; such as
Price Currents, Catalogues of books, lists of Teas
and Coffees for sale, and such like ; and even bundles
of old newspapers are occasionally sent through the
post as waste paper, to the person who purchases
them, at so much per Ib. weight. Large numbers of
occasional publications are also sent through the
post-office without any stamp at all, it being im-
possible to detect them among the huge pile of daily
newspapers, without an extravagantly large force of
additional examiners. The re-transmission of news-
papers through the post is also carried on to a very
large extent ; one paper may thus be sent from town
to town daily for a long course of years (indeed there
is no limit within the kingdom), without paying any-
thing to the post-office beyond the cost of the first
penny stamp. Doubtless this facility of transmission
has its great advantages too, though it is doubtful
whether they compensate for the restriction imposed
on the circulation of newspapers and the diffusion of
useful knowledge by the imposition of the penny
stamp.
The evidence of the several witnesses examined
before the Committee, varies as to the consequences
which would follow a repeal of the tax on news.
Some think the press would be lowered in character ;
others that it would be improved ; and even the
manager of the daily Times, while he thinks the general
tone of the press would be lowered, admits that there
would be no limit to the circulation of the Times,
which would probably double its circulation in two
years, in event of the newspaper stamp being repealed.
At present the average daily circulation of that paper
is about 39,000, and in consequence of the tax on the
supplement, it sometimes happens that that part of
the paper (which, by the way, is very little read),
involves a loss rather than a gain. Accordingly, the
manager is often under the necessity of rejecting
advertisements, and contrives methods of preventing
the circulation from exceeding certain limits.
Several witnesses bore unequivocal testimony to
the rapidly improving tastes of the working classes
for literature, of which the large circulation of the
cheap unstamped literary journals affords a gratifying
evidence. It is estimated that not less than 80,000
copies of this cheap literature circulate weekly in
Manchester alone, and,, with very few exceptions, the
journals sold are of excellent character and tendency.
Mr. Whitty of Liverpool, gave it as his decided
opinion that the cheaper the literature the higher its
character. " The good," he says, "is always preferred
by the multitude. In a theatre, for instance, and
even the speeches delivered in Parliament reported in
the newspapers, and in literature of every description,
the taste is natural. In other and the more educated
ranks, of course the taste is to a great extent artificial
conventional. It may be bad or it may be good ;
but the taste of the people, I apprehend, is always
correct. It was one of the most deliberate articles
that Dr. Johnson ever wrote, in which he states that
the only judges of poetry were the people."
The educational results of a cheap press were dwelt
on by many of the witnesses. Mr. Collett considered
that the Government could not be supposed really to
care about education so long as they leave a tax
(referring to the newspaper stamp), which prohibits
self-education. In the agricultural districts, there
are many persons, who, though they may have learnt
to read when they were children, have nothing to
read, or no interest in reading, when they grow up,
and the faculty of reading becomes altogether lost.
And the Rev. Mr. Spencer speaks very positively on
the same point ; he says, "If I were a great educator
of the people, my first step would be, not in schools,
but in the newspaper press ; I have not so much
opinion of the education of children as some people
have ; so long as the atmosphere they breathe is so
impure, and the fireside where they must spend part
of their time is so prejudicial, they will have their
characters formed at home and not at school ; but the
newspapers will educate the adult population, the
young men and the fathers, and if they aTe right, their
children are sure to be right ; this, it appears to me,
is the shortest way to get at them." As Mr. Hickson
well observes in his evidence, " The wisest man is he
who observes most of what is passing in the world,
and makes the best observations upon them, and if
you repress the newspaper, which is a record of events,
and, in fact, the only record of events that is acces-
sible to persons who are stationary, and do not travel,
as the working classes are, you repress the most
important implement of education."
LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF A
LAW-CLERK.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE.
THE reader must not expect any artistic finish or
colouring in such brief transcripts as I can furnish of
by-gone passages in my clerkly experience. Law-
writers and romance-writers are veiy distinct classes
of penmen, and I am consequently quite aware that
these sketches have no other claim to attention than
that they are genuine excerpts, — writ large, — from a
journal in which the incidents of the day were faith-
fully noted down at the time of their occurrence :
Their accuracy, therefore, does not depend upon
memory, which certainly I do not find to be as virile
and tenacious at seventy as it was at seventeen. No
one will feel surprised that I should, in my vocation,
have turned qver several startling leaves in the darker
chapters of our social history ; and some of these, I
have thought, may prove even more interesting to a
numerous class of minds, when plainly and unpre-
tendingly set forth, than if tricked out in the showy
varnish and false jewels of romance and fanciful inven-
tion.
On the evening previous to the day, Mr. P ,
— suppose, for convenience-sake, we call him Mr.
Prince, he was one in many respects, — on the evening,
then, previous to the day, Mr. Prince, a barrister,
whose clerk I had been for about three years, intended
setting out, for the second time, on the Western
Circuit, a somewhat unusual circumstance, or rather
couple of circumstances, occurred. I must premise
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
261
that Mr. Prince had at the previous assize made a
great hit at Salisbury, by a successful objection to an
indictment framed under the 30th Geo. 2, which
charged a "respectably-connected young man with
stealing a sum of money in bank notes. Mr. Prince
contended that bank notes were not " moneys, wares,
goods, or merchandize," within the meaning of the
statute, an opinion in which the judge, Mr. Baron
Thompson, after much argumentation, coincided, and
the prisoner was acquitted and discharged. This
hugely astonished the agricultural mind of Wiltshire :
a lawyer who could prove a bank note, then a legal
tender, not to be money, was universally admitted to
be a match, and something to spare, for any big-wig
on the circuit, and a full share of briefs would, it was
pretty certain, thenceforth fall to Mr. Prince's share.
And now, to return to the circumstances I was
speaking of. I was waiting at chambers in the Temple
on the evening in question for Mr. Prince, when who
should bustle in but old Dodsley, the attorney of
Chancery Lane. Many persons must still remember
old Dodsley, or at all events his powdered pig-tail,
gold eye-glass, tasseled hessian boots, and everlasting
pepper-and-salt pants. This visit surprised me, for
the spruce and consequential antique had not hitherto
patronized us, we not having as yet, I supposed, a
sufficient relish of age about us to suit his taste.
" Mr. Prince," he said, "of course goes the Western
Circuit ? To be sure, to be sure. Is he retained in
the Salisbury case of the King on the prosecution of
Gilbert against Somers ? "
I knew perfectly well he was not, but of course I
replied that I would look, and passed my finger
slowly and deliberately down the page of an entry-
book. " No, he is not," I said on reaching the foot
of the leaf.
"Then here is a retainer for the defence." Dodsley
placed a one-pound note and a shilling on the table,
and, as soon as I had made the usual entry, added,
' ' I am acting in this matter for Cotes, of Salisbury,
who, as the case is of some importance, will deliver
the brief, handsomely marked I believe, and with a
good fee to clerk, at Winchester j good-by ! "
A quarter of an hour afterwards, the great
Mr. Pendergast, solicitor of Basinghall Street, as-
cended the stairs, and presented himself. He had a
brief in his hand, marked "Fifty Guineas." This I
saw at a glance : indeed, of all the characters on the
back of a brief, the figures, — the fee, — by some mag-
netic attraction or influence, invariably caught my
eye first.
" Mr. Prince proceeds on the Western Circuit ? "
"Certainly."
" And is not, I conclude, retained in the Crown
case against Somers for larceny ? "
"The deuce! well, this is odd!" I exclaimed,
" Mr. Dodsley left a retainer for the defence not above
ten minutes ago."
" You don't say so ! " rejoined Mr. Pendergast,
peevishly ; " dear me, dear me ; how unfortunate !
The prosecutrix is anxious above all things to secure
Mr. Prince's services, and now — dear me ! This is a
kind of business not at all in our line ; nor indeed in
that of the respectable Devizes firm who have taken
the unusual course of sending the brief to London,
although relating only to a simple matter of larceny ; —
dear me, how unfortunate ! and the fee, you see, is
heavy."
" Surprisingly so, indeed ! The prosecutrix must be
wonderfully anxious to secure a conviction," I re-
plied with as much nonchalance as I could assume,
confoundedly vexed as I was. It was not at all
likely, for all old Dodsley had hinted, that the brief
in defence of a prisoner committed for larceny
would be marked at a tenth of fifty guineas : how-
ever, there was no help for it, and after emitting
one or two additional " dear mes ! " away went
Mr. Pendergast with brief, fifty guineas, and no
doubt proportionately handsome clerk's fee, in his
pocket. I was terribly put out, much more so than
Mr. Prince, when he came in and heard of what had
happened, although fifty guineas were fifty guineas
with him at that time. " I have seen something of
the case," he said, "in the newspapers; it has
curious features. The prisoner is a young female of
great personal attractions, it seems. We must console
ourselves," he added with jocose familiarity, "it is
something to be the chosen champion of beauty in
distress." To which remark I perceive the word
" Fudge " in large capitals, appended in my diary.
" Humbug " would have been more forcible, but that
expressive word had not then been imported into the
English vocabulary, or it would, I doubt not, have
been used.
Mr. Prince of course travelled by post-chaise with
a learned brother, and I reached Winchester by
coach, just as the sheriff's trumpets proclaimed the
arrival of my lords the judges in that ancient city.
Our Wiltshire fame had not yet reached Winchester,
and although the criminal business of the assize was
heavy, very few cases were confided to Mr. Prince.
Cotes arrived on the second day, with the brief in the
Salisbury case, marked, I was astonished to find,
"Twenty Guineas, "and the old fellow behaved, more-
over, very well to me. Mr. Prince was in Court,
and I had full leisure to run over the matter, and a
very strange, out-of-the-way, perplexing business, as
set forth in Mr. Cotes's instructions to Counsel, it
appeared to be. Divested of surplusage, of which
the brief contained an abundant quantity, the affair
stood about thus : — Mr. Hurdley, a wealthy person,
who had resided many years at Hurdley Villa (then
so called, but now, I hear, bearing another appella-
tion, and not very distant, by-the-by, from Bowood,
the Marquis of Lansdowne's country seat), had died
three or four months previously, intestate, and
Hurdley Villa was now inhabited by a Mrs. Gilbert,
the deceased's sister-in-law, and her son, Charles
Gilbert, the heir-at-law, but who yet wanted some
ten months of his majority. The day before his death
Mr. Hurdley despatched James Dakin, an aged and
confidential servant, to bring home one Emily Somers
from Brighton, where he, Mr. Hurdley, had placed
her some fourteen years previously in a first-rate
school. He told the mistress of the establishment, a
Mrs. Ryland, that the child, then about five years
old, was the orphan daughter of a distant relative, a
statement discredited as she grew up by the evidence
of her features, described as presenting a beautiful
and feminine but still surprisingly accurate reflex of
those of Mr. Hurdley. This remarkable resemblance
not only gave birth to calumnious rumours, but
appeared to greatly impress Mr. Hurdley himself, at
the last and only interview he ever had with the
young girl since he consigned her to Mrs. Eyland's
care. This was about six months before he died, and
on his return home he gave Mr. Cotes directions to
prepare a new will, by which he bequeathed twenty
thousand pounds to Emily Somers, and divided the
residue, about double that amount, amongst his
nephew, Charles Gilbert, and other more distant
relatives. This will was drawn out and duly executed,
but was subsequently destroyed under the following
circumstances: — The instant Mrs. Gilbert heard oi
the serious illness of her wealthy brother-in-law, she
262
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
hastened with her son to Hurdley Villa, and imme-
diately set to work, tormenting the dying gentleman
into annulling his will. Wearied out at length, it
seemed, by Mrs. Gilbert's importunities, he yielded
the point, and the will was burnt in the presence of
Cotes, the attorney, a medical gentleman of Devizes,
Mrs. Gilbert, and the housekeeper, a Mrs. James.
"You persist, Charlotte," said Mr. Hurdley, feebly
addi-essing his sister-in-law, "that Emily Soiners
ought not to inherit under this will?" "I do, in-
deed, my dear Robert ; you may be sure she will be
sufficiently provided for without the necessity of your
bequeathing her such an enormous sum as twenty
thousand pounds." "Are the two letters I gave you
sent to the post ?" asked Mr. Hurdley of the house-
keeper. The woman hesitated for a momont, and
then said, "Oh yes, certainly; some time since."
A strange expression, something like mockery or
malice, Cotes thought flickered over the pale face of
the dying man as he said, addressing the attorney,
"Then I authorize and require you, sir, to burn that
my last and only existing testament." This was
done, and everybody except the medical gentleman
left the room. Mrs. Gilbert vanished instantly her
wish was accomplished, following sharply upon the
heels of the housekeeper.
Mr. Hurdley died on the following day. He was
already speechless, though still conscious, when Dakin
returned from Brighton with Emily Somers, upon
whom his fast-darkening eyes rested whilst yet a ray
of light remained, with an intense expression of
anxiety and tenderness. The wealth, I may here
state, of which Mr. Hurdley died possessed, was
almost entirely personal, Hurdley Villa and grounds
being, indeed, the only reality, and was lodged in
British securities. It was the intention, Mr. Cotes
believed, of Mrs. Gilbert and her son, the instant the
latter came of age and could legally do so, to dispose
of those securities, and invest the produce in land :
that time was, however, not yet arrived.
Matters went on smoothly enough at Hurdley
Villa for some time after Mr. Hurdley's death ; Mrs.
Gilbert was exceedingly civil and kind to Emily
Somers ; — her son, from the first, something more ;
and it was soon apparent that he was becoming deeply
attached to the gentle and graceful girl bequeathed
to his mother's and his own generous care by her
deceased protector. These advances, evidently at
first encouraged by Mrs. Gilbert, were by no means
favourably received, — why, will presently appear, —
whereupon that lady worked herself into a violent
rage, both with her son's folly and the intolerable
airs and presumption of Emily Somers, who had
forthwith notice to quit Hurdley Villa, accompanied
by an intimation that an annuity of fifty pounds
a year would be settled on her. This scandalous
injustice roused the spirit of the young girl, acquainted
as she was with the burning of the will, and a violent
altercation ensued between her and Mrs. Gilbert, in
the course of which something was said or hinted
that excited Mrs. Gilbert to downright frenzy, and
she vowed the insolent, audacious minx should not
sleep another night in the house. This scene occurred
just after breakfast, and a chaise was ordered to be in
readiness by two o'clock to convey Emily Somers to
Devizes. About half-past tweWMrs. Gilbert went
out for an airing in the carriage, and was gone about
an hour ; her passion had by this time cooled down
and the servants thought, from the irresolute, half-
regretful expression of her countenance, that a con-
ciliatory word from Miss Somers would have pro-
cured her permission to remain. That word was not
spoken, and Mrs. Gilbert, with a stiff bow to the
young lady, who was already equipped for departure
>d grandly away to her dressing-room. In about
ten minutes a terrible hurly-burly rang through the
house : Mrs. Gilbert's diamond necklace and cross
was declared to be missing from her jewel-case, and
a hurried search in all possible and impossible places
was immediately commenced. Miss Somers, dis-
tracted as she said by the noise and confusion, inti-
mated that she should walk on and meet the chaise,
which could not be far distant ; and " as Mrs. Gilbert,"
she added with bitter emphasis, " insists that every
trunk in the house shall be searched, I will send for
mine to-morrow." So saying she left the apartment,
and, a minute afterwards, the house. The post-
chaise was not far off, and she had reached it, and
seated herself, when a footman came running up with
a request from Mrs. Gilbert that she would return
immediately. Miss Somers 'declined doing so, and
ordered the postilion to drive on. Seeing this, the
footman, a powerful fellow, caught hold of the horses'
heads, exclaiming, as he did so, " that it was a matter
of robbery, and the young lady should return." The
chaise was accordingly turned round, and the now
terrified girl was in a manner forcibly taken back to
Hurdley Villa. There it was proposed to search her :
She vehemently protested against being subjected to
such an indignity, but Mrs. Gilbert peremptorily
insisting that she should, and a constable having been
actually sent for, she, at length, reluctantly submitted.
The search was fruitless, and Mrs. Gilbert, taking up
the young lady's muff, — it was the month of January,
— which was lying in a chair, tossed it contemp-
tuously towards her, with an intimation that "she
might now go ! " The muff fell short, and dropped
on the floor. A slight sound was heard. " Ha ! what's
that ? " exclaimed Mrs. Gilbert. Quickly the muff
was seized, felt, turned inside out, ripped, and the
missing diamond necklace and cross were found care-
fully enveloped and concealed in the lining ! Miss
Somers fainted, and had only partially recovered when
she found herself again in the chaise, and this time
accompanied by a constable, who was conveying her
to prison. The unfortunate young lady was ulti-
mately committed for trial on the charge of stealing
the jewels. Miss Somers' refusal to entertain the
suit of Mr. Charles Gilbert, and the large fee marked
on the brief in defence, were explained by the fact
that a Lieut. Horace Wyndham, of the artillery ser-
vice, then serving in Ireland, had, when at Brighton,
contracted an engagement with Emily Somers, fully
sanctioned, Cotes believed, by the late Mr. Hurdley.
This young officer had remitted a considerable sum
to the attorney, with directions that no expense
should be spared ; and further, stating that he had
applied for leave of absence, and should, the instant
it was granted, hasten to Wiltshire.
This was the tangled web of circumstance which it
was hoped the ingenuity of counsel might unravel,
but how, Mr. Cotes, a well-meaning, plodding indi-
vidual, but scarcely as bright as the north star, did
not profess to understand. Mr. Prince took great
interest in the matter, and he speedily came to the
conclusion that it was highly desirable Miss Somers
should be directly communicated with. The etiquette
of the bar of course precluded Mr. Prince from him-
self visiting a prisoner, but I, though it was rather
out of my line of service, might do so, by permission
of Mr. Cotes. This was readily accorded, and the
next day I and the attorney set off for Salisbury.
We had an interview with Miss Somers early on
the following morning. All my olerkish bounce was
thoroughly taken out of me by the appearance and
demeanour of the young lady. There was a dignified
serenity of grief imprinted on her fine pale coun-
tenance, a proud yet tempered scorn of the accusa-
tion and the accuser in her calm accents, so different
from the half-swaggering, half-whining tone and man-
ELIZA. COOK'S JOURNAL.
2G3
ner I had been accustomed to in persons so situated,
that my conviction of her perfect innocence was
instantaneous and complete. She, however, threw
no light xipon the originating motive of the persecu-
tion to which she was exposed, till, after refreshing
my memory by a glance at the notes Mr. Prince had
written for my guidance, I asked her what it was she
had said on the occasion of her quarrel with Mrs.
Gilbert that had so exasperated that lady ? "I merely
ventured," she replied, "to hazard a hint suggested
by an expression used by Mr. Hurdley in a letter to —
to a gentleman I have reason to believe Mr. Cotes
will see to-day, or to-morrow, to the effect that I
might after all prove to be the rightful heiress of the
wealth so covetously grasped. It was a rash and
foolish remark," she added, sadly, her momently-
crimsoned cheeks and sparkling eyes fading again to
paleness and anxiety, " for which there was no tan-
gible foundation, although Mrs. Gilbert must, it
seems, have feared there might be."
This very partial lifting of the veil which concealed
the secret promptings of the determined and ran-
corous prosecution directed against our interesting
client, rendered me buoyantly hopeful of the
result, and so I told Cotes on leaving the prison.
He, however, remained like old Chancellor Eldon,
permanently " doubtful," and moreover, stared like
a conjuror, which he was not, when, after again
consulting Mr. Prince's memoranda, I said he must
let me have two subpoenas for service on Mrs. James
and Mr. Dakin at Hurdley Villa.
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed; "what will be the
use of calling them ?"
"I don't know ; a great deal of use it may be ; but
at all events the subpoenas will give me an excuse for
seeing them both, and that I must do as early as
possible."
He made no further objection, and by eleven the
next day I was at the hall door of Hurdley Villa,
blandly requesting to speak with Mrs. James. I
have always piqued myself upon not having the
slightest odour of law or parchment about me, and I
was only gratified, therefore, not surprised — afiem ! —
at overhearing the servant who answered the door
assure Mrs. James that the person inquiring for her
"was quite the gentleman." This was, moreover,
only a fair return for the compliment I had paid the
damsel's blooming cheeks. I was immediately
ushered into the housekeeper's room, where, as soon
as the door was closed, I handed the astonished woman
a strip of parchment and a shilling. She hopped back
as if suddenly confronted by a serpent.
"A subpoena, Mrs. James," I said, " commanding
you, in the name of Our Sovereign Lord the King, to
attend and give evidence on the trial of Emily
Somers."
"I give evidence!" she replied, much flurried;
"I know nothing of the matter ; I wash my hands
of the whole business."
"That will require, my dear lady, a very profuse
and judicious use of soap and water, or the damned
spots will not out, as the lady says in the play."
" Oh, don't bother me about the lady in the play,"
she retorted angrily. "I can give no evidence, I
tell you, either for or against Miss Somers. I did not
accuse her of stealing the necklace ! "
" That I am sure, Mrs. James, you did not. You
are, I know, too just and sensible a person to do
anything at once so wicked and foolish, but you must
tell the judge how it was the two letters — ha ! you
begin to perceive, do you, that more is known than
you imagined."
" Letters, — what letters ?" she muttered, with pale
lips.
The words which had so startled her had been
suggested by a surmise of Mr. Prince, and a remark
which dropped from Miss Somers, implying that
Lieutenant Wyndham had been expecting a promised
explanation from Mr. Hurdley when the news reached
him of that gentleman's death. The woman's tremor
convinced me that I had struck the right trail, and I
determined to follow it up boldly.
"I will tell you, Mrs. James," I replied, "but
first, and for your own sake, ascertain that we are
entirely alone." She looked into the passage, re-
closed the door, and said with fast-increasing agita-
tion, "Quite, quite alone ; what can you mean?"
"This: the two letters entrusted to you by
Mr. Hurdley, the day before his death, you had
neglected to forward, as you ought to have done."
" I — I meant no harm," she huskily gasped ; " as
I live and breathe I meant no harm ! "
"I believe you; and it was after the will was
burned that Mrs. Gilbert, Avho followed you out of
the sick room, obtained possession of them."
She did not answer in words, and it was not neces-
sary that she should : her scared looks did that suffi-
ciently.
" Do you remember either of the addresses of the
letters, Mrs. James," I presently continued, " or
shall I refresh your memory ? Was not the first
syllable of one of the names Lieutenant Wyndham — "
" Ha ! "
"Now don't make a noise, there's a good woman.
To whom was the second letter addressed ? Answer
that question, or you will be in custody before ten
minutes have passed ; answer it truly, and you will
not be in the slightest degree molested : — come, out
with it ! "
"The Reverend Mr. Eidgway, Yeovil, Somerset."
"Very good. And do you know anything about
this Mr. Eidgway, whether he was related to, or in
any way connected with, the late Mr. Hurdley ? "
" As I hope for mercy, I do not."
" Very well : now pay attention to what I am
about to say. Mrs. Gilbert must not be made
acquainted with what has passed between us."
" Oh no, certainly not ; on no account whatever,"
she quickly replied. " She strictly forbade me to
mention the circumstance."
" No doubt : As she is sure, however, to hear that
I have been here, you had better admit that I have
served you with a subpoena. Good day," I added,
taking her hand, which was cold as ice, — " and
remember — SILENCE ! or it will go ill with you."
" Come, George," I mentally exclaimed on emerging
with exultant step from Hurdley Villa, " Come,
George," — my name is George — "you are getting
along in first-rate style, my boy ; and as there is
nobody I wish half so well as I do you, I am heartily
rejoiced at it. Old Dakin is at Devizes, it seems;
well, I don't know that it's worth while waiting about
to see him, so I'll e'en be off back again at once."
The news I brought which, well managed, would
in all probability lead to important results, put quite
a varnish upon old Cotes's mahogany phiz, and it
was needed, for Lieutenant Wyndham, who had
arrived at Salisbury shortly after I left, had kept
him in a state of terrible anxiety and harassment from
the first moment he entered the office. He was a
fine dashing young fellow, by Cotes's account, sudden
and fiery as a rocket, and at first seriously proposed
to send a bullet through young Gilbert's head, as the
only fitting answer to the atrociously absurd accusation
against Miss Somers. Convinced at last that ball
practice, however sharp and well directed, would
avail little against a "true bill "for felony, he bounced
off to procure permission to visit the imprisoned lady.
This could not be for the moment granted, "and,"
added Cotes, " he has been tearing in and out of the
264
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
office for the last hour and a half like a furious
maniac, threatening to write immediately to the
Home Secretary, nay, the Prince Regent himself,
I believe, and utterly smash every gaoler, sheriff,
and magistrate in the county of Wilts ; — oh, here he
is again ! "
The youthful soldier was certainly much excited and
exasperated, but I found no difficulty in so far calming
him that he listened with eager attention and interest
to what I had to relate. " I cannot do better," he ex-
claimed the instant I ceased speaking, "than start im-
mediately for Yeovil, and ascertain what the" Reverend
Mr. Ridgway knows of Em — of Miss Somers or
Mr. Hurdley." We agreed that it was highly desirable
he should do so, and in less than ten minutes he was
off in a post-chaise from the " Antelope " for Yeovil.
The next day, Saturday, as I and Cotes were busy,
about noon, drawing a fresh brief for Counsel, a
horseman, followed by a mounted groom, alighted in
front of the attorney's house, and presently a small
clerk threw open the office door and announced —
Mr. Gilbert !
The appearance of this young gentleman was some-
what prepossessing, albeit he appeared to be suffering
from illness of body or mind, perhaps of both ; and
there was a changing flush on his brow, a quick
restlessness in his eyes, and a febrile tremor, as it
were, in his whole aspect and manner which, read by
the light of what we knew and suspected, had a deep
significance.
" You are the attorney for the defence, I under-
stand, in" — he hesitatingly began, — "in the unfor-
tunate affair of the diamond necklace ? "
" I am," replied Mr. Cotes, " and what then ? "
"Your clerk has served a subpoena upon Mrs.
Gilbert's housekeeper ; what may that mean ? "
"A silly question, sir, you will pardon me for
saying : we lawyers are not generally in the habit of
making confidants of those opposed to us."
There was a silence for some time : Mr. Gilbert
crossed his legs, tapped the toe of his boot with his
riding-whip, and passed his right-hand fingers several
times through the thick brown locks that fell over his
forehead, his irresolute, wavering glance all the while
shifting from Cotes's face to mine and back again.
f Would it not be better," he at length said, "that
this unhappy business were accommodated ? There
is a means, one " he added, flushing intensest scarlet,
" whereby that desirable result may be accomplished.
I must be frank with you, for I cannot otherwise
communicate with the — the prisoner : it is this,— if
Miss Somers will accept my hand, the prosecution is
at an end."
Cotes was about to speak, but I pinched him with
such sudden force that he sprang upon his feet
instead, and the first attempted word broke into a
shriek of pain.
" Is this proposition made with Mrs. Gilbert's con-
sent ? " I hastily interposed.
"Yes, certainly ; — yes."
"Mrs Gilbert consents, does she, that her son
shall wed a fortuneless girl accused of the disgraceful
cnme of theft, her character unvindicated, her "
" Stay, sir, a moment. I speak of course in con-
fidence If my proposal be accepted, I will say that
I placed the necklace in the muff in jest or as a
present."
"Do you say, Mr. Gilbert," I exclaimed, "that
it was you, not your mother that placed the iewels
m the lining of the muff?"
Ha ! ha ! That shaft, I saw, found the joint in his
armour. He started fiercely to his feet. " What do
you mean by that, fellow ? "
(( " Precisely what I said, sir. Mr. Cotes," I added
you can have nothing more to say to this person." '
"Certainly not," snapped out the attorney, who
was limping about the room, and rubbing one
particular part of his left thigh with savage
energy.
The young gentleman, finding that his conciliatory
mission had missed fire, began to bully, but that
failing also, he went his way, muttering and threaten-
ing as he went. And I soon afterwards departed,
after very humbly apologizing to Mr. Cotes for the
extreme liberty I had taken with his still very painful
leg.
On Monday, the day the Commission was opened
at Salisbury, Lieutenant Wyndham brought us the
Reverend Mr. Ridgway. What he had to say was
this : — Mr. Hurdley had married privately, for fear
of his father's displeasure, Emily Ridgway, the
reverend gentleman's sister, at Bridgewater. The
marriage was a most unhappy one : a causeless, mor-
bid jealousy possessed the husband to such an extent
that he believed, or affected to believe, that the
child, a girl, baptized Emily, in giving birth to whom
her mother died, was not his ; but this child, so
Mr. Hurdley wrote to the Reverend Mr. Ridgway,
died at the age of four years. .
The reader is now quite as wise as the wisest in
the consultation held at Mr. Cotes's on the Tuesday
morning, when it was known that the grand jury had
returned a " true bill " against Emily Somers. The
announcement that our case would probably be called
on almost immediately, broke up the council, and
away we all departed for the Court, Mr. Prince, of
course, who was in costume, walking up Catherine
Street with the gravity and decorum which so well
becomes the law : I and the lieutenant walked
faster.
" A queer fish," said the anxious and irate artillery
officer, "that master of yours : he listened to every-
body, it is true, but said nothing himself, nor did
anything, for that matter, except rub his nose and
forehead now and then."
" Never mind ; wait till it is his cue to speak. I
have no fear, unless, indeed, luck should run very
contrary."
The small, inconvenient Court was crowded to
excess. Mr. Justice Rook presided, and the Earl
of Pembroke, with, if I mistake not, the present Earl
Radnor, then Lord Folkestone, were on the bench.
Immediately a trifling case was disposed of, Emily
Somers was brought in and arraigned. A murmur
of sympathy and sorrow ran through the crowd at
the sad spectacle, in such a position, of one so young,
so fair, so gentle, so beloved, — ay, so beloved, as
all could testify who witnessed the frightful emotion
depicted in Lieutenant Wyndham's countenance when
the prisoner was placed in the dock : It was a speech-
less agony, and so violent, that I and the Reverend
Mr. Ridgway caught hold of his arms and endeavoured
to force him out of the Court. He resisted despe-
rately ; a deep sob at last gave vent to the strangling
emotion which convulsed him, and he became compa-
ratively calm. The leading counsel for the prosecu-
tion,— there was a tremendous bar against us, as if
that could avail ! — opened the case very temperately,
and the witnesses, previously at the request of
Mr. Prince ordered out of Court, were called seriatim,.
The first were servants, who merely proved the find-
ing of the necklace, as before described, and Miss
Somers's anxiety to be gone befoi-e the chaise arrived :
they were not cross-examined. Charlotte Gilbert was
next called. At the mention of this name the crowd
undulated, so to speak ; a wave seemed to pass over
the sea of heads, and all eyes were eagerly, the great
majority angrily, bent upon the person of a lady about
fifty years of age, splendidly attired in satin mourn-
ing. She was a fine woman, and ordinarily, I should
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
265
have supposed, of imperious, commanding aspect and
presence, but not now : she had, it was clear to me,
undertaken a task beyond her strength, and every
fibre in my body pulsated with anticipated triumph.
She answered, however, the few questions put to
her by the prosecuting counsel distinctly, though in
a low tone, and without raising her eyes. The neck-
lace produced was hers, and she had seen it found in
the prisoner's muff, et cetera. Mr. Prince rose amidst
the profoundest silence ; " Will you have the kindness,
Mrs. Gilbert, to look at me ? " he said. The witness
raised her eyes for a moment, but utterly unable to
sustain his glance, they were instantly cast down again.
" Well, never mind, we must excuse you ; but
listen, at all events. The letters addressed to Lieu-
tenant Wyndham and the Reverend Mr. Ridgway,
which you purloined the day before Mr. Hurdley
died, — where are they ? "
A faint bubbling scream, she vainly strove to entirely
repress, broke from the quivering lips of the witness.
" The letters ! " she feebly gasped.
" Ay, the letters informing those gentlemen that
Emily Somers was in truth Emily Hurdley, and the
legitimate heiress to the writer's wealth."
There was no attempt to answer, and Mrs. Gilbert
clutched tightly at the front of the witness-box.
" Your witness is fainting," said Mr. Prince to the
counsel for the prosecution ; " Has no one a smelling-
bottle ? " One was found, and the terrified woman
appeared to partially revive. The cross-examination
was resumed.
"When you placed the diamond necklace in the
prisoner's muff, you — '
A piercing shriek interrupted Mr. Prince, and
when we looked again towards the witness-box it
seemed empty, — Mrs. Gilbert had fallen, utterly
insensible, on the floor. She was borne out of Court,
and Mr. Prince, addressing the opposite side, said in
his blandest tone, " You had better, perhaps, call
another witness ; the lady may presently recover."
This was acceded to, and the name of Charles Gilbert
was bawled out once — twice — thrice. The attorney
for the prosecution left the Court to seek for the
unanswering Charles Gilbert. He had been gone a
considerable time, and the judge was becoming impa-
tient, when he re-entered, looking very pale and
agitated. "My lord," he said, "the prosecution is
abandoned ! Mrs. Gilbert and her son have driven off
in their carriage."
The tempestuous hubbub that followed this an-
nouncement, the exclamations in a contrary sense, —
maledictions on the prosecutrix, congratulations of
the accused, — could not be for some time repressed.
At length order was restored, a quasi explanation
ensued between Counsel, and Mr. Justice Rook,
turning towards the jury, said, " I conclude that
after what we have just witnessed and heard, there
can be no doubt of what your verdict will be." An
acquittal was instantly pronounced by acclamation ;
the triumphant shouts of the audience were renewed,
and I could just distinguish through tears that almost
blinded me, Emily Somers carried off in the rapturous
embrace of Lieutenant Wyndham.
"You and Mr. Cotes," said Mr. Prince, as soon as I
could listen to him, " must instantly follow to Hurdley
Villa ; there is important work to be done yet."
There was, no doubt, but it was easily performed.
Utterly panic-stricken, bargaining only for personal
safety, Mrs. Gilbert and her son gave us all the
information, acquired by them from the purloined
explanatory letters, which was necessary to establish
the legitimacy of Emily Somers, — properly Emily
Hurdley ; and a joyous triumphant finale concluded
the at-one-time menacing and troubled drama I have,
I fear, very imperfectly depicted.
NECESSITY FOR AMUSEMENT. — SINGING-
ROOMS AND CASINOS.
A GOOD deal of discussion is going on at present
about Casinos, Singing rooms, and those who frequent
them. Very dark pictures of these places are painted,
perhaps somewhat exaggerated, — though in the main
true.
Casinos and singing-rooms are now to be found in
all our large towns. They sprang up first in London,
Liverpool, Hull, and several seaport towns, where
there is always a large loose population wanting
amusement. What is a young man to do who has
only a lodging to go to ? — a man who cares not for
books nor newspapers, for perhaps he cannot read
them ! Why, he must either go to bed, or walk
abroad, or sit down in a public-house or a singing-
room. We don't see that he has any alternative.
When the evening is mild and fine, he can stroll
about — it is certainly very pleasant ! — but one can't
be always strolling. Besides, a man is somewhat
tired after his day's work ; and he wants some place
to sit down in.
Some may say — "Let him go to the Mechanics'
Institute." But he won't go there. The working man
doesn't belong to a Mechanics' Institute. It is quite
a mistake to suppose that Mechanics' Institutes are
patronised by Mechanics. But suppose that he does
go. What does he hear ? A lecture about plants —
or Coal Gas, or the principle of the Lever, and so on,
which in five minutes sends him to sleep. If he stays
out the lecture, on rising up he vows he " won't go
back again, it's so dull."
Well, he tries the streets again, or he takes a stroll
into the country. But not many working men can do
this. In winter it is out of the question. They only
want to spend an hour or two in relaxation, before
going to bed ; but walking is work, and of work they
have had enough during the day-time.
Where, then, is the young man to betake himself?
Remember, he has no home of his own. He is but a
lodger, paying a few shillings a-week for a bed-room.
He has only the use of a sleeping-place. Whither
can he go ? A cold east wind is blowing — it threatens
snow. The streets and lanes are empty. All who
have places of shelter have retreated thither. Where
is he to go ?
He thinks of going home to bed, though it is only
eight o'clock. But list ! there is the sound of cheerful
music proceeding from a house of public entertain-
ment which lies exactly in his way. He hears a
party of singers there trolling a carol, recalling to
mind a thousand associations of his boyhood. Or,
there is a piano or an organ, giving forth delightful
strains of music ! From the open door of the house
proceeds a brilliant stream of light. His eye catches
the merry blaze of a fire, crackling and careering up
the chimney. There is an atmosphere of warmth
and cheerfulness about the place, which he cannot
resist. He enters, and is made welcome. A seat is
ready for him. He sits in the full light of the tap-
room blaze, and there he sits listening to the music.
How different from the cold, cheerless streets with-
out ! It is enchantment, compared with what he felt
out there. He is rejoiced. Perhaps in the intervals
of the music, he listens to some interesting conversa-
tion about the news of the day. He measures his
wits with others. He ventureth his own opinion, —
and who does not like to hear his own tongue wagging ?
He calls for a glass like the rest. He tippleth, — not
because he loves the drink, so much as because he
finds it necessary to "do something for the good of
the house."
The young man returns thither again. He con-
266
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
tracts acquaintances — friends — companions. He likes
the amusement and the warmth, and by-and-by he
likes the beer. It is very natural he should like the
place. It is the most comfortable place he can find.
There is indeed no other comfortable place in which
he can stow himself at such moderate terms.
And there is the Casino, of a similar character. He
goes there occasionally because he likes the singing ;
just as he sometimes goes to the theatre. But the
company is part of the pleasure. Perhaps he even
drinks less at the Casino than he does at the public-
house j for there, he may sit a whole night, for a
small sum, without his sense of honour being at all
troubled respecting "the good of the house."
Now, these things are all quite natural, and nobody
need be surprised at them. Any other person, if
placed in similar circumstances to those of the young
working man, a lodger, would most probably do the
same — go to public-house or go to Casino. Working
men who come home at night tired, cannot very well
sit down in solitary stillness to read books — they are
so apt to fall asleep. They can scarcely keep awake
while listening to lectures. They must indeed have
something to enliven and amuse them occasionally.
With men who have comfortable homes it is differ-
ent. They have no excuse for being absent from their
wives in the evening, especially if their wives strive
during the day to make the house snug, and clean,
and warm, against their coming home from labour in
the evening. The right place for the married working
man, then, is certainly his own fireside, and the society
of his wife, — not the beershop or the Casino. In his
home, the intelligent working man — and there is no
reason why all working men should not be intelligent
— may amuse himself with a newspaper or a cheap
periodical, — with an innocent tale, or with singing a
song (and why should not the voice of music be heard
in every household ? ), and thus may his home be
made happy, his wife blessed, and the fireside cheerful
and bright.
But even a married working man as well as his
wife, may desire a bit of amusement now and then ;
and why not ? After all, amusement is a necessary
of life. We cannot always be jogging on in the dull
routine of daily toil. Man must be relaxed and
pleased occasionally. Why has a love of amusement
been implanted in man's nature, if it was not meant
that it should occasionally be gratified ? And it will
be gratified. If innocent and rational amusements
are not provided, men will take such as are to be had,
even though they be of a very inferior kind. If inno-
cent pleasures are withheld, then low and sensual
gratifications will be indulged in; and there will
always be found plenty of persons ready, for the sake
of gain, to minister to them.
Well, then, this brings us to the practical applica-
tion of our subject. And what we mean to say is
this, — that innocent amusements for the people ought
to be provided in far greater abundance than they
now are. If we would put down the bad and Vicious
amusements, it can only be done by providing better
ones. It is of no use railing at music-rooms and
Casinos. Most young people go there, because they
have no better places to go to. There ought to be
plenty of well-warmed reading-rooms supplied with
newspapers, where young working men can go to
improve and instruct themselves in an evening ; and
if they want amusement, then there ought to be p'enny
concerts (and good concerts can be had— as Manchester
has proved— for a penny) ; indeed, we don't see why
working people in this country should not enjoy them-
selves together in a friendly dance, just as middle and
upper class people do in their own circles, and as the
working people all over the continent of Europe do
without the slightest danger to their morality and
virtue. Anyhow, there must be amusements. All
work and no play, as the old stoiy goes, makes Jack
a dull boy. Jack likes fun now and then. And ha
will have it. There is a time to laugh and a time to
weep, a time to dance and a time to cry, — everything
at its proper time. But people cannot be always
working — they must have relaxation, — then let it be
innocent and healthful.
How much would not a more general cultivation of
the divine gift of music do for us as a people ! Chil-
dren ought to learn it at schools, as they do in
Germany ; and then there would be no home without
the cheerful solace of a song. Men and women might
sing in the intervals of their work, or going to and
coming from it. The work would not be anything
the worse done, that it was done amidst music and
cheerfulness. Thus would the breath of society be
sweetened, and pleasure lawfully linked with labour.
Mechanics' Institutes might take up this question
and work it ; and so also might the various societies
of the working classes. We sincerely believe that
these brief hints contain in them the germs of a great
moral and social Reform.
PROGRESS OF PHYSIOLOGICAL SCIENCE. ;
CASTING a glance over the ever-widening domain of
science, we find the study of physiology occupying a
prominent and important place, which it must continue
to hold, as it is one that materially concerns the well-
being of humanity. Its objects embrace the whole j
range of animated creation : — Plants, worms, insects,
fishes, reptiles, birds, quadrupeds and man. To ex-
amine into what creatures, so diverse, possess in
common, to determine the conditions of life, uud
discover, so to speak, the ways and means, and, with
phenomena so complex, to build up a scientific doc-
trine, is indeed one of the most laborious and difficult
problems which the human mind has attempted, —
whose resolution constitutes one of its greatest glories, i
Let us not, however, be understood to say that
physiology has arrived at perfection, — far from it : it is j
in reality in its pupilage ; but henceforth its progress |
will be assured by certain methods and principles.
It has ceased to be what it was during so many
centuries — a demi -science. This fact may be illus-
trated by a word upon its history.
Greece was the cradle of physiology — and, following i
the rule that science is born of art, took its birth from
the medicinal art, about the time of Hippocrates.
The works of this author, and of Aristotle, are the !
earh'est of all that have come down to us on this ! I
interesting science. The latter made comparisons of
a vast number of animals, in the course of which, he
threw out some profound and original views, but
knew nothing of the nervous system. Between his
day, however, and that of Galen, some progress was
made in the knowledge of this essential portion of
the animal mechanism ; and in the darkness and dis-
order which subsequently overspread western Europe,
the infant science was indebted for its preservation
and further development to the Arabians. But on the
restoration of order after the Reformation, rapid ad-
vances were made. The anatomical structure was
more fully investigated, the circulation of the blood
was discovered, the course of the chyle from the
intestines to the circulato'ry system was detected, and,
in our own day, the grand distinction between motor
and sensitive divisions of the nervous system has
been accurately demonstrated. Notwithstanding all
these aids, physiology would have remained an in-
complete and halting science, had not another route
been opened before it. Researches into the anatomical
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
JG7
functions do little towards removing our ignorance of
fundamental questions. From the eai'liest times,
observers had remarked that plants draw their aliment
from the air and the earth, that animals are nourished
by vegetable substances : — in short, that organized
bodies are composed of inorganic elements. What
are the substances taken from the soil by vegetables ?
What is the agent furnished by atmospheric air to
living beings ? What combinations do the elements
undergo on their entrance into animated bodies ? and
by what affinities are they followed ? In what way
does sap give birth to gums, sugars, and juices of every
variety ; and the blood, to bile, saliva, and tears ? All
these questions must have remained unanswered,
since their solution could only be determined by
chemistry ; a science, .whose definitive constitution
yet remains to be discovered. Nevertheless, when,
by the aid of chemistry, oxygen, hydrogen, azote, and
carbon, substances which play so important a part in
inorganic nature, had been recognized in living beings,
then physiology was provided with ample means for
the entire survey of its own domain. In this point
of view, it is posterior to chemistry, as the other is to
natural philosophy, and this again to astronomy, and
astronomy to mathematics. These sciences have suc-
ceeded each other in the order of their complication
and of their difficulty. And here we cannot but be
struck by the reflection that in reality we are but at
the threshold of the sciences. Leaving aside mathe-
matics and astronomy, which possess some claims to
antiquity, what is the fact as regards the others ? The
origin of natural philosophy dates only from about
the time of Galileo ; chemistry can scarcely be said
to have had an existence before the seventeenth
century ; the establishing of the true basis of physi-
ology has been the work of the past few years, and,
to complete the picture, the lineaments of historical
and social science have only just been sketched.
Among the most celebrated of modern physiologists
is Professor Miiller of Berlin ; he insists strongly on
the independence of physiology as a science, in contra-
distinction to those who confound it with natural
philosophy, mechanism or chemistry ; and adheres to
the ancient division into three general functions,
viz : — vegetative life, or nutrition ; relative life, sensi-
bility, and movement ; and the life of species, or genera-
tion. Nutrition and generation are proper to plants,
but animals possess sensibility in addition. The latter
is not, however, a function totally apart and heteroge-
ceous ; sensibility proceeds from nutrition, the animal
from the vegetable ; the nervous and muscular tissues
are, like the plant, composed of cells, and developed
after the same principle. And further, in the superior
animals, the exercise of sensibility depends on an
indispensable condition, — the incessant contact of
oxygenated blood. (Should respiration be interrupted,
in vain will the heart beat and circulate the blood to
every member ; the animal succumbs rapidly to
asphyxia, — so closely united are nutrition and sensi-
bility.
Nutrition is the function by which bodies support
themselves. One of the essential elements of the
existence of an animated being is a certain mixture of
Bolids and liquids. Sap or blood, the operation is the
same. The phenomenon is most remarkable in
animals ; in them, the exchange is continual between
the two orders of substances, and, by a movement
which death alone interrupts, the fluids are converted
into solids, and the solids into fluids. The blood, as
it were a river returning continually to its source,
receives all, and gives all ; it is the intermediary in
which meet what has been, and what is about to be,
employed. If, on the one hand, it carries nourish-
ment by a thousand canals to all the organs of the
body, transforming itself by a special chemistry into
tissues and humours ; on the other hand, in proportion
as the organic particles are decomposed, they return
to and are carried away by the great sanguine current.
At the sight of these ceaseless chemical actions, of
solids ready to become liquids, and the reverse, we
may understand how greatly the living being is liable
to modification and derangement. This is the cause
that, under the diverse influences of climate, he ex-
periences changes so considerable, that, subjected to
the thousand influences of alimentation and habit, he
receives their impression, that, in short, he is assailed
by disease, for what is disease, but a modification
carried beyond the limit of the oscillations compatible
with health.
The restoration and attenuation of the deranged
functions is the task of medical science. Precisely in
this susceptibility of modification, human industry has
found a hold. Changes so great and so numerous
produced by the fortuitous concurrence of the ele-
ments, naturally suggested the idea of employing the
irregular actions in a rational manner. The effect
has answered the expectation ; if the marsh miasm
provokes fever, quinine neutralizes the poison ; if
small-pox is contagious, vaccination, by exciting an
analagous fermentation, renders the body unfit to
receive the contagion ; in renal complaints, a salt
facilitates the dissolution of the concretions which
cause most cruel torments. In this manner, nothing
escapes from the circle of cause and effect, from the
nature of action and reaction ; and the condition
which governs the inorganic world is also that which
governs the organic ; and we are not far from the
time when study will be so systematically established
as to show the true chemical basis of physiology, as
mathematics is of natural philosophy.
Whatever may be the diverse appearances of the con-
stituents of vegetables, or of animals, wood, flowers,
fruits, bone, tendons, ligaments, muscles, it is not the
less certain, as chemistry has well demonstrated, that
they are all formed from inorganic substances, more
especially, of oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, and azote,
and that the difference consists' essentially in the
proportion of the elements. Nevertheless, a dis-
tinction is to be established ; animals do not act like
vegetables. Atmospheric air and water, with some
of the salts, are the only crude substances that the
former can absorb without preparation ; the latter, on
the contrary, derive their aliment directly and with-
out intermediate aid from the common reservoir of all
things, and placed lower in the scale of being, are
contented with less elaborated materials. But for
animals there must be either vegetable products or
the flesh of other animals ; they are incapable, by
their mere organization alone, of appropriating in-
organic matters. Hence geological researches have
shown us that the first living substances that appeared
on the earth were vegetables, the simplest form of
life, adapted to take up directly the materials of the
soil, and the first stage of an ulterior elaboration.
The most interesting perhaps of physiological re-
searches have been those in connection with the
nervous system. In the vegetable, leaving repro-
duction out of view, nutrition is everything ; no other
phenomena occur than the elaboration of inorganic
* matters into very diverse formations, no other sign of
activity is manifest. Always obedient to external
influences, we see the plant reopening its canals in
the warmth of the sun, and soon the roots begin to
extract from the soil the juices which constitute the
sap. On the return of the cold season, the canals
again close, the leaves drop off, the action of the roots
is interrupted, and the plant falls into the sleep of
winter. Certain obscure symptoms of sensibility are
however manifested ; the vegetable is sensible of and
seeks the light, and reciprocally obeys the influences
268
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
of darkness ; but, with the exception of a few rare
and exceedingly delicate plants, no other sign of
sensibility can be detected.
It is otherwise with the animal kingdom ; to nutri-
tion are united new functions and multiplied instincts,
but so disposed, that they are principally directed to
the satisfaction of the wants of alimentation and repro-
duction. The animal has intelligence, the power of
motion, senses which guide him, but almost entirely
appropriated to the means of seizing his prey. His
life is passed in filling his stomach ; this great object
absorbs all his faculties, and he seems to possess them
but to be enabled to provide for this imperious want.
Nevertheless, as in vegetable life, there appears a
tendency to a higher state of things, so, in animal
life, are seen aspirations towards an ulterior state.
If it be true that the savage, at the lowest depth of
original barbarism, possesses but few prerogatives over
the superior animals, and his industry scarcely exceeds
theirs, it is also true that he has in him germs sus-
ceptible of evolution, and that his reason, more
extended and more capable of combinations than
theirs, pushes back the limit of development and
gives him the power to make accumulations towards
the general welfare. In proportion to his rise, the
circle around him widens ; material wants no longer
absorb the whole of his time, his industry increases,.
he finds leisure for reflection upon himself, to cultivate
the arts, to build up science, and to ameliorate his
life in the four directions of the useful and the good —
the beautiful and the true.
The great distinctive characteristic of animal life is
the nervous system. In the vegetable, nothing is
centralized ; and we see that organs are easily trans-
formed— leaves become flowers, and flowers leaves.
The plant inverted with its branches in the earth, and
its root in the air, soon makes an exchange of functions
and accommodates itself to its new position. A scion
separated from the parent stem does not necessarily
die, and, placed in the earth, gives birth to a new
individual. The animal possesses none of these pro-
perties; in him, the organs, of a more special character,
resist all attempts at transformation. As the creature
rises in the scale of organization, the nervous system
becomes more centralized ; the cords which place the
centre in communication with the circumference more
numerous. Sensation and will have each their special
agent, and by means of nerves which sever become
confused, transmit, the one class, from without to
within, the impressions made on the senses ; the
other, from within to without, convey orders to the
muscles which obey. Still more, each nervous fibre
is destined to a definite service, and the passage
between the brain and any part of the body, what-
ever may be its extent, is maintained by one single
fibril, whose place cannot be supplied by the parallel
fibrils immediately adjacent.
Next to the nervous or sensitive system, Miiller
places the muscular or irritable system. While the
former, either as centre or conductor, accomplishes
every act of sensation or intelligence, the other,
endowed with irritability, shortens and contracts
itself under the action of the agents by which it is
stimulated. Its most ordinary stimulant is the nervous
system, with which it is connected by cords, whose
special office is the transmission of the will. Such
are the two great systems proper to the animal king-
dom. If to these we add the cellular tissue, of which
the vegetable kingdom entirely consists, and which,
under various modifications, constitutes the greater
part of animal organism, we shall have arranged all
animated nature under three capital functions and
three essential forms. Cellular tissue is, as vegetables
testify, the essential agent of nutrition ; the nervous
tissue presides over the acts of sensibility ; and the
contractile muscular fibre renders the animal capable
of obeying the impulses of its will. This great
division, founded as well on anatomical as on physio-
logical observations, has become one of the bases of
the science, which the future will verify and establish
— the rather, as the three tissues are now traced to
one identical original substance.
All investigation goes to prove the certainty of
fundamental correlations between animated beings.
The vegetable is completely reproduced in the animal ;
the innumerable cells of the lungs and vessels of the
chyle represent the foliage respiring atmospheric gas,
and the root absorbing juices from the earth. The
function is the same ; and the man in fact is not
nourished otherwise than the plant. If the vegetable
serves to explain the mode of nutrition in man, the
intermediary animals, on their side, explain the
functions of movement, sensibility, and intelligence.
In a word, if, instead of comparing organ by organ —
which becomes very difficult in passing to the inver-
tebrata, and impossible in descending to plants — we
compare the four great functions nutrition, generation,
locomotion, and sensibility, with their attendant ap-
paratus, we shall everywhere recognize the analogy ;
the animal nourishing and reproducing itself like the
vegetable, the superior animal moving and feeling
like the inferior. In this point of view the identity
of plan is manifest ; no nourishment takes place but
by means of the primitive cellule, scission alone is the
mode of reproduction, nothing moves but by the
muscular fibre, and nothing feels but by nervous fibre.
A curious fact may here be particularized as regards
the nerves of sensation ; their anatomical disposition
is respectively different, and is, in fact, of so special a
nature, that whatever be the excitation to which they
are subjected, the impression proper to each is in-
variably produced. For example, if we excite the
optic nerve by electricity, light is seen by the person
operated on ; if the auditory nerve, he hears a sound ;
if the olfactory, he perceives an odour ; if the gus-
tatory nerves, a savour ; if the tactile nerves, a pain.
Thus, one and the same agent, possessing none of the
properties perceived by the senses, develops, when
brought into contact with the nerve of each sense, the
impression proper to that nerve. In this manner, a j
person may hear all sorts <3f sounds without any real !
sound, and see all kinds of light without real light ; j
an external or internal excitement being sufficient to !
produce either. To the category of external exci- j
tations belong the cases similar to that submitted to ;
Miiller himself; a man who had received a blow on !
the eye in the dark, pretended to have recognized the ;
robber by the light produced by the shock ; this was, I
however, an illusion, for such a light no more illu- i
minates any object, than a pain felt by one person |
causes a similar pain in another. The phenomenon
may be referred to the theory of hallucinations, which, '
under a show of communication with the invisible
world, has played a great part in the history of the I
past. The more, in fact, that we investigate the j
conditions of life, the more clearly do we discover j
the rigour with which the law is applied to the
speciality of organs and functions.
Such is a brief resume of the philosophy of physi-
ological science, as expounded by one of its ablest j
advocates. Leaving aside individual cases, we shall
find that it has a public and social function, of which, |
as yet, we possess but aji outline. But the time will I
come when that which is now in embryo will develop
itself, as it has arrived for physical and chemical \
science. Formerly, useful applications arose from i
lucky chances ; but industry advancing on one side !
and the sciences on the other, the present age has i
seen the commencement of a general and systematic I
application of chemistry and natural philosophy to j
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
269
practical uses. Thus it is that discovery so rapidly
succeeds discovery, that the face of things changes,
so to speak, from year to year ; and it is not now an
illusion to foresee an epoch when our globe shall be
as regularly explored and worked as a private farm.
That which is done in physical, will be done also in
physiological science ; a more general study of the
subject of health will enable us to regulate our habits,
our towns, our dwellings, our places of recreation,
our occupations, in a manner productive of the greatest
amount of good and opposed to the evil ; a preventive
remedy — better, and, at the same time, more effi-
cacious than curative remedies.
ANECDOTE OF THE PARISIAN POLICE.
PREVIOUSLY to the year 1789, but at what precise
date I cannot say, the city of Paris possessed as
guardian of its safety, and chief minister of police, a
man of rare talent and integrity. At the same period,
the parish of St. Germais, in the quarter of the Rue
St. Antoine, had for its cure" a kind venerable old
man, whose whole life was spent in doing good to both
the souls and bodies of his fellow-creatures, and whose
holy consistency and dignified courage caused him to
be loved by the good, and respected by even the most
abandoned characters. One cold dark winter's night,
the bell at the old curd's door was rung loudly, and
he, although in bed, immediately arose and opened
the door, anticipating a summons to some sick or
dying bed.
A personage, richly dressed, with his features partly
concealed by a large false beard, stood outside. Ad-
dressing the curd in a courteous and graceful manner,
he apologized for his unseasonable visit, which, as he
said, the high reputation of Monsieur had induced him
to make.
" A great and terrible, but necessary and inevitable
deed," he continued, "is to be done. Time presses ;
a soul about to pass into eternity implores your
ministry. If you come, you must allow your eyes to
be bandaged, ask no questions, and consent to act
simply as spiritual consoler of a dying woman. If
you refuse to accompany me, no other priest can be
admitted, and her spirit must pass alone."
After a moment of secret prayer, the curd answered,
"I will go with you." Without asking any further
explanation, he allowed his eyes to be bandaged, and
leant on the arm of his suspicious visitor. They both
got into a coach, whose windows were immediately
covered by wooden shutters, and then they drove off
rapidly. They seemed to go a long way, and make
many doublings and turnings ere the coach drove
under a wide archway, and stopped.
During this time, not a single word had been ex-
changed between the travellers, and ere they got out
the sti anger assured himself that the bandage over
his companion's eyes had not been displaced, and then
taking the old man respectfully by the hand, he
assisted him to alight and to ascend the wide steps of
a staircase as far as the second story. A great door
opened, as if of itself, and several thickly-carpeted
rooms were traversed in silence. At length, another
door was opened by the guide, and the cure felt his
bandage removed. They were in a solemn-looking
bed-chamber ; near a bed, half veiled by thick damask
curtains, was a small table, supporting two wax lights,
which feebly illuminated the cold death-like apartment.
The stranger (he was the Duke de ), then bowing
to the curd, led him towards the bed, drew back the
curtains, and said in a solemn tone : —
" Minister of God, before you is a woman who has
betrayed the blood of her ancestors, and whose doom
is irrevocably fixed. She knows on what conditions
an interview with you has been granted her ; she
knows too that all supplications would be useless. You
know your duty, M. le Cure ; I leave you to fulfil it,
and will return to seek you in half an hour."
So saying he departed, and the agitated priest saw
lying on the bed a young and beautiful girl, bathed
in tears, battling with despair, and calling in her bitter
agony for the comforts of religion. No investigation
possible ! for the unhappy creature declared herself
bound by a terrible oath to conceal her name ; besides,
she knew not in what place she was.
"I am, "she said, "the victim of a secret family
tribunal, whose sentence is irrevocable ! More, I can-
not tell. I forgive my enemies, as I trust that God
will forgive me. Pray for me ! "
The minister of religion invoked the sublime pro-
mises of the gospel to soothe her troubled soul, and
he succeeded. Her countenance, after a time, became
composed, she clasped her hands in fervent prayer,
and then extended them towards her consoler.
As she did so, the curd perceived that the sleeve of
her robe was stained with blood.
"My child, "said he, with a trembling voice, "what
is this? "
" Father, it is the vein which they have already
opened, and the bandage, no doubt, was carelessly
put on."
At these words, a sudden thought struck the priest.
He unrolled the dressing, allowed the blood to flow,
steeped his handkerchief in it, then replaced the
bandage, concealed the stained handkerchief within
his vest, and whispered : —
" Farewell, my daughter, take courage, and have
confidence in God ! "
The half hour had expired, and the step of his
terrible conductor was heard approaching.
" I am ready," said the cure, and having allowed his
eyes to be covered, he took the arm of the Duke de ,
and left the awful room, praying meanwhile with
secret fervour.
Arrived at the foot of the staircase, the old man
succeeded, without his guide's knowledge, in slightly
displacing the thick bandage so as to admit a partial
ray of lamp light. Finding himself in the carriage
gateway, he managed to stumble and fall, with both
hands forward towards a dark corner. The Duke
hastened to raise him, both resumed their places in
the carriage, and after repassing through the same
tortuous route, the curd was set down in safety at his
own door.
Without one moment's delay, he called his servant.
" Pierre," he said, " arm yourself with a stick, and
give me your support ; I must instantly go to the
minister of police."
Soon afterwards, the official gate was opened to
admit the well-known venerable pastor.
" Monseigneur, " he said, addressing the minister,
" a terrible deed will speedily be accomplished, if you
are not in time to prevent it. Let your agents visit,
before daybreak, every carriage gateway in Paris ; in
the inner angle of one of them will be found a blood-
stained handkerchief. The blood is that of a young
female, whose murder, already begun, has been mi-
raculously suspended. Her family have condemned
their victim to have her veins opened one by one, and
thus to perish slowly in expiation of a fault, already
more than punished by her mortal agony. Courage,
my friend, you have already some hours. May God
assist you — I can only pray."
That same morning, at eight o'clock, the minister
of police entered the cure's room.
"My friend," said he, "I confess my inferiority,
your are able to instruct me in expedients."
" Saved ! " cried the old man, bursting into tears.
270
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
" Saved," said the minister, " and rescued from the
power of her cruel relations. But the next time,
dear Abbe, that you want my assistance in a bene-
volent enterprise, I wish you would give me a little
more time to accomplish it."
Within the next twenty-four hours, by an express
order from the king, the Duke de and his ac-
complices were secretly removed from Paris, and
conveyed out of the kingdom.
The young woman received all the care which her
precarious state required ; and when sufficiently re-
covered, retired to a quiet country village where the
royal protection assured her safety. It is scarcely
needful to say, that next to her Maker, the cure of
St. Germais was the object of her deepest gratitude
and filial love. During fifteen years, the holy man
received from time to time the expression of her
grateful affection ; and at length, when himself, from
extreme old age, on the brink of the grave, he re-
ceived the intelligence that she had departed in
peace.
Never until then, had a word of this mysterious
adventure passed the good curfi's lips. On his death-
bed, however, he confided the recital to a bishop, one
of his particular friends ; and from a relation of the
latter, I myself heard it.
This is the exact truth.
THE
YOUNG IDEA"— FEMALE
EDUCATION.
THE Inspectors of Parochial School Unions, in their
recently published reports, give a number of ludicrous
instances of the blundering answers of the children to
the usual school interrogatories. The Inspectors say
that the children get into their heads a set of phrases
which they produce indiscriminately in answer to all
sorts of questions. In the Derby Union, a boy, in
answer to the question "What is hypocrisy1?" an-
swered "God." Another said the number of sacra-
ments was "fourteen," and of Gospels " six," and a
girl said that the latter were written " by Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abed-nego." Many did not know
the name of the Queen ; one said it was "Anna,"
and another " Mary Magdalene." There were sundry
opinions among these children as to what an island
was, — one said it was " a place where there's nobody
to see," another that it was " a great city," a third
that it was " a small house by the water-side," and a
fourth that it was "the oldest man in the world."
At Blackburn, a boy was asked " Who was Pontius
Pilate," and answered "The Virgin Mary." Another
said that Pontius Pilate was " the mother of Jesus."
A youth at Keighley, in reply to the question "Which
commandment forbids stealing?" answered "The
fifteenth." One advanced boy said Jerusalem was in
Africa, and that the German Ocean was "between
England and London." Prophecy was defined by
one boy to be "fortunetelling," and the two sacra-
ments were described as "my duty towards God
and my duty towards my neighbour."
The low state of education in these workhouse
schools generally, is owing to the great difficulty
which exists in finding competent teachers. One
Union advertised for eighteen months before it got a
teacher, and that an inefficient one. Mr Bowyer
saya :— " In several instances, advertisements have
been repeatedly issued ; in one case, even as many as
six times, without a single application, until at length
some broken tradesman, discarded land-bailiff, or
labourer, — some milliner or nursery-maid, is found to
accept the appointment." The great majoritv of
those actually employed as teachers are, by reason of
the defects in their own education, quite unfitted for
the office. The schoolmaster of Wayland Union, says
Mr. Bowyer in his last report, "was accustomed to
smoke three pipes and drink a pot of beer in the
school, and was so indolent that the boys used to
force him to hear them read."
Nothing could show in a more striking light the
extremely low state of female education in this country,
than the difficulty which exists, in all districts, of
obtaining women qualified to take charge of children's
schools. The labour in such situations is not dis-
agreeable ; to many it is grateful rather than irksome ;
but though good salaries are offered, teachers enough
cannot be had, of even the most inferior description ;
and the Normal schools which exist for the preparation
of female teachers cannot supply one-tenth part of
the demand.
Considering the exuberant abundance of female
workers supposed everywhere to exist in England,
this difficulty seems extraordinary ; and when we
call to mind the cries of distress from thousands
of oppressed needlewomen which so often assail
the public, this state of things seems still more
unaccountable. But the wonder ceases when we
look at the extremely low standard of education which
generally prevails throughout the country. The bulk
of the working classes either do not learn so much as
to read or write, or they learn these elementary arts
so very imperfectly, that the majority forget them
when they grow up to adult age, and when they
marry they sign their names with a X accordingly.
But one might expect different things from the
middle classes. Among them, there is always a large
number of destitute young women, and numerous
widows, respectably brought up, but suddenly turned
penniless on the world, whose hard cases of poverty
and starvation cause never-ending appeals to the
charitable. What occupation is there that could be
mentioned, more honourable or creditable for all such
to engage in, than that of teachers of children ? But
how few young women are there, even of those who
have been educated in boarding schools, that are
found competent for this useful office ?
Hear what Mr. Tufnell says in his last report on
the schools of Parochial Unions in the Metropolitan
district : — " If the examination of schoolmistresses
may be taken as a fair test, and I think it may, they
would prove that the education given in the female
schools for the middle classes is often worse than that
which is imparted in such as are open to the poorer.
I have sometimes had to examine a schoolmistress
who has been reduced by misfortunes from a superior
station to accept the office, having been brought up
in a respectable boarding school. She will be able to
sjng, to play the piano, and speak a little French,
but will not be able to spell decently, will hardly be
capable of answering the most elementary Scripture
question, and be utterly ignorant of any arithmetic
principle. Among such persons is the choice of
schoolmistresses frequently confined, and it is almost
unnecessary to detail what must be the result. The
children get taught needlework, but nothing else.
They are perhaps placed in servants' situations, but
their ultimate destination is to swell the already over-
crowded ranks of needlewomen, and to reduce by
competition the wages of this class to the lowest
liveable point. It is a frequent remark, in London,
that the situation of haberdasher's assistant, apparently
so fitted for women, is almost entirely monopolized by
men. But the occupants of such situations have to
make, in the daily conduct of business, the most rapid
calculations of the prices of articles sold, and not one
girl in fifty, instructed by an ordinary schoolmistress,
would be able to make such calculations with the
necessary accuracy and despatch. If she has to
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
271
reckon fifteen yards of calico at 8^d a yard, she will
probably blunder in the computation. This educa-
tional defect at; once cuts them off from several
occupations which seem well adapted for females, and
such employment as needlework, which all can per-
form, is crowded so as to reduce to almost nothing
! the wages of those who attempt to get a living by it."
The defective education of women, then, is the real
cause of their helplessness as producers and workers.
Being un educated, they can take little part in the
skilled industry of the world, and hence they are
driven towards that which is unskilled and badly
remunerated. We still treat women very much as
the Mahommedans do, who regard it as quite supere-
rogatory to cultivate their intellectual faculties.' We
think we have done enough when we have taught
girls to read and write (and many do not go even so
far as that), added to which perhaps, are a few flimsy
accomplishments, which are regarded as such only
during the fleeting years of their youth and beauty, —
years, graceful enough without them ; and then they
are left weak and helpless to be stranded on the hard
beach of everyday life. With a sounder and more
practical education of young women there would be
no such dearth of teachers as now exists ; a new and
honourable field of employment would open up before
them, and the overcrowded market of female labour
would at once be relieved.
But it is not merely in this material aspect that
the advantages of an improved education of women
are to be regarded. As wives and mothers, as
managers of households and educators of their
children, as intelligent companions and helpmates
for men, whose homes would be made happier and
more attractive by their presence, their usefulness
would be greatly extended by their improved moral
and intellectual culture. It is a lamentable fact that
much of the thriftlessness and improvidence which
now prevails has its origin in woman's want of fore-
thought, prudence, and ordinary economy ; and little
else but misery and destitution can be expected in
the homes over which they preside, so long as society
allows women to grow up untrained and uneducated
in their mental capacities, and so genei'ally devoid of
all useful intellectual accomplishments.
OUR MUSICAL CORNER.
ANOTHER pile of new music lies before us, with some
of the gayest title-pages we ever saw. Christmas
holly, wreaths of mistletoe, bunches of fleur-de-lis,
elegant young ladies and mustachoed gentlemen are
scattered in profusion on our table, some very stupid,
some very odd, and a few very ridiculous. We heard
a lady once say that she never bought music with a
picture to it, for it was generally rubbish. She had
some ground for her opinion, we fear ; but we trust
there is some excellence under what we now see, or
our labour will be very unprofitable. Some of the
pages "look very black," and we anticipate the
pursuit of criticism under difficulties, and then, too,
we have been rattling away through the holidays
with extempore Scotch quadrilles, thumping " Sir
Roger de Coverley," "Kitty O'Lynch," "Mrs. Me
Leod," and such al fresco commonalties, until we
really suspect our fingers are a little out of practice
in the heavy department. We find that "common
tunes " ever inspire the most active steps in dancing,
and we positively saw an old lady of seventy-eight
start off on New Year's night and carry her brown
satin gloriously through a long country-dance under
the influence of " Rory O'More," finishing up with
"Money Musk." We could not be without our stock
of desultory melodies on any consideration for we
see a vast deal more enthusiasm in a " carpet
quadrille," when we strike up " Garry Owen," or "The
Wedding Day," than when we do a deal of fancy
work in the shape of Herz. Come, we must screw up
our fingers to the serious point, and begin with those
published by Shepherd & Jones, Newgate Street. The
" Fleur-de-Lis Polka," by Adolphe Whitcombe, is ex-
ceedingly pretty. So many polkas have come before us
made of nothing, or something worse, that it is quite
refreshing to hear a tolerably original and good
composition in this line. We can heartily recom-
mend this polka to our young friends. " Beautiful
Land" is one of Mendelssohn's sweet and peculiar
songs, which we love to listen to. There is some-
thing in this composer's works which always awakens
the poetry within us, and speaks to us of that, which,
as Jean Paul says, " never has been and never will
be." We admire this specimen very much, and shall
put it into our private portfolio. " My Pretty Dove,
go fly away." This is another German song by
Kiicken, and so warmly do we admire it, that we
shall place it with the preceding one. Now we have
" The Bloomerite Belle," and though we do not like to
say anything severe, we must declare that we think
it rather too bad to ask " full price " for the old air of
"Nae Luck about the House," arranged to veiy
common-place words. When will the Bloomer non-
sense end ? really there is nothing attractive in the
figures represented on the " silver trap " title-pages,
for they all appear to us to be something between an
Italian ballet dancer and a Yankee planter. We
certainly do hope that women will soon have their
dresses fashioned so as to be more comfortable and
more clean, and we believe a sensible and modest
adoption of reform is very possible, but, then, it
must come over the Channel, we guess, and not over
the Atlantic, and it certainly gains no advocacy in the
absurd caricatures on musical title - pages. The
"Holly Quadrilles" we mention merely to ask the
composer how he could manage to give four such
inferior quadrilles, and one such excellent figure.
"LaTrenise" is a charming bit, and we are quite
vexed at the poverty of the rest; it is not fair to do
so little, when the composer can evidently do so
much better. Here we have a couple of publications
by Jewell & Letchford, Soho Square. "Farewell to
the Exhibition," an air with variations, played by
Ferdinand Sommer, is very pleasing, and we should
especially recommend it to young performers who
require a little schooling in the art of giving "a
meaning" to music. "Eileen's Prayer" is one of
Alexander Lee's compositions, and presents the
greatest interest, through being accompanied by an
autograph MS. of the composer. The ballad is
somewhat melancholy, but very effective. " My
Birth-day Polka," by J. Blewitt, Rust & Stahl, Regent
Street. This is a very cheerful and danceable polka,
well worked, and possessing a greater degree of
melody than most of the every-day polkas do. We
now come to a ballad of which we shall name neither
composer nor publisher, but merely give the reader a
specimen of the "words," as illustrating an ultra
state of lovelorn wretchedness : —
Chaotic gloom affects my mind,
Distraction, grief, and care ;
I vainly seek for peace, and find
Disquiet and despair.
We trust our readers will sympathize with the
unhappy young man, and join us in trusting that he
will not attempt suicide by an excess of the " Finest
Manillas " and " Pale Ale," — a catastrophe we should
be prepared to expect after such an effusion as this
"ballad."
The step between the sublime and the ridiculous
272
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
seems to be frequently taken by " aspiring poets," and
they insist on making that respected and generally
very prudent old lady, dame Nature, behave as if she
were the most outrageous and disorderly person
created. If she did and thought half the things
imputed to her, she ought to have been born in a
straight-jacket. See what a "poet" sent us the other
day, in "Stanzas written in a Churchyard."
I've wept my burning eye-balls blind
Beside my dying friends,
And here am I still left behind,
To count their latter ends.
And because we declined our praises we were deemed
"jealous," but we leave the justice of the accusation
to be decided by " a generous public."
We have much more music to try, but our fingers
ache somewhat, and our readers' heads may do the
same, so au revoir.
THE
r AUTUMN TRIP THROUGH
MUNSTER."
WE regret to find, from a letter we have received
from Dublin, that the statement published by us in
a chapter of the " Autumn Trip through Munster "
which appeared on the 27th of December last, is
" entirely unfounded " as regards Mr. Richard Quin
Sleeman. The author of the article referred to
briefly related the circumstances connected with the
sad reverse of fortune which had befallen that gentle-
man as they were told to him, in the course of a con-
versation with an inhabitant of the town of Tipperary.
The statement was made as of some well-known fact,
which everybody knew of (from the prominent posi-
tion in life which Mr. Sleeman had occupied), and
which many lamented. The author Tiad no know-
ledge whatever of Mr. Sleeman, nor could he have
the slightest intention of any kind, malicious or other-
wise, in the writing of these articles, beyond that of
giving as accurate a representation as he could of the
life, manners, conversation, and character of the inha-
bitants of the south-west of Ireland. We very much
regret, however, that anything, though uninten-
tionally, inaccurate, and especially that anything
offensive to individuals, should have been allowed to
appear in those articles ; and we have accordingly
to retract the offensive passage at the earliest oppor-
tunity allowed us by our publishing arrangements,
and ^ to offer our sincere apology to Mr. Sleeman for
the insertion of that portion of the article referred to,
which he or his friends have construed in an offensive
or injurious sense, — a construction, however, which
we think the words used will scarcely bear, and which
certainly was not in any way intended by the writer.
THE EDITOR or ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
January 3lst, 1852.
MODERN POETRY.
It is one of the sublimest features of our modern
poetry that it shows man as ever nobler than circum-
stances. We live in ourselves ; we modify the exter-
nal with the characteristics of our own natures The
sordid soul gets no riches from wealth ; the generous
soul extracts them from poverty. Virtue sleeps on
the stone ; vice writhes on the couch. Unbelief sees
no witness of God in the stars ;; faith reads it in one
simple wild flower. Everywhere man is the solemn
and central figure in the universe ; and circumstance
is but the mirror which reflects him, or, at most the
condition which tests him.—/. W. Marston
OUT OF SIGHT OUT OF MIND.
OH ! where is the being that blindly
Will hold as the faith of his kind
That proverb of spirit unkindly
Which says " Out of sight out of mind ? "
That heart were a wilderness lonely
Which could not this saying deny,
Did it question the memories only
That affection will never let die.
We think of the loved in our grieving,
For we know they would feel with our care ;
In our joy, for our faith is believing
They would join, and we would they could share.
'Tis thus in our sorrows and pleasures
Come dear ones, whom fate may remove ;
And, though far "out of sight," the heart's treasures
Are nigh in the "mind " of our love.
FREDERICK ENOCH.
LOVE AND CONSTANCY.
Love, truly such, is itself not the most common
thing in the world, and mutual love still less so. But
that enduring personal attachment,, so beautifully
delineated by Erin's sweet melodist, and still more
touchingly, perhaps, in the well-known ballad, "John
Anderson, my Jo, John," in addition to a depth and
constancy of character of no every-day occurrence,
supposes a peculiar sensibility and tenderness of
nature, a constitutional communicativeness and utter-
ance of heart and soul, a delight in the detail of sym-
pathy in the outward and visible signs of the sacra-
ment within, — to count, as it were, the pulses of the
life of love. But, above all, it supposes a soul which
even in the pride and summer-tide of life, even in the
lustihood of health and strength, had felt oftenest and
prized highest that which age cannot take away, and
which in all our lovings is the love ; I mean that wil-
ling sense of the unsufficingness of the self for itself,
which predisposes a generous nature to see in the
total being of another the supplement and completion
of its own ; that quiet perpetual seeking which the
presence of the beloved object modulates, not sus-
pends, where the heart momently finds, and, find-
ing again, seeks on ; lastly, when " life's changeful
orb has past the full," a confirmed faith in the noble-
ness of humanity thus brought home and pressed, as
it were, to the very bosom of hourly experience; it
supposes, I say, a heartfelt reverence for worth, not
the less deep because divested of its solemnity by
habit, by familiarity, and by mutual infirmities, and
even by a feeling of modesty which will arise in
delicate minds, when they are conscious of possessing
the same or the correspondent excellence in their own
characters. In short, there must be a mind which,
while it feels the beautiful and the excellent in the
beloved as its own, and by right of love appropriates
it, can call goodness its playfellow ; and dares make
sport of time and infirmity, while in the person of a
thousand-fondly endeared partner, we feel for aged
virtue the caressing fondness that belongs to the inno-
cence of childhood, and repeat the same attentions
and tender courtesies which had been dictated by the
same affection to the same object when attired in
feminine loveliness or in manly beauty. — Coleridge.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 348.]
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 1852.
[PRICE
A SECOND VISIT TO THE SUBMARINE
TELEGRAPH.*
WE had an uncomfortable conviction that our last
article upon the Su-jmarine Telegraph had left much
untold, so we resolved to visit Dover again and
gather a few more particulars ; but this time we had
no long pleasant walk over country downs and sea-
bordered cliffs, only the dull nothings of a deserted,
wintry, watering-place to enliven us, and we started
upon our unpleasant, but fortunately limited, travels,
with a strong feeling of disgust and indifference.
But how true it is, " the worst moment becomes the
most propitious," for there, lying directly in our
path, were indications that the " great wiry snake of
civilization" had preceded us; there, were raised
landmarks that its sinuous length had contorted and
twisted itself into unpleasant positions to accommo-
date the unruly and unalterable lines of the streets.
We paused in our walk ; we partly retraced our
steps, and followed the cable to its starting-point.
It led us to the old office of the Company at Athol
Terrace, and there it left us, for we did not deem it
desirable to follow the interesting subject of our con-
templation up the perpendicular face of the cliff to
the high and dizzy summit. But we had gained our
object, for we knew that from that unattainable
height, the cable, here separated from its iron casing,
and only composed of four gutta-percha-covered
wires, lay xinder the fertile soil, and wound its weary
length for miles on the summit of the cliffs to the
lighthouse, whence it descended by a shaft to the
beach, and thence under the water to la belle France.
We also knew that from the Calais shore it wound
its snake-like length to the Calais Telegraph Office,
similarly buried and similarly composed, and we knew
again that there, at its extreme points, were the
instrument intelligencers, the printing paraphernalia,
the delicate vibrating needles, and the human mani-
pulators, yclept "clerks," who read and make known
to the impatient world its symbolic language. We
saw, lying close to Athol Terrace, several masses of
boarding, square in shape but hollowed in the centre,
of about four inches in thickness each way, and pro-
vided with another piece of wood, evidently intended
as a sort of cap, or cover, to that first mentioned.
* See No. 135 of the Journal.
We demonstrated, by actual experiment, that this
was the case, and that when so covered the whole
made a very tolerable block-house habitation for
such unluxurious creatures as telegraphic wires,
clothed, too, with so unpretending and modest a dress
as gutta percha. We ascertained that ten inches
beneath the little, slightly raised landmark, running
along the streets, this wooden residence was comfort-
ably ensconced, habited by nine wires, clothed with a
tight-fitting, everlasting, and impervious material,
made under the superintendence of that most perfect
of gutta percha tailors, Mr. Statham, and that those
nine wires were provided, four for the present and
four for the future cable, which it is intended shall
be shortly laid down, while the remaining one will
serve for any eventuality that may arise. We pre-
sently reached the new office, close by the harbour,
and were duly introduced to Mr. Cheshire, the
same gentleman who had instructed our ignorance
on a previous occasion.
We were in a large and lofty room, forming the
outer office or reception-room for messages, and close
to our left, in a thick wall, was an orifice provided
with a trap-door, communicating with the inner or
instrument apartment, — the real object of our aspira-
tions ; we were soon, however, made familiar with the
whole process. A boy presently rushed in with a
despatch from the South-eastern telegraph office,
dated 1-59 p.m. ; the date was cut off and shown to
us, and we impulsively drew out our watch and saw
that it was just two o'clock ; that faithful monitor,
therefore, showed a lapse of time only amounting to
one minute since the despatch had been received from
London. The clerk in attendance handed it through
the opening in the wall just mentioned into the inner
room ; we were summoned to proceed, and straight-
way we found ourselves, in what may not inappro-
priately be termed, the manipulating department.
Here, ranged on a bench covered with green baize,
were several instruments ; that of the Messrs. Brett,
several descriptions of the old machines of Messrs.
Cooke and Wheatstone, — the original instruments,
par excellence, — one or two single-needle instruments,
and a galvanometer, with many other mysteriously-
formed and significant-looking engines of electricity.
The despatch we have just alluded to here again
met our expectant gaze, hung upon an apparatus
bearing a very close resemblance to a Roman Catholic
274
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
cross : we were obliged, however, to maintain a very
respectful distance, so that the despatch itself should
preserve its incognito. On the right of the cross was
an instrument provided with two needles, hanging
perpendicularly to the earth, and furnished with two
handles manipulated by a clerk, who straightway
commenced operation. Several jerks were made with
the handles, which caused the needles on the dial to
move correspondingly, both in the office where we
were standing and at Calais ! These movements of
the needles at Calais attracted the attention of the
clerk there, who returned the signal, and the despatch
was immediately commenced. But how singular and
unmeaning to our gaze appeared the rapid evolutions
of the needle indicators ; how astonishing it seemed
that eyes of mere mortals could follow the rapid and
apparently continuous and incessant jerks of these
life-like creatures ; and what a wonder it was when
we were informed, while yet confusedly contemplating
in the profoundest ignorance these singular proceed-
ings, that the despatch was already transmitted, and
that in another minute or two it would in all proba-
bility be copying at Paris, ready for transmission by
hand to its destination! This instrument was so
totally different to that of the Messrs. Brett, and gave
so indistinct and traceless a notice of its efficiency,
that our wonder was even, if possible, greater on
this than on the previous occasion, and we turned to
our former kind informant, Mr. Cheshire, for a fur-
ther explanation of the mystery.
" Here," said he, " we are governed by precisely the
same rules as those I explained to you on a previous
occasion. The moment one of these handles is
moved, a current of electricity leaves the batteries con-
nected with the machine, and, passing through it,
rushes over to the French coast by means of the sub-
marine cable, one end of which is attached to this
instrument. On the arrival of the current at the
Calais telegraph office, it runs through an apparatus
there in every respect similar to that which we have
before us, and attracts needles, the very counterparts
of these, and in exactly the same manner as you
observe these to be attracted. Corresponding move-
ments of these little indicators, therefore, take place
both at Calais and Dover, and it is by this method
we are enabled to forward our communications. For
instance ; if I desire to spell the word 'marble,' the
right handle is first moved once to the right, and
rapidly and without pause carried back again to the
left ; the needle moves on the dial correspondingly,
but from left to right, and then, by its knocking first
on one side and then on the other, forms the letter
' m ;' I then take the left handle of the instrument
and make two rapid blows on the right side, these
cause the left needle to move twice to the left, which
forms the letter ' a ;' both handles are then moved
once to the left, and that makes the letter ' r ; ' the
left handle is again moved thrice to the right, the
needle moves thrice to the left, that is 'b;' the
letter ' 1 ' is the reverse movement of ' m ; ' and we
obtain the signal ' e ' by moving the left handle once
to the left, which causes the left needle to move once
to the right, thus forming the last letter of the word."
"But," said we, "we do not observe that you have
formed any letters ; do you attach arbitrary signs to
the movements of the needles 1 "
" Precisely so ; I might just as well say that when
I make an inclination with one of my arms to one or
the other side, we understand that forms a letter.
Of course, no real letters are formed any more than
we make real letters in affixing arbitrary signs to the
movements of the dumb alphabet."
" An excellent illustration," said we, " for in effect
it precisely resembles that, or the old semaphore
telegraph."
" Exactly so ; but it yet remains to be explained
why the needles move when the handles are moved,
and this explanation you must follow with some little
attention."
"The moment I move the handle, it is suddenly stop-
ped on attaining a certain bend, by something which
you do not observe, but the effects of which you can
perceive. Attached to the handle is a brass barrel, sepa-
rated into two parts by a piece of wood, which piece of
wood is a non-conductor ; each of these distinct por-
tions of the barrel is provided with a projecting piece
of zinc, and it is this zinc, which striking against a
brass stop, prevents the handle from going further,
and causes it to make the clicking noise you hear.
The moment the handle is thus stopped a ' connec-
tion ' is formed between the batteries and the cable
wire, and the fluid, rushing from the batteries, passes up
a piece of wire into the front part of the barrel, runs
down the projecting piece of zinc through this instru-
ment, through the cable, through the instrument at
Calais, thence by the earth to Dover, up a wire
buried six feet in the earth here, into our insti-ument
again, on to the little piece of zinc at the other end of
the barrel, and thence, by a wire provided, back into
the batteries. In its progress it passes through coils of
wire in each of the instruments, and converts them,
while so momentarily passing, into temporary mag-
nets. These, when so converted, attract a steel
needle suspended in their centres, and fixed upon the
same pivot as the needles you observe on the outer
face of the dial. Thus, whatever movements these
inner needles make the outer ones make likewise.
The instant the current has passed, the coils of wiro
are demagnetized, and the needles resume their per-
pendicular position. You have observed that the
needles may be attracted to the right or left side of
the dial at the same time. In the infancy of the
invention they could only be attracted to one side,
but by providing a combination of machinery we
obtain' movements on both sides. If I move the
right handle once to the right, the needle will go once
to the left ; if I make the reverse movement, the
needles will do so too. You perceive that we some-
times move one handle, sometimes the other, and
sometimes both together ; this gives us a great num-
ber of signals from the needles, both by using them
singly and by combinations with the two. To these
movements and combinations, as has been before
stated, we give the name of some letter in the alpha-
bet ; we have a signal for all the letters of the alphabet,
and also for figures, besides other combinations far
too numerous to mention."
We entreated our friend not to mention them, for
our head already seemed a little dizzy.
"«And this," said we, pointing to a dial provided
with only one needle.
" That is a single-needle instrument, and all the
letters of the alphabet are formed by it. It is a very
ingenious little object, but rather slow, and tiring for
the eyes."
"What then," said we, "are its advantages ?"
"For use where there is little business transacted.
This method of one needle only requires one wire,
and therefore is less expensive. The double-needle
apparatus requires a wire for each needle, but then,
by its greater speed and efficacy, it much more than
compensates for the additional cost ; indeed, with us
the smaller instrument would be next to useless, and
would not enable us to transmit, with any regularity,
one quarter of the business we now perform."
We thought so too, as we observed the rapidity and
frequency with which the despatches were pouring in.
" Your contrivance for the separation of the dif-
ferent wires from each other, and from the sea,
appears, then, to answer perfectly ? "
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
275
" Quite so ; you will observe that on my causing1
one needle to move on the double-needle instrument,
no perceptible tremor is occasioned to the other ; this
proves the perfect nature of the insulation of the
wires from each other. We have also made various
experiments to demonstrate this as perfectly as pos-
sible."
We observed a galvanometer on a side table, and
inquired if that had ever been brought into play ?
" Yes, and has answered our purpose admirably.
You see, it is a very beautiful and delicate piece of
mechanism. Inclosed in a glass tube, and suspended
by threads, is a steel needle, quite at liberty to turn
in any direction, and, from its perfect lightness and
mobility, easily acted upon by any countervailing
cause. We have connected this, and by means of
the plate underneath, marked with the points of the
compass and the subdivisions, we have been enabled
to calculate to a nicety whether there has been the
slightest current independent of that which alone
should be traversing the wires. You have, doubtless,
heard that there are atmospheric currents traversing
the wires of the different telegraphs at various inter-
vals of time, and in differing degrees of strength or
quantity ? "
We intimated our acquiescence.
"In some telegraphic systems these currents cause
great inconvenience ; they pass through the same
coils as the currents we ourselves transmit, and not
unfrequently, on some lines, all the needles are very
strongly attracted, and kept on the one side or the
other, preventing the proper working of the line, and
causing great delay in the transmission of communi-
cations. This, however, is now obviated by what
are termed movable studs ; the small pieces of ivory
you see inserted in the face of the dial, on each side
of the needles, are to prevent them from moving too
far over, and to give distinctiveness to the signals.
If they were attracted too far, they would not return
to their position in time for the next movement of
the handles ; we therefore limit their gyrations. But
this limitation affords a lever to the atmospheric
currents, for they attract the needles forcibly to the
stops, and there hold them ; we have, therefore, pro-
vided movable stops, and when the needles are so
inclined we turn round a disc, on which the stops are
fixed, until the needles are again brought in the
centre point between them ; we then proceed with
our business as comfortably as ever. Our insulation
is almost of necessity perfect ; it must be either per-
fect or utterly destroyed. Were the sea to touch
any part of the wire, of course we should be undone
at once."
" There was lately a report," said we, " of a ship's
anchor having caught hold of the cable : is this true ?"
"Yes."
" And is it also true that the captain, notwith-
standing all his efforts, was unable to heave his anchor,
and was at last compelled to sever one of the links
of the chain, and leave « anchor, and cable, and all '
permanent inhabitants of the channel ? "
" It is all quite true, and has more than realized our
expectationsofthe strength and efficiency of the cable."
"It also verifies," observed we, " the truthfulness
of your calculation, that several anchors would be
required to lift the cable ; and certainly it is a most
convincing proof of the strength and perfect nature of
the submarine line. Indeed, you must have been
very happy when you found that this great source of
alarm had been found, after all, nothing but a bug-
bear. The captain, however, cannot be particularly
gratified at the result of his night anchorage having
cost him so dear. By-the-by," added we, "how is
it the French telegraphs in the south of France are so
frequently ' interrompu par le brouillard ? ' "
" It is the old semaphore from Marseilles. We
expect a great addition to our business when the line
of telegraphs to Marseilles shall be completed. It is
an amusing instance of adherence to old customs,
that the French electric telegraph is provided with
needles working very much after the fashion of the
old semaphore ; they are, however, found efficacious.
What is, indeed, very singular, is the secret nature oi
the Governmental cipher ; notwithstanding the long
continuance oi employes in office, it is credibly asserted,
that on no one occasion has this very clever system
been penetrated. Despatches, after having been
received by the clerks, are enclosed and sent to the
translator, who deciphers them by his key. No
doubt the system of secret signals is very frequently
changed."
"Prussian telegraphs," said we, "are very much
interfered with by numerous bands of rats. Do not
these rats very frequently take the form of Govern-
ment despatches ? "
"No question of it ; but the Austrian Government
is now bestirring itself to make the telegraphic com-
munication of that country more perfect and efficient.
Prussia is similarly employed ; and no doubt pre-
sently, when more wires are provided, greater cer-
tainty will be secured."
" We remember an amusing incident," said we,
"which happened to one of the German papers. A
despatch, containing intelligence of a battle between
the Schleswig-Holsteiners and the Danes, was handed
in to the telegraph office somewhere near the vicinity
of the occurrence. Several months afterwards it was
delivered at the office of the journal, and payment
demanded ! It was announced, in a conspicuous part
of the journal, the following morning, with a sarcastic
remark by the editor, calling attention to the great
rapidity with which, by means of the telegraph, he
had obtained such important intelligence."
"It is a melancholy reflection," we observed "that
the submarine telegraph should have been first occu-
pied in transmitting intelligence of the late French
Revolution, so pernicious in its consequences, so
destructive of continental liberty, and the maintenance
of confidence between the two nations."
"It was, perhaps, an unfortunate opening," said
Mr. Cheshire, " but perhaps it is also equally unfor-
tunate that telegraphs always prosper, not a little, in
times of agitation and excitement."
Despatches still came streaming in, and we
shook hands, and bade our friend good-day, not
forgetting to thank him for his information. Our
mind, however, still pursued the train of its former
reflections, and we could not but regret that, just at
that moment, when a speaking link of communication
had bound the two countries in a nearer, and appa-
rently indissoluble union, distrust and fear should
intervene, and sever, with one rapid and destructive
blow, the ties of amity which were apparently so
beautifully effective and so lasting.
THE PEOBATION BY CHESS.
Win her and wear her.— Old Proverb.
"DON'T be down-hearted, Carl," cheerfully exclaimed
old Wilhelm Reiter ; " you've made some progress
already ; and if you only stick to it with a stout
heart— who knows, — perhaps before the Rhine breaks
up, I shall be obliged to abandon the rook, and give
you a knight only."
A quiet smile of conscious superiority involunta-
rily played over the old man's features, as he put up
the pieces, for a fresh game, inviting the despondent
Carl to try his luck once more ; but the tyro had had
270
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
enough for that day, and pleading a head-ache (the
vanquished chess-player's best friend) he bid the
conqueror good night.
" Good night, Anschutz ! " said Wilhelm, as he
cordially shook the young man's hand. " Persevere,
lad, persevere, and never mind being beaten at first.
Kemember the Eoman general who 'conquered
through defeat.' And, harkye ! come over to-mor-
row evening, and we will have another bout. Lina,
darling, see the gate fast after Carl."
The farewell between the miller's pretty daughter
and Carl Anschutz was somewhat more prolonged
than her father's. She accompanied him across the
garden, whispering words of solace and hope.
" Tis of no use trying, Lina," said he, despairingly ;
" I am sure I shall never be able to beat him. You
saw how little chance I had against him, even with
the rook, — and what fearful odds that makes ! Why,
it will take years of hard study before I can play
him on even terms, much less beat him. Oh ! it is
cruel, — downright barbarous of him to sport and
ti-ifle with our happiness so frivolously ! "
" Oh ! hush, dear Carl, do not say so ! " murmured
Lina, reproachfully. " I am sure my father loves
you."
"Why then does he rest his consent to our union
upon such a ridiculous, unmeaning condition ? " re-
plied Carl, angrily. "What motive can he have?
After allowing us to grow up together from the
very cradle in such intimacy, knowing my circum-
stances so well, and even desirous, as he told my
mother, of seeing us united ; — what can be his object
I know not, unless it is from a morbid love of his
favourite amusement, and a desire to see me appre-
ciate it equally with himself. I like the game well
enough, but after all, what is it ? Only a game, and
not to be made part of the business of life. To
think of beating him, too, — the best player in
I shall never do it," and poor Carl smote his forehead
with vexation, as he thought of the immense disparity
in their play.
" Alas ! I cannot guess at his motive," sighed
Lina ; "to me he has ever been the kindest and most
indulgent of fathers. Not a wish I can form but he
hastens to gratify it. Rely on it, dearest Carl, there
must be some deeper reason we are not aware of,
for his acting thus — hark ! — Coming, father," she an-
swered, as the old man's voice was heard calling her.
"Good night, dear ! don't despair, and remember, —
come what will, your Lina lives but for you."
Carl Anschutz and Lina Reiter had been, as he
said, companions from infancy. Their fathers were
very old friends, and since the death of Johann
Anschutz, which happened when Carl was only nine
years old, Wilhelm Reiter's counsel and assistance
had been of the greatest service to his widow, who
continued to carry on the small, but thriving farm
her husband had left. She, too, had in a great
measure supplied the place of Lina's mother to the
orphaned babe, — for the good miller's frau had died
in giving birth to her first child, whose earliest years
were spent entirely under her fostering care.
Brought up thus together, it was no wonder that
the dawning of youth taught the two playmates to
feel that sweet, undefinable attraction which adoles-
cence quickened into passion, until at the respective
ages of twenty and seventeen, the youth and maiden
had discovered, by a mutual confession, that life
would be intolerable if divided ; and accordingly,
Carl made his prayer to the old man for his daughter's
hand, never doiibting that, as the good miller had
always treated him with the affection of a son, he
would now hesitate to make him so in reality.
And truly, there did seem no reason to anticipate
a refusal. Carl, although so young, was a man
grown, could outwork any labourer on the farm, was
temperate, amiable, and sincere, and altogether a
fine, open-hearted, clever young fellow. But he was
deficient in reflection and steady resolution. These
defects showing themselves in an extremely plastic
disposition, placed his mind too much under the
control of others, and sometimes marred the success
of an enterprise well begun ; but time and experience
might teach him the lesson of self-reliance. His
worldly position, though not equal to that of the
prosperous miller, was yet a fair one. Johann
Anschutz had left his small farm well stocked, and in
excellent condition, and, although the seasons had
been unpropitious of late, a few years of patient
application and good management promised to place
Carl and his mother above the reach of any freak of
fortune.
All this Wilhelm Reiter knew as well as himself,
from having been left joint-executor with the widow,
and so, when the old man gave but a conditional
assent, depending on so strange and difficult an
ultimatum, Carl's astonishment and vexation knew
no bounds. The miller listened to the ardent
representations of the young man with kindness, —
professed not the least objection to his prospects, and
even encouraged him to the task, but — until Carl had
won a game at chess of him, on equal terms, Lina was
no bride for him.
Poor Carl prayed, — entreated of him to alter his
determination, representing with all the fiery impe-
tuosity of his nature, the strength of their mutual
attachment, and the misery he would entail on Lina
and himself by a lengthened separation ; but argu-
ments, expostulations were of no avail. The old man
mildly but firmly reiterated his fixed resolution,
concluding the interview by saying : — •
"No, Carl, you cannot alter my resolve, so begin
at once, lad ; and if you love Lina as you say, I
shall quickly see it by the progress you make. You
have plenty of talent, and with ordinary application
and care, ought soon to play as good a game as I do.
Meanwhile, my dear boy, do not think I am acting
from sheer caprice. My reasons you shall some day
know. You shall have every chance of success ; I
will even give you regular lessons of instruction,
apart from our games, — and to show you I really
wish you to win her, I shall place no restrictions on
your intercourse with Lina. Come as often as ever,
and the faster you improve, the better I shall be
pleased."
It was really a hard task old Wilhelm had imposed
on poor Carl, for he was known to be one of the best
players in the whole district, some said the very best ;
and Carl had only lately learnt the first principles of
the game from him. It interested him, as he said,
but only as an amusement ; he had not patience 01
perseverance to study it scientifically, and now that
his happiness depended on the progress he made in
its mysteries, he almost hated it, as night after night
he reluctantly pored over "the books," getting be-
wildered in the mazes of the different " openings "
and their variations, until he went to bed dreaming
of undiscovered "gambits," impossible "mates," and
"nine queens on the board."
Spring came round, and found Carl much advanced
in the game of chess. He was now able, as Wilhelm
Reiter had foreseen, to accept the "knight" only,
and even with that, won almost game for game..
Still this improvement was more the result of con-
stant practice, than of studious inquiry into the
science of the game. There was as yet little
purpose or method in his play, — little of that causality
characteristic of the reflective mind ; but hope was
dawning. He gradually overcame his distaste for
the game, and began to see a higher meaning in it
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
277
than mere amusement. His opponent, faithful to
his promise, took pains to teach him, showing the
"why and because" of the best moves and their
answei-s, occasionally making a brilliant, though
unsound move, which quite upset Carl's combinations,
and then, thoroughly analyzing it, showing in a clear
lucid manner how a little cool reflection would have
made it fatal to the player.
The effects of this valuable instruction soon became
apparent. Carl began to think before he played, to
calculate on contingencies, and look a-head for results,
although still somewhat impatient, easily daunted by
an embarrassing or difficult position in his game, and
apt to despair if the tide appeared at all against him.
He fancied, too, that the more progress he made, the
better the old man seemed to play also, which, of
course, was the fact; There was yet much work to
be done.
It was pretty to watch the air of affectionate
sympathy with which the sweet Lina would cheer
and console her young lover after his constant
defeats, as they sat together during the long evenings
in the comfortable parlour of the mill. Now behind
her father's chair, apparently intent on the game, but
always watching for Carl's uplifted eye, to greet him
with a smile of love and hope, — now seating herself
nearer her lover, her soft white hand stealing under-
neath the table, to reassure him by a fond pressure.
And if Wilhelm Eeiter saw anything of this, or
fancied his pretty daughter stayed too long out in the
night-air, as she closed the outer gate after Carl, he
never said so, or placed the least restraint upon their
intercourse, but really seemed desirous for the time
when Carl could comply with the condition, and
claim his young bride.
Thus the year rolled round, and hoary winter again
wrapped the fields in his cold, white mantle. About
this time, a law suit which had long been pending
between a neighbouring farmer and a contractor in
Berlin, rendered Gail's presence there as a witness
indispensable, and as at that season he could best be
spared from farming operations, he intended to make
a long stay in that capital. For this Carl had
another reason. Berlin had long been celebrated
throughout Europe for its chess players, and he
determined to avail himself to the utmost by their
instructions. He had now become really fond of the
game, and was fast acquiring the qualities of appli-
cation and patience, so necessary to the successful
prosecution of any important undertakings.
Perhaps Wilhelm Reiter guessed at this last motive,
for he gave Carl a letter to an old friend in Berlin,
who had removed there from many years
since, and with whom he had fought many a doughty
battle over the chess-board,
Arriving in Berlin, Carl's first care was to deliver
the letter from Wilhelm Eeiter to his old friend and
comrade, Hans Kcenig, who received him with great
kindness, and insisted upon Carl's staying with him
while he remained in the capital. The young man
gladly accepted the invitation, which was of the
greatest service to him, as being the means of intro-
ducing him to the acquaintance of many first-rate
players and professors of the game, amongst others,
the renowned Von der L , one of the finest
players in Europe. This talented master became
much interested in Carl, from hearing of his task and
its dependent prize, and took frequent opportunities
of imparting to him sound and valuable instruction.
Carl also frequented the cafes, and engaged with
players of his own calibre. This was of great service
to him, for his frequent successes with these taught
him to feel his own strength, and to play with more
self-reliance. He devoted his hours of leisure with
unceasing application to mastering the more abstruse
intricacies of " the wondrous game," and even looked
forward to the hour when he might again measure
his strength with his task-master.
After having spent nearly three months in Berlin,
Carl now hastened to return home, and two days
afterwards he again clasped his own dear Lina to his
heart.
"That will do for to-day, Carl," said the old man,
at the close of a tough game, which Carl had won
with the least possible odds ; " you are indeed
improved. I am afraid you are too much for me,
even with the ' pawn and move ' only. But come
over to-morrow evening, and we will try a game
'even ' for the first time. Heyday ! you little jade ! "
exclaimed he, catching the exulting smile that Lina
directed towards her lover, as her father paid this
gratifying and deserved tribute to the skill of his
opponent ; " chuckling over your father's defeat, eh ?
Come and kiss me directly ; and don't think Carl has
got you yet, minx. Although," he added, with a half
sigh, " 1 am almost afraid I shall lose you sooner
than I expected."
Wilhelm Reiter had indeed found Carl improved,
not in his chess- playing only, but his whole character
seemed to have undergone a salutary change. From
the hot-headed, thoughtless youth who had impor-
tuned him a year and a half ago, he had become a
cautious, reflecting man. His mind had acquired
firmness and vigour, and the want of self-reliance,
once so apparent, no longer showed itself. The
Probation had done its work.
We will not fatigue the reader with the record of
the many hot battles which ensued ere Carl triumphed.
Doughty and more protracted grew they, for the old
man's pride became piqued to find his opponent so
close upon his heels, and he played with the utmost
caution, every game as yet resulting in his favour.
But Wilhelm Reiter was not the Pope. In a game
where he was sweeping all before him, scattering
combinations, and taking pieces at a terrible rate, he
made an inadvertent move, apparently a very strong
one, and threatening to bring the partie to a speedy
termination in his favour. Carl was sorely puzzled,
and for a long time could see no chance of escape.
Suddenly his attention was riveted on a particular
piece, — he looked at its bearings, then again at the
piece, — could it be ? His heart bounded, his eyes
gleamed, — stop, — yes, — it is, it is, — "Checkmate in
five moves by sacrificing queen," he shouted, almost
upsetting the board in his eagerness, as, unable to
control himself, he sprang from the table, and hugged
Lina in his arms.
" Donnerwetter," muttered the old man, hastily,
"der spiel ist vorloren," and lost it was, sure enough,
by the masterly series of coups Carl had discovered.
He shook his head like a terrier which had laid hold
of a hedge-hog by mistake, and didn't like it, —
pished and pshawed a little, but then gave in with a
good grace, and laying down his huge meerschaum :
"Thou hast won her fairly, lad," said he, cordi-
ally. "Lina, my child, come hither."
The blushing, happy girl advanced, and taking her
hand, the old man placed it in Carl's, saying : " Take
her, my son, and may she prove the blessing to her
husband she has ever been to her father ! And now.
Carl, I think you have long ceased to do me in-
justice. If I read you aright, you conjecture my
motives for imposing such a trial on you. Is it not
so, lad ? "
The young man made no answer, but the downcast
eyes, and the conscious flush on his cheek needed no
interpreter.
" I see you do," continued Wilhelm Reiter. " It
278
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
was the anxious wish of your father and myself that
our only children should cement by the bond of
marriage the long and warm friendship existing
between us (if, upon arriving at maturity, their
feelings should be in unison), and when he was on
his deathbed, I solemnly promised him to watch over
you as my own son. I need not say how much my
own feelings were interested in you. As you grew
up, I marked with pleasure the mutual affection
increasing between you and my dear child, and
delighted to contemplate the prospect of fulfilling
the dearest wish of your dead father and myself. I
saw your many excellent qualities, but I also saw,
Carl, much that gave me uneasiness in your cha-
racter,— grave faults which threatened, if unchecked,
to destroy all chance of domestic happiness, and such
as I trembled to consign my child to the influence of.
Generous and amiable you were, — sincere, honour-
able, and temperate, — a frugal liver, and affectionate
son. But on the other hand, there was a want of
prudence and caution ; your unreflecting and pliable
disposition allowed you to be acted upon too much
by the judgment of others ; you had no self-reliance ;
more than all, you suffered yourself to be daunted
by petty difficulties, for the want of energy and
application to combat and overcome them. Nothing
but a timely and severe schooling could eradicate
these weaknesses, which, if left to themselves, would
have exercised a fatal influence over the business of
life ; and, as I had found, by long experience, the
wonderfully salutary effect that a studious application
to any one mental pursuit exercises over the whole
mind, I determined to subject you to a task which, I
may say, without vanity, required considerable per-
severance, patience, and energy, to accomplish. You
have nobly justified my expectations, and I shall now
have no anxiety in committing to your care the
dearest treasure I have on earth. Take her,"
concluded the old man, with moistened eyes ; ''and
may Heaven shower its blessings on you both ! "
Bright and joyous was the summer morn, when
Carl led his lovely and loving bride to the home
which should shelter them both until death. Many a
year has passed away since then, adding tenfold
prosperity and happiness to the farm fireside, and
many a cheerful game between Wilhelm Reiter and
Carl has enlivened the long winter evenings at the
form (for the old man has given up the mill, and
resides entirely with his darling Lina and her
husband) ; and many, many a time, when patience and
application have overcome certain difficulties, or
caution, foresight, and calculation have brought about
a desired result, has Carl mused pleasantly over " The
Probation by Chess."
LAMP-LIGHTING ; OR, GLIMPSES OF
POETRY,
BY TWO STUDENTS.
THE LAMP-BURNER.-III.
The cause, that momentarily affecting one poet
mars a part of labour, continuously affectin^ others
artists in all but patience, makes naught of life-
long toil. We must "stay a little, that we may
make an end the sooner," or perhaps we may say —
that we may make an end at all. No work of art is
doue without delays,— delays in execution, or double
delays in preparation ; for, without them, the work
may be concluded, but not completed. Let us
however, discriminate. With the struggle of the
ian, !f he have to struggle for his bread, we do not
deal. Delays may be dangerous to the worker,
while they are sureties to the work ; they may
impoverish the artist, while they enrich the art.
Wherefore it is that the true artist must be a self-
denying man, and that sacrifice is a true lamp of art.
It is the selfish influence which most drives the
artist onward in the hot haste of small accomplish- j
ment ; and therefore is that which least induces to
completion. The man whose motive is self-love,
whose aim is self-satisfaction, has, at best, but
reason to operate against desire, in causing him to
choose the larger rather than the nearer gratification ;
and reason is seldom strong against desire. We
every day find examples to prove this, — to show how
generally and how widely the spirit of self-love is at
variance with the spirit of art. We cannot imagine
the artist unconscious of the conditions under which
he works ; or the unity of good to be wholly ignored
or unheeded by him who strives laboriously after all
the others. We believe that few purposely exclude
it in the labour of their lives, though they may
postpone or neglect its due consideration ; but that,
on the contrary, not a few, even amongst those who
feed the false appetite that craves "to hear and see
something new every day," weary and despond over
their ungrateful toil. They know the road they
travel leads not to peace nor fame ; but they want
the motive and the influence which should sustain
them in their progress towards excellence, should
bear them over the obstacles, through the joys and
dangers of life, upward to the height of sacrifice, the
height of glory.
" Still higher !" cries the voice of Genius, when it
has reached the true level of Art, which thus only can
be reached, — through self-denial and self-abnegation ;
and thence exercises his true mission, — the bringing
of those with whom he may not tarry, to follow after
him the path of earnest effort. He who with strong
heart takes up the staff of fortitude, and with a
psalm of truthful love upon his lips, goes steadfastly
onward ; his is " the way of the serpent upon the j
rock," which was concealed from the man of wisdom '
to be made plain to the little ones, — the way of right
which leadeth to immortality. Difficult and full of
danger it may be, — pain, care, labour, and trouble
may be his companions ; " he may eat of the bread !
of sorrow, and drink of the waters of distress," but j
his shall be as "the glittering pathway of the stars." j
What to him are all the world's hopes, all the world's \
promises ? — Vanities. He has looked upon the eternal j
pole-star. The shadow of this world, which we call !
darkness, is only a withdrawal of the sunny veil of
vanity that hid heaven from him. " As in the sun's
eclipse we can behold the lights of the great stars
shining in the heavens, so in this life's eclipse does
this man behold the lights of the great eternity
burning solemnly and for ever." His name and fame
shall live in the consecrated ground of memory,
whilst his body has mingled with the dust, — become a
portion of " God's Acre ;" —
GOD'S ACRE.
I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
The burial-ground " God's Acre;"— it is just,
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping- dust.
" God's Acre ! " yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they have garnered in their hearts,-
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the Archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
279
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom
In the fair gardens of that second birth ;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ;
This is the Field and Acre of our God, —
This is the place where human harvests grow.
LIGHT FOR LABOUR.
What is the mission of the Poet ? Schlegel (A.W.)
defines poetry to be "that art which is absolved from
every aim other than its own unconditional one of
creating the beautiful by free invention, and clothing
it in suitable form." Is the creation of beauty the
mission of the Poet ? Is his craft, as thus defined,
an employment befitting man ? Is there in beauty
that essential good which renders the reproducing of
it worthy to occupy his being ? What is beauty ?
Beauty, in which we include all its forms, harmony,
grace, £c., we take to be the visible manifestation in
creation of the love of the Creator for the creature.
The creation is the exposition of certain of the
attributes of God. One — His love, — is manifested
in goodness, and beauty is goodness made visible : —
"and God saw his work that it was good." Of this
beauty the spirit, emanative from the Deity, is
conscious, as of the presence of its origin perceptible
in the divine attribute of love diffused throughout
Nature, or reflected by man in Art. The artistic
creation of beauty, then, must be good work, since it
is kindred with the work of goodness. But the
production of beauty is not, it would appear, the
ultimate object of any portion of creation. Beauty
is but an essential mode of the communication of
good. That which cannot convey good is wanting in
the essence of beauty : it is not beautiful, though
conventionally it be called so. It is produced and
enjoyed as such solely through a vice of taste. Whatso-
ever is conducive of good is inherently beautiful, sensu-
ously poetic, though we, or you, or many others,
may not know it to be so. This truth is daily
illustrated to each of us. Do we not perceive to-day
beauties where yesterday we could discover none ?
Do not daily occurrences, in reminding us of some
seemingly unmeaning act or phrase or scene, suddenly
reveal to us its true significance, — exhibit its intrinsic
beauty ? Its inseparable good is evolved by some
supervening accident, Hike that of a misplaced
picture, which some passing circumstance exhibits in
the light in which it was designed. We see at one
moment what, previously, no investigation could
discover ; but, when unappreciated, its beauty was
not less. We find a constant recognition of this in
what is called the beauty of utility, where the poetic
element is, whether remotely or otherwise, perceptible
in things which, from their nature, seem to exclude
it. But though to create beauty is to do good, it is
not, as we understand it, the mission of the Poet,
but as little as the doctrine of the Epicureans,
which made Happiness the aim of life, was true,
because only in the pursuit of virtue was happiness
to be found.
Good is the substance, beauty the form. And,
though it be possible to conceive beauty abstractedly
from good as from substance, the spirit has no means
of making appreciable the one without the other.
Beauty being but expression, to seek it primarily
would be to parallel in purpose the senseless phrase-
making of the rhetoricians. The Poet must conceive
the thought, create the substance, produce the good.
Thought will express itself; the substance cannot
exist without form ; good bears beauty about it. Art
gives fitness, proportion, grace : wherefore it may be
said to create the beautiful, as we apprehend it in
these its sensuous forms.
But the Poet is called to create not good only,
since the divine intention of creation, which he is to
reflect, is not confined to the manifestation of a single
attribute : there being another wisdom in manifesta-
tion naturally inseparate from it. Love is the ray
which warms, Wisdom that which illuminates. This
also the Poet must make evident in his work, — truth
must be inseparate from beauty in it ; in rendering
good visible he must make wisdom plain. And in
exercising creative power he reflects, also, the divine
power which created. " God made man to his own
image :" so, as the spirit is like unto its origin,
should its work be like, essentially, unto the original
work. The spirit is not, however, really creative ; its
utmost capability consists in re-disposing. Every
intelligence distinguishes and compounds the impres-
sions received by it, and so forms its ideas. Genius
concentrates, resolves, recomposes the rays which it
receives. And with the fire of heaven it has lit a
nearer flame upon the hearth ; and thus does Art
glow with the flame of the true and beautiful brought
down and home to man.
Nature is, as we said, a multiform manifestation of
the divine attributes of Love and Wisdom expressed
in beauty and truth. All men are to some extent
conscious of the one ; upon the universal possessiou
of this consciousness depends the doctrine of the
standard of taste : nor can any be wholly inappre-
hensive of the other. Contemplating these, man is
differently affected. Both impress him pleasurably ;
the morbid sense is only influenced to pain. The
character of the pleasure is, however, dissimilar.
The presence of beauty is like odour to the sense, —
pure delight. It wins the spirit mightily from itself ;
it fills the heart with loving, makes feeling ecstasy.
The comprehending of truth is also pleasure ; but it
is pleasure full of awe. In the face of wisdom, before
the least revelation of the divine meaning, the awe-
struck soul bows down, humbled before the im-
measurable power to which that ray is as a vista.
We experience what is named sublime feeling' when
directly impressed by the declarations of Omni-
potence in external nature, or by certain of the
works and workings of the spirit. Yet the compre-
hension of a single light of the manifold truth is
capable of producing this feeling. We have spoken
of these as being the natural elements of the poetic,
and there are no other. For even in the most
complex workings of society that affect us similarly,
the analyst can refer the influence to one or b<; Mi of
the twin components.
The elements of the Poetic are in Nature, but
poetry in the thought of man only, — unless the
angels share it with him. " I wish I knew the man,"
said Longfellow, " who called flowers ' the fugitive
poetry of Nature.' " According to our understanding
of it, this is a confounding of the work, the actual
embodiment of the divine intention, with man's
metaphor of explanation ; — the reality with what is, at
best, a poor reflection. These the Poet must appre-
hend and bring into unity. The unit is an idea. It
assumes form, and has a garb put upon it. The
form, — manner of expression, — is non - essential,
though by no means accidental. For the same idea
may assume different forms, remaining in essence the
same. Action, architecture, sculpture, painting,
music, eloquence are so many forms of expression.
Yet form is not an accident : natural form is the
completion of the expression of God's intent. Man,
also, through his art seeks to express in the most
meaning and pure form which it knows to create,
that so he may interpret it, so much of the intention
as his intelligence comprehends. Organization, edu-
280
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
cation, and circumstance determine the form of
expression. All the great poets who have spoken to
i man in the language of art, were arrayed in the glory
of the one intelligence, but irrespective of the
measure of their capabilities, we believe it would be
i almost as impossible for one to translate so well into
! form other than that employed by him, as for the rose
' to give forth the odour of the violet. Organization,
education, and circumstance, as we said, give
' aptitude, and afford means of expression. The Poet
must follow the tendencies of his nature, or at the
furthest, lead them, — he cannot drive them, — to
eminence. He cannot alter the features which
individualize his spiritual countenance, though he may
etherealize, — all but deify them, through the habitual
operation upon them of the impressions of truth and
beauty : and these features, characterizingly, mark
his work. Having convinced himself of the truth of
his inspiration, he must seek within and without in
' his own nature, and in the appliances within his
; reach, for the mode most fitting to make plain, —
through which to embody the thought, when the
spirit is quick unto creation. He must wive that
individual art to which he feels himself most strongly
drawn. It is by Genius, and by and through the
co-action of Art (the woman portion of the spirit,
the all-bearing intelligence, built like Eve, from out
itself to be its mate), that life is generated, and the
world of mind peopled with ideas. Man represents
Wisdom, Woman Love ; so also do Genius and Art
these respectively, — the vivifying intelligence, and that
which, like the mother, receives and retains the seed
for the appropriate period, and gives matter of growth
out of itself to compact the child Thought. There is a
child-birth of Thought and of its sister Fancy. And
there are of them continually being generated other
thoughts and fancies, multiplication of the original, —
many forms of wisdom and of love, dissimilar in
some respects each to what is, or has been ; but
though different in shape, feature, and colour,
bearing the stamp of a common origin, — the common
parental spirits of Wisdom and Love. Neither is of
itself creative. Wisdom which vivifies requires Love
to conceive, to warm, and nourish the conception.
So does Genius require Art. The old understanding
of this is conveyed in the expressions of inspiration
and conception, as applied to Mind.
Woman and Art are, likewise, the twin unities of
beauty. Its features distributed separately or con-
nectedly through the two worlds, the macro- and
micro-cosms of Nature and Humanity, are brought
into the nearest to the perfect unity that we know of
in Art and Woman. So also are Science and Man
the unities of Wisdom. For since creation is made
up of manifestations of wisdom and of love : so in
humanity are they dividedly embodied in unities,
Man representing the Wisdom, Woman the Love.
So, in the ideal world which is a disembodiment of
the natural by the power of the spirit,— the essence
being disrobed of the accident of form, and re-
bodied), its beauty is shown forth in arts, its wisdom
m sciences. And as the spirit of man seeks its
complement in that of woman, so does the intelli-
gence of Genius, the father of all sciences, which has
taken upon it the wisdom-half of the ideal world
seek its complement in the intelligence of Art.
And these forms of expression, of which we spoke
spring from so many mother arts. We treat directly
of but one of these,— eloquence,— and only of its
diviner expression, which is known pre-eminently as
1 oetry : of the other forms, merely so far as they
illustrate the life of the Poet.
He, in a measure, represents in his own life the life
of a civilization. " The boy is a Greek ;" says
Emerson, "the youth romantic; the adult reflective."
Poet and civilization represent the active spirit in
symbols. Civilization is the result in aggregate of
its action during certain numbers of ages. Each
poetic life, as an atom of such an aggregate, to a
certain extent, images the whole.
In early youth the soul desires to declare itself in
deeds, as in the first ages of every civilization it did
so speak out ; and, if circumstance gives occasion, it
will so do. It was thus a student of the Polytechnic
'• showed brave men how to die ! " It was thus, too,
an American woman did a braver deed, — showed a
more difficult, more glorious example of heroic
life :—
THE GOOD PART.
She dwells by great Kenhawa's side,
In valleys green and cool ;
And all her hope, and all her pride,
Are in the village school.
Her soul, like the transparent air
That robes the hills above,
Though not of earth, encircles there
All things with arms of love.
And thus she walks among her girls,
With praise and mild rebukes,
Subduing e'en rude village churls
By her angelic looks.
She reads to them at eventide
Of One who came to save,
To cast the captive's chains aside,
And liberate the slave ,
And oft the blessed time foretels
When all men shall be free,
And musical as silver bells
Their falling chains shall be.
And, following her beloved Lord,
In decent poverty,
She makes her life one sweet record
And deed of charity.
For she was rich, and gave up all
To break the iron bands
Of those who waited in her hall,
And laboured in her lands.
Long since, beyond the Southern Sea
Their outbound sails have sped, —
While she, in meek humility,
Now earns her daily bread.
It is their prayers, which never cease,
That clothe her with such grace ;
Then- blessing is the light of peace
That shines upon her facet
This is the first, the simplest, and most sublime form
of expression. It is that which appeals to all souls,
to all hearts. And the poets whose ideas have
assumed the most forcible reality, the voice of whose
spirit has rung in trumpet tones to man, have spoken
in tfhe unbroken eloquence of deeds.
In the second period, the senses are in predominant
activity, and take most vivid impressions from
external nature and circumstance ; and the meaning
which the intelligence receives is transfused into
form to strike the sense. This is the age of imitative
art, — or art-ism, as it may be called, when thought and
fancy manifest themselves in different forms of work,
in building, sculpture, painting, — interpretations as
well of the meanings conveyed in the first form
of expression, as of those set forth by Nature itself.
In the third period the understanding obtains rule
together with the sense : it is the age of eloquence
which translates more plainly all the previous expres-
sion and interpretation. ' Music is eloquence inarticu-
late,— the eloquence of the sense. Its origin is
mediate to that of the imitative arts and that of
language ; as is that of motional art to the first
and second periods. In the Drama we have the
development of all the forms.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
281
RE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS.
'TIS SWEET TO LOVE IN CHILDHOOD.
: 'Tis sweet to love in childhood, when the souls that
we bequeath
Are beautiful in freshness as the coronals we wreath ;
When we feed the gentle robin, and caress the leaping
hound,
And linger latest on the spot where buttercups are
found ;
! When we seek the bee and ladybird with laughter,
shout, and song,
And think the day for wooing them can never be too
long:
Oh ! 'tis sweet to love in childhood, and though woke
by meanest things,
The music that the heart yields then will never leave
its strings.
Tis sweet to love in after years the dear one by our
side,
To dote with all the mingled joys of passion, hope,
and pride ;
To think the chain around our breast will hold still
warm and fast,
And grieve to know that Death must come to break
the link at last.
But when the rainbow span of bliss is waning hue by
hue,
When eyes forget their kindly beams, and lips become
less true ;
When stricken hearts are pining on through many a
lonely hour,
j Who would not sigh " 'Tis safer far to love the bird
and flower ! "
Tis sweet to love in ripened age the trumpet blast of
Fame,
To pant to live on Glory's scroll, though blood may
trace the name ;
'Tis sweet to love the heap of gold, and hug it to our
breast —
To trust it as the guiding-star, and anchor of our rest.
But such devotion will not serve, however strong the
zeal,
To overthrow the altar where our childhood loved to
kneel.
Some bitter moment shall o'ercast the sun of wealth
and power,
And then proud man would fain go back to worship
bird and flower.
THE OLD MILL STREAM.
BEAUTIFUL streamlet ! how precious to me
Was the green- swarded paradise watered by thee ;
I dream of thee still, as thou wert in my youth,
Thy meanderings haunt me with freshness and truth.
I had heard of full many a river of fame,
With its wide rolling flood and its classical name ;
But the Thames of Old England, the Tiber of Rome,
Could not peer with the mill-streamlet close to my
home.
Full well I remember the gravelly spot,
Where I slily repaired, though I knew I ought not ;
Where I stood with my handful of pebbles to make
That formation of fancy, a duck and a drake.
How severe was the scolding, how heavy the threat,
When my pinafore hung on me dirty and wet !
How heedlessly silent I stood to be told
Of the danger of drowning, — the risk of a cold !
"Now mark ! " cried a mother, " the mischief done
there
Is unbearable — go to that stream if you dare ! "
But I sped to that stream like a frolicsome colt,
For I knew that her thunder-cloud carried no bolt.
Though puzzled with longitude, adverb and noun,
Till my forehead was sunk in a studious frown,
Yet that stream was a Lethe that swept from my soul
The grammar, the globes, and the tutor's control.
I wonder if still the young anglers begin,
As I did, with willow-wand, packthread, and pin ;
When I threw in my line with expectancy high
As to perch in my basket, and eels in a pie :
When I watched every bubble that broke on a weed,
Yet found I caught nothing but lily and reed ;
Till time and discernment began to instil
The manoeuvres of Walton with infinite skill.
Full soon I discovered the birch-shadowed place
That nurtured the trout and the silver-backed dace ;
Where the coming of night found me blest and content,
With my patience unworn, and my fishing-rod bent.
How fresh were the flags on the stone-studded ridge
That rudely supported the narrow oak bridge !
And that bridge, oh ! how boldly and safely I ran
On the thin plank that now I should timidly scan.
I traversed it often at fall of the night,
When the clouds of December shut out the moon's
light; _
A mother might tremble, but I never did,
For my footing was sure, though the pale stars were hid.
When the breath of stern winter had fettered the tide,
What joy to career on its feet- warming slide ;
With mirth in each eye, and bright health on each
cheek,
While the gale in our faces came piercing and bleak !
The snow-flakes fell fast on our wind-roughened curls,
But we laughed as we shook off the feathery pearls,
And the running, the tripping, the pull and the haul
Had a glorious end in the slip and the sprawl.
Oh ! I loved the wild place where clear ripples flowed
On their serpentine way o'er the pebble-strewn road,
WThere, mounted on Dobbin, we youngsters would dash,
Both pony and rider enjoying the splash.
How often I tried to teach Pincher the tricks
Of diving for pebbles and swimming for sticks !
But my doctrines could never induce the loved brute
To consider hydraulics a pleasant pursuit.
Did a forcible argument sometimes prevail,
What a woeful expression was seen in his tail ;
And, though bitterly vexed, I was made to agree
That Dido, the spaniel, swam better than he.
282
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
What pleasure it was to spring forth in the sun
When the school-door was oped, and our lessons were
done ;
When "Where shall we play?" was the doubt and
the call,
And " Down by the mill-stream " was echoed by all :
When tired of childhood's rude, boisterous pranks,
We pulled the tall rushes that grew on its banks ;
And, busily quiet, we sat ourselves down
To weave the rough basket, or plait the light crown.
I remember the launch of our fairy-built ship,
How we set her white sails, pulled her anchor atrip ;
Till mischievous hands, working hard at the craft,
Turned the ship to a boat, and the boat to a raft.
The first of my doggrel breathings was there, —
'Twas the hope of a poet, "An Ode to Despair."
I won't vouch for its metre, its sense, or its rhyme,
But I know that I then thought it truly sublime.
Beautiful streamlet ! I dream of thee still,
Of thy pouring cascade, and the tic-tac-ing mill ;
Thou livest in memory, and will not depart,
For thy waters seem blent with the streams of my
heart.
Home of my youth ! if I go to thee now,
None can remember my voice or my brow ;
None can remember the sunny-faced child,
That played by the water-mill joyous and wild.
The aged, who laid their thin hands on my head,
To smooth my dark shining curls, rest with the dead ;
The young, who partook of my sports and my glee,
Can see naught but a wandering stranger in me.
Beautiful streamlet ! I sought thee again,
But the changes that marked thee awakened deep
pain ;
Desolation had reigned, thou wert not as of yore —
Home of my childhood, I'll see thee no more !
THE AUSTRALIAN CALIFORNIA.
QUITE a new interest has been added to the subject
of emigration, by the recently announced discoveries
of gold in the mountainous districts of New South
Wales. In these modern days, the search for gold is
as keen as it was amongst the ancient chemists, who
sought for a universal solvent which should convert
all things into that metal. It has indeed become a
popular passion — some seeking gold in the devious
, paths of Commerce, others in the Church, others at
| the Bar (on both sides of it), while hosts of adven-
j turers are found ready, at all times, to precipitate
i themselves on any remote region where the precious
) article is discovered. Thus we have seen California
I colonized within a marvellously short period, multi-
: tudes continuing to flow thither from all parts of the
earth. And now that gold has been discovered in
Australia, we shall probably see, in the course of a
very few years, an influx of emigrants into that
district, such as no mere fertility of its soil, no
demand for labour, no abundance of food, none of the
attractions of ordinary industry, could possibly have
effected. But thus will Australia become peopled
and a new empire be planted in the southern hemi-
sphere, radiating civilization and Christianity, and
sending forth in all directions, vigorous offshoots of
liberty and enterprise. Thus even evil is turned to
good, in the march of humanity towards the hopeful
future.
New South Wales has heretofore been shunned by
colonial emigrants, in comparison with the more
inviting fields of Port Philip, New Zealand, and
South Australia. The large proportion of convicts
in the older colony has tainted its blood, and polluted
its social conditions in many ways ; and notwithstand-
ing the greater wealth of New South Wales, the
cheapness and fertility of its lands, the abundant
demand for labour, and the salubrity of its climate,
emigrants have given the preference to those Au-
stralian colonies more recently planted, which are
free from the admixture of a convict or criminal class.
Yet, New South Wales is equal to any other Austra-
lian colony, in most respects, and superior to them in
several. Its larger extent and population, its diversity
of industrial pursuits, its extensive trade and com-
merce, offer to the labouring classes a larger field for
their industry, and a greater choice of occupations,
than is to be found in any of the smaller colonies.
The farmer and stockholder has also a more ready
market for his produce in the metropolis of Sydney —
a place of rapid growth, and already assuming the
importance of a city, in its extent, population, and
commercial transactions.
Sydney is the capital of a colony extending along
the eastern coast of Australia for nearly 1,300 geo-
graphical miles, and including an extent of territory
equal to three times that of England and Scotland
combined. The rapid progress of the colony may be
inferred from the fact, that in 1810 the population
amounted to only 8,293, of whom, by far the greater
number were convicts ; whei'eas now, the population
exceeds 250,000, of whom about 50,000 belong to the
capital, Sydney. The total number of convicts now
in the colony is about 16,000 ; but a considerable pro-
portion of the children born there are also the offspring
of the convict population. The county of Cumber-
land, in which Sydney is situated, is one of the least
fertile of the counties of New South Wales ; its chief
advantage being in the splendid bay, or inlet of Port
Jackson, on which the capital and seaport of Sydney
is built. Few ports have a more beautiful location
— not even Cork can surpass Sydney. It is built
upon two necks of land, with a safe harbour between,
possessing a depth of water which enables vessels of
the largest burthen to lay at anchor close to the land.
From the water, the houses, ranged in streets, rise
like so many terraces up to the crown of the hill ; the
view from the upper platform (on which the Govern-
ment buildings, barracks, and offices, are erected)
commanding, as it does, nearly the whole estuary of
Port Jackson, is remarkably fine. There is good
andhorage for ships of large burden on all sides of the
city. The quays are in a bustle with trade, the
place being a kind of Liverpool or New Orleans, the
port for almost the entire country behind it. Large
vessels from England are constantly arriving there, as
well as coasting vessels and steamers, which sail
regularly to Port Philip, Van Diemen's Land, New
Zealand, and all parts of the colony. A large ship-
building trade is carried on at Sydney, to meet the
increasing commercial requirements of the place. We
need not. describe the city more particularly, further
than to state that it contains numerous churches,
belonging to the principal Christian sects, a college,
excellent schools, mechanics' and literary institutes,
a theatre, several banks, newspapers, markets, a hand-
some post-office, and other public buildings. Some
idea of the extent of the place may be formed, when
we state that the principal street, which is a very
handsome one, called George Street, is about two
miles long !
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
283
The author of that clever little book, entitled
Settlers and Convicts, gives the following graphic
description of Sydney, as first seen from the sea : —
"The precipitous mountain — like a wall of rocky
coast of New South Wales, is broken by a gigantic
chasm ; the crags on the south side are called the
South Head, those on the north, the North Head.
Passing between the two, the voyager finds himself
navigating a capacious arm of the sea, with both the
banks picturesque as fairy land. Here points bare,
grey, and bolder heaped, jut out into the stream ;
and there the waters retire back into deep bays,
moving off among shores clad with evergreens, and
winding away into far-off tortuous channels, that to
the mariner's glass yield back nothing but a tale of
thwart-currents and impenetrable shadows. Piloted
dexterously up the main inlet, passing the Sow and
Pigs (a larger and some smaller sunken rocks danger-
ously scattered in the channel), and sailing on past
Garden and Pinchgut islands (two small scrub-clad
piles of hoaiy stones, each standing solitary amidst
the whistling winds of the Stream), you come,
after several miles, to the town of Sydney. The
main stream goes onward, forming the Paramatta,
and, in a minor branch, the Lane Cove rivers ; over
a great ridge-backed promontory that stands out in
no easily describable shape among the irregular waters
on the left, is scattered the town of Sydney, adjacent
to which, in the broad waters of the harbour, is
Goat Island, an insulated rock, famous in the records
of convict discipline. On getting sight of Sydney,
you see a waterside town, scattered wide over upland
and lowland, and if it be a breezy day, the merry,
rattling pace of its manifold windmills, here and there
perched on the high points, is no unpleasing sight.
It gives — even from the distance — a presage of the
stirring, downright earnest life (be it for good or evil)
that so strongly characterizes the race that lives, and
breathes, and strives around — a race with whom it is
one of the worst reproaches to be a crawler. Looking
a little more narrowly at the town, you observe that
it has several very large piles of building ; the most
of these, as may be supposed, are offices erected by
the Government, with the profusion of convict labour
which it has had at its command, and with no stint
of an excellent free- working sandstone, which breaks
up in masses through the ground, in every part of
Sydney, and on every shore of the hill-bound bays
of the adjacent country. Toward the extremity of
the promontory on which Sydney is built, the ground
is very steep and lofty in the middle ; and this,
together with a concurrent tendency in - the flats
presented in places by the freestone strata, has led to
ranging the houses in this part of the town in a series
of terraces rather than streets. Anchoring just under
the south side of this acclivity of the King's Wharf,
you observe most of the rows of houses looking down
upon you from above one another's roofs. A moder-
ately wide street is left in front of each row, but so
full of shelves and jump-ups, as to be of little use
except to foot passengers ; and even to require, for
their accommodation, in many places, sets of steps
cut in the rock, or laid more regularly by the mason."
Sydney is a very gay town, and rather dissolute.
Not an inconsiderable portion of its population are of
"felon caste," that is, either felons or of felon blood.
Yet many of these persons are of great wealth and
importance in Sydney, though they never cease to
bear the mark of Cain on their foreheads. Drunken-
ness is too prevalent, and the number of spirit
shops at first strikes a stranger with surprise. The
commercial morality of the place is also low, and
fraudulency in business is but too common. Yet it
is a thriving city, and cannot fail yet to become a
place of great commercial importance — another New
York or New Orleans, though it will be long before
it gets rid of the taint of British felonry.
Sydney is the great landing-port of New South
Wales. Thither all emigrants destined for the interior
first betake themselves, and they have no difficulty in
obtaining there the soundest information as to the best
districts for settlement, or the most desirable modes
of investing their capital. Settlers and squatters
from the interior are to be met with there at all
seasons, and they are usually disposed to be communi-
cative, and to give the best information in their
power. From Sydney, all the other Australian
colonies can easily be reached, as well as the principal
towns along the coast of New South Wales. Steamers
regularly ply to Paramatta — a town of some 5,000
inhabitants, beautifully situated at the head of the
bay of Port Jackson, about eighteen miles from
Sydney. The sail is lovely, rivalled only by that of
the Bay of Cork. Twenty-one miles further inland
is Windsor, also a town of some importance, situated
on the Hawkesbury River, which is navigable to this
place — the lands in the neighbourhood being especially
rich and fertile. Besides these towns, with which
Sydney holds regular water communication, there is
the town of Liverpool, situated about twenty milss
from Sydney, in a southwesterly direction, on the
banks of George's River, which flows into Botany
Bay. It commands an extensive and fertile district
lying behind it inland. Then, northward of Sydney,
the most important town is Maitland, which com-
mands the navigation of Hunter's River, and is the
centre of the most flourishing agricultural and grazing
district in the colony. Its date is very recent, but
it is already the third town in New South Wales, in
point of population and importance. Steamers ply
regularly between it and Sydney. There are numerous
other towns throughout the country, though in their
infant state ; most of them are little more than villages
in extent ; those which we have named are the most
important.
The country improves as you advance into its
interior, from the direction of the coast. It is di-
versified by occasional hill and dale, and in some
parts it stretches out into immense plains, resembling
the steppes of Asia. Considerable tracts of open
forest-land are met with, the occasional clumps of
trees reminding one of a gentleman's park in England.
The soil in many districts is rich and well watered ;
but the great complaint of Australia is drought, the
weather continuing dry and uninterrupted by rain for
many weeks together. There is some difference of
opinion as to the climate of Australia, but on the
whole it is highly favourable. It will of course be
understood, that in Australia the seasons are reversed
as compared with our own — their winter occurring
at the time of our summer, and while at Christmas our
fires are blazing to keep out the cold, their doors and
windows are all open to secure a cool draught during
the noontide heat.
The soil of New South Wales, from its light
character, is better adapted for grazing than foi-
agricultural purposes, though there are, in different
parts of the country, extensive tracts of land suitable
for tillage, and capable of growing from thirty to
forty bushels of wheat, or from fifty to sixty bushels
of maize, per acre. Four to five tons of potatoes an
acre, is considered an average crop, and from the
mildness of the winter, two crops a-year can easily
be obtained from the same ground. As much as
ten tons of onions have been raised per acre, and
after the onions have been gathered, a crop of maize
has been got off the same field in the same year. All
grains, fruits, and vegetables, known in Europe,
flourish abundantly in New South Wales ; besides
the ordinary fruits known in this country, grapes,
284
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
oranges, and lemons, grow
all the ordinary vegetables
peaches, nectarines, figs,
in the open air; and i
produce heavy crops.
But grazing is the great and prevailing occupation
of the colony. The boundless pasturage affords
sustenance to vast herds of cattle, and flocks of
sheep ; the former being slaughtered and boiled
down for the sake of their tallow, the latter being
maintained chiefly for the sake of their wool, which
is the most valuable of the Australian exports.
About 37,000 cattle are slaughtered on the average,
all the year round, their carcasses being for the most
part thrown to waste. Hence, butcher-rneat is ex-
tremely cheap in Australia, the supply being far
greater than the demand.
The settled parts of New South Wales extend
along the coast, north and south of Sydney, and for
about one hundred and fifty miles inland. The
sea-coast is bold and rugged, and the land in the
neighbourhood is for the most part unfertile. About
five or six miles inland, nearly parallel with the coast,
run ridges of sandstone, and beyond these there
extends an undulating country, and alluvial plains
some thirty, forty, or fifty miles in breadth. Then
there extends the lofty range o*f the Blue Mountains,
rising to a height of 3,000 and 4,000 feet above
the level of the sea. Beyond the Blue Mountains
the land again slopes away towards the interior,
and on the fringe of the settled districts lies the vast
undiscovered land of Australia, sheep farmers and
squatters penetrating its outskirts here and there,
at the most fertile points, with their flocks and
herds. Such is a general outline of the external
features of the colony. By far the richest land, and
the most suitable for emigrants, is that undulating
and level country lying between the sandstone ridges
and the lofty Blue Mountains. Here the vegetation
is luxuriant, the pasture rich, and the scenery
beautiful. The forests are not too dense, the trees
in many parts standing in clumps — just enough to
add beauty to the scene, without obstruction to
pastoral or agricultural pursuits.
The older and more settled counties of New South
Wales are these — Cumberland, lying on the sea-
I coast, containing Sydney, and the principal towns ;
Cainden, to the south, a rich and picturesque
district, containing the fertile and beautiful region
| of Illawarra (a tract of 150,000 acres), and the
j luxuriant Cow Pastures, so called from the splendid
herds of cattle found there ; then, west of Camden
lies Argyle county, undulating and well watered,
its finest districts being Goulburn plains and Eden
Forest ; north of Argyle is Westmorland county,
and west of Cumberland and Westmorland is Cook's
county, lying among the Blue Mountains — the
beautiful and fertile vale of Clwdd running along
the foot of a range of mountains covered with dense
forests. Further west again, lies the magnificent
county of Bathurst, beyond the Blue Mountains.
Roxburgh county lies north of Bathurst, and Welling-
ton county northwest. The other northern counties
are Philip, Bligh, Brisbane, Hunter, and Northum-
berland counties. But a glance at a map will give
the reader a better idea of the geography of the
district than any description in words could do.
The whole of this district is now well opened up and
accessible, either by navigable rivers, or by public
roads constructed by Government. There are three
great roads leading from Sydney into the interior
one nearly due north to the town of Maitland
another southwest to Port Philip (GOO miles in
length), and the third runs nearly due west through
the towns of Paramatta and Penrith, over Mount
York (which forms part of the Blue Mountain ridge)
then on to Hartley, in the Vale of Clwdd, and thence
through Bathurst to Wellington Valley, on the Mac-
quarie river. The view from Mount York, on this
road, looking eastward, is very grand. Here and
there are to be seen a few cleared spots, amidst an
apparently interminable forest. To the east, some
sixty miles off, is the Pacific Ocean. In every other
direction is an endless variety of hill and dale, of deep
gulleys, inaccessible ravines, perpendicular rocks, and
towering mountains covered with trees and green
grass and flowers to their very summits, displaying
Nature in her wildest forms.
The county of Bathurst, in which the discovery of
gold ore has recently been made, creating so intense
an excitement throughout the colony, is situated
immediately to the west of the Blue Mountain ridge,
which slopes away by almost imperceptible degrees
into the interior. There are, however, many irregu-
larities in the surface of this territory — many vast
rocky ranges, almost impervious to the common
modes of conveyance, and in other places rich valleys
lying among the clefts of the hills. Indeed, to an
artist, Bathurst offers some of the richest scenery in
the world. The country may be described as an
elevated plateau of broken table-lands, — the greater
part of it about 2,000 feet above the level of the sea ;
and the air is so salubrious, that only two persons in
the county died from disease in the course of twelve
years. It has been styled the Montpelier of New
South Wales. The district is well watered — the
river Macquarie, fed by numerous streams, flowing
through its extent, and it is little affected by the
droughts which prevail in the other parts of New South
Wales. The celebrated Bathurst Plains embrace an
area of some thirty square miles of the finest land,
capable of growing any crop, and with the command
of a boundless extent of pasturage towards the in-
terior. Bathurst has long been famous for its fine
wooled sheep, and for its great agricultural prosperity.
It is distant about 120 miles from Sydney, and had
already assumed a position of considerable import-
ance in the colony before the recent discovery, its
principal town, Bathurst, containing about 4,000
inhabitants.
It is not long since a rich mine of copper ore, quite
equal to the Burra Burra mines in South Australia,
was discovered in Bathurst county ; and now it is
reported on credible testimony, that the Blue Moun-
tain range, to an indefinite extent into the interior,
is "one immense gold field." Gold, indeed, has
been already found in considerable quantities, and
the whole loose population of the colony has already
converged upon the precious region. There has
been quite a rush to the new "diggins," and the
frenzy of California has been repeated in Australia.
Clerks, bankers, labourers, mechanics, shepherds,
wood-sawyers, have for the nonce become miners,
and are away to the hills with picks, crowbars,
shovels, cradles, tin-pots, wash-hand basins, and all
manner of instruments that can be converted to use
in their search for gold. The town of Bathurst itself
was at first nearly deserted ; sailors had run away
from their ships in Sydney harbour ; and caravans
were in course of collection at Melbourne and other
points of the colony situated along the sea-coast.
Since then, however, gold has been discovered near
to Melbourne itself, the same geological formation
being observed in the mountainous districts of that
neighbourhood, as well as in the central districts
of Van Diemen's Land. , The whole Blue Mountain
range may yet turn out a region of gold.
Whatever may be the immediate results of this
extraordinary discovery, of the issue there can be
little doubt. It will have the effect of peopling
Australia within a very short space of time. Emigra-
tion thither will go on henceforward in an accelerated
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
285
ratio ; and possibly within our own day,, the Australian
people may be numbered by millions instead of thou-
sands. For the present, however, it is easy to per-
ceive that the industrial pursuits of the colony will
be disturbed. The scarcity of labour, which has long
been a crying evil, will be aggravated ; and, possibly,
a loose and lawless population may become congre-
gated in the neighbourhood of the gold mines. For
it is a well-known fact that gold-seeking has never
prevailed in a district to any extent, without human
degradation and immorality of the worst kind. But
it will in due time be discovered, that the true wealth
of Australia consists in its soil, its atmosphere, its
vegetable productions, its flocks and herds, as well as
in its metals ; and when the gold-hunting mania has
stibsided, its prosperity will go on apace.
SHOET NOTES.
National Progress.
IN addition to the year 1851 being an exceptional one
as regards the Exhibition and dry weather, the Regis-
trar-General now shows it to have been so on the
score of national progress. From the report just
published, it appears that there are 2,190 registrars,
whose returns are from "more than 12,000 churches
or chapels, about 3,228 registered places of worship
unconnected with the established church, and 623
Superintendent-Registrars' offices." The births and
deaths are brought down to the end of the year, but
the marriages are only made up to September 30,
and the number of persons married in the quarter
ending on that date, was 74,310 ; in the corresponding
quarter of 1840, it was 29,221 ; the number is how-
ever rather less than in the same three months of
1850. But the decrease, as shown by the various
returns, is only on the gross total, for in some parts
of the country there has been an increase. In London,
for instance, the marriages in the September quarter
"were 7,345, or 583 more than in the September
quarter of 1850, and 1,548 more than in the same
quarter of 1847. The average was maintained or
exceeded in Kent, Sussex, Hampshire, Suffolk, Corn-
wall, Staffordshire, Worcestershire, Warwickshire,
Leicestershire, Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Lincoln-
shire, and some of the northern counties ; in nearly
all other parts of the country they were below the
average.
With respect to births, 149,155 were registered in
the last three months of 1851, making the total of
the whole year 616,251 ; being, as the Registrar
states, "The greatest number ever before registered.
The average annual rate of births in the ten years
1841-50, was 3'261 per cent ; in the year 1851 the
rate was 3 '428 per cent. To every 100,000 of
the population 3,428 were born in 1851, instead of
3,261 ; and there was consequently an excess of 167,
or of 5 per cent. The excess appears to have been
distributed very generally over the whole country."
In this excess, we find a considerable increase of
the population, the deaths in the quarter having been
99,248, the overplus is 49,907, and to quote again
from the Report — " The deaths in the year 1851 were
385,933, the births, 616,251 ; consequently, 230,318
at least was the natural increase in England and
Wales, of a population amounting to 17,977,000 in
the middle of that year, and now exceeding 18,000,000
of souls." This increase, we presume, will however
be further reduced by the emigration that went on
during the quarter; in that period, 59,200 persons
left the kingdom, and though most of these were
Irish, there will still have been a few thousand natives
of England and Wales.
In these results we again see the action of cause
and effect ; — abundant work and cheap food are sure
to promote an increase of population. The price of
beef, as the report shows, in the London markets for
the last half of 1851, was 4d. per Ib. by the carcass,
and of mutton, 4f d. Potatoes, during three months
of that period, were 3s. 6d. per cwt., and in the
half-year 2,394,858 quarters of wheat were sold.
Hence "the marriage returns of 1850 and 1851
exhibit the excess which, since 1750, has been in-
variably observed when the substantial earnings of
the people are above the average ; and the experience
of a century, during which the prosperity of the
country, though increasing, has been constantly
fluctuating, shows that it is prudent to husband the
resources of good times against future contingencies.
Workmen, if they are wise, will not now squander
their earnings," so says the Registrar, and so say we.
In addition to these considerations, we have a few
remarks on the effects of climate, which are not
undeserving of attention. "England," says the
Registrar, "is one of the few countries of the world
in which the rate of mortality is lowest in the hot
season. The spring months of April, May, June,
stand higher than the autumn quarter in the order
of mortality ; while in the three months of January,
February, and March, the mortality is highest in
winter." It says much in favour of continued sanitary
regulations, that the mortality for the year in large
towns is somewhat below the average. On comparison
with other places, it appears that " in the first and
second half of the year, respectively, the mortality is
one-fifth and one-third part higher in the large towns
than it is in the country districts and small towns,
where many causes of insalubrity also exist. The
same causes that destroy the lives of so many people,
degrade the lives of more, and may ultimately, it is
to be feared, have a very unfavourable effect on the
energies of a large proportion of the English race.
There is then a wide field for salutary and beneficent
reforms."
And last, as regards the weather, which appears
in the three mouths " to have presented some extra-
ordinary deviations from the ordinary state of things.
The fall of rain was only two-fiftha of the usual
quantity ; many springs and small streams ceased to
flow ; and the atmosphere, containing less vapour
than usual, was dry. The effect of the change in the
meteorology on the public health and the growing
crops must be carefully watched during the present
year." Such a report as that from which the above
summary has been derived, is an indication that the
science of public health is gradually assuming a syste-
matic form.
We do not Know each other.
How little do the various classes of society know of
each other yet in this country ! The rich classes
associate together, and the poor do the same, having
no alternative. We are divided and split up into
cliques, sects, and circles, each having little or no
connection with the people beyond them. Perhaps
it is not saying too much to aver that the working
people, and those beneath them, are as little known
to the wealthier classes generally, as if they were
the inhabitants of an undiscovered country. How
they live, how they think, how they die, is a mystery
never sought into. Men who can tell you how the
Lacedemonians lived, and what were the ingredients
of their " black broth," are quite in the dark as
to the ways of living of the people at their own door ;
and those who can discourse learnedly about the
internal domestic an-angements of the Romans in the
time of Pliny, would be altogether puzzled if called
286
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
upon to describe the interior of the cottage of a
British peasant— "his country's pride." But even
our middle classes know comparatively little of how
poor men live, and hold far too little intercourse
with them. There still wants an enlarged social
sympathy to bind the severed members of society
together; and between the different classes into
which the nation is divided, there is yet, it is to be
feared, " a great gulf fixed." In like manner the
poor know very little of the classes above them—
how should they ? And they are too ready to regard
them as a kind of "natural enemies." When a
working man would make a telling political speech,
what is the staple of his argument ? The selfishness
of the rich, and their disregard for the welfare of
the poor. It used in like manner to be the fashion
of the better classes to speak with contempt of the
"great unwashed," and the "swinish multitude."
But this state of things is, we trust, passing away,
and the indications of a growing sympathy among
men, even of different classes, are cheering and
grateful. We could have no better illustration of
this, than in the recent interesting meetings of Lord
Ashley with the factory workers of the large manu-
facturing towns of Lancashire. He regretted, how-
ever, to perceive how few masters attended these
meetings. We would recommend to such the fol-
lowing eloquent words of Thorn, the weaver poet,
which are worthy of being carefully pondered, — " I
have long had a notion," said he, " that many of the
heart-burnings that run through the social scale,
spring not so much from the distinctiveness of
classes, as from their mutual ignorance of each other.
The miserably rich look on the miserably poor with
distrust and dread, scarcely giving them credit for
sensibility sufficient to feel their own sorrows. That
is ignorance with its gilded side. The poor, in turn,
foster a hatred of the wealthy as a sole inheritance —
look on grandeur as their natural enemy, and bend
to the rich man's rule in gall and bleeding scorn.
Shallows on the one side, and demagogues on the
other, are the portions that come oftenest into contact.
These are the luckless things that skirt the great
divisions, exchanging all that is offensive therein.
'Man, know thyself/ should be written on the right
hand ; and on the left, ' Men, know each other.'"
Elementary Drawing and Modelling.
THE Great Exhibition taught England at least one very
useful lesson, which was this — that in the arts of taste
and design, the foreign manufacturers considerably
excelled us. In the higher departments of art,
English artists may equal foreigners ; but in ordinary
design — where the articles produced appeal to the
tastes of the million — the foreigners have decidedly
the advantage. This is recognized in the fact that
the principal manufacturing houses in Manchester,
Bradford, and such places, are in the practice of
keeping pattern agents at Paris and Lyons, where
they are constantly on the look-out for new designs
of cottons, silks, or stuffs, which are at once sent over
here, and either adopted entire, or worked up in new
combinations. Thus we mainly depend on the French
for our patterns. When we cease to copy them, we
get into the region of the tawdry, the clumsy, 'and
the ugly. Of course we speak generally ; there are
exceptions ; many excellent patterns, purely British,
having been exhibited at the Crystal Palace. Still'
as a general rule, it is admitted that the English
designers of articles in common use, are greatly
behind those of the continent. One needed only to
compare the Swiss cotton prints with the Manchester
prints, or the French mousselines-de-laine with the
Bradford stuffs, to detect this at a glance. But
Englishmen have always the sense to know when
they are beaten, and to make the right sort of efforts
to recover their ground. Just so in this case. Bradford
(Yorkshire) has taken the lead in the establishment
of an Elementary Drawing and Modelling School,
for the improved education of the operatives in the
arts of design. This is exactly what is wanted, and
the only way of holding good the position that
Bradford has obtained as a manufacturing town.
Manchester, also, has for some time had an excellent
school of design, which has been found of great
service in the improvement of those more skilful and
artistic artizans, who devote themselves to the design-
ing of patterns as a special branch of industry. The
same with several other large towns. But the move-
ment of Bradford has originated almost directly out
of the Great Exhibition ; the council of the Society
of Arts having actively co-operated with the leading
men of the place in the establishment of an efficient
elementary school for the education of artizans in
drawing, modelling, and design. It is understood
that a portion of the surplus funds realized from the
Great Exhibition will be applied to the purpose of
establishing such schools in the principal manu-
facturing towns throughout the country. The
Council recommends, however, that for the purpose
of maintaining those schools, some permanent source
of income must be provided, such as a small rate
levied on the inhabitants for their support. And
as the whole inhabitants of a manufacturing dis-
trict are directly or indirectly benefited by the
prosperity of its manufactures, we do not see
that any objection can be taken to this means of
raising the requisite funds. At all events, that they
ought to be efficiently supported, is clear ; as it is the
real interest of every town to keep the artistic taste
of its artizans to the highest point ; for the demand
for their productions greatly depends on the taste
with which they are designed, and the demand for
the ugly and the clumsy is eveiy day growing less
and less.
Baths and V/ashhouses.
IT does not appear that the public has yet availed
itself of the excellent provisions of the Acts passed
by the Legislature in recent years for the establish-
ment of Baths and Washhouses in large towns.. These
acts provide for the erection and maintenance of such
valuable establishments in all boroughs and parishes
of England, wherever the inhabitants thereof may
desire to establish them. All town councils may
forthwith adopt the act, and defray their expenses
and costs of erection out of the borough funds, keeping
aft account of their income and expenditure — the
income being credited to the borough funds. Parish
vestries may also adopt the acts by the consent of a
majority of two-thirds of the rate-payers at any vestry
meeting, and appoint commissioners to carry their
decision into effect. Or two or more parishes may
combine for the same purpose. By the acts referred
to, the charges for baths and the use of the wash-
houses are limited as follows : —
Not exceeding
One penny.
Two pence.
One halfpenny.
For a separate cold or shower bath, with the
use of a clean towel
For a warm-bath, warm shower-bath, or
vapour bath
For a bath in an open bathing place, where
several persons bathe in the same water,
For not more than four children not above
eight years old, — cold bath, or cold
shower-bath
For the same, warm bath, warm shower-bath,
or vapour bath
Two pence.
Four pence.
For the use of the Washhouse, which is to be
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
287
supplied with conveniencies for washing and drying
clothes, and other articles, as follows : —
For the use, by one person, of one washing-tub
or trough, and of a copper or boiler (if
any), or, when one of the troughs shall
be used as a copper or boiler, for the use
of one pair of washing-tubs or troughs,
and for the use of the conveniences for
drying :
For one hour One penny.
,, two hours .. .. .. .. .. Twopence.
,, more than two hours .. As may be determined.
The best course to be adopted, in those districts
where public baths and washhouses have not been
already established, but where their establishment is
desirable, is, 1. In boroughs. The inhabitants ought
to get up memorials to the borough council, praying
them at once to adopt the Baths and Washhouses
Act, which they can do absolutely ; and immediately
proceed to carry its provisions into effect. And, 2.
In parishes not boroughs, a requisition of ten or more
ratepayers can call upon the churchwardens or others
competent to call parish meetings for the purpose of
adopting and carrying into effect the provisions of
the same act in the manner therein provided. Copies
of the acts, published at a very low price, may be had
of Benning, 43, Fleet Street, showing how the whole
thing may be worked. We have thus briefly attracted
the attention of our readers to this subject, believing
there are many districts in which baths and wash-
houses would be established, were the people only
acquainted with the manner in which to set about it.
And for the comfort of economical town councillors
and parochial authorities, it may be mentioned, that
the baths and washhouses heretofore established have
not only paid their expenses, but proved sources of
considerable pecuniary profit ; while at the same
time immense advantage has arisen from the improved
i health and morality of the working classes, consequent
on the general increase of habits of cleanliness which
they have everywhere promoted.
Quarantine.
ANOTHER of our old traditions has gone ! or rather
an old Faith, once as firmly rooted as that in ghosts
and witches. The necessity for Quarantine Regula-
tions has been given up by scientific men ; for they
have abandoned their faith in the contagiousness of
the plague, yellow fever, and cholera. It used to be
held firmly as a matter of medical as well as of popu-
lar belief, that the contagion of these diseases could
be carried from country to country in ships, like
some evil spirit, concealed among clothes, bedding,
bales of goods, ropes, and old junk. It would be
impossible to describe the suffering and vexation
caused by the Quarantine Laws which have so long
been in force, for the purpose of preventing the
assumed importation of the diseases in question, — not
to speak of the loss of life in vessels, where the
sanitary arrangements are usually very imperfect, by
preventing the sick from being landed for the pur-
poses of a cure. But the conviction has long been
growing among medical men, confirmed by repeated
observation and experience, that the plague, fever,
and cholera, almost invariably confine themselves to
particular localities ; and that where they break out,
it is invariably in those localities which are distin-
guished by dirt, foulness, want of drainage, and
generally low sanitary state. To direct attention,
therefore, to measures such as Quarantine, the object
of which is to prevent the importation of diseases ;
and to non-intercourse between healthy and infected
districts ; had not only a very hardening effect on
communities and on individuals, but it created panic,
led to the abandonment of the sick, and diverted
attention from the real causes of the diseases, which
were to be found in the unhealthy condition of the
districts in which they originated. Besides, those
precautions of Quarantine, sanitary cordons and non-
intercourse, were always found to be in effect useless,
until at length they have been almost entirely
abandoned — as respects cholera at least — from the
general experience of their inefficiency. The plague
has disappeared from London and England generally,
not because the disease has died out, but because our
towns, though not all that could be wished, are
unquestionably much healthier than they were, — our
people better fed, and our habits of living much
cleanlier. This disease is now confined to the fouler
districts of the Mahommedan large towns bordering on
the Mediterranean. We believe it quite as possible
to banish typhus fever from England, as the plague ;
and, let the drainage improvements now going
forward in most of the large towns of England be
completed, and we shall certainly find its ravages
much more confined, and much less destructive than
they now are. We are aware that many medical
men entertain the opinion that the typhus fever of
England is the plague, but in a greatly modified and
less deadly form. However that may be, it is almost
certain that the typhus fever is an inhabitant of par-
ticular localities, and often confines itself to particular
streets, lanes, houses, and even rooms, in a district.
The belief in its contagiousness has long been growing
weaker, and medical men have now almost abandoned
it altogether. Dr. Gilkrest, the British Inspector-
General of Army Hospitals, has long studied the
subject carefully, and come to the conclusion of the
non-contagiousness of yellow fever or plague. The
leading members of the National Academy of Medicine
in France, have adopted his views, and the first
result of this conviction of theirs was the publication
of a decree in the Moniteur, directing " that the
Lazaretto of Marseilles shall be sold, and that docks
be constructed on its site." We may therefore expect
very shortly to find our own government adopting a
similar course, and quietly abandoning this one other
faith of their forefathers, — the belief in contagion, to
prevent which, Quarantine, with its vexatious regula-
tions, has so long harassed and annoyed British
commerce.
A TIGER FRIGHTENED BY A MOUSE.
Captain Basil Hall, in his " Fragments of Voyages
and Travels," gives the following anecdote of a tiger
kept at the British Residency at Calcutta : — " But
what annoyed him far more than our poking him up
with a stick, or tantalising him with shins of beef or
legs of mutton, was introducing a mouse into his cage.
No fine lady ever exhibited more terror at the sight
of a spider than this magnificent royal tiger betrayed
on seeing a mouse. Our mischievous plan was to tie
the little animal by a string to the end of a long pole,
and thrust it close to the tiger's nose. The moment
he saw it, he leaped to the opposite side ; and when
the mouse was made to run near him, he jammed
himself into a corner, and stood trembling and roaring
in such an ecstasy of fear, that we were always
obliged to desist in pity to the poor brute. Some-
times we insisted on his passing over the spot where
the unconscious little mouse ran backwards and for-
wards. For a long time, however, we could not get
him to move, till at length, I believe by the help of
a squib, we obliged him to start ; but instead of
pacing leisurely across his den, or of making a detour
to avoid the object of his alarm, he generally took a
kind of flying leap, so high as nearly to bring his
back in contact with the roof of his cage." — Thompson's
Passions of Animals.
288
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
TIME'S CHANGES.
BY W. M. PRAED.
I SAW her once— so freshly fair
That, like a blossom just unfolding,
She opened to Life's cloudless air,
And Nature joyed to view its moulding.
Her smile it haunts my memory yet, —
Her cheek's fine hue divinely glowing, —
Her rosebud mouth, — her eyes of jet, —
Around on all their light bestowing.
Oh ! who could look on such a form,
So nobly free, so softly tender,
And darkly dream that earthly storm
Should dim such sweet, delicious splendour ?
For in her mien, and in her face,
And in her young step's fairy lightness,
Naught could the raptured gazer trace
But Beauty's glow and Pleasure's brightness.
I saw her twice, — an altered charm,
But still of magic richest, rarest ;
Than girlhood's talisman less warm,
Though yet of earthly sights the fairest.
Upon her breast she held a child,
The very image of its mother,
Which ever to her smiling smiled, —
They seemed to live but in each other :
But matron cares, or lurking woe,
Her thoughtless, sinless look had banished,
And from her cheek the roseate glow
Of girlhood's balmy morn had vanished ;
Within her eyes, upon her brow,
Lay something softer, fonder, deeper,
As if in dreams some visioned woe
Had broke the Elysium of the sleeper.
I saw her thrice, — Fate's dark decree
In widow's garments had arrayed her,
Yet beautiful she seemed to be
As even my reveries pourtrayed her ;
The glow, the glance had passed away,
The sunshine and the sparkling glitter,
Still, though I noted pale decay,
The retrospect was scarcely bitter ;
For in their place a calmness dwelt,
Serene, subduing, soothing, holy,
In feeling which the bosom felt
That every louder mirth is folly, —
A pensiveness which is not grief, —
A stillness, as of sunset streaming, —
A fairy glow on flower and leaf,
Till earth looks like a landscape dreaming.
A last time, — and unmoved she lay
Beyond Life's dim, uncertain river,
A glorious mould of fading clay
From whence the spark had fled for ever !
I gazed, my breast was like to burst,
And as I thought of years departed,
The years wherein I saw her first,
When she, a girl, was tender-hearted :
And when I mused on later days,
As moved she in her matron duty,
A happy mother, in the blaze
Of ripened hope and sunny beauty :
I felt the chill,— I turned aside,
Bleak Desolation's cloud came o'er me,
And Being seemed a troubled tide
Whose wrecks in darkness swam before me !
DIAMOND DUST.
WE are never more deceived than when we mistake
gravity for greatness, solemnity for science, and pom-
posity for erudition.
THE base metal of Falsehood is so current because
we find it much easier to alloy the Truth than to
refine ourselves.
HURRY and Cunning are always running after
Despatch and Wisdom, but have never yet been able
to overtake them.
THERE is in every human countenance either a
history or a prophecy.
SORROW shows us truths as the night brings oiit
stars.
HE who gains the victory over great insults is often
overpowered by the smallest.
A MAN in earnest finds means ; or, if he cannot
find, creates them.
WE seldom wish for what we are convinced is quite
unattainable ; it is just when there is a possibility of
success that wishes are really excited.
IT is one of the singular facts of the present state
of society, that the qualities which in theory we hold
to be most lovely and desirable, are precisely those
which in practice we treat with the greatest con-
tumely and disdain.
How many an enamoured pair have courted in
poetry and lived in prose !
THE world is all up-hill when we would do, all
down-hill when we suffer.
As continued health is vastly preferable to the
happiest recovery from sickness, so is innocence to
the truest repentance.
HARSH words are like hailstones in summer, which,
if melted would fertilize the tender plants they batter
down.
THE man who works too much must lore too little.
THE intention of a sin betrays itself by a superfluous
caution.
The world's face is amply suffused with tears ; it is
the poet's duty to wipe away a few, not to add more.
RESPECT is what we owe ; love, what we give.
LORD BACON beautifully said, "If a man be gra-
cious to strangers it shows he is a citizen of the
world, and that his heart is no island cut off from
other lands, but a continent that joins them."
HE who has most of heart knows most of sorrow.
LITTLE truisms often give the clue to long, deep,
intricate, undisplayed trains of thought, which have
been going on in silence and secresy for a long time
before the commonplace result in which most medita-
tions end is expressed.
THE life of almost every human being is governed
by one master thought, — the life, we say, of human
beings, not human vegetables.
THE satirist is sadder than the wit for the same
reason that the ourang-outang is of a graver disposi-
tion than the ape because his nature is more noble.
No man would overcome and endure solitude if he
did not cherish the hope of a social circle in the
future, or the imagination of an invisible one in the
piesent.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 149.]
SATURDAY, MARCH 6, 1852.
[PRICE l%d.
GOVERNMENT AND PEOPLE.— THE
PUBLIC HEALTH.
BY DR. SMILES.
THE complaint is often made, that the Government
lags behind the People ; that it never moves unless
it is driven ; that it is only by the " pressure from
without," that any greatly beneficial measure can be
carried.
In some respects this view of things is not correct.
Take governments in general, and you will find them
to be but a reflex of the actual condition of peoples —
not much better and not much worse. In represen-
tative governments, this is peculiarly the case. The
prejudices, the opinions, the wants, and the desires,
of the represented, will have their echo in the voices
and votes of those who represent them.
But sometimes it happens that representatives are
even better than those they represent, and that the
legislature is, in many respects, disposed to go faster
than their constituents. We do not here venture to
i ntroduce any of the more vexed questions of political
controversy, about which great differences of opinion
exist ; but confining ourselves to social questions, our
impression is, that the governing class has recently
proved itself to be decidedly ahead of the people at
large.
Take a few instances. The Government has passed
a series of laws for the protection of factory children,
without any "pressure from without" worthy of
notice ; and to this day, the principal opponents of
the measure are the parents of the children them-
selves, who exert their ingenuity in all ways to evade
the provisions of the act. Without any urgent call,
and in the face of very vehement opposition, the
Government, a few years since, passed a Factory
Education Bill, rendering it imperative and compul-
sory on all masters employing children in factories
under a certain age, that they should set apart so
much of the children's time daily for purposes of secu-
lar instruction in day schools. But had the popular
voice, of masters and men, been followed, thousands
of children, who are now receiving day-school instruc-
tion, would have been growing up in a state of
ignorance.
Some years since, Goverment passed an act enabling
town councils to levy a rate for the establishment and
formation of Museums of Art. In those districts
where the bulk of the population earn their living by
manufactures, and where the prosperity of their trade
depends upon their keeping up a certain superiority
in production and design ; and where, if they fall
behind other nations in those respects, they must
inevitably suffer in the loss, to some extent, of their
foreign trade ; it might have been expected that the
municipal bodies, urged on by the people whom they
represent, would have hastened to erect and maintain
such colleges of industrial art as were intended by the
Act. But no ! next to nothing has yet been done in
that direction ; and it is to be feared that the people
at large do not appreciate the intentions of the Legis-
lature in respect to this matter.
The act referred to was subsequently amended in
1850, so as to enable town councils to establish Free
Public Libraries, such as nearly every continental
town possesses. A most wise and admirable measure
truly ; calculated, in our opinion, to promote educa-
tion, temperance, and social well-being. But how was
the measure received? It dropped from the Legislature
still-born. Scarcely any town council took notice of
it; except, we believe, that of spirited Manchester,*
where a Public Library has already been formed,
consisting of 19,000 volumes. At Sheffield, where
the rate-payers were appealed to, they defeated the
promoters of a Public Library. The other towns and
cities throughout the country have not bestirred
themselves in any way.
In other educational measures, the Government,
it is to be feared, is ahead of the people. They are
understood to be ready to do a great deal more than
they have yet done ; but they require to be seconded
earnestly by the people out of doors. There is
positively an active agitation set on foot against the
Government, because it gives its aid to Education.
The money voted by the Legislature for educational
purposes is not applied for as fast as it is voted ; and
at the date of the last balance-sheet published, the
committee in council on education had a fund in hand
of not less than £250,000.
Then, there was the public measure for the estab-
lishment of Baths and Wash-houses. How few are
the towns that have yet taken any advantage of the
* Since this article was written, we observe that the Liver-
pool Town Council has taken the necessary steps to establish
a Free Public Library.
290
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
provisions of that act ? There was also an admirable
law, relating to Friendly Societies, passed in 1850,
to enable the members of Odd Fellows, and such like
societies, to enrol themselves and receive the protec-
tion of the law, as well as to carry on their benevolent,
but often futile operations, with the aid of scientific
actuaries, who are empowered by that act to supply
certified tables of rates to Friendly Societies, by
which they may be made secure and reliable at all
times. Comparatively few of such societies have yet
availed themselves of the provisions of that act.
Then, there is the Public Health Act, the Act for
the promotion of Extramural Interments, the Common
Lodging-houses Act, and the Labouring Classes
Lodging-houses Act, — all parts of one grand scheme
of sanitary operations, which the Legislature is
endeavouring to promote for the benefit of the
people, notwithstanding their general indifference to
all such improvement, and often in the teeth of their
bitter opposition. Take, for instance, the provision
in the Public Health Act of 1848, intended to put a
stop to the use of cellar-dwellings. It has been found
almost impossible to carry it into effect, chiefly
through the resistance of the owners of property.
About 15,000 people in Liverpool still live in cellars ;
almost as many in Manchester ; and in most of the
large manufacturing towns, the evil has very little
abated since the introduction of the Public Health
Act in 1848. The bill was not sufficiently stringent ;
and its subsequent amendments invited the action of
localities by voluntary association. But the volun-
tary action has not been called forth ; very few
towns have yet availed themselves of the powers of
the act ; few labouring-class lodging-houses are yet
established ; and a large number of the people are
still living and dying, poisoned in cellars.
The Sanitary Commission say, in a recent Notifica-
tion, that careful inquiries have disclosed " the fact
that some of the worst fwrins of human misery exist
amongst the comparatively settled labouring classes
of towns crowded together in cellar-dwellings " — "a
condition of the poor disgraceful to a Christian commu-
nity." The Government, unasked, has passed a law to
remedy this state of things ; and immediately the
local "powers that be" are up in arms to resist
them, — backed by all the owners of the cellar pro-
perty. Power is given to form Local Boards of
Health, but the Local Boards of Health are not
formed ; and even in the few cases in which they
exist, the commission counsels them that "the due
execution of the provisions of the law will need
especial attention and support against the opposition,
indirect as well as direct, which it is matter of ex-
perience will be raised against them by the owners of
the worst- conditioned houses, who in most towns are
found in array against the introduction of the Health
of Towns' Act, or the application of its provisions, on
the representation that they will eventually increase
local expenses, whereas, when properly executed
they are found to diminish them."
The Nuisance Removal Act has in like manner
proved almost a dead letter as yet, through the
indifference or the hostility of the general community
It is amazing to see how tenaciously the foul interests
are defended. The Board of Health assails them
with missiles in all ways ; the indefatigable Edwin
Chadwick waging an uncompromising warfare against
foul air dirt, cellar -dwellings, and the causes of
disease ; but the strongholds of all these are defended
with a pertinacity certainly worthy of a better cause
For instance, at Sculcoates, in Hull, there is an
abominable district, foul, uncleansed, and poisonous
mety-one persons died of cholera there in 1849
within a triangular space measuring about 200 yards
on each side. Think of the domestic misery, and the
fearful loss to the community in industrial labour,
from this one visitation, which might have been pre-
vented. Most reluctantly the Sculcoates Guardians
began to prosecute parties who refused to remove their
abominable death-causing nuisances. But though
they obtained 100 convictions under the Nuisance
Removal Act, they only applied for enforcement in
one case, and in that case it was refused ! Such is
the value placed upon the lives of the people by those
whose duty it was, in law and justice, to protect
them !
The Board of Health has proved over and over
again, as clear as daylight, that the principal diseases
which now prematurely cut off the working classes,
or consign those who survive to lingering ill-health,
to slow dying, to painful diseases, or what is worse,
to disgusting immorality and vice, are preventible, and
may be removed with a vast saving to the public, and
great gain in all moral and social respects to the com-
munity at large. Yet the foul interests hold their
ground, and almost bid defiance to all attacks that
are made upon them.
We have just been looking over the various reports
of the Sanitary Commission, and find an array of facts
there, as to the disease and premature deaths caused by
man's indolence, selfishness, and neglect, which is
positively appalling. We find localities there de-
scribed, existing in all parts of the country, full of
poisonous malaria, which is as fatal in its effects when
breathed into the lungs, as arsenic is when taken into
the stomach. Then we find entire districts in which
typhus fever of the most fatal character is a constant
denizen. And where typhus has taken up its abode,
there cholera is invariably the first to make its ap-
pearance. But between the periods of the first and
second visits of the cholera to this country, little or
nothing had been done to remove the unwholesome
local conditions requisite for its development, so that
the disease came back, and fixed again upon the same
towns, the same streets, the same houses, and often
snatched its victims from the same bed ! Everywhere
it selected the neglected, filthy, and overcrowded
localities — the invariable haunts of typhus. The
Board of Health had in the meantime emphatically
pointed out the danger, told where the cholera would
fix itself again, but its warnings were unheeded.
"Before cholera appeared in Whitechapel, " said
the medical officer of the Whitechapel union, speaking
of a small court in the hamlet, "I predicted that
this would be one of its strongholds." Cholera ap-
peared again there, and carried off eighteen persons !
Before cholera appeared in Uxbridge, the medical
officer there stated that if it should visit that town it
wpuld be certain to break out in a particular house to
the dangerous condition of which he called the atten-
tion of the local authorities. They took no notice.
The first case that occurred, broke out in that identical
house. So constant was found to be the connection
between filth, foul air, bad drainage, and fever,
that the remark of the inspectors, on visiting such
places, came to be such as this — " Here, sir, you
must have fever cases." And the observation was
almost invariably correct.
The unfortunate people who inhabit these places
are not unconscious of their wretched state ; and we
have personally witnessed the eager anxiety with
which they regard the visits of inspection made to
them. The women come to their doors, pale and
sunken, depressed in vitality and crushed in spirit,
and addressing the strangers, implore that "some-
thing may be done for them." It is generally their
poverty that makes them gravitate into such cess-
pools of corruption. Who would live there, that
could afford to breathe sweet air and enjoy a cleaner
neighbourhood ? Into some of the worst of these
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
201
places the Irish poor sink ; and so frequent are their
attacks of typhus, that there sire some parts of the
country where that disease is now designated by the
name of " tlie Irish fever."
Here is a description of a property in the town of
Selby, in Yorkshire, as related in the Board of
Health Eeports for 1850, by Mr. W. Lee : —
"Miss Elizabeth Proctor's property. — The yard is
unpaved and saturated with filth. There is a large
manure-heap. I examined the water. It was foul
with organic matter. The poor people say they use
it for all purposes. The cholera visited this property
in September last. In the first house, a husband
named Abbey, and four children, were removed in a
fortnight, leaving a widow and three children surviving.
In the next door, William Rosendale and his wife died,
leaving six children destitute. The next door but one
to that, William Wetherell and his wife died, and left
one child an orphan. I think I have not, in any town
I have visited, met with a parallel to this awful
sacrifice of human life, which I have no hesitation in
designating as PREVENTIBLE."
But the other day, how shocked we all were at the
wholesale massacre of about 3,000 human beings in the
streets of Paris. And yet, in this country, a loss of
life far more appalling, is going on almost at our doors
— a loss of life caused by flagrant neglect of the laws
of health, and which might almost be pronounced
^vilful, so obvious are its causes, and so certain are
the means of their removal.
Take the following fact in connection with the
operative population of Manchester, regarded as the
very centre of social activity in England ! The
mean age of death of the operative population of that
town and of Liverpool, is only fifteen or sixteen
years — that is, the average age at which all persons
of that class die, who are born alive into the world !
— whereas the average life of the gentry of those
towns is forty-three, showing a loss of not less than
twenty-eight years of life, to all the members of the
operative class in those towns, for the most part owing
to the REMOVEABLE causes of disease.
But it is even worse in Kensington, reputed to be
one of the richest districts of London. Dr. Lewis
states that in the district called " The Potteries," in
that parish, surrounded by splendid villas and streets,
is a population of 1,000 ; and in the three years
ending December, 1848, the average age at which
that population died off, was only eleven years and
seven months! And of this enormous mortality not
fewer than sixty-five out of every hundred deaths were of
children under the age of Jive years! Cholera and
typhus make the place their constant haunt. There
ate houses and rooms in the locality, where typhus
has again and again appeared. "Mr. Frost, the
surgeon, pointed out rooms where three or four
persons had recovered from fever in the spring, to
fall victims to cholera in the summer. Nearly all
the inhabitants look sallow • and unhealthy ; the
women especially complain of sickness and want of
appetite ; their eyes are sunk, and their skin fre-
quently much shrivelled. The eyes of the children
glisten with unnatural moisture, as if stimulated by
ammonia."
Pigs abound in the district. In 1849, no fewer
than 3,000 were found in the Potteries. Dr. Lewis
says — " A woman living in a hovel more than usually
dirty and offensive, pointed to a pig which her only
daughter had brought up by the hand. The poor
child had died of cholera. The manners of the
people are more uncivilized and rough than I have
observed in other parts of the metropolis."
Take another illustration, frightfully illustrative of
the fatal effects of foul conditions of life. It occurs
in Mr. Haywood's report on the sanitary state of
Sheffield. The inspector thus interrogates a poor
woman : —
" Do you not perceive an unpleasant smell from
that place behind your house?" "No, nowt as I
know on." " What ! does not that wet which runs
down your wall smell bad sometimes ? " ' ' Sometimes.
It does a bit of a mornin', but nowt to mean aught."
"Have you lived here long?" "About sixteen
years." " Pretty good health since you came ? "
"Pretty middling, considering." "What family
have you had ? " " O've had fourteen childer."
' ' Have they had pretty good health as well as your-
self ?" " Nay, o've buried 'em all but three" "Were
they all born in this house ? " " No, four were born
in Derbyshire — three of these are still living, but
the youngest on 'em died here ! "
Surely he who runs may read the deep and painful
meaning which lies in this brief recital.
But the loss of life is not all, though that is very
sad, involving as it does, premature deaths of parents,
and orphaned children thrown destitute upon the
parish. There is also a terrible loss in point of
morality, virtue, and all the graces. Vice and crime
consort with foul living. In these places, demoraliza-
tion is the normal state. There is an absence of
cleanliness, of decency, of decorum ; the language
used is polluting, and scenes of profligacy are of
almost hourly occurrence, — all tending to foster
idleness, drunkenness, and vicious abandonment.
Imagine such a moral atmosphere for women and
children ! Such moral pollution is indeed the monster
mischief of all unwholesome localities.
And yet such causes of physical and moral disease
can be removed. Nothing is better authenticated
than this fact. You can stop the ravages of typhus
by drainage and cleanliness, as certainly as you can
prevent small-pox by vaccination. Mr. Grainger,
in his report, states that in no one instance has a
well-matured plan of sanitary amelioration failed in
diminishing sickness, suffering, and death, and the
consequent promotion of human happiness. " To
this statement," he emphatically adds, "I know not
a single exception." In London, the Model Lodging
Houses, and buildings which are constructed and
regulated on sanitary principles, though situated in
the most densely populated and unhealthy districts of
the metropolis, were almost free of cholera during the
late epidemic, and typhus fever very rarely visits them,
though raging in their immediate neighbourhoods.
Take the following instructive fact from the Report
on the Health of Darlington, in Durham : — "Ague
was prevalent in this town in former times. It has
been ENTIRELY BANISHED by drainage. In one par-
ticular spot typhus existed for ten years! The cause
of its cessation is accounted for by the chief bailiff,
thus — The adjoining property had been THOROUGHLY
DRAINED AND CLEANED."
The Government Registrar of Births and Deaths
mentions a similar case in his last Report : — " In the
village of North Clifton, where the drainage was bad,
low fever was seldom out of the place ; but now,
through the influence of an intelligent farmer, the
place has been well drained, and nuisances removed,
and as a consequence, there has not been any fever in
the place for a year and a half ! "
We are too apt to blame the Divine Government
for the premature deaths of those about us. We
attribute them to "the mysterious dispensations of
Providence." But it is to be feared that we ourselves
are the parties mostly in fault. It is our own neglect
which causes the premature deaths of our fellow-
beings. We must obey the laws of health, else we
shall surely die prematurely. We must live cleanly,
purely, wholesomely, otherwise we shall inevitably
suffer.
202
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
"Fifty thousand persons," says Mr. Lee, "annu-
ally fall victims to typhus fever in Great Britain,'
originated by causes which are preventible ! Let us
bear in mind this terrible fact. An able writer puts it in
this striking form—" The annual slaughter™ England
and Wales, from preventable causes of typhus fever, is
d.ulle the amount of u'hat was suffered l>tj the allied
armies at tht battle of Waterloo .'" Again Mr. Lee puts it
in this form, — By neglect of the ascertained conditions
: of healthful living, the great mass of the people lose
I nearly half the natural period of their lives! "Typhus,"
says a medical officer of one district, "is a curse which
man inflicts upon himself by the neglect of sanitary
arrangement*."
This is the question which the Government, through
the Sanitary Commission, is now pressing with such
earnestness on the attention of the people of this
country. We regret to say that the people give
them but little active aid. The majority are indiffer-
ent ; and many are even actually hostile. In some
of the foulest districts, Local Boards of Health are
elected, pledged to do NOTHING ! They will neither
act themselves, nor allow the Government to act.
And yet the complaint is from time to time made,
that Government is a drag upon the progress of the
people ! The pressure from without, unhappily, is
against health — against the adoption of measures for
its improvement. The pressure for advance is made
from " within." The people really refuse to respond
to the efforts of the Legislature to better their social
elevation. The Public Health Act, even in the most
deadly districts of the largest towns and cities, each
of which has its municipal body, competent to carry
the provisions of the law into active operation, often
remains a dead letter. Thousands of human beings
annually perish in those places, amidst the most
perfect indifference of the local governments. No-
thing is done, nothing said ; and all that we hear is,
the repeated protests, and the indignant appeals of
the sanitary officers, against the continued neglect,
and heartlessness, and cruelty, of those who have it
in their power to stay the slaughter of the people,
but who persistently refuse to do so.
Surely it were full time this were altered. At all
events, let us cease railing at the Government, which
is really proving itself, in its concern for the people's
well-being, to be considerably in advance of the people
themselves.
THE BARONET'S WIFE.
ABOUT a mile from a provincial town, which we
shall designate as Wilmore, was situated a house in
the occupation of Mrs. Berrington, a widow, and her
daughters. The residence was large in comparison to
the family inhabiting it, and many of the rooms were
empty and desolate ; but what it wanted in inward
comfort, was made up for, fully to Mrs. Berrington's
satisfaction, in external grandeur ; it had an air of
rank, — she would observe, — there was somethino-
aristocratic, she thought, about the extended fronf-
age and curved drive to the hall-door. That this was
seldom put in requisition, was certainly matter of
regret ; but if useless, in so far as the purpose for
which it was intended was concerned, nevertheless it
made an appearance, and gave a finishing touch to
that external mark of "style," which it was the
mansion's mistress's desire to cherish, and, if possible
increase.
Mrs. Berrington herself, in her young days, had
been a belle,— she had been taught that Style
and Fashion were the gods before whose altar
•11 men bow, and had, in consequence, made them
her presiding deities; she had been told, and
thought it reasonable and true, that " a match "
was the end and aim of every truly fashionable
maiden's life, and that if the gilded lips spoke
sweetly, it little mattered what the heart might say ;
— that, in fact, was out of the question altogether :
it more frequently led to misery than to wealth, and
was, indeed, only fit to be descanted on in novels, and
applauded by boarding-school misses, but for a "belle "
to listen to the heart's affections, the thing was
absurd, and so she thought and practised.
But as very clever people are often too clever, even
for themselves, and get caught in meshes of their
own making, so Mrs. Berrington found that years
were creeping on her, the fame of the "belle " was
fast giving way to a more novel, and consequently
more attractive beauty, and worst of all, that in her
anxiety to crown her efforts with a triumphal fortune,
she had allowed one after another of her suitors to
fall away either in despair or disgust, and found
herself at last tinder the galling necessity of accept-
ing a moderate sort of man, with a moderate income,
to avoid the shame which she imagined would attach
to a total defeat, and then quietly consoled herself
with spreading a report that her husband was worth
double his real income, and managing his pecuniary
affairs for him in such a manner, as to make believe
that the report was true.
But, as a matter of course, this line of conduct
brought its own result, and after eight years of
married life, her husband sinking under the course of
dissipation her extravagance had led him into, died,
leaving her, when all debts were paid, but a very
scanty income, and two daughters to provide for.
This state of things becoming known, it need
hardly be said that Mrs. Berrington found herself
entirely thrown upon her own resources ; for if in
her days of glory she had made conquests, she had, in
most cases, ended by making foes ; so that after
several desperate but fruitless efforts to conquer
circumstances, and regain her standing, she re-
tired from the world of fashionable life to the house
alluded to near Wilmore, upbraiding the world at
large, and her own "circle" in particular, for its
ingratitude.
But Mrs. Berrington's was not a disposition to
reconcile itself to retirement, neither was her disgust
of the world of so heartrending a nature that the
balm of solitude was necessary to its restoration ; far
from_it ;^ but little time elapsed, and, much against
her inclination, as she said, she was present at a
county ball, and once more sipped at that seductive
fountain, from whose depths spring so much of
bitterness and misery. And so the time passed on,
until Mrs. B. with her good looks and fascinating
little ways was considered as indispensable to every
ball, assembly, or gathering of any sort, where the
elite of the neighbourhood met together to " enjoy "
themselves ; nor was this without good reason, for
"in company," Mrs. Berrington was an acquisition ;
— there she was bright, gay, and brilliant, but at
"home" — why, "home," in the truly English sense,
was unknown to her.
And so^ years rolled on in pleasure-seeking abroad,
and ennui, anxiety for debts contracted, and annoy-
ance at the consequences at home, until her daughters
had arrived at the several ages of twenty and eigh-
teen, and Mrs. Berrington had been unremitting in
her instructions, as to the duty their age imposed
upon them of losing no opportunity of making a
" match." The eldest of these young ladies, Julia,
joined in opinion with her mother, whom she much
resembled in appearance and character; the youngest,
Louisa, a soft, blue-eyed girl, had more of the amiability
which characterized her father, without his weakness;
she seemed by instinct to abhor the projects concocted
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
203
by her parent, and in spite of all remonstrances,
irrevocably gave her heart to a young surgeon in the
neighbourhood, and, in fact, was married a few days
only before the particular morning on which I wish
to introduce Mrs. Berrington to the reader. No
absin-d extravagance marked the nuptials, no reckless
display for a few hours, bringing misery for months,
if not for life, in consequence ; but a quiet, happy
wedding, the truest ornaments their mutual love, and
the blessings of the poor upon their friend the
doctor's head, for he was a kindly man, and loved.
But before entering the sitting-room where Mrs.
Berrington is in close conclave with her daughter
Julia, upon business which shall be explained here-
after, I must request the reader to accompany me to
the little parlour behind the shop of James Johnson,
a shoemaker at Wilmore. James was an honest
man, a good husband, and an affectionate father ; he
worked hard, was sober, and respected ; his wife,
who was a dressmaker, was careful, industrious, and
too fond of her children to bedeck herself in finery,
which would deprive them of their necessary food
and clothing ; how then is it that Mrs. Johnson is in
tears, and James sitting with one arm leaning on
the table, and his forehead closely pressed between
his hand, bowed down in grief, and seemingly un-
nerved by some great woe ? Listen for awhile, and
we may learn.
"It's no use, James," said Mrs. Johnson, as she
yat down again after peeping through the blind ;
"something must be done to bring this state of
things to a finish. It breaks my heart to see the
children as they are ; short of food and scant of
clothing ; and all that money owing to us. What
shall you do about Mr. Turton this afternoon ? "
"God knows, my dear," returned James, "for I
don't. He told me that he should immediately
commence proceedings against me, if I had not the
money when he called again. I told him how it was,
as I had four times the money owing to me as I
owed him ; then, says he, do to them as I shall do to
you, put 'em in prison. And when I spoke to Mr.
Brown, the lawyer, he said he would rather not
commence proceedings against the parties I named,
as they were all friends of his or Mrs. Brown's ; and
it would do him harm, and get him a bad name with
the gentry ; besides, he said it would ruin me ; and
the money was safe enough, if I would but wait."
"Wait ! " cried Mrs. Johnson. "Wait! And have
we not waited ? One, two, and three years ; until
our early savings are gone, and beggary and a bad
name stared us in the face, and this in spite of hard
work and honesty. No, James, something must be
done. Did you call on Mrs. Berrington, she owes
most, and has owed it longest ? "
"No," said James, "I did not ; for when I called
before she told me that her remittances had been
delayed, and had left her without a pound in the
house."
"And that must have been false," interrupted
Mrs. Johnson, "for she was at the archery ball the
same night, and the tickets cost a pound a-piece."
And then after some further remarks upon the
condition they were reduced to by the recklessness,
the indifference, or the positive dishonesty of those
who made an appearance in the world's eye, on the
produce of the poor man's work, and who, while
they literally held their position by the indulgence he
allowed, sneered at him from their artificial height,
and made a boast of bestowing upon him their
"patronage" and " condecension." James started
out once more to call on Mrs. Berrington, and seek
to gather together so much of his long-standing bills
as might serve him to ward off for a time the
threatened danger of an execution, imprisonment,
and ruin, brought about, not by his own follies, but
by others' faults.
We return to Mrs. Berrington and her daughter
Julia, who are in earnest conversation ; the former
lounging on a couch with her habitual indolence,
when not under the excitement of some stirring
scene of gaiety, while the brilliant, black-eyed beauty
is negligently reclining on an easy chair not far
distant. Neither one nor the other would have been
seen to advantage at this particular moment, for
however the neglige style may suit the tastes of its
admirers, there still are limits which all lovers of
domestic decorum must wish to see observed. Mrs.
Berrington's beauty, as may be supposed, was passee,
and though at eventide, the free use of unmentionable
cosmetics resuscitated, while they destroyed her
complexion, yet the absence of these auxiliaries in
the morning only served to lay bare the havoc made,
and exposed the unnatural hue produced by their
previous and constant use, add to this a looseness of
attire in which the absence of neatness was not the
only thing remarkable, and my assurance will hardly
be considered necessary to convince the reader that
there was some difficulty in recognizing the "indis-
pensable " Mrs. Berrington in the haggard woman of
forty-seven before him. Of the daughter it need
only be said that the germ of the same habits was too
clearly discernible, and though youth and her natural
beauty went far to hide these growing defects, yet
but little discrimination was required to detect the
consequences of a bad example, worse instruction,
and a total perversion of all those ends and duties for
which both man and woman are ordained to live.
" Well," said Mrs. Berrington, with a look of
admiration at her daughter, " and so Sir Charles did
actually propose. And how admirably you managed
it, my dear, such excellent tact ! And what about
the happy day, my love ? Was anything said about
that ? "
" Oh, yes," returned Julia, " certainly, he wanted
me to name it at once ; but, of course, you know, I
was a great deal too nervous under the circumstances
to settle that ; besides, it would have looked too
anxious."
" Of course, my dear," said Mrs. Berrington,
" quite right ; and it was wise to leave that point
open, or otherwise there would have been little left
to keep him on the rack of expectation, and his
spirits might have cooled, you know."
" His spirits ! True ; well, theyare really wondei'ful
for sixty-five ! It almost seems ridiculous. Well, I
do wish he was a little younger, for the sake of
appearances ! "
"But, my dear," interrupted the careful mother,
" he looks at least twenty years younger ; and there
may be advantages at sixty-five that you might lose
at forty, ha ! ha ! ha ! " and Mrs. Berrington laughed
outright, perhaps to hide the atrocity of the calcula-
tion insinuated by her remark; "who knows, my
dear, — who knows ; let me see, ten years ; but
perhaps that's too long ; ah, well, we'll say ten years,
— you will be thirty, still young, with a title and a
fortune ! What could be better ? "
"Are you sure that he i-s rich?" asked the
daughter, with a somewhat doubtful expression in
her face ; "are you sure that all your information is
correct, because I have no particular wish to throw
myself away on a poor, as well as an old man."
"My dear," said Mrs. Berrington, in a deprecating
tone, " I am certain of it. But had we not better
settle about the day ? "
" Well, suppose we say this day fortnight, — shall
you be able to manage matters in that time ? " replied
Julia, in an indifferent tone.
"Oh yes, my dear," returned Mrs. Berrington,
294
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
" thanks to that little loan I arranged so cleverly
with your aunt. But do not forget, love, that when
you take your first pin-money, you must give it me
again, because part must be paid at any rate."
"Of course," said Julia ; "well, then, it is settled,
is it, this day fortnight ? Hark ! There's a ring at
the bell ; — who can it be ? " and Julia, in the con-
sciousness of her dishabille, rose hurriedly, and ran
up stairs ; but before the tender-hearted mother
could follow her, James Johnson stood, hat in hand,
before her.
It would perhaps prove tedious were I to narrate
the conversation that ensued, till poor James, seeing
the utter hopelessness of saying more, turned slowly
away, and, with sunken heart and clouded brow,
wended his way to a home which he feared to reach.
Sir Charles Hesher, the baronet alluded to by
Julia, was, as she said, a man of excellent spirits for
sixty-five ; he was also what is called a fine-looking
man. Sir Charles had, in his youthful day, been a
rout, had given himself up entirely to the fashionable
amusements of his time, and what he had failed to
involve by extravagance, he completed by cards, so
that, at a comparatively early age, he had been
compelled to withdraw into the country, and there
endeavour by all possible means to resuscitate a fallen
fortune. Vain in the extreme, he had felt no little
pleasure at the marked attention bestowed upon him
by Julia Berrington, and while he forgot his years,
he only thought what a triumph it would be for him
again to enter into the lists of life with a bride so
charming, so beautiful, so young. This idea so far
took possession of him, that, infatuated with the
thought, he easily fell into the trap so ingeniously
laid for him by the, to him, fascinating mother of
his adored.
And the fortnight passed, and the day arrived.
It was a lovely spring morning that was to see the
wedding of Julia Berrington, the dashing girl of
twenty with the old baronet of sixty-five.
And Louisa Berrington, or rather Louisa Worton,
was there, and if a smile of triumph curled the lips
of the bride and mother, far otherwise was it with
the sister. Pallid and tearful, she shrank with
instinctive abhorrence from the sacrifice at which she
was an unwilling witness, for she knew by sweet
experience the indescribable pleasure of a home, in
which were centred all her joys, and the value of a
husband whom she not only loved and cherished, but
honoured and respected.
But the service proceeded and was completed,
a solemn mockery in this case,— and with a beaming
smile of self-laudation, Lady Hesher took her place in
the carriage, and at a fast pace left the scene of
her fancied triumph, to make a short tour with
her venerable husband, while Mrs. Berrington pro-
ceeded to London, for the purpose of superintending
matters ready for their reception in town.
'"'*' * * * * *
Two years have passed away, and James Johnson
is now fast recovering his lost position under the
auspices, and with the assistance of Dr. Worton and
his Louisa. But in the meantime, he had been made
a bankrupt, and had it not been for the respect in
which he was held, and the kindness consequent upon
it shown him by his creditors, nothing of this
world's goods would have been left him. As for
Louisa herself, she is as happy as prosperity a
loving husband, a contented mind, and a little daugh-
ter smiling up into her delighted gaze can make her.
She has but one great cause for grief, — she hears but
seldom of her sister ; and the news communicated
then is of a character tending but little to amuse her
—fashionable gossip, scandal on her so-called friends'
and satiric?! allusions to her husband making up
the sum.
This being the state of things at Wilmore, let us
now glance at the gay life of Julia in the great
metropolis. From her first entrance into her sought-
for Elysium, life has been to her but one long scene
of idle dissipation ; her cheeks have lost that lovely
hue which Nature in her country home had blessed
her with ; her temper is becoming rapidly soured and
discontented as the very object sought palls on her
surfeited appetite when gained ; but there is a void in
her mind and heart which she seeks to fill but
cannot ; her hours of repose are disturbed and rest-
less, and vainly does she look around for that
happiness which she so eagerly sacrificed herself to
gain ; in short, she is striving to clutch a shadow
which flees the further every step she takes. And
now behold her on this eventful evening when again
we meet her, seeking to dispel domestic gloom by
gaiety abroad ; with more spirit than ever does she
thread the figure of the dance, and with even more
than usual brightness does she cast away her smiles,
which never are bestowed on him who has a right to
ask them. ; her heart is in the scene, and for the
nonce all annoyance is forgot ; the infirmities of age
are laughed at as a joke, and far from the last is she
to satirize her husband's years.
" Sir Charles is losing," observes her partner, " the
very opposite to Sir Charles in looks and years," as
the sound of irritated voices issued from the card-
rooms at the end of the saloon in which the dancers
were, "and heavily, too, I hear."
" Oh, that's nothing new," returned the Lady
Julia ; " Sir Charles never did win, I'm told."
"But once, — a precious prize," replied the gentle-
man, with a look that brought the colour even into
Julia's face ; — " but, hark ! — it must be something
more than usual, the voices rise so high, — oh, there
goes Sir Charles ; — how excited he looks ! " And
again the couple whirled off into the maze of dancers
before the lady could reply, or even look towards the
door through which her husband passed.
An hour had glided by since the baronet had left
the card-room, and still his lady was as gay as ever,
when an attendant asked permission to speak to her,
and delivered a message from her mother, to the
effect that Sir Charles was taken very ill on his
return home. But there is yet another engagement to
fulfil, and the band has just struck up her favourite
waltz. "No," she says, to her beseeching partner ;
" I must return," and at the same time suffers herself
to be led to her place in the dance. But again a mes-
senger arrives ; it is her own maid, and with a look
in^ which was to be read a dismal tale, she begs
permission to see her mistress. The message is
delivered at the conclusion of the waltz, and Lady
Julia descends to the refreshment-room to hear what,
the moment she enters, a look from her attendant
tells too truly,— Sir Charles is dead !
To trace the reaction of Lady Julia's feeling on her
return to the house of death, would be of little
worth ; let it be enough to say, that conscience, — that
mind's speech, — brought charges against her almost
too weighty for her remorseful heart to bear ; with
silent but startling tones it told her of a vow made at
the altar to give a love she never felt ; of a promise
given to cherish until death him whom she had
forsaken, as it were, as the last breath passed away ;
to treat, in short, as herself, him whom she had taken
for "better or worse," and whom having sworn to
obey, had disregarded even every wish. And under
all this her heart smote her, and happily, with deep
and heart-felt resignation she received the stroke.
But she yearned for a friend at this trying moment,
and looked around for such, but found none : her
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
295
thoughts instinctively reverted to Louisa ; and she
besought her in such terms as she had never used
before, to come to her assistance. And Louisa came,
and with her brought healing and comfort on her
path. And her first act was to arrange for her
sister's removal to her own home.
And still time passed on. Julia had been a month
with her sister, and that month had worked a
wondrous change. She here saw flourishing, like a
beauteous plant in its habitat, that happiness which
she had striven after at the risk of honour, faith, and
precious health, and never found. Here she saw the
true end of woman's life fulfilled, and that if an
elysium were indeed to be found on earth, it was in.
the social harmony of home.
And the lesson was not lost upon the Lady Julia.
She had been chastened, and she bowed beneath the
rod ; she had seen the error of her ways, but she had
also witnessed the straight road of others leading to
that point from which her own receded.
And now about three miles from Wilmore, in a
sweet, pretty cottage encircled by shrubbery and
woodland scenery, dwell a lady and her mother ; the
former, it is said, is shortly to be married to a
gentleman of great respectability in the neighbour-
hood ; there is a quietude and modest demeanour
about the house, which strikes a casual observer at
once, while to those- who knew the individuals some
years ago, it would be difficult, indeed, to recognize
the Lady Julia Hesher and her mother.
A LADY'S VOYAGE BOUND THE WORLD.*
MADAME PFEIFFER, "the voyager," is a German
lady, somewhat advanced in years, who resided, in
1846— when this remarkable voyage was undertaken,
— in the city of Vienna. She seems to have been
designed for a traveller : her physical system and her
mental being were equally well adapted for the task
she undertook. Her " bodily frame was healthy and
hardy;" she "cared little for privation," and had
" no fear of death," — as her perils and endurances
amply testify. From her earliest days she was
devoted to her work. In girlhood she would dwell
with wonder and delight over the published narratives
of her predecessors, and "always had a longing to
see the world." In her youth she travelled a good
deal with her parents, and after her marriage, with
her husband. But the "Holy Alliance" brings its
attendant duties, the fulfilment of which is incom- j
patible, — in a woman's case, at least, — with a
rambling mode of life. Madame Pfeiffer, in due
course, became the mother of a family, and for a
while settled down quietly in the Austrian capital,
to superintend the education of her children, and
devote herself to the cares of her household. But
when, to quote her own words, " their education was
completed, — when I might, if I pleased, have spent
the remainder of my days in quiet retirement, then
my youthful dreams and visions rose before my mind's
eye. My imagination dwelt on distant lands and
strange customs." Animated by these desires, she
accordingly started on a journey to the Holy Land in
the first instance, and upon her return, published a
narrative of her tour. Again her restless and
ambitious spirit stirred within her, and on the 29th of
June she set sail from Hamburg in a Danish brig for
Bio de Janeiro— the commencement of a voyage
round the world.
Of South America she does not give a very favour-
* A Lady's Voyage Round the World ; a selected Transla-
tion from the German of Ida Pfeiffer, by Mrs. Percy Sinnett .
London: Longman.
able account, and warns her emigrant countrymen
not to select it as a home. While she was in Brazil,
several ship loads of German people arrived, whose
hopes were falsified by a "terrible process" of ex-
perience.
The climate is extremely oppressive, and although
vegetation is richer than in perhaps any other part of
the world, yet " you will be glad of a little winter, and
find the revival of Nature, — the re-animation of the
plants after their apparent death, — the return of the
fragrant breath of spring, — all the more welcome for
having been deprived of them for a time."
The state of morals among the Brazilians is very
low, and their domestic habits and manners are dirty
and repulsive. The men and women are ugly : — both
whites and blacks, — Indians, Negroes, Portuguese,
and Brazilians. The negroes are even worse in all
these respects than the white population. It was
some time before our traveller could perceive any
redeeming feature in the people or their institutions,
but at length discovered "a few negresses with
pleasing figures," and among the "dark -tinted
Brazilian and Portuguese dames some handsome and
expressive faces."
The general management of the young, — including
their education, in the ordinary sense of that term, —
is entrusted to the negroes ; to which circumstance,
Madame Pfeiffer attributes the depressed state of
mind and moi-als prevailing in all ranks of society.
Still she thinks that the relative inferiority of the
negroes does not arise from their "want of capa-
city," but to their " total want of education." The
treatment of the slaves in Brazil is, however, far
better than we have been led to believe. They are
"not overtasked," are "very well fed," and have "a
better lot than the free fellah in Egypt, or many
peasants in Europe."
In her excursions into the interior, Madame
Pfeiffer encountered dangers which would have
daunted the courage of most men, but they were
insufficient to deter her from prosecuting her investi-
gations. She was compelled to sleep in the open air,
— the virgin earth serving as her couch, with " a clump
of wood for a pillow," and her cloak to protect her
from the cold and wet. Her slumbers were more-
over disturbed by the constant dread of serpents
and wild beasts, with which the country abounded.
Her food, too, was of the most peculiar kind, — such as
roasted monkey, which was very tender and palatable ;
with grilled parrots, which, on the other hand, were
"tough and unsavoury." On one occasion, also, her
negro guide attempted to murder her, that he might
rob her with the less chance of detection, and had
she not stoutly defended herself, and aid been fortu-
nately near, he would have succeeded. But she
pursued her course, and journeyed on a considerable
distance beyond the track of civilization, — visiting
on her way a coffee plantation, and never stopping
until she fell in and conversed with the Puri Indians,
• — the aborigines of Brazil, — of whom it is supposed
50,000 are yet remaining, scattered far and wide in
the recesses of the woods. These Indians are not
even so handsome in their persons as the negroes,
but, like the latter, are very tractable, and some of
them are at times employed to trace out fugitive
slaves, and to perform menial offices of labour.
After quitting Brazil, Madame Pfeiffer visited
Chili, and some other less important places, and then
sailed for Tahiti. The fate of the people of this
island, and their unfortunate monarch, has excited
a deep and melancholy interest in this country, and
the personal observations of so intelligent an autho-
rity, are therefore seasonable and welcome. Madame
was inti-oduced to Queen Pomare and her husband,
who is called by the French, "the Prince Albert of
296
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Tahiti," shortly after her arrival, at an entertainment
given by the naval and military officers on duty at
the station. The queen, as our readers are aware,
has been taken under the "protection" of France,
and despite all that has been said to the contrary,
seems very well contented with her lot. She is, in
reality, no better than a slave, albeit her chains are
gilded. She is not permitted to receive a visitor with-
out permission, but is allowed a yearly pension of
25,000f. ; and at the date we speak of— May, 1847
— her guardians were building her a handsome house,
which she now, in all probability, inhabits. At the
festival just referred to, another notable person was
present in addition to the queen and her husband, —
one King Otoume, a potentate who rules in an
adjacent kingdom. The costumes of the three illus-
trious guests were highly fantastic, if not exactly
picturesque. Queen Pomare, for instance, was
showily dressed in " sky-blue satin, with flounces
of rich black blonde, a wreath of flowers in her hair,
and moreover, on this grand occasion, she had
crammed her feet into shoes and stockings, — a
restraint to which they are but little accustomed." So
much for the queen. Her husband " wore a French
general's uniform, in which he really looked very-
well, if you did not see his feet," — and King Otoume
was attired in " short white breeches, a coat of
brimstone-coloured calico," but his extremities were
unencumbered by either boots or shoes. The conduct
of her Tahitian majesty at this party was hardly
consistent with our ideas of good taste. She retired
during the evening to enjoy the solace of a cigar, and
was so well pleased with the edible delicacies on
table, that she put some aside " to take home with
her."
The Tahitians are tolerably shrewd in commercial
matters, — they appreciate the usefulness of the
"yellow metal," and readily detect a spurious coin.
They are not now content to bargain for " glass beads
and baubles, — those golden days for travellers are
gone ;" but they demand in return for their commo-
dities "hard cash, which they are just as eager after
as the most civilized Europeans." The conduct of
the French has, however, been productive of the
most pernicious results to the moral well-being of
the Tahitians. Madame Pfeiffer stigmatizes it as
"the most shameless" she ever beheld, — a censure
all the more severe as coming from a Viennese.
Our traveller, of course could not rest contented
with "town life," even in Tahiti, but penetrated
into the interior,— collecting botanical and entomo-
logical specimens, and encountering with her wonted
courage, a host of severe obstacles which beset her ;
and having returned to the coast, set sail for the
Celestial Empire.
The first place visited by Madame Pfeiffer in China
was Macao, from whence she sailed to Hong Kong
and afterwards penetrated beyond Canton, in com-
pany with a missionary, and one or two other
European gentlemen. The Chinese were much
outraged by her boldness. Wherever she went in
around Canton, crowds of indignant women and
chi dren followed, pointing at her with a scorn which
ittle disturbed her mental tranquillity ; but at times
expressing their ideas of feminine delicacy by a mode
that could not be disregarded. She visited several
acred edifices such as the far-famed Temple of Honan,
the Temple of Mercy, the Lord's Pagoda, and the
house of the Sacred Swine, and on one or two
occasions nearly suffered for her temerity. In like
manner was she assailed at a tea-factory, where her
entrance was the signal for a general insurrection •"
t the master of the establishment did all he could to
the workpeople from harming our friend, who
Je as rapid an inspection as possible of the process
of preparing the grateful plant, and hastily took her
leave — uninjured. There were, however, few objects
of interest left unvisited by her, and having satisfied
her sight-seeing propensity, she re turned to Hong
Kong.
The voyage from Hong Kong was performed in an
English steamer, which plied between that port and
Calcutta. The treatment Madame Pfeiffer experienced
on board this vessel was most abominable, and
calculated to bring discredit on our national cha-
racter in those distant seas. For a second class
passage no less a sum than 117 dollars was asked, for
which she received accommodation very far inferior
to what is usually vouchsafed to domestics on
British packet-ships. The society with whom she
was herded was intolerable, and the fare was dis-
gusting. There were in all four .second - class
passengers on board, who had to dine with "the
cooks, and waiters, and the butcher." One of these
worthies would present himself at the dinner- table
without his jacket, " and the butcher generally forgot
his shoes and stockings." The diet and the mode of
serving it were similarly offensive. The leavings of
the first cabin were sent into the second, and " two
or three different kinds of. food often lay sociably
together in one dish." Other matters were equally
ill-arranged ; everything seemed — in a certain sense —
in keeping, and for this filthy sort of passage, the
modest sum of thirteen dollars a day was demanded
and paid.
At length Singapore was reached, and Madame
landed. She fell in at once with a German firm, —
Messrs. Behu and Meyer — at whose hands she
received every kindness and consideration. True to
her first passion, she preferred visiting the plantations,
and roving among the beautiful natural scenery of the
island, to lingering at any length within the precincts
of the town. She went out on several sporting
expeditions, and was concerned in shooting a large
serpent, which, when cooked, she tasted, and found
its flesh "very fine and delicate, more so than that of
young chickens."
The work of the spice and sago plantations is
performed by free labourers, whose wages amount to
less than the cost of maintaining slaves ; but wages
here, it must be remembered, are excessively small
in amount— on the average about "three dollars
monthly without food or dwelling." The people
chiefly subsist upon a vegetable diet, and their
condition is, in all respects, as abject and miserable as
can be well conceived. In 1847 there were only 150
European residents in Singapore out of a population
of 55,000, — 40,000 of whom were Chinese, and
the remainder, with the small exception stated,
natiVe Malays. Of course, the gods and temples of
China flourish here, and the celebrated " Feast of
Lanterns " was held during Madame Pfeiffer's visit.
Ceylon was next visited, and our heroine minutely
inspected the various heathen temples, and then took
her departure for Calcutta, having arrived too late
by a few days for a sight she would have much
relished— an elephant hunt. At Calcutta she was
hospitably received by a German family, and after
resting awhile, she travelled to Bengal, Benares,
Delhi, and Bombay. In these wanderings she
met with fewer noteworthy objects, and encoun-
tered fewer perils than in the former part of this
great voyage; but her keen powers of observa-
tion warrant the belief that, had her movements
been less rapid, she would have supplied us with
some valuable reflections on men and things in
British India. As it is, she tells us, that the free
native population under our government are worse
off than the negroes at Brazil,— an opinion in which,
we fear, there is too much truth. We are pleased,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
207
however, to ascertain that the frightful practices of
Thuggism are on the decline, and that the miscreants
who perpetrate these atrocities are actuated by " no
distorted view of religion, but more frequently the
love of gain." The pui-e religious idea is thus
divested of a scandal which a careless traveller or two
had succeeded in fastening upon it. Another fact
vouched fov by Madame Pfeiffer is, that the inhuman
practice — once so general, — of leaving the sick to
perish on the banks of the Ganges is now very rarely
adopted. In these things we see so many clear and
unequivocal indications of the march of true civiliza-
tion and the progress of humanity.
On leaving our Indian possessions, Madame Pfeiffer
made for Bagdad, and passed with as much celerity as
possible through Babylon, Nineveh, and Persia, into
Asiatic Russia, from whence she travelled into Russia
Proper, and touched at Constantinople and Athens.
The perils of these latter voyages and journeys were
neither few nor slight, still she endured them all, not
certainly without repining, but with a surprising
fortitude. In her caravan journeys she had to fare
like the poorest Arab — to "live on bread and water,
or a handful of dates and cucumbers," with no
better couch at times on which to rest her wearied
frame than " the scorched ground," and worst of all,
she was tormented by vermin, which clung to her
clothes and person. Here and there she fell in with
kind friends, who did all in their power to render
her comfortable, — among whom, a Mr. Mansur, a
Persian trader at Ravandus, with Mr. and Mrs.
Wright, and the other American missionaries at
Oromia, the birth-place of Zoroaster, deserve honour-
able mention.
The general characteristics of the Persians contrast
favourably with those of the Turks, and both are
superior to those of the Russians. Immediately
upon entering the Russian territories the traveller
is made to feel the effects of despotic government.
Passports are everywhere demanded, and the vexa-
tions consequent upon this system in continental
Europe are increased a hundredfold. Insolence and
extortion are the salient features of official routine ;
and even a silent acquiescence in the latter, does
not protect you from the former. Near Mount
Ararat — having strayed a short distance from the
caravan, — our traveller was rudely seized by some
Cossack soldiers, who thrust her into a loathsome
" lock-up," where she was detained all night,
guarded by a sentiy who would not permit her to
move a yard ; and when, next day, her passport was
examined, and she was set at liberty, instead of
offering any sort of apology for the outrage, her
captors treated the affair as a joke, and laughed in her
face. Again : at Yalta she found herself travelling
in company with two officers in the Russian service,
and a boat was engaged by them for the mutual
accommodation of the party ; but will it be be-
lieved these " gentlemen " actually compelled a lady
to pay their shares of the consequent expense in
addition to her own ? The hire of the boat amounted
to "twenty silver copeks," and when the reckoning
was made, one of these functionaries observed in the
Russian dialect to his fellow, "I have no money, —
let the woman pay," and the other to whom the
words were addressed, turned round and informed
Madame Pfeiffer in French, that her "share was
twenty silver copeks." They, of course, did not
think she understood the Russian language, but
although she knew her position, she had no remedy,
and paid the sum demanded.
The stay of our traveller at Constantinople and
Athens was very brief. While in the latter city she
heard of the revolution at Vienna, and feeling anxious
about her family, lost no time in reaching home,
where she arrived on the 4th November, 1848, to
find her children safe and well. Here she rests
herself at present, and we should think will not
again trust her life to the accidents and dangers of.
foreign travel.
INFLUENCE OF DRESS.
PERHAPS of all the distinctions between man and
man, none strikes us so forcibly as that of dress,
because it is the most universal, and the strongest
outward sign by which we can judge of a man's
position, and more especially of the condition of his
mind, and the one that has through all past ages
been used to distinguish class from class, and sect !
from sect.
The love of rich costume and costly decorations
has descended from days, into whose internal
history our eyes can but faintly pierce, and to this,
many passages of the Old Testament even bear
testimony, when nations carried their vanity to great
extremes. Joseph's robe of many colours was a
mark of favour, and its beauty, and the distinction it
conferred upon him, and the sign of preference it
constituted excited the envy and jealousy of his
brethren. Why has the purple of Tyre and Sidon
been so famed, save for the beauty of its colour, and
the rich robes it was calculated to dye ? In Rome, in
Greece, in the East, all that was beautiful in ancient
manufacture, fine in texture, and exquisite in colour,
were gathered from every nation to conduce to the
adornment of the person. Neither emperors, consuls,
kings, nor men filling the highest stations, refused to
acknowledge the influence of dress, though as civiliza-
tion has spread, a plainer, though little less expensive
mode, prevails amongst men. The costly cloth, the
ring that flashes on the finger, the diamond stud, the
soft pliable gold chain, the watch, the fine linen, the
expensive boot, and irreproachable glove, amount in
value to almost as much as the ermined scarlet cloth,
the purple robe, the slashed doublet, the diamond-
hilted sword, of former days.
Let us journey whithersoever we will, in lands the
most famed for their arts and civilization, in countries
renowned for their intellect, in the soul-inspiring
landscape of Italy, the once proud and free Greece,
the broad prairies of America, the far backwoods, the
lone isles of the Archipelago, the vast territory of
China, and amid statesman, student, poet, painter,
sculptor, politician, savage, heathen, and mandarin,
we shall discover an innate love, different, though it
be — faint, if you will — various in its degree, but still
an innate love of external decoration and adornment.
It is one of the natural impulses of our mind, and
by no means one of the worst.
It is rarely that the abstract principle is bad, — it is
extremes that produce evil consequences.
The habit has been for men of education to affect
to look with extreme contempt upon dress ; their
minds, we are to suppose, are so occupied with the
grand questions of humanity, with high and intel-
lectual speculations, that to condescend to lower their
thoughts to the contemplation of silk and cloth,
would be for ever to injure them in the opinion of
the world, and we are furthermore to believe, if we
can bring ourselves to do so, that they wear, as a
favour to their tailor, those superfine cloths, elegant
vests, &c., which are, in reality, selected with the
greatest care and scrupulous attention to colour and
hue.
Why men should feel ashamed of those things
which conduce more perhaps than they conceive to
their influence in society, is more than we can tell.
298
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
No one deprecates more than we ourselves fastidi-
ous foppery in a man's dress. The extreme attention
to it degenerates into a vice, and betrays a mind
incapable of halting at the proper period, of judging,
in fact, correctly of anything.
There are exceptions to every rule, but we may be
allowed to say that, in general, the tone of a man's mind
may be judged by his dress, — not by its value, but its
neatness ; its choice, and the attention to a thousand
nameless niceties, which it is perfectly needless to
enumerate to those whose imaginations can readily
supply the deficiency.
It has been the custom for ages to associate with
genius and intellect a total disregard of all outward
appearance. And this people have done by building
their conceptions on a few isolated cases which occur
in every class, condition of mankind, whether intel-
lectual or the reverse, educated or ignorant. In all
the records that have come down to us of Milton,
who has ever known him except arrayed with care
and plainness, but with scrupulous neatness ? Who
has ever told us that his long hair was matted,
or ill-cared for? It would be a contradiction
in terms, to suppose a man all but divinely inspired,
pouring forth thoughts so holy, surrounded by neglect
and slatternliness ! Shakspere, too, — was it so with
him ? And Byron, the voice of whose misfortunes
and faults, of his sorrows and genius, is ever blended
together, was he not a man of scrupulous nicety,
whose mind revolted from disorder, and who was
even fastidious in his detestation of slovenliness ?
Shall these immortal spirits be brought forward to
support the imperfect theory that genius must neces-
sarily be associated with carelessness of attire ?
It seems to us that the same elevated tone which
leads the mind to contemplate the most refined and
elevated in Art or Nature, that links it with the
spirit of the beautiful wherever it is to be found, will
direct it in its every -day course, and sustain man
from contact with aught that is vulgar and coarse.
Neglect of dress, disregard of personal appearance,
argues either an ill-regulated mind, poverty, sorrow,
or deep disappointment. Indeed these are influences
under which the mind refuses all attention to out-
ward manifestation, and therefore in our remarks we
must be understood to address those who are young,
and occupying a position in society of respectability,
yet carelessly reject all regard to external appear-
ances.
A man who dresses well from real taste and choice,
will be well dressed at all times. Many persons we
meet with in society are perfectly faultless in their
costume. Indeed, in parties, and balls, and soirees,
we rarely, if ever, detect any deviation from the rules
of taste. Everything that adds to the effect is
attended to, and everything that can lessen it care-
fully avoided. But it is not in such places that we
must judge either of man or woman. Few are
ignorant of the time and pains lavished upon prepara-
tions for a ball, upon the hair, the hands, the dress,
one half of which trouble taken at ordinary time would
produce a most desirable effect. Ball-rooms must be
regarded as the beauty-shows of the season. Every one
appears in the best condition that they are calculated
to assume, and the vision of beauty tremulously
soft in the adornments of blond and lace, often
leaves an impression upon the mind never again
realized. Many indeed are themselves astonished
at the transformations that take place between the
home tea, and the period of stepping into the cab that
is to waft them to the scene of beauty, and how the
idle, lounging, unshaven, stripling with his slopping
slipper, wild hair, and doubtful-hued shirt, is con-
verted by the magic wand of vanity into the neat,
white - waistcoated, spotless. - shirted, white - kidded,'
smooth-haired, fresh, handsome young man, who is
ready to worship beauty in whatever degree it appear,
and to gracefully pace hither and thither through the
mazes of the dance, and glide spiritually about, as if
he were too ethereal ever to have had occasion to
wash his hands in his life, or comb those luxuriant
locks that glisten in the chastened light of a brilliant
assembly. Oh, hero of the ball-room ! Why waste so
much of your influence upon those perhaps you may
never meet again, who are no more to you than the
crowd against which you jostle in the street ? Why
lavish so much time, and patience, and cost, to look
well amongst a throng of which you form but an insig-
nificant a part ? Is their fleeting opinion of more
value to you than more enduring ones at home ? And
besides, if you are well dressed as others are, they do
not trouble themselves to express an opinion ; but if
you outraged, in one single respect, the laws of
society and good breeding, by venturing into the
gilded precincts of the ball-room, with your clothes
dirty, and uncombed hair, you would have each back
turned upon you, and a scornful glance from the
proud eye of beauty, in which you are so ambitious
to shine !
But you are not ashamed to desecrate the domestic
hearth by careless neglect and constant disregard of
outward appearances. There is a strong and moral
duty incumbent upon all to preserve that altar imma-
culate and pure, and this is only to be done by acting
there as you would in that world whose opinion you
dread so much. Our remarks apply to the middling
classes of society, for in the higher walks of life there
is such constant necessity for publicity, — no man's
house being his home, in fact, — that this neglect
rarely is visible. But it often happens that in a
large family any excuse is seized upon for not
dressing. No regular routine is laid down, no regular
provisions made. It seems as if our young1 people
thought, that so long as covered with something,
it matters little what the material is, or what
condition it may be in. Young geniuses especially
think it a praiseworthy eccentricity to be seen out of
elbow, with a pocket connected by a rag to the
coat, with a rough shag of hair overhanging their
brow, their nails long and untended, and their feet
encased in the shabbiest of shabby slippers. This is
the habitual order of things, but when a ball or party
arrives, or a visit is to be paid to some fair sympathi-
zing spirit (who, while courtship lasts, is gifted with
a superabundant degree of sensitiveness about per-
sonal appearances in her beloved, but is supposed to
lose it the moment the ring is placed on her finger),
— when, we say, such a visit comes round, who shall
Calculate the amount of time expended on the toilet,
the extra clean shirt, the white waistcoat, the
scrupulous bow of the cravat, which is regulated so
well that neither one end nor the other projects a hair's
breadth too much to the right or to the left, or the
labour bestowed on the locks, or the smile that
harmonizes the picture ? He slips down the stairs
with an air which seems to say, " I am perfectly in
order now, deny it who can ? " Then the hat held at
arm's length to give it the finishing touch, is so
gently, quietly suffered to descend lest its rough
contact with the pericranium should damage one of
those waving curls, which are destined to produce so
great an impression.
Does it never occur to these and such as these, that
the wife builds her hopes for the future on these
indications in the lover ? How bitter must be the
disappointment, then, when the early days of wedded
life over, she perceives the old spirit creep out, and a
careless disrespect for her opinion take the place of
the former compliance with her known, though never
expressed notions.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
299
More influence upon the heart and mind is excited by
attention to dress than by almost any material thing,
and we recommend women, as well as men, to be
careful in this respect, and to believe what we assert.
And home is the spot where its influence is most
deeply felt. Young men are bound to give it atten-
tion from the respect they owe to their mothers and
their sisters. It is their opinion, not the world's
alone, they should consult, for strangers have not a
quarter the claims upon them that these have, by
whom they are bound by every tie of love, duty, and
consanguinity. None would be more forward to
avenge a mother's or a sister's wrong than these
young men ; let them, then, show deference to their
innate sense of propriety and decorum ; let the
mother, whose greatest pride it was in their child-
hood to deck them and adorn them until they bloomed
like fresh roses round her, let her share some of the
beauty of her children, which is but too often
lavished on the world. It is the home circle that,
deny it if we will, after all, constitutes our happiness
or our misery, and by its laws we should, in a
measure, be governed, and preserve in its secret
recesses something of the spirit which leads us to
seek to please the world so much.
The vanity of men, — of it they have their share, —
should lead them to attend to these remarks, for
though they should not pride themselves on beauty,
they have a right to make the most of that peculiar
vsort which falls to their share. And we have seen a
man completely transformed by the power of neatness
and dress, from an ordinary into a very handsome-
looking person. And this by mere order and neatness,
not by rich or expensive clothing. We listen to
words which fall from the lips of an elegant orator
with far greater pleasure than we should if the same
language came from a roughly-clad and negligent
speaker. The clergy are infinitely particular in this
respect, and we single out a man in whatever place
he may be, by his style and choice of costume.
Extreme elegance is compatible with the utmost aver-
sion and dislike to foppery ; it consists in the choice
in each particular individual of what becomes him
best, as to colour, shape, and material. It is not
necessaiy that the clothes should be expensive to
produce an elegant appearance, but that the manner in
which they are put on be unexceptionable. Extreme
plainness in cut and colour is quite as distasteful as
the contrary, and serves to render a costume by no
means handsome in itself, still more objectionable.
This is not the place, however, to suggest improve-
ments of form, which must force their way, like all
other onward progresses, by small degrees. We are
now only inculcating on the minds of our young
readers the necessity of attention to themselves, of
being neat at home, as well as abroad, of desiring to
look well in the eyes of those whom it should be their
principal aim to please, and ministering a little grati-
fication to that time of life which is full of cares and
sorrows, of which the young know nothing.
We have as yet confined our remarks to men,
because we think it is more common to find neglect
of appearance amongst them than amongst women.
But there is considerable room for improvement even
here. None perhaps are more capable of judging of
the power of dress than women, — for others perceive
the general effect, while they know how that effect is
to be produced, and are careful abroad to do every-
thing that they know will minister to their beauty or
promote it. Neglect of these aids, however, is very
frequent at home, and women little know what and how-
much they lose by that carelessness. It is as impera-
tive for them to dress to please the husband, as it is
for them to adorn themselves for their lovers,
otherwise a moral deception ia practised, and if they
change, and are less anxious to fascinate his eye, they
cannot wonder that it will weary of gazing upon a
picture perfectly startling in comparison with that of
other days. Insensibly, but surely, the mind reverts
to these things, and the man reproduces his young
fancy, and asks whether his ideal beauty was not al-
ways clothed becomingly, in neatly flowing but graceful
habiliments, and admirably adapted to her. The ideal
of woman is surrounded with everything that is beauti-
ful and sweet ; we cannot associate with her anything
that is vulgar and coarse, and yet how many are
content to suffer men to do so, by appearing in their
loose, untidy morning-wrapper, ill-devised, and not
always of the freshest colour, with hair wrung into a
top-knot, or perhaps gathered into curl papers, and a
thousand things left undone, which, though if enume-
rated separately, are perhaps seemingly nothing, yet
conduce to produce a beautiful whole.
We repeat it, very little money, in these days of
cheapness, is required to make a woman well dressed.
What is chiefly wanting in England is a choice of
colour, and dispensing with all the furbelows which
hide the real harmony of the figure and face. Those
who cannot expend an unlimited amount of money in
replacing finery which is ever requiring change, to
prevent it from becoming tawdry, should select plain,
yet becoming dresses, and let their adornments
consist in flowing curls or braids, constantly pre-
served in unimpaired beauty. We have seen a face look
as pretty beneath a coarse straw bonnet, tastefully
trimmed, as ever it did beneath the finest Mechlin
lace, or Genoa velvet, or rare but exquisite chip.
We have seen a ball-room belle as beautiful in a
snowy-clear muslin made with taste, and not a single
ornament about her, as ever did one adorned with
all that is rarest in silk or lace.
The French in this one thing excel us, — there is
more uniformity in their mode of dress, — we do not
perceive the enormous gap between the lower and
middling classes that we do in England, the rags of
our country are all but unknown in France, and the
slatternly stocking or shoe of the London labourer's
wife is without a parallel in Paris. The poor are
plainly dressed there, and are, at all events, outwardly
clean and neat. Much doubtless must be traced to
the climate and wood fire. Into this part of the
subject we will not, however, enter, since it would
lead us far from our purpose, which is to impress upon
our readers the elevating influence of nicety in dress.
It is an index of a well-ordered and cheerful mind,
the sign of a cultivated intellect, of refined delicacy,
of sensibility, and a capability for appreciating what
is high and noble. The old proverb speaks volumes :
— " Cleanliness is next to godliness," and this refers as
much to dress as to anything, and let it be borne
in mind that it is far more important to carry this
golden rule into the bosoms of our homes, to work it
out between husband and wife, brother and sister,
than it is to affect it at certain times, and for hours
which swiftly pass, and when gone leave but a
transient impression on the mind. Pleasure and its
pursuit pass quickly, but it is love which endures, —
home love, which will last a lifetime, if properly
ministered to by the nameless arts which affection
prompts.
POETRY AND NEW POEMS.
MANY are the volumes of new poems which are pub-
lished in these days ; small in bulk, with abundant
margin, and modest prefaces. One publishes because
his friends have encouraged him to do so ; another
because the verses have been written, and, being
written, are published in the hope of securing the
300
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
favour of an indulgent public ; and a third because
the author is desirous of planting his foot on, at least,
the first step of the ladder which reaches up to
" Parnassus."
Looking at the number of volumes of poetry which
every season produces, one would almost be disposed
to infer that the present generation possessed a fatal
facility of verse, for how very few of such volumes
are heard of beyond the limited circle of local friends
for whose edification they have been published. How
many of them die with the advertisement of their
publication, and are no more heard of ; indeed, the
judgment of the publishers may almost be relied on as
correct, that poetry has " become a drug in the
market."
Some very eminent men bear a grudge against
poetry, and even poets themselves sometimes speak
of it in despair. Lamartine, a true poet, in one of
his last books, has not hesitated to say that there
seems to him "a sort of childishness, humiliating to
reason, in the studied cadence of rhythm, in the
mechanical chiming of verses addressed to the ear,
and which associates a delight merely sensual with
the moral grandeur of a thought, or the manly energy
of a sentiment."
And then, hear how Carlyle girds at poetry in his
last book, — his " Life of Sterling :" —
" Superior excellence in delivering, by way of Speech
or Prose, — what thoughts are in him, is the grand
and only intrinsic function of a writing man, call him
by what title you will. Cultivate that superior
excellence till it become a perfect and superlative one.
Why sing your bits of thoughts if you can contrive to
speak them ? By your thought, not by your mode of
delivering it, you must live or die. And the Age
itself, does it not, beyond most ages, demand and
require clear speech ; an age incapable of being sung
: to in any but a trivial manner, till these convulsive
agonies and wild revolutionary overturnings readjust
themselves ? Intelligible word of command, not
musical psalmody and fiddling, is possible in this fell
; storm of battle. Beyond all ages, our age admonishes
I whatsoever thinking or writing man it has, * Oh !
i speak to me some wise intelligible speech, your wise
meaning, in the shortest and clearest way ; behold, I
am dying for want of wise meaning and insight into
the devouring fact ; speak, if you have any wisdom !
As to song, so-called, and your fiddling talent, — even
if you have one, much more if you have none, — we
will talk of that a couple of centuries hence, when
things are calmer again.' "
Though we admit there is some force and truth in
this dictum, yet it is not the whole truth, but only a
very small part of it. In spite of all that the philo-
sopher may say, Poetry in the fonn of verse yet lives,
and will live for ever, even though we may not pro-
duce more than one great poet in the course of a
century. It is rooted deep in man's nature, and can-
not be uprooted ; every year sees a crop of it appear-
ing in books ; but of the poetry which never finds
vent in words, but only gets the length of a sigh, how
infinite is the amount.
We do not even despise small poets ; far from it.
They fulfil their vocation in life. They are useful in
their locality, however circumscribed that may be.
As regards themselves alone, the cultivation of poetry
is their own exceeding great reward. Even the small
poet has his audience. He does what in him lies to
scatter abroad truth and beauty ; and it is one of the
glories of poetry that its key-note is always
•Exetbwrt" It is ever showing man nobler than
circumstances ; it is a minister of beauty ; it is an
agent of virtue ; it is the music of the heart and the
home.
The form of poetry may indeed more and more
give way to prose, but the time will never arrive
when the song or the lyric will be out of date. There
always will be a large class to whom the poetic mea-
sure will be welcome. Associated with music it will
maintain its prescriptive right to tune or melody.
A few verses, conveying, in terse and harmonious
words, a sentiment we all have felt, will never cease
to please. We can carry such words about with us,
and in moments of domestic enjoyment how often do
they spring up in the memory, visiting us like old
and dear friends from the home of our childhood ;
for are not the first words that any child learns by
heart, in the form of some nursery rhyme or old
familiar song ?
We welcome poets, then, — poets of all kinds.
They are doing good, were it only that they are giving
employment to the compositor and the printer. But
many work for a higher purpose, and their thoughts
live in the minds of children, women, and grown men,
and are carried about with them through life, puri-
fying and sweetening society.
Of the many books of poetry claiming a passing
notice, "Tryphena, and other Poems, by John William
Fletcher,"* has lain for some time on our table. The
poet's confessed object is —
From theme to theme to pass away an hour,
For that is all that lies within my power.
Mr. Fletcher certainly regards his own work in a
very modest light, yet there is some fair poetry and
many sweet thoughts in his little volume. We
object, however, to the melancholy and repining tone
of the poems, — a style rather affected by young poets,
— for poetry ought to be cheerful and hopeful. But
we give the following verses, which, though not the
best in the volume, convey a healthy sentiment well
expressed : —
THE BEAUTIFUL.
The Beautiful was meant as a refining
And purifying influence, to tend
Above us, like the stars serenely shining,—
With all our secret thoughts and hopes to blend.
'Twas given, not to centre our affection
Upon itself,— the Beautiful alone,
But to be sought, and loved as the reflection
Of hidden beauty in the world unknown.
'Twas sent to elevate, to cheer, to brighten
Our earthly path, — to fan us with its wings ;
'Twas made to pass away that it might heighten
Our aspirations after higher things.
Then moxirn not for the swift decay of Beauty,
"Tis but translated to a nobler sphere ;
1 But let it urge thee on the path of duty,
And stimulate thy soul to action here.
Let it enlarge thy views, refine thy feeling,
And hallow each affection of thy soul,
So shalt thou find when death is o'er thee stealing,
Announcing that thy life has reached the goal :
A bright, complete, and glorious revelation,
Compared with which earth's fairest scenes are dull •
Life pure, immortal, and for contemplation,
The full perfection of the Beautiful !
" The Garland of Gratitude," by Joseph Dare,f is a
volume of promise. The author is a working man of
Leicester, who has gathered sorrow from experience. :
He seems to have been a hard student, too, judging
from his poems ; there' is real pith and vigour in j
them ; they breathe the full odour of the woods and j
the fields, whose beauty he has a keen eye to discern j
and to note. Especially do we admire his sonnets, !
which show a more than ordinary power. Here is a
Pickering. London.
t J. Chapman. London.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
301
sonnet, for instance, " Composed while (jetting Baby to
sleep," which every reader must admire : —
How gently sleep comes o'er thec, baby mine !
With stilly murmurings, like as bees repine ;
Upon my bosom thou hast made thy bed,
As conscious that a father guards thy head.
One little gape, one gentlp, long-drawn breath-
Gentle as fragrance breathed from flowers— and then
Thy blue eyes close, then half unfold again ;
And now they swim nway in sleep's noft death,
Hidden, like violets, underneath their leaves.
Thy limbs are quiet now, thy breast scarce heaves ;
I look upon theetill I deeply sigh,
And memory's blinding tears suffuse mine eye,
For, looking thus, T think upon the tomb
Where my lirst-born, thy sister, sleeps,— and dread thy doom.
The working-man has evidently been an admiring
reader of Elliott's poems, whose strains, we hope, still
cheer many poor men's homes. There is an occa-
sional political fervour about these poems, too, which
forcibly remind us of the clink of Elliott's racy lines.
But we admire the most, those of his verses which
speak of home, and of the joys and sorrows he has
suffered there. There is no mistaking the heart-
fervour, the true deep feeling which breathes in those
poems. Take the touching lines, for example, —
" Written under some Pencil- marks on a Slate."
Wipe not these shapeless lines away,
1'hnu mayst not haply heed them,
To me they sweetest thoughts convey
As oft I sit to read them.
The little hand that traced them o'er
In childhood's mere vagary,
Can holrt the pencil now no more, —
She's dead, my own pet fairy !
And now, not sweetest poesy
Can breathe such loved revealings,
They are a talisman to me
To wake past forms and feelings.
I see her, small and beautiful,
As when around me playing ;
Her eyes, like violets, dewy, lull, —
Her hair like sunbeams straying.
Her tiny laugh, her shout of joy,
Her mirth my care beguiling,
That might an angel's self employ,
Or set an angel smiling.
And then I think,— and is this all
That of my babe remaineth ?
This frail, this evanescent scrawl,
That thought nor word containeth.
The light curve of some passing wave,
The glow-worm's tiny glory,
Though they may not such beauty have,
Are scarce more transitory.
Yet linked to memories ever dear,
To hopes unquenched, — unfailing ;
And, might I but transfer them here,
O'er Time and Death prevailing.
We mistake much if these simple lines do not go
straight to every parent's heart who reads them.
Joseph Dare writes well ; let him go on and prosper.
LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY.
[We have great pleasure in presenting our young readers
with the following admirable story from a recently published
Volume of Tales by NATHANIEL HAWTHORNS.*]
DAFFYDOWNDILLY was so called, because in his nature
he resembled a flower, and loved to do only what was
beautiful and agreeable, and took no delight in labour
of any kind. But, while Daffydowndilly was yet a
little boy, his mother sent him away from his pleasant
home, and put him under the care of a very strict
schoolmaster, who went by the name of Mr. Toil.
Those who knew him best, affirmed that this Mr. Toil
was a very worthy character ; and that he had done
* The Snow Image and Other Tales. By Nathaniel Haw-
thorne. H. G. Bolm's Cheap Series. London.
more good, both to children and grown people,
than anybody else in the world. Certainly he had
lived long enough to do a great deal of good ; for, if
all stories be true, he had dwelt upon earth ever
since Adam was driven from the garden of Eden.
Nevertheless, Mr. Toil had a severe and ugly
countenance, — especially for such little boys or big
men as were inclined to be idle — his voice, too, was
harsh ; and all his ways and customs seemed very
disagreeable to our friend Daffydowndilly. The whole
day long this terrible old schoolmaster sat at his
desk overlooking the scholars, or stalked about the
school-room with a certain awful birch rod in his
hand. Now came a rap over the shoulders of a boy
whom Mr. Toil had caught at play ; now he punished
a whole class who were behind-hand with their lessons ;
and, in short, unless a lad chose to attend quietly and
constantly to his book, he had no chance of enjoying
a quiet moment in the school-room of Mr. Toil.
"This will never do for me," thought Daffydown-
dilly.
Now, the whole of Daffydowndilly 's life had hitherto
been passed with his dear mother, who had a much
sweeter face than old Mr. Toil, and who had always
been very indulgent to her little boy. No wonder,
therefore, that poor Daffydowndilly found it a woeful
change to be sent away from the good lady's side,
and put under the care of this ugly-visaged school-
master.
" I can't bear it any longer," said Daffydowndilly
to himself, when he had been at school about a week.
" I'll run away, and try to find my dear mother ; and,
at any rate, I shall never find anybody half so dis-
agreeable as this old Mr. Toil ! "
So, the very next morning, off started poor Daffy -
downdilly, and began his rambles about the world,
with only some bread and cheese for his breakfast, and
very little pocket-money to pay his expenses. But
he hud gone only a short distance, when he overtook
a man of grave and sedate appearance, who was
trudging at a moderate pace along the road.
"Good morning, my fine lad," said the stranger;
and his voice seemed hard and severe, but yet had a
sort of kindness in it ; ' ' whence do you come so early,
and whither are you going ? "
Little Daffydowndilly was a boy of very ingenious
disposition, and had never been known to tell a lie in
all his life. Nor did he tell one now. He hesitated
a moment or two, but finally confessed that he had
run away from school, on account of his great dislike to
Mr. Toil ; and that he was resolved to find some place
in the world where he should never see or hear of the
old schoolmaster again.
" Oh, very well, my little friend ! " answered the
stranger. " Then we will go together ; for I likewise
have had a good deal to do with Mr. Toil, and should
be glad to find some place where he was never heard
of."
Our friend Daffydowndilly would have been better
pleased with a companion of his own age, with whom
he might have gathered flowers along the roadside,
or have chased buttei-flies, or have done many other
things to make the journey pleasant. But he had
wisdom enough to understand that he should get
along through the world much easier by having a
man of experience to show him the way. So he
accepted the stranger's proposal, and they walked on
very sociably together.
They had not gone far, when the road passed by a
field where some haymakers were at work mowing
down the tall grass, and spreading it out in the sun
to dry. Daffydowndilly was delighted with the sweet
smell of the new-mown grass. But while he was
stooping to peep over the stone wall, he started back
and caught hold of his companion's hand.
302
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
" Quick, quick ! " cried lie. " Let us run away or
he will catch us ! "
" Who will catch us ? " asked the stranger.
" Mr. Toil, the old schoolmaster ! " answered Daffy-
downdilly. "Don't you see him amongst the hay-
makers ? "
And Daffydowndilly pointed to an elderly man
who seemed to be the owner of the field, and the
employer of the men at work there. He had stripped
off his coat and waistcoat, and was busily at work in
his shirt-sleeves. The drops of sweat stood upon his
brow ; but he gave himself not a moment's rest, and
kept crying out to the hay-makers to make hay while
the sun shone. Now, strange to say, the figure and
features of this old farmer were precisely the same as
those of old Mr. Toil, who at that very moment must
have been just entering his school-room.
"Don't be afraid," said the stranger. "This is
not* Mr. Toil the schoolmaster, but a brother of his,
who was bred a farmer ; and people say he is the
more disagreeable man of the two. However, he
won't trouble you, unless you become a labourer on
the farm."
Little Daffy downdilly believed what his companion
said, but was very glad, nevertheless, when they were
out of sight of the old farmer, who bore such a singu-
lar resemblance to Mr. Toil. The two travellers had
gone but little further, when they came to a spot
where some carpenters were erecting a house. Daffy-
do wndilly begged his companion to stop a moment ;
for it was a pretty sight to see how neatly the car-
penters did their work, with their broad axes, and
saws, and planes, and hammers, shaping out the doors,
and putting in the window-sashes, and nailing on the
clap-boards ; and he could not help thinking that he
should like to take a broad axe, a saw, a plane, and a
hammer, and build a little house for himself. And
then, when he should have a house of his own, old
Mr. Toil whould never dare to molest him.
But just while he was delighting, himself with this
idea, little Daffydowndilly beheld something that
made him catch hold of his companion's hand all in a
fright.
" Make haste ! Quick, quick ! " cried he. " There
; he is again ! "
"Who ?" asked the stranger, very quietly.
"Old Mr. Toil," said Daffydowndilly, trembling.
• " There ! he that is overseeing the carpenters. 'Tis
my old schoolmaster, as sure as I'm alive ! "
The stranger cast his eyes where Daffydowndilly
pointed his finger ; and he saw an elderly man, with
a carpenter's rule and compasses in his hand.
" Oh, no ! this is not Mr. Toil the schoolmaster,"
said the stranger. " It is another brother of his, who
follows the trade of carpenter."
" I am very glad to hear of it," quoth Daffydown-
dilly ; "but, if you please, sir, I should like to get
out of his way as soon as possible."
Then they went on a little further, and soon heard
the sound of a drum and fife. Daffydowndilly pricked
up his ears at this, and besought his companion to
hurry forward, that they might not miss seeing the
soldiers. Accordingly, they made what haste they
could, and soon met a company of soldiers gaily
dressed, making such lively music that little Daffy-
downdilly would gladly have followed them to the
end of the world. And if he was only a soldier, then,
: he said to himself, old Mr. Toil would never venture
j to look him in the face.
" Quick step ! Forward, march ! " shouted a gruff
voice.
Little Daffydowndilly started in great dismay ; for
this voice which had spoken to the soldiers, sounded
: precisely the same as that which he had heard every
j day in Mr. Toil's school-room, out of Mr. Toil's own
mouth. And, turning his eyes to the captain of the
company, what should he see but the very image of
old Mr. Toil himself, with a smart cap and feather on
his head, a pair of gold epaulets on his shoulder, a
laced coat on his back, a purple sash round his waist,
and a long sword, instead of a birch rod, in his hand.
"This is certainly old Mr. Toil," said Daffydown-
dilly, in a trembling voice. "Let us run away, for
fear he should make us enlist in his company ! "
" You are mistaken again, my little friend,"
replied the stranger, very composedly. "This is
not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster, but a brother of his,
who has served in the anny all his life. People say
he is a terribly severe fellow ; but you and I need not
be afraid of him."
"Well, well," said little Daffydowndilly, "but, if
you please, sir, I don't want to see the soldiers any
more."
So the child and the stranger resumed their journey ;
and, by-and-by, they came to a house by the road-
side, where a number of people were making merry.
Young men and rosy- cheeked girls, with smiles on
their faces, were dancing to the sound of a fiddle,
It was the pleasantest sight that Daffydowndilly had
yet met with, and it comforted him for all his dis-
appointments.
"Oh, let us stop here," cried he to his companion ;
" for Mr. Toil will never dare to show his face where
there is a fiddler, and where people are dancing and
making merry. We shall be quite safe here ! "
But these last words died away upon Daffydown-
dilly's tongue ; for happening to cast his eyes on the
fiddler, whom should he behold again, but the like-
ness of Mr. Toil, holding a fiddle-bow instead of a
birch rod.
" Oh, dear me ! " whispered he, turning pale. " It
seems as if there was nobody but Mr. Toil in the
world. Who could have thought of his playing on a
fiddle ! "
" This is not your old schoolmaster," observed the
stranger, " but another brother of his, who was bred
in France, where he learned the profession of a fiddler.
He is ashamed of his family, and generally calls him-
self Monsieur le Plaisir ; but his real name is Toil,
and those who have known him best think him still
more disagreeable than his brothers."
" Pray, let us go a little further," said Daffydown-
dilly. " I don't like the looks of this fiddler at all."
Well, thus the stranger and Little Daffydowndilly
went wandering along the highway, and in shady
lanes, and through pleasant villages ; and whitherso-
ever they went, behold ! there was the image of old
Mr. Toil. He stood like a scarecrow in the corn-fields.
If they entered a house, he sat in the parlour; if they
peeped into the kitchen he was there ! He made
himself at home in every cottage, and stole, under
one disguise or another, into the most splendid
mansions. Everywhere there was sure to be some-
body wearing the likeness of Mr. Toil.
Little Daffydowndilly was almost tired to death,
when he perceived some people reclining lazily in a
shady place, by the side of the road. The poor child
entreated his companion that they might sit down
there, and take some repose.
"Old Mr. Toil will never come here," said he;
" for he hates to see people taking their ease."
But even while he spoke, Daffydowndilly's eyes
fell upon a person who seemed the laziest, and
heaviest, and most torpid, of all those lazy, and
heavy, and torpid people, who had lain down to sleep
in the shade. Who should it be again, but the very
image of Mr. Toil !
" There is a large family of these Toils," remarked
the stranger. "This is another of the old school-
master's brothers, who was bred in Italy, where he
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
303
acquired very idle habits, and goes by the name of
Signor Far Niente. He pretends to lead an easy
life, but is really the most miserable fellow in the
family."
" O, take me back ! — take me back ! " cried poor
little Daffydowndilly, bursting into tears. " If there
is nothing but Toil all the world over, I may just as
well go back to the schoolhouse ! "
" Yonder it is, — there is the schoolhouse ! " said
the stranger ; for though he and little Daffydowndilly
had taken a great many steps, they had travelled in
a circle instead of a straight line. " Come ; we will
go back to school together. "
There was something in his companion's voice that
little Daffydowndilly now remembered ; and it is
strange that he had not remembered it sooner. Look-
ing up into his' face, behold ! there again was the
likeness of old Mr. Toil ; so that the poor child had
been in company with Toil all day, even while he was
doing his best to run away from him. Some people,
to whom I have told little Daffydowndilly's story, are
of opinion that old Mr. Toil was a magician, and
possessed the power of multiplying himself into as
many shapes as he 'saw fit.
Be this as it may, little Daffydowndilly had learned
a good lesson, and from that time forward was dili-
gent at his task, because he knew that diligence is
not a whit more toilsome than sport or idleness.
And when he became better acquainted with Mr. Toil,
he began to think that his ways were not so very
disagreeable, and that the old schoolmaster's smile of
approbation made his face almost as pleasant as even
that of Daffydowndilly's mother.
RICH AND POOR.
It is very easy for you, O respectable citizen,
seated in your easy chair, with your feet on the
fender, to hold forth on the misconduct of the people,
—very easy for you to censure their extravagant
and vicious habits, — very easy for you to be a pattern
of frugality, of rectitude, of sobriety. What else
should you be ? Here are you, surrounded by com-
forts, possessing multiplied sources of lawful happi-
ness, with * a reputation to maintain, an ambition to
fulfil, and the prospect of a competency for your old
age. A shame indeed would it be, if with these
advantages you were not well regulated in your
behaviour ; you have a cheerful home, are warmly
and cleanly clad, and fare, if not sumptuously, every
day, at any rate abundantly. For your hours of
relaxation there are amusements ; a newspaper arrives
regularly to satisfy your ctiriosity. If your tastes
are literary, books may be had in plenty ; and there
is a piano if you like music. You can afford to enter-
tain your friends, and are entertained in return.
There are lectures, and concerts, and exhibitions
accessible if you incline to them. You may have a
holiday when you choose to take -one, and can spare
money for an annual trip to the sea-side. And,
enjoying all these privileges, you take credit to your-
self for being a well-conducted man : small praise to
you for it ! if you do not contract dissipated habits,
where is the merit ? you have few incentives to do so.
It is no honour to you that you do not spend your
savings in sensual gratification ; you have pleasures
enough without. But what would you do if placed
in the position of the labourer ? — how would these
virtues of yours stand the wear and tear of poverty ?
where would your prudence and self-denial be if you
were deprived of all the hopes that now stimulate
you ? — if you had no better prospect than that of the
Dorsetshire farm-servant with his seven shillings a
week, or that of the perpetually-straitened stocking-
weaver, or that of the mill-hand with his periodical
suspensions of work ? Let us see you tied to an
irksome employment from dawn till dusk ; fed on
meagre food, and scarcely enough of that ; married
to a factory-girl ignorant of domestic management ;
deprived of the enjoyments which education opens
up ; with no place of recreation but the pot-house ;
and then let us see whether you would be as steady
as you are. Suppose your savings had to be made,
not, as now, out of surplus income, but out of wages
already insufficient for necessaries, and then consider
whether to be provident would be as easy as you at
present find it. Conceive yourself one of a despised
class, contemptuously termed "the great unwashed,"
stigmatized as brutish, stolid, vicious ; suspected of
harbouring wicked designs, excluded from the dignity
of citizenship, and then say whether the desire to be
respectable would be as practically operative on you
as now. Lastly, imagine that, seeing your capacities
were but ordinary, your education next to nothing,
and your competitors innumerable, you despaired of
ever attaining to a higher station, and then think
whether the incentives to perseverance and fore-
thought would be as strong as your existing ones.
Realize these circumstances, 0 comfortable citizen !
and then answer whether the reckless, disorderly
habits of the people are so inexcusable. — Spencers
Social Statics.
THE SPIRIT OF THE AGE.
A spirit of self-help lies at the bottom of all success.
Self-reliance is the backbone of all heroism of cha-
racter. The spirit to work thoroughly at whatever
has to be done, to grapple hand to hand with difficul-
ties, and strangle them instead of seeking to evade
them, is the primeval stuff out of which men and
demigods are made. But we must beware how we
allow our views to centre in ourselves ; we are none
of us alone in the world ; it is not for ourselves alone
that we work and strive. Man does much by him-
self, but all great objects have been attained when he
has joined himself with others and worked in concert
with them. Vicious as the working and as the
effects of some of these joint-stock companies may be,
still they contain a principle that will gradually re-
organize the whole machinery of society. Co-opera-
tion will gradually take the place of competition.
A great social question is opening up. The enormous
development of our material and industrial interests
has created a new order of men in this country, and,
indeed, throughout Europe. The practical repub-
licanism of trade has induced an entirely new range
of thoughts and interests, of which our fathers never
dreamed. The resources of trade have, however,
hitherto been like a rich and newly-discovered land,
where any new-comer has been at liberty to work for
his own advantage in any way he chose. Complicated
questions of conflicting interests are arising ; masters
and men, capital and labour, are beginning to stand
in antagonism with each other. It is an immense
question' that is lying before us. There will be a
struggle, the end of which none of us may live to see,
but I believe firmly that the true laws of commerce
will be laid down, and that labour will be organized
and its forces disciplined, so that their peaceful ex-
ploits will be more extended and brilliant than those
achieved by war and destruction. Side by side with
this growing antagonism of interests, there is arising
the idea of association, which will mature and develop
itself gradually, till, in the fulness of time, it will
have strength to gather together the conflicting
interests into one.— From Marian Withers, iyjftto
304
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
(ORIGINAL.)
THE S H 0 W E K.
THERE was nothing but azure and gold" in the sky,
The lips of the young rose were yawning and dry,
And each blossom appealed, with luxurious sigh,
To its neighbouring flower.
The Carnation exclaimed, " I am really too bright ;"
The Lily drawled out " I shall faint with the light ;"
And a troop of red Poppies cried out in their might,
"Let us pray for a shower."
The Myrtle-leaf said, " I'm too wearied to shine,
And the Jasmine quite languidly lisped to the Vine
" Your ringlets, I think, are more lanky than mine,"
Then sunk down in her bower.
"There is really too much of this Midsummer blaze,"
Said the Sage plant, while screening her root from
the rays ;
" The Poppies are right, though I hate their bold
ways,
We must ask for a shower."
They framed the petition, while Flora and Jove
Most attentively heard, and in fulness of love
A dark, mist-laden messenger wandered above
For a shadowy hour.
The gloom came on suddenly, — that we must own, —
And we wondered where all the world's beauty had
flown,
As the clouds gathered up and the rain rattled down
In a leaf-laying shower.
The blossoms fell pi-ostrate and pensive awhile,
Bending down to the earth in most pitiful style,
Even after Apollo reburnished his smile
With more glorious power.
But at last they stood up in their strength, one by one,
And laughed out in the face of the beautiful sun,
With a perfume and colour they could not have done
Were it not for the shower.
"It was sad while it lasted," the Mignonette said,
" To be splashed by the dust and be stretched in the
shade ;"
" Why yes," said the Stock, " but how soon we should
fade,
And grow sickly and sour,
If we grumbled and whined 'neath the gold and the
blue,
As we all have done lately, — between me and you,
I think that the very best thing we could do
Was to ask for the shower."
Now " sermons in stones " we are told may be learned,
And methinks a quick eye may have aptly discerned
That a rich draught of wisdom may often be urned
In the cup of a flower.
Come, read me the riddle, and read it aright,
All ye that have too much good luck in your sight, —
All ye that are faint iu Prosperity's light,
Just for want of a shower
Have the wit of the blossoms, and ask for no more
At the hands of Dame Fortune, in station or store,
But think it a blessing if sorrow should pour,
Or disquietude lower.
Oh ! the cloud and the rain-drop are exquisite things,
Though they dim for a season our butterfly wings,
For the sweetest and purest unceasingly springs
After a shower.
ELIZA COOK.
ANECDOTE OF THE DOG.
Of the dog we can all be eloquent ; and I could
relate " true anecdotes " of some of my canine favour-
ites that would hardly be credited. Still, with all
my success in teaching dogs to do marvellous things,
I never could teach them that when they jumped up
with dirty feet, there was an injury done to my
clothes. When they obeyed the command of " Down, |
sir !" sometimes enforced by a gentle coup de main, \
they never could reason about the "why and because."
Nor have I ever yet met with any dog; or ever heard
of any dog, that could be "argued with" on these
moral proprieties and observances. Talking of the i
memory of dogs — one of mine, " Dash " by name, was
once stolen from me. After being absent thirteen
months, he one day entered my office in town, with a
long string tied round his neck : he had broken away '•
from the fellow who held him prisoner. Our meeting
may be imagined. I discovered the thief, had him
apprehended, and took him before a magistrate. He
swore the dog was Ms, and called witnesses to bearr !
him out. " Mr. Kidd," said Mr. Twyford, " can '
you give us any satisfactory proof of this dog being
your property?" Placing my mouth to the dog's
ear, — first giving him a knowing look, — and whisper- ;
ing a little masonic communication, known to us two '
only, "Dash" immediately reared up on his hind
legs, and went through a series of gymnastic man-
oeuvres with a stick, guided meanwhile by my eye,
which set the whole court in a roar. My evidence
needed no further corroboration ; the thief stood com-
mitted, "Dash " was liberated, and amidst.the cheers
of the multitude we bounded merrily homewards.
The reunion among my "household gods" maybe
imagined. It would be farcical to relate it, nor must
I dwell upon certain other rare excellencies of this ;
same dog, with whom, and his equally sagacious
better half, " Fanny," I passed many years of happy
intimacy. — KidcVs Essays on Instinct and Reason.
DIFFICULTIES USEFUL.
It is difficulties which give birth to miracles. It is
not every calamity that is a curse, and early adversity
is often a blessing. Perhaps Madame de Maintenon
would never have mounted a throne had not her
cradle been rocked in a prison. Surmounted obstacles
not only teach, but hearten us in our future struggles,
for virtue must be learnt, though, unfortunately,
some of the vices come as it were by inspiration.
The austerities of our northern climate are thought
to be the cause of our abundant comforts, as our
wintry nights and our stormy seas have given us a
race of seamen perhaps unequalled, and certainly
not surpassed by any in the world. — Skarpe's Essays.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 350.]
SATURDAY, MARCH 13, 1852.
[PRICE
COMFOKT versus MUDDLE.
WE English folks love Comfort dearly. The word
Comfort, is said to be peculiarly English ; and un-
translatable, in its full meaning, into any foreign
language. It might almost be said of many families
—they worship Comfort. That it is their Household
god, is not saying too much.
Comfort is closely identified with the idea of Home.
At least, we English never dissociate the one notion
from the other. Abroad, the people can contrive to
live out of doors. They find pleasure in public
gardens or casinos, listening to music and sipping
coffee. In warmer climes, they sun themselves in
the streets. Half their life is in public. The genial
air woos them forth, and keeps them out of doors.
They enter their houses merely to eat and sleep. They
scarcely can be said to live there.
How different it is with us ! The raw air without,
during so many months in the year, drives us within
doors. Hence we cultivate all manner of home plea-
sures. Hence the host of delightful associations which
rise up in the mind at the very mention of the word.
Hence our household god — Comfort.
We are not satisfied merely with a home. It must
be comfortable. The most wretched are indeed those
who have no homes — the homeless ! But not less
wretched are those whose homes are without comfort —
those of whom Charles Lamb once said, — " the homes
of the very poor are no homes." And why not ? Be-
cause they are without comfort. It is Comfort, then,
that is the very soul of the home — its essential prin-
ciple— its vital element.
Comfort does not mean merely warmth, good fur-
niture, and good eating and drinking. It means
something far more than this. It includes cleanli-
ness, pure air, order, frugality, — in a word, house-
thrift and domestic government. Comfort is the soil
in which the human being grows, — not only physi-
cally, but morally also. It lies, indeed, at the root
of many virtues.
Do not think that wealth is necessary for comfort.
Luxury requires wealth, but not comfort. A poor
man's home, moderately supplied with the necessaries
of life, presided over by a cleanly, frugal housewife,
may contain all the elements of comfortable living.
Of course, there must be a sufficiency of the temporal
means to ^supply these necessaries, without leaving
any " aching void " to be filled up. But our convic-
tion is, that comfortlessness is caused, in the great
majority of cases, not so much by the absence of the
sufficient means, as by the want of the requisite
knowledge of housethrift and domestic management.
And this is a matter which women should look to.
Comfort, it must be admitted, is in a great measure
a relative term. What is comfort to one man, would
be deemed wretchedness by another accustomed to
nicer habits of living. Even the commonest mechanic
of this day would consider it misery to have to live
after the style of nobles a few centuries back ; to
sleep on straw beds, and live in rooms littered with
rushes ; without glazed windows to their apartments,
and these lit up in the evenings by a pine torch, the
wind careering through the dreary chamber. In
respect of the elements of substantial comfort, there
can be no question that the English people have
made extraordinary progress during the last few
centuries.
See the working man's cottage now, — what it is,
or what it ought to be. All tight and snug, dry and
clean ; the floor swept and sanded ; a bright fire
blazing in the chimney ; a clean, warm bed to lie in ;
books on the shelf, and flowers in the window ;
a home of contentment, taste, and comfort. That
is what every house, even the poorest man's, ought
to be.
But that is not all. Where there is comfort, there
is contentment and absence of fidget. Comfort de-
pends as much on persons as on " things." And it is
out of the character and temper of those who govern
households, that the feeling of comfort arises, much
more than out of handsome furniture, warm rooms,
or any sort of home luxuries and conveniences.
Comfortable people are kindly-tempered. That may
be set down as an invariable condition of comfort.
There must be peace, mutual forbearance, mutual
help, and a disposition to make the best of everything.
" Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a
stalled ox and hatred therewith."
Comfortable people are persons of sound common
sense, discretion, prudence, and economy. They
have a natural affinity for honesty and justice, good-
ness and truth. They do not run into debt, for that
is a species of dishonesty. They live within their
means, and lay by something for a rainy day. They
provide for the things of their own household, yet
300
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
they are not wanting, either, in a proper hospitality
and benevolence on fitting occasions. And what they
do in the latter direction, is done without ostentation
or loud talking.
Comfortable people do everything in order. They
are systematic, steady, sober, industrious. You will
never find them in a bustle of tidying-up. As they
do everything at the right time, so nothing is done
in a huriy, or "slobbered over." Take, for instance,
the Quakers, — as a class the most comfortable in
England ; really an embodiment of the highest ideas
of domestic comfort. Some think they are even too
comfortable ; and that their prim ways do not at all
accord with the notions of old George Fox, and his
"hull of leather." But we live in other times, and
have different notions; and Quakers must " progress"
like other people.
Comfortable people dress comfortably. They adapt
themselves to the season, neither shivering in winter,
nor perspiring in summer, in their efforts to toil after
a "fashionable appearance." You will find they
expend more on warm stockings than on gold rings ;
and prefer healthy, good, bedding, to gaudy window-
curtains. They do not so much care about dressing
"youthful," as to dress comfortably. Their chairs
are solid, not gimcrack. They will bear sitting upon,
though they may not be ornamental. They do not
sport " bright pokers." Their pokers are meant for
use, to stir up the fire ; and you may see how bright
the blaze is. Everything they have is convenient,
snug, comfortable, and you have pleasure in feeling
yourself in the midst of them.
But look for a moment on the other side of the
picture. What is the state of the muddlers — the dis-
comfortable ? You know of such, — everybody knows
more or less of them.
Have you never entered a house in a muddle ?
Where the smell of washing is constant ? Where the
sitting-room is in a heap of litter with " things "
mending, getting-up, or taking to pieces ? Where
dirty children are running about, falling and squalling
alternately, at all hours of the day ? Where there is
petting and dandling one moment, and scolding and
beating the next ? Where nothing is clean, nothing
mended, nothing ready, nothing done ? And in the
midst of all, there is the untidy, worn-out, distressed
housewife herself, bitter against servants, wroth against
children, astonished at husband's complaints, not
pleased at untimely visitors (who, by the way, are always
untimely at such houses), and in a constant pucker from
morn till night, because things don't go right, because
things won't go right. And the oddest thing of all
in such houses is, that the more work the more dirt,
the bigger the washings the greater the stock of dirty
clothes, the more strainings at comfort the less com-
fort there is.
A curious feature of the House of Muddle is, that
there inanimate, and elsewhere motionless, objects,
become endowed with the most wonderful powers of
locomotion; and an agency, or power, or person,
called " Nobody," whose very existence is denied in
better-regulated houses, seems to become invested with
almost supernatural powers of evil. A chair-leg has
" got broken," or a dish has "fallen down" and been
smashed, or the table has "got scratched," or a dress
has " got torn." It is always " Nobody " that did it •
or, if not, then the "things " have fallen, or broken
or torn, or scratched themselves,— altogether of their
own accord, and out of sheer spite and mischief.
A clever writer on this subject has recently pro-
duced a book entitled Home Truths for Home Peace *
which ought to be read and pondered by every house-
wife. It is full of golden truths, set off by a rich and
* Effingham Wilson : London. 1851.
pregnant humour. Here is her description of the
peculiar characteristics of the households of Muddle,
which we have above noted : — " Cups, so long as there
have been cups, have slipped out of the maid's
hands ; and this, not when she has let them go, but
whilst holding them as tight as ever she could. Glasses,
&c., are constantly falling off the edges of dressers
and of tables, although declared by competent judges
to have been far removed from such a dangerous
position, so that they have evidently moved back
again for the purpose of dashing themselves into a
thousand shivers. Other articles of fragile materials,
but less daring resolution, vary the monotony of their
existence, and assert their right to tender considera-
tion, by ' getting ' such chips, cracks, and contusions,
as no rational person could ever venture to inflict.
Nor are the harder and less sensitive portions of our
household furniture innocent of similar offences ; the
locks, which, as fixtures, are secure from injury by
falling, will nevertheless ' get hampered, ' stools ' come
unlegged,' nails 'work themselves out,' paint, varnish,
&c., 'rub off,' the best-made chairs will dislocate their
arms, the strongest tables break or distort their legs ;
whilst other objects, too cowardly for self-inflictions,
but equally perverse in spirit, will choose the very
moment when their presence would be most desirable,
to ' get lost ; ' that is to say — to hide in some out-of-
the-way corner, to which no living soul has ever had
access, and in which consequently no member of
the family would ever think of looking. * * In
the same spirit, useless, lumbering articles, always
kept at the very top of the house, will get down any
number of stairs, or flights of stairs, in order to seek
out low company in the kitchen, or to endanger the
life or limb of every inmate of the dwelling, by placing
themselves, with unblushing effrontery, in a passage.
Keys will shake off their rings, and get out of one's
very pockets to crawl beneath the hearthrug or leap
into the dust-bin. Pitchers, notoriously dry when-
ever you had approached them to obtain ' only a
drop of water,' will find out the nearest pump, and
there get filled ' too full ' — rather than lose an oppor-
tunity of watering the bed-room floors, as if mustard
and cress salads were to spring up from the carpets.
Cruets, salt-cellars, and decanters, mock the house-
wife, who is 'continually replenishing them,' by as
perseveringly discharging their contents ; while shirts
and other garments, 'put away on Saturday night
without a single stitch or fastening wanting,' and
naturally expected to be fit for wear on Sunday
morning, will actually get up again in the dead
silence of the night, and proceed to distant drawers
and wardrobes, that they may enjoy the malignant
satisfaction of pulling off each others' strings and
buttons ! That such are the common contrivances
and perversities of which most things are found
guilty, under a domestic anarchy, is asserted by all
the miscalled heads of these comfortless establish-
ments ! "
Visit the House of Muddle, and you find its char-
acter written outside, — on the door-step, on the door-
handle, on the windows, — through which you may
even discern something of the muddle that reigns
within. Knock or ring, or knock and ring, — it is
some time before your call is answered, and then, not
until after sundry shufflings and whisperings — now
near, now remote,— the noise of rushing up and then
down stairs, — the hasty opening and shutting of
drawers, wherein things 'to be "put by" are suddenly
shoved ; until at last, perhaps, a maid fresh from " the
wash," or from the work of grate-cleaning, with the
brush in her hand, or the draggled-looking mistress
herself, stands before you. You enter, stumble over
the broom or a dust-pan, surrounded by a clump of
dusters. Of course you are told, " We are so busy
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
307
with the cleaning," or " the wash," or something else.
But it always was so, at whatever time you called at
that house.
We need not proceed much further with the House
of Muddle. Its rooms are comfortless, even though
the furniture be good. The spirit of order is absent,
and the spirit of cleanliness is absent with it.
Domestic confusion pervades the parlour, the kitchen,
and the sleeping-chamber ; and when these are com-
bined in one, as in the houses of the poor, the case is
still worse. The "head" of the house has the look
of a care-worn drudge. A visit there gives you not
an atom of pleasure, but only seems to throw things
into worse confusion, from the desperate, but un-
availing attempts made to put them in order. Of
course, where there are children, matters are worse ;
but, as an Irish lady once observed, — there was no
denying that the muddle where there were young
children, was much worse ; but yet, as far as she
could perceive, a muddle where there were no children,
was never any better !
We must conclude by giving the genealogies of
the two heroines of our brief sketch — Comfort and
Muddle.
Comfort is the daughter of Order, and has descended
in a right line from Wisdom. She is closely allied to
Carefulness, Thrift, Honesty, and Religion. She
has been educated by Good Sense, Benevolence,
Observation, and Experience ; and she is the mother
of Cleanliness, Economy, Provident Forethought,
Virtue, Prosperity, and Domestic Happiness.
On the other hand, Muddle belongs to the ancient
and dishonourable family of Chaos ; she is the child
of Indifference and Want of Principle ; has been
educated alternately by Dawdling, Hurry, Stupidity,
Obstinacy, and Extravagance ; is secretly united to
Self-Conceit ; and is the parent of Procrastination,
Falsehood, Dirt, Waste, Disorder, Distraction, and
Desolation.
It would not be easy to detail in all its force the
misery which is caused by the early neglect of orderly
habits on the part of young women. It is a source,
not only of frightful unhappiness in families, but of
great public vice ; for after all, the world is made up
of those whose characters have been formed for good
or evil by the early training and example of mothers.
This is a subject, indeed, of great importance, which
those who have the education of children committed
to them, ought never to lose sight of.
THE AMBITIOUS SCHOOLMASTER.
A NARRATIVE OF SOUTH-AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
BY PERCY B. ST. JOHN.
IN one of the smaller American republics, where a
Yankee traveller travelled once for weeks in search
of a government, giving up the chase after three or
four weeks' persevering pursuit of the shadow of
authority, and where an acute down-easter was wont
every morning to put his head out of window and
cry, addressing the first passer by, there lived in a
retired and secluded village, high up in the mountains,
one Diego Arreghi, a young man of Spanish origin,
who, after a sufficiently wandering life, had settled
down as a village schoolmaster. Tolerably educated,
that is, possessed of the faculty of reading and
writing, with a slight knowledge of arithmetic, he
found himself too n^uch of a great man to con-
descend to imitate those around him, and labour at
the land, with a view to earning a livelihood. The
village in which he resided was sufficiently populous
and he remarked when first he reached it in his
wanderings exceedingly well provided with children,
in general amongst the South Americans the greatest
portion of their wealth and substance. The padre"
was a good, fat, easy man, who thought that he had
no business in the world but to preach of a Sunday,
say mass, marry and bury his parishioners. As to
giving them any enlightenment of any other kind, he
regarded it as totally out of the question, and even,
with many eminent individuals in our own time,
considered learning rather dangerous than otherwise
for the masses. Some few years back, however, a
rumour reached his ears that it was beginning to be
seriously debated by the government of the republic
whether the priests should not be compelled to devote
their spare time to infusing into the juvenile mind the
elements of education. Father Jerome was alarmed.
What were to become of all his happy hours of ease,
if after doing his duty on a Sunday, burying and
marrying such as needed his ministry, he were during
the intervals to be surrounded by a host of boys and
girls repeating their alphabet, and, worse than all,
learning to count.
Precisely at this moment Diego Arreghi came to
the village. He took up his quarters at the priest's
house, and in the course of conversation the good
father opened his heart to the traveller, and asked his
advice and counsel. Diego Arreghi reflected pro-
foundly, and at the expiration of a few minutes,
declared that the task of tuition was precisely his
forte, and that if assured of the priest's support, he
was quite ready at once to devote himself to the
establishment of a school, thus, in case of government
interference, doing away with the necessity of im-
posing such a task upon the priest. Father Jerome
folded the young man to his arms, offered him his
house and his patronage, and until his school was
tolerably productive, his table. Diego at once de-
clared it a bargain, and next day gave an order to the
monthly carrier to bring from the capital the neces-
sary elementary books. A few weeks later, Diego
opened his school, receiving at once universal sup-
port, so native is it to the human mind to seek to
know, when knowledge is placed within a reasonable
distance.
Diego was enraptured, and the curate breathed
freely. His alarm was past, nor were the inhabitants
of the village without their share of satisfaction. All
the boys from four to fourteen were already on his
list, and as they paid pretty regularly in produce, his
income was just barely sufficient to support him. He
looked around for something which at once might
enlarge his sphere of action, for Diego began to feel
ambitious already, and his eyes at once lighted on the
second and fairer half of the creation. He aimed at
teaching not only the boys, but the girls. Father
Jerome, however, who aimed at keeping him in
the village, objected that he was unmarried, and
insisted upon his taking a fit partner before he entered
upon his new duties. Diego, nothing loth, at once
acquiesced. He had not much difficulty in choosing.
He was a handsome young fellow, and held the
highest rank in the village save the priest, and the
greatest landed proprietor, who was never seen.
Remena Pedarro was the most lovely unmarried girl
in the village. Of perfect Spanish hue and character,
she added to the fire of her temperament, a gentleness
and meekness of character which rendered her,
indeed, a prize for the man who obtained her. After
a brief courtship, she agreed to have him, and
promised to qualify herself for the arduous duties of
assistant in the female department. A week later
they were married, and Remena kept her promise.
She set herself sedulously to work to study, and
being quick and intelligent, made rapid progress. In
three months she knew as much as her teacher, and
308
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
the whole of the care of the girls was given up
It was this very reflection that first roused
ambition in the mind of the schoolmaster. He felt
piqued and vexed to see his pretty little wife possessed
of whatever knowledge he himself had acquired, and
1 with very commendable ardour he set to work to
I learn more. The first time the carrier went to the
capital, he was directed to lay out a certain sum of
money at a bookstall, and in due time he brought
back, along with others, a new book published by the
librarian himself, narrating the rise of various men to
I honour and renown from nothing, beginning with
Napoleon, Cromwell, Rienzi, Washington, and ending
with the actual president of their own republic, who
had originally been a clerk in a commercial house, but
who had reached his present high position through
his rare good sense and capacity for disentangling the
finances of the country from their lamentable state of
almost hopeless bankruptcy.
Diego devoured this volume. He never went to
bed the night it came, and when Remena came at
daybreakto see what had become of him, she found him
in very light costume, a broad-brimmed hat upon his
head, and a ruler in his hand, dissolving an imaginary
senate, and instituting himself dictator in their place.
Much alarmed, for Remena really thought him mad,
she shook him by the arm, and begged him to come
to bed.
"To bed!" he cried, in the sombre tone of a
thoughtful conspirator. " I sleep no more until I
have relieved my country from her present tyrants,
and paved the way for her future happiness and
glory ! "
" But, my Diego, what mean you 1 You had
better think of the happiness of your wife and
family. As it is, you now guide all the village in
their votes at elections, surely in your position you
cannot ask more ? "
" Madre de Dios! The woman has no sense. What
boots it to lead a herd of boors by the nose, when one
feels the capacity to lead millions ? "
" But, my dear husband, to learn to lead millions,
you must first learn to govern those around you, and
to manage your own affairs. I am no politician, but
common sense teaches me what I say."
" Common sense, my dear Remena, is a fool. I
feel within me the inspiration of duty and the fire of
genius. What Pedro Naivanno has failed to do, I
will do ! "
" And what has Pedro Narvanno failed to do ? "
said Remena, inclined both to laugh and cry, for with
the instinctive good sense of her sex, she knew that
her husband, though likely to become a very good
schoolmaster, had too little stability, reason, and
knowledge, to replace the actual president in his
functions, even if he gained sufficient popularity to
be elected.
" He promised to put our finances in a good state,
to reform abuses, to diminish taxation, and he has
done nothing. I will make the same promises and
keep them."
" My dear Diego, the president, my father says,
found everything in a dreadful state of confusion, and
is unable to amend affairs, because the legislature
is unable or unwilling to see the force of his
reasoning."
" Remena, enough of this discussion ! I am sur-
prised at myself for arguing with a woman. I shall
not neglect my school; but from this hour but one
thought is mine,— the hope of succeeding in my
ambition, and rising to power and renown. Go to
bed again. Leave me to my studies."
So saying, Diego sat down, wrapped his blue cotton
shirt majestically about him, turned his back on his
wife, and was in another moment deep in the study of
his book. Remena heaved a deep sigh, for she really
loved her husband ; but instead of further irritating
his madness by opposition, went to bed. Not that
we characterize all ambition as madness, but with a
vast body of men it is nothing else. Incapable of
appreciating their own weakness, they require severe
lessons before they learn the lesson of self-denial and
self-knowledge.
Diego, in the evening after dismissing the school
an hour earlier than usual, went down to smoke a
pipe with the priest. The good father listened to him
with exemplary attention until he had done, and then
only spoke.
" Signor Diego," said he, in a grave and solemn
tone, "I have heard you speak with interest and
attention. But what think you of the strange idea
which the president has of beginning his economy by
attacking the church, reducing in his propositions our
salaries by one third, and taxing our vast landed
possessions heavily ? "
Diego saw at once the brilliant chance of success
which lay in his way, and without hesitation, replied
accordingly.
" Father Jerome," said he, "no man ever yet
succeeded without the blessing of mother church.
My first wish will be, in all things, to please and
gratify her. I decidedly am opposed to these
monstrous invasions of your rights, and on all
occasions shall be in the van to defend the faith of
which you are the eloquent expounder."
"Hail, thou future president of the republic!"
said the priest, giving him his blessing. " And now
let us lay our plan of action."
The first act of the aspirant to presidential honours
was to subscribe to a fierce opposition paper belonging
to the clergy, his next to commence a series of letters,
in which, with the aid of the priest, he laid down an
entirely new system of taxation, which was, without
pressing on the people, to suffice for the wants of the
republic, clear the debt and bring receipts and
expenditure to a level. The republic ever since its
existence, like most of those managed by the Spanish
race, had gone on borrowing at heavy interest. At
first it paid interest by means of new loans, when,
however, these ceased, the interest ceased to be paid,
being yearly added to the capital, a clever mode
of paying debts very much approved by speculative
individuals and governments. President Narvanno
had proposed to levy an income-tax on the rich until
all arrears were paid off, to reduce the number of
government officials, to tax the clergy, who possessed
more than a third of the land, and in eveiy way to
economize. He further called upon the legislature to
promote trade and commerce by every means in their
power. Diego's scheme spared the clergy, but taxed
the landed proprietors, while he proposed to clear off
the national debt by a complicated mixture of loans,
premiums, and lotteries, which people admired, be-
cause they did not understand. In a few weeks the
name of Arreghi was bruited about as the future
saviour of his country. Thanks to the priests, who
on the faith of Father Jerome's recommendation,
adopted him at once, his name flew into every corner
of the land with wondrous rapidity.
Prodigious was the satisfaction of Diego. Com-
munications poured in upon him from all parts of the
republic, men of mark and note of the church party
rallied round him, and at the end of six months a
powerful and distinguished committee was formed in
the capital to promote his election to the presidency,
while the army, which had felt the reforming hand of
the president, began to talk of Arreghi as their
candidate. Eager to procure every kind of support, he
now began to court the military power, which he de-
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
309
clared to be only second to that of the church, though
a few days later, in consequence of a communication
from certain humble functionaries of the government,
he had to declare the civil servants of the state the
most ill-used and deserving section of society.
Meanwhile, the school was abandoned to the care of
Eemena and an assistant. He kept it open, how-
ever, because it looked humble and unassuming, and
he remembered Cincinnatus, Washington, and others,
not excepting the two kings, one of ancient, and the
other of modern days who had been schoolmasters.
At the same time, he found it to his advantage, for
from all parts of the republic scholars flocked to his
establishment, and the college of Ozeyana, as it was
called, grew famous in the land. He took masters,
and became, before the end of the year, both
celebrated and rich. One day a horseman followed
by a carriage and four horses drove furiously up to his
house, an officer alighted and demanded an interview.
With a beating heart, Diego granted his request. He
came with a message from the central committee.
The critical moment had arrived, the army was in a
most discontented state, two regiments were to be
disbanded the following week, the president and his
ministers were pushing the clergy taxation bill
through the house of representatives, which still
gave him a bare majority. There was no time to be
lost. If Diego felt himself capable of leading the
nation, now was the time.
" I am I'eady ! " said Diego, with exultation.
"What are the wishes of the committee ?"
" That your excellency [Diego coloured and smiled]
will at once accompany me to the capital. Apart-
ments are prepared for you at the Hotel of
Independence. Your presence is alone wanting to
decide the people and the troops."
" In half an hour I am ready," replied the school-
master ; " Diego cannot hesitate when his country
calls."
With these words, he hastened away to put on
a full dress suit which had long been prepared for the
occasion. Kemena knew well that all remonstrance
was useless, and she contented herself, while aiding
him to dress, with addressing to him good advice,
which, in his present state of mind, was entirely
thrown away. He saw only the honours that lay
before, — a palace, guards, and all the semi-royal
array of the southern republics.
In a few minutes Diego leaped into the carriage
which awaited him, and drove off. The capital was
not very far distant, and late at night it was reached,
but not too late for the inhabitants. His coming had
been whispered about, and when he alighted at the
hotel at midnight, he was received with loud cheers
from a dense crowd. Thecommittee awaited him inside,
and rose with one accord as he entered the room.
Diego was very pale, and felt a nervous sensation
which prevented all utterance ; but he bowed affably
to all around, and then begging them to be seated,
took the chair offered him at the head of the table.
At this moment an officer entered hastily.
"Gentlemen," he cried, "the troops are being
ordered under arms, the house of representatives has
been declared permanent, and it is believed that the
president has ordered the arrest of Don Diego as
author of a tumult and sedition."
All eyes were fixed on the young man. But he
was too well read in revolutions to hesitate. He
recollected the 18th Brumaire, which made Napoleon
master of France. He was still paler than ever, and
devoutly wished himself at home beside his Remena ;
but he crushed his inmost thoughts, and spoke in a
way to force himself to be courageous.
"Gentlemen, libert}1" is insulted! I have but one
sentence to pronounce. To arms ! and let not the
sword be sheathed, until the oppressor of his country
be driven from his stronghold ! "
The astonished council, who expected not so much
energy from the pale and agitated schoolmaster,
replied with one accord, as he waved his sword in the
air, " To arms ! "
" To arms ! " shouted the people outside.
Diego went out into the balcony of the hotel.
The scene before him was both picturesque and
exciting. About ten thousand people, some armed,
some unarmed, some with torches, some with sticks,
were shouting, " Long live Diego Arreghi ! Death
to the president ! To arms ! "
"The troops ! the troops ! " shouted a voice from
both ends of the street.
The drums of two regiments were distinctly heard
coming towards the hotel. Soon their bayonets were
seen flashing in the light of the moon, while the
houses, now all illumined, added to the effect of the
scene. The dense mass of men, women, and children
stood transfixed with astonishment, the committee
stood irresolute ; but Diego knew that his supreme
moment was come, and he acted and spoke with the
desperate courage of despair.
" Stand firm, citizens and patriots ! " he cried, in a
loud and ringing voice ; " the glorious troops of the
republic will not fire on unarmed men and women."
And then, addressing the committee, " All who love
me, follow me ! "
Waving his sword, he turned back into the room,
rapidly descended the stairs, followed, with few
exceptions, by the committee, and gaining the street,
vaulted on horseback. At this instant one of the
regiments was close at hand.
" Halt ! " cried the officer in command.
The troops halted, and the drums ceased playing.
" Fellow citizens ! " cried Diego, advancing rapidly,
"you will not fire on unarmed people, on women, on
children. I am Diego Arreghi, hear my voice ! "
" Long live Diego Arreghi ! " shouted the whole
regiment, with one accord, preparing to rush forward
in confusion.
"Keep your ranks !" thundered Diego ; "your
services will be wanted to-night ! "
At this moment the other regiment gave forth
the same cry, and the people taking it up with one
accord, the revolution was virtually effected. The
committee, who now knew that Diego was their mas-
ter, stood respectfully around him, awaiting his orders.
" To the presidential palace ! " he cried.
People, committee, and soldiers obeyed his voice,
and a procession was formed. First, surrounded by a
small detachment of soldiers and by the committee,
came Diego, his face now flushed with excitement,
his heart beating violently, and every fibre of his
frame vibratiag with agitation and happiness. Then
came the troops and the people, a company of soldiers,
and a band of men and women, and so on, until the end
of the cortege, which swelled as it advanced. The grand
open place of the town was soon reached, and the
procession halted only in front of the presidency. It
was guarded by troops who, however, all joined the
insurrectionary movement, when they heard the
terrific cries of the dense crowd advancing to the
attack.
The gates of the palace flew open without an effort
at resistance, and when the victorious people entered,
the president was nowhere to be found. He had
wisely avoided meeting the first brunt of the rage of
an excited mob.
"The representatives are still in permanence, your
excellency," whispered one of the committee to
Diego.
" Let a deputation go bear them the will of the
people," replied Diego, gravely.
310
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
The committee-man bowed, and in a few minutes a
party of influential men, backed by a battalion of
infantry, marched upon the palace of the representa-
tives of the people. They found it abandoned by the
personal friends of the president, and were accordingly
received with enthusiasm. Loud and long-continued
cries warned them from outside what they had to do,
and after a few minutes given to reflection, a member
proposed, and another seconded, that Diego Arreghi
was deserving the thanks of the house as the saviour
of his country, and that the late executive, having
abandoned its post, they declared Diego Arreghi
dictator of the republic, commander-in-chief of its
military forces, until such time as he could be legally
elected president by the people.
Diego received the news with inward pride and
exultation. He thanked the committee, and ex-
pressing his intention to hold a grand reception the
next day, dismissed all the company, after requesting
the leader of the church party to form a cabinet,
which he would meet at twelve o'clock the next day.
When Diego retired to rest, in a room, every door of
which was guarded by sentries, the town being still con-
sidered to be in a state of insurrection, he began to ask
himself if all this was a dream. He was easily per-
suaded, however, that it was all real, and his next
thought was how to keep what he had gained. Diego
knew as well as any one the immense difficulty of ful-
filling all his promises. He had engaged to please all
parties, and this he could only do by leaving things as
they were, while he knew that the troops, to be kept
in good humour, must be paid their arrears of salary.
He became so uneasy as he lay, that he rose from his
bed, and called one of the sentries.
" What does your excellency require ? " said the
soldier, respectfully.
" I wish the principal clerk of the treasury to be
found and sent to me immediately," said the dictator,
thoughtfully. " I cannot sleep until I know our real
position."
In ten minutes, the clerk, who was making up
his accounts in a room at no great distance, with
a conscientious desire to leave as little trouble to his
successor as possible, arrived. His mien was respect-
ful but a little uneasy.
" Close the door and sit down," said the president,
himself taking a chair. " I wish to know what funds
you have in hand ? "
" We have not a dollar ! " replied the clerk ; " the
last ten thousand went to pay some arrears due to the
soldiers, while, so short have we been, that the
president has drawn no salary since his election, and
every civil servant has six months' pay due to him."
The newly-elected dictator looked blankly at the
clerk, and then mused profoundly. He knew well
that he could not safely apply either to the army, the
church, or the civil service, while he could not
decently apply to the people at that stage of his early
popularity. The only class he had made no pledge to
was the rich landed proprietary, and these he resolved
should at once fill the empty coffers of the state. He
suddenly turned round to the clerk.
" Sit down and write me out a list of all the rich
proprietors in the republic, of those who pay most
taxes."
The clerk made out a list of all persons having an
income from land of more than five hundred a year.
When he had done, he read their names to the
president, who at once dashed off a decree declaring
the empty state of the country's coffers, the necessity
of meeting the current expenses of the government
the inability of the poor to pay, the impossibility of
waiting for his loan scheme, which would take time
and levying a tax of five and twenty per cent, on all
the landed proprietary. When, next day, this decree
was presented by Diego for the signature of the new
ministry, they hesitated, but the dictator knew that
he had the support of the troops, and he insisted.
The ministry yielded, and the decree appeared, with
a clause ordering the confiscation of all land, tlie
proprietors of which neglected to pay within the
delay of one month, with an abatemement of five per
cent, to all who paid within a week. Dire was the
consternation of the majority of the legislative
assembly, composed chiefly of landlords, but they
said nothing, and the decree was unanimously ap-
proved by that body. Money flowed into the
treasury with considerable rapidity, leaving it,
however, if possible, faster still. The troops re-
ceived their arrears, the officials were paid off, and
the national creditors received half a quarter's
dividend, the first for seven years.
Meanwhile Diego had sent for Itemena, who came
with alacrity, and could not refrain from a movement
of pride, as she saw the brilliant height to which her
husband had risen. She knew nothing of the hollow-
ness of the foundation on which he stood ; but
assumed the position of the president's lady with the
quiet good sense which was native to her. She was
much liked, and before long was as much loved
as her husband was feared. Diego became morose,
moody, and fierce. At the end of three months
the funds were exhausted. The troops began again
to murmur, the civil servants were once more in
arrear, the creditors of the republic, roused by the
half quarter's dividend, became clamorous, while not
one offer came to take up the proposed loan. It was
impossible to double the tax on the landed pro-
prietors. Fifty per cent, was rather too much. True,
there was the church, which was rich both in land and
precious metals ; but Diego felt not strong enough
yet to brave the anger of this powerful co-operate
body. It is true, that when present at great public
ceremonies, he looked with avidity at the prodigious
display of plate on the altars and elsewhere ; but he
was too new in his post to lay violent hands on all
this wealth. He knew not, therefore, what to do,
his ministers declared, that in presence of his
superior wisdom they could not advise, and all his
hopes were centred on an agent he had sent to
London to endeavour to negociate his famous loan.
At last the agent returned with the information that
the English were certainly very much disposed to
risk their money in foreign loans, but that they felt
very little confidence in a republic so easily re-
volutionized.
Diego was now desperate. The claimants on the
treasury became daily more clamorous, and the
president knew not what to do. The troops mur-
mured, and began to assume a threatening aspect.
They asked for money, and Diego promised to pay
them in a month. One evening Diego sat in his
private cabinet, with Remena by his side, turning over
every expedient which his mind could suggest to get
out of his difficulty. No idea came for some time.
At last, however, it occurred to him that a tax upon
the rental of houses might furnish a temporary
expedient, — a means of gaining time. At this
moment a terrible rumour broke out in the square.
" What means this noise ? " said Diego, addressing
Kemena.
"Hark ! " she cried./
"Long live Narvanno ! Death to Diego, the
oppressor of the people ! Down with the stupid
dictator ! "
Diego stood before his wife the picture of helpless
astonishment and surprise.
"My God ! " cried his devoted wife, "my Diego,
they will murder you ! "
"My Remena," he exclaimed, sinking in his chair,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
511
"you were right, my dearest love. I was very
wrong. I was meant not to govern men, but boys ! "
"My husband, my love," said his wife, in a tone of
deep emotion, " that is noble, that is worthy of you !
A man who owns his faults is excused — '
" And forgiven ! " said a deep earnest voice, at the
door of the room.
Both turned to hear who spoke. It was a middle-
aged man, with massive brow, premature grey hairs,
and a sweet, soft smile which gave to his face, an
expression of the most winning character.
"President Narvanno ! " exclaimed Diego, who
recognized him at once from his portraits.
" Yes, President Narvanno," replied the other,
quietly • " but fear nothing. I have not come back to
revenge my overthrow, but to resume the reins of
authority placed once more in my hands by the house
of representatives. Citizen Arreghi, until within an
hour, you were the legal possessor of power, the
senate has thought fit to remove you. I believe you
a good patriot, obey its decree, and all is said. '
"Let us return to Ozeyana," said Remena, with a
look of deep gratitude at the legal president, " if our
school fail us, I have a bit of land."
" Nay," exclaimed Narvanno, " you may do
nothing of the kind, madame. Let your husband
freely resign his authority — "
" Death to Arreghi ! " cried the mob outside.
" I resign it ! " said Diego, in a tone of deep
dejection.
"And I guarantee his life and liberty. The
principal of the metropolitan college is about to
retire ; I request your husband to take his place."
" Generous man, I am not fit for it ! " cried Diego,
down whose pale and care-worn cheeks the tears now
poured.
"You are," said the president. "You were mis-
taken, when you supposed that with your inexperience
you could govern a nearly bankrupt coxmtry ; but I
shall yet live to see you the legal president of the
republic ! "
Diego looked at his wife, she nodded assent, he
acquiesced also, and the next morning early a decree
of the senate appeared, announcing that the extra-
ordinary circumstances under which Don Diego
Arreghi had been declared dictator having ceased, he
had patriotically resigned his power into the hands of
Don Pedro Narvanno, and accepted the principality
of St. Juan College. Thus ended the second
revolution of the young republic, both without the
shedding of one drop of blood.
The termination of our narrative may perhaps
surprise our readers. Diego Arreghi devoted himself
from that hour seriously to the study of politics. He
found that statesmen are rarely improvised, he
inquired narrowly into the causes of distress and
disorganized finances, he compared the systems in
prosperous states and impoverished ones, and when
created by the president a senator, became one of his
most sensible and useful advisers. After the lapse of
sixteen years from the hour of his youthful attempt
at revolution, he was elected president by an over-
whelming majority, though he had formally declined
the honour of the position. But all now knew that
the man was changed ; study, reflection, and thought,
had given him fitness for the post, the affection of his
wife, and the sight of his many children warned him
against adventurous experiments, and the republic
actually owes to him relief from its pecuniary
difficulties. Proper ambition is a very noble and
pi aise worthy feeling ; but many youthful aspirants
for high places might, in most countries, take a
lesson from this history of the present president of a
South American republic, once "The Ambitious
Schoolmaster."
A PENNY A DAY !— WHAT IT CAN DO.
A PENNY a day is a very small sum, — only the price
of an ordinary glass of beer or half the price of a
good glass of stout. You would scarcely expect to
get much for a penny a day, — or that for so trifling
an amount, you can get anything worthy of con-
sideration.
But everything depends upon hoio the penny is
spent. Spend it on a glass of beer, and what do you
get ? Why, the pleasure is gone almost as soon as
the beer is imbibed. You get next to nothing for
your money.
Let us see, however, what a penny a day, thought-
fully expended, will do towards securing a man's
independence, and providing against poverty and
want.
But can it do anything worthy of notice in this
way ? You shall see.
We take up a prospectus and tables of a Provident
Society, intended for the use of those classes who
have a penny a day to spend, — and these include
nearly all the working classes of this country. It is
not necessary we should specify any particular
society, because the best all proceed upon the same
data, — the results of extensive observations and
experience of health and sickness, — and their tables of
rates, certified by Government actuaries, are very
nearly the same.
Well, then, looking at the tables of these Life and
Sickness Assurance Societies, -yhat can a penny a
day do ?
1. For a penny a day, a man or woman of twenty-
six years of age, may secure the sum of ten shillings
a-week payable during the time of sickness for the
whole of life.
2. For a penny a day (payments ceasing at sixty
years of age), a man or woman of thirty-one years of
age may secure the sum of £50 payable at death,
whenever that may happen, even though it should be
the week or the month after the assurance has been
effected.
3. For a penny a day, a young man or woman of
fifteen may secure a sum of £100, the payment of the
*b*enny a day continuing during the whole of life,
but the £100 being payable whenever death may
occur.
4. For a penny a day, a young man or woman of
twenty may secure an annuity of £26 per annum, or
of 10s. per week for the whole of life, after reaching
the age of sixty-five.
5. For a penny a day, — the payment commencing
from the birth of any child, — a parent may secure the
sum of £20, payable on such child reaching the age
of fourteen years.
6. For a penny a day, continued until the child
reaches the age of twenty-one years, the sum of £45
will be secured, to enable him or her to begin
business, or start housekeeping.
7. For a penny a day, a young man or woman of
twenty-four may secure the sum of £100, payable on
reaching the age of sixty, with the right of with-
drawing four-fifths of the amount paid in, at any
time ; the whole of the payments to be paid back in
event of death occurring before the age of sixty.
Such is the power of a penny a day! Who would have
dreamt of it ? Yet it is true, as any one can prove by
looking at the tables of the best Assurance Offices for
the Working Class. Put the penny a day in the bank,
and it accumulates but slowly. Even there, however,
it is very useful. But with the assurance office, it
immediately assumes a vast power. A penny a day
paid in by the man of thirty-one, is worth £60 to his
wife and family, in the event of his dying next month
312
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
or next year ! It is the combining of small savings
for purposes of mutual assurance, by a large number
of persons, that gives to the penny its power in such
cases.
The effecting of a life assurance by a working man,
for the benefit of his wife and children, is an
eminently unselfish act. It is a moral, .as well as a
religious transaction. It is "providing for those of
his own household." It is taking the right step
towards securing the independence of his family,
after he, the breadwinner, has been called away.
This right investment of the pennies is the best proof
of practical virtue, — the honest forethought and
integrity of a man. Though too little thought of,
the duty of saving, and making frugal investments
out of the odd pennies, is an incumbent obligation on
a man who has voluntarily undertaken the responsi-
bilities of a family. The true use of money is to
spend it frugally, and to save it wisely : —
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train attendant,
But for the glorious privilege
Of being INDEPENDENT !
HE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS,
STANZAS.
A GENTLE heart went forth one day- -
As mauy another heart has done —
To take a strands and friendless way,
And walk the mazy world alone.
It had no shield, no help, no guide,
And soon that heart began to find
Rude foes come jostling side by side —
Darkness before, despair behind.
The beggar's rags that wrapped it round
Met but the glance of bitter scorn ;
And all the earth seemed desert ground,
Where nothing flourished but the thorn.
It journeyed on its pilgrim road,
'Twixt barren waste and gloomy sky,
And sunk beneath Oppression's goad
To bleed unseen — to break, and die.
The haggard ghosts— Want, Pain, and Care-
More fiercely laughed, more closely pressed ;
And all the wild fiends gathered there
That seek to hunt down life and rest.
It chanced young Love came by just then —
Love wanders at all times and seasons :
He travels how he will, and when, —
He asks no leave, he gives no reasons.
He saw the heart, and bent above
The cheerless thing with whispered word,
And whatsoe'er the tidings were,
The heart revived at what it heard.
" A vaunt ! " cried Love, " I'll shed a light
To scare ye all, ye demon crew ;
And Poverty, thou beldam sprite,
For once I'll try my strength with you."
To work he went— a pile was reared—
Such fingers work with magic charm,
And soon a brilliant flame appeared,
Twas Love's own watchtire, strong and warm.
The heart grew bold beneath the rays,
Its pulse beat high, it bled no more-
It had fresh hope, and dared to gaze
On all from whom it shrunk before.
It dared to smile, it dared to scoff
At squalid Want and weeping Woe :
While Pain and Care Avent farther off,
And grim Despair packed up to go.
And thus it is the soul may smart
Beneath all ills that goad and tire,
But bravely rallies when the heart
Is guarded by Love's beacon fire.
MY MURRAY PLAID.
MY Murray plaid, my Murray plaid,
I love thee, though vain tongues have said
That thou art all unfit to be
So praised, so worn, so prized by me.
Wise men have ever shrewdly guessed
That plainest friends are oft the best ;
'Tis so— my silks and lustres fade,
But thou'rt unchanged, my Murray plaid.
There was no colour, gay or light,
To lure and fix my wandering sight ;
But darkened shades of myrtle green,
Parted with sombre black between ;
The lines of purple deeply spread,
Right-angled with the stripes of red.
These, these were all the tints that made
The charms about my Murray plaid.
How soft and full the foldings lie,
In close and clinging drapery ;
Satin or velvet, one and both,
Are harsh beside the woollen cloth.
Thou'rt fashioned with a goodly taste,
High wrapping corsage, girdled waist,
And snowy collar, smoothly laid,
Looks well upon my Murray plaid.
The clouds are dark, the roads are wet,
The glass at " stormy " firmly set ;
And none dare brave the threatened rain,
Lest valued garments gather stain ;
But I, well muffled, — thanks to thee,
My darling dress, — can wander free :
The roughest journey may be made
In " double soles " and Murray plaid.
The petted hound, all joy and play,
Forgets 'tis a November day ;
And, leaping up with bounding zeal,
Heeds not what mud-strokes ho may deal.
"Tasso, get out !" and "Down, sir, down ! "
Echo with many a chiding frown,
Till, fondly safe, his paws are laid
Upon his owner's Murray plaid.
Full oft my roving limbs oppressed
Would turn to seek a place of rest ;
And soon the welcome ease is found
Oa dusty stile or mossy ground !
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
313
The ridge of chalk, — the pile of clay.—
The gravel bank, — the ruin grey, —
Tis all the same in sun or shade,
For nought can spoil my Murray plaid.
When pleasure rules the festive night,
Crowned with her garlands briefly bright,
And bids her worshippers appear
In laughing mood and rainbow gear,
Oh, how I grieve to throw aside
Comfort's old garb for that of Pride !
How long the moment is delayed
That sees me change my Murray plaid !
I shun the world — I cannot bear
The worldling's greeting, worldling's stare-
And placed among them, soul and eye
Grow strangely haughty, strangely shy ;
I'm happier far when I can find
The few, the genial, and the kind ;
Whose warm fond spirits are betrayed,
And welcome me in " Murray plaid."
That world may smile above my song —
But thou hast served me well and long ;
And, somehow, mine's a foolish heart,
That, once endeared, 'tis hard to part.
Let ladies sneer, and dandies scoff,
I cannot, will riot fling1 thee off ;
And wonder not if I'm arrayed
On wedding-day in Murray plaid.
THE FUTURE.
IT was good, it was kind, in the Wise One above,
To fling Destiny's veil o'er the face of our years,
That we dread not the blow that shall strike at our love,
And expect not the beams that shall dry up our tears.
Did we know that the voices now gentle and bland
Will forego the fond word and the whispering tone ;
Did we know that the eager and warm pressing hand
Will be joyfully forward in " casting the stone :"
Did we know the affection engrossing our soul
Will end, as it oft does, in madness and pain ;
That the passionate breast will but hazard its rest,
And be wrecked on the shore it is panting to gain :
Oh ! did we but know of the shadows so nigh,
The world would indeed be a prison of gloom ;
All light would be quenched in youth's eloquent eye,
And the prayer-lisping infant would ask for the tomb.
For if Hope be a star that may lead us astray,
And "deceiveth the heart," as the aged ones preach ;
Yet 'twas Mercy that gave it, to beacon our way,
Though its halo illumes where we never can reach.
Though Friendship but flit, like a meteor gleam,
Though it burst, like a moi-n lighted bubble of dew,
Though it passes away, like a leaf on the stream,
Yet 'tis bliss while we fancy the vision is true.
Oh ! 'tis well that the future is hid from our sight ;
That we walk in the sunshine, nor dream of the cloud ;
That we cherish a flower, and think not of blight ;
That we dance on the loom that may weave us a
shroud.
It was good, it was kind, in the Wise One above,
To fling Destiny's veil o'er the face of our years,
That we dread not the blow that shall strike at our love,
And expect not the beams that shall dry up pur tears.
LAMP-LIGHTING ; OR, GLIMPSES OF
POETRY.
BY TWO STUDENTS.
LIGHT FOR LABOUR.— II.
There is a fourth period of poetic life, a fourth
age of civilization, — the Philosophic, — in which the
spirit of man, and of mankind, attains its full
development, when it aspires to the comprehension
of pure intelligence, and to purely intellectual
communion. The taste is no longer pleased by
affluence of fancy, but seeks rather lucidity of
understanding and simple expression, or that the
least disguised by colouring or ornament. Beauty
does not less attract, or truth influence, but all
which is accidental in the manifestation of them is
put away, or carefully subordinated to what is
essential. Spirit cannot speak to spirit, so long as it
is clothed in clay, otherwise than through a sensuous
medium. Language, which is nearest to a purely
intellectual, is also the most largely and fully ex-
pressive manner of communication, and, as such, is
the philosophic utterance. Thus in the life of the
Poet and of civilization are eras of a tendency
progressive to the development of the intelligence.
These eras are the inches that comparatively mark
the height to which it has attained. The standard
is pure spirit.
We have reached this fourth age of a civilization :
our poetic intelligence is in the course of being
developed in the fullness of philosophy. Yet it will
appear sufficiently evident, that since in every period
many generations are together in the world, so are
there as many ages of mind, as many periods of
civilization together in society ; hence there will be so
many schools of Art. The youthful spirit will use
action, that of early manhood the imitative arts,
those of more mature ages music, eloquence, poesy,
philosophy. And though it may be true to say,
generally, that that age, or that class of spirits, which
aspires to the comprehension and speech purely
intellectual, has reached the highest elevation ; it
would not be just to apply such rule to individuals,
as, in reality, it would not hold good. It will
depend, firstly, upon individual organization ;
secondly, upon education, — upon the sphere in
which the child moves, and the influences under
which he is brought in youth ; and lastly, on the
circumstances of his countiy and position, to deter-
mine the form he will employ to express himself most
fully or to most effect.
The Poet appears to be a necessity to society.
What the odour of flowers is to the common food-
producing field, poetry is to the factories of artificial
supply. We must believe in, even where we do not
comprehend, its utility ; knowing that what natu-
rally is, ought to be. Communion with Nature is
essential to man : when he ceases to feel it so, he
most of all requires it ; for this apathy that succeeds
the dull, dead ache of constant want is the fore-
runner of moral inanition. When circumstance
comes between Man and Nature, it is the function
of Art, their offspring, to re-connect them through
her hold on both, that so man may not be deprived of
the vivifying current or emotion and sympathy,
which gives life to the brain, and motion to the
heart. Of this the Poet is made conductor ; and not
314
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
that only. For what Sabbath-rest amongst the
influences of the country, " where living waters flow,
and birds fly freely away into the fields," are to the
murky toiler who can go thither to be purified,
refreshed, enabled, is the magic land of poesy, —
"the sabbath-land of life," to the many who cannot.
And the Poet stands, waiting missioned to lead them
With a gentle hand
Into the land ot the great departed, —
Into the Silent Land !
Not alone to listen to the rippling of rivulets, or to
lie beneath the shade of trees, but to drink of the
flow of fervent feeling, to share the elevating
influence of large ideas, to enjoy the fruition of
suggestive thought : not to be delighted by the hues
and scents of grass-grown flowers only, but with
the odours and colours of those born of the " red
earth :"—
FLOWERS.
Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day ;
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining ;
Buds that open only to decay.
Brilliant hopes ! all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gaily in the golden light ;
Large desires, with most uncertain issues, —
Tender wishes, blossoming at night.
These in flowers and men are more than seeming ;
Workings are they of the self-same powers,
Which the poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself and in the flowers.
When the heart, social or individual, sinks for want
of the great thought, with which Goethe said man
needs to be refreshed every day, and often, child-
like, unknowing its want, it is the business of the
Poet to supply it, — to renew upon the highways
of existence, the ancient charity, — to set a seat and
a drinking-vessel at every spring of pure emotion.
Is not this good work ? Is not the Poet's a man-
worthy mission ? " To enjoy is Wisdom," said Saadi ;
"to cause enjoyment is Virtue."
THE LAMP UNDER THE STARS AND STRIPES.
"E PLUBIBUS UNUM."
The Poet is the master-spirit of eveiy age : he is
teacher and guide : his thought and sentiment are
the thought and sentiment of his time. The Poet of
our age is a philosopher. The tongue of philosophic
art is dead to the multitude, yet it is universal,
since in all parts it speaks to the few who influence
the many ; and its interpreters are — mostly Poets
also, — artists of rhythm, architects in works that
time dignifies without destroying, sculptors of forms
that niche themselves, unsoiled and unharmed, within
the ingle-nook and on the narrow stair, painters of
pictures to both eye and ear, harmonists in strains
that need no painful science to interpret, songsters
with whom the young "heart sings with joy," and
the old becomes less sorrowful, actors in the' great
drama in which all are blent. Where the spectator
sees science, the interpreter discovers poetry, as the
clock which is but a time-teller to the one, becomes a
tale-teller to the other : —
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ;
And from its station in the hall,
An ancient time-piece says to all, —
" For ever— never ! Never— for ever !
Halfway up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas !
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,
" For ever — never ! Never — for ever ! "
By day its voice is low and light ;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say, at each chamber door,
" For ever — never ! Never — for ever ! "
Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth ;
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,—
" For ever — never ! Never — for ever ! "
******
By the work of many hands the well is dug, and
the philosopher comes and fills his buckets there, and
goes his way, bearing yoke and burden to the market-
place. There others are waiting to take up his load,
— to fill their pitchers and carry the pure water into
the streets and lanes and alleys of the crowded town ;
where we, rich and poor, drink it to refreshment.
The philosophy of our age is thus retailed in rhythm,
— sometimes carelessly and awkwardly spilled out,
but, on the whole, doing good service to society.
Much might be better and much worse distributed :
we take it as we find it.
The master-thought at present is the dignity of
toil, its sentiment brotherly love ; the purpose of its
work to elevate the toiler, to better the brother.
And this the rhythmic Poet has endeavoured to work
out, by showing the poetical aspect of daily doings,
of common workings. He walks the way of life,
Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the
soil,
The nobility of labour, the long pedigree of toil.
Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers
of poesy bloom
In the forge's dust and cinders,— in the tissues of the loom,
teaching the lessons which spring up to him at every
step, and teaching them best, wlien he has taken
them to his own heart first : —
TO A CHILD.
Still let it ever be thy pride
To linger by the labourer's side ;
With words of sympathy or song
To cheer the dreary march along,
Of the great army of the poor,
O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor.
Nor to thyself the task shall be
Without reward, for thou shalt learn
The wisdom early to discern
True beauty in utility ;
As great Pythagoras of yore,
Standing beside the blacksmith's door,
And hearing the hammers as they smote
The anvils with a different note,
Stole from the varying tones, that hung
Vibrant on every iron tongue,
The secret of the sounding wire,
And formed the seven-chorded lyre.
To an all but exclusive devotion to this moral aim,
we are indebted for the best works of one of the
latest schools of art, — the American. Professor
Longfellow, from whose writings we have taken all
our illustrations, is, in this respect, eminently deserving
of commendation. We have taken him to represent
the high fulfilment of the poetic mission in our days,
and still further, the school that has arisen to the
working out of this religiousness of intention. He
has seemed to recognize fully his vocation as Poet ; the
Tongues of the dead, not lost,
But speaking from death's frost,
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
315
did not appeal vainly to him ; he " thanked God
he was a Poet, and has been true to the ' vision and
faculty divine ' he feels within him." He has " never
forgotten nor undervalued his vocation." And hence
the dark places of Nature become warm and brilliant
in his presence, and her mute voices sing to him,
j who, sun-like, sheds new light upon her.
There plainly is in the works of this school a want
of national characterization. That the heart of a
people may live in its literature, that literature must
be the home of its habits and affections ; and a home
must have, unmistakeably, all the signs of home in and
around it. Abode in a lodging-house, where one has
to look at the number of the door, to make sure of
entering his own room, is rarely approached with the
same feelings, never cleaved to with the like tenacity,
as is the isolated country-place, of which every feature
marks individuality of ownership. And American
poetry, taken in the aggregate, is not more the
dwelling of the great nation's customs and thinkings
than the lodging-house life of certain of its classes is
a true representative of the domestic life of its
people. Apart from its translations, those immi-
grants of song, pleasant as familiar faces met in their
adopted country to those who knew them in their
own, which from their number and power form a
valuable portion of the poetic subjects of the States,
(we have cited one, " The Two Locks of Hair," from
the German of Pfizer), we have traits of all its
great component nationalities, but no American unity.
We have first the Africo-American : —
THE SLAVE'S DREAM.
Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand ;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand ;
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep
He saw his native land.
Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed ;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode,
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain road.
He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand ;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand !
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids,
And fell into the sand.
And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank ;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,
And with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion's flank.
Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew ;
From morn till night, he followed their flight
O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view.
A night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyaena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream ;
And it passed like a glorious roll of drums
Through the triumph of his dream.
The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty,
And the blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day ;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away.
The goad and the grave are all that America can
claim, — the scenery is African, the sentiment univer-
sally human. It is rare to find language so picturesque.
We have the Negro - American, where the slave
himself is made to speak. It is of great promise ;
the humour and pathos of unspoiled popular feeling
are perceptible through the features of their dia-
lect :—
MAE.
A Street Ballad.
We sat beneat de spreadin trees for many happy hours,
We heard de singin ob de birds, and watched de fairest
flowers ;
And den in our little boat we sailed about de bay, —
Oh ! wasn't it a happy time, — de time I courted Mae ?
Dearest Mae ! you're lublier dan de day ;
Your eyes are bright, we need no light when de Moon
am gone away !
In "The Burial of Minnisink," rendered familiar
by repeated publication, we have the Indo-American.
We have the French-American in " Evangeline," a
poem which is not so well known as it deserves to be. j
We regard it as a perfect pastoral, the true is what j
may be true — (le vrai est ce qui peut I'etre) — an oak- !
opening letting in the light of heaven on "the j
forest primeval," and bringing from its soil the
freshness of primeval feeling, revived with the long-
buried joys and sorrows of the " simple Acadian
farmers, who dwelt by the basin of Minas," — •
Dwelt in the love of God and man ; alike were they free from
Fear that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the voice of re-
publics.
Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their win-
dows,
But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their
owners ;
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abun-
dance.
We have the German- American, as instanced in
"God's Acre." The Celtic immigrant bearing with
him the strong imagination and national sentiment of
his race, cannot fail to give rise to the Celtic-
American ; but as yet no native poet has, to our
knowledge, taken the Celt to " blend him with his
line ;" and the old country is still too near to the
heart of the immigrant to permit him to blend the
American with his. We have seen some excellent
pieces by Irish in America ; but these are purely
and unmistakeably Celtic, as in this, by an anonymous
poet : —
MEMORIES.
T left two loves on a distant strand,
One young, and fond, and fan-, and bland ;
One fair, and old, and sadly grand, —
My wedded wife and my native land.
One tarrieth sad and seriously
Beneath the roof that mine should be ;
One sitteth, sibyl-like, by the sea,
Chaunting a grave song mournfully.
A little life I have not seen
Lies by the heart that mine hath been ;
A cypress wreath darkles now, I ween,
Upon the brow of my love in green.
The mother and wife shall pass away,
Her hands be dust, her lips be clay ;
But my other love on earth shall stay,
And live in the life of a better day.
Ere we were born my first love was,
My sires were heirs to her holy cause ;
And she yet shall sit in the world's applause,
A mother of men and blessed laws.
I hope and strive the while I sigh,
For I know my first love cannot die ;
From the chain of woes that loom so high
Her reign shall reach to eternity.
At the first reading of this last verse, we were
rather startled by the figure, — "a chain of woes
looming," and were tempted to pronounce it ridicu-
lous, having taken the word " chain " in its direct
meaning. Second readings offer second thoughts ; —
316
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
a mountain-chain does loom, and woes do overshadow
even the hills, — " The green hills of holy Ireland ! "
We found it was we were at fault. We are,
doubtless, slow of apprehension, but we say, never-
theless, that writers ought, for their own sakes, to
avoid, as much as possible, ambiguity of expression.
For one must first become greatly famous before he
gains anything from misconception.
JEAN PAUL RICHTER.
ENGLAND has had no such writer yet as Jean Paul.
The Germans style him Dcr Einzige, "The Only,"
and he is so in truth. There are many strong points
of difference between English and German writers
generally. Our writers,— take them as a body, — are
mostly strong-hearted, practical men. Look at the
characteristics of our best writers, — Southey, Fon-
blanque, Macaulay, Helps, and Taylor : how tho-
roughly practical the bearing of their writings. Even
our best novelists are shrewd, business-like men, —
take Scott, Bulwer, Thackeray, and Dickens for
instance. Your German writers again, are very
generally dreamy, sympathetic in excess, living in a
world of their own, — a beautiful dream-land, it is
true, but seemingly altogether out of harcnony with
the life around them, which is constantly jarring upon
their feelings, and deterring them from grappling with
its stern realities.
Of all our English writers, Carlyle the most
resembles Richter in his sarcastic wit, his quaint
humour, his poetic grandeur, and the deeply sugges-
tive gleams of thought, which so often flash across his
pages. But even Carlyle is more practical than
Richter ; his writings have a closer bearing on the
great living questions of the day, — and though he
may not deal with them in a very clear or straight-
forward manner, still the tendency of them as a
whole is, to stir up practical inquiry into the
foundations of all existing institutions. Carlyle's
sarcasm is more keen and biting than Richter's ; his
humour is not so full of love ; he is neither so simple
nor child-like ; he is what, in England, we would call
more manly, hard-headed, and practical. Had he
been born and brought up in Germany, he might have
been another Richter. For, we believe, the source of
the German literary man's idiosyncrasy, is in the
political condition of his country. There politics
have, up to a very recent period, been almost a
tabooed topic ; so that the German literary man has
been driven from the busy turmoil of real life, to feed
upon his own thoughts, and often to seek sympathy
in the fantastic and the unreal.
Jean Paul Richter was born in Wunsiedel, a
little town in the mountain region called Fichtel-
gebirge, or Pine Mountains, situated about the
centre of Germany, in the kingdom of Bavaria. It
is a lonely, isolated place ; the inhabitants, far
removed from the bustle of towns, are a grave,
simple, pious, and true-hearted race. Like most
mountainous regions, the Fichtelgebirge is rich in
native legendary and romantic lore, Avhich doubtless
exercised their lasting influence on the mind of the
young Richter. His father was a poor, but devout
man, the organist of the village church, an
amusing, social, loving man, — who could preach in
a highly creditable manner; and was also a not
unskilled teacher, ekeing out his slender means by
teaching the village-school. Richter was born in the
spring, that white-robed season, which shed its love-
inspiring influence over his whole afterlife. While an
infant, his grandfather died, bequeathing, like Jacob,
his departing blessing on the child, who long years
after remembered the old man's cold blessing hand.
He says, however, in his autobiography, that he
remembers little of his infancy, — who does ? — -but,
standing out from the dark void is this charming
picture : —
"To my great joy, I am able to bring from my
twelfth, or at furthest my fourteenth month, one pale,
little remembrance, like the earliest and frailest of
snowdrops, from the fresh soil of childhood. I
recollect, namely, that a poor scholar loved me much,
and that I returned his love, and that he carried me
about in his arms, and later, took me more agreeably
by the hand to the large, dark apartment of the elder
children, where he gave me milk to drink. This
form, vanishing in distance, and his love, hover again
over later years, but alas ! I no longer remember his
name. This little morning star of earliest recollec-
tion stands yet tolerably clear in its low horizon, but
growing paler as the daylight of life rises higher."
This poor pupil remained ever afterwards a type of
one of the characters in his novels.
When two years old, in 1765, his father's eminence
in preaching obtained for him the Pastorage of Joclifcz,
a village, of which an ordinary castle and the pastor's
house are the only distinguished dwellings, and
thither the family removed accordingly. Here he
learned to love all the people of the place, and they
to love him, for "in a village they love all the
inhabitants, and not a nursling is there buried, but
everyone knows its name and illness, and the tears it
has cost." This identity of interest and sympathy
among the inhabitants of a village, where they
accustom themselves to dwell in each other, and
share each other's joys and sorrows, Jean Paul thinks
to be of inestimable advantage to a poet ; and it cer-
tainly was to him. At Joditz he learned a great deal,
but quite promiscuously ; he had little direction in
his reading ; was made to learn long passages, lessons,
and catechisms by heart ; he learned Greek and
Latin, like Coleridge, almost before he understood
his mother tongue. Afterwards, he got hold of the
Universal Library, from his father's bookshelves, — an
" intellectual Sahara Desert," as he calls it, — and read
it voraciously. For " in a thinly -peopled village, and
a solitary parsonage, to such a thirsting soul, a man
speaking in a look must be as precious as the richest
foreign guest, a Maecenas, a travelling prince, a first
American to a European." He filled up all his time
with reading, making miniature clocks and dial-
plates, getting up a miniature library made from the
miniature cuttings of his father's sermons, painting-
pictures, and such like juvenile exercises.
The following passage from his autobiography, is
thoroughly German, — probably most English readers
will scai-cely understand the meaning of it : — " Never
shall I forgot that which I have never yet related
to human being, — the inward experience of the birth
of self-consciousness, of which I well remember the
time and place. I stood one afternoon, a very young
child, at the house door, and looked at the logs of
wood piled on the left, when, at once, that inward
consciousness, / am a Me, came like a flash of light-
ning from Heaven, and has remained ever since.
Then was my existence conscious of itself, and for
ever." Certainly a very remarkable philosophic
phenomenon in a very young child, thus early become
" a spiritual nest-builder."
This child, too, had a 'first love ; the fair one was a
blue-eyed peasant-girl of his own age, whose fasci-
nating charms took his young heart prisoner. Beauti-
ful, indeed, is the picture which Jean Paul draws of
this little episode in his boy-life. But this first
Eassion shortly gave place to another, — for a young
idy who visited his father's house. To these he
never told his love, — it was indeed but the first
efflorescence of his young heart, but the memories
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
817
haunted him through life. Indeed, he was constantly
falling in love; — it was the element he lived in ; and
his love was always of a pure, child-like kind, even
when he had grown into a man, and began to have
more advanced and adult notions of such things. In
quiet routine passed the boy's village-life at Joclitz, —
in learning lessons, reading, playing, working with
his father in the fields, and in ordinary rural pursuits,
often with thoughts far beyond his years. " Country
life [he says] is like life at sea, of a uniform colour,
without the interchange of little and great events ;
but it affords a species of uniform tranquillity, which
works healthily, as the equal and uniform sea favour-
ably, upon the consumptive, while no clouds of dust
are breathed, and no insects torment."
Such was the child. . Now let us glance rapidly
over the next features of his life, till we find him
, grown into a man. The pastor removed with his
family to Schwarzenbach-on-the-Saale, still advancing
up the ladder of small preferment. There the boy's
cursory and undirected education went on as before.
We cannot overlook his description of his first
reading of Robinson Crusoe, that most highly prized
of boys' books, which, he says, " poured such oil of
joy and oil of nectar, through all the veins of his being,
till it amounted to physical ecstasy." He remem-
bered, ever after, the very spot where this delight
occurred. He fell in love again, and does not fail to
give us a most poetic and beautiful account of " his
first kiss," the one peaii of a minute, in which "a
whole longing past and a dreaming future were united
in that ineffaceable moment ! " But Jean Paul did
not yet get much beyond " telegraphic love," — looks,
blushes, and stammering kindness. At fifteen, in
his uncouth, ill-shapen, coarse village dress, woven
by his grandfather, he was sent to the town school of
Hof, the little city of the district. Shortly after,
his father died, and his widow was left alone to
struggle with the world. When scarcely eighteen,
Paul was called upon to be the adviser of his mother,
and the protector of the family, amidst the trials of
penury. He had many contests with actual want,
which darkened and oppressed his youthful years.
Yet he formed friendships then, which served to keep
the warmth of his heart alive. Of Jean Paul's early
and fast friends, the most loved was Herman, a
spiritualist and sentimentalist like himself, with
whom he wept over imaginary sorrows, which often
served to shut out the real ones.
He began now to write essays, — kept a journal in
which he entered his thinkings from day to day, —
very often the subject was connected with theology,
of which his views were cheerful, indicating a large-
ness of view unusual at his young age. At eighteen
he went to Leipsic, to enter the university there.
Poverty is not an obstacle to ardent students in
Germany. The sons of peasants are found studying
in the colleges, which are not the aristocratic esta-
blishments that they are with us ; they are freely open
to the whole people, at very reasonable terms, and
this is as it should be. There Jean Paul must needs
study, for it had already been determined by his
surviving parent, that he should follow in his father's
footsteps, and be a preacher. But moderate though
the young man's style of living was in Leipsic, — and
his dinner did not cost him more than twopence, — it was
too much for his slender means. He ran into debts,
had no money to pay them with, and wrote home to
his mothei1, who could ill spare it. He told his
mother that he could not go on in this student life any
longer, looking forward to the distant goal of the
pulpit. No. He "would write books." His mother
was indignant, — she who had with pride looked
forward to sitting under her son's preaching, and listen-
ning to his gifted eloquence. "What books was he
going to write ? " The son answered, that he did not
quite know yet, but they would be "satirical or droll
books." " Worse and worse ! " said the disappointed
mother. To which the son rejoined, "Think you,
then, it is so much honour to preach ? This honour,
however, can any poor student receive, and it is easy
to make a sermon in one's dreams ; but to male a
book is ten times more difficult. Besides you don't
know that a poor student, like myself, dare not preach
in Hof, without gaining a permission from Bayreuth,
which costs fourteen gulden." The mother was not
convinced, and she sent her son a severe reprimand,
to which Jean Paul finally replies, — "Yet, once
more, the permission to preach costs fourteen gulden.
I do not despise ministers. I have no contempt, and
shall never have, for linen weavers. Good mother, I
trust yet to write books, by which I shall gain three
hundred Saxon dollars."
So Jean Paul, though only nineteen, had already
determined to become an author, and he wrote a book
accordingly. His first work was written in the essay
style, — it was satirical and humorous, showing an
inspiration derived from books rather than from
observation and experience. It was entitled A
Eulogy of Stupidity ; and with this rather unattrac-
tive title, it failed, after a year's waiting, in finding a
publisher. So he set about writing another book,
which he did in six months, entitling it The Greenland
Lawsuits, — also a satire like the other, the subjects
being "Literature," "Theology," "Family Pride,"
" Women and Fops," and such like. Paul carried
the manuscript to the booksellers of Leipsic in
person, bxit they one and all refused it. Then ha
sent it to Voss, the Berlin publisher, while he
waited for the answer beside a cold stove, and with an
empty stomach. Success ! A knock comes to the
door one dark December day, while he sits shivering in
his room, and the intelligence is. brought him that
Voss will pay him fifteen louis-d'ors for his manu-
script, and bring it out at the approaching Easter
fair at Leipsic. What a bright day was that for
Bichter ! Now, mother, you shall have money in
store ! — see those bright golden louis, the fruits of
my labour, the first earnings of my pen ! He was so
happy that he wept ! " Oh ! " said he, in a letter to
his friend Vogel, "we never weep more sweetly than
when we know not why we weep ! "
But the fifteen louis-d'ors did little to lift the poor
family of the Bichters out of their poverty. They
were battling with actual Want ; and with this grim
spectre before him, Jean Paul went on writing
facetious and comical books, — trying to make others
laugh, while he himself was plunged in melancholy ;
like the comedian who is exhausting his brain to
amuse the world, while his beloved wife lies at home
dying of a consumption. Family distresses aggravated
his misery ; one of his brothers threw himself into
the Saale, and drowned himself, through despair ; and
another, Adam the barber, left his home and enlisted
for a soldier. And still Jean Paul went on writing
his facetious books ! His mode of dressing, too, was
regarded as a jest. He insisted on putting on his
clothes in his own way, dispensing with vests, and
showing his bare throat. The neighbours in Hof
were scandalized by such a fashion, and expostulated
with him against persevering in it. Even his friend
Vogel joined them. But Paul stuck to his singu-
larity, which perhaps had a spice of affectation in it,
and persevered in going about a la Hamlet for many
years. At last he gave in, not without a protest ;
and he consented to in-hull his person, as he termed
it, and so put an end to this tragi-comical affair.
Perhaps it furnished both Bichter andCarlyle with the
word and the idea of clothes-philosophy, of which the
latter has made such famous use in his Sartor JResarlus,
318
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
The second volume of the Greenland Laivsuiis was
sold like the first, and Paul went on with the third.
But his materials were becoming exhausted, as he
drew not from experience but from books. For his
third volume he could find neither editor nor
publisher. He was repulsed from every door. Then
he wrote for periodicals and magazines, with but slen-
der success, for Jean Paul found but small taste for
his satire. His fond expectations were already
becoming blasted, and his poverty was as great as
ever. He was all over in debt ; his golden ship did
not arrive ; and he fled from Leipsic in a " false
queue," the better to disguise him from his creditors ;
journeying under the name of his friend Herman.
.fie found shelter under his poor mother's roof at Hof,
bringing with him only his own pure, high-minded,
and self-sustaining spirit. He was not yet utterly
cast down. " What is poverty," he said, at this time,
" that a man should whine Tinder it ? It is but like
the pain of piercing the ears of a maiden, and you hang
precious jewels in the wound."
At Hof, Paul had the benefit of his friend Vogel's
library, of which he made large use. He also found
other friends, the most valued of whom were the
brothers Otto, who rescued him from the clutches of
his Leipsic victualler, who had traced his flight to
Hof, and followed him with his bill. Now settled
down, in quiet and great poverty, he went on reading,
studying, and observing, making great books of
extracts for after use, — and which he called his
quarries. These hand-books or note-books of his,
contained a kind of repertory of all the sciences ; and
he also noted down carefully all his daily observations
of living Nature. At the same time, to keep the
wolf from the door, he ventured upon the office of
teacher, and went out as tutor in several private
families. Then he went to Schwarzenbach, the place
where he had first been a schoolboy, and opened a
school for boys. He entered upon this office almost
destitute as regards material means : clad in his
grey-green woollen coat and straw hat, he carried his
worldly possessions thither in his hand. He is
described at this time as slender, with a thin pale
face, a high, nobly - formed brow, around which
curled fine blonde hair. His eyes were a clear, soft
blue, but capable of an intense fire, like sudden
lightning. He had a well-formed nose, and, as his
biographer expresses it, " a lovely lip - kissing
mouth."
For four years Jean Paul laboured as a teacher at
Schwarzenbach, — four happy years, during which he
entered with all his powers into the noble work of
forming the minds and cultivating the heart of youth.
What his idea of that function is, may be gathered
from his beautiful work on education, entitled
Levana, which he afterwards published. But though
his heart was given to teaching, the great dream of
his life, — authorship, — still haunted him. His satires
had failed : why not try some other vein ? He did
so. He wrote from his own heart and experience ;
and The History of the contented little Schoolmaster,
Maria Wuz, was the result. This was the first of his
compositions to which he lent his own life, and in
which he yielded himself up to the full play of his
exquisite humour. It was the transition-book from
the satirical to the sentimental, — the bridge on which
he passed from the vinegar manufactory, where he
had worked, into the great region of love and
humanity, — closing the door to satire, and opening it
to sympathy, rejoiced and wept with human nature.
Then he went on to write The Invisible Lodge, which is
based on his experience in teaching. These works
were full of beautiful fancy and thought, but rather
limited in characters, consequent on the author's
small experience of society. But how to find a
publisher? Providence led him to send his manu-
script to the Hofrath Moritz, who pronounced it to
be "above Goethe, — something wholly new." The
manuscript sold for a hundred ducats, and Richter
was made abundantly happy. " The moment he
received the money, he set out to walk from Schwar-
zenbach to Hof. On the way, by the light of the
stars, he thought of his mother's astonishment, her
joy, and her pious gratitude to Heaven; and entering
late at night the low apartment, where she was
spinning by the light of the fire, he poured the whole
golden treasure into her lap ! "
From this time forward he went on producing his
many beautiful works. Hesperus was the next, and
like the others it was warmly received. He now
gave up his school, and returned to his mother's
humble dwelling at Hof, to devote himself to writing
books. Little remained, after dividing the two
hundred dollars which he received for Hesperus with
his mother and brother. "I am yet compelled."
says he, " like the bird, to sing in a darkened cage."
His next work was Quintus Fixlein, — a more elabo-
rate Wuz, drawn in a similar style, — the hero still a
schoolmaster ; then Flower, Fruit, and Thorn Pieces,
— a collection of pieces, one of which is the dream of
the Dead Christ ; and another, his famous Siebenkas,
where his own and his poor mother's life is closely
depicted. He had now become a literary character
of repute ; letters poured in upon him from all
quarters ; the interest of the female sex in him
became very great, and his correspondence was
sought by many women of true and noble natures.
A close sympathy seemed to unite Richter with the
sex. His susceptible heart was constantly under-
going a state of inflammation caused by one or
other of them. Many approached him incognito by
letters, which Paul answered with beating heart and
expressions of devotion ending in nothing. Others
of noble name and lineage approached him, and
courted his friendship. Indeed, the spiritual love
which he painted in his books, had made him the
idol of the women of Germany, and he ran no small
risk of being spoiled.
His heart longed for communion with some kindred
nature, such as he had not yet discovered. None of
these women could efface the memory of that first
kiss stolen from the humble village maiden. He
still waited and longed for a second heart, in which
to pour the overflowing emotions of his own. "I
ask not," he would say, "for the most beautiful
person, but for the most beautiful heart; in that I
can overlook blemishes, but in this none." Among
the warmest of his friends were Caroline Herder and
Caroline von Kalb, the latter of whom excited a deep
interest in his heart. He met her at Weimar,
whither he went to see Goethe, Schiller, Herder,
Wieland, and other great men sojourning there. He
was not, however, much astonished by the great
authors. He said of them, writing to a friend from
Weimar, — "They are like other people. Here,
every one knows they are like the earth, that looks
from a distance, from heaven, like a shining moon,
but when the foot is upon it, it is found to be made
only of Paris mud." He found the " great men " of
Weimar avoiding and disliking each other. He was
soon back to his home at Hof again, beside his
mother and her spinning-wheel, — flying the snares of
the great world and the fascinations of Caroline von
Kalb, whom he discovered to be a married woman,
with whom it was dangerous to cultivate further
intercourse. He went on with his works, — Jubelen-
sior and the Kampaner Thai. After the death of his
mother, in 1797, Richter removed his residence to
Leipsic, where he proceeded with his greatest book,
the Titan, and other works.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
319
After a great deal of flirting with sundry women,
and being on the brink of betrothment with more
than one of them, he was so fortunate as to meet
with Caroline Meyer at Berlin, with whom he
immediately fell in love, when he had reached the
mature age of thirty-eight, and married her in the
year 1801. She made an excellent wife, was loving
and affectionate, and reverenced her husband's genius.
They lived long and happily together. From hence-
forward all was sunshine and calm in Bichter's life.
He was prosperous, happy, and full of fame. Children
grew up around, his hearth, and many books pro-
ceeded from his pen. He afterwards removed to
Bayreuth, where he was in the midst of green
meadows and fertile valleys again. There he lived
surrounded by his family, loving all things, and
finding joy in everything. The quiet picture which
his nephew has given of the remainder of his life is
exceedingly full of beauty. He was cherished with
soft hands, like the canary bird, and sang gloriously
in his little cage. He had a stout heart, too, and
helped the struggle of his country against the
dominion of the French, by his eloquent pen.
"Opposition," said he, " only spurs me on to work,
to work with the best, and with the utmost of my
powers, for the improvement of all." The occasional
domestic sorrows, — such as occur in every family, —
only served to sweeten his nature. The death of his
eldest son was a great blow ; then the blindness
which gradually came upon him in later life ; but
love to all still grew within him, and his habitual
cheerfulness never left him. He indulged in music,
improvising with wonderful beauty, when all grew
dark around him.
He died in the year 1823, at sixty years of age.
On the noon of the 14th of November, he said,
thinking it was night, — " It is now time to go to rest."
He was wheeled into his sleeping apartment, and all
was arranged as if for repose. His wife Caroline
brought him a wreath of flowers which a lady had
sent, and as he touched them, for he could now
neither see nor smell them, he said repeatedly, "My
beaxitiful flowers, my lovely flowers." He soon sank
into a tranquil sleep, which was to be to him the
repose of death. His respiration gradually became
less regular, but his features calmer and more
heavenly. The family were ranged round the bed
when the physician entered. Soon a slight convul-
sion passed over the face, and the physician said,
"That is death." The spirit had departed! All
sank, praying, on their knees.
Bichter was buried by torchlight ; the unfinished
manuscript of Selina was borne on his coffin, and
Klopstock's noble Ode, " Thou shalt arise, my Soul,"
was sung over his remains at the burial vault.
The life of Jean Paul Bichter was simple and
beautiful in a high degree. It was child-like through-
out. His writings are all pure and lovely, though
sometimes oddly grotesque and fantastic in their
form. Their publication and extensive perusal would
be of great service in this country, and therefore we
rejoice to learn that Mr. Bohn, — a great literary
benefactor of this day, — is about to publish them in
his cheap series of books, when they will be made
accessible to everybody.
WALKING IS GOOD.
Walking is good ; not stepping from shop to shop,
or from neighbour to neighbour, but stretching out
far into the country to the freshest fields, and highest
ridges, and quietest lanes. However sullen the ima-
gination may have been among its griefs at home,
here it cheers up and smiles. However listless the
limbs may have been when sustaining a too heavy
heart, here they are braced, and the lagging gait
becomes buoyant again. However perverse the me-
mory may have been in presenting all that was
agonizing, and insisting only on what cannot be
retrieved, here it is first disregarded, and then it
sleeps ; and the sleep of the memory is the day in
Paradise to the unhappy. The mere breathing of the
cool wind on the face in the commonest highway is
rest and comfort, which must be felt at such times to
be believed. It is disbelieved in the shortest inter-
vals between its seasons of enjoyment ; and every
time the sufferer has resolution to go forth to meet it,
it penetrates to the very heart in glad surprise. The
fields are better still, for there is the lark to fill up
the hours with mirthful music, or, at worst, the robin
and the flocks of fieldfares, to show that the hardest
day has its life and hilarity. But the calmest region
is the upland, where human life is spread out beneath
the bodily eye, — where the eye moves from the pea-
sant's nest to the spiry town, from the school-house
to the churchyard, from the diminished team in the
patch of fallow, or the fisherman's boat in the cove,
to the viaduct that spans the valley, or the fleet that
glides, ghost-like, on the horizon. This is the perch
where the spirit plumes its ruffled and drooping wings,
and makes ready to let itself down any wind that
heaven may send. — Miss Martineau.
A WONDERFUL MAN.
Richard Arkwright, it would seem, was not a beau-
tiful man, — no romance hero with haughty eyes,
Apollo lip, and gesture like the herald Mercury ; a
plain, almost gross, bag-cheeked, pot-bellied Lancashire
man, with an air of painful reflection, yet also of
copious free digestion ; a man stationed by the com-
munity to shave certain dusty beards, in the northern
parts of England, at a halfpenny each. To such end,
we say, by forethought, oversight, accident, and
arrangement, had Bichard Arkwright been, by the
community of England and his own consent, set
apart. Nevertheless, in strapping of razors, in lather-
ing of dusty beards, and the contradictions and con-
fusions attendant thereon, the man had notions in
that rough head of his ; spindles, shuttles, wheels,
and contrivances plying ideally within the same ; —
rather hopeless looking, which, however, he did at
last bring to bear. Not without difficulty ! His
townsfolk rose in mob round him, for threatening to
shorten labour, — to shorten wages, so that he had to
fly, with broken wash-pots, scattered household, and
seek refuge elsewhere. Nay, his wife too, as I learn,
rebelled ; burned his wooden model of his spinning-
wheel, resolute that he should stick to his razors
rather, — for which, however, he decisively, as thou
wilt rejoice to understand, packed her out of doors.
O reader ! what a historical phenomenon is that bag-
cheeked, pot-bellied, much-enduring, much-inventing
barber ! French Devolutions were a-brewing ; to
resist the same in any measure, imperial Kaisers
were impotent without the cotton and cloth of
England ; and it was this man that had to give
England the power of cotton. — Thomas Carlyle.
CULTIVATE A GENIAL NATURE.
Beally it is disgraceful that men are so ill- taught and
unprepared for social life as they are, often turning
their best energies, their acquisitions, and their special
advantages, into means of annoyance to those with
whom they live. Some day it will be found out, that
to bring up a man with a genial nature, a good tem-
per, and a happy form of mind, is a greater effort
than to perfect him in much knowledge and many
accomplishments. — Companions of my Solitude.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
TO THE LOYAL HEAET.
OH ! tell me of thy loyal love,—
Oh ! tell it me again,
For Life has many a cloud of grief,
And many a pang of pain ;
But Love, old Love, is ever new,
The fairest flower that ever grew.
The stars shine out each silent night,
And smile upon the earth ;
And though as old as ancient light,
Are new as infant mirth ; —
And so Love's oft-repeated tale
Grows never wearisome or stale.
Oh ! let me lean upon thy breast,
And catch the whispered tone ;
Thy presence breathes the air of rest,
And every care has flown ;
While all my nature doth expand,
And is no longer desert land.
I'll close my eyes, and lean my head,
And dream a dream of bliss,
While softly on iny forehead steals
Thy pure and holy kiss.
Love, gracious Love ! when it grows old,
Ah, then, indeed, will Life grow cold !
MAEIE.
CHANTREY AT THE CITY FEAST.
Our lamented Chantrey, who, though fully alive to
the merits of the good things of this world, was one
of the most unselfish and liberal of men, had a story
of a passage during one of the City feasts at which he
was present. The great national sculptor — for truly
great and truly national he was — sat next to a func-
tionary before whom stood a large tureen of turtle-
soup. This citizen instantly possessed himself of the
ladle, carefully fished out the coarser parts, and offered
the plate containing them to Chantrey, who declined.
"I watched," said he, "the progress of the plate ;
at last it was set down before the Lord Mayor's chap-
lain, and the expression of that man's face when he
beheld it I shall never forget." The functionary went
on helping till he had cleared the soup of all but the
green fat and richer parts, the whole of which he
piled up in a capacious plate for himself. Then up
spoke our sculptor and said, " If you will allow me
to change my mind, I'll take a little turtle ; " and the
waiter who held the plate placed it, to the horror of
the dispensing expectant, before Chantrey, who im-
mediately commenced spoon exercise, as Jonathan
delicately describes such evolutions ; " and this I
did," said Chantrey, " to punish him for his greed."
What was the unhappy functionary to do ? His own
tureen was exhausted, and, in a half-frantic tone, he
called to one of the waiters to bring him some turtle ;
but at City feasts the guests^ are very industrious,'
especially when turtle is the order of the day, and
the waiter, after trying about, brought back to our
greedy citizen the identical plate of fatless flesh which
had so astounded the chaplain, who had contrived to
exchange his unwelcome portion for one more worthy
of a sleek son of the Church ; "and then," Chantrey
would add, "my attentive neighbour's visage was
awful to look upon ! " There was no help for it, so
the disconcerted functionary betook himself to the
rejected plate, with the additional discomfiture of
seeing Chantrey send away his, still rich with calipee,
fat, and fins.— Broderip's Note-book of a Naturalist.
DIAMOND DUST.
THE belief that guardian spirits hover around the
paths of men covers a mighty truth, for every beau-
tiful, pure, and good thought which the heart holds
is an angel of mercy, purifying and guarding the
soul.
A DRUNKARD cursing the moon, — a maniac foaming
at some magnificent statue, which stands serene and
safe above his reach, — or a ruffian crushing roses on
his way to midnight plunder, is but a type of the sad
work which a clever, but heartless and unimaginative,
critic often makes of works of genius.
WEAKNESSES seem to be even more carefully and
anxiously concealed than graver and more decided
faults, for human nature is more ashamed of the first
than of the last.
WE love much more warmly while cherishing the
intention of giving pleasure, than an hour afterwards
when we have given it.
WE unconsciously either unveil or unmask our-
selves most completely in our manner of praising.
To know a man, observe how he wins his object
rather than how he loses it ; for when we fail our
pride supports us, when we succeed it betrays us.
TEARS are as dew wrhich moistens the earth, and
renews its vigour. Remorse has none ; it is a vol-
cano, vomiting forth lava which burns and destroys.
THE most exuberant encomiast turns easily into
the most inveterate censor.
AN inclination towards still-sitting comfort nestles
in man ; like a great dog, he lets himself be pricked
and teased a thousand times rather than take the
trouble to jump up in lieu of growling.
ENVY is a mean man's homage.
REASON is the flower of the spirit, and its fragrance
is Liberty and Knowledge.
NEXT to the lightest heart, the heaviest is apt to be
the most cheerful.
THERE are times when none of us would be found
at home by any friend, if it were not for the fear
of being found out.
THE happiest of pillows is not that which Love
first presses ; it is that which Death has frowned
on and passed over.
THE real temple of Cupid is the home of the be-
loved one.
A HYPOCRITICAL Puritan is often worse than a
tyrannical Pope.
YANKEE — a fast steamer going a-head, with English
hull and American screw.
BAD TEMPER — Moral scum which spoils the richest
intellectual broth.
IT is not so difficult a task to plant new truths
as to root out old errors, for there is this paradox
in men, they run after that which is new, but are
prejudiced in favour of that which is old.
PEOPLE who are always talking sentiment have
usually not very deep feelings ; the less water you
have in your kettle the sooner it will boil.
HEALTH is a giant friend whom we often fail to re-
spect until he is about to leave us.
UNDERTAKER — The excise-officer of Death.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAV, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 151.")
SATURDAY, MARCH 20, 1852.
[PRICE
LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF A
LAW-CLERK.
ED WARD DRYSDALE.
ABOUT the year 1798, James Bradshaw and William
Dry t dale, both invalided masters of the Royal Navy,
cast anchor for the remainder of their lives at about
twelve miles' distance from Exeter, on the London
road. Bradshaw named his domicile, an old-fashioned
straggling building, "Rodney Place," in honour of
the Admiral in whose great victory he had fought.
Drysdale's smaller and snugger dwelling, about half
a mile away from " Rodney Place," was called
" Poplar Cottage," and about midway between them
stood the "Hunter's Inn," a road-side public-house,
kept by one Thomas Burnham, a stout-hearted, jolly-
bellied individual, the comeliness of whose rubicund
figure-head was considerably damaged by the loss of
an eye, of which, however, it is right to say, the
extinguished light appeared to have been transferred
in undiminished intensity to its fiery, piercing fellow.
The I'etired masters, who had long known each other,
were intimate as brothers, notwithstanding that
Bradshaw was much the richest of the two, having
contrived to pick up a considerable amount of prize-
money, in addition to a rather large sum inherited
from his father. Neither did the difference of
circumstances oppose in Bradshaw's opinion the
slightest obstacle to the union of his niece and heiress,
Rachel Elford, with Edward Drysdale, his fellow-
veteran's only surviving offspring. The precedent
condition, however, was that Edward should attain
permanent rank in the Royal Navy, and with this
view, a midshipman's warrant was obtained in '99 for
the young man, then in his eighteenth year, and he
was despatched to sea.
The naval profession proved to be, unfortunately,
one for which Edward Drysdale was altogether
unfitted by temperament and bent of mind, and sad
consequences followed. He had been at sea about
eighteen months, when news reached England of a
desperate, but successful cutting-out affair by the
boats of the frigate to which he belonged. His name
was not mentioned in the official report, — but that
could hardly have been hoped for, — neither was it in
the list of killed and wounded. A map of the coast
where the fight took place was procured ; the battle
was fought over and over again by the two veterans,
and they were still indulging in those pleasures of the
imagination in the parlour of the "Hunter's Inn,"
when the landlord entered with a Plymouth paper in
his hand, upon one paragraph in which his single orb
of vision glared with fiery indignation. It was an
extract from a letter written by one of the frigate's
officers, plainly intimating that midshipman Drysdale
had shown the white feather in the late brush with
the enemy, and would be sent home by the first
opportunity. The stroke of a dagger could have
been nothing compared with the sharp agony which
such an announcement inflicted on the young man's
father, and Bradshaw was for a few moments equally
thunder-stricken. But he qxiickly rallied. William
Drysdale's son a coward ! Pooh ! The thing was
out of nature, — impossible ^ and very hearty were his
maledictions, savagely echoed by Burnham, with
whom young Drysdale was a great favourite, of the
lying lubber that wrote the letter, and the newspaper
rascals that printed it.
Alas ! it was but too true ! On the third evening
after the appearance of the alarming paragraph the
two mariners were sitting in the porch of Poplar
Cottage, separated only by a flower-garden from the
main-road, conversing upon the sad, and constantly-
recurring topic, when the coach from London came in
sight. A youthful figure in naval uniform on the
box-seat instantly riveted their attention, as it did
that of Rachel Elford, who was standing in the little
garden, apparently absorbed till that moment by the
shrubs and flowers. The coach rapidly drew near,
stopped, and Edward Drysdale alighted from it. The
two seamen, instead of waiting for his approach,
hastily arose from their seats and went into the
cottage, as much perhaps to avoid the humiliating,
though compassionate glances of the outside pas-
sengers, as from any other motive. The young man
was deadly pale, and seemed to have hardly sufficient
strength to move back the light wicket-gate which
admitted to the garden. He held by it till the coach
had passed on, and then turned with a beseeching,
half-reproachful look towards Rachel. She, poor
girl, was as much agitated as himself, and appeared
to be eagerly scanning his countenance, as if hopeful
of reading there a contradiction of the dishonouring
rumour that had got abroad. In answer to his mute
appeal, she stepped quickly towards him, clasped his
322
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
proffered hand in both hers, and with a faint and
trembling voice ejaculated, — " Dear, dear Edward !
It is not true, — I am sure it is not, that you, — that
you — '
"That I, Rachel, have been dismissed the naval
.service, as unfit to serve his majesty, is quite true,"
rejoined Edward Drysdale, slowly, and with partially-
recovered calm, — " quite true ! "
The young woman shrank indignantly from him, —
fire glanced in her suffused eyes, and her light,
elegant figure appeared to grow and dilate with
irrepressible scorn, as this avowal fell upon her
car. " A coward ! " she vehemently exclaimed ;
" you that, — but no," she added, giving way again to
grief and tenderness, as she looked upon the fine,
intelligent countenance of her lover, " it cannot be ;
there must be some error, — some mistake. It is
impossible ! "
"There is error and mistake, Rachel; but the
world will never, I fear, admit so much. But, come,
let us in : you will go with me ? "
We will not follow them till the first outburst of
angry excitement is past ; till the father's passionate,
heart-broken reproaches have subsided to a more
patient, subdued, faintly-hopeful sorrow, and Rachel's
wavering faith in the manhood of her betrothed has
regained something of its old firmness. Entering
then, we shall find that only Mr. Bradshaw has
remained obstinately and contemptuously deaf to
what the young man has falteringly urged in vindica-
tion of his behaviour in the unhappy affair which led
to his dismissal from the service. He had, it
appeared, suddenly fainted at the sight of the hideous
carnage in which, for the first time in his life, he found
himself involved.
" You have a letter, you say, from Captain Otway,"
said Mr. Drysdale, partially raising his head from his
hands, in which it had been buried whilst his son was
speaking. "Where is it? Give it to Rachel,— I
cannot see the words."
The note was directed to Mr. Drysdale, whom
Captain Otway personally knew, and was no doubt
kindly intended to soften the blow, the return of his
son under such circumstances must inflict. Although
deciding that Edward Drysdale was unfit for the
naval profession, he did not think that the failure of
the young man's physical nerve in one of the most
murderous encounters that had occurred during the
war, was attributable to deficiency of true courage,
and as a proof that it was not, Captain Otway
mentioned that the young man had jumped over-
board during half a gale of wind, and when night
was falling and saved, at much peril to himself, a
seaman's life. This was the substance of the note.
As soon as Rachel ceased reading, Mr. Drysdale
looked deprecatingly in his friend's face and mur-
mured, " You hear ? "
" Yes, William Drysdale, I do. I never doubted
that your son was a good swimmer, no more than I
do that coward means coward, and that all the letters
in the alphabet cannot spell it to mean anything else
Come, Rachel," added the grim, unreasoning, iron-
tempered veteran, " let us be gone. And God bless,
and if it be possible, comfort you, old friend ! Good-
by I fco, thankye, young sir ! " he continued, with
renewed fierceness, as Edward Drysdale snatched at
his hand. " That hand was once grasped by Rodney
in some such another business as the letter speaks of
when its owner did not faint! It must not be
touched by you ! "
The elder Drysdale took not long afterwards to his
bed. He had been ailing for some time; but no
question that mortification at his son's failure in the
profession to which he had with so much pride
devoted him helped to weaken the springs of life and
accelerate his end, which took place about six months
after Edward's return home. The father and son
had become entirely reconciled with each other, and
almost the last accents which faltered from the lips
of the dying seaman, were a prayer to Bradshaw to
forget and forgive what had past, and renew his
sanction to the marriage of Edward and his niece.
The stern man was inexorable ; and his pitiless reply
was, that he would a thousand times rather follow
Rachel to her grave.
The constancy of the young people was not,
however, to be subdued, and something more than a
year after Mr. Drysdale's death, they married ; their
present resources, the rents, — about one hundred and
twenty pounds per annum, — of a number of small
tenements at Exeter. They removed to within
three miles of that city, and dwelt there in sufficiency
and peace for about five years, when the exigencies
of a fast- increasing family induced them to dispose, not
very advantageously, of their cottage property, and
embark the proceeds in a showy speculation promis-
ing, of course, immense results, and really ending
in the brief space of six months in their utter ruin.
Edward Drysdale found himself, in lieu of his golden
hopes, worth about two hundred pounds less than
nothing. The usual consequences followed. An
undefended suit at law speedily reached the stage at
which execution might be issued, and unless a con-
siderable sum of money could he instantly raised, his
furniture would be seized under afi.fa., and sacrificed
to no purpose.
One only possible expedient remained, — that of
once more endeavouring to soften the obduracy of
Mr. Bradshaw. This it was finally determined to
attempt, and Mr. and Mrs. Drysdale set off by a
London morning coach xipon the well-nigh hopeless
speculation. They alighted at the "Hunter's Inn,"
where Drysdale remained, whilst his wife proceeded
alone to Rodney Place. Thomas Burnham was
friendly and good-natured as ever. The old mariner,
he told Drysdale, was visibly failing, and his chief
amusement seemed to be scraping together and
hoarding \ip money. James Berry, a broken-down
tailor, and a chap, according to Burnham, who knew
how many beans made five as well as any man in
Devonshire, had been for some time valet, gardener,
and general factotum at Rodney Place, and appeared
to exercise great influence over Mr. Bradshaw. The
only other person in the establishment was the old
cook, Margery Deans, who, never otherwise, since he
had known her, than desperately hard of hearing,
was now become deaf as a stone. Drysdale, it was
Afterwards remembered, listened to all this with eager
attention, and was especially inquisitive and talkative
respecting Mr. Bradshaw's hoarding propensities,
and the solitary, unprotected state in which he
lived.
Mrs. Drysdale was long gone ; but the tremulous
hopes which her protracted stay called feebly forth,
vanished at the sight of her pale, tearful, yet re-
solved aspect. "It is useless, Edward," she
murmured, with her arms cast lovingly about her
husband's neck, and looking in his face with far more
lavish expression of affection than when, with orange-
blossoms in her hair, she stood a newly-consecrated
wife beside him. "It is xiseless to expect relief from
my uncle, save upon the heartless, impossible condi-
tion you know of. But let us home. God's heaven
is still above our heads, though clouds and darkness
rest between. We will trust in Him, Edward, and
fear not ! "
So brave a woman should have been matched with
a stout-hearted man ; but this, unhappily, was not
the case. Edward Drysdale was utterly despondent,
and he listened, as his wife was afterwards fain to
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
323
admit to myself and others, with impatient reluctance
to all she said as they journeyed homewards, save
when the condition of help spoken of, namely, that
she should abandon her husband, and take up her
abode with her children at Rodney Place, was
discussed, — by her indignantly. Once also, when she
mentioned that the old will in her favour was not yet
destroyed, but would be, her uncle threatened, if she
did not soon return, a bright, almost fiery expression
seemed to leap from his usually mild, reflective eyes,
and partially dissipate the thick gloom which mantled
his features.
This occurred on a winter's day in early March, and
the evening up to seven o'clock had passed gloomily
away with the Drysdales, when all at once the
husband, starting from a profound reverie, said he
would take a walk as far as Exeter, see the attorney
in the suit against him, and, if possible, gain a little
time for the arrangement of the debt. His wife
acquiesced, though with small hope of any favourable
result, and the strangely-abstracted man left the
house.
Ten o'clock, the hour by which Edward Drysdale
had promised to return, chimed from a dial on the
mantel-piece. Mrs. Drysdale trimmed the fire, lit
the candles, which, for economy's sake, she had
extinguished, and had their frugal supper laid. He
came not. Eleven o'clock ! What could be detaining
him so late ? Twelve ! — half-past twelve ! Rachel
Drysdale was just about to bid the servant-maid, who
was sitting up in the kitchen, go to bed, when the
sound of carriage- wheels going towards Exeter stopped
at the door. It was a retuivi, post-chaise, and brought
Edward Drysdale. He staggered, as if intoxicated,
into the kitchen, reached down a half-bottle of
brandy from a cupboard, and took it to the post-boy,
who immediately drove off. Anne Moody, the
servant-girl, was greatly startled by her master's
appearance : he looked, she afterwards stated, more
the colour of a whited wall, than of flesh and blood,
and shook and " cowered," as if he had the ague.
Mrs. Drysdale came into the kitchen, and stood
gazing at her husband in a white, dumb kind of
way (I am transcribing literally from the girl's
statement), till the outer door was fastened, when
they both went up stairs into a front sitting-room.
Curiosity induced Anne Moody to follow, and she
heard, just as the door closed upon them, Mrs.
Drysdale say, " You have not been to Exeter, I am
sure ? " This was said in a nervous, shaking voice,
and her master replied in the same tone, " No ; I
changed my mind," or words to that effect. Then
there was a quick whispering for a minute or two,
interrupted by a half-stifled cry or scream from
Mrs. Drysdale. A sort of hubbub of words followed,
which the girl, a very intelligent person of her class
by-the-by, could not hear, or at least not make out,
till Mr. Drysdale said in a louder, Blower way, "You,
Rachel, — the children are provided for ; but, O God !
at what a dreadful price ! " Anne Moody, fearful of
detection, did not wait to hear more, but crept
stealthily up stairs to bed, as her mistress had ordered
her to do, when she left the kitchen. On the
following morning the girl found her master and
mistress both up, the kitchen and parlour fires lit,
and breakfast nearly over. Mr. Drysdale said he was
in a hurry to get to Exeter, and they had not thought
it worth while to call her at unseasonable hours.
Both husband and wife looked wild and haggard, and
this, Moody, when she looked into their bed-chamber,
was not at all surprised at, as it was clear that
neither of them had retired to rest. One thing and
the other, especially kissing and fondling the children
over and over again, detained Mr. Drysdale till half-
past eight o'clock, and then, just as he was leaving
the house, three men confronted him ! A constable
of the name of Parsons, James Berry, Mr. Bradshaw's
servant, and Burnham, the landlord of the Hunter's
Inn. They came to arrest him on a charge of
burglary and murder ! Mr. Bradshaw had been found
early in the morning cruelly stabbed to death beside
his plundered strong-box !
I must pass lightly over the harrowing scenes which
followed, — the tumultuous agony of the wife, and
the despairing asseverations of the husband, impos-
sible to be implicitly believed in even by that wife,
for the criminating evidence was overwhelming.
Drysdale had been seen skulking about Rodney
Place till very late by both Burnham and Berry. In
the room through which he must have passed in
going and returning from the scene of his frightful
crime, his hat had been found, and it was now
discovered that he, Drysdale, had taken away and
woi'n home one of Berry's, — no doubt from hurry and
inadvertence. In addition to all this, a considerable
sum of money in gold and silver, enclosed in a canvas-
bag, well known to have belonged to the deceased,
was found upon his person ! It appeared probable
that the aim of the assassin had been only robbery in
the first instance, for the corpse of the unfortunate
victim waa found clothed only in a night-dress. The
fair inference, therefore, seemed to be that the
robber, disturbed at his plunder by the wakeful old
seaman, had been compelled, perhaps reluctantly, to
add the dreadful crime of murder to that whieli he
had originally contemplated. The outcry through the
county was terrific, and as Edv/ard Drysdale, by the
advice of Mr. Sims, the attorney, who subsequently
instructed Mr. Prince, reserved his defence, there
appeared to be nothing of a feather's weight to oppose
against the tremendous mass of circumstance arrayed
against the prisoner.
And when, upon tho arrival of the King's Com-
mission at Exeter, Mr. Prince received a very full
and carefully-drawn brief in defence, — a specious, but
almost wholly unsupported story of the prisoner's
appeared all that could be relied upon in rebuttal of
the evidence for the Crown. According to Edward
Drysdale, he merely sought Mr. Bradshaw upon the
evening in question for the purpose of concluding
with that gentleman an arrangment for the separation
of himself from his wife and children, and their domici-
liation at Rodney Place, It was further averred that
he was received with greater civility than he ex-
pected ; that the interview waa a long one, during
which he, Drysdale, had seen nobody but Mr.
Bradshaw, although he believed the aged and deaf
cook was in the kitchen. That he had arranged that
Mrs. Drysdale and his children should be early
on the morrow with her uncle, and that he had
received the money found on his person and at his
house from the deceased's own hands, in order to
pay the debt and costs in the suit wherein execution
was about to be levied on his furniture, and that the
residue was to be applied to his, the prisoner's own
use. That the expressions deposed to by Anne
Moody, and his own and Mrs. Drysdale's emotion
after his return home, which had told so heavily
against him in the examinations before the magis-
trates, were perfectly reconcilable with this statement,
— as, indeed, they were,— and did not, therefore,
bear the frightful meaning that had been attached
to them. With respect to the change of hats, that
might easily have happened, because his hat had
been left on entering in the hall-passage, and in his
hurry, in coming out by the same way, he had no
doubt mistaken Berry's for his own ; but he solemnly
denied having been in the room, or near the part of
the house where his hat was alleged to have been
found. This was the gist of the explanation \ but
324
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
unfortunately, it was not sustained by any receivable
testimony in any material particular. True, Mrs.
Drysdale, whom everybody fully believed, declared
that this account exactly coincided with what her
husband told her immediately on arriving home in the
post-chaise, — but what of that ? It was not what story
the prisoner had told, nor how many times he had told
it, that could avail, especially against the heavy im-
probabilities that weighed upon his, at first view,
plausible statement. How was it that, knowing
Mr. Bradshaw's almost insane dislike of himself, he
did not counsel his wife to make terms with her
uncle, preparatory to her returning to Rodney Place ?
And was it at all likely that Mr. Bradshaw, whose
implacable humour Mrs. Drysdale had experienced
on the very day previous to the murder, should have
so suddenly softened towards the man he so
thoroughly hated and despised ? I trow not ; and
the first consultation on the case wore a wretchedly
dismal aspect, till the hawk-eye of Mr. Prince lit
upon an assertion of Thomas Burnham's, that he had
gone to Mr. Bradshaw's house upon some particular
business at a quarter-past twelve on the night of the
murder, and had seen the deceased alive at that time,
who had answered him, as he frequently did, from his
bedroom window. " Rodney Place," said Mr. Prince,
"is nine miles from Drysdale 's residence. I under-
stood you to say, Mr. Sims, that Mrs. Drysdale
declares her husband was at home at twenty minutes
to one? ' "
"Certainly she does ; but the wife's evidence, you
are aware, cannot avail her husband."
" True ; but the servant-girl ! The driver of the
post-chaise ! This is a vital point, and must be
cleared up without delay."
I and Williams, Sims' clerk, set off instantly to see
Mrs. Drysdale, who had not left her room since her
husband's apprehension. She was confident it was
barely so late as twenty minutes to one when the
post-chaise drove up to the door. Her evidence was,
however, legally inadmissible, and our hopes rested
on Anne Moody, who was immediately called in.
Her answer was exasperating. She had been asleep
in the kitchen, and could not positively say whether it
was twelve, one, or two o'clock when her master
reached home. There was still a chance left, — that of
the post-chaise driver. He did not, we found, reach
Exeter, a distance of three miles only from Mr.
Drysdale's, till a quarter to three o'clock, and was
then much the worse for liquor. So much for our
chance of proving an alibi !
There was one circumstance perpetually harped
upon by our bright, one-eyed friend of the Hunter's
Inn ; Cyclops, I and Williams called him. What had
become of a large sum in notes paid, it was well known,
to Mr. Bradshaw three or four days before his death ?
What also of a ruby ring, and some unset precious
stones he had brought from abroad, and which he had
always estimated, rightly or wrongly, at so high a
price ? Drysdale's house and garden had been turned
inside out, but nothing had been found, and so for
that matter had Rodney Place, and its two remaining
inmates had been examined with the like ill success.
Burnham, who was excessively dissatisfied with the pro-
gress of affairs, swore there was an infernal mystery
somewhere, and that he should'nt sleep till he had fer-
reted it out. That was his business : ours was to make
the best of the wretched materials at our disposal • but
the result we all expected followed. The foregone
conclusion of the jury that were empanelled in the
case was just about to be formally recorded in a
verdict of guilty, when a note was handed across to
Si v °ne Mr' Jay' a timber-merchant, who
had heard the evidence of the postilion, desired to be
examined. This the judge at once consented to and
Mr. Jay deposed, that having left Exeter in his gig
upon pressing business, at about two o'clock 011 the
morning of the murder, he had observed a post-chaise
at the edge of a pond about a mile and a half out of
the city, where the jaded horses had been, he
supposed, drinking. They were standing still, and
the post-boy, who was inside, and had reins to drive
with passed through, the front windows, was fast
asleep, — a drunken sleep it seemed, and he, Mr. Jay,
had to bawl for some time, and strike the chaise with
his whip, before he could awake the man, who, at
last, with a growl and a curse, drove on. He believed,
but would not like to positively swear, that the
postilion he had heard examined was that man. This
testimony, strongly suggestive as it was, his lordship
opined did not materially affect the case ; the jury
concurred, and a verdict of guilty was pronounced
and recorded amidst the death-like silence of a hushed
and anxious auditory.
The unfortunate convict staggered visibly beneath
the blow, fully expected, as it must have been, and a
terrible spasm convulsed his features and shook his
frame. It passed away ; and his bearing and speech,
when asked what he had to say why sentence of death
should not be pronounced according to law, was not
without a certain calm dignity and power, whilst his
tones, tremulous, it is true, were silvery and unassum-
ing as a child's.
"I cannot blame the gentlemen of the jury,"
he said. "Their fatal verdict is, I am sure, as con-
scientious as God and myself know it to be erro-
neous,— false! Circumstances are, I feel, strangely
arrayed against me ; and it has been my fate through
life to be always harshly judged, save only by one
whose truth and affection have shed over my
chequered existence -the only happiness it has ever
known. I observed, too, the telling sneer of the
prosecuting counsel, connecting the circumstances
under which I left the navy with the cowardice of the
deed of which I stand here accused, — convicted, I sup-
pose, I should say. I forgive that gentleman his cruel
sneer as freely as I do you, gentlemen of the jury, your
mistaken verdict, — you, my lord, the death-sentence
you are about to pronounce. The manner in which I
hope to pass through the brief, but dark and bitter
passage lying betwixt me and the grave will, I trust,
be a sufficient answer to the taunt of cowardice and
the future vindication of my innocence, not for my
own, but my wife and children's sake I confidently
leave them to Him into whose hands I shall soon,
untimely, render up my spirit. This is all I have
to say."
The prisoner's calm, simple, unhurried words
produced a marvellous effect upon the Court and
auditory. The judge, Chief Baron Macdonald, a
conscientious, and somewhat nervous man, paused in
the act of assuming the black-cap, and presently said,
rather hastily : " Let the prisoner be removed ; I will
pass sentence to-morrow." The Court then imme-
diately adjourned.
I was miserably depressed in spirits, which the cold,
sleety weather that greeted us on emerging from the
hot and crowded court considerably increased. I was
thinking, — excuse the seeming bathos, — I was only a
clerk, and used to such tragedies ; I was thinking,
I say, that a glass of brandy and water might not be
amiss, when whom should I rudely jostle against but
Cyclops, alias Thomas Burnham. He was going
the same way as myself in prodigious haste, — his
eye bright and flaming as a live coal, and his
whole manner denoting intense excitement. " Is
that you?" he broke out. "Come along, then, and
quick, for the love of God ! I've missed Sims and
his clerk, but you'll do as well ; perhaps better." I
had no power, if I had the inclination to refuse, for
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
325
the enthusiastic man seized me by the arm, and
hurried me along at, a tremendous rate towards the
outskirts of the city. "This is the place," he
exclaimed, as he burst into a tavern parlour, where
two trunks had been deposited. "He's not come
yet," Burnham went on, "but the coach is to call
for him here. He thinks to be off to London this
very night."
" Whom are you talking of ? Who's off to London
to night ? "
"James Berry, if he's clever enough ! Look
there ! "
"I see ; 'James Berry, Passenger, London.' These,
then, are his trunks, I suppose ? "
" Right, my boy ; but there is nothing of importance
in them. Sly, steady-going Margery has well ascer-
tained that. You know Margery ; — but hush ! here
he comes."
Berry — it was he — could not repress a nervous
start, as he unexpectedly encountered Burnham's
burly person and fierce glare.
" You here ? " he stammered, as he mechanically
took a chair by the fire. " Who would have
thought it ? "
"Not you, Jim, I'm sure ; it must be, therefore,
an unexpected pleasure. I'm come to have a smoke
and a bit of chat with you, Berry, — there isn't a
riper Berry than you are in the kingdom, — before you
go to London, Jim, — do you mark ? — before you go to
London, — ha, ha ! ho, ho ! But, zounds ! how pale
and shaky you're looking, and before this rousing fire,
too ! D — n thee, villain ! " shouted Burnham, jump-
ing suddenly up from his chair, and dashing his pipe
to fragments on the floor. " I can't play with thee
any longer. Tell me, — when did the devil teach
thee to stuff coat-collars with the spoils of murdered
men, eh ? "
A yell of dismay escaped Berry, and he made a
desperate rush to get past Burnham. Vainly did so.
The fierce publican caught him by the throat, and
held him by a grip of steel. "You're caught,
scoundrel ! — nicked, trapped, found out, and by
whom think you ? Why, by deaf, paralytic, Margery,
whose old eyes have never wearied in watching
you from the hour you slew and robbed her good
old master till to-day, when you dreamed yourself
alone, and she discovered the mystery of the coat-
collar."
" Let me go ! " gasped the miscreant, down whose
pallid cheeks big drops of agony were streaming.
"Take all, and let me go."
A fierce imprecation followed by a blow, replied to
the despairing felon. A constable, attracted by the
increasing uproar, soon arrived ; the thick coat-
collar was ripped, and in it were found a considerable
sum in Exeter notes, — the ruby ring, and other
valuables well known to have belonged to Mr.
Bradshaw. Berry was quickly lodged in gaol. A
true bill was returned the next day by the grand
jury before noon, and by the time the clock struck
four, the murderer was, on his own confession,
convicted of the foul crime of which a perfectlv
innocent man had been not many hours before pro-
nounced guilty ! A great lesson this was felt to be at
the time in Exeter, and in the Western country
generally. A lesson of the watchfulness of Providence
over innocent lives ; of rebuke to the self-sufficing
infallibility of men, however organized or empa-
nelled, and of patience under unmerited obloquy
and slander.
Edward Drysdale was, I need hardly say, liberated
by the king's pardon, — pardon for an uncommitted
offence, and he and his true-hearted wife, the heiress
of her uncle, are still living, I believe, in competence,
content, and harmony.
LAMP-LIGHTING ; OR, GLIMPSES OF
POETRY.
BY TWO STUDENTS.
CONCLUSION.
Lastly, we have the Anglo-American, or what
Mr. Longfellow calls the " Continuative English,"
but which occasionally deserves to be named the
imitative,— e. g. "The Good Part," which imme-
diately recalls Wordsworth's "Springs of Dove."
Plainly, none of those is National-American. We
cannot find in the pieces instanced, or in any that we
know, that palpable, though not easily describable
character, that in those of other lands enables one, at
a glance, to name their birth-place ; as in the poem
"Memories," last quoted, which, apart from its one
distinctive allusion, — "my love in green," — is recog-
nizable by any one familiar with the modes and
manner of Celtic thinking and expression, almost as
readily as a transplanted shamrock. Cannot the
States, or will they not reflect their polity in their
poetry, from community bring unity, — idealize as
well as realize their cognizance, — " Epluribiis unum ?"
No art can be " mushroomed " into nationality, but
the possibility and utility of training it in that
direction, are other matters. These are points which
all who speak the same language have a claim to
question ; and rot they only, for the prevailing inter-
nationality of intellect makes all states of the
republic of letters interested in the tendency of Art
in any one. The alien critic, and how much more
the home one, is entitled to exact, not only a sincere
and consistent, but an enlightened labour. He may
fairly require that the artist, with pretensions to
a high rank in his order, should be, not only
"faithful," but " far-seeing " in the fulfilment of the
task that he voluntarily undertakes. A literature
at once healthful and national has, for those foreign to
its birth-place, a peculiar value. Charming by the
contrast of feature, it influences by giving fresh
evidence of concordance of Nature. A thorough,
permanent, practical conviction of the identity of
humanity, under all aspects, is inseparate from the
world-circling love of brotherhood, which every
honest mind must desire to see its age embrace.
Though the full result may be chimerical, it would
be idle to demonstrate the utility of every advance
towards it. It is the part of the rhythmical artist
to " impress us ever with the conviction that one
nature wrote and the same reads." He who does '
not, may be tasked with demerit in this one respect
at least. Looking at American poetry from this
mediate point of view, we regard as a short-coming
the general absence of characterization, — the want of
that countenance through which a common feeling is
most attractively and forcibly expressed. It is thus
that class literature the most marked pleases and
holds the public mind, as by a spell, until spoiled by
the demand which creates an undistinguishing and
unnatural supply. What is called originality of
thought or feeling delights us precisely in the degree
in which we know it to be original with our own. If
entirely peculiar, i. e. foreign, hoAv should we enjoy
it ?' Comprehension is essential to appreciation. We
comprehend perfectly that only which under other
circumstances we, too, might have created. The
sources of genuine feeling are derivable from the
same head, fed from the same spring, and referable
to it, no matter how many the courses through which
they have struggled into day ; what we call original
is that which had not heretofore obtained an outlet.
We hold this to be the reason why the most dis-
326
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
tinctive traits of humour and feeling please us most,
— the jet that shoots highest stirs the common
fountain to the greatest depth. And thus we think
the originality, so strikingly displayed in the jests of
the Americans, may be employed in their earnest
with great effect.
The habitual expression of originality results in
character and nationality, — individual and social
idiosyncrasy. Hence, we hold with Professor
Longfellow, that "American genius, if natural,
would be national enough ;" for, to repeat him
further, " if this genius is to find expression, it must
employ Art." And how does Art operate, — but as
index to the text of which the Poet is commentator ?
Where this text differs from another, so must the
index. In eschewing nationality, advisedly, as it
seems from a recent publication, we think Professor
Longfellow neglects and undervalues a powerful co-
operative towards the end which we have large
evidence of his holding close to heart.
In seeking in " Kavanagh " to account for the
absence of an American nationality from its art, he
has adduced certain arguments which seem to depre-
cate any present endeavour towards attaining it.
Herein we are at variance with him. For though
we agree "that a national literature is not the
growth of a day ; that centuries must contribute
their dew and sunshine to it ; that American litera-
ture is growing slowly but surely, striking its roots
downward, and its branches upward, as is natural :"
and do not " wish, for the sake of what some people
call originality, to invert it and try to make it grow
with its roots in the air." Yet we think that
without "spasms and convulsions," — the gnarling
and twisting of the pliant intellect, it may, from the
first, show somewhat of the character of the soil
it sprung from, and would, if freed from factitious
influences. We entirely disagree with many of the
conclusions to be drawn directly and by implication
from his argument, and which, if taken and built
upon, would make his native literature anything but
what should be desirable. Hear himself, — " But, at
all events," urged Mr. Hathaway, " let us have our
literature national. If it is not national it is
nothing." "On the contrary, it may be a great
deal," said Mr. Churchill. "Nationality is a good
thing to a certain extent, but universality is better.
All that is best in the great poets of all countries is
not what is national in them, but what is universal.
Their roots are in their native soil ; but their branches
wave in the unpatriotic air, that speaks the same
language unto all men, and their leaves shine with
the illimitable light that pervades all lands. Let us
throw all the windows open ; let us admit the light
and air on all sides ; that we may look towards the
four corners of the heavens, and not always in the
same direction." These are, as Charles Lamb said
of a flowery verse of his friend Coleridge, " rich
lines;" and "riches cover many faults." What is
best in great poets, undoubtedly is what is universal,
— universal in attributes, but not the less national in
modes. What would the art of the Greeks be apart
from the divine aspects of their cloud-land, or that
of the Italians without "the genial sunny atmosphere
and soft Ausonian air," which works, as well as
"travellers, bring about them." And surely the air
is not unpatriotic. It has its climates, though un-
mapped, in which the life of life is inspired in
different proportions, and is breathed into various
forms. Nor does the light, dyed as it is, and broken
by the many- tinted " windows of sky," picture this
colourless indifferentism. This " universal language "
has as many dialects as there were dissentient tongues
at Babel. To this people it speaks the interrupted
utterance of passion, to that the languid phrase of
sentiment, to another the cool, clear sentences of
reason. Variety is the circulating medium of beauty.
It is the blood of its body ; it lives with its life, and
is inseparate from, if not essential to its being. The
wider the windows are thrown open, the longer
the listeners stand beside them, the less same the
shades, the less monotonous the sounds that reach
them from without. " But you admit nationality
to be a good thing?" "Yes, if not carried too
far ; still, I confess, it rather limits one's views
of truth. I prefer what is natural. Mere na-
tionality is often ridiculous. Every one smiles
when he hears the Icelandic proverb 'Iceland
is the best land the sun shines upon.' Let us
be natural, and we shall be national enough. Be-
sides, our literature can be strictly national only
so far as our character and modes of thought differ
from those of other nations. Now, as we are very
like the English — are, in fact, English, under a
different sky, — I do not see how our literature can be
very different from theirs. Westward from hand to
hand we pass the lighted torch, but it was lighted at
the old domestic fireside of England." A preference
of the natural to the national, appears to us a strange
expression. Within the range of Art, the qualities
seem to us identical, and the words synonymous, to a
far greater extent than most words so styled. The
only portion of any nation that is not national is the
upper class, the universality of whose modes and
manners are the results, and in the ratio, of its
artificiality. And we repeat our opinion, that native
American literature would be national throughout if
thoroughly natural in spirit. Emerson is natural, and
accordingly we find an American nationality in him,
— large-souled, free-thoughted, progressive, original,
— his genius is the indigenous growth of the Re-
public. America itself, — the America of the Poet,
is a contradiction to the theory that a transplanted
nationality can flourish " continuatively," under a
foreign sky. As an exotic, it must be housed and
heated, and kept from alien, — that is, natural influ-
ences ; otherwise it must acclimate itself, or die.
How came it that the first signal use of this " torch,
lighted at the domestic fireside of England," was to
light the great Tea-party in Boston Bay ? So far as
hearsay knowledge goes, we have reason to be im-
pressed with the notion that the American character
and modes of thought differ widely from those of any
other people. Their component nationalities, whether
subsisting side by side, separately, as in some mea-
sure they at present do, or blending together into
national entirely, cannot represent English, or any
characterization other than American. We cannot think
that " mere nationality, or even its most exaggerated
expression can, philosophically, be regarded as ridicu-
lous. Omitting all consideration of its origin, uses,
and operation, to take it in a purely artistic point of
view, without nationality, — without the strong, deep,
imaginative, poetic love of country, where would be
the very poetry to which Professor Longfellow
appeals as evidence to his argument ?
The " universality " which the Poet sees, prospec-
tively, for his native literature, we doubt to bo
attainable. The constitution of Nature seems pro-
vided against the independence of any of its members.
No country, or people, or man upon earth, has been
self-sufficient. Nation, as individual, seeks each in
others, not duplicates, but the complement of self.
Did "universality" obtain generally, mutual attrac-
tion, necessarily, woiild cease to operate. A result
would ensue in the intellectual world, parallel to that
in the physical, could each country raise artificially
the natural products of the others. Commerce of
mind would cease from want of motive. On this
point we venture to dissent altogether from Professor
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
327
Longfellow. But not less do we acknowledge a
strong sense of individual obligation to the inspirit-
ing and fortifying influences of his genius. We turn
to it with confidence, " when the intervals of dark-
ness come, as come they must, — when the soul seeth
not, when the sun is hid, and the stars withdraw
their shining, — we repair to this lamp, which was
kindled by their ray, to guide our steps to the East
again, where the dawn is :"—
THE DAY IS DONE.
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
T see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and thr mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist, —
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling-,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters, —
Not from the bards sublime
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time ;
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavour,
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start : —
Who through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
THE LEISURE HOURS, — HOW ARE THEY
SPENT ?
"How do the people spend their leisure hours ?"
" Which people do you mean ? Is it the professional
people ? " They hav\> newspapers, periodicals, books,
clubs, dinner partie\>. theatres, and concerts. But
some professional men have no leisure. They are
always at work. Amusement they consider to be
beneath them. They have not time to amuse
themselves.
As for the higher classes, the titled and propertied,
their life is all amusement, and a sad thing it
becomes when there is nothing else, — no useful
pursuit, no vocation, no business, except that of
exhausting old pleasures, and inventing new ones.
And then there are the middle classes, — a not
inconsiderable body of the people, yet not the people.
Their amusements are of a solid kind, — a quiet
rubber, — "summat short," a sixpenn'orth, with a pipe
of tobacco and newspaper. They don't take holi-
days. They become inured to the life behind the
counter, and their pleasure is there. Few of them
will venture on a day's excursion, — "It looks so un-
businesslike." Only the " fast " young men of that
class venture upon such an invasion of the country':?
customs. These latter, too, may visit Vauxhall,
Creinorne, and Laurent's Casino, but it is by steal h,
and if acquaintances encounter them, they feel
mutually ashamed. " What ! you here, too ? "
Only Epsom and Ascot Races can tempt this class
into a whole day's pleasure. For, these are national
celebrations, and recognized " institutions " of the
country. Perhaps a Lord Mayor's Show, or a
Queen's Drawing-room, can attract them for half a
day ; and Greenwich Fair ! Ah, that is an attraction,
indeed ! With its nut rifle corps, its unrivalled
giants, its pig-faced ladies, its back-scratchers, ita
ginger-bread stands, its monster dancing-booths, its
bold English archers shooting at straw men, it;i
Richardson Royal Theatres, — these arc, indeed,
pleasures, which even respectable men of the middle
class, not excepting Mr. Caudle himself, disdain not
to patronize.
" Greenwich Fair, indeed ! " exclaims Mrs. Caudle,
" Yes, — and of course you went up and down the
hill, running and racing with nobody knows who.
And I suppose you had your fortune told by the
gipsies. I'm sure I can tell you your fortune, if
you go on as you do. And you must go riding upon
donkeys, too. Then you must go in the thick of the
fair, and have the girls scratching your coat with
rattles. You couldn't help it, if they did scratch
your coat ? Don't tell me ; people don't scratch
coats unless they're encouraged to do it. And you
must go in a swing, too. You didn't go in a swing ?
And I'm a foolish woman to think so, am I ? Well,
if you didn't, it was no fault of yours ; you wished
to go, I have no doubt. And then you must go into
the shows ? There, — you don't deny that. You did
go into a show. What of it, Mr. Caudle ? A good
deal of it, sir. Nice crowding and squeezing in
those places. Pretty places ! And you a married
man, and the father of a family ! No, I won't hold
my tongue. You're to go to Greenwich Fair, and
race up and down the hill, and play at kiss in the
ring. Poh ! it's disgusting, Mr. Caudle."
But, indeed, our middle-classes, as a whole, are not
much given to amusement. As old Froissart said of
the Englishmen of his time, when they do amuse
themselves, they do it "sadly, after the manner of
their country." They seem rather ashamed of
anything like hearty enjoyment. For we inherit,
perhaps unknowingly, a good deal of the Puritanism
of our forefathers, who somehow entertained a secret
belief that the Almighty was displeased with human
enjoyment. The "Book of Sports," of King James,
revised by Charles I., contributed not a little to
produce the Great Rebellion, which afterwards
upturned the throne and constitution of England.
Not a few of our decent middle-class people frown at
dancing, and will not allow their children to learn it ;
they would rather see them follow intense money-
getting than the mazes of a dance. Yet what is the
end of money-getting ? With most people, merely to
provide for their animal wants. So that it is but a
selfish pursuit, as much so as dancing is, and often
much less communicative of enjoyment to others.
But the young people of the middle classes will not
be denied pleasures either ; so they take them by
stealth, and in places where they think no watchful
eye is upon them. Look at the night-houses about
town, thronged by young men, — places where the
songs are as cerulean as the auditors are verdant. It
is a villanoua atmosphere, moral as well as physical,
which is breathed in those places. But it is society's
own fault. We have tabooed amusement, and made
328
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
it a tiling to be snatched by stealth. We call amuse-
ment sinful, and those who will have it enjoy it with
a sense of shame and self-condemnation. The opinion
of " the good " tells the young man who snatches
amusement that he is in a path that leads downward ;
and he begins to imagine that between him and them
there is already drawn a line of demarcation, which
grows broader and broader as he advances. Thus the
sinner is often made such by the unwisdom and nar-
rowness of our own moral codes.
But how do the mass of the people spend their
Leisure Hours ? That is a still more important
question. As a large portion of them cannot read, of
course the newspaper and the cheap weekly journal
do not find admission to their homes. They are also
shut out from the fund of amusement and instruction
which lies in books. But beer-shops and public-
houses, licensed by the Government, are thrown
open to them, and thither they go. A large pro-
portion of the working people of this country spend
their leisure time, or a considerable portion of it, in
the pubh'c-houses. The enormous consumption of
beer and ardent spirits sufficiently proves this. In
the northern part of this island, where the sovereign
efficacy of dulness is believed in as a preservative
from evil, seven million gallons of whiskey are
consumed yearly, or about three gallons on an
average to every man, woman, arid child in Scotland.
An intelligent, Sabbath-keeping people, the Scotch,
indeed, are, with a great aversion for popular
amusements ; yet how awfully drunken they are ! At
the last meeting of the General Assembly of the
kirk, no fewer than seven ministers were deposed
from their offices for drunkenness ! And let any one
walk through the streets of Glasgow any evening in
the week, not even excepting Sunday, and what
sights of drunkenness he will see ! It is the same in
Edinburgh, and the other large towns of Scotland,
in those neighbourhoods inhabited by the working
classes. So that dulness and absence of amusement
do not preserve a population from vice !
The working people of England have few amuse-
ments. For one thing, they have little time.
Hard work is the rule of their life. This is the
case alike in town and country. The Short Time
Bill has liberated the factory workers in the even-
ings to some extent ; but how do they spend them ?
Not in mechanics' institutes. Not at cheap concerts.
Not much in dancing. They are too tired for that.
Concerts there are, to be sure, in some towns, but
these are by no means of an innocuous kind. The
Rev. Mr. Clay, of Preston, mentions one of the
Singing-rooms, situated in that town, at which from
600 to 700 boys and girls are usually found on
Saturday evenings, spending part of their weekly
earnings, having their bodies poisoned with smoke and
drink, and their minds poisoned with ribaldry and
obscenity. And while the boys and girls are in the
singing-rooms, their parents are in the beer-shop or
public-house. In Liverpool and Manchester there
are dancing-rooms, besides singing-rooms, similarly
patronized, where the influences imparted are of an
equally vicious character. But the public-house is
the great place of popular resort in all districts.
And of such places of amusement and entertainment,
there are not fewer than 97,405 in England and Wales,
or about one for every forty working men in the
country. So that it is pretty clear, after all, where
the people spend their Leisure Hours.
Look at the gin-palaces of London ! Who frequent
them ? Or peep into the cheap theatres and penny
"gaffs ! " What class do you find there ? Or witness a
public execution, — the only public amusement pro-
vided for the people in this country. The class is one
and the same. You have never seen a "gaff" probably ?
Better if you have not, for there is no good to be
learned there, though they are the schools in which
thousands of poor children are allowed to gather their
notions of morality. The adventures represented are
chiefly those of thieves and robbers, and the language
is packed full of the lowest slang, in order to tickle
the ears of the juvenile auditors. Here is one of
their bills of the play :—
"On Thursday next, will be performed at
Smith's Grand Theatre,
THE RED-NOSED MONSTER;
Or, THE TYRANT or THB MOUNTAIN.
Characters :
The Red-nosed Monster.
The Assassin.
The Ruffian of the Hut.
The Villain of the Valley.
Wife of the Red-nosed Monster.
Daughter of the Assassin.
To conclude with
THE BLOOD-STAINED POCKET-HAND-
KERCHIEF ;
OR, THE MURDER IN THE COTTAGE.
The Characters by the Company."
These " gaffs " are only so many nurseries of juvenile
thieves, but they are allowed to " exist, and they are
thronged by thousands. The desire to visit them
amounts almost to a passion among young people.
" Jack Sheppard " is a great favourite, and in the
Report of the Prison Inspectors, many instances are
given in which the representation of the play was
found to have incited children to their first com-
mission of crime. One said, "I saw 'Jack Shep-
pard ' played twice ; it excited in my mind an
inclination to imitate him." Another said, "I
noticed them picking one another's pockets on the
stage : it gave me a great insight into how to do it. "
Among ninety boys examined, most of them declared
that they had stolen money to see " Jack Sheppard "
performed. At some of these places, the gestures,
double entendres, and open obscenity are such, that it
is impossible to describe them. It is a moral poison
of the rankest kind. Yet such places exist all over
London. There is one house of the kind at
Paddington calculated to hold two thousand persons.
Such are the amusements of part of our juvenile
population, and surely they are bad enough.
Home has very few attractions to the poor. Their
homes are very wretched in comparison with the
trumpery splendour of the cheap theatre, or the
comfort and company of the beer-shop or public-house.
"Twopenny hops" are also indulged in, as well as
dog-fighting, rat-killing, and pigeon-shooting. Batter-
sea Fields used to be the great scene of the last
named amusements. Not long ago the Tiines gave
the following graphic summary of the amusements at
that renowned place : —
"The spectacle which it presents, especially on
Sunday afternoons, is disgraceful to the metropolis.
There are collected thousands of the gamins of
London, of the idle and the dissolute of both sexes, who
while away their time in sports of the lowest and most
vulgar kind. A large Gipsy encampment is close at
hand, the inhabitants of which prey upon the spare
coppers of the young cockneys. Swings and round-
abouts are in full and, dangerous operation ; rifle
galleries ' for all nations ' are in abundance, and
the owners of them drive a roaring trade. 'The
finest Barcelona nuts ' may be won by shooting at
the pasteboard figures of clowns, who grin as they
receive the bolt. Cocoa-nuts ' warranted milky ' are
the prizes of the successful competitors at 'knock-
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
329
'em-down.' Then there are donkey rides and races
on the most miserable screws of ponies, fit only for
the knacker's-jrard ; vendors of unripe fruit, stale
pastry, and deleterious drinks, hawk about their
goods, and 'cold nectar,' and 'sherbet,' anything
but 'blest,' flow from filthy reservoirs, into still
filthier glasses at the rate of a halfpenny to each
customer. Cold fried fish, pickled onions, pettitoes,
and ' hot pickled eels ' are among the choicest
comestibles on sale, and the spare pence that such
attractions as we have enumerated do not absorb, go
in lotteries, weighing-machines, ' strength - testers, '
fortune-telling, or beer. One space of ground, not
more than two acres in extent, is sublet to an
cnterprizing Gipsy for £30, and he not only covers
that expense, but makes a handsome profit from the
itinerant costermongers whom he accommodates.
This will give some idea of the way in which the
whole is managed ; but the picture of Battersea
would not be complete, were we not to mention that
it is the favourite house of pigeon-shooting and of
pedestrianism, — that there edifying matches are
constantly in progress, in which sporting and fancy
celebrities may be backed to any amount. To such
scenes and amusements the Government plan of a
public pai-k will necessarily put a stop, but a park for
the people without a shelter in bad weather, or the
facilities for rational enjoyment, drives them back
upon the rude and vulgar devices of the commonest
fair. We cannot hope altogether to extirpate such
tastes as those which find their gratification in the
manner described. Extinguished at Battersea, they
will reappear elsewhere."
A word might be said in palliation of the charges
brought against these frequenters of Battersea Fields
and similar places. Remember that through the
whole week, these people have been worked like
horses, and enjoyed no recreation save what the
public-house afforded them. The one day of the
week on which they are relieved from labour arrives.
They have not been taught how to use that day
aright, so they use it in their own way, and after their
own tastes, such as they are. They do not go to church,
— only a very small proportion of working people in
the large towns do go there, — the National Gallery,
the British Museum, the Tower, and all other public-
places, are shut up, so they cannot go there, — all
mechanics' and literary institutes, and all reading-
rooms are closed on those days, so they cannot go there
either, — but the public-houses and the gin-palaces are
kept open, and they go there ; Battersea Fields with
its low attractions are also open, and they go
there ; and the open country beyond the city, the
steamers on the rivers, and the tea and beer gardens
around the suburbs, are also accessible, and there,
too, they may be seen in countless numbers. It is
not perhaps too much to say, that there is more
drunkenness on a Sunday in most of our large towns,
than on any other day in the week.
The bearings of this wide question are too large to
be treated of at the tail of a cursory article such as
this. But do not the facts we have named, point to
this, — that people will have amusement and recrea-
tion ; and that if we do not provide them with
amusement and recreation of an innocent and im-
proving kind, they will take what there is, even
though it be of the worst ? If we shut up our
museums, then the people will go to the dog-fighting
of Battersea Fields. If we let our good theatres go
down, they will frequent the penny " gaffs." If we do
not give cheap and good concerts, they will go to the
" twopenny hops." Saying that amusement is sinful,
will not destroy the appetite for it which forms part
of our nature. We rather think it has been wisely im-
planted in us, with faculties to subserve it. Prohibit
amusement, and you will only have the appetite
working on in secret, — in sensuality and drunkenness,
as in Scotland. " If ever a people required to be
amused/' says the wise author of Companions of my
Solitude, "it is we sad -hearted Anglo-Saxons.
Heavy eaters, hard thinkers, often given up to a
peculiar melancholy of our own, with a climate that
for months together would frown away mirth if it
could, — many of us with very gloomy thoughts about
our hereafter, — if ever there were a people who
should avoid increasing their dulness by all work and
no play, we are that people."
One way of making our countrymen a more amus-
able, would be to make them a better educated,
people. If more of them could read newspapers,
cheap journals, and books at home, there would be
fewer found in public-houses. There would be more
evening reading-rooms for working men, and fewer
gin-palaces. But music ought to be taught to
children at school, as it is in Germany, and thus a
delightful source of rational amusement would be
provided for after-life. As an evening recreation
after the hours of daily labour, there is nothing
comparable to music. It is innocent, elevating,
purifying, and social. At present, we leave it as the
main attraction of the drinking- room and casino. It
is clear that the attraction " draws ;" for the people,
as we have said, will be amused, no matter where.
But let the same attractions be employed in connec-
tion with institutions that elevate, not degrade, —
such as Mechanics' Institutions and Working Men's
Associations, — let them give better music, and it will
not be long before they will beat the drink and put it
to rout altogether.
It is to be regretted also that dancing-rooms are so
generally left in bad hands, and exercise their
attractions in connection with degrading influences ;
whereas they miyht be made conducive to good
morals, and employed as a means of civilizing and
refining the lower classes of the population. Dr.
Channing, in a wise spirit, observed, — " It is to be
desired, that this accomplishment should be extended
to the labouring classes of society, not only as an
innocent pleasure, but as a means of improving their
manners. Why should not gracefulness be spread
through the whole community ? The philanthropist
and Christian must desire to break down the partition
walls between human beings in different conditions ;
and one means of doing this is, to remove the
conscious awkwardness which confinement to labo-
rious occupations is apt to induce. An accomplish-
ment, giving free and graceful movement, though a
far weaker bond than intellectual or moral culture,
still does something to bring those who partake it,
near each other."
To recur to music. We observe, with great
satisfaction, that a few, but only 'a very few, masters
in the manufacturing districts, have recently been
encouraging a taste for the cultivation of music
among their hands. Some of them have formed
singing classes, and others have got their men to
form instrumental bands, presenting them with the
requisite instruments. Edwin Chadwick, in one of
his reports, mentions the great moral advantages
which have resulted from such a practice. One
gentleman, a worthy quaker, has provided play-
grounds, conversational soirees, music-classes, and a
band, buying several of the musical instruments for
them, including the "big drum." The bigdi-um and the
music turned out a really good investment. His men
were steady, satisfied, held to their work, and were
pleased with the sympathy of their master ; whereas
the men who worked for a neighbouring master, one
of the ordinary sort, were constantly in a state of
mutiny, strikes, fretting, and discontent. " I would
330
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
not," said the worthy Quaker, " exchange my workers
for his with seven thousand pounds to boot ! "
We want all sorts of influences set to work to
divert men from the sensualism of drinking strong
drink, which is the parent of by far the greatest part
of the vice and crime which exists in this country.
So, at least, say the most eminent Judges of the land.
We would have all depositaries of art thrown open
to the people, as on the Continent. Why should not
all our museums, exhibitions, cathedrals, and public
picture galleries, be freely accessible to all ? There
the tastes of working as well as upper class people
would be educated and cultivated. There they would
look on noble forms and lovely scenes, opening up
quite a new world of beauty to their eyes and minds.
There they would be humanized, refined, and purified.
And we know of no good reason why the sublime
sacred music of Haydn, Handel, and Mozart, with
that of our own Purcell, Arne, and Horace, should
not be made a source of attraction to the people on
all days of the week, in our churches, and elsewhere,
— on Sundays as well as Saturdays. Such music
would be in as good keeping with those places, as the
deck trio on the Sunday steamer, of harp, clarionet,
and cornopean. And if you could fill the churches,
now empty, and draw the people from the gin-
shops and beer-houses, should we not thereby be doing
something towards the observance of the holy day ?
While we write these lines, the question of
converting the Crystal Palace into a Winter Garden
is being discussed. Of course, we are strongly in
favour of such a scheme. The establishment of
some such spacious place for purposes of healthful
resort and innocent recreation during the winter
months of the year, is a positive necessity in this
variable climate. In a population of about two
millions of human beings, there is at present no such
place of resort. We need not go further into this
question at present, but conclude by the expression
of our hearty desire to see the Crystal Palace appro-
priated for the purposes of a public Winter's Garden,
believing that its establishment as such would prove
a blessing and benefit to a very large class of our city
population.
THE LAIKD'S WATCH.
THE softened light of a summer gloaming was stealing
gradually over as fair a landscape as the south-west
of Scotland can boast. The rich glow of sunset yet
lingered upon the hills, and tipped the heather-
blossoms with a golden tint ; while low down the
braesides,. and along the glens the shadows were
deepening into that soft repose which is the more
immediate precursor of night. Below the range of
irregular hills, some covered with the purple heath
and clumps of furze, and others rejoicing in a thick
clothing of copse-wood, nestled a small country-
town, with its rows of greyish- white houses gradually
lessening, till they were lost by ones and twos in the
surrounding wooded slopes. On one side of the
I little town, which we shall call Cloudsburn, stretched
the rich park-land and woods belonging to an ancient
mansion ; while through the richly-cultivated valley,
which lay immediately before, a burnie wound its
serpentine course towards the sea ; now dashing on
over the grey stones, as if in very joy of its
freedom, and anon flowing as pensively and restrained
as though it feared to disturb the petals of the many
wild flowers which looked into it. Far off in the
distance, still sheltered by the hills, a ruined strong-
hold of feudalism raised its strong towers in mocking
majesty, while higher up rose a solitary white pillar,
the memorial of a Covenanting minister's virtue and
suffering. Altogether the scene was one of perfect
and harmonious beauty ; and among the many
admiring eyes and grateful hearts which in the
remote glens of Scotland bow through Nature to her
God, there was not one who more fully appreciated
this beauty than the shepherd-boy who sat beside
one of the sheep-tracks on the highest point of the
mountain, and gazed in deep abstraction upon the
scene before him. His reverie was, however, soon
disturbed by the approach of a gentleman ; and the
boy rose and lifted his bonnet respectfully, as the
stranger addressed him.
"Well, Willie, so you're dreaming away your time
as usual. What book were you studying ? "
" Nae beuk, sir, but that ane which God hinisel
has written. I was e'en lookin' at the auld glen
yonder, an' the sea beyond."
"And wishing you could leave the old place,
Willie, and try your fortune over the sea, eh • Your
mother tells me you are tiring of the hills. Is it
not so ? "
"Tired o' the hills! Never, sir! but I think I
could do better for the father an' mither, as well as
mysel', if I could see mair o' the world an' learn
mair. Yet for a' that, my heart would be unco sail-
to leave these bonnie braes."
" Well, my man, we must see what can bs done to
make you as useful as you wish to be. Now I want
you to do something for me, if you are willing to
earn sixpence easily. Just take this watch to
Cowan's, and tell him that it's gone worse than ever
since he pretended to regulate it, and ask him to let
me have it by to-morrow night. Do you mind,
Willie ? "
The worthy laird placed his large hunting-watch in
the boy's hand, and then, after again giving his
injunctions respecting it, with a kind good night, he
struck through the heather to gain the nearest point
of his own grounds, while Willie Gilbraith bent his
steps slowly along the opposite side of the brae. On
reaching the foot of the hill he paused for a few
moments, as if undecided whether to take the path
towards the town, or that which led by a circuitous
route along the glen to his father's cottage. At last
another glance at the watch seemed to decide him ;
and he bounded quickly along in the direction of his
home. Willie Gilbraith was a quick intelligent boy
of about fourteen, who, after receiving the best
education which the village- school afforded to chil-
dren of his class in Scotland, almost earned his own
living by looking after the laird's sheep upon the hills,
and occasionally helping in the garden, or going
messages. His father had been employed on Mr.
Auchter's estate from a boy ; and though his wages
ha^d been good for a Scotch labourer, the expense
attendant upon bringing up a large family decently,
had prevented his laying anything by to place the
youngest at a trade, or give him the desired start in
the world. So, Willie, with higher capabilities for
improvement than any of his brothers and sisters,
was left to the comparative idleness of a life utterly
at variance with his enterprising spirit. He had
ever been remarkable for the mechanical genius
which he exhibited, and which was especially called
into action by the frequent defections of the old
clock which formed so important a part of the house-
furniture. If the clock was a defaulter as to its
number of striking, or chose to take an unfair
advantage of Time by getting a few hours in advance
of him, Willie's skill was called into requisition, and
seldom failed to correct these faults. It was this
mechanical taste which led the boy to become more
and more dissatisfied with his life on the hills, and
long to enter a new field, where his taste could be
more fully developed ; and it was the wish to try his
own skill upon Mr. Auchter's watch, which induced
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
331
him to venture upon what would in other cases have
been considered as a breach of honest obedience to
his master. But it was too late in the evening for
the boy to begin any examination of the precious
time-piece ; so wrapping it up in his Sunday handker-
chief, he deposited it safely in a corner of his own
Icist until the morning, and sat down to his supper of
porridge with a happier heart than had gladdened
the ingle-side for some time. Willie's head was
full of joyous anticipations of his stolen work on the
morrow ; and when he sought his little bed for the
night's repose, it was but to snatch some fevered
nleep, and to dream of wheels, chains, main-springs,
and levers, till the first red dawn of morning broke
over the hills.
Seated upon a kuowe or small hillock of shoy,t, fine
grass and mountain flowers, Willie Gilbraith com-
menced his examination of the delicate mechanism
of the Laird's Watch. Spreading his handkerchief
upon the thymy sward beside him, he laid the several
parts carefully down, as with the help of his three-
bladed knife (a present from Mr. Auchter himself),
he separated them from the watch. This was no
easy task to accomplish, with such rough tools ; but
Willie had so thoroughly initiated himself into those
mysteries of wheels, pendulum, and chains, which lay
hidden under the painted face of the old clock at
home, that he went about this more refined process
with a degree of confidence which would not have
done discredit to a journeyman watch-maker. But
however surely the work progressed, the sun had
risen high on the braeside, drinking up the myriad
dew-drops which sparkled on the blades of grass and
in the chalices of the flowers with his strong thirsty
beams, before the amateur mechanic had completed
his work. At last the earnest, half-anxioua com-
pression of the boy's sun-burnt brow changed to an
unmistakeable smile of satisfaction, and with ease and
rapidity he proceeded to replace the disunited works,
and safely depositing the precious time-piece in its
massive case, again consigned it to the folds of the
handkerchief ; and leaving his elevated work-shop, in
a few moments was bounding along the burnside in the
direction of his father's cottage.
" Hoot, laddie, an' whar hae ye bin the noo ? It's
gude twa hour or mair sin' ye're feyther cam' by on
his way to Moss- side wi' some beasts, an' was speerin'
for ye. Tell me whar ye hae been the noo,
Willie ? "
"No sae far, mither ; an' if ye will promise no to
tell of me, I will just let ye ken all that I've been
doing. Do ye see that, mither ? I've been mending
the Laird's Watch," and Willie laid down the watch
upon the little table which stood ready for the mid-
day meal.
" Gude guide us, bairn, an' for what hae ye brought
sic trouble upon yoursel' ? Puir foolish laddie ! it's
nae possible that ye'd gang an' meddle wi' the Laird's
Watch, jist for a' the warld as if it had been the
auld clockie hersel'. Hoo did ye come by her
at a' ? "
"Mr. Auchter gaed her till me himsel' to get her
set right at Cowan's, an' I ken't fine that I could do
it just as well mysel'. So I was up almost as soon as
it was licht the morn, an' took the watch to pieces
upon the brae, whar naebody wad be speerin'
what I was doing. An' ye'll see, mither, if she'll
no gang a' the better for my meddlin' wi' her, as ye
ca' it."
" Weel, weel, laddie, I'll no say that I'm ower sure
o' that ; but I ken ye've seldom been wrong wi' the
auld clock ; an' may be it's no sae different after a'.
But why am I no to tell ? "
"Because, mither, I want the laird to gie his
watch a trial before he kens wha's been ettling to
men' it. But I'm sair hungered, mither. Is the
kail ready ? "
"Ay, Willie, clever callant as ye are, ye'll no
manage without ye're dinner as weel's the pan-itch.
While ye're suppin' the broo, I'll gang up to the
byres wi' some for your feyther, so dinna leave the
house till I come hame." And the gudewife bustled
off with the frugal dinner she had prepared for her
husband, while her son sat down to do ample justice
to the contents of the kail pot at home.
In the evening Willie went up to the castle ; but
Mr. Auchter being from home, he was glad to
deliver the watch into a servant's hands, and thereby
escape any inquiries which the laird himself might
have made respecting it.
More than a week passed before Willie again
encountered his kind master. When one morning,
as he was leaving the castle, Mr. Auchter accosted
him.
" Why Willie, my man, where have you been
hiding this week past ? I believe you've never had
the promised sixpence yet ; and you well deserve it
for bringing the watch back so soon."
" If you please, sir, does the watch go richt noo ? "
asked Willie, while a blush mantled his sun-burnt
cheeks, as his master's eyes were fixed somewhat
intently upon him.
"It never went better, Willie, and I thought of
looking in at Cowan's to tell him so, for he's not
usually so fortunate. You seem to take an interest
in the watch. What made you think of asking
about it ! "
The boy hesitated for a moment, and then raising
his clear, honest, blue eyes to Mr. Auchter's face,
replied in a frank and manly tone.
"Because, sir, I mendit her mysel'."
"Mended her yoursel' ! Why, how on earth could
you do that ? You have no tools ? "
"Nane but the knife you gaed me last Martinmas
fair, sir ; but I e'en thought I could manage it as weel
as Robie Cowan ; for 'deed it's little gude he did to
the auld clock at hame, an' I soon made her a' richt
mysel'."
" Stay Willie, we must have a little more talk
about this. You have evidently a great taste for
mechanical work, and I should like to help you in
the improvement of your talent. Would you like to
be a watch-maker ? "
"Weel, sir, I can no say that I should like it
exactly, at least I mean that I don't think Robie
'Cowan could teach me sae muckle as I ought to
learn. But I would like to gae to Edinbro' or to
England, an' learn a' aboot the large machinery in the
factories."
" Ay, ay, I see that your better success with my
old watch and the clock at home makes you rather
above poor Robie Cowan. However, as I first said,
we will have some more talk about it. On Thursday
evening you may come up to the castle. I'm going
to Edinburgh this afternoon, and may hear of some-
thing before my return which will please you. Here,
my man, here's half-a-crown instead of the sixpence.
You deserve double pay, at any rate."
After an almost inaudible "Thank you, sir," and
an unusually reverential doffing of his bonnet, Willie
Gilbraith bent his steps towards the braesides ; but
it was impossible for him to resume his shepherding
till he had almost flown along the mountain-track,
and bounded over the stones in the burn, to deposit
the precious coin in the old kist, and relate in a few
hurried words the substance of his conversation with
Mr. Auchter to his mother.
Nobly did Mr. Auchter fulfil his promise of assist-
ance to Willie Gilbraith ; for a month after it was
made, the arrangements for his entrance into one of
332
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
the public schools of Edinburgh were completed, and
the happy boy set forth from his native glen followed
by prophetic whispers of success in his new life,
from more than one of the keen, far-sighted people of
Cloudsburn.
Years passed rapidly away, and save an occasional
visit to Cloudsburn, Willie Gilbraith saw but little of
his parents, and kind friends at the castle. The
good laird himself continued his invaluable patronage
and help to the young machinist, whose rapid im-
provement gave unbounded satisfaction to the gentle-
man with whom he had been placed upon finishing
his education at School. After a time, his
proficiency enabled him to take a higher stand, and
he was promoted to a situation in a large foundry,
where for some years he received an ample salary,
and upon the sudden death of the head of the firm,
was taken in as a junior partner. A proud day it
was in the cottage of old David Gilbraith, when the
laird himself came down to read them the letter
I which he had received that morning from Willie,
! telling him of his good fortune, and enclosing a few
words to the same purport to his parents. And a
scarcely less happy feeling of pride and pleasure
pervaded the castle. The worthy laird himself could
think and talk of nothing else but the success of his
protege, and even his orphan grandchild, now a fair,
graceful girl of nineteen, seemed to share in the
universal joy, and evidently listened with no small
degree of pride to the encomiums passed upon the
absent Willie by her grandfather. William (for we
must drop the diminutive, at last) Gilbraith's ap-
pointment prevented his being personally able to
inform his friends of his good fortune, and it was
some months after, ere he visited his native place.
Few would have recognized the sun-burnt shepherd-
boy in the handsome, intelligent young man who was
now an honoured guest at Mr. Auchter's table, and
the almost constant companion of his walks and
rides.
One fine evening, about a week after William
Gilbraith's return to Cloudsburn, leaving Mr. Auchter
to a longer enjoyment of his accustomed glass of
toddy, he quitted the dining-room in search of Jessy
i and her grandmother. Mrs. Auchter who sat quietly
indulging in her after-dinner nap, roused up suffi-
ciently at the young man's entrance to give him her
usual kindly nod, and then placed the newspaper,
which was her invariable companion on these
occasions, more closely to her face, as though, dear,
good soul ! there could be any use in such an attempt
at deception, when everybody knew that she never
read without a due adjustment of her spectacles, and
knew also that the aforesaid spectacles were never
in requisition after dinner. But William seemed
fully to appreciate Mrs. Auchter's political studies,
and to be in consequence most anxious not to disturb
them. In this anxiety Jessy evidently shared, as
might be plainly deduced from the subdued tone in
which a seemingly interesting conversation was kept
up between them for some time, while Jessy bent her
little rose-bud face so low over her work, that it was
almost hidden by the long sunny curls. Then, rising,
she laid aside needle and canvas, and passed noise-
lessly from the room, while William as quietly
followed. It was not long ere the young couple
had crossed the park, and were sauntering along
the wood-walk which skirted the loch. Leaving
the loch, and passing through the shady copse which
separated it from the sheltering hills, William
Gilbraith and his fair companion ascended the steep
mountain-track, till they gained an elevated point
commanding the same extensive view of wood and
glen, of pastoral beauty and rugged grandeur,
bounded by the ever-changing sea, which we have
before described. Here they stopped ; and while
gazing upon the beauty before them, William holding
safe one of Jessy Auchter's small, white hands within
his own, said gently, —
"Without your grandfather's full consent, my sweet
Jessy, with all my deep hoarded love for you, I
should have deemed it a breach of that confidence
he has always shown me, to ask you, as I now do, to
become my wife. And, dearest one, you will not
think less of this declaration of my love, because
it is made on the very ground which I hold sa-
cred, as having witnessed my success with the
Laird's Watch, and which I shall always remember
as the starting-point in my present life. Tell me,
my Jessy, have I presumed too much in cherishing
the hope that your love would one day ba my sure
reward ? "
" Do not speak so, Willie, I cannot bear to hear you
use the word presume. You know how happy and
proud I am in being loved by you. And more proud
and happy still, in now giving on this very spot my
solemn promise to be your dutiful and loving wife.
And, dear Willie, I do believe that the blessing
which seemed to follow your first trial as a mechanic
on this braeside, will follow us with a still stronger
power, through the untried life before us." And the
blush which rose upon the fair face of Jessy Auchter
deepened into a richer rose-tint, as for a moment she
raised her clear hazel eyes to her lover's, and met
their beaming look of answering affection. There
needed no further words t<5 seal their troth ; and yet,
seated side by side upon the grassy knowe, many
were exchanged ere the young couple rose, and took
the downward path in the direction of Hazel glen. A
few minutes' walk along the edge of the burn, which
was crossed, as of old, by the huge grey stepping-
stones brought them by a near route to the low gate
of David Gilbraith's pretty cottage, nestling in the
very midst of a luxuriant flower-garden, where it was
evident that a more tasteful feminine hand than
David's gudewife could boast, had been busily em-
ployed. Seated on the low garden-seat which was
placed before the verandah, the old couple were
enjoying the quiet evening, arid looking for their
son's return, when he and Jessy stood before
them.
"Father," said William, after a few words had
been exchanged between the old and young people,
" Miss Auchter, — Jessy and I .wished to see you
together this evening, that you and my mother might
be the first to bless the engagement we have just
entered into. Not without the sanction of her own
parents has it been done. So that I know how truly
you' will rejoice in this my unbounded, undeserved
happiness."
"Not undeserved, Willie; never had a man a
better right to ask a pretty girl to share his self-won
fortunes than you have. David, my good friend, and
Mrs. Gilbraith, you will join me in a hearty blessing
upon our children, I am sure."
It was the manly voice of Mr. Auchter which thus
broke in upon William Gilbraith's speech ; and it
was bis kind hand which was laid upon the shoulder
of the young man, and on the drooping head of his
own cherished grandchild, as she bent before him,
while he responded to the words of blessing which
the grey-headed old shepherd pronounced with such
solemn emphasis. Sweetly those murmurs of prayer
and benediction fell upon the young hearts there
united, breathing a holy sanction on the fuller union
yet to come, — and as truly was the blessing of a still
higher unity acknowledged by the hearts of those
old servants and their worthy master, — an unity
by no means impaired by inequality of worldly posi-
tion.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
333
THE MONEY-VALUE OF EDUCATION TO
WORKING MEN.
EDUCATION, however obtained, is always an advan-
tage to a man. Even as a means of what is
called " getting on " in the world, it is worthy of
being sought after, — not to speak of its moral uses
as an elevator of character and intelligence. A
German writer speaks of the education given to a
child as a capital — equivalent to a store of money —
placed at its disposal by the parent. The child, when
grown up to manhood, may employ the education,
as he might employ the money, badly ; but that is
no argument against the possession of either. Of
course, the value of education, as of money, consists
chiefly in its proper use. And one of the advantages
of knowledge is, that the very acquisition of it tends
to increase the capability of using it aright ; which is
certainly not the case with the accumulation of money.
Generally speaking, the earnings of the various classes
of society, in all countries, are relatively in proportion
to their education. This is a striking fact. Take
those receiving the lowest rate of wages, say from 7s.
to 10s. a- week, and you will find them the least
educated. This is almost invariable. Many of these
cannot read or write, although they may be in many
respects good and intelligent persons. Take the
next class of workmen — those receiving from 10s.
to 20s. a-week. You will find them better educated
as a class, and most of them able to read and write —
many of them well educated ; though perhaps there
is still a majority of them who cannot read and write
well ; and very few have cultivated themselves up to
a high standard of intelligence. So soon as this is the
case, they leave the second class, and pass over into
the third, that of skilled and educated workmen,
earning from 20s. to 35s. a-week. This may not be
invariable, yet as a general rule it will be found
correct. Their advancing intelligence fits them for,
and, if they have what is called push in them, gener-
ally leads to, their employment in a higher sort of
occupation, requiring the exercise of increased intelli-
gence, and for which, rather than for the mere
manual labour, higher wages are paid. Thus, — 1,
labourer ; 2, skilled workman ; 3, overlooker, foreman,
or clerk, are remunerated in the proportion of one,
two, and three ; whilst their mental acquirements are
almost invariably found to bear the same ratio. Thus,
parents who educate their children properly, who
enjoin and even force upon them a thorough schol-
astic education, are rescuing them from class one, and
placing them in at least the second class, if not in the
third, or even the very highest that can be reached.
The parents who thus educate, are in fact giving
their children what is equivalent to a good capital
towards helping them on in the world. The number
of merely manual labourers is every day decreasing,
— those who can use their hands and limbs, but not
their heads. Increasing civilization is tending
daily to widen indefinitely the boundaries of intellec-
tual labour. Take the best paid, because the most
intelligent, class of labourers of this day, — those em-
ployed on railways. T^.e first condition required of
every applicant for employment on railways, is — that
lie can read. For every railway servant must carry
with him a copy of the company's rules, and be able
immediately to refer to them in cases of alleged viola-
tion. Thus many men, otherwiss competent in physi-
cal strength and skill, are shut out from this sphere
of highly remunerative employment, because of their
want of elementary school instruction. Even in the
ancient calling of domestic service, education is now
more generally required than it formerly was. There
is reason to believe, however, that our industrial
classes are not nearly so well educated as they ought
to be. For instance, at the investigation before the
coroner, respecting the causes of the recent fatal
accident at the Rawmarsh Colliery, in Yorkshire, in
which fifty-two persons were killed, it appeared that
many of the colliery labourers had no idea of either
reading or writing ; and even some of those who had
important posts could neither read nor write. They
had the most confused and dark ideas as to the use of
the Davy lamp, which, if properly employed, would
certainly have led to the prevention of that accident.
The coroner, accordingly, strongly recommended the
proprietors of the colliery for the future to employ
steady, intelligent, and well-educated workmen, in
preference to those less educated ; and he advised
industrial schools to be established in the provinces,
for the better instruction of the workmen, after the
manner already adopted in France and Belgium.
Indeed, if, as Dr. Lyon Playfair insists, the compe-
tition between industrial nations must before long
become a competition mainly of intelligence, it is
obvious that England must make better provision
for the education of its industrial classes, else be
prepared to drop behind in the industrial progress
of the nations. It is also a remarkable fact, that
the more you educate, the less is the tendency
to criminality amongst a people. For why? By
educating, you prevent the consequences of ignor-
ance, namely, brutality, sensuality, meanness, dis-
honesty, improvidence, and recklessness. The crim-
inal returns invariably prove a very low state of
education on the part of the prisoners, — so invariably
that Lord Cranworth says it is impossible that it can
be merely accidental ; and he attributes it to the
degradation caused by ignorance, and the want of
self-respect. Of course, education has many other
uses besides that of helping one on in the world. "We
might speak of the infinite pleasures connected with
it, the tendency it has to make a man more pure,
refined, wise, and virtuous. But the uses of know-
ledge in this respect are well recognized, and it is
unnecessary to repeat them here. But the above
facts, looking at education on the lowest ground —
that of money's worth — are curious and instructive,
and are well worthy of being pondered by working
OUK MUSICAL CORNER.
WE have just been running over the music of the
"Beggar's Opera," and charming music it is, and
while playing most of the beautiful and undying
bits of harmony extant, who is not struck by the
extreme " simplicity " of the compositions ?
We meet with no hard-stretching chords, no
startling transitions ; a smooth flow of a few notes'
compass generally produces the great effect, and
"Away with Melancholy," or "Life let us cherish,"
present no difficulties but what a "maid of all work "
or butcher's boy can master at first hearing. What
exquisite music we find among the old and popular
songs of almost every nation, and yet how "simple"
the tunes are. Take a dozen of Scotch, Irish, and
English melodies, and see if the substance of most
operas surpasses them in purity and harmony.
Talking of opera, it has struck us that noise has
been the great purpose in most of our lately pro-
duced works, and the purpose is gloriously gained by
a sort of orchestral apoplexy, produced by repletions
of brass and parchment, such is the love of over-
powering "crash" often displayed, that we verily
believe a "tremendous thunder-storm," and "alarm-
ing earthquake " would be engaged by some
conductors if possible. It is amusing to observe how
334
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
a struggle for pre-eminence will be carried on between
a singer and a band accompaniment. We have had
some talk on this subject with a " Pr-ima Donna,"
who declared that the overpowering energy of the
fiddlers frequently compelled her to "scream them
down," much against her better taste and judgment.
Some evenings since we looked in at the Adelphi,
and heard Paul Bedford and Miss Fitzwilliam go
through a duet in a style of burlesque excellence not
often approached. They were really singing admir-
ably, but the " band " gave such a "forte " power to
the first and last parts, that we could have boxed the
ears of the double bass, and chopped a dozen of the
" Cremonas " into firewood with hearty good will.
When there is inefficient voice and defective judg-
ment to obscure, we can excuse the extra noise that
may charitably arise in the orchestra, but Kathleen
Fitzwilliam is a sweet and well cultivated singer, and
Paul Bedford can make himself as agreeable in this
department of his art as many who pretend to closer
association with Apollo. We got quite angry, and
to crown all, when an encore was given, still greater
pressure was put on to the catgut steam, and they
played away for " dear life," with a slight rumbling of
the biggest drum to finish the effect. It seems an
English and Italian fancy this of drowning the singer.
The Germans know better, and never shall we forget
our delight some years since on hearing the glorious
Hunting Chorus in " Der Freischutz " sung through
without a single note of accompaniment. The im-
pression it made on our young mind, with the pure
and powerful swell of highly-trained human voices,
will remain for many a long day. We see this
injudicious love of noise carried into private attempts,
and we have often heard a concerted "bass " do all it
could to drown the treble, despite a sister's confi-
dential frown, or a brother's reproving tug at a coat
tail ; but alas ! we fear that many of us, in some
shape or other, incur the old imputation, " Plus sonat
quam valet," and before we get it levelled at ourselves,
let us proceed to official business, and select from the
publications of Messrs. Cocks, New Burlington Street.
"The Lime Blossoms," ballad by George Barker, is
unusually elegant and expressive in its character of
melody. It reminds us of the flowing and once
popular air of Alexander Lee's, " I've plucked the
fairest Flower," not that we detect the slightest
felonious approach in "matter," it is only "style"
we allude to, as being of the same fresh and attractive
degree of composition. We have generally admired
Mr. Barker's melodies, and this is another favourite
on our list. "Ruth and Naomi," a duet, "When
shall we two meet again?" a duet, and "The Boat-
men of the Downs," a song, are three productions by
Stephen Glover. The first is a most charming duet
for Sabbath-singing, very distinctly arranged, and
cleverly rendered in devotional tenderness of feeling.
Moreover, the composer had tender ground to walk
on here, seeing that Miss Davis has already clothed
the simple Scriptural words in exquisite music ; but
Stephen Glover has done his best, and done well.
The second duet is very available for general singers,
being easy and effective, and possessing what many
duets lack, " sweet " harmony. The song, we must
confess, does not please us. There is no "power" in
the melody, and it is altogether deficient in the bold
character appertaining to the subject. It strikes us
that the "time" should have been "common," and
not " six-eight ;" the triplet-form chops up the full
tone of the word measure, and we feel certain the
talented composer could greatly improve the musical
medium if he studied the lines, as we know he can
study poetry.
We now take from D'Almaine's, Soho Square.
"Behold the Man of Sorrows," a sacred song, by
Stephen Glover, is not to our taste. This order of
song is very difficult to handle, and is not to be
discussed like " Little Jack Homer," or " Jack and
Gill," that we can make go to any desultory sort of
air, extemporaneous or otherwise. The subject
before us is peculiarly delicate, and we wish other
themes were chosen for such common-place delinea-
tion, as regards either lithograph or music. " Blush-
ing Mary," is a ballad by Loder, and a very pretty
ballad it is, — somewhat eccentric, btit extremely well
adapted to the words, and likely to become a
favourite. " Put your Shoulder to the Wheel," by
George Simpson, is one of a "A good Time coming"
class of songs, but much inferior to Russell's best. It
admits a chorus, and this is a great attraction to some
singing folks. "Mendelssohn's Songs without Words,"
Hammond, New Bond Street, is an easy arrangement
of some of this composer's best works, by Rimboult.
All severe difficulties are reduced, and moderate
players may get through Mendelssohn in this form to
their own satisfaction, although, in our opinion, such
is the poetic and refined character of Mendelssohn's
genius, that the ability to render it "properly" is
possessed by very few, — and let the music be skele-
tonized as much as it may, it is still "Mendelssohn's."
From Ollirier, Old Bond Street, we have " L'Amore,"
an instrumental serenade by Charles Solomon, which
displays the profound nmsician in artistic construction
and theoretical knowledge, but we look in vain for
"melody." We have bar after bar of curiously
arranged " incidentals," and page after page of
perfect science ; but where is the divine breathing of
harmony? where is the enchanting "spiritualism " of
music, which alone can render great and perfect the
cold "materialism " of " thorough bass ? " That feuch
compositions are "wonderfully" clever we admit, but
they fail to evoke the exquisite and pure gratification
which may be elicited by a tithe more of " music "
and something less of science. " To Sento die in
Petto," a canzonet, by the same composer, is very far
superior in purpose and treatment. We here find a
sweet and expressive breathing thoroughly adapted to
the subject, and capable of beautiful effect. There is
a richness and delicacy in the whole, which pleases us
exceedingly, and we hope to see more in this style
from the same hand. " Our boy Tom " has just
brought in a heavy paper parcel, and flung it down,
uttering a sort of "domestic aside," as he twists the
door-handle, about not being "able to play that
before dinner ;" the varlet has discovered that the
parcel contains music, and we should like to know
how it is that Tom always manages to know what is
under the thickest of paper. Certain it is that Tom
^ does know more than we do very often in these
matters, but then he is a " sharp boy," and sharp boys
and sharp girls are the quickest clairvoyants in the
world. Family secrets are impossible things when
such boys and girls are in the vicinity, and we have
long given up all attempts at confidential proceedings
without taking Tom into the " Cabinet." Sure
enough, dinner is in the ascendant, and so we cannot
even open the brown paper parcel, but must bid our
musical readers farewell for the present.
GO AHEAD!
THIS is the motto of the age : — "Go ahead! " It
came in with James Watt, whose steam-engine,
applied to the propulsion of boats by machinery, led
to the first introduction of the words, and we have
" gone ahead " ever since.
From the steamboat the phrase got to land.
Everything must go at steam pace. The old slow
coaches were driven off the road by the locomotive,
which flew across plains, over rivers, under moun-
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
335
tains, athwart valleys, at the speed of the bird. And
" Go ahead " was still the word.
But that was not enough. Our thought must fly
through the air faster than the locomotive itself, —
literally with the speed of thought. In the prophetic
words of Pope, it now "lives along the line."
London and Edinburgh talk together at lightning
speed along the wires, and almost ere the echoes of
the revolutionary shots have died away in the streets
of Paris, we know all about it on 'Change, for the
news has come across by the Submarine Telegraph.
This is going ahead, as the Yankees would say, "like
greased lightning."
We are, indeed, a terribly go ahead age. In
machinery, in institutions, in everything. We won't
stand still. See ! there is policeman, X 156, — what
does he say ? " Keep moving ! " We must go ahead.
There is no other way for it.
Doubtless the go-ahead principle is abused, — in
puffing, for instance. A. B. wheels his Gigantic
Hat through the streets, advertizing the unparalleled
Four and Nine castor. C. D. sends along his donkey-
van, and all the other letters of the alphabet send
out regiments of Walking Sandwiches to illustrate
the go-ahead principle. One man starts a political
reform organ to puff his coffee, and another starts a
religious reform paper to puff his pills. Thus " Go
ahead " is pressed into all manner of service credit-
able and discreditable.
" Oo ahead " in competition ! Everybody goes a-
head there, each struggling to outstrip his neighbour.
In one case it is competition of industry, in another
of talent, in another of enterprise. The weak may
be trampled down in the race towards the goal (for
Go ahead is rather selfish and unfeeling, it must be
admitted), but Success is the prize to be won, and
the most go-ahead competitor usually secures it.
" Go ahead ! " It is the Yankee's watchword.
Across the big pond they go ahead m everything.
They are the fastest people in the world, and profess
to "beat creation." They do it slick; and are
tarnation 'cute, — so 'cute that the story of the two
Yankee boys who could make a dollar apiece by
" swopping jackets," when shut up in a room to-
gether for five minutes, has almost become proverbial.
They go ahead in education, in religion, in suffrage,
in gold gathering, in nigger driving, in everything.
See a steamboat race on the Ohio or the Mississippi,
when the rival captains have got their steam and
blood up, and sit each upon his safety valve at the
risk of a biirst "biler," cheering their men to "pile
on the logs," though they should go sky-high for it !
There, indeed, you have " Go ahead " in an attitude
in which his portrait might be taken !
Hear, for instance, what the writer in the New
York Reveille says, in imploring his fellow countrymen
to "go ahead " with greater rapidity, — to stir up the
fire and throw in the resin : — "Just look : 1776 — an
infant, untried republic, — thirteen states, and 3,000,000
of people ! 1851 — thirty-one states, 25,000,000 of
inhabitants, and marching onward, onward, onward !
The young West, — big plains, big rivers, big bones,
and big people ; on she goes with mastodon strides ;
one jiimp from the Alleghany to the Mississippi ;
another," she is on the Eocky Mountains, and with
another she is coolly eating oysters from the waters
of the Pacific ! Hurrah ! who cares ? and who says
turn back ?"
The phrase has, indeed, become familiar amongst
ourselves. Young England adopts it. What so
contemptuous as the word sloio in speaking of another?
The slow man, like the duck-legged drummer-boy, is
behind the age. We must go a-head. There is
nothing else for it, even though the "biler" should
burst. Some, indeed, think the age too fast, — for
instance, that in keeping up appearances, and style,
and standard of living, we go ahead sometimes
beyond our means. There is doubtless some truth in
this view; and yet, as a general rule, "Go ahead"
holds good.
" Go ahead " has been going the round of the
political and social world lately. What a year was
1848 ! What a number of spick and span new
constitutions were framed and set up in that year, —
more than Sieyes or Jeremy Bentham had ever
dreamt of! But already they are pounded into
nothing by tyrant cannon, and all over the continent
the cry of " Go ahead " has been drowned in shrieks
and groans of the dying.
But " Go ahead " has power in it yet, and the cry
will arise again, ay, and again. Printing, the
electric wires, and the locomotive, will prove too
strong for bayonets. As an old writer has said, " An
army of principles will penetrate where an army of
soldiers cannot. It is neither the Rhine, nor the
Channel, nor the Ocean that can arrest its progress.
It will march on the horizon of the world, and it will
conquer." The world's clock cannot bo put back.
The progress of man cannot be stayed. For he will
"go ahead," in spite of all opposing influences.
Stem the tide with a broom ; stop gravitation by a
declaration of war against it ; stay the tempest by a
charge of fixed bayonets. No ! 'Twere as absurd to
attempt any of these fool's tricks, as it were to stay
the majestic progress of humanity towards the fulfil-
ment of its divine mission.
As individuals, as communities, as nations, we
cannot go back, we cannot stand stand still ; there is,
therefore, nothing for it but to "Go Ahead ! "
BEAUTY EVERYWHERE.
We all of us, in a great measure, create our own
happiness, which is not half so much dependent upon
scenes and circumstances as most people are apt to
imagine : and so it is with beauty. Nature does
little more than furnish us with the materials of both,
leaving us to work them out for ourselves. " Stars
and flowers, and hills, and woods, and streams, are
letters, and words, and voices, vehicles, and mis-
sionaries," but they need to be interpreted in the
right spirit. We must lead, and listen for them,
and endeavour to understand and profit by them.
And when we look around us upon earth, we must
not forget to look upward to heaven ; "Those who
can see God in everything," writes a popular author,
" are sure to see good in everything." We may add
with truth, that they are also sure to see beauty in
everything and everywhere. When we are at peace
with ourselves and the world, it is as though we gazed
upon outward things through a golden-tinted glass,
and saw a glory resting upon them all. We know
that it cannot be long thus ; sin and sorrow, and
blinding tears, will dim the mirror of our inmost
thoughts ; but we must pray and look again, and
by-and-by the cloud will pass away. There is beauty
everywhere, but it requires to be sought, and the
seeker after it is sure to find it ; — it may be in some
out-of-the-way place, where no one else would think
of looking. Beauty is a fairy ; sometimes she hides
herself in a flower-cup, or under a leaf, or creeps into
the old ivy, and plays hide-and-seek with the sun-
beams, or haunts some ruined spot, or laughs out of
a bright young face. Sometimes she takes the form
of a white cloud, and goes dancing over the green
fields, or the deep blue sea, where her misty form,
marked out in momentary darkness, looks like the
passing shadow of an angel's wing. Beauty is a
coquette, and weaves herself a robe of various hues,
according to the season, — and it is hard to say which
is the most becoming.
330
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
(ORIGINAL.)
ALABAMA !
[There is a tradition that a tribe of Indians, fleeing from an
enemy through the forests of the south-west, reached a noble
river, flowing through a beautiful country, when the chieftain
of the band struck his tent-pole into the ground, exclaiming,
"Alabama! Alabama!" signifying "Here we rest ! here we
rest ! "]
THE whole wide world is but the same,
Tracked by those foemen, Care and Grief,
While every human hope would claim
The spot that cheered the Indian chief.
Yet where is that Elysian tide
Which saved the warriors of the West ?
Where can we find the river's side
Where mortal fears say " Here we rest ?"
We often think that gold, — hard gold,
Will form the spot of dreamy joy,
But all we get, and all we hold,
Brings something with it of alloy.
Good does not always mate with Gain,
And wearied brow or cheerless breast,
Bends o'er a golden stream in vain,
Seeking the sweet words, " Here we rest ! "
We put our trust in robe or crown, —
In ribbon band or jewelled star ;
Such things may gleam in Fortune's dream,
But dazzle most when seen afar.
Ambition's temple rarely yet
Let in a well-contented guest, —
Some spoil unwon, some deed undone,
Will choke the soft words, "Here we rest ! "
Some place their faith in safer creed, —
The wise, the God-directed few,
WTho think a heart is what we need
To yield the peace that's pure and true ;
And happy they who seek and find
A shelter in a kindred breast,
And, leaving foes and fears behind,
Say to some dear one, " Here we rest ! "
Go carve long epitaphs who will
On sculptured brass or marble wall,
The Indian's " Alabama" still
Speaks with the fittest voice of all.
I ask no more than sod enough
To make the grasshopper a nest,
And that a stone bear but this one —
This only record — " Here we rest ! "
ELIZA COOK.
THTNNESS OF LEAF GOLD.
In the process of gold-beating the metal is reduced
to laminae, or leaves, of a degree of tenuity which
would appear fabulous, if we had not the stubborn
evidence of the common experience in the arts as its
verification. A pile of leaf-gold the height of an inch
would contain 282,000 distinct leaves of metal ! the
thickness, therefore, of each leaf is in this case the
282,000th part of an inch ; nevertheless, such a leaf
completely conceals the object which it is used to
gild ; it moreover protects such object from the action
of external agents as effectually as though it were
plated with gold an inch thick. — Lardner's Handbook
of Natural Philosophy.
WHERE DOES WOOD COME FROM?
If we were to take up a handful of soil and examine
it under the microscope, we should probably find it
to contain a number of fragments of wood, small
broken pieces of the branches, or leaves, or other
parts of the tree. If we could examine it chemically,
we should find yet more strikingly that it was nearly
the same as wood in its composition. Perhaps, then,
it may be said, the young plant obtains its wood from
the earth in which it grows ? The following experi-
ment will show whether this conjecture is likely to be
correct or not. Two hundred pounds of earth were dried
in an oven, and afterwards put into a large earthen
vessel ; the earth was then moistened with rain-water,
and a willow-tree, weighing five pounds, was planted
therein. During the space of five years the earth
was carefully watered with rain-water or pure water.
The willow grew and flourished, and, to prevent the
earth being mixed with fresh earth, or dirt being
blown upon it by the winds, it was covered with a
metal plate full of very minute holes, which would
exclude everything but air from getting access to the
earth below it. After growing in the earth for five
years, the tree was removed, and, on being weighed,
was found to have gained one hundred and sixty-four
pounds, as it now weighed one hundred and sixty-
nine pounds. And this estimate did not include the
weight of the leaves or dead branches which in five
years fell from the tree. Now came the application
of the test. Was all this obtained from the earth ?
It had not sensibly diminished ; but, in order to make
the experiment conclusive, it was again dried in an
oven and put in the balance. Astonishing was the
result, — the earth weighed only tivo ounces less than
it did when the willow was first planted in it ! yet
the tree had gained one hundred and sixty-four pounds.
Manifestly, then, the wood thus gained in this space
of time was not obtained from the earth ; we are
therefore compelled to repeat our question, " Where
does the wood come from ? " We are left with only
two alternatives ; the water with which it was re-
freshed, or the air in which it lived. It can be clearly
shown that it was not due to the water ; we are, con-
sequently, unable to resist the perplexing and won-
derful conclusion, it was derived from the air.
Can it be ? Were those great ocean-spaces of wood,
which are as old as Man's introduction into Eden,
and wave in their vast but solitary luxuriance over
the fertile hills and plains of South America, were
these all obtained from the thin air ? Were the
particles which unite to form our battle-ships, Old
Epgland's walls of wood, ever borne the world about,
not only on wings of air, but actually as air them-
selves ? Was the firm table on which I write, the
chair on which I rest, the solid floor on which I
tread, and much of the house in which I dwell,
once in a form which I could not as much as lay
my finger on, or grasp in my hand ? Wonderful
truth ! all this was air. — Life of a Tree.
LOVERS.
People that are in love with each other wonder
that third persons should discover their sentiments.
They fancy themselves in a kind of Calypso's Island
and are astonished when a strange sail is seen approach-
ing the coast. There ik, in point of fact, no paradise
that ha^ such a low and thin fence as this ; every
passer-by can see through it.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. ]52.]
SATURDAY, MARCH 27, 1852.
[PRICE
SLAVE HUNTS OF DAR-WADEY AND
DAR-FOUR.
SLAVERY is perhaps one of the most hideous features
of savage life. With rare exceptions, Christianity
has destroyed this painful evil, and, in all probability,
will end by wholly eradicating it. But in the United
States, the Spanish colonies, Brazil, and a few other
Christian lands, in Islam generally, this plague-spot
still exists. The supplies are almost wholly taken
from Africa, whose people, from time immemorial,
have been the sufferers from a traffic odious in its
every characteristic. Sheikh El-Tousny, already
quoted,* has made known the whole details of those
tremendous razzias, by which the markets of Dar-
Wadey and Dilr-Four are supplied. They will be
read with melancholy interest, and will excite more
than ever a desire to see an institution which, allowed
by paganism, is condemned without hesitation by
every idea emanating from Christianity. Without
further notice, we shall give, in an abridged form, the
narrative of our Arab.
The yhazoua, or expeditions for the hunting of
slaves in Dar-Fertyt and Dar-el-Dje'nakhe'rah, are
carried out differently by the Fourians and Wadeyans.
In Dar-Selelh, they send to these hunts an aguyd of
their own, with a troop chosen beforehand, and which
alone carries out the expedition without assistance.
In Dar-Four it is different. Every Fourian, even a
private individual, who is able to manage a yhazoua,
asks fora salatyeh; if he obtains it, he starts with
as many persons as he can collect. The first step is
to make a present to the Sultan, by means of some
protector, who takes it to the Facher in the first days
of the rains. The usual present is a saddled-horse,
with the slaves who lead it. If the Sultan accepts,
he gives the suitor a salatyeh, or lance, with a formal
firman, or permission. With this the suitor takes up
his post in the Facher, on a carpet, his lance stuck in
the ground, and a servant beating a tambourine.
Crowds collect, shopkeepers advance with their
goods. The chief buys whatever he requires for his
expedition, on credit, under various circumstances.
Thus, if the trader accompanies the expedition, and
sells goods to the value of a slave on the Facher, the
* See Journal, No. 140. Art. : Facetiae of Despotism.
chief of the gJiazoua agrees to give five or six slaves
in Dar-Fertyt. If, on the contrary, the trader does
not go with the expedition, then he agrees only for
two or three slaves. An agreement is given in
writing for stuffs, cloths, horses, camels, donkeys, &c.
Some chiefs of hunts contract for five or six
hundred slaves in this way. All depends on the
confidence inspired by the salatyeh, and on his resolu-
tion and ability. The chief then appoints lieutenants,
who, with copies of his firman, start different ways,
after appointing a general rendezvous beyond the
southern frontier of Dar-Four. Every lieutenant, on
passing through a village, sounds a drum, collects the
inhabitants, reads the firman and explains the condi-
tions of the hunt, — generally that the chief will take
for himself at the first jeMyeli, or division of slaves,
but a third of the slaves ; at the second, but a
quarter. The chief himself does the same, and at
last reaches the rendezvous where he takes the title of
Sultan, forms a court, or guard, and appoints all the
same functionaries as at the real court. He clothes his
private guard, and gives them camels, asses, and
horses. Many volunteers arrive, but all are absolutely
under the orders of the Sultan.
All slaves taken without resistance belong to the
Sultan, as are those given him by the mekkfertyt,
or tributary kings. Once started, the expedition
goes as far as possible. When it has advanced to
its utmost limit, the Sultan, overnight, announces
by a crier, that the jebdyeh will take place the next
morning. It is done as follows : The Sultan has
planted a zerybch, or circular inclosure, with two
issues. The people of the expedition come at the
point of day with all the slaves they have caught. If
the number of slaves be considerable, the Sultan
takes more or less, according to his character. If he
be reasonable, he contents himself, even when the
booty is great, with "a third. If he be greedy, he
takes half.
The zeryleh is made of prickly branches, with two
openings. The servants, or the people of the Sultan's
suite, place themselves at the two issues, and the Sultan
sits down in the middle of the zerybeh. The members of
the expedition bring all the slaVes they have caught,
and in their turn bring them inside. If they have
two, the Sultan takes one, always the best ; he then
goes out at the other door, with a certificate that he
owes nothing to the Sultan. If a man has but one
338
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
slave, he waits until another comes also with one*
slave ; the Sultan then takes one, and leaves one to the
two men. The division once over, the Sultan calls all
those with whom he has contracted debts, and pays
them. The next day he starts back towards Dar-
Four, and a fresh hunt takes place. A certain
portion are put on one side for the king, and for those
who have aided the chief to obtain his salatyeh.
The leader of a hunt takes care to treat carefully
those who compose his guard and suite, for to them
he owes the collection of his troop, and the success of
his hunt. He very often takes nothing from them.
At every halt, they build him a shelter, some moving
forward as a vanguard, in order to prepare the
station of the Sultan at each stage. On their
departure from Dar-Four, they take canes and stakes
sufficient for the Sultan's house. When they start
they pull them all up. The chief of the yliazoua has
also at his suite maugueh, or buffoons ; he selects also
a king of Kdrkoa, a king of Korayah, a king of
Soum-in-Dogolah, an Abadyma, a Tekenyawi, and
Ab-Cheik. These high functionaries look after his
provisions, his table, &c.
When an expedition surrounds a station or village
of Fertyt, and the inhabitants submit without
resistance, the Sultan keeps the chief as a prisoner,
treats him with honour, gives him a dress, and sends
him to his subordinates. But he takes all the men,
the lads, girls, and young men, leaving none but the
old men, and those unable to endure the fatigues of a
journey. These again are the property of the Sultan,
all dengayeh, fekk-el-jebdl, and hdmel. The first are
those taken without resistance in the woods and on
the highways. The feklcs are those who, blockaded
on a mountain, have surrendered at discretion. The
hdmel, are those who, having belonged to some
master, have escaped. On arriving at the frontier of
Ditr-Four the Sultan's authority ceases.
One of the chief difficulties of an expedition is to
find food. Hence the officers above-mentioned are
always on the look-out. The Fertyts used to these
annual hunts conceal their reserves of corn in tufted
trees. They cut away a few branches from the heart,
and make of these a floor ; over this and a layer of
leaves they lay their corn. Above this they build a
little conical hut of doukku canes, and when the hut
is full, stop up the opening. The thickness of the
leaves and the interlacing of the boughs form a solid
wall around, which almost effectually conceals the
treasure from all pilferers, the more that the trees are
of monstrous size. The Fertyts of the upland bury
their grain in matmouralis, or bottle-shaped holes.
The Fourians captui'e a prodigious mass of slaves,
enough to glut the market ; but many die, or are
killed because of their inability to walk. A weary
slave throws himself on the ground, crying Konyo-
rongo, — kill me. He is at once beaten to death with
sticks. Many die of mere exhaustion, or of sickness
caused by change of diet, on the road and in Dar-
Four ; some even perish from terror, fancying they are
led away to be eaten ; and yet El-Tousny justifies
slavery and slave-hunts on the ground of its being
permitted by God and his prophet in the Koran.
He says the slaves are ignorant pagans, and have by
this nefarious practice a chance of being converted.
But these Fertyts have many notions very superior
to the Islamites. Naturally enough, they can make no
progress in any civilization. Exposed year after year
to these abominable practices, they have no opportu-
tunity of rising from their degraded state. They are
reduced to live in the tops of tufted trees, and yet,
while the Islamites allow marriages between father
and daughter, brother and sister, aunts and nephews,
the Fertyts prohibit such alliances. They are decenter
far than the pretended Mahommedan of D£r-Wadey
and Dar-Four, especially in dress. But let El-Tousny
speak for himself : —
" All these natives lead a poor and wretched life.
Nevertheless the Fertyt and all the blacks of the
idolatrous Soodan love their country, — the place that
gave them birth. If they are taken away from their
villages, their huts, for some voyage, or if they be
taken away for slaves, their thoughts and their
desires draw them ever back to their country. In
their childish simplicity the slaves often fly away
from their masters to regain their miserable villages,
their wretched dwellings. As a general rule, if you
pursue a fugitive, you find him on the road that leads
to his country. On the other hand, all these idolaters
know well, simple and unreflecting as they are, that
every year Dar-Four, Dar-Wadey, and others, send out
numerous hunting expeditions ; that these expeditions
carry off all they can catch of men, women, and
children ; that they kill a considerable number ; and
yet these tribes, these populations, remain ever in the
same places, where they were established from time
immemorial. They simply, at the arrival of the
expeditions, take to flight ; once the hunts over, those i
who have escaped from the ravishers return to their i
first dwelling. The idolatrous populations of the
Soodan, we have said, hide their provisions in subter- j
raneous holes, and others in trees. Many of them j
even establish their habitations in robust and thick !
trees.
The chief of the family, after having selected {
the tree which suits him, ascends it, cuts away the i
branches from the interior of the tree, and with these \
materials makes two floors, one above his head of the !
light boughs, the other under his feet of the strongones. '
Then on the lower one he spreads a layer of leaves. |
This done, he constructs with canes of douH-u the I
walls of his cabin, making the whole of the form of a j
tent, in order to keep off the rain. The Fertyt and
his wife climb and descend with ease, they aid them-
selves with projections and knots in the trunk. Often
one tree serves for the house and the magazine of the
family. . . . These saragcs hare in certain works of
art a marvellous ability. They make the wood ot
lances and javelins admirably, polished and beautiful
as silver. They also make Icoursy, or stools of ebony,
of a perfectness of execution for polish and bright-
ness to such a point, that you would think these stools
had come forth from the workshop most celebrated
for their industry, — so much so, that you would think
the Fertyt highly advanced in civilization."
It will be seen that the wretched victims of the
abominable system of slavery have the means of
being happy in their own way. Who would not
prefer his castle in a tree, with his wife and children,
than slavery, with the advantage of learning Islamism,
and having free leave to marry his daughter, sister,
or aunt? Truly, the Sheikh is warm in his sym-
pathies, when he defends the practice, and points
out what the pagan idolaters have to gain by the
change.
SARAH MARGAEET FULLER.*
FEW women of her time have created a livelier interest '
throughout the literary world than Margaret Fuller, j
of Boston, has done. The tragic circumstances con- J
nected with her death, which involved at the same j
time the destruction of her husband and child, have J
served to deepen that interest; and therefore it is '
that the Memoirs of her Life and labours, now before
us, edited by Emerson and Ellery Channing, have
been hailed in this country as among the most welcome
* Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli. In 3 vols. Bentley.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
339
books which have come across the Atlantic for many
a day.
Margaret Fuller had not done much as a writer ;
but she had given great promise of what she could do.
Her "Woman in the Nineteenth Century," and a
collection of papers on Literature and Art, originally
published in the American periodical called The Dial,
with the book entitled "A Summer on the Lakes,"
include her principal writings, and even these are of A
comparatively fragmentaiy character. It was chiefly
through her remarkable gifts of conversation that she
was known and admired among her contemporaries ;
it was to this that her great influence among them
was attributable ; and, like John Sterling, Charles
Pemberton, and others of kindred gifts, the wonder
to many who never came within the reach of her
personal influence is, how to account for the literary
reputation she has achieved, upon a basement of
writings so slender and so incomplete. It was the
individual influence, the magnetic attraction, which
she exercised over the minds within her reach, which
accounts for the whole.
From early years Margaret Fuller was regarded
as a kind of prodigy. Her father, Mr. Timothy
Fuller, who was a lawyer and a representative of
Massachusetts in Congress, from 1817 to 1825,
devoted great pains — far too great pains — to the
intellectual culture of the little girl. Her brain was
unmercifully taxed, to the serious injury of her health.
In affcer-life she compared herself to the poor change-
ling, who, turned from the door of her adopted home,
sat down on a stone, and so pitied herself that she
wept. The poor girl was kept up late at her tasks,
and went to bed with stimulated brain and nerves,
unable to sleep. She was haunted by spectral illu-
sions, nightmare, and horrid dreams ; while by day
she suffered from headache, weakness, and nervous
affections of all kinds. In short, Margaret Fuller
had no natural childhood. Her mind did not grow — it
was forced. Thoughts did not come to her — they
were thrust into her. A child should expand in the
sun, but this dear little victim was put under a glass
frame, and plied with all manner of artificial heat.
She was fed, not on "milk for babes," but on the
strongest of meat.
Thus Margaret Fuller leapt into precocious ma-
turity. Sha was petted and praised as a " prodigy."
She lived among books, — read Latin at six years old,
and was early familiar with Virgil, Horace, and Ovid.
Then she went on to Greek. At eight years of age
she devoured Shakspere, Cervantes, and Moliere !
Her world was books. A child without toys, without
romps, without laughter ; but with abundant night-
mare and sick headaches ! The wonder is, that this
monstrously unnatural system of forced intellectual cul-
ture did not kill her outright ! " I complained of my
head," she said afterwards ; "for a sense of dulness, and
suffocation, if not pain, was there constantly." She
had nervous fevers, convulsions, and so on ; but she
lived through it all, and was plunged into still deeper
studies. After a course of boarding-school, she
returned home at fifteen to devote herself to Ariosto,
Helvetius, Sismondi, Brown's Philosophy, De Stael,
Epictetus, Racine, Castilian Ballads, Locke, ' Byron,
Sir William Temple, Rousseau, and a host of other
learned writers !
Conceive a girl of fifteen immersed in all this
farrago of literature and philosophy ! She had an eye
to politics, too ; and in her letters to friends notices
the accession of Duke Nicholas, and its effect on the
Holy Alliance and the liberties of Europe ! Then she
goes through a course of the Italian poets, accom-
panied by her sick headache. She lies in bed one
afternoon, from dinner till tea, " reading Ramm oh oun
Roy's book, and framing dialogues aloud on every
argument beneath the sun." She had her dreams of
the affections, too, — indulging largely in sentimentality
and romance, as most young girls will do. She adored
the moon — fell in love with other girls, and dreamt
often of the other subject uppermost in most young
women's minds.
This wonderfully cultivated girl, as might be
expected, ran some risk of being spoilt. She was
herself brilliant, and sought equal brilliancy in others.
She had no patience with mediocrity, and regarded
it with feelings akin to contempt. But this unami-
able feeling she gradually unlearned, as greater ex-
perience and larger-heartedness taught her wisdom —
a kind of wisdom, by the way, which is not found in
books. The multitude regarded her, at this time, as
rather haughty and supercilious, — fond of saying
clever and sarcastic things at their expense, — and also
as very inquisitive and anxious to "read characters."
But it is hard to repress or dwarf the loving
nature of a woman. She was always longing for
affection, for sympathy, for confidence, among her
more valued friends. She wished to be " compre-
hended " — she looked on herself as a " femme
incomprise," as the French term it. Even her sarcasm
was akin to love. She was always making new con-
fidantes, and drawing out their heart-secrets, as she
revealed her own.
The family removed from Cambridge Port, where
she was born, to Cambridge, where they remained
till 1833, when they went to reside at Groton.
Margaret had by this time written verses, which
friends deemed worthy of publication, and several
appeared. But her spirit and soul, which gave such
living power to her conversation, usually evaporated
in the attempt to commit her thoughts to writing.
Of this she often complains. " After all," she says in
one of her letters, " this writing is mighty dead. Oh,
for my dear old Greeks, who talked everything."
Again she said — "Conversation is my natural ele-
ment. I need to be called out, and never think
alone without imagining some companion. Whether
this be nature, or the force of circumstances, I know
not ; it is my habit, and bespeaks a second-rate
mind."
But she was a splendid talker — a Yankee Corinne —
an improvisatrice of unrivalled powers. Her writings
give no idea of her powers of speech — of the brilliancy
with which she would strike a vein of happy thought,
and bring it to the daylight. Her talk was decidedly
masculine, critical, common sense, full of ideas, yet,
withal, graceful and sparkling. She is said to have
had a kind of prophetic insight into characters, and
drew out, by a strong attractive power in herself, as
by a moral magnet, all their best gifts to the light.
" She was," says one friend, " like a moral Paganini;
she played always on a single string, drawing from
each its peculiar music, — bringing wild beauty from
the slender wire no less than from the deep-sounding
harp string."
In 1832, she was busy with German literature, and
read Goethe, Tieck, Korner, and Schiller. The
thought and beauty of these works filled her mind
and fascinated her imagination. She also went
through Plato's Dialogues. She began to have in-
finite longings for something unknown and unattain-
able, and gave vent to her feelings in such thoughts as
this : — " I shut Goethe's 'Second Residence in Rome,'
with an earnest desire to live as he did, — always to
have some engrossing object of pursuit. I sympathize
deeply with a mind in that state. While mine is
being used up by ounces, I wish pailfuls might be
poured into it. I am dejected and uneasy when I
see no results from my daily existence; but I am
suffocated and lost when I have not the bright feeling
of progression."
340
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
But she was always full of projects, which remained
such. She meditated writing "six historical tragedies,
the plans of three of which are quite perfect." She
had also "a favourite plan" of a series of tales
illustrative of Hebrew history. She also meditated
writing a life of Goethe. She tried her hand on the
tragedies. Alas ! what a vast difference is there,
she confesses, between conception and execution !
She proceeded, as Coleridge calls it, "to take an
account of her stock," but fell back again almost in
despair. "With me," she says, " it has ended in the
most humiliating sense of poverty ; and only just
enough pride is left to keep your poor friend off the
parish." But in this confession you will find the
germs of deep wisdom. She now, more than ever, felt
the need of self-culture. " Shall I ever be fit for
anything," she asked, "till I have absolutely re-
educated myself? Am I, can I make myself, fit to
write an account of half-a-century of the existence of
one of the master-spirits of this world ? It seems as
if I had been very arrogant to dare to think it." She
nevertheless proceeded to accumulate materials for
the Life of Goethe, which, however, was never
written.
Yet often would the Woman come uppermost !
She longed to possess a home for her heart. Capable
of ardent love, her affections were thrown back upon
herself, to become stagnant, and for a while to grow
bitter there. She could not help feeling how empty
and worthless were all the attainments and triumphs
of the mere intellect. A woman's heart must be
satisfied, else there is no true, deep happiness of
repose for her. She longed to be loved as a woman,
rather than as a mere human being. What woman
does not ? The lamentation that she was not so loved,
broke out bitterly from time to time. She knew
that she was not beautiful ; and, conceal her cha-
grin as she might, she felt the defect keenly. There
was weakness in this, but she could not master it.
In her journal is a bitter sentence on this topic,
the meaning of which cannot be misunderstood. She
is commenting on the character of Mignon by
Goethe: — "Of a disposition that requires the most
I'efined, the most exalted tenderness, without charms
to inspire it, poor Mignon ! fear not the transition
through death ; no penal fires can have in store worse
torments than thou art familiar with already." Again
she writes, in the month of May — "When all things
are blossoming, it seems so strange not to blossom
too ; that the quick thought within cannot remould
its tenement. Man is the slowest aloe, and / am
such a shabby plant of coarse tissue. I hate not to be
beautiful, ivhen all around is so." She writes else-
where— " I know the deep yearnings of the heart, and the
bafflings of time will be felt again ; and then I shall
long for some dear hand to hold. But I shall never
forget that my curse is nothing, compared with those
who have entered into these relations, but not made
them real ; who only seem husbands, wives, and
friends." But she endeavours to force herself to feel
content : — -" I have no child ; but now, as I look on
these lovely children of a human birth, what low and
neutralizing cares they bring with them to the
mother ! The children of the muse come quicker,
and have not on them the taint of earthly corrup-
tion." Alas! It is evidently a poor attempt at self-
comfort.
Her personal appearance may be noted. A florid
complexion, with a tendency to robustness, of which
she was painfully conscious, and endeavoured to com-
press by artificial methods, which did additional injury
to her already wretched health. Rather under the
middle size, with fair complexion, and strong fair
hair. She was near-sighted, from constant reading
when a child, and peered oddly, incessantly opening
and shutting her eyelids with great rapidity. She
spoke through the nose. From her passionate wor-
ship of Beauty in all things, perhaps she dwelt
with the more bitterness on her own personal
shortcomings. The first impression on meeting her
was not agreeable ; but continued intercourse made
many fast friends and ardent admirers — that is, intel-
lectual admirers. An early attack of illness destroyed
the fineness of her complexion. "My own vanity,"
she said of this, " was severely wounded ; but I
recovered, and made up my mind to be bright and
ugly. I think I may say, I never loved. I but sec my
possible life reflected in the clouds. The bridal spirit
of many a spirit, when first it was wed, I have shared,
but said adieu before the wine was pouied out at the
banquet."
The Fuller family removed to Gorton in 1833, and
two years after, Margaret's father died suddenly of
cholera. He left no will behind him ; there was
little property to will — only enough to maintain the
widow and educate the children. Margaret was
thrown into fresh lamentations — wished she had been
a man, in order to take charge of the family ; but she
" always hated the din of* such affairs." About this
time she had made the acquaintance of MissMartineau,
then in the States, and clung to her as an " intellec-
tual guide," hoping to be "comprehended" by her.
She had strongly desired to accompany Miss Martineau
back to England, but the sad turn in the family affairs
compelled her to give up the project ; and she went
to Boston instead, to teach Latin, Italian, and French,
in Mr. Alcott's school. She afterwards went to teach
as principal, in another school at Providence. She
still read tremendously — almost living upon books,
and tormented by a "terrible feeling in the head."
She had a " distressing weight on the top of the
brain," and seemingly was " able to think with only
the lower part of the head." " All my propensities,"
she once said, "have a tendency to make my head worse :
it is a bad head, — as bad as if I were a great man."
Amid all this bodily pain and disease, she suffered
moral agony — heartache for long days and weeks —
and on self-examination, she was further "shocked to
find how vague and superficial is all my knowledge."
Some may say there is a degree of affectation in all
this ; but it is the fate of the over-cultivated, without
any solid basis of wisdom ; they are ever longing after
further revelations, greater light, — to pry into the
unseen, to aim after the unattainable. Hence pro-
found regrets and life-long lamentations. The circlet
which adoi-ns the brow of genius, though it may
glitter before the gazer's eye, has spiked thorns for
the brow of her who wears it, and the wounds they
make bleed inwards. Poor Margaret !
* Emerson's memoir of his intercourse with Margaret
Fuller is by far the most interesting part of the
volume. He was repelled by her at first, being a
man rather given to silence ; but she gradually won
upon him as upon others, and her bright speech at
length reached his heart. He met her first in the
society of Miss Martineau, and often afterwards in the
company of others, and alone. He was struck by the
night side of her nature — her speculations in my-
thology and demonology ; in French Socialism ; her
belief in the ruling influence of planets ; her sympathy
with sortilege ; her notions as to the talismanic influ-
ence of gems, and her altogether mystic apprehen-
sions. She was strangely affected by dreams, was a
somnambule, was always full of presentiments. In
short, as Emerson says, " there was somewhat a
little pagan about her." She found no rest for the
sole of her restless foot, except in music, of which she
was a passionate lover. Take a few instances of her
strange meditations : — " When first I met with the
name Leila," she said, "I knew, from the very look
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
341
and sound, it was music ; I knew that it meant night,
— night, ichich brings out stars, as sorroiv brings out
truths" Later on, she wrote — " My days at Milan
•were not unmarked. I have known some happy
hours, but they all lead to sorrow, and 'not only the
cups of wine, but of milk, seem drugged with poison
for me. It does not seem to be my fault, this destiny.
I do not court these things, — they come. I am a
poor magnet, with power to be wounded by the bodies
I attract."
But Emerson, like everybody else, was especially
attracted by Margaret's powers of conversation.
" She wore her circle of friends, as a necklace of
diamonds about her neck. The confidences given her
were their best, and she. held to them. She was an
active, inspiring correspondent, and all the art, the
thought, and the nobleness in New England, seemed
at that moment related to her, and she to it. Persons
were her game, especially if marked by fortune, or
character, or success ; — to such was she sent. She
addressed them with a hardihood, — almost a haughty
assurance — queen-like. She drew her companions
to surprising confessions. She was the wedding-
guest to whom the long-pent story must be told ; and
they were not less ' struck, 011 reflection, at the
suddenness of the friendship which had established,
in one day, new and permanent covenants. She
extorted the secret of life, which cannot be told with-
out setting mind and heart in a glow ; and thus had
the best of those she saw : the test of her eloquence
was its range. It told on children and on old people ;
on men of the world, and on sainted maids. She
could hold them all by the honeyed tongue. The
Concord stage-coachman distinguished her by his
respect; and the chambermaid was pretty sure to
confide to her, on the second day, her homely
romance." But she lived fast. In society she was
always on the stretch. She was in jubilant spirits in
the morning, and ended the day with nervous head-
ache, whose spasms produced total prostration. She
was the victim of disease and pain. "She read and
wrote in bed, and believed she could understand
anything better when she was ill. Pain acted like a
girdle, to give tension to her powers." Her enjoy-
ment consisted of brief but intense moments. The
rest was a void. Emei'son says — " When I found
she lived at a rate so much faster than mine, and
which was violent compared with mine, I forboded a
rash and painful crisis, and had a feeling as if a voice
had said, Stand from under! — as if, a little farther
on, this destiny was threatened with jars and reverses,
which no friendship could avert or console."
There was one very prominent feature in Margaret
Fuller, which she coijjd never conceal, and that was her
intense individuality — some would call it self-esteem ;
she was always thoroughly possessed by herself. She
could not hide the " MOUNTAINOUS ME," as Emerson
calls it. In enumerating the merits of some one, she
would say — " He appreciates me." In the coolest
way, she boasted — "I now know all the people worth
knowing in America, and I find no intellect comparable
to my own." She idealized herself as a queen, and
dwelt upon the idea that she was not l.er parents'
child, but a European princess confided to their care.
" I take my natural position always," she said to a
friend; "and the morel see, the more I feel that it is
regal. Without throne, sceptre, or guards, still a
queen." In all this there was exhibited a very strong
leaning towards a weak side.
Yet, at other times, she was strongly conscious of her
imperfections. She was impatient of her weakness
in production. " I feel within myself," she said, " an
immense force, but / cannot bring it out." Notwith-
standing her "arrogant talk, "as Emerson called it, and
her ambition to play the Mirabeau among her friends,
she felt her defect in creative power. Her numerous
works remained projects. She was the victim of
Lord Bacon's idols of the care. She was a genius of
impulse, but wanted the patience to elaborate. " How
can I ever write," she asked, "with this impatience
of detail ? I shall never be an artist ; / have no
patient love of execution ; I am delighted with my
sketch ; but if I try to finish it, I am chilled. Never
was there a great sculptor who did not love to
chip the marble." And then she attributed her
inability to sex. Speaking of the life of thought, she
said — " Women, under any circumstances, can scarce
do more than dip the foot in this broad and deep
river ; they have not strength to contend with the
current. It is easy for women to be heroic in action,
but when it comes to interrog?.ting God, the universe,
the soul, and above all, trying to live above their
own hearts, they dart down to their nests like so many
larlcs, and if they cannot find them, fret like the
French Corinne." A little later, she says — "I shall
write better, but never, I think, so well as I talk ;
for then I feel inspired. The means are pleasant ;
my voice excites me, my pen never. I want/orce, to be
either a genius or a character."
She had, however, a genuine fund of practical
benevolence about her. She visited the prisons and
penitentiaries on many occasions, for the purpose of
restoring to new life and virtue, the poor degraded
women confined there. Behind all her wit, there
was always a fountain of woman's tears ready to flow.
She had a passionate love of truth, and ardent thirst
for it. " In the chamber of death, I prayed in early
years — ' Give me Truth ; cheat me by no illusion.'
O, the granting of this prayer is sometimes terrible
to me ! I walk on the burning ploughshares, and
they sear my feet. Yet nothing but Truth will do."
And she might be said almost to worship Beauty —
in art, in literature, in music. " Dear Beauty ! " she
would say, " where, where, amid these morasses and
pine barrens, shall we make thee a temple ? where
find a Greek to guard it, — clear-eyed, deep-thoughted,
and delicate enough to appreciate the relations and
gradations which nature always observes ? "
We can only notice very briefly the remaining
leading events in Margaret Fuller's life. There was
not much dramatic character in them, except towards
their close. The student's story is generally a quiet
one ; it is an affair of private life, of personal inti-
macies and friendships. She went on teaching young
ladies, conducting conversation -classes, and occasion-
ally making translations from the German for the book-
sellers. The translation of "Eckermann's Conversa-
tions with Goethe " was by her, as also that of the
"Letters of Gunerode and Bettine." In 1843, shfe
travelled into Michigan, and shortly afterwards pub-
lished her " Summer on the Lakes." She then
became a writer for The Dial, an able Boston review,
chiefly supported by Emerson, Brownson, and a few
more of the "Transcendental" writers of America.
There she reviewed German and English books, and
first published " The Great Lawsuit ; or Woman in
the Nineteenth Century," an eloquent expression ot
discontent at the social position of woman. Her
criticisms of American books were not relished, and
often gave great offence. The other critics said of
her, that she thought that books, like brown stout,
were improved by the motion of a ship, and that she
would praise nothing unless it had been imported
from abroad. She certainly gave a less hearty recog-
nition to merit in American, than in German or
English books. Afterwards she went to New York
to perform ,an engagement on Mr. Horace Greely's
newspaper, the New York Tribune. But she had a
contempt for newspaper writing, saying of it — "What
a vulgarity there seems in this writing for the multi-
342
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
tude ! We know not yet, have not made ourselves
known, to a single soul, and shall we address those
still more unknown ? "
The deep secret of her heart again and again
comes uppermost in her communications to her
bosom friends. A living female writer has said that,
though few may confess it, the human heart may
know peace, content, serene endurance, and even
thankfulness ; but it never does, and never can know,
7tappiness — the sense of complete, full-rounded bliss,
— except in the joy of a happy love. The most ardent
attachment of woman for others of their own sex
cannot supply the want. Margaret Fuller tried this,
but it failed, as you may see from her repeated com-
plaints. " Pray for me," she said, " that I may have
a little peace, — some green and flowery spot mid
which my thoughts may rest; yet not upon fallacy,
but upon something genuine. 7 am deeply homesick,
yet where is that home ? If not on earth, why should
we look to heaven ? I would fain truly live wherever
I must abide, and bear with full energy on my lot,
whatever it is. Yet my hand is often languid, and
my heart is slow. I would be gone ; but whither ?
I know not. If I cannot make this spot of ground
yield the corn and roses, famine must be my lot for
ever and ever, surely." * * * Tliis is the dart within
the heart, as well as I can tell it: — "At moments
the music of the universe, which daily I am upheld
by hearing, seems to stop. I fall like a bird when
the sun is eclipsed, not. looking for such darkness.
The sense of my individual law — that lamp of life —
flickers. I am repelled in what is most natural to
me. I feel as, when a suffering child, I would go
and lie with my face to the ground, to sob away my
little life." " Once again I am willing to take up
the cross of loneliness. Resolves are idle ; but the
anguish of my soul has been deep. It will not be
easy to profane life by rhetoric." In a pathetic
prayer, found among her papers, she says, "I am
weary of thinking. I suffer great fatigue from riving.
Oh God ! take me ! Take me wholly ! It is not that
I repine, my Father, but I sink from want of rest,
and none will shelter me. Thou knowest it all.
Bathe me in the living waters of Thy Love."
Thus the consciousness of an unfulfilled destiny
hung over the poor sufferer, and she could not escape
from it ; she felt as if destined to tread the wine-
press of life ALONE. To hear the occasional plain-
tive tone of sorrow in her thought and speech, Mr.
Channing beautifully says, was "like the wail of an
JEolian harp, heard at intervals from some upper
window." And amid all this smothered agony of the
heart, disease was constantly preying on her. Head-
ache— rooted in one spot — fixed between the eye-
brows— till it grew real torture. The black and
white guardians, depicted on Etruscan monuments,
were always fighting for her life. In the midst of
beautiful dreams, the "great vulture would come,
and fix his iron talons on the brain," — a state of phy-
sical health which was not mended by her habit of
drinking strong potations of tea and coffee in almost
limitless quantities. «
At length, in search of health, Margaret resolved
to accomplish her long-meditated, darling enterprise,
of a voyage to Europe — to the Old World, where her
thoughts lived — to England, France, Germany, and
Home. She left New York in the summer of 1846,
in the Cambria, and on reaching England, sent home
many delightful, though rapid, sketches of the people
she had seen and the places she had visited. These
letters are, to us, the most delightful part of the
three volumes ; perhaps because she speaks of people
who are so much better known to us than her
American contemporaries. In England and Scotland,
she saw Wordsworth, De Quincey, Dr. Chalmers,
Andrew Combe, the Howitts, Dr. Southwood Smith,
and above all, Carlyle, of whom she gives an admirable
sketch, drawn to the life. In England, also, she first
formed an acquaintance with Mazzini, which she
afterwards renewed, amid most interesting circum-
stances, at Home, during the tumult of the siege.
At Paris, she made the personal acquaintance of
George Sand, of whom she gives a life-like description,
and saw many other notorieties of that time.
But she longed to be at Rome ; and sped south-
ward. She seems immediately to have plunged into
the political life of the city. But her means were
cramped, and she "longed for a little money." Yet
what she had, she was always ready to give away to
those who were more in need than herself. " Nothing
less than two or three years," she says, "free from
care and forced labour, would heal all my hurts, and
renew my life-blood at its source. Since destiny will
not grant me that, I hope she will not leave me long
in the world, for I am tired of keeping myself up in
the water without corks, and without strength to
swim. I should like to go to sleep, and be born again
into a state where my young life- should not be pre-
maturely taxed."
All the great events of 1847 and 1848 occurred
while Margaret Fuller remained in the Eternal City.
She was there when the Pope took the initiative in
the reforms of that convulsed period ; witnessed the
rejoicings and the enthusiasm of the people ; then
there was the reaction, the tumult, the insurrection,
the war. Amidst all this excitement, she is "weary."
"The shifting scenes entertain poorly. I want some
scenes of natural beauty ; and, imperfect as love is,
7 want human beings to love, as 7 suffocate without."
Then came the enthusiastic entrance of Gioberti into
Rome, then Mazzini, then ensued the fighting.
Margaret looked down from her window on the
terrible battle before St. Angelo, between the Romans
and the French. Mazzini found her out in her
lodgings, and had her appointed by the "Roman
Commission for the succour of the Wounded," to
the charge of the hospital of the Fata-Benc Fratelli.
She there busied herself as a nurse of those heroic
wounded — the flower of the Italian youth. But the
French entered, and she had to fly. " I cannot tell
you," she writes, "what I endured in leaving Rome ;
abandoning the wounded soldiers ; knowing that there
is no provision made for them, when they rise from
the beds where they have been thrown by a noble
courage, where they have suffered with a noble
patience. Some of the poorer men, who rise bereft
even of the right arm — -one having lost both the right
, arm and the right leg — I could have provided for with
a small sum. Could I have sold my hair, or blood
from my arm, I would have done it. These poor
men are left helpless, in the power of a mean and
vindictive foe. You felt so oppressed in the slave
states ; imagine what I felt at seeing all the noblest
youth, all the genius of this dear land, again enslaved."
So the battle was lost ! Margaret Fuller fled from
Rome to her child at Rieti. Her child? Yes!
She had married ! The dream of her life had ended,
and she was now a wife and a mother. But in this
sweet, new relationship, she enjoyed but a brief term
of happiness. Her connection with Count Ossoli
arose out of an accidental meeting with him in the
church of St. Peter's, after vesper service. He
waited upon her to her dwelling; returned; culti-
vated her acquaintance ; offered her his hand, and was
refused. But Ossoli was a Liberal, and moved in the
midst of the strife. He had frequent opportunities of
seeing Margaret, pressed his suit, and was finally ac-
cepted. There did not seem to be much in common
between them. He was considerably her junior ; but
he loved her sincerely, and that was enough for her.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
343
The marriage was kept secret for a time, because
the Marquis's property might have gone from him at
once, had his marriage with a Protestant become
known while the ecclesiastical influence was para-
mount at Rome. But when the Liberal cause had
suffered defeat, there was no longer any need of
concealment. Ossoli had lost all ; and the marriage
was confessed. Margaret had left her child in safety
at Bieti, to watch over her husband, who was at
Rome, engaged in the defence of the city against the
French ; and we have seen how she was engaged
while there. She returned to her child, whom she
found ill, and half-starved ; but her maternal care
made all right again. Writing to her mother, she
said — " The immense gain to me is my relation with
the child. I thought the mother's heart lived within
me before, but it did not ; I knew nothing about it."
" He is to me a source of ineffable joys — far purer,
deeper, than anything I ever felt before, — like what
Nature had sometimes given, but more intimate, more
sweet. He lovea me very much ; his little heart
clings to mine."
Margaret is at length happy ; but how brief the
time it lasted ! The poor Marquis, with his wife
and child, must leave Florence, where they for a
brief time resided after their flight from Rome ; and
they resolved to embark for the United States in
May, 1850. Writing beforehand, she said — " I have
a vague expectation of some crisis, — I know not what.
But it has long seemed, that in the year 1850, 1 should
stand on a plateau in the ascent of life, where I
should be allowed to pause for a while, and take more
clear and commanding views than ever before. Yet
my life proceeds as regularly as the fates of a Greek
tragedy, and I can but accept the pages as they turn."
And at the close of a letter to her mother, she said —
" I hope we shall be able to pass some time together
yet in this world. But if God decrees otherwise, —
here and HEREAFTER, — my dearest mother, I am your
loving child, MARGARET." Ossoli had never been at sea
before, and he had an undefined dread of it. A fortune-
teller, when he was a boy, had uttered a singular pro-
phecy of him, and warned him to " beware of the sea."
The omens proved true. Everything went amiss
i on the ill-fated voyage. The captain sickened and
1 died of small-pox. The disease then seized the child,
Angelino, whose life was long despaired of. But he
recovered, and the coast of America drew nigh. On
the eve of the landing, a heavy gale arose, and the ship
struck on Fire Island beach — on the Long Island shore.
" At the first jar, the passengers, knowing but too
well its fatal import, sprang from their berths. Then
came the cry of * Cut away,' followed by the crash of
falling timbers, and the thunder of the seas, as they
broke across the deck. In a moment more the cabin
skylight was dashed in pieces by the breakers, and
the spray, pouring down like a cataract, put out the
lights; while the cabin-door was wrenched from its
fastenings, and the waves swept in and out. One
scream, — onebnly, — was heard from Margaret's state-
room ; and Sumner and Mrs. Hasty, meeting in the
cabin, clasped hands, with these few but touching
words: 'We must die.' — 'Let us die calmly, then.'
' I hope so, Mrs. Hasty.' It was in the grey dusk,
and amid the awful tumult, that the companions in
misfortune met. The side of the cabin to the leeward
had already settled under water ; and furniture,
trunks, and fragments of the skylight were floating
to and fro ; while the inclined position of the floor
made it difficult to stand ; and every sea, as it broke
over the bulwarks, splashed in through the open roof.
The windward cabin -wall, however, still yielded
partial shelter, and against it, seated side by side,
half-leaning backwards, with feet braced upon the
long table, they awaited what next should come. At
first, Nino, alarmed at the uproar, the darkness, and
the rushing water, while shivering with the wet,
cried passionately ; but soon his mother, wrapping
him in such garments as were at hand, and folding
him to her bosom, sang him to sleep. Celeste, too,
was in an agony of terror, till Ossoli, with soothing
words, and a long and fervent prayer, restored her to
self-control and trust. Then calmly they rested, side
by side, exchanging kindly partings, and sending
messages to friends, if any should survive to be their
bearer."
A long night of agony passed, and at last the tragedy
drew to a close : —
" It was now past three o'clock, and as, with the
rising tide, the gale swelled once more to its former
violence, the remnants of the barque fast yielded to
the resistless waves. The cabin went by the board,
the after-parts broke up, and the stern settled out of
sight. Soon, too, the forecastle was filled with water,
and the helpless little band were driven to the deck,
where they clustered round the foremast. Presently,
even this frail support was loosened from the hull, and
rose and fell with every billow. It was plain to all
that the final moment drew swiftly nigh. Of the
four seamen who still stood by the passengers, three
were as efficient as any among the crew of the Eliza-
beth. These were the steward, carpenter, and cook.
The fourth was an old sailor, who, broken down by
hardship and sickness, was going home to die. These
men were once again persuading Margaret, Ossoli, and
Celeste, to try the planks, which they held ready in
the lee of the ship ; and the steward, by whom Nino
was so much beloved, had just taken the little fellow
in his arms, with the pledge that he would save him
or die, when a sea struck the forecastle, and the fore-
mast fell, carrying with it the deck and all upon it.
The steward and Angelino were washed upon the
beach, both dead, though warm, some twenty minutes
after. The cook and carpenter were thrown far upon
the foremast, and saved themselves by swimming.
Celeste and Ossoli caught for a moment by the rigging,
but the next wave swallowed them up. Margaret
sank at once. When last seen, she had been seated
at the foot of the foremast, still clad in her white
night-dress, with her hair fallen loose upon her
shoulders. It was over, — that twelve hours' com-
munion, face to face with death ! It was over ! and
the prayer was granted, ' that Ossoli, Angelino, and I,
may go together, and that the anguish maybe brief! '
"The only one of Margaret's treasures which
reached the shore, was the lifeless form of little
Angelino. When the body, stripped of every rag
by the waves, was rescued from the surf, a sailor took
it reverently in his arms, and, wrapping it in his
neckcloth, bore it to the nearest house. There, when
washed, and dressed in a child's frock found in
Margaret's trunk, it was laid upon a bed ; and as the
rescued seamen gathered round their late playfellow
and pet, there were few dry eyes in the circle. The
next day, borne upon their shoulders in a chest, it
was buried in a hollow among the sand-hills."
And thus terribly ended the tragedy of Margaret
Fuller's life.
THE "ORINOCO" IN A STORM.
DESCRIBED BY "THE TIMES."
As the anchor rose sluggishly from its bed at the
Nore soundings, a slight movement on board the
Orinoco evinced a consciousness that the sea was not
quite as smooth as a duckpond. The wind whistled
smartly through the rigging, and the nautical sages
on deck, looking knowingly to windward, and seeing
344
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
there a leaden sky, patched by whitish clouds, scud-
ding fast down upon us, prognosticated plenty of
wind, dirty weather, &c. Strange as it may seem,
the news was pleasing, for, as the great object of a
" trial trip " is supposed to be actually to make trial
of the capability of a vessel, it was of course desirable
for engineer, builder, officers, and directors, to have
such a good opportunity as the promised gale would
afford them of testing the sea-going qualities of the
steamer. Every instant the wind rose higher, and with
it the spirits of those on board. It was quite delightful
to some to see the muddy sea breaking in butter-
coloured sheets of foam on the numerous banks which
lay around us, and occasionally one was favoured by
having the precise spot pointed out where "the Royal
A delaide was lost with all on board," or where the
" So and So " went down in " a dirty night last year."
The sky became overcast and threatening, hour after
hour, and the wind rushed down fiercely over the
low lands of Sheppey from the south-west, and tore
away as hard as it could to the North Sea like smoke.
Small colliers flew before it, pitching and rising on
the short seas, and now and then a stout bark or
clipper brig, bound outwards, and anxious to reach
the Downs before night, clapped on all sail, and came
bowling along under double-reefed topsails, and
challenged the huge steamer, strong on their best
point of sailing, but one after another she shook them
off, and went along so steadily, that there is not the
smallest exaggeration in stating there was, at times,
difficulty in believing she was in motion at all." The
disagreeable tremor felt in steamers, especially in a
tideway in shallow water, was scarcely perceptible.
In the saloon one could write as easily as at his
library table, and the vast frame of the ship seemed
to bid defiance to winds and waves to shake its
timbers. This quality was the theme of general
approbation and remark, and to those accustomed to
the peculiarly disagreeable jerking of steamers, it
must appear almost incredible ; but the fact was so,
and the largest and easiest line-of-battle ship could
not have gone so smoothly and comfortably as the
Orinoco, not only at this period, but throughout her
passage to Southampton. As she got out from under
the lee of the North Foreland, the gusts increased in
vehemence, and we had the satisfaction of seeing
large and well-found ships bearing up and bringing
to for the night, unable to make further progress,
while we were going as steadily as if in a canal. All
under cover of the land appeared long lines of vessels,
of all sizes, riding at anchor, and at midday a screw-
steamer, which had been battling the elements off
the Goodwin, put about and ran in from sea towards
the Foreland, and moored, having evidently had quite
enough of it outside. A perfect forest of masts was
seen rising out of Ramsgate Harbour, where a whole
fleet of small craft had run to escape the fury of the
gale ; for the wind had by this time reached to the
dignity of being so styled. As the steamer opened
the Downs, the sight was splendid, one rarely seen by
any but those gentlemen of England who sail upon
the seas ; an armada of ships, barks, brigs, schooners,
and vessels of all sizes and all nations, were riding at
anchor. The large ships were all busy striking top-
gallant-yards and masts, and veering out a snug allow-
ance of cable. Among them "rocking to and fro,"
lay the celebrated American clipper ship Oriental,
with her straight, long black hull, ugly Yankee stern,
and sharp fine bows and entry. She seemed to be
taking it very easily, but the spray flew over her
bows in sheets, and, as she rose and fell, she showed
a very fair share of her copper. The ships and barks
had all plenty of foam at the bows, and now and then
clouds of white drizzle flew over the forecastle and
drifted over the decks to leeward, in a temporary
Scotch mist of salt water. As the look of the weather
became worse instead of better, the Orinoco also got
down her fore and maintopgallantyards, and the boats
were lashed up more securely (a necessary precaution
this, for it would not be agreeable to find the boats
gone altogether when they were wanted). Every
sail in sight, except herself, a few craft to windward
staggering away for the river as hard as they could
carry, and a solitary Deal boat or two, looking out
for a vessel in distress, was safe at anchor, but still
" the trial " was the thing, and at any risk — the result
proved there was but little — we were to push out to
sea. Managing directors turned out in shiny suits of
waterproof silk, oilskin and tarpauline hats, caps, and
south-westers were in great requisition. The captain
appeared on the platform as impermeable to wet as a
walrus, and the pilot, after some fond allusions to the
superior comfort of a snug berth under the Foreland
till daybreak, was obliged to submit to the exigencies
of his position, and to convert himself into a human
" crustacean " for the night, after repeated pithy out-
bursts of eloquence as to the " nastiness " of the
weather, and the immense capabilities of the Foreland,
in a marine, terrestrial, and mooring point of view,
that would have done credit to the late Mr. George
Robins. It must be admitted, that of the correct-
ness of his statements there could be no possible
doubt, and many on board were quite of opinion that,
"after all, perhaps it would be better to take that
pilot's advice." But ere darkness closed in, the
Orinoco was pushing past the Goodwin, on which,
for miles, vast toppling mountains of water, crested
with foam, ran their terrible course, and bursting
upon the sea that rushed to meet her from the
Channel.
On shoving out round the South Foreland, the gale
was at its height. It was with difficulty a man
could make way against the wind on deck, aft and
forward. At times the gust would force the strongest
backwards. The gigantic engines puffed and bellowed
through their brazen throats almost in vain. More than
half the force of 1,700 horses was completely neutral-
ized by the gale, and the rest was at times but just suf-
ficient to enable the steamer to hold her own. But still
she met sea after sea beautifully, rising to meet it as
buoyantly as a sea- fowl, " with lusty timbers throw-
ing it aside, and stemming it with heart of contro-
versy," and leaving it to rush astern, howling into the
darkness. For hours, however, the lights of Dover
and Folkestone on the one hand, and of Grisnez on
the other, glimmered through the mist, bobbing up
and down, and seeming to hold their way with the
steamer. It was an anxious time for all. A screw
loose, a bolt broken, and there were a hundred deaths
behind us — every one connected with the vessel was
on deck, though the spray flew over the foremast and
dashed right over the top of the fore funnel. Still
she shipped no seas — her machinery worked exquisitely
— as blandly almost as the watch in one's pocket.
There was no straining — no stiffening. There was
no bearing heated, and once only, during the whole ,
time, did a little stoppage take place in one valve,
which was rectified in a moment. In the squalls,
thick showers of rain fell, and the drops, mingled with
spray and sleet, were driven by the blast as sharp as
arrows against the face. It was, in fact, "a frightful
night." Channel pilots are pretty good judges of
weather, and two of them agreed that worse weather
could not be met. From the deck, nothing could be
seen but the black, starless sky, descending bodily on
the water in dense clouds, which mingled with sea
and foam, so that there was little difference between
water and air — nothing heard but the furious ravings
of the blast, and its screaming through the rigging,
or the hissing of the seething waves, as they ran up
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
345
and bi'oke against the stout ship. This gale lasted
from 9 p.m. till 3 a.m. the following morning. The
best proof of its severity is this, that, though the
engines were working up to 1,600 horse power, the
Orinoco was eight hours in going from off Dover to
off Dungeness — a distance of about 16 miles. At
seven, Beachy-head was, sighted N. by E., and in a
few hours the steamer was in smooth water, having
perfectly satisfied every person on board, that a safer,
easier sea-boat could not be found in the world, and
that she may be reckoned as presenting the highest
combination of the unrivalled skill in naval architec-
ture and engineering in which this country excels.
RE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS.
KORY O'MORE.
; JOVE had gathered his crew, — and to every one
I Gave peremptory notice of what he wished done ;
| And he sat on his throne with expectancy great
I As to when they'd return and what news they'd
relate.
He sat till his patience was nearly outworn, —
Disappointment by gods is not easily borne !
" I am sure," he exclaimed, " 'tis full two hours ago
Since Mercury sped with that message below.
"There's Bacchus, too — he was to bring me some
wine,
And Hebe, that teasing young scapegrace of mine,
She knows she should serve it, but neither is here, —
Tis strange that not one of my servants appear.
"This neglect is atrocious, — there must be some
cause
For such absolute scorn of the King and his laws ;
I'll just walk through the court to examine and see
Why this truly unbearable conduct should be."
He went, and behold ! the whole outermost court
Was thronged like a market of vulgar resort ;
All idle — and seeming as much at their ease
As though they'd no master to serve or to please.
In the midst was Apollo, with laughter-lit face,
Bending over his harp with all passion and grace ;
And there was the tribe of Olympus around,
With their fetter'd ears eagerly drinking the sound.
There was Boreas, hoarse Boreas, attempting to sing,
And Mars chiming in with his rude tink-a-ting ;
For, instead of careering on red battle-field,
He had turned into cymbals the sword and the
shield.
There was Mercury beating strict time with his
wings,
And looking as though he'd fain pilfer the strings ;
The poppies had fallen from Somnus's wig,
And his tip-toeing feet seemed inclined for a jig.
Bacchus leaned on a barrel with tankard in hand,
'Twas useless his trying to sit or to stand ;
And he saw not the nectar -juice running about,
That the tap was unturned and the spigot was out.
There was Cupid, forgetting loves, doves, hearts, and
smarts,
Had bundled together his bow and his darts ;
And pressed through the gods with a push and a bob,
Just as other young urchins will do in a mob.
There was Venus, who seemed half ashamed to be
seen,
For she blushed quite becoming the Paphian Queen ;
And said she had come thereto look for her son,
Who of all children was the most troublesome one.
So mothers on earth often steal to a crowd
Where the puppets are droll and the music is loud ;
They seek for their "wee ones," the tiresome elves,
But, in truth, 'tis to peep and to listen themselves.
All, all were delighted, but Mercury's eye
Saw the form of the thundering monarch draw nigh ;
And the minstrel one stopped ere the tune was played
out,
And the listeners looked, half in fear, half in doubt.
Jove stared with astonishment, "How's this?" he
cried ;
" My commands disobeyed — my displeasure defied ;
'Tis open rebellion — quick — tell me who leads,
Or, by Juno, I'll level a bolt at your heads.
" You, King of the battle-plain, loitering here !
I'll make you spin petticoat fringe for a year ;
And Boreas, I told you to get up a gale
In the Baltic — you villain, how came you to fail ?
"And you, Miss Aurora, 'tis two hours at least
Since I saw you set off for your place in the east ;
Yet day's portal is closed, and the nightcloud 's still
black,
You heedless young spirit, how dare you come back?''
He threatened them all, and he terrified each
With his light-flashing glance and his thundering
speech ;
Till Hebe stepped forth, — the rogue didn't forget
That Jupiter often had called her his pet :
»
She raised her fair hand ere she ventured to speak,
And threw back the curls from her down-covered
cheek ;
She looked up in his face, — and 'twere easy to mark
That the frown on his brow was a great deal less
dark.
" Indeed, Sire," she cried, " 'tis that serpent of song
Who has lured us from duty and made us do wrong ;
We all were intent on your mission and word,
When he struck up a tune that we never had heard.
" We believe that he picked it up somewhere on
earth,
But 'tis rife with sweet melody, humour, and mirth ;
I attempted to pass, but I really could not,
For my wings and my senses were chained to the
spot.
" Just allow him to play it ? " Apollo's best skill
Was that moment exerted to charm and to thrill :
Jove laughed with delight, as he shouted, " Encore! "
And inquired the name — it was " Rory O'More."
34G
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
" 'Tis well/' cried the King, " here's a pardon for all,
But mind, 'Pol, play that at our annual ball !
And, really (while looking at Hebe askance),
I think now we could manage a bit of a dance."
It was done, and they merrily footed awhile
In the good old Sir Roger de Coverly style,
Till Juno appeared in all possible state,
And looked most unlovable things at her mate.
" Come, Madam," cried Jove, " let us have no to do,'
Here's Mars wants a partner, no doubt he'll take
you."
Juno listened a moment, then ran to her place,
With even a positive smile on her face.
"Bless me ! " and " How wonderful ! " whispered the
gods,
With very significant shruggings and nods ;
"Why her Majesty was ne'er so pleasant before,
It must be all owing to ' Rory O'More.' "
So it was, and a glorious time they all had,
Blithe Momus was crazy, Melpomene glad ;
They danced till the minstrel began to complain
That his fingers were sore, and his wrists were in
pain.
But 'tis noted that Jove since that musical day
Has most graciously bowed when 'Pol comes in his
way ;
And his manners and bearing most courteously tend
To make the god-minstrel his intimate friend ;
For he knows very well that Apollo's soft lyre
Is more than a match for his thunder and fire ;
That his slaves would revolt — all supremacy o'er —
If led on by the quick step of "Rory O'More."
A VISIT TO A LIGHTHOUSE.
The navigation of the British Channel is fraught
with many perils. Its rugged, rock-bound coasts,
its shifting sands, the sudden gales that lash to mad-
ness its confined waves, the great billows, surged so
wildly from the heaving bosom of the Atlantic, the
iron-girt cliffs and headlands, jutting their bold pro-
montories far beyond the coast ; the solitary light-
house, casting its warning rays into the pitchy dark-
ness ; all contribute to give a peculiar aspect of danger
and desolation to this "wild channel of the waters."
Many and many a fine ship that has braved successfully
the storms of the ocean, succumbs to the tempests of
the channel. The treacherous Goodwins have en-
gulfed hundreds of human souls, and empires of
commercial riches ; and there those sands still lie, at
one moment boiling with the disturbed motion of the
raging waters, at another serving for the carpet of a
dancing party of summer ramblers. Truly a senti-
ment of pain has chilled us, when we have observed
our London visitors dancing, as if in mockery, above
the graves of their fellow-creatures ; above the graves
of those undaunted mariners who have preserved to
England the empire of the sea. We do not
blame dancing in the abstract. We love all innocent
amusements, and think more kindly of those who
indulge in them ; but here, here where the poor
weather-beaten old seaman who accompanies us, has
many mournful tales to tell, here surely a little sad-
ness were not unbecoming. We have never yet
agreed with this " dance upon death," and we do not
think we ever shall.
Afar off from the sea, the South Foreland light-
houses— for there are two — present themselves. The
far-famed cliffs of Dover, and the distant town itself,
with its towering old castle, are visible ; the little
Bay of St. Margaret nestles close by, while Deal,
Pegwell Bay, and Ramsgate, are to be seen in the
distance ; the cliffs themselves are patched with ver-
dure ; every here and there masses upon the shore
point upwards to rugged hollows whence they have
fallen ; the beach, steeply inclined, rests against the
cliff, and the sea, limpid and pure, rolls gently upon
the stones on breaking, and makes a murmuring,
slumberous sort of noise. But when old ocean is
not in so amiable a mood, how altered is the scene.
The billows dash tumultuously against the white cliffs ;
the beach roars angrily, as the waves rush upon it ;
the isolated masses of chalk roll stubbornly about, too
weak to resist, but too heavy to yield easily, and the
foam repelled from their sides ascends high to the
summit of the cliffs — a white, cold, careering cloud, —
while a crest of broken foam hides the dark surface of
the mad waters. We have often observed the sun
break through, and shine upon such a scene as this ;
and then, indeed, the wildness is very beautiful ; the
foam glistens, the crested waves shine boldly into
light, the mist reflects the sun, the two lighthouses
throw back the beams from their great glass windows,
and perhaps a solitary ship labours through it all,
with only her storm sails set, while a distant crest
of foam, and a wild roar, tell of the dangerous Good-
wins, heaving tumultuously and asking for their prey.
* * * * * *
" Boat, gentlemen ; boat, gentlemen ; " shouted a
dozen voices, as we went scrambling down the beach.
" Want a boat, sir ! "
" Yes," said we, "let's have a fast sailer."
" Here you are, sir," said a bluff old fellow, whose
appearance marvellously pleased us. " Here you arc,
sir, a regler goer here, sir. Aint she, Bill?" said he,
appealing to a brown, sturdy-faced young man close
to us.
We went on board so excellently recommended a
craft, and during our short voyage heard many racy
anecdotes of the old salts of the coast, and the snug
little fortunes made by many of them in the praise-
worthy calling of surreptitiously introducing goods
into Her Britannic Majesty's realms, without the trou-
blesome intervention of the custom-house officers,
"which is a bore, you know, sir," said our scru-
pulous old sailor, giving an extra turn to his piece
of pig-tail; "many a barrel's gone up there," he
added, pointing to a recess in the cliff, " and none of
them sharks the wiser ; eh, Bill ? "
Bill assented with a sea chuckle.
They were still chuckling over the relation of
an amusing trick played upon an officer of the pre-
ventive service, when we reached St. Margaret's Bay,
and jumped on shore.
We had not far to travel before reaching the light-
houses. A brisk walk up the steep road brought us
to the summit of the cliffs. We skirted the village
of St. Margaret's, — a very ancient little place, with a
very old and curious church, and proceeding straight
along the downs, we presently came to the garden,
encircling what is termed the "high," or "upper
light." It was this one we had chosen for our in-
spection. The garden was scrupulously tidy, the
walk np to the building, the same, and the building
itself the very personification of cleanliness. The
lighthouse ascends from amidst an irregular, but
rather picturesque assemblage of small outworks,
forming habitations for the men, whose onerous duty
it is to attend to the perfect working of the machinery.
On entering the building, we were perfectly thunder-
struck at the extreme strength and solidity of the
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
347
walls. A stone staircase first led to an upper chamber.
Here a large centre, octagonal pillar, running up-
wards, first attracted our attention. Beneath it,
appeared a sort of basement, formed of bronze, and
evidently intended, as was indeed the pillar itself, for
other purposes than either adornment or strength. This,
we were informed, had been destined to serve as a warm
flue, to prevent the too great cold from affecting the
oil in the light department. The great height of the
latter, however, had in part prevented its having the
useful effect intended, and the fire which the bronze
supporter at the base, had been planned to contain,
had for some time been discontinued. Here again
the staircase was of stone, the walls at least four feet
in thickness, and the windows, small and narrow,
detracting very little from the strength of the edifice.
Up stairs we went, and arrived at a second apartment,
smaller than the first, and filled with glasses, oil-cans,
reflectors, and all sorts of lighthouse machinery.
We were much struck with the clearness and bright-
ness of the glasses, or " chimneys " which more im-
mediately surround the flame. They were at least a
foot high, very thick, and seemed formed of the
purest material. Numerous tins, filled with Brob-
dignagian wicks, were placed around, and we were
still contemplating this maze of necessary adjuncts to
a "beacon," when we were summoned to ascend still
higher. But here we were provided no longer with
a stone staircase ; stone had given place to iron. The
flooring of the chamber in which we entered was of
iron, an iron winding staircase led up to an iron
platform, on an iron frame, wherein, suspended on
an iron stand, were the oil receptacle, the lamp, and
the necessary paraphernalia of the light. To these,
then, we immediately directed onr attention.
The light at the South Foreland, in common, we
suppose, with the other lighthouses of the kingdom,
supplies itself with oil, and it effects this by means of
very simple machinery. A circular plate, suspended
perpendicularly, and moving upon an axis in the
centre, is supplied with four pieces of brass, project-
ing horizontally from the surface of the plate ; these
kuobs of brass are round, smooth, highly polished, and
slippery, from their oily neighbourhood. The circular
plate has provided an inner wheel, on which a cord is
wound round. When a very heavy weight is attached
to this cord, it causes the wheel to revolve slowly,
and the cord to unwind : there, then, is the grand
secret of the self-supplying apparatus. Suspended on
upright supporters — one on each side of the circular
plate — are pieces of iron, somewhat in the shape of
a half circle, but so formed that their inner part, or
the inside of the circle, forms a sort of obtuse hook ;
these hooks catch upon the pieces of brass projecting
from the circular plate, but do not prevent it from
turning, in consequence of the pieces of iron them-
selves, also moving upon an axis. When, then, the
weight is attached to the perpendicular circular disc,
and it begins to unwind, one of the brass knobs upon
the disc catches, say the inner side of the bottom circle
of the piece of iron suspended on the upright close
by. The disc turning from left to right, and slowly
revolving, of course the knobs upon it must press down
the piece of iron. They do this ; the half circle slowly
gives, and the disc revolves. This half circle, how-
ever, is connected with that on the other side of the
disc. When the one inner circle is moving down-
wards, or outwards, the other iron circle is being
pressed inwards ; but another knob, when the first has
performed its office, comes against the opposite circle,
and presses that onwards in its turn. The knobs are
four in number ; the iron half circles have of course
four ends, and thus the reciprocal movement and
counter movement is kept up. Of course, when the
weight is taken off, the action ceases, and the ma-
chinery " pumps no more." The movements of these
half circles are conveyed, by means of hidden ma-
chinery, upwards to the back of the light, but rather
below it. Here again there is another arrangement ;
An air- tight case is provided, separated into four air-
tight portions. Affixed to each of these four portions,
are pieces of leather, also made air-tight. In the centre
of these pieces of leather is fixed a rod of iron.
Moving horizontally, on a centre pivot, are two
levers, which are connected each with two of these
pieces of iron, and consequently with two of the
pieces of leather, and two of the air-tight cases. The
right hand lever is connected with the end right
hand air-tight case, and with the next but one to it
on the left hand. The left hand lever is connected
with the end left hand air-tight case, and with the
next but one to it on the right hand. Each of the
air-tight cases is provided with two valves, one at the
top, moving outwards, and one at the bottom, mov-
ing inwards. All the air-tight chambers open into
one oil receptacle at the bottom, and into a common
oil chamber at the top. When, therefore, one hori-
zontal lever moves upon its central axis, it draws the
leather outwards in one air-tight chamber, and pushes
it inwards in the other. Now for the simplicity of
the operation. The leather drawn outwards creates
a vacuum in its compartment of the air-tight case ;
the valve at the top shuts down by the pressure ; the
valve at the bottom opens — inwards — and through
that valve the oil rushes in. By this time the other
side of the lever is commencing to move outwards,
and the one we have just been noticing, to press
inwards. The pressure inwards, closes the valve
which shuts inwardly, and opens that which opens
outwardly, the oil rushes through the latter into the
top oil chamber, then immediately into the wicks of
the lamps, and supplies them with the necessary
moisture. Thus the round is kept up, each piece of
leather pulling outwards, and pressing inwards, alter-
nately. Conduits carry away all the surplus oil.
Now, then, we have reached the wicks. These are
six in number. The outermost is the largest, and
they gradually diminish in size to the centre one,
which is therefore the smallest. They can each be
raised to any height, independently of one another,
so that the light may form a sugar-loaf, or any other
shape. When the wicks require snuffing, the lights
have to be put out. The operation requires about a
minute only, but a lamp is compelled to be shown by
the men, to prove that they are there, and that the
light has not gone out accidentally.
The reflecting apparatus, the most beautiful of all,
is yet as simple as it is effective.
Ranged upon perpendicular iron frames, all round
the central light, are numbers of glasses of peculiar
shape, and cut to a certain angle. The central
portion is composed of one large sheet of glass, as
clear of flaws as possible. This presents its convex
surface to the ocean, and its concave to the light.
Both above and below this, are prisms, so arranged
at different angles, as to catch the rays of light, and
project them horizontally out to seawards. These
prisms vary in size, and become smaller at the top of
the frame, where they meet, so as to seize upon every
vagrant ray, and violently refract it in the required
direction. The glass in the frame is protected from
the open air by another frame of common glass which
encloses it, and which forms indeed the outer glass
wall of the summit of the building.
" But," said Professor , " you perceive these
small waves in the prisms. Each of these is like
an obstacle in the water ; the moment a wave of light
touches it, the brilliant billow is turned off at an
angle, in the same manner as a wave of the sea. Or
perhaps the flaw in the glass is irregular, and breaks
348
ELIZA COOK/S JOURNAL.
the wave into pieces, or portions of light. These
take, of course, various different directions ; the major
portion, however, proceeds pretty directly to sea.
It meets at length at some point far distant."
"This, by-the-by," added Professor , "is
the same plan of light as that shown in the Great
Exhibition, is it not ? "
Our attendant answered in the affirmative.
We remembered having seen these brilliant orna-
ments in the centre aisle of the Glass Palace.
They are the invention of a Frenchman, too, if we
mistake not. What a miracle, that our Government
should have so promptly availed itself of these im-
provements ! for this innovation upon the old plan
had been in operation for some time even when we
visited the light, now almost a long time ago.
"The other lighthouse," said our attendant, "is
provided with the old reflectors. It has six distinct
lights, with each an independent reflector behind it,
but it is not so good as this one, after all."
11 By-the-by e," said we, "did we not hear some-
thing of an intermittent, or 'flashing' plan."
" Revolving glasses," said Professor , " with
sometimes several, occasionally only one, revolving
glass. Each time the revolution was made, there
was a flash of light, and it could be so regulated as
to give one flash every minute, or a greater number."
" The Calais light," said we — " a most brilliant one
— isa 'revolver.' It serves abetter purpose than 'Colt's,'
however, for it preserves life, instead of destroying it."
" How much oil," we inquired, " do you use in the
course of one night ? "
" The quantity varies," replied our attendant. " In
the winter, about two gallons, and in the summer, of
course, much less. There are portions of the winter,
however, when we use even more. Our annual con-
sumption of oil is about seven or eight hundred
gallons."
" What a flood ! " thought we.
"We use rape," added he, "and have the stock of
oil arranged in cans below stairs."
We descended into the oil depository, and if we
had been struck with the cleanliness of everything
above stairs, how much were we gratified with the
appearance of everything below.
Twelve large cans, full of oil, were ranged upon a
platform round the chamber — a circular one. Hang-
ing to each of the stopcocks, was a brilliant little
copper vessel, placed to catch the drops of oil. Below,
upon the floor, was another vessel, intended for the
same purpose. Yet, with all this plenitude of oil,
there was not sufficient to be seen, for the most
moderate of persons to dress his hair with.
"And how much oil do you compute these cans to
contain ? "
" There are twelve cans," he replied ; " each holds
eighty-four gallons."
" One thousand and eight gallons of oil," said we ;
" humph !"
We again ascended, took a peep into our conductor's
private apartment, thought of the delight of a marine
residence in such a place, and thanking our patient
attendant for his trouble, and the care he had
bestowed upon us, " we went upon our ways."
THE THREE VISITORS OF BERNARDIN
DE SAINT PIERRE.
ONE morning while Bernardin de Saint Pierre was
admiring, through one of the windows of his apart-
ment, the glowing radiance of the rising sun, and
thinking, perhaps, of transferring its bi-ight tints, and
the fragrance of early dawn, and the glittering dew-
drops, to the pages of his Harmonies de la Nature,
a stranger entered with noiseless step ; he saluted
the poet with deep reverence, respectfully apologising
for so early an intrusion, and it was not until after
repeated invitations that he was prevailed upon to
take a seat beside him. The young man's face bore
the dark olive hue of the southern sun, his black hair
fell in waves from his temples, over the collar of his
military coat. His look was at once pensive and
modest, yet proud. The fashion of his dress, his
high boots, the white and fringed gloves, proclaimed
him an officer of the French republic, whom the close
of the campaign in Italy had allowed to return
home. And such indeed he was, as he took care to
inform Bernardin, when his excitement at finding
himself in the presence of the celebrated author had
a little subsided.
" I congratulate you, sir," said Saint Pierre, " on
having served under the great captain, who has so
gloriously terminated this campaign. I can enter
into such triumphs, for I, too, have been a soldier."
"Would that I were one no longer," exclaimed
the young officer — "that I had never been one.
War is hateful to me ! I know neither enmity nor
ambition — the conqueror and the conquered are alike
to me. This soft, lovely, morning, with its dewy
freshness, passed in tranquil convei-sation or lonely
musings, has more charms for me than all the pomp
and circumstance of war. Then, what an avenue to
fame ! by slaughter ! — butchery ! Laurels have been
strewn in my path. I see nothing but the blood
through which I have been wading."
The poet extended his hand to the young soldier,
who respectfully kissed it. "Yours," he said, "is
true glory. The names of Paul and Virginia will
live for ever in the memories and heads of men. Ah,
sir ! this is the brightest day of my life. I asked of
fortune only that I might live to see you, to tell you
as man, the delightful hours my youth owed to you,
and now my bright hope is realized. Behold the
treasure of my boyhood, the delight of my manhood,
my companion in the college, — on the fields of Mon-
tenotte and Lodi," — and the stranger took from his
pocket a well-worn copy of Paul and Virginia, the
leaves kept together only by a few threads.
With all Saint Pierre's modesty, he could not but
be deeply moved by the enthusiasm of the young
officer. At a time like this, when war was raging
both at home and abroad, it was rather unusual to
find a soldier warmly interested in an Indian idyl,
and busying himself about a poet, in his obscure
retreat on the banks of a pretty stream.
"I am delighted," he said, "not so much with
your too indulgent estimate of an ephemeral book,
but with the sympathy between us, — that bond of
common love for mankind and for nature, a love of
whose inspirations my book is but a feeble utterance of.
It is only in some such obscnre corner as this, that
we dare now own that we love God and Heaven, the
dewy morning and peace on earth. Discord still
reigns at Paris. Is it not so ? "
The young officer looked up with a sad expression
in his dark eyes. "Alas, yes! it is reigning more
furiously than ever ; but it is too painful a subject ;
let us change it. Are you at present engaged in any
work ? and are these its first sheets ? "
Bernardin smiled as he answered, — " They are old
memorials to the Dii-ectory at Paris. I was once the
secretary, the literary man 'of the revolutionary club
of Essoune, the republicans of that town having more
warmth of patriotism than power of style, employed
me to draw up their memorials, and I escaped the
guillotine by accepting the office."
"The author of Paul and Virginia secretary to a
village revolutionary club ! "
" Neither more nor less. It was not very poetical ;
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
349
but so it was. However, during that time I have
had some hours of leisure which I have devoted to a
work that has been the dream of my life, and the
thought of which has cheered me, in the forests of
Sweden, and under the burning skies of the Isle of
France. My object is to reveal the divine intelligence
to the human race, through the universal relation
between all beings. From physical order I elicit
physical good ; from the good, the moral, and from
the moral, God. And the title of the book is to be
the Harmonies of Nature. I was working at it when
you came in, and meditating on the wise providence
which, while giving to different beings different
organs, has supplied the apparent inequality by
special qualities and counterbalancing advantages.
I intend, also to treat of the harmonies of the stars.
Oh ! how beautiful are our nights in France ! "
" And I, too, thought so, till I had seen the nights
in Italy," exclaimed the young stranger. "There
every star is a living token of friendship or of love.
Two friends parted by long exile each pledge them-
selves to look at the same star at the same hour, and
the light thus shared is a link between them. The
young girl gives to the bright stars of the summer
nights her own name and that of her lover, till the
whole firmament is full of Bettinas and Ciprianas,
Franciscas and Giottos. Should one of these tender
links be severed by death, the still remaining one is
comforted in her sorrow by seeing the bright memorial
of her beloved still shining on the borders of that
heavenly horizon, where their meeting will be for
ever."
" This is indeed a tender harmony. Yes, love is
everywhere. But," continued Bernardin, delighted
at being understood; but tell me, do you yourself
write? With mental energies such as yours, why
should you not cast upon the troubled waters of this
age some thought that may yet be the fructifying
seed to be found after many days. All soldiers write
well."
"I do write a little, sir," and the young officer
blushed as he answered ; " since your kind encourage-
ment has anticipated my request, and thus emboldened
me to make it, I venture to ask you to cast your eye
over a few pages written to beguile the hours of a
lonely midnight watch. You will remember it is the
book of a soldier, and one almost a foreigner."
" I thank you for the confidence reposed in me,"
said Saint Pierre, " and I am persuaded the friend
will have no need to bias the judge in the impartial
opinion that you have a right to claim from me."
The young officer now rose, and with a request to
be allowed to repeat his visit, and a cordial, though
respectful pressure of Saint Pierre's hand, took his
leave, and long after the garden-gate had closed
behind him, Bernardin stood watching the cloud of
dust in which had disappeared his young visitor, and
the steed on which he galloped back to Paris.
"So, then," thought the philosopher, as he re-
entered his cottage, " there still exists some few
minds free from the consuming toils of ambition.
Who would ever have expected to find a lover of
nature with a republican epaulette ? There is a
simplicity in this youth most attractive ; how modestly
did he speak of himself; how bitterly lament the
horrors of war ; and his enjoyment of this lovely
dewy morning, was that of a sage no less than of a
poet. Doubtless the manuscript is some learned
treatise on the art of war, — the subject not his choice
but the necessity of his position. The art of war !
— art indeed, — the art of killing the arts ! "
Bernardin de Saint Pierre was mistaken. The
manuscript was a pastoral romance, — conceive his
delight, — A Pastoral Eomance ! " Yes ! " he said,
"the noble mind must let fly the falcon imagination
to cater for it. It cannot feed on the garbage
around."
Day after day now elapsed without bringing his
young visitor ; but some months after, Bernardin,
seated at a table placed under the shade of trees of
his own planting, and covered with flowers gathered
to serve as models for his word-paintings, was enjoy- i
ir g the soft evening breeze, when the visit of an \
officer was announced ; and to his great surprise, 1
instead of him whom he was eagerly advancing to
welcome, he beheld a stranger. He had, indeed, the
same black hair falling from his temples, the same
dark eyes, the same olive hue of the man of the sun
and the Mediterranean. But he saw not the same
person ; his new visitor was at least ten years older
than the first.
" I am the elder brother, sir, of an officer who,
some months since, did himself the honour of calling
upon you."
" His visit still lives in my memory as one most
pleasant. He confided to me a manuscript which I
would be glad to take this opportunity of returning,
with my assurances of entire sympathy in his love of
nature, and still more in his noble indignation against
tyrants, his eloquent invectives against ambition.
Tell him, too, from me, how much I admire his style ;
its rich imagery, — its "
" I must not let you go on, sir, for such praise has
already rendered it difficult to avow myself the author
of the book. I had not courage to submit it to you
myself, but my younger and more adventurous brother
gladly availed himself of it as a plea for his intrusion."
After some courteous words interchanged between
the new visitor and Bernardin, the latter pointed to
the flowers and said, "I was at that moment thinking
of your brother ; he had told me of the names given
by loving hearts in Italy to the stars, and I was
reflecting that our associations with flowers were
still trammelled by such a rugged nomenclature ; it
is enough to make the science of botany detestable."
" Ah, sir, you will teach all to love it ; already
has your Etiides de la Nature made it popular
throughout Europe. I myself had formed a floral
dial at a villa at Florence where my regiment was
quartered ; every hour of the night and of the day
was marked by the opening of different flowers. I
am passionately fond of them, and can well under-
stand the Dutchman lavishing a fortune upon a tulip,
and spending a life in giving it some new variety of
tint."
"What a simple-minded family!" thought Ber-
nardin. " One brother worships the starry splendour
of the heavens, and the other luxuriates in flowers,
and spends his idle garrison hours in watching them
as they bud forth at every hour of the day ; and these
two young men are soldiers ! War has not hardened
their hearts, nor conquest made them despise simple
pleasures." And now, Saint Pierre, leaning on his
new friend, proceeded to show him his flowers,
"which," he said, "though not like the lovely pro-
ducts of the fertile Italy you have conquered, yet, as
my own planting, are not without their fragrance for
the old man ; and as they walked along, he repeated
to himself rather than to his companion, —
" Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas
Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus strepitumque Acherontis avari."
And in as low a voice, the officer went on — "Yes !
happy the wise man who penetrates the arcana of
nature, and who tramples under foot the world's
prejudices." And as he stooped to pluck a daisy, he
added, " who the calm votary of the sylvan deities
beholds with unenvious eye the consular pomp and
the glittering diadem. Ah, sir ! you, too, like Virgil
350
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
— do you know he is my poet of all poets ? " And
before they had gone the round of the garden, the
sago and the soldier had repeated almost the whole
of the second book of the Georgics ; and now, having
begged and obtained a flower as a memento of his
visit, the officer took his leave, with the promise of
soon returning and bringing with him his brother.
"If all republicans," said Bernardin, "were like
these two brothers, the republic would be heaven,
and I need not so long to die."
And with fresh impulse, and an interest increased
by the sympathy of his visitor in his love of flowers,
Saint Pierre turned to his labours. The second part
of his Harmonies de la Nature was finished, and he
was now engaged upon the last division of his great
work — "The Harmonies of Human Nature," when
one day a knock at the door of his library made him
raise his head to see, as he believed, the face of one
of his two friends in the Italian army, though whether
the elder or the younger he could not at once dis-
tinguish. On nearer survey, he discovered, to his
great perplexity, that neither the one nor the other
stood before him. The uniform of this third officer
was exactly the same, he had the same masses of
black 'hair, the same eyes, but though a little older
than the first, and younger than the second of his
former visitors, he seemed to bear more traces than
either of the struggle and the vigil ; and his brow
was graver and more thoughtful. Still the triple
resemblance was most striking, and fur a moment
Bernardin scarcely knew whether he was to greet him
as a stranger • but before he could speak, the visitor
introduced himself as the brother of the two officers,
the kindness of whose reception had encouraged him
to pay his respects to the friend of Jean Jacques
Rousseau, to the illustrious author of the Jttudes de la
Nature, and to venture to offer the admiring homage
of a blunt soldier.
Was it those lips with their Attic cut, and firm
grace, which smile and threat seemed alike to become,
or was it the deep voice, the piercing eagle glance,
or his already high reputation as the greatest captain
of the age, that riveted the attention of the philoso-
pher upon this last of the three brothers, and indeli-
bly impressed upon his memory every word of the
conversation which now ensued ?
But this third brother and the poet spoke not of
scenery, nor stars, nor sun, nor streams, nor flowers.
They spoke of human nature, of the universal brother-
hood of mankind, of philosophy, and patriotism. They
spoke, too, of the present evil days, — the old man
with some little bitterness and much indulgence, the
young man with hopes aspiring and daring as his
conquests ; and while laying open future prospects
with almost prophetic clearness, he showed the certain
and impending destruction of all parties by each other,
and the consequent and near approach of peace.
" God grant it ;" cried Bernardin de Saint Pierre.
" God grants all to the firm will and the determined
purpose," was the answer.
Some expressive pauses made breaks in a conversa-
tion which was less an interchange of words than of
thoughts. Vainly did Bernardin several times at-
tempt to introduce the subject of the campaigns in
Italy, as an opening for some complimentary tribute
to the courage, the presence of mind, the clear mental
vision, the resolute powers of action, of his visitor ;
the latter as constantly evaded the subject, for with
all the exquisite tact which was his great character-
istic through life, he guessed the philosopher could
accord but a reluctant homage to any triumph of the
sword, even when not drawn in the service of ambition.
He felt, too, that the warrior should be like a fortress,
from whose strong, silent walls, is heard only in time
of war the booming of its artillery.
Thus, therefore, ran the dialogue :—
" Italy is on fire with your name."
"I have founded chairs of philosophy, of history,
and oratory, in most of the conquered cities."
" Montenotte will ever be one of the most glorious
monuments of French valour."
"I have pensioned all the savants of Bologna,
Florence, and Milan."
"You have rivalled the renown of the immortal
generals of antiquity."
" Whenever a city was taken, my first care was to ,
command public monuments and private property to •
be respected, and to prohibit under pain of death all
outrage to women, and before I allowed guards to be
planted at my own door, I took care sentinels were j
at the gates of every church and hospital."
" How you must have longed for repose, were it !
only to indulge the bright dreams of the future."
" The actual and the real for me. I like best to
shut myself up in my quarters to pursue my favourite
studies of mathematics and history."
Struck with enthusiastic admiration of such sim-
plicity, and such wise moderation, Bernardin ceased
any longer to pay forced compliments to the military
prowess with which he had no sympathy, and now
poured out his whole heart in homage to his noble
qualities as a legislator and as a man. Could he do
less than read to him some few pages of his
"Harmonies" — the winding-up of his "Harmonies
of Nature." To one of the three brothers worthy to
comprehend the sublimity of the science of Heaven,
he had shown the stars ; to another, tender as
Rousseau, the flowers ; and now the graver pages
of his book to a third — graver, wiser than either — as
wise as Marcus Aurelius ; "nay, wiser," said Ber-
nardin, " for I am sure he never would consent to
be made emperor."
And now, who were these three officers of the
Italian army ?
The first officer, who wooed ths stars and the dewy
morning, and wlao had no ambition, was Louis
Buonaparte, afterwards King of Holland.
The second officer, who delighted in flowers, and
in floral dials, was Joseph Buonaparte, afterwards
King of the two Spains and of the Indies.
The third officer — the brother of the two others —
who was a republican, a philosopher, a philanthropist,
a lover of peace, and who had no ambition, was
Napoleon Buonaparte, afterwards Emperor of the
French, and King of Italy !
What an eclogue for Bernardin de Saint Pierre, —
Two Kings and an Emperor !
JlOW EVERY WORKING MAN MAY SAVE TWENTY
SHILLINGS A YEAR.
If we weigh a pound of bread as it comes out of the
oven, and weigh it again at the expiration of twenty--
four hours, we shall find that it has then lost nearly
two ounces (the difference being fractional). This is
especially the case with wheaten bread, prepared
with yeast or any (legitimate) chemical ferment ;
and this is the first considerable saving, by pur-
chasing bread one day old, as it is to be obtained
in almost every shop. But, besides this collapse of
the bread caused by the mere mechanical process of
evaporation, time produces in this alimentary sub-
stance another, a chemical change. Several of its
compounds (starch, gluten, &c.) solidify by time and
exposure to air, which can be easily ascertained by
twisting a piece of fresh bread between our fingers,
when a ball almost resembling paste will be obtained.
Performing the same operation after the bread has
been baked twenty-four hours, it will not yield to the
former extent ; it' is therefore obvious, that by keep-
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
351
ing bread one day, it becomes mechanically and che-
mically another substance, more compact, freed from
moisture (water), and its chemical ingredients more
collapsed and coagulated ; in fact, it may be said that
bread, after being taken out of the oven, and kept for
some adequate time, undergoes another supplementary
chemical process which, if eaten warm or new, is per-
formed in the stomach ; thence, it is a well-known
fact, that such bread is unwholesome. Concluding
with economical inducements for eating stale bread,
we cite the fact, that an adult labouring person will
be quite capable of consuming one pound of new bread
for breakfast, whereas, if only kept twenty -four hours,
ten to twelve ounces will be the utmost one can pos-
sibly use. Children especially are attracted by the
soft, spongy nature of new bread towards eating more
than they really want. If bread twenty-four hours
old be toasted, the chemical process of a further con-
densation and coagulation of the chemical ingredients
will take place : thence toasted bread is more nourish-
ing and more wholesome than when eaten in its na-
tural state. Some people avoid using stale bread
because, if not consumed in proper time, it gets too
stale, and useless ; this can be easily prevented by
keeping bread (after it has been baked twenty-four
hours) in some thick cloth, a serviette, napkin, or the
like ; this will prevent any undue further evapora-
tion of moisture ; in fact, stale bread may be revived,
so to say, by wrapping it in a wet cloth. Bread too
stale has the opposite defects of new bread : the pro-
cess of evaporation and condensation of its chemical
ingredients has proceeded too far ; but it has not,
after all, lost any of its nourishing properties. There
is no necessity in any household for wasting even the
stalest bread, because, if soaked in hot water, milk,
or broth, it will expand again, like dried fish or meat,
and be equally savoury and nutritious as heretofore.
By calculating all these savings, effected one way or
other, we ar.e not saying too much, that every adult
working person can save, in 365 days, the sum of
twenty shillings (ten gilders), which, taken in the
aggregate of several years makes a sum by which
many of us " sink or rise " in the world. — -From the
Austrian National Almanack.
PHYSIOGNOMY OF NOSE AND MOUTH.
The nose is a member of very independent habits,
and trifles, often selfishly, with the countenance in
which it plays so conspicuous a part. No featui-e
seems to change its mind so often in the course of
formation, or surprises us more with its final resolve ;
thus frequently a highly composite style is met with,
which defies all order and precedent. But these
eccentricities may account in some measure for a
peculiar fact which meets us in the natural history of
no other feature : we allude to our great sensitiveness
and reserve on the subject of our noses. The nose
is the feature where all the mauvaise honte of our
nature seems embodied ; its plainness on our faces
amounts to a proverb, and yet we prefer to ignore its
very existence. We care not what it is like, so that
it do but elude observation, and can even better bear
to hear our ej*es consigned to everlasting perdition
than the slightest personal allusion to our nose. Nor
do its waywardnesses and irregularities interfere much
with our modern ideas of beauty ; there are pretty
and good faces with every variety of snub, hook,
bulb, boss, and potatoe. A beautiful nose is too rare
an object for our pleasure in a face to be dependent
upon it, nay, when it does occur, it is caviare to the
million. Without pretending to the symmetry of
the antique, it may be said that a nose should be long
and straight, with the nostrils small and fine, spring-
ing well from the face, and meeting in that delicate
bracket which seems lightly to sustain the weight
both of nose and forehead, yet also open and instinct
with life, for the breath of man resides in them. Any
nose that stands out well, be it large or small, is com-
patible with beauty, because strictly human ; but the
nose couchant, as approaching the animal, must be
inadmissible in the heraldry of good looks. Yet,
however assuming and capricious the nose, it is the
mouth which is the real ruler. Every portrait-painter
knows that till this is safe the closest likeness of the
other features goes for nothing ; it is the lawgiver to
the countenance in eveiy sense, for the lips, even
when silent, overflow with the fulness of the heart.
As to form, a small mouth is pronounced a beauty,
and a large one a blemish ; but this rule is often
reversed. The truth is, that in neither the small nor
the large size lies the true human character of the
mouth ; this consists chiefly in the shape of the line
formed by the junction of the lips, a line in which
the human autograph is unmistakeably written. The
mouth of an animal has but few actions ; it opens and
shuts merely in the quality of a trap-door, through
which grist is supph'ed to the mill within ; this done,
the door closes, and looks exactly what it is — a dumb
thing. But the lips of man are emphatically the por-
tals of speech — (the Greeks designated him as " the
sound- dividing animal ") — and not the speech of the
voice only, but that of the heart before it becomes
articulate. Their delicate springs are set in move-
ment by every passing thought ; they partake of
every emotion, of every mood; they tell the tale,
even though it contradict the very words they utter.
The lips of the young especially are seldom quiet, or
it bespeaks a self-restraint beyond their years if they
are. For an action thus incessant that perfect ease
of movement was necessary which the innumerable
acting and counteracting muscles round the mouth
have provided ; and not ease alone, but the appear-
ance of ease, and therefore the waving speaking-p\&y
of the line at which the lips fall together, or rest
instantaneously apart, corresponds exquisitely in idea
with the frequency of the movement, and is in itself
a real attribute of humanity. — Quarterly 'Review,
Dec. 1851.
FEMALE BEAUTY.
Power, the celebrated sculptor, in a letter to a friend
says, with satirical hum our, of his favourite work, "Eve
is an old-fashioned body, and not so well formed and
attractive as are her granddaughters, at least some of
them. She wears her hair in a natural and most pri-
mitive manner, drawn back from the temples, and
hanging loose behind, thus exposing those very ugly
features in woman. Her waist is quite too large for
our modern notions of beauty, and her feet, they are
so very broad and large ! And did ever one see such
long toes ! they have never been wedged into form
by the nice and pretty little shoes worn by her lovely
descendants. But Eve is very stiff and unyielding in
her disposition ; she will not allow her waist to be
reduced by bandaging, because she is far more com-
fortable as she is, and besides, she has some regard
for her health, which might suffer from such restraints
upon her lungs, heart, liver, &c. &c. I could never
prevail upon her to wear modern shoes, for she dreads
corns, which she says are neither convenient nor
ornamental. But some allowance ought to be made
for these crude notions of hers, founded as they are in
the prejudices and absurdities of primitive days.
Taking all these things into consideration, I think it
best that she should not be exhibited, as it might
subject me to censure and severe criticism, and these,
too, without pecuniary reward."
352
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
[At the earnest request of many readers, whose means are
not equal to the price of Hood's published works, we extract
the following beautiful poem from Moxon's admirable and
cheap edition.]
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
BY THOMAS HOOD.
" Drowu'd ! drown'd ! "—Hamlet.
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death !
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care ;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair !
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements ;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing:
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing. —
Touch her not scornfully ;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly ;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful ;
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family,—
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses ;
Whilst wonderment guesses,
Where was her home ?
Who was her father ?
Who was her mother ?
Had she a sister ?
Had she a brother ?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other ?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun !
Oh! it was pitiful,
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed :
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence :
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver •.
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river :
Mad from Life's history,
Glad to Death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled —
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world !
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran, —
Over the brink of it,
Picture it— think of it,
Dissolute Man !
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can !
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care ;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair !
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, — kindly, —
Smooth, and compose them ;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly !
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest. —
Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast !
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour !
A HYMN TO OLD AGE WANTED !
Many a poet has sung laments over departed youth ;
did any ever sing, or chant — for it would be like a
psalm — the peace, the joy, the comfort of growing
old ; of knowing passions dead, temptations con-
quered, experience won, individual interests become
universal, and vain fantastic hopes merged into sub-
lime strong-builded faith, — faith which makes of death
its foundation-stone, and has for its summit Eternity ?
The " Hymn to Old Age " would be one not unworthy
of a great poet ; who will write it 1 — The Head of the
family.
DIAMOND DUST.
THE knowledge of what is and of ivhat ought to be
are the two opposed wings upon which the poetic
mind rises, and the breadth of pinion at each side
must be equal if the flight is to be sustained.
No condition so low but may have hopes, and none
so high but may have fears.
A PKOMISE is a just debt which should always be
paid, for honour and honesty are its security.
ANGER wishes that all mankind had only one neck ;
love, that it had only one heart ; grief, two tear-
glands ; and pride, two bent knees.
THE mind is weak when it has once given way ; it
is long before a principle restored can become as firm
as one that has never been moved.
THE less wit a man has the less he knows he
wants it.
THEEE is a large and fertile space in every life, in
which might be planted the oaks and fruit-trees of
enlightened principle and virtuous habit, which,
growing up, would yield to old age an enjoyment, a
glory, and a shade.
AN Irishman fights before he reasons, a Scotchman
reasons before he fights, an Englishman is not parti-
cular as to the order of precedence, but will do either
to accommodate his customers.
IT is only hatred, not love, that requires explana-
tion.
AGE is surrounded by a cold mist, in which the
flame of hope will hardly burn.
ONE of the strongest characteristics of genius is the
power of lighting its own fire.
CONFRONT improper conduct, not by retaliation but
by example.
To forgive and forget is something of a difficulty,
but to forget and forgive is the easiest thing in the
world.
LITTLE disputes before marriage are great ones
after it ; as northerly winds, which are warm in
summer, blow keen and cold in winter.
A TRUE poet, a man in whose heart resides some
effluence of wisdom, some love of the ' Eternal
Melodies,' is the most precious gift that can be be-
stowed on a generation.
REMORSE is the poison of life, and repentance its
cure.
THE consciousness that we have, by our own mis-
conduct, brought our sorrows upon ourselves, is an
immense aggravation to their misery.
Now ready, price 2s. each, postage free,
TWO NEW SONGS, Words and Music by ELIZA COOK,
"THE RING AND THE KIRK,"
AND
"THE WEDDING BELLS."
Also, the SECOND EDITION, price 2s., postage free,
DEAD LEAVES,
A BALLAD ; the Words and Music by ELIZA COOK.
Published by Charles Cook, at the Office of the Journal,
and may be had of all Music- sellers.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London ; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 153."]
SATURDAY, APRIL 3, 1852.
[PRICE
THE BREED OF ENGLISHMEN.
Apropos of Mr. Worsaae's book on " The Danes in
England."
"BRED in the bone," is a common enough saying
among us. We all believe in the influence of what is
" bred " in men. The son " takes after " the father,
and is but a " chip of the old block." As with
individuals, so with peoples. Character is hereditary
among nations, as it is among families. Races have,
indeed, a history of the most interesting kind. Into
whatever nations they may be grouped, their essential
characteristics remain the same. Thus, the French-
men of this day are almost identical in character with
the inhabitants of ancient Gaul, as described by
Csesar some half a century before Christ. The
Germans are but modernized Teutons. The Jew is
still a Jew, though no longer a member of a great
nation : he is only one of a race. The modern
Irishman is but a copy of the Irishman of a thousand
years ago. It is the same with all races : their
peculiar qualities are "bred in the bone."
What of the modern English ? Of what race are
they ? It is difficult to tell. They are of anything
but "pure " blood. Indeed, all the races of Europe
have gone towards forming the human mixture
called " Englishman." In his veins run the blood of
the Celt, the Roman, the Saxon, the Dane, and the
Norman. As De Foe said, there is no such thing as
a " true-born Englishman." From all that can be
learnt from history, the race whicli in olden times
held possession of England was purely Celtic. They
could not hold their country against the Romans, who
conquered it, and occupied it for many centuries.
But the Roman legions were recalled, doubtless
leaving settlers and offspring behind them, and the
country was again left to the ascendancy of the native
race, — the ancient Britons.
Then came the Saxons, swarming over from
Jutland, from Saxony, and from the territories about
the Elbe, in North Germany. They came to help the
native Britons to beat back the wild Scots and Picts,
who swarmed across the border. But the Saxons
liked the goodly land of England ; and when they
had beaten back the Scots, they set themselves down
there as its inhabitants and owners. Many a stout
battle was fought for the ownership of England. But
fresh swarms from Jutland kept pom-ing into the
country. The ancient Britons were beaten ; they
were dispossessed of the rich lands lying along the
southern and eastern coasts, and of the fertile
midland counties ; they were pushed back, as it were,
into the mountainous, sterile, and comparatively
inaccessible parts of the country, — into Devon and
Cornwall, into Wales, and the counties thereabout,
and into Cumberland and Westmoreland, and the hilly
parts of Lancashire and West Yorkshire.
So the Anglo-Saxons settled down in the country
as the English people, planting their Teutonic in-
stitutions, which contained in them the germs of so
much of our English constitutional liberties. They
were a hard-working, plodding people, these Anglo-
Saxons ; fond of rude comfort ; eating well and
drinking well ; on the whole, heavy livers. A solid,
phlegmatic race, shrewd, practical, and sagacious ;
not quarrelsome, but ready enough to stand up for
their "rights," when they were assailed. Thus
was the Saxon element duly infused into the English
nation.
But the admixture was not yet complete. Another
important element was wanting. Neither the Celts
nor the Saxons were good seamen, — they never went
out of sight of land if they could avoid it. If they
went to sea at all, they crept along the shores. To
this day, the Celts have an aversion to a seafaring
life. Look at the unfished coasts of Ireland, for
instance. Few of them are either fishermen or
sailors. But around the sea-beaten coasts of Denmark
and Norway dwelt a thoroughly maritime race, — fond
of the sea, who were never more at home than when
on the deep, — who loved the ocean, and laughed at
its storms ; laying their hand upon its mane, and
breasting it as a steed that knew its rider. So,
in good time, -came the Danes and Norwegians,
swarming over upon the English coasts in their war-
ships. The Danes, for full three centuries, were the
terror of England ; indeed they swarmed all along the
coasts of the North Seas. They invaded France, and
took possession of Normandy; they invaded Scotland
and Ireland ; planted colonies in Iceland, the Faroe
Isles; passed over to Greenland, and discovered
America. In fact, they were the British of those
days ; and it was their seafaring spirit, their maritime
daring, which has made Britain what it is.
Whole Danish and Norwegian fleets, under their
354
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
bold Vikings, roved the seas for glory, for gain, for
plunder. The earth was lawless then, and power and
dominion were the lot of the strongest. These rovers
were nursed in hardships and dangers ; the severe
cold of the north hardened their sturdy frames, steeled
their courage, and braced them for war. The opening
of the famous Danish and Norwegian national song
bespeaks the temper of that old race : it begins,
" King Christian stood by the high mast, enveloped in
mist and smoke." All the early heroes of both these
nations were seamen ; and we are not prouder of our
Nelson than they were of their Niels Juel.
The Danes and Norwegians were devoted Pagans
in those daj^s, and bore deadly hatred towards those
branches of their race, — the Teutons of Germany and
of England, — who had been converted to Christianity.
They shed the blood of priests with pleasure ;
plundered tombs and altars of their gold and precious
stones ; and littered their horses in the chapels of
palaces. They either killed their prisoners on the
spot, or dragged them into slavery. When they first
appeared on the coasts of England, they came in
small fleets, anchored their ships at the mouths of
rivers, or lay under the islands about the coasts. Or
they would sail up the invers, — up the Thames, the
Ouse, or the Trent, — or up the Tees, or the Tyne, —
suddenly land, mount on horseback, scour and plunder
the country, burning and slaughtering as they went,
i and then back to their ships again, and off for
Norway. When they had thus wasted some Christian
territory, they would chaunt in derision, " We have
sung the mass of lances ; it began at dawn of morning
and lasted till night." Then they launched on the deep,
singing, " The force of the storm is a help to our
rowers' arms ; the hurricane is in our service ; it
carries us the way we would go."
In course of time, these scourges of the English
coasts began to build intrenched camps and military
posts, to cover their return ; and the next spring
saw larger fleets than before, — commanded by valor-
ous chiefs and sons of kings, making for the English
havens, landing there, and repeating the old game ;
but now determined to settle down as colonists in this
goodly land. And they made good their footing.
Thus it happened that the Saxons were pushed
towards the south and the west of England, as the
ancient British had been before them. The Danes
were thickest along the coast. They almost peopled
Northumberland and Yorkshire, as the dialect of the
people, the features of the inhabitants, and the
names of places to this day, serve to prove. They
also spread southwards, and extended themselves
inland as far as Derby and Chester. As they ex-
tended themselves southward, however, they came
into violent collision with the Anglo-Saxon popula-
tion, which chiefly inhabited the rich southern
counties. The Great Alfred, King of the West
Saxons, after being more than once routed by the
Danes, at length rallied his subjects, and overcame
them in battle. Then a truce was formed ; and it was
agreed that Watling-street, — the old Eoman road
extending through England from north to south, —
should be the boundary between the hostile faces.
But the truce was a hollow one. The war again
broke out, and the Danes were defeated ; until fresh
hordes of their countrymen from Norway and
Denmark, under the terrible King Sweyn, landed in
England, overran the countiy from York to South-
ampton and Bristol ; and Sweyn assumed the title of
King of England. He was succeeded by Canute,
who called himself " Emperor of the North," — one of
the boldest and most successful of the old sea-kings
of Denmark. At his death, the disputed succession
of his sons caused the old feuds to break out, and
after half a century of more wars, the Anglo-Saxon
rule was again established, only to be overturned by
the Normans under "William the Conqueror," —
these Normans being only another branch of the
same warlike breed of Northmen from the rugged
coasts of Norway and Denmark.
But although the Danish rule was at an end, a large
infusion of Danish blood into the English nation had
been effected by means of these repeated invasions from
Denmark and Norway. They settled down on the land
as tillers of the soil, and planted themselves along the
seacoasts as fishermen. They preferred living in towns,
especially in the seaports ; from whence commercial
enterprise soon extended over the whole world. The
old Danish breed lives among us yet ; the Danish
valour, dariag, fearlessness of death, contempt for
danger. The old Dane "crops out" from time to
time in English history. Admiral Nelson was a pure
Dane in breed, in daring, and in name. Nielsen is a
common name in Denmark to this day. Cook,
Drake, Blake, Pellew, and such like, are only old
Danes come alive again. The Napiers are all full of
the same old spirit. Those districts in England where
the Danes planted themselves the most thickly, are
precisely those which furnish the chief supply of
seamen to the British fleet. Northumberland and
Durham, with the towns along their coasts, — where
the Danish eorls, or earls, for so many centuries held
undisputed sway over men of their own race, — are
the chief nurseries of sailors now.
We have been led into these remarks through
reading an interesting book just published on the
subject, by Mr. Worsaae of Copenhagen.* He seeks
up the remains of his countrymen, and brings them
to light in many places where we would scarcely
expect to find them. The names of most of our
headlands and bays, and of many of our towns, are
Danish ; such as Sheerness, Dungeness, and all words
ending in ness, from noes, the Danish word for
promontory. The fleets of the Danish Vikings often
sailed up the Thames, plundering the country on both
banks, and at length they occupied the city itself.
As they. became Christianized, they built churches
there, and dedicated them to their favourite saints.
Hence, we have the churches of St. Clements Danes,
St. Olaf (now Olave), St Magnus, and others,
favourites with the Danes and Norwegians, f To the
Danes, also, we owe our Hustings, the highest tribunal
in the city. Long, indeed, after the Danish rule had
been overturned in England, the number of Danes in
London was said to be so great, that they could
at times even turn the scales at the election of a
king.
"We may truly assert," says Mr. Worsaae, "that
the Scandinavian spirit is still clearly to be discerned,
not merely in separate districts, but throughout
England. The love of the English for bold adven-
tures, especially at sea ; their apparent coolness
during the most violent emotions ; and their proud
* An Account of the Danes and Norwegians in England,
Scotland, and Ireland. By J. J. A. Worsaae. Murray: 1852.
t The famous Tooley Street, in Southwark, where the three
tailors drew up their petition, beginning, " We, the People of
England," is but a corruption of St. Olave's Street ,whichwas
the original name.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
355
feeling of freedom, are surely not to be ascribed
exclusively to the Normans. These qualities must,
in a great degree, be attributed to the English, as the
descendants of those Danish and Norwegian warriors
who sought dangers on unknown seas ; who looked
death steadily in the face, come in whatever shape it
might ; who gloried in the feeling that their counte-
nances should not betray the passions which fermented
in their breasts ; and who prized liberty far more
than life. It deserves at least to be mentioned, as
affording a remarkable analogy to Normandy (of which
the most celebrated admirals of France have been
natives), that England's most celebrated and success-
ful admiral, Nelson, bore a genuine Scandinavian
name (Neilsen, with the characteristic Scandinavian
termination of son, or son). He was, besides, a
native of one of the. districts early colonized by the
Danes, having been bom in the town of Burnham-
Thorpe, in Norfolk, or East Anglia."
But the strongest admixture of Danish blood in the
population, is to be found in the northern disti'icts of
England, north and east of Watling-street, in the
district anciently called Dane-lagh, — that is, the
Danes' community. To this day, indeed, there is a
striking difference in the physical conformation of the
people inhabiting the north-east and those dwelling
in the southern parts of England. In Cornwall,
Devonshire, and indeed through all the south-western
counties, the ancient British, or Celtic race, is still
predominant. The people are mostly dark-haired
and dark-eyed, slender, compact, rather irascible and
impetuous ; though of course there is also a consider-
able admixture of the Saxon elements. But take, for
a contrast, the Yorkshire or Northumbrian people.
They are larger, redder, broader-faced, fairer, rougher,
and in all respects more Danish in their appearance,
and in their dialect (in which they retain many of the
old Danish words), than the south English people.
Their names are also different. In the north the
number of names ending in son is very great, —
Anderson, Wilson, Jackson, Paterson, Stephenson,
Thomson, Neilson, and such like, indicating a Danish
derivation. In the northern towns also, you find
many of the old streets bearing old Danish names
ending in gate, signifying street. In York (formerly
Jor-vic) there are at least a score of streets whose
names end in gate, and where it is impossible they
could lead to as many gates, in which the termination
is ordinarily supposed to have originated. Any one
who looks ovei the map of England will observe that
the names of nearly all the towns in the north are
Danish, as in the south they are Saxon. For
instance, in the north they end in Ity, as Whitby,
Derby, &c. ; in with, thorpe, croft, dale, holm, TdrTc,
garth, — Danish terminations ; whereas, in the south,
the names of places chiefly end in ton, ham, bury,
borough, forth, ford, worth, and so on, which are of
Anglo-Saxon origin.
"In the midland, and especially in the northern
part of England," says Mr. Worsaae, " I saw every
moment, and particularly in the rural districts, faces
exactly resembling those at home. Had I met the
same persons in Denmark or Norway, it would never
have entered my mind that they were foreigners.
Now and then I also met with some whose taller
growth and sharper features reminded me of the
inhabitants of South Jutland, or Sleswick, and
particularly of Angeln ; — districts of Denmark which
first sent colonists to England. It is not easy to
describe peculiarities which can be appreciated in all
their details only by the eye ; nor dare I implicitly
conclude that in the above-mentioned cases I have
really met with persons descended in a direct line
from the old Northmen. I adduce it only as a
striking fact, which will not escape the attention of at
least any observant Scandinavian traveller, that the
inhabitants of the north of England bear, on the
whole, more than those of any other part of the
country, an unmistakeable personal resemblance to
the Danes and Norwegians."
Although the Danes and Norwegians were unable
to conquer Scotland, — having sustained many severe
defeats, and at last abandoned the subjugation of
that country in despair, — they were, nevertheless,
able to effect numerous settlements along the coasts,
especially in the far north. They also took possession
of the Orkney and Shetland Islands, which they
colonized, and which were, indeed, directly subject to
the kings of Denmark down to a comparatively
recent period. They also planted the coasts of
Sutherland and Caithness, and unquestionably gave
birth to the hardy race of fishermen who inhabit the
seaboard of the northern counties. The Celts, or
Highlanders, have a dislike to the sea, and very few of
them are fishermen ; the men of Wick, Thurso, and
Peterhead, belong to a different race, — one to whom
the sea, from time immemorial, has been a native
element. After the Norman invasion, too, many of
the Danes of Northumberland, who offered a strenu-
ous resistance to the Conqueror, were driven across
the Scotch border, into the Lowlands, where they
ultimately settled down. Indeed there seems very
little distinction in physical characteristics between
the inhabitants of the northern counties of England
and those of the Lowlands of Scotland. They are
both alike, — a mixed race, — sprung from the same
common progenitors, strongly resembling each other
in features, characteristics, and in dialect, especially
in the rural districts.
The Danes also planted themselves in Ireland, and
occupied the four principal towns of Dublin, Lime-
rick, Cork, and Waterford. In Ireland they went by
the name of Ostmen. Their kings reigned in Dublin
for several centuries ; and they were still a powerful
body in the country at the time of the English
invasion under Henry II. It is said that some of the
best "blood " in Dublin is Danish to this day.
But in England, the invidious distinctions of race
are rapidly becoming obliterated. We are becoming
so mixed up with Germans, Irish, Norman- French,
Jews, and people of all countries, that we no longer
can pride ourselves on the purity of our "blood."
Probably it is all the more vigorous that it is well
mixed. Even the Welsh and the Scotch Highlanders
are intennarrying with the Sassenagh. The Irish are
migrating, to mix with the people of all nations in
America. And the descendants of the Saxons,
Danes, and Normans, are mixing with the Irish in
Ireland. Let us hope that the best points of
character in all these races will be preserved : — the
frank generosity and fine personal qualities of the
Celt ; the diligence and industry of the Saxon ; the
valour and love of independence of the Dane ; and the
gallantry and high sense of honour of the Norman, —
and we may well be proud, as indeed we have reason
to be already, to bear the name of BRITON.
OUR PUPILS.
WHEN I look back on our courtship, I incline to
think John and I were a very unromantic couple.
Perhaps it might be that the romance wore out
during our long engagement — for we were engaged
ten years — waiting until John could pick up patients
enough to make it prudent to take a wife. Poor
fellow ! he subsisted for two of those years on the
hopes inspired by three or four old ladies with nervous
diseases, and when they dropped off we almost
356
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
despaired. However, it is a long lane that has no
turning ; and at last he got elected surgeon to a
hospital, from which time he began to consider he had
"a practice."
This proved the signal for the purchase — on John's
part — of an uncommonly elegant waistcoat, a blue
surtout with bright buttons, and a pair of pale drab
continuations ; while I invested a small fortune in
white satin ribbons, lace, and orange flowers, prepara-
tory to resigning the name of Clark, for that of
Pidger.
I can't say it was a very gay wedding, but I
remember one circumstance that, had it been well
managed, might have produced a pleasing effect.
The children of a certain Sunday school I took an
interest in, got up a little surprise for me. They all
appeared at my door, dressed in frocks of various
degrees of whiteness (or perhaps it would be more
correct to say yellowness), to strew flowers in my path
as I walked to church (no great distance) ; but un-
fortunately it was too early in the season to afford
them an unlimited supply of such blossoms as they
had the means of procuring ; so that having soon
exhausted their store, a detachment was kept per-
petually running back to pick up handfuls of those
already scattered, a proceeding which materially
weakened the otherwise picturesque character of the
scene.
Our income the first year of connubial felicity was
of so very limited a nature, that I now wonder how in
the world we managed to make it stretch out to the
31st of December, and still have a little to spare. The
early prospect of a small addition to our family made
it a matter of necessity some plan should be devised for
increasing our pecuniary means. A pupil in the house,
whose premium would supply present deficienices,
was John's immediate idea, hailed by me as a most ex-
cellent thought. I little knew then what pupils were,
though I did not long enjoy the bliss of ignorance.
John advertised a "vacancy" — which vacancy, by-the-
by, was daily becoming more and more apparent in
the gold end of his purse. After several abortive
negotiations with the parents of young gentlemen of
Esculapian tendencies, we at length received a certain
Mr. Giles into the bosom of our family, on the very
day my darling Johnny completed his third month.
Mr. Giles was a mild-looking youth, who mani-
fested an uncontrollable disposition to break out in
spots all over his face, together with a total disregard
for nail and hair-brushes. He was a good listener,
and the fact of having an attentive hearer in
Mr. Giles, brought to light a propensity of John's
which had hitherto lain dormant, and the awakening
thereof became to me a source of unmitigated and
ever-recurring annoyance. I allude to a habit he
contracted of making some awful disease, or terrible
operation, the staple subject of conversation at meals.
In vain I frowned, shook my head, even kicked
him under the table ; whoever was present, it signified
not ; once set agoing on his favourite theme, stop
him who could. I remember one story which com-
menced,— "When I was grinding for the bones,"
went on to describe that process ; branched off into a
shocking accident, followed by an amputation ; intro-
duced Sir Astley Cooper, and came to a climax with
— "he took the knife in his hand, thus, sir," when,
seizing in his excitement the carver from the table,
he was restored to a sense of propi-iety by a scream
from a maiden aunt of mine who was dining with
us, and whom the recital had thrown into strong
hysterics.
During the third year of Mr. Giles's residence with
us, he supposed himself attacked by every ill and
disorder that human flesh is heir to. At one time
he was going off in a rapid consumption, and could
not move without a respirator. Another, his liver
was in a hopeless state, and he was constantly refer-
ring to the looking-glass in order to see how his com-
plexion got on. His sore throat was a dreadful
quinsy ; his cold always expected to end in fever —
typhus fever at least. In short, he kept himself and
everybody else in a constant ferment ; for he could not
be content without administering to himself remedies
of his own prescribing, which I need not say were'
the frequent means of making him ill in reality, and
caused me an infinity of trouble and worry. At last
he fell desperately in love with a young lady who sat
opposite us in church, and took to writing verses and
sticking little octagon- shaped bits of court plaister ,
on the most conspicuous of his spots, to say nothing |
of the purchase of an assortment of brushes, a pot
of bear's grease, and a massive ring. This turn of
affairs made him on the whole a more agreeable
inmate, and was a great relief to me ; but John said
he had become a perfect fool, and was of no use at
all in the surgery ; he dare not trust him to make up
a medicine, for fear he should label it "To Julia," or
" Love's token to Miss Gibbson," which he had done
on two occasions. He left us at the end of his five
years, firmly persuaded that he had nothing to do but
to buy a large brass plate with his name, and a smaller
with " night bell " engraved on them, to be in a
condition for immediate matrimony. I think he found
he was in error.
His successor, Mr. Ryler, was a fine, handsome fel-
low, with black hair and sparkling eyes, but a perfect
imp of mischief. The very day of his arrival he nearly !
frightened my Johnny into fits, by making horrid faces
at him. It soon appeared that the study of his profes-
sion was the last object of Mr. Byler's existence. He
was never to be found in the surgery, and viewed the
poor children as a peculiarly suitable means for obtain-
ing a little diversion. No day ever passed that poor
Johnny was not in some way made a martyr of;
sometimes deceived into the belief that assafeetida was
a choice bonbon ; at others that soft soap was figs
without their skins ; or prevailed upon to taste black
draught, under the delusion of its being liquorice |
water. Little Mary would come in with her hair
greased with some nasty ointment, and a sketch of |
herself while crying, done on her hand in marking |
ink. Mr. Ryler was almost the death of a nervous !
patient who called to consult John one day during
his absence, and to whom John was personally un-
known. Having ascertained this last fact, he assumed
the character of Mr. Pidger, and after a careful exa-
mination, assured the gentleman that it was his
painful duty to inform him, there was not the slightest
chance for him, — his heart was incurably diseased.
After numerous irregularities, Mr. Ryler one
morning was left at the door in a helpless state
of mental imbecility, on a wheelbarrow, singing
pathetically, with his hand on his heart — "Will
you love me then as now," having spent the pre-
vious evening with a few convivial friends. John
was so roused by this last aggression, that he
availed himself of the liberty he possessed, of boarding
him elsewhere, and got rid of him from the house at
once. He afterwards became veiy steady, and turned
out a respectable member of society, but did not
follow (what was to have been) his profession.
Our next was a youth with the widest mouth I
ever saw, enormous ears, and obliterated eyebrows.
Mr. Brick was remarkable for energy of character.
He could do nothing calmly ; his every action was
performed with vigour. He could not shut a door,
he always slammed it ; he found it equally impossible
to place anything on a table, he threw it, invariably,
even if it were a plate, — I trembled for the crockery.
He put on his hat with a thump on the crown to
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
357
settle it ?n its place. He tumbled on to his knees
at church, so as to make the people in the next pew
turn round to see who did it, and what it was. In
walking, he took much longer strides than the length
of his legs warranted him in attempting, which mode
of progression naturally brought him down with
unnecessary force on to the soles of very thick boots,
so that the approach of Mr. Brick was always audible
in the distance. I often thought how he would
wrench out a tooth ; I could fancy him bringing away
half the jaw. He was of a very theatrical turn, and
delighted to favour us in an evening with a few
scenes out of Shakspere, to the amazing delight of
the children, whom he always found an attentive
and applauding audience. He was fond of carpen-
tering, too, and his . bedroom was converted into a
complete workshop. The taste for hammers and nails
soon spread into the nurseiy, and many were the cut
fingers, ci'ushed fingers, and gimlet-pierced fingers,
I had to dress in consequence of Mr. Brick's example.
John liked him, however, and on the whole, he was
by no means the most troublesome of his class. I
was rather sorry to lose him, fearing that the next
might be worse to deal with. He set up eventually
in a country village, married a farmer's daughter, and
finally united his father-in-law's calling to his own,
and 1 believe made all his own gates and rails,— in
fact was carpenter in ordinary to himself.
Mr. Skerry followed close upon Mr. Brick. He
was a strange mixture of scamp, fool, and sporting
character. He appeared at his first lecture in top-
boots, cord breeches, and green cut-away coat. On
Mr. Pidger remonstrating with him, he assumed a
garb something between a gamekeeper's costume,
and a groom's stable dress, to which he adhered
pertinaciously during his stay. His fury for sport
was such that he kept a loaded gun constantly on
the premises, though the only game that ever came
within shot was a few dusty sparrows. The agony
of mind I suffered in consequence of this was inde-
scribable. I was haunted by visions of one of the
children brought in blown to pieces by that gun ;
everybody knows children will go everywhere, and
one never could be certain of the exact spot in
which Mr. Skerry had placed that fearful weapon.
He established several dogs in the stable (the food
for whose support was derived principally from my
larder, by means of a secret understanding with the
cook), and who howled and barked all night long,
until Mr. Pidger was moved summarily to eject
them.
Mr. Skerry was pugilistic, and on one occasion
bribed the man servant, by unlimited beer previously
imbibed, to stand up and allow himself to be boxed
in the coach-house ; the result of which diversion
was the disfigurement of James by two black eyes,
and a swollen nose, the very day on which his services
were peremptorily required to wait at table, on a
large dinner party. Mr. Skerry was always galloping
about on dilapidated horses he managed to procure,
no one knew how.
He contrived to be in insolvent circumstances the
whole time he was with us, though it was difficult to
learn what became of his money, of which he had a
liberal allowance. He wound up his career by con-
triving to set the house on fire by smoking in bed,
and it was a mercy we were not all burned to death.
I must say, a little more strictness on the part of
Mr. Pidger would have prevented many of our
troubles ; but when I accused him of being too easy,
he retorted that I was fidgetty, and persisted in
letting things take their course, until some great
aggravation roused him to action.
Our last pupil was a Mr. Gregory, an elegant
youth, who devoted much thought and time to his
personal appearance. He was always late to break-
fast, for the process of dressing was a matter of some
moment to him, and the brushing and arranging of
his flowing curls, a work of art and time. He had
a taste for everything refined; could quote Byron
and Moore by the page, and never spoke in common-
place language. The children were "little seraphs,"
and " their laughing voices like the music of the
spheres," though wherein the resemblance con-
sisted, I cannot say, — certainly not in their being
inaudible. He sentimentalized with Miss Bailey
(my governess), on "the poetry of nature," which,
he said, "few could understand," and designated
minds in general as " grovelling and earthly." He
was musical, too, in a high degree, and drove
me well nigh mad by his scrapings on the violin,
blowings on the cornet-a-piston, and extemporaneous
strummings on the pianoforte. Then Miss Bailey and
he sang duets together of an evening, and there was
always a song he wanted a few hints about, or an
accompaniment for her to play while he learned i
the melody. I did not half like all this, still |
less when one day I caught him coming out of the
school-room, where he had been "for a book." This
incident would have induced me to speak seriously
to Miss Bailey, and I wished Mr. Pidger to do the
same to Gregory, but he only scoffed at my anxieties,
declared I should worry him to death, women were
the most suspicious creatures under the sun. Mr.
Gregory was exceedingly attentive to his duties, and
gave promise of making a good surgeon when he had
got over his " poetical absurdities," which were, in
John's eyes, his greatest faults. I contented myself
with a malignant — "Well, we shall see who 's right "
(not that I thought anything beyond a little flirtation
was going on), and resumed my vigilance without
making any remark to Miss Bailey.
I do not think it was a month after this conversa-
tion, that one morning neither Mr. Gregory nor Miss
Bailey made their appearance at the breakfast table ;
and when breakfast was half over, I rang and desired
the servant to see if the latter were indisposed, as
the former's being late was a thing of frequent oc-
currence.
The maid returned with a puzzled air, and a note
in her hand, on opening which I read to my conster-
nation, that the youthful pair had that morning
taken the road to Gretna, having made the fatal
discovery that they were born for each other, and
could not live apart. Mr. Gregory entreated Mr.
Pidger to act as his friend in the affair, and intercede
with his grandfather for forgiveness, urging in poetical
terms, the all-powerful influence of Love.
I must confess, my first exclamation was a half-
angry, half-triumphant — " Now, who was right ;
you'll take my opinion another time, perhaps ; " while
John strode up and down the room in a perfect fury,
exclaiming, " I'll never have another pupil, — never,
and you may send the children to school as soon as
you like." I think I never saw him so angry, before
or since.
There was neither railroad nor electric telegraph
in those days, so there was no chance of stopping the
runaways, and no ou-e in following them; and the
only thing to be done, on mature consideration, was
to break the affair to old Colonel Gregory, and do our
best to reconcile him. It was a difficult task, and
before he could be brought round, the young couple
had sensibly felt the wide difference that exists
between a poetical romance, and a prose reality. As
to ourselves, I prevailed upon John to consent to
the children continuing a home education, and having
another governess of a sober age ; and at the same
time to adhere to his resolution of "never having
another pupil."
358
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
ALEXANDER POUCHKINE.
THIS is the name of a brilliant star in the yet dim,
sparely-studded galaxy of Russian poets and ro-
mancers, though chiefly, perhaps, known to the general
reader as the author of the Queen of Spades, — a brief,
fanciful story, that has appeared in several languages.
All testimonies agree, that the awakening song of a
country, — which in its loftiest, most triumphant
flights, whether in words or music, is the expression
of a regret, the exhalation of a sigh, the de profundis
of a divinely-gifted soul mourning over, yet hopeful
of the varnished barbarism amidst which it breathes
and sings, — boasts of no higher name than that of
Pouchkine ; of none especially, that has done more
to redeem it from the wretched falsetto rendered
fashionable by the exclusively French taste of
Catherine II. and her successors. We have no
pretension to indulge in a critical disquisition of his
discursive and remarkable writings ; but a slight
sketch of them, and of his brief, chequered exist-
ence,— fitful, varied, and mournful as it was, — may
not be without its interest and instruction. It is a
sad life-story, conveying its own moral ; and at the
same time, uplifting a corner of the imperial robe,
beneath which the Northern Colossus, that would
fain show the world only its front of brass and arms
of iron, studiously conceals its feet of clay.
Alexander Pouchkine was born in 1799, in the
capital of the heterogeneous empire, supposed by
persons afflicted with Russia-phobia to be chiefly
inhabited by swarms of fierce Attilas, — huge, terrible
fellows, who, like the barbarians they are one day to
imitate, live by the chase, dine off raw flesh, slake
their thirst at the nearest spring, and are ever-
lastingly whetting their eager glaives for final conflict
with the effeminate peoples of the West. His father,
Sergius Pouchkine, belonged to one of the oldest
families of Russia, of the Muscovite-Boyard class, in
whom there was really, a century or more ago, a
certain smack of rough, genuine , healthy savagery ;
and he connected himself by marriage with the new
court - aristocracy created by successive czars and
czarinas for services, worthy and unworthy, rendered
to themselves or the state. His wife was the grand-
daughter of the negro favourite of Peter I., — General
Hannibal ; and their son Alexander's physiognomy
bore the unmistakeable impress of his mother's
African descent. Although petite in figure, his head
was large, and covered almost to the eyebrows with a
mass of closely-curling hair ; his nose, curved back-
wards, was suddenly and heavily flattened at the end ;
his lips were thick and projecting ; and his full, dark
eyes literally blazed with lurid fire. His speech was
quick and fiery ; and, in fact, his entire aspect and
demeanour plainly revealed, not merely his origin,
but the irascible, imperious, and gloomy character of
his mind. This unhappy predisposition was no doubt
greatly aggravated by the morbid consciousness of
personal ugliness, which perpetually haunted him,
embittering existence, and finally hurrying him to a
bloody and untimely grave.
In his twelfth year, he was placed in the semi-
nary or Lyceum of Tsarkoe-Selo, where, he does
not appear to have greatly profited. Russian litera-
ture, in a genuine sense, as yet was not ; and young
Pouchkine turned from the study of the Greek and
Latin classics to pore in secret over the pages of
Voltaire, D'Alembert, Rousseau, and others of that
class. The seed thus imbibed fell upon a genial soil,
und in due season bore its ample fruit. He was early
observed to possess great facility as a versifier ; but
his first effusions were distinguished only from the
ordinary run of boy- verses by the acrid raillery that
pervaded them, — a characteristic which grew and
strengthened with life and years. The din and
tumult of Bonaparte's headlong flight (1813), with
exultant Russia shouting and thundering in his
track, roused the nascent poet to a somewhat bolder
flight than he had yet attempted ; but his mind was
stirred only, not thoroughly awakened ; and the
dithyrambic odes he composed in honour of Alexander
were echoes merely of his favourite authors, instead
of creations of his own mind, coloured and impressed
by the national spirit and genius. They, however,
procured him favour in high places, — a misfortune
rather than an advantage, inasmuch as the stifling
atmosphere of Russian court - society, which no
healthy breeze is permitted to invade or ruffle, was
more calculated to deaden his latent energies, than to
kindle them into life and power ; and, accordingly,
but for an " indiscretion " of which he was guilty, he
would, in all probability, have sunk into a mere
courtier. Very early, — by his own confession, re-
vealed unconsciously in almost every page of his
writings, — he had become utterly blase in mind, with
faith in nothing save material force ; nor hope, nor
love, except for the vanities of place and sensuous
gratifications. But Pouchkine, however he might
wish to do so, could not blind his keen vision to the
magnitude and growth of the danger that in these
days lies at the root of all communities despotically
governed ; chained to submission by links which the
breath of each succeeding day must rust and weaken.
To his prophetic ear, the first murmurs of the storm
that will one day shake the immense, discordant
fabric, known as All the Russias, into fragments,
were already audible ; and he had the unparalleled
presumption to speak aloud his conviction, that sixty
millions of serfs would not for ever crouch beneath
the lash of a class of masters contemptible in
numbers, and neither physically nor mentally superior
to themselves. "You think," audaciously iterated
Pouchkine, — "you think to fuse all these incongru-
ous nationalties ; to dazzle for ever these heavy-eyed,
drowsy multitudes by the splendour of the czar's
crown, — by the halo of divinity that plays around
it ! Error ! That splendour will fade, that halo
disappear, and just, too, at the time when they will
be most needed ! These sixty millions of swinish
serfs still sleep, you say ! True ; but they stir un-
easily already, and, mark me, they will awake ! — not
certainly in our time, nor perhaps in that of our
children, but awake they will ; and when that
moment comes, the emperor's sceptre will be a child's
plaything ; his divine right a jest ; the supremacy of
Russia a vanished dream ! Be warned, — and let the
work that must be done, be timely set about. The
army, do you say ? Pooh ! On the day I speak of,
the extinguishers will also be on fire I "
This bold, mad talk, — bold and mad for such a
region, — reached the emperor's ears, and Pouchkine
was instantly banished to the southern provinces of
Russia. Although under surveillance there, this was
positive freedom compared with the gilded slavery of
St. Petersburgh. Face to face with nature in some
of her sublimest, most impressive aspects, the sloth
by which his faculties had been absorbed and per-
verted fell off; the tormenting image of his own
personal repulsiveness, that had met him at every
turn in the glittering saloons of the capital, ceased to
pursue him amidst wild steppes and pathless deserts,
scaled and traversed by few save those mysterious
tribes of gipsies, a remnant of whom is to be found
almost in every place. The rude and restless life,
the strange habits and customs of these wanderers,
— whose sole exchangeable wealth in that country is
their camels, their poignards, and their daughters, —
who know of no past, and care for no future, —
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
359
excited his interest, fired his imagination, and the
result was a work entitled The Bohemians (the French
name for Gipsies), which at once produced a very
favourable impression upon the reading classes of
Russia. It is chiefly remarkable for the vividness
and fidelity of its reflective descriptions. A brief
extract from M. Dumont's translation will afford a
favourable specimen of this power : —
Demandez-leur d'ou vient leur race dc pa'iens,
S'ils sortirent des murs de Thebes la divine ;
De 1'Inde, ce vieux trouc d'ou pend toute nvcine ;
Ou bien s'il faut chercher leur source qu'on perdit,
Parmis les Juifs de Tyr, comme eux peuple maudit?
Ils 1'ignorent. Pour eux les temps sont un mystere :
Comme 1'oiseau des airs, ils passent sur la terre,
Qu'ont ils besoin de plus, et que leur fait, au fond,
Qu'ils viennent de 1'Aurore ou du Couchant? Leur front
A pour toit le ciel pur, ou brillent les planetes ;
Pour lit le bord du fleuve, ou des mers inquietes ;
Et puis ils out leur chants, le sou: devant leur feux
Leur chants d'Amour, ardens, libres, imp^tueux ;
Qui donnent aux plaisirs les accens de dclire
Et demandent le bruit de fer au lieu de lire.
Pouchkine has very slight dramatic power, — greatly
resembling Lord Byron in this, as in other mental
conditions. Whatever character he introduces, it is
still unmistakeably the author himself who is talking
love, scorn, rage, wit, and philosophy : the story,
consequently, of The Bohemians does not impress the
mind with any sense of reality ; and although a
tragical one, and strangely prefigurative, by the way,
in certain respects, of the writer's subsequent fate,
excites but very slight emotion.
But it is time that we should hasten to the last
chapter in this gifted but wayward man's career,
permitting ourselves, as we pass along, barely to
enumerate the chief subsequent productions of
his pen.
The fame of T7ie Bohemians, the condescendant
graciousness of the czar, conciliated by submission
and a thorough recantation of the monstrous heresy
that the imperial crown could ever by possibility
cease to shine a star of the first magnitude in the
royal firmament, procured in 1825, Pouchkine's re-
call from exile ; and in the following year he was named
"& gentleman of the chamber." This it is to live in
a country where poetry and pliancy are properly
appreciated. Pouchkine's chief after-works in poetry
and prose are, — Pultmva, in which Mazeppa, as in
Bjron's story, figures prominently, and the Russian
victory over the Swedes is sung with great warmth
and animation : the Stone Host (Don Juan), The False
Demetrius, Feast of Bacchus, and Queen of Spades. In
the last campaign against Turkey, Pouchkine accom-
panied the army as far as Adrianople, and celebrated
in numerous verses the Russian triumphs, suddenly
arrested by the interposition of the Western powers.
The Emperor Nicholas, imagining, possibly, that a
poet might be as easily transformed into a historian
as a lieutenant raised to a captaincy, requested him
to write the history of Peter I. To hear is to obey
in Russia ; and Pouchkine addressed himself with
commendable activity to the task of selecting mate-
rials for the work. As might, however, have been
expected from a man of Pouchkine's impulsive tempera-
ment, he had no sooner hit upon a striking episode in
the state papers placed at his disposal, than he went
off at a tangent from the prescribed track in pursuit
of the more attractive game thus started. The
desperate adventures of Pougatcheff, a Cossack of the
Don, caught his fancy ; and he wrote a romance, said
to be a very striking one, called The Captain's
Daughter, — the staple of which is the stubborn
fidelity of the Cossack to Peter III., and his dashing
exploits in a hopeless struggle against Catherine, who,
as everybody knows, ascended the steps of the im-
perial throne over the dead body of her husband.
To this work, the required history was postponed, —
never — for the catastrophe of Pouchkine's career was
now close at hand — never to be resumed.
The withering heart-leprosy which had left him
during his exile, returned again in the benumbing
atmosphere of the court of St. Petersburgh ; and
discontent, unrest, weariness, impatience at the
nothingness of this life, and disbelief of any other,
partially relieved only by intervals of labour, were
consuming him, when a chance incident — the meeting
with a singularly beautiful girl of the name of
G-antchareff — rekindled the flagging pulse of life, and
threw a charm over existence, till then unknown and
vinguessed. It was the first time Pouchkine had really
loved, and the intoxicating emotion appeared for a
while to change his nature. They were married.
The bride's resplendent loveliness, — spoken of as
something marvellous, — her husband's fame, and the
emperor's favour, combined to give great eclat to
Madame Pouchkine's dtbut in courtly circles. She
achieved an immense success, which excited in her an
almost infantine exultation, — a sign, rightly under-
stood, of joyous innocence of heart ; but Pouchkine
did not so interpret the delight with which she
accepted the flattering homage offered her on all
sides. A gloomy jealousy took possession of his
mind ; and there were not wanting miscreants in
St. Petersburgh to fan the smothered fire in his
bosom, to an open flame. He received anonymous
letters, which insinuated that Baron Danthe, an
officer of the Imperial Guards, stood high in the favour
of his wife ; and the impetuous poet instantly sought
out the baron and challenged him. The calm and
ready answer of the young officer might have shamed
any other man than Pouchkine out of his suspicions.
His frequent visits to Madame Pouchkine had been
for the purpose of seeing, not her, but her sister,
Mademoiselle Gantchareff, to whom he had offered
his hand, and had just been accepted. This was the
fact ; and they were not long afterwards married.
Strange to say, this event but partially appeased
Pouchkine's utterly causeless jealousy ; and a renewal
of the anonymous letters goaded him into a paroxysm
of despair and rage. Innocent freedoms, permissible
to a brother-in-law, were pointed to with deadly
malignity ; and how, it was asked, — and here the
poisoned arrow found its mark, — how could a man of
his repulsive ugliness suppose that a being of such
rare personal perfections as Madame Pouchkine, ever
did, or ever could, have any liking for him ? Mad
with passion, Pouchkine determined on instant re-
venge ; and challenged the baron in terms so brutal
and insulting as, in the state of manners, to leave
that gentleman no option but its acceptance. A
meeting was arranged to take place immediately at a
few miles from the city. It was the month of
January, 1837, the weather was intensely cold even
for Russia, and the ground upon which the duellists
confronted each other was thickly covered with
hardened snow. The seconds earnestly endeavoured
to arrange the matter amicably, and Baron Danthe
was also extremely anxious to avoid the duel. It
was useless arguing, imploring ! Pouchkine was
deaf to both reason and expostulation, and the duel
proceeded.
Forty paces, in order to diminish the chances of a
fatal issue, were marked out ; and the signal given ;
each combatant was to advance at pleasure not more
than ten paces, firing when he pleased. The word
was given as agreed ; Pouchkine did not move, but
Baron Danthe advanced a few paces, raised his arm,
— it seemed carelessly, — fired, and Pouchkine fell
heavily upon the snow, mortally wounded. His
determined spirit, however, was not subdued. Master-
ing the agony he must have suffered, he partly
3GO
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
raised himself, and, supported on his left arm, took
deliberate aim at the baron, whose proffered assistance
he had fiercely repulsed, and who was now standing
in the place from which he had discharged his pistol,
to receive his wounded antagonist's fire. Pouchkine,
just as it was thought he was about to pull the
trigger, observed that the pistol-barrel was soiled
with snow, in consequence of his fall, and demanded
another. This was handed to him, and after again
taking protracted aim, he fired. The baron reeled, fell
to the ground, and a wild burst of savage triumph
broke from Pouchkine's lips. " He is dead ! I have
killed him ! Hurrah ! " He was mistaken : the
baron had only been struck on the shoulder, and the
wound was of no consequence. Pouchkine fainted on
hearing this, and was instantly conveyed home, where,
after a long agony, he expired.
Thus miserably perished, in his thirty-eighth year, a
greatly gifted man, who, could he have controlled his
fiery passions, and submitted his faculties to the
discipline of study, might have won for himself a
high position in the general literature of the world,
instead of merely writing his name, — with compara-
tive brilliance, it is true, — in the fugitive leaves that
contain the immature efforts of a semi-barbarous
people.
[Note. — The writer of this note was introduced to
Pouchkine at St. Petersburgh a short time before his
death, and is hardly able to identify in imagination
the individual he saw, with the hero of the above
romantic history. The poet was undoubtedly ugly ;
but this word does not convey a distinct impression of
his appearance, the prevailing character of which was
shabbiness and insignificance. Small, thin, and pale,
he seemed to be so not naturally, but from emaciation,
— looking like a man in a state of reaction, after a
long continuous debauch. But his manner was that
of a gentleman ; and his eyes threw a sort of glare
over the whole physiognomy, which impressed the
observer with the idea that he beheld in him no
common man.]
POPULAR LENDING LIBRARIES.
IT is, we believe, an ascertained fact, that many
persons of the labouring classes who are taught,
though imperfectly, to read and write in their child-
hood, forget the art as they grow up to maturer
years ; and hence the discreditable returns annually
published by the Registrar General, showing the large
proportion of the adult- population of the country
who sign their names with marks on entering the
married state. Now, it is obviously desirable that
men of all classes, as well as women, should retain
the art of reading, the uses and pleasures of which
need not, at this time of day, be enlarged upon. But
how is this to be clone ? The majority of labouring
men, especially in the agricultural districts, are too
poor to buy books or newspapers, even if they did
take an interest in literature or politics, which at
present they do not. They do not even patronize the
cheapest of cheap publications ; and so all literary
culture among them expires. It ends when they
leave school as little children ; and, intellectually,
they continue little children for life. It is obvious,
therefore, that any plan of literary culture of the
working population in country places must be insti-
tuted by those who move in the better ranks of life.
And here is the simple method by which it is to be
done : Let fifty persons (and surely there is to be
found this number of people desirous of promoting
the education of their poorer brethren in most
country places) subscribe the sum of Jive shillings
yearly. This will produce two hundred and fifty
shillings ; and with this money two hundred and
fifty excellent shilling books may be purchased. One
need only look at Bohn's list of shilling books, or
Simms and Macintyre's, or Longman's, and the rest,
to see that the best and most attractive literature of
the day may be had at the rate of a shilling a book.
Well ! Here you have a library of two hundred and
fifty volumes of good books to begin with. Let the
subscribers themselves read the books the first year.
They will thus get value for their money. And the
next year let them, by their subscriptions, provide a
new stock of books for their own reading ; and make
over, for the free reading of the poorer classes in their
neighbourhood, the first collection of two hundred
and fifty volumes. Let them even charge a halfpenny
a week, or twopence a month, for the purpose of
keeping up the necessary repairs of the books. In
the third year, there will be a third division of new
books for the subscribers, and two divisions for free
reading among the poor. And, now, the first
division of all may be removed to a neighbouring
village, where the books will still be new to the
inhabitants there. And so, division after division
may be added, until at length there need not be a
village or district throughout any county without its
division of profitable and interesting books for the
free perusal of the people, — men, women, and
children. Here, then, is a simple, cheap, and efficient
method of keeping up the adult education of the
inhabitants of country places ; and the plan would
be equally applicable to large towns and cities.
Let us add, too, that this is not merely a theoretical
plan. It has been tried, and practised with eminent
success. It forms what is called the Itinerating
Library System, originally invented, many years ago,
by Samuel Brown, of Haddington, in East Lothian,
and applied by him with eminent success throughout
that county. In course of time, as the divisions of
books multiplied, there was scarcely a village or a
school that had not its little free library attached ;
and the benefits which resulted from this free access to
good books were very great. Literature was brought to
the very doors of the people, and contributed to the
comfort of their homes. There was always found a
small shopkeeper, or a schoolmaster, in each village,
to take charge of a division of books ; and the whole
scheme was worked without any greater cost than
that which we have named, — a five-shilling subscrip-
tion of under one hundred members. It was even
held by Mr. Brown, that it was the duty of Govern-
ment to provide some such means of promoting the
education of the people, as that furnished by his
Itinerating Library System. But about this there
might be differences of opinion ; and certainly it is un-
necessary to apply to Government to do that which,
as in this case, can so easily be done by the people
themselves. The immense value of the Itinerating
Library System was at once detected by the acute
New Englanders, who adopted it, and anticipated us
in its application to purposes of public education on a
large scale. They have incorporated the plan in their
system of educational operations in most of the New
England states ; and now there is scarcely a New
England village, or a New England school, without
a library of useful and instructive books for the free
use of the population. Why should we not adopt the
same plan throughout Old England ? Why allow
America to outstrip us in ,the practical application of
so important an educational agency ? There only
needs a few active friends of 'education to start a
system of Free Libraries for the people, 011 the plan
we have described, in any county of England ; and
the benefits to be anticipated from its extensive adop-
tion are almost incalculable.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
361
(ORIGINAL).
"WRITE SOON!"
LONG parting from the hearts we love
Will shadow o'er the brightest face ;
And happy they who part, and prove
Affection changes not with place.
A sad farewell is warmly dear,
But something dearer may be found
To dwell on lips that are sincere,
And lurk in bosoms closely "bound.
The pressing hand, the steadfast sigh,
Are both less earnest than the boon
Which, fervently, the last fond sigh
Begs in the hopeful words, " Write soon !
" Write soon ! " oh, sweet request of Truth
How tenderly its accents come !
We heard it first in early youth,
When mothers watched us leaving home.
And still amid the trumpet-joys,
That weary us with pomp and show,
We turn from all the brassy noise
To hear this ininore cadence flow.
We part, but carry on our way
Some loved-one's plaintive spirit-tune,
That, as we wander, seems to say,
" Affection lives on Faith, — Write soon ! '
ELIZA COOK.
THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY.*
THE Romance, or Novel, as it is more generally
called, has become by far the most popular form of
literature. It is to the modern world what the epic
was to the old. It addresses itself to all classes of
society ; for all are alike interested in delineations of
life in its manifold phases, such as the best modern
novels present to us. The old epic romances dealt
chiefly with the conflicts of physical force ; for
humanity in its younger years chiefly lived amid
scenes of violence and daring, and delighted to
contemplate pictures of strength, valour, and indivi-
dual prowess. But that old style of literature has
died a natural death, and the modern novel has taken
its place. Here we have delineations of a more
subtle character, involving the analysis of motives,
the struggle of principles, and the clash of passions.
By means of this vehicle, a series of dramas is
enacted before the reader ; manners are painted under
the guise of fictitious personations ; and all manner of
sentiments, ranging from love to hate, from pity to
terror, are depicted by turns. The modern novel
may be philosophical, epical, lyrical, and historical ;
and the successful novelist depicts passions, analyses
thoughts, and narrates events, in a manner that rivets
the attention of all readers.
This wide field of literature offers great temptations
to the literary labourer. Its prizes are amongst the
highest. The reputation which success in this
department secures, is of the most extensive kind.
We need only mention the names of Scott, Bulwer,
* The Head of the Family.
" Olive," and "The Ogilvies."
A Novel. By the Author of
Chapman arid Hall.
Marryatt, and Dickens, in proof of this. But for one
success, there are a thousand failures. Thousands of
novels have been written and published during the
last ten years, which have already gone the way of all
waste paper. For the novelist aims chiefly to amuse,
and to gratify the craving for pleasure of the passing
hour. He merely prepares an article to dispel ennui,
and which " will have a run." Want of any purpose
higher than this, is too manifest in the bulk of
modern novels. The novelist racks his invention in
devising ways and means to excite curiosity, and then
gratify it ; and in pursuit of this he multiplies
adventures, relating them in the most pleasant
possible manner. Perhaps such books, even of the
most temporary character, are not without their
uses ; for men want amusement, and to the extent
that novels of this kind supply it, they serve their
purpose. There are many literary artizans in this
lower field of romance : James the Inexhaustible has,
indeed, a host of followers.
There are others who aim higher ; who seek to
analyse and develope human feelings and passions
under their various forms ; who throw the results of
much actual experience and observation of life into
their pictures ; who really bestow severe study and
labour upon their productions, and sxicceed in giving
us elaborate and truthful delineations of moral and
intellectual character. Among such writers, the
author of " Olive " is entitled to a high place. Her
novels contain incident, character, feeling, pathos,
and beauty of imagery, of a high order. We have,
therefore, much pleasure in introducing the last
published of her works to the notice of our readers.
We may mention that the author is understood to be
a young lady of Edinburgh, which accounts for the
numerous pictures of Scottish life which are found in
her pages. She may, indeed, be termed the Scotch
Miss Bremer ; for we cannot help recognizing a
strong resemblance in the style of subjects, the strong
domestic feeling, as well as in the manner of handling,
of the two writers. Her first work, the " Ogilvies,"
was warmly hailed by the critics, and her second,
" Olive," was not less successful. "The Head of the
Family," we think, excels both of these works in
vigour of handling, in maturity of observation, and in
development of plot.
The opening of the story introduces us to the
family of the Graemes, domesticated in a house in the
New Town of Edinburgh. The father has been
removed by death a few months before. Ninian
Graeme is the Head of the Family, — a young man of
strongly cut features and character, — resolute, hard-
working, patient, dutiful, and loving. On him has
devolved the duty and the toil of providing for the
family, and he devotes himself to it with the courage
and self-denial of a hero. He takes the dead father's
vacant chair, and the other sons and daughters look
up to him as the rightful head. Alongside of him
stands his sister, Lindsay Graeme, — a fine character,
a woman on whose life some early disappointment of
the heart had cast a deep shadow, but whose loving
nature only seemed to have been thus purified and
refined. Here is her portrait in brief : —
"Lindsay Graeme was — just a woman, nothing
less, and nothing more ! She never was, and never
had been thought, clever or beautiful, and now she
had passed the age when she cared to be thought
either. Also, there was at times a look in her face,
which seemed as if not age alone had produced the
softened calm it wore, — this sealing up of all youth's
restless emotions into one serene repose. Whatever
shadow had swept over her, it had left no bitterness,
no heartlessness, scarcely even grief. It was probably
that one, — the most sanctifying woe of all, — when the
Angel of Death, reascending, opens heaven, and
362
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
suffers a portion of heaven's light to fall on those
looking sorrowfully upwards, whose faces, like that of
Moses, bear some trace of this brightness evermore."
The rest of the family, — six boys and girls, — are
children by a second wife ; but this makes no
difference in the fraternal care with which Ninian and
his sister provide for their welfare. They bandy
among each other all sorts of delightful nicknames, as
children will do. Edward, one of the boys, is a kind
of genius of the family, and Tinie, one of the girls, is
the pet. The recent loss of the father, on whose
income they had heretofore been maintained, having
straitened the family means, and Ninian's business as
a young solicitor, not yet being a very lucrative one,
necessitate the selling off the furniture of the old
roomy house, and the removal of the family to a
smaller suburban residence at a lower rent. So there
is a removal to the Go wans.
Scarcely has the family settled down in the new
house, ere a new inmate is added, — Hope Ansted, a
poor ward of Ninian's, — a young lady brought up in
English boarding-schools, during the absence of her
father in the United States, — an awkward enough
girl, oddly dressed, sheepish, and very uncultivated,
as boarding-school girls are. She was so frigid at
first, that it seemed that she would turn everything
| to ice ere long. But the girl settles down among the
group, gradually thaws, her character becomes un-
folded, and at length the main interest of the story
centres in Hope Ansted. Her beauty, at first so
imperceptible, becomes at length remarkable ; and
she winds about her own, the hearts of the whole
family. Above all, Ninian Graeme, the Head of the
Family, one who before had never loved as passionate
man can love, begins to worship and dote on this
Hope Ansted, with a depth of feeling such as only
strong natures can experience. But he cannot confess
his love to her, — there is the superior duty which he
owes to his own brothers and sisters, to provide for
whom he regards in the light of a religious obligation.
He therefore smothers his passion, and indulges his
love in secret torture. The main interest of the
story arises from this condition of matters between
Ninian and Hope Ansted. In the midst of their
domestic happiness Lindsay Graeme is seized with an
infectious fever, and the rest of the family are packed
off to the country to be beyond its reach. Hope
Ansted was included in the number of tl\pse who
were to go. Night comes on, and Ninian " stood
outside Lindsay's bedroom-door, listening to her
fevered ravings, when, fancying herself a girl once
more, she talked of circumstances long past, and
known to none but him." There he stayed until he
could bear it no longer, but rushed out into the
garden j walking up and down until the damp evening
mist began to fall.
• ' There was a light in the parlour. He thought it
strange, — that is, if he thought at all about it, — and,
went in. The tea was laid ; and at the table,
looking sorrowful, yet sweet and very calm, sat Hope
Ansted.
" She came forward contritely. ' I hope you are
not angry, Mr. Graeme ; I — I could not go, indeed ! '
" He was so astonished, that at first he made no
answer. His next impulse was to snatch her up
himself, and carry her away from the reach of in-
fection. His third, and most reasonable one, was to
pause and remonstrate with her.
" ' Child, child, what have you done ? It is useless ;
you must go, and this very night ! '
" Then, seeing that she made no opposition, except
in the mute pleading of her sorrowful look, he began
to think how grievously he had misjudged this girl !
Quiet as her nature seemed, what heroism of affection
there must be in its depths to induce her to act as
she had done ! His heart melted with tenderness,
even reverence, as he said gently :
" ' Dear Hope, why did you do this ? '
" ' Because I could not help it. Ah ! do forgive
me ! '
" ' Forgive you ? '
u'Yes; for telling Eeuben, that though you
ordered the others, you were not my brother, and had
no right over me. Otherwise he would not have let
me stay ; and then I should have been so very, very
miserable.'
" ( Poor little thing ! Poor loving little thing ! '
said Ninian, laying his hand on her long curls. He
was deeply touched, — more than Hope had ever seen
him. She drew his hand to her shoulder, and leaned
her cheek upon it, in a daughter-like way, or as
Tinie did.
" ' Then, you will let me stay — to be useful to you,
and to nurse dear Lindsay ? '
" ' But, my child, do you know the risk you run ?
If it is such that I will not expose my own sisters to
it, how can I expose you ? I must not, indeed.'
" ' I do not think that reasoning holds good. Tinie,
and Esther, and Ruth, have all got ties in the world,
— I have no one belonging to me, at least, as good as
none. If I took the fever and died, you know it
would not signify. I should not be missed.'
" She said this with a sorrowful simplicity that
went to Ninian's heart. He was about to answer
— with an emotion strange to him — that there, indeed,
would be sorely missed the image of his lovely,
winning pupil, who crept in closer every day ; but the
very possibility struck him with intense pain. And to
it was added some other inexplicable restraint, so that
the thought died unuttered. He only said in a
quiet way : ' You must not think so, Hope ;' pressed
her hand kindly, and sat down."
Hope Ansted, too, takes the fever, and lies
dangerously ill. The strong man's nature is deeply
moved, though his passionate love has not yet come.
Only a hair's breadth separates Hope Ansted from
eternity. She recovers slowly. "But when, after
the crisis, the first glimmer of hope came, — when,
listening through the open door, he heard one faint
tone of her natural voice, and not those frightful
ravings, — the revulsion of feeling was such, that at
last it taught him concealment.
"He spoke not a word, — he could not speak ; but
walked down stairs, and out of the house. There, in
the darkness, — for it was so far in the night as to be
nigh upon dawn, — he stood under the starlight,
hearing the rustle of the trees. His throat swelled,
— his heart seemed bursting. With a strong gush of
passion, — the strongest his life had ever known, — he
threw himself on the earth, and among the damp,
dewy grass fell more than one tear, wrung from his
manly eyes.
" Long time he lay, watching the little stream of
light from the one window in the gloomy house, —
watching, and feeling that he could not go to rest ; he
could only sit there, forgetting everything on earth,
except that the child's life was saved?'
The girl comes out of her sick room, bringing on
her young face a womanly expression, — a thoughtful-
ness which had never been seen there before. Over
the stillness of her beauty flitted shadows of the
awakening heart. Hope was happy. *' Sickness,"
observes the author, t in one of her thoughtful
passages, "is very often restful and sweet ; and
trouble that awakens, or draws together affection, is
scarcely trouble at all." The strength of Ninian's
passion at length reveals itself in all its force ; and yet
he concealed it. He could not marry, with all those
other 'members of the family looking to him alone for
support. He feared, that even on his wife's breast
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
363
he should hear the cry, like that of the haunted Cain,
"Where are thy brethren?" Six souls loved and
trusted him, balanced against one. It was a stern
struggle, but he bore through it manfully.
" A man who can give up dreaming, and go to his
daily realities, — who can smother down his heart, its
love or woe, and take to the hard work of his hand, —
who defies fate, — and if he must die, dies fighting to
the last, — that man is life's best hero.
"I dare say it would be more interesting and
poetical if I were to paint Ninian Graeme leaning
over the boat's side, and dropping womanly tears into
the Clyde, and lying back in the railway-carriage spent
by the exhaustion of emotion. But he did not. What-
ever he felt, Heaven knoweth ! and Heaven is merciful,
tender, and dumb. The only words he said, — and he
might have soliliquized a whole page, — for he had the
carriage to himself, — were, ' I muat go home and
work ! '
"Work — work — work ! It is the iron ploughshare
that goes over the field of the heart, rooting up all
the pretty grasses, and the beautiful, hurtful weeds
that we have taken such pleasure in growing, laying
them all under, fair and foul together, — making plain,
dull-looking arable land for our neighbours to peer at ;
until, at night-time, down in the deep furrows, the
angels come and sow."
In the midst of all this, Hope Ansted's father, a
cold, selfish man of the world, arrives, and claims his
daughter. Ninian lets her go, still witnout revealing
his secret. She only calls him "brother." And he
shrinks within himself. Was that all ? She went ;
and then there is a long lapse of time ; and Ninian
hears of her at a distance, only at far intervals.
Meanwhile two of the sisters are married, and we
have a picture of a Scottish wedding, in the home,
where, for the nonce, the household hearth is con-
verted into a temple, and the family group into a
circle of reverent worshippers.
At length Ninian, drawn by his strong love, goes
to' London, — sees Hope, — finds her fether involved in
pecuniary difficulties, — in fact, a ruined man. A gay
villain, the Lothario of the novel, is pursuing Hope ;
but, after liberating her father from a gaol, and
comforted by the assurance that Ulverstone had aban-
doned the pursuit, Ninian returns to Edinburgh, still
without declaring his love. A few days pass, and
letters arrive, — one from Hope.
" Lindsay opened the letter.
"He was still at the window, looking out at the
sunny garden and the flowers, lest, perhaps, his sister
should look at him. A little disappointment he felt.
Why did Hope write to Lindsay only ?
" Miss Graeme read a page or more. ' She is quite
well,' — Ninian turned, — ' and happy, too ; says how
much she thinks of us all, and how kind you have
been.' He turned back again abruptly; then crossed
the room, sat down, and opened the leaves of a book.
" ' Read on, sister. I would like to hear.'
"But Lindsay had stopped, — tears starting in her
eyes. ' Oh, brother, here is news, — glad news of our
dear child. She is engaged to be married.'
"There was one quick shudder, — a blank, incredu-
lous stare ; but Ninian sat in his seat motionless.
" Miss Graeme continued. ' It is so sudden, so
unexpected, she says. Amidst all her misfortunes,
too ! Who would have thought that of Mr. Ulverstone ?
But, Ninian, do you hear ? Ninian ! '
"He lifted his head, and looked her full in the
face. The countenance she then saw, his sister never
forgot to her dying day.
" ' Brother, — brother ? '
" ' Yes ! ' The voice sounded unnatural, — awful.
" ' 0, my poor brother ! ' Lindsay cried. She
understood all now."
But there was some hope yet. The marriage might
be prevented. Ninian had good reason to suspect
that this Ulverstone was already married (by a " left-
handed" marriage, as it is called in Scotland), — that he
had deceived and inveigled into a secret union a poor
country girl ; and Ninian hoped still to drag the
secret to light, and prevent his criminal marriage with
Hope Ansted. He at once resolved to set out on
purpose. But the letters from London were not all
read yet. There was another letter, the address on
which was in Ulverstone's handwriting. There was a
note inside, not from him, but from Hope. It gives
news, — sudden news.
"Ninian turned ghastly pale, — he grasped the
chair convulsively. ' What is it ? Tell me.1
"Lindsay was silent, — only coming nearer, and
clinging to him as, in moments of anguish or sym-
pathy, women do.
" 'Tell me,' he repeated, almost inaudibly.
" ' Two days ago, suddenly, — by Ulverstone's per-
suasions and her father's — Hope was — married ! '
" Ninian remained a moment where he stood, —
upright, motionless, — then he tried to move and
walk to the door, but staggered as he went. Lindsay
followed.
" 'No, sister, — good, kind sister, — don't ! '
" She obeyed, and he passed from her sight to bear
that awful grief, — as only it could be borne, —
alone."
But the story is not yet ended. The Ulverstones
go abroad ; a child is born to Hope ; they return to
England years after, about the time that a great new
actress appears in London, — a Mrs. Armidale, whose
real name is Rachel Armstrong, the first wife of
Ulverstone. It would occupy too much space to
relate how the denouement is worked out, — how the
two wives at length meet, — how the first determines
to assert her rights,' and the latter flies back to
Lindsay and Ninian Graeme at The Gowans, — how
Hope's child dies, and shortly after, Ulverstone, the
bad man himself; and then at length, Ninian, the
faithful and dutiful, lays his heart open to the "child"
of his heart. She had entered his little library, as of
old, to plead for Edmund, Ninian's brother, who
desired to take Lindsay, now the only unmarried
sister, to London, as his housekeeper.
"'Will you consent?' she asked. 'May I tell
Edmund so ? '
" ' No, Hope ; you do not know what you are asking.
It cannot be.' . . . Ninian went on desperately.
' Do you not see that the world will not think as you
think ; that if Lindsay goes, you cannot stay and live
with me here alone, being — not my sister ? '
"Deeper Hope's blush grew, dyeing che'ek, throat,
and brow, all scarlet. If he had seen her ! — but he
did not, — he had put his hand over his eyes. After a
while, hers were raised to look at him ; there was in
them a new expression, — half reserve, half pain, —
mingled with something deeper than both.
'"Then I must go away?' Hope added, in a
subdued accent. ' Perhaps, in any case, it were
better I should go away. I have been to you a great
burden and great care. And though not really my
brother, you have been such, and more to me. God
bless you ! . . . Only the first time you have to
spare, give me your advice, — your brotherly advice —
as to what I ought to do ; whether I shall be a
governess, or companion, or what ? '
" 'Hush ! hush ! ' he groaned, holding out his hand
to her, but turning his head away.
" Hope's courage broke down. ' Oh ! it's a hard,
hard world, my brother ! I thought you would have
always taken care of me, and that I should have lived
content with you at The Gowans ! '
"Ninian grasped tightly the hand he held. He
364
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
looked her steadily in the face, as he said, ' Hope, if
you will, — there is one way.' "
She guessed what he meant, — any woman would.
But it was his words only she discerned, not his
heart. She turned very pale, and let his hand fall.
" 'I understand,' said Ninian, slowly, 'you feel, —
I thought you would, — that that is impossible.
Forgive me ! '
" There was a heavy silence for some minutes. At
last Hope said :
" 'I know not why you ask me to forgive you. It
is I who should say that. I feel how noble, how
generous this is of you. All these years you have
been making sacrifices for me, and now you would
sacrifice — yourself. '
"Ninian started wildly.
" 'Don't speak,' she continued, ' I know it is thus.
But I will not surfer it. No man shall ever degrade
himself by marrying me,' — and her voice shook, —
' least of all, you, the best man I ever knew. You
must choose some one who is happy and honoured
before the world ; also — some one whom you love.'
" ' Some one whom I love ! ' he repeated, hoarsely.
He saw her, as if through a misty dream, standing
beside his chair, — her tears fast falling, though she
spoke so quietly. Once more, by an irresistible
impulse, he grasped her hand. ' Stay here only a
little ; — don't be afraid, my sister.'
" ' I am not afraid ! ' she said, softly, and kept
her place.
" ' Stay, and I will tell you about — some one whom
I loved. It is a long time ago, you'll hardly remember
it. I was a grown man, — nay, almost an old man, —
and she was quite a girl. I could not marry, or if I
could, she did not care for me. So I never told her
of my love, — not one word. I used to carry her in
my arms, and pet her, and call her "my child," and
"my darling." But she knew nothing, — nothing ! '
" He felt Hope's hand trembling,' — but still he held
it tight.
" ' I am glad it was so !
know !
I am glad she did not
It might have grieved her when it was too
late, or — afterwards, she might not have been willing to
come to me in her trouble, for safety, and comfort,
and tenderness. She received it as being quite
natural, kind, and brotherly, — whilst I, — oh, my
God ! — Thou knowest all.'
"His voice ceased, — its utterance was choked. Hope,
thoroughly overwhelmed by his words, sank lower and
lower, until she was kneeling beside him.
"'My child,' he said, — using the word he had
before and since she was married, ( if it had been
possible, — if you had known this — '
' Oh, that I had years ago ! '
' Would you — answer solemnly, for it is an awful
answer to me, — would you have loved me then ? '
" 'I might, if you had tried, — but I cannot tell.'
She spoke wildly amid her sobs.
'Hope,' he said, in a low, quivering voice, "we
must not trifle now, — but decide one way or the
other. If you will keep me as your brother, we must
part altogether for a year or two, and afterwards, I
will learn to meet you as I ought. If, by any possible
chance you could take me as — your husband — '
"He paused, but she recoiled not, — she did not
even remove her cheek from his hand.
" 'If so, and you could be content to let me love
you, I would spend my life in making you happy.
My child, — my little Hope ! ' — and the agony of his
voice changed into the music of infinite tenderness, —
'I would take such care of you, — I would hide you
in my arms, as I did long ago, and keep every
trouble from you. My love, — my darling ! — will you
come ? '
"While he spoke, Hope's sobbing had gradually
ceased. She looked up to him, — this man so good,
so true, whom for years she had reverenced, trusted,
loved, with a love, that perhaps one betrayal of
feeling on his part might once have changed into the
very love he now sought.
" ' Will she come ? ' Ninian repeated, holding out
his arms.
" She came. Slowly and softly she crept to his
bosom, and lay there, — still weeping, but at rest.
" So Ninian knew that she would be his wife at
last. He thanked God, and was satisfied."
Such is a brief epitome of this beautiful story.
But there are numerous powerful episodes besides,
woven into the drama ; such as the story of the
passionate Rachel Armstrong, the actress, — a grand
and most moving portraiture. The story also of Tinie
and her husband, the old and half-blind Professor
Reay, is charmingly drawn. The writing is excellent
throughout, and we could fill columns with passages
of deep thought and lofty eloquence. We do not
exaggerate when we say, that this is the best novel
of its kind that has appeared since the publication of
Jane Eyre.
THE MISER OF HARROW WEAL COMMON.
THIS is Harrow Weal Common ; and a lovely spot it
is. Time was when the whole extent lay waste, or
rather covered with soft herbage and wild flowers,
where the bee sought her pasture, and the lark loved
to hide her nest. But, since then, cultivation has
trenched on much of Harrow Weal. Cottages have
risen, and small homesteads tell of security and
abundance. It is pleasant to look upon them from
this rising ground ; to follow the windings of the
broad stream, with pastures on either side, where
sheep and cattle graze. Look narrowly towards
yonder group of trees, and that slight elevation of
the ground covered with wild camomile ; if the
narrator who told concerning the miser of Harrow
Weal Common has marked the spot aright, that
mound and flowers are associated with the history of
one whose profitless life affords a striking instance of
the withering effects of avarice.
On that spot stood the house of Daniel Dancer ;
miserable in the fullest conception of the word :
desolate and friendless, for no bright fire gleamed in
winter on the old man's hearthstone ; nor yet in
spring, when all nature is redolent of bliss, did the
confiding sparrow build her nest beside his thatch.
The walls of his solitary dwelling were old and lichen-
dotted ; ferns sprung from out their fissures, and
creeping ivy twined through the shattered window-
panes. A sapling, no one knew how, had vegetated
in the kitchen ; its broken pavement afforded a free
passage, and, as time went on, the sapling acquired
strength, pushing its tall head through the damp and
mouldering ceiling; then, catching more of air and
light, it went upwards to the roof, and, finding that
the tiles were off and part of the rafters broken, that
same tree looked forth in its youth and vigour,
throwing its branches wide, and serving, as years
passed on, to shelter the inmates of the hut.
Other trees grew round ; unpruned and thickly-
tangled rank grass sprang up wherever the warm
sunbeams found an entrance ; and as far as the eye
could reach, appeared a wilderness of docks and
brambles, with huge plantains and giant thistles,
enclosed with a boundary-hedge of such amazing
height as wholly to exclude all further prospect.
Eighty acres of good land belonged to Dancer's
farm. An ample stream once held its winding course
among them, but becoming choked at the further
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
365
end with weeds and fallen leaves, and branches
broken by the wind, it spread into a marsh, tenanted
alike by the slow, creeping, blind worm, and water-
newt, the black slug, and frogs of portentous size.
The soil was rich, and would have yielded abundantly ;
the timber, too, was valuable, for some of the finest
oaks, perhaps, in the kingdom grew upon the farm ;
but the cultivation of the one, and the culling of the
other, was attended with expense, and both were
consequently left uncared for.
In the centre of this lone and wretched spot
dwelt the miserable Dancer and his sister, alike in
their habits and penuriousness. The sister never
went from home ; the brother rarely, except to sell
his hay. He had some acres of fine meadow-land,
upon which the brambles had not trenched, and his
attention was exclusively devoted to keeping them
clear of weeds. Having no other occupation, the
time of hay-harvest seems to have been the only
period at which his mind was engrossed with busi-
ness, and this too was rendered remarkable by the
miser's laying aside his habits of penuriousness —
scarcely any gentleman in the neighbourhood gave his
mowers better beer, or in greater quantity ; but
at no other time was the beverage of our Saxon
ancestors found within his walls.
Some people thought that the old man was crazed ;
but those who knew him spoke well of his intelli-
gence. As his father had been before him, so was
he ; his mantle had descended in darkness and in
fulness on all who bore his name, and while that of
Daniel Dancer was perhaps the most familiar, his
three brothers were equally penurious. One sordid
passion absorbed their every faculty ; they loved
money solely and exclusively for its own sake, not
for the pleasures it could procure, nor yet because of
the power it bestowed, but for the love of hoarding.
When the father of Daniel Dancer breathed his
last, there was reason to believe that a large sum,
amounting to some thousands, was concealed on the
premises. This conjecture occasioned his son no
small uneasiness, not so much from the fear of loss,
as from the apprehension lest his brothers should
find the treasure and divide it among themselves.
Dancer, therefore, kept the matter as much as possible
to himself. He warily and secretly sought out every
hole and corner, thrusting his skinny hand into many
a deserted mouse-hole, and examining every part of
the chimney. Vain were all his efforts, till at length,
on removing an old grate, he discovered about two
hundred pounds, in gold and bank notes, between two
pewter dishes. Much more undoubtedly there was,
but the rest remained concealed.
Strange beings were Dancer and his sister to look
upon. The person of the old man was generally girt
with a hay-band, in order to keep together his tat-
tered garments ; his stockings were so darned and
patched that nothing of the original texture re-
mained ; they were girt about in cold and wet
weather with strong bands of hay, which served in-
stead of boots, and his hat having been worn for at
least thirteen years, scarcely retained a vestige of its
former shape. Perhaps the most wretched vagabond
and mendicant that ever crossed Harrow Weal
Common was more decently attired than this mise-
rable representative of an ancient and honourable
house.
The sister possessed an excellent wardrobe, con-
sisting not only of wearing apparel, but table-linen,
and twenty-four pair of good sheets ; she had also
clothes of various kinds, and abundance of plate be-
longed to the family, but everything was stowed away
in chests. Neither the brother nor the sister had the
disposition or the heart to enjoy the blessings that
were liberally given them ; and hence it happened
that Dancer was rarely seen, and that his sister
scarcely ever quitted her obscure abode.
The interior of the dwelling well befitted its occu-
pants. Furniture, and that of a good description,
had formerly occupied a place within the walls, but
every article had long since been carefully secluded
from the light, all excepting two antique bedsteads
which could not readily be removed. These, how-
ever, neither Dancer nor his sister could be prevailed
to occupy ; they preferred sleeping on sacks stuffed
with hay, and covered with horse-rugs. Nor less
miserable was their daily fare. Though possessed of
at least ten thousand pounds, they lived on cold
dumplings, hard as stone, and made of the coarsest
meal ; their only beverage was water ; their sole fire
a few sticks gathered on the common, although they
had abundance of wood, and noble trees that required
lopping.
Thus they lived, isolated from mankind, while
around them the desolation of their paternal acres,
and the rank luxuriance of weeds and brambles, pre-
sented a mournful emblem of their condition. Talents,
undoubtedly they had ; kindly tempers in early life,
which might have conduced to the well-being of
society. Daniel especially possessed many admirable
qualities, with good sense and native integrity ; his
manners, too, though unpolished by intercourse with
the world, were at one time both frank and courteous,
but all and each were absorbed by one master passion
— sordid avarice took possession of his soul, and
rendered him the most despicable of men.
At length Dancer's sister died. They had lived
together for many years, similar in their penuriousness,
though little, perhaps, of natural affection subsisted
between them. The sister was possessed of con-
siderable wealth, which she left to her brother. The
old man greatly rejoiced at its acquisition ; he
resolved, in consequence, that her funeral should not
disgrace the family, and accordingly contracted with
an undertaker to receive timber in exchange for a
coffin, rather than to part with gold.
Lady Tempest, who resided in the neighbourhood,
compassionating the wretched condition of an aged
woman, sick, and destitute of even pauper comforts,
had the poor creature conveyed to her house. Every
possible alleviation was afforded, and medical assist-
ance immediately obtained ; but they came too late.
The disease, which proceeded originally from want,
proved mortal, and the victim of sordid avarice was
borne unlamented to her grave.
There was crowding on the funeral day beside the
road that led to Lady Tempest's. People came
trooping from far and near, with a company of boys
belonging to Harrow School, thoughtless, and amused
with the strangeness of a spectacle which might rather
have excited feelings of sorrow and commiseration.
First came a coffin of the humblest kind containing
the emaciated corpse of one who had possessed ample
wealth, — a woman to whom had been committed the
magnificent gift of life, fair talents and health, with
faculties for appropriating each to the glory of Him
who gave them, but who, on dying, had no soothing
retrospect of life, no thankfulness for having been the
instrument of good to others, no hope beyond the
grave. Behind that coffin, as chief mourner, followed
the brother, unbeloved, and heedless of all duties
either to God or man — a miserable being ; the possessor
of many thousands, yet too sordid to purchase even
decent mourning. It was only by the importunate en-
treaties of his relatives that he consented to unbind the
hay -bands with which his legs were covered, and to put
on a second-hand pair of black worsted stockings. His
coat was of a whitish brown colour, his waistcoat had
been black about the middle of the last century, and
the covering of his head was a nondescript kind of
366
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
wig, which had descended to him as an heirloom.
Thus attired, and followed and attended by a crowd
whom curiosity had drawn together, went on old
Daniel and the coffin of his sister towards the place
of its sojourn. When there, the horse's girth gave
way, for they were past all service, and the brother
was suddenly precipitated into his sister's grave ;
but the old man escaped unhurt. The service pro-
ceeded; and slowly into darkness and forgetfulness
went down the remains of his miserable counterpart.
One friend, however, remained to the miser, — and
this was Lady Tempest. That noble-minded woman
had given a home to the sister, and sought by every
possible means to alleviate her sufferings ; now also,
when the object of her solicitude was gone, she
endeavoured to inspire the brother with better feel-
ings, and to ameliorate his miserable condition. This
kindly notice by Lady Tempest, while it soothed his
pride, served also to lessen the sufferings and sorrows
of his declining age ; and so far did her representations
prevail, that, having given him a comfortable bed,
she actually induced him to throw away the sack on
which he slept for years. Nay, more, he took into
his service a man of the name of Griffith, and allowed
him an ample supply of food, but neither cat nor dog
purred or watched beneath his roof; he had no
kindliness of heart to bestow upon them, nor occasion
for their services, for he still continued to live on
crusts and fragments ; even when Lady Tempest sent
him better fare, he could hardly be prevailed to
partake of it.
In his boyish days, he possessed, it might be,
some natural feelings of affection towards his kind ;
but as years passed on, and his sordid avarice in-
creased, he manifested the utmost aversion for his
brother, who rivalled himself in penury and wealth,
and still continued to pasture sheep on the same
common. To his niece, however, he once presented
a guinea, on the birth of a daughter, but this he
made conditional, she was either to name the child
Nancy, after his mother, or forfeit the whole sum.
Still, with that strange contrariety which even the
most penurious occasionally present, gleams of kind-
liness broke forth at intervals, as sunbeams on a
stony waste. He was known secretly to have assisted
persons whose modes of life and appearance were
infinitely superior to his own ; and though parsi-
monious in the extreme, he was never guilty of
injustice, or accused of attempting to overreach his
neighbours. He was also a second Hampden in
defending the rights and privileges of those who were
connected with his locality. While old Daniel lived,
no infringements were permitted on Harrow Weal
Common ; he heeded neither the rank nor wealth of
those who attempted to act unjustly, but, putting him-
self at the head of the villagers, he resisted such
aggressions with uniform success. On one occasion,
also, having been reluctantly obliged to prosecute a
horse-stealer at Aylesbury, he set forth with one of
his neighbours on an unshod steed, with a mane and
tail of no ordinary growth, a halter for a bridle,
a sack instead of a saddle. Thus equipped, he went
on, till, having reached the principal inn at Aylesbury,
the miser addressed his companion, saying, —
" Pray, sir, go into the house and order what you
please, and live like a gentleman, I will settle for it
readily ; but as regards myself, I must go on in my
old way."
His friend entreated him to take a comfortable
repast, but this he steadily refused. A pennyworth
of bread sufficed for his meal, and at night he slept
under his horse's manger ; but when the business
that brought him to Aylesbury was ended, he paid
fifteen shillings, the amount of his companion's bill,
with the utmost cheerfulness.
Grateful, too, he was, as years went on, to Lady
Tempest for her unwearied kindness, and he resolved
to leave her the wealth which he bad accumulated.
His sister, too, expressed the same wish ; and when,
after six months of continued attention from that
lady, Miss Dancer found her end approach, she in- i
structed her brother to give their benefactress an i
acknowledgment from the one thousand six hundred !
pounds which she had concealed in an old tattered
petticoat.
"Not a penny of that money," said old Dancer,
unceremoniously to his sister. " Not a penny as yet.
The good lady shall have the whole when I am gone."
At length the time came when the old man must
be gone; when his desolate abode and neglected
fields should bear witness no longer against him.
Few particulars are known concerning his death.
The fact alone is certain, that the evening before his
departure, he despatched a messenger to Lady
Tempest requesting to see her ladyship, and that,
being gratified by her arrival, he expressed great
satisfaction. Finding himself somewhat better, his
attachment to the hoarded pelf, which he valued even
more than the only friend he had on earth, overcame
the resolution he had formed of giving her his will ;
and though his hand was scarcely able to perform its
functions, he took hold of the precious document and
replaced it in his bosom.
The next morning he became worse, and again did
the same kind lady attend the old man's summons ;
when, having confided to her keeping the title-deeds
of wealth which he valued more than life, his hand
suddenly became convulsed, his head sunk upon the
pillow, and the miser breathed his last.
The house in which he died, and where he first
drew breath, exhibited a picture of utter desolation.
Those who crossed the threshold stood silent, as if
awe-struck, Yet that miserable haunt contained the
hoarded wealth of years. Gold and silver coins were
dug up on the ground-floor ; plate and table-linen,
with clothes of every description, were found locked
up in chests ; large bowls, filled with guineas and
half-guineas came to light, with parcels of bank notes
stuffed under the covers of old chairs. Some hundred
weights of waste-paper, the accumulation of half-a-
century, were also discovered ; and two or three tons
of old iron, consisting of nails and horse-shoes, which
the miser had picked up.
Strange communings had passed within the walls —
sordid, yet bitter thoughts, the crushing of all kindly
yearnings towards a better state of mind. The oiiter
conduct of the man was known, but the internal con-
flict between good and evil remains untold.
Nearly sixty -four years have elapsed since the
miser and his sister passed from among the living.
Perchance some lichen dotted stone, if carefully
sought for and narrowly examined, may give the
exact period of their death, but, as yet, no record of
the kind has been discovered. Collateral testimonies,
however, go far to prove that the death of the miser
took place about the year 1775, and that his sister
died a few months previous.
A BACKWOODSMAN HUNTED BY
WOLVES.
A CLEVER, original book has just appeared in New
York, full of fresh life and novel experiences, written
by John S. Springer, a log-hunter among the great
pine-woods of Maine and New Brunswick. The
book is entitled Forest Life and Forest Trees, and is to
our own Old English Gilpin's book on English woods,
just what a go-ahead Yankee, full of young daring
and bounding life, spending his early days among
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
367
deep pine-forests, is to a staid elderly gentleman
brought up amid the quiet beauties of English park
scenery. He treats us to a full-length picture of life
among the loggers, and a bold, rough, hard-working,
venturous set of men they are. He describes how
they " hunt " pines, — that is, track them out in the
forest, — how they fell and roll them, — and what kind
of adventures the loggers meet with in their sojourn
among the woods. The following is a specimen of the
adventures related in Mr. Springer's capital book ;
and it is as exciting a specimen of a Wolf Chase as
any we have ever met with.
The subject of the story is a neighbour of
Springer's, — a man, whose log -house stood on the
banks of the river Kennebeck, which flowed past the
door. He was very fond of skating, and one winter's
night, he left his house to skate for a short distance
up the frozen river. It was a bright, still evening ;
the new moon silvered the frosty pines. After gliding
a couple of miles up the river, the skater turned off
into a little tributary stream, over which fir and
hemlock twined their evergreen branches. The
archway beneath was dark, but he fearlessly entered
it, unsuspicious of peril, with a joyous laugh and
hurra, — an involuntary expression of exhilaration,
elicited by the bracing crispness of £he atmosphere,
and glow of pleasant exercise. What followed is
very exciting : —
" All of a sudden, a sound arose ; it seemed from
the very ice beneath my feet. It was loud and
tremendous at first, until it ended in one long yell.
I was appalled. Never before had such a noise met
my ears. I thought it more than mortal, — so fierce,
and amid such an unbroken solitude, that it seemed a
fiend from hell had blown a blast from an infernal
trumpet. Presently I heard the twigs on the shore
snap as if from the tread of some animal, and the
blood rushed back to my forehead with a bound that
made my skin burn. My energies returned, and I
looked around me for some means of defence. The
moon shone through the opening by which I had
entered the forest, and, considering this the best
means of escape, I darted towards it like an arrow.
It was hardly a hundred yards distant, and the
swallow could scarcely outstrip my desperate flight ;
yet, as I turned my eyes to the shore, I could see two
dark objects dashing through the underbrush at a
pace nearly double mine. By their great speed, and
the short yells which they occasionally gave, I knew at
once that they were the much-dreaded grey wolf. The
bushes that skirted the shore," continues the hunted
of wolves, "flew past with the velocity of light, as
I dashed on in my flight. The outlet was nearly
gained ; one second more, and I should be compara-
tively safe, — when my pursuers appeared on the bank
directly above me, which rose to the height of some
ten feet. There was no time for thought ; I bent my
head, and dashed wildly forward. The wolves sprang ;
but, miscalculating my speed, sprang behind, whilst
their intended prey glided out into the river. Nature
turned me towards home. The light flakes of snow
spun from the iron of my skates, and I was now some
distance from my pursuers, when their fierce howl
told me that I was again the fugitive. I did not look
back ; I did not feel sorry or glad ; one thought of
home, of the bright faces awaiting my return, of their
tears if they should never see me again, and then my
energy of body and mind was exerted for my escape.
1 was perfectly at home on the ice. Many were the
days I spent on the skates, never thinking that at
one time they would be my only means of safety.
Every half - minute an alternate yelp from my
pursuers made me but too certain they were close at
my heels. Nearer and nearer they came ; I heard
their feet pattering on the ice nearer still, until I
fancied I could hear their deep breathing. Every
nerve and muscle in my frame was stretched to the
utmost tension. The trees along the shore seemed to
dance in the uncertain light ; and my brain turned
with my own breathless speed, when an involuntary
motion turned me out of my course. The wolves
close behind, unable to stop, and as unable to turn,
slipped, fell, — still going on far ahead, their tongues
lolling out, their white tusks gleaming from their
bloody mouths, their dark shaggy breasts freckled
with foam ; and, as they passed me, their eyes glared,
and they howled with rage and fury. The thought
flashed on my mind that by this means I could avoid
them, — .viz., by turning aside whenever they came
too near ; for they, by the formation of their feet, are
unable to run on ice except in a right line. I
immediately acted on this plan. The wolves, having
regained their feet, sprang directly towards me. The
race was renewed for twenty yards up the stream ;
they were already close on my back, when I glided
round, and dashed past them. A fierce howl greeted
my evolution, and the wolves slipped upon their
haunches, and sailed onward, presenting a perfect
picture of helplessness and baffled rage. Thus I
gained nearly a hundred yards each turning. This
was repeated two or three times, every moment the
wolves getting more excited and baffled, until, coming
opposite the house, a couple of stag-hounds, aroused
by the noise, bayed furiously from their kennels. The
wolves, taking the hint, stopped in their mad career ;
and, after a moment's consideration, turned and fled.
I watched them till their dusky forms disappeared
over a neighbouring hill ; then, taking off my skates,
I wended my way to the house."
THE TWO GARDENS OF LIFE.
The daily practical and the meditative are as two
gardens ; both are beautiful, but one is magical. In
the first are common plants, which we most diligently
tend and cultivate ; in the second, among flowers
also for cultivation, flowers of new and most change-
ful beauty are ever rising spontaneously. In this
second garden may we walk, having duly cared for
the first. It is a garden of surprise and delight, for
we have but to think of some common flower when
straightway it arises before us, as transfigured, in
exquisite beauty ; and all around it, as a centre, new
vegetative forms spring up, different but analagous.
These two gardens have to each other curious and
important relations ; the perfection of either can alone
be secured by a due regard to both. If we regard
only the magical one, the magic becomes less wonder-
ful, and will soon cease to surprise and delight us ;
and if we regard exclusively the common one, it
becomes alarmingly magical, familiar plants assume a
noisome aspect, and around them rise others uncouth
and terrifying. Our care must be for our common
ground, that its productions be abundant and healthy ;
for our magical one, that its growths be numerous
and beautiful. This is best secured by periods of toil
in the first alternating with shorter periods of recrea-
tion and delight in the second. Accurate thought
on definite subjects can alone give freedom and
variety to general meditations ; conscientious prac-
ticalness alone insure us best visions and revelations. —
TrinaL
PAUSE !
There come at times in our life deep, still pauses,
when we rest upon our full content as a child lies
down on the grass of a meadow, fearing nothing,
desiring nothing, ceasing almost to think, and satisfied
only to feel. — The Head of the Family.
368
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
THE SLAVE-SHIP.
BY J. G. WHITTIEK.
• ' " That fatal, that perfidious bark,
Built i' the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark."
Milton's Lycidas.
THE French ship Le Rodeur, with a crew of twenty-two
men, and with one hundred and sixty negro slaves, sailed from
Bonny, in Africa, April, 1819. On approaching the line, a
terrible malady broke out,— an obstinate disease of the eyes,—
contagious, and altogether beyond the resources of medicine.
It was aggravated by the scarcity of water among the slaves
(only half a wineglass per day being allowed to an individual),
and by the extreme impurity of the air in which they breathed.
By the advice of the physician they were brought upon deck
occasionally ; but some of the poor wretches, locking them-
selves in each other's arms, leaped overboard, in the hope,
which so universally prevails among them, of being swiftly
transported to their own homes in Africa. To check this, the
captain ordered several, who were stopped in the attempt, to
be shot, or hanged, before their companions. The disease
extended to the crew, and one after another were smitten
with it, until only one remained unaffected. Yet even this
dreadful condition did not preclude calculation ; to save the
expense of supporting slaves rendered unsaleable, and to
obtain grounds for a claim against the underwriters, thirty-six
of the negroes, having become blind, were thrown into the sea
and drowned!
In the midst of their dreadful fears, lest the solitary indivi-
dual whose sight remained unaffected should also be seized
with the malady, a sail was discovered, — it was the Spanish
slaver Leon; the same disease had been there, and, horrible
to tell, all the crew had become blind ! Unable to assist each
other, the vessels parted. The Spanish ship has never since
been heard of; the Rodeur reached Guadaloupe on the 21 st of
June ; the only man who had escaped the disease, and had
thus been enabled to steer the slaver into port, caught it three
days after its arrival. — Speech of M. Benjamin Constant in the
French Chamber of Deputies, June 17, 1820.
"ALL ready ? " cried the captain ;
" Ay, ay ! " the seamen said ;
" Heave up the worthless lubbers, —
The dying and the dead."
Up from the slave-ship's prison
Fierce, bearded heads were thrust ;
" Now let the sharks look to it, —
Toss up the dead ones first ! "
Corpse after corpse came up,—
Death had been busy there ;
Where every blow is mercy,
Why should the Spoiler spare ?
Corpse after corpse they cast
Sullenly from the ship,
Yet bloody with the traces s
Of fetter- link and whip.
Gloomily stood the captain
With his arms upon his breast, —
With his cold brow sternly knotted,
And his iron lip compressed ;
" Are all the dead dogs over ? "
Growled through that matted lip ;—
" The blind ones are no better,
Let's lighten the good ship."
Hark ! from the ship's dark bosom,
The very sounds of Hell !
The ringing clank of iron, —
The maniac's short, sharp yell !
The hoarse, low curse — throat-stifled,
The starving infant's moan, —
The horror of a breaking heart
Poured through a mother's groan !
Up from that loathsome prison
The stricken blind ones came ;
Below, had all been darkness —
Above, was still the same ;
Yet the holy breath of Heaven
Was sweetly breathing there,
And the heated brow of fever
Cooled in the soft sea air.
" Overboard with them, shipmates ! "
Cutlass and dirk*were plied ;
Fettered and blind, one after one,
Plunged down the vessel's side.
The sabre smote above, —
Beneath, the lean shark lay,
Waiting, with wide and bloody jaw,
•* His quick and human prey.
God of the Earth ! what cries
Rang upward unto Thee ?
Voices of agony and blood
From ship-deck and from sea.
The last dull plunge was heard, — •
The last wave caught its stain, —
And the unsated shark looked up
For human hearts in vain.
Red glowed the Western waters ;
The setting sun was there,
Scattering alike on wave and cloud
His fiery mesh of hair :
Amidst a group in blindness,
A solitary eye
Gazed from the burdened slaver's deck
Into that burning sky.
"A storm," spoke out the gazer,
" Is gathering, and at hand ;
Curse on't ! I'd give my other eye
For one firm rood of land."
And then he laughed, — but only
His echoed laugh replied, —
For the blinded and the suffering
Alone were at his side.
Night settled on the waters,
And on a stormy Heaven,
While swiftly on that lone ship's track
The thunder-gust was driven.
" A sail ! thank God, a sail ! "
And, as the helmsman spoke,
Up through the stormy murmur
A shout of gladness broke.
Down came the stranger vessel,
Unheeding, on her way,
So near, that on the slaver's deck
Fell off her driven spray.
" Ho ! for the love of mercy, —
We're perishing and blind ! "
A wail of utter agony
Came back upon the wind.
" Help us .' for we are stricken
With blindness, every one ;
Ten days we've floated fearfully,
Unnoting star or sun.
Our ship 's the slaver Leon, —
We've but a score on board ;
Our slaves are all gone over, —
Help, for the love of God ! "
On livid brows of agony
The broad, red lightning shone,
But the roar of wind and thunder
Stifled the answering groan ;
Wailed from the broken waters
A last despairing cry,
As, kindling in the stormy light,
The stranger ship went by.
In the sunny Guadaloupe
A dark-hull'd vessel lay,
With a crew who noted never
The nightfall or the day.
The blossom of the orange
Was white by every stream,
And tropic leaf, and flower, and bird
Were in the warm sunbeam.
And the sky was bright as ever,
And the moonlight slept as well,
On the palm-trees by the hill- side,
And the streamlet of the dell ;
And the glances of the Creole
Were still as archly deep,
And her smiles as full as ever
Of passion and of sleep.
But vain were bird and blossom,
The green earth and the sky,
And the smile of human faces,
To the ever darkened eye ;
For, amidst a world of beauty,
The slaver \yent abroad,
With his ghastly visage written
By the awful curse of God !
Fruited by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 154.]
SATURDAY, APRIL 10, 1852.
[PRICE
OLD ENGLISH COUNTY PROVERBS.
OLD prdverbs are the concentrated essence of
popular wisdom. They have been struck out by
theoretic knowledge, and confirmed by practical expe-
rience. The people who lived long ago, in times when
printed books did not exist, embodied their views of
life in proverbs, which were handed down from father
to son, through many generations. They live among us
still. To this day, proverbs constitute ike literature
of the unlearned. And even the most learned of
men may often gather wisdom from these old saws of
our forefathers. How much practical knowledge, for
instance, is to be found in the Proverbs of Solomon ;
— what clear insight into life ! what golden maxims
for the up-bringing of youth ! what noble thoughts
for self culture and home happiness !
George Dawson, in his clever lecture on Popular
Proverbs, has said of them, that they are usually the
witty utterances, by wise men, of the wisdom of the
many. They became current because they ably,
briefly, quaintly, or energetically expressed what men
had long thought. The best of them are short ; and
they are short because they felt themselves to be
true, — because many of them are, as Emerson has
pointed out, utterances of those underlying laws of life
around which, as around a magnetic pole, our actions
group themselves. They are the great spiritual
utterances of mankind, and may be regarded as a
kind of gauge to the thinker, to show how far
spiritualism has been successful in getting into life.
They are the answer of the streets to the pulpit.
They have become a current method of teaching gi'eat
truths. Thus Franklin, in his Poor Richard, drew
forth a whole budget of them, in enforcing the duty
of providence. They were all ready-made to his
hand.
You find the best of proverbs common to nearly
all countries. Proverbs have their equivalents in all
languages. The English, Scotch, Dutch, Germans, and
Spanish, are especially rich in proverbs ; and, at some
future opportunity, we may draw from their ample
budgets. At present our task is of a humbler kind ;
namely, to draw forth a few of the old county
proverbs and current sayings of England, which are,
in many respects, curiously illustrative of the old
life, habits, and customs of the country. We may
mention that we take them from a book .about two
hundred years old, entitled "Anglorum Speculum, or
the Worthies of England in Church and State." The
proverbs, or sayings, therefore, which we are about
to cite, were in use centuries ago ; and most of them
are current in the several counties of England to
this day.
Thus, Buckinghamshire " Bread and Beef, the one
fine, the other fat," is still proverbial. So are "Essex
calves," "Suffolk milk," and " Leamster bread and
Weobly ale " (Hereford). " Bean-belly Leicestershire "
was once a proverb, and may be so still ; " Shake a
Leicestershire yeoman by the collar, and you shall hear
the beans rattle in his belly." " Yarmouth capon " (or
red herring), " Norfolk dumplings," " Banbivry veal "
(cheese and cakes), and l( Grantham gruel, nine grits
and a gallon of water " (applied to those who multiply
what is superfluous, and omit what is necessary in
their discourse), are phrases still in current use. The
proverbial " Weavers' beef of Colchester," meaning
thereby sprats, show that the operatives of that town,
then a manufacturing place, were much more poorly
off than they are now.
" A Jack of Dover," was the phrase applied to food
that had been cooked over and over again, and also to
repetitions of useless phraseology in speech. " He
that would eat a buttered fagot, let him go to North-
ampton,'"— that town being (before the advent of
railways) the dearest town in England for fuel. The
same town being far from the sea, oysters must have
grown stale before they reached there in the old
times, so it was also said, " The May or of Northampton
opens oysters with his dagger."
These several counties and towns prided themselves
in their proverbial sayings, upon their respective
qualities ; for instance, " Cheshire, chief of men,"
"Lancashire for women;" " Suffolk fair maids;"
" Kent for yeomen : " — according to the other pro-
verb,—
A Knight of Cales,
A Gentleman of Wales,
And a Laird of the North Countries
A Yeoman of Kent,
With his yearly rent,
Will buy them out all three.
The Kentishmen also boast of being the first Chris-
tians who were converted in England, and they have
a saying of " Neither in Kent nor Christendom" They
are also proverbial talkers, as their proverb bespeaks,
— "Dover court, all speakers and no hearers."
370
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
" Suffolk stiles " " Norfolk iviles" and " Essex miles,"
are also proverbial. The Norfolk people were said to
be so skilful in the common law, that they studied it
when following the plough-tail ; and they were so
litigiously given, that they would even enter an
action for their neighbour's horse looking over their
hedge ! The " Essex miles " were the longest in
England, something like the " Yorkshire wee -I It,"
which was generally found to be considerably longer
than the longest mile. Hertfordshire boasts of its
" Hertford clubs and clouted shoon," "Hertfordshire
hedgehogs" and better than all, "Hertfordshire kind-
ness." "Cambridgeshire camels," became a saying from
the Fenmen stalking along upon their stilts over the
marshes in olden times, as the shepherds of the
Landes, in France, do now. " Cambridgeshire men,"
is also a phrase of pride, for they gallantly fought the
Banes and Normans, when the East Anglians ran
away.
"As bold as Beauchamp," is a saying in Warwick-
shire, and arose out of the bravery of the Earls of
Warwick. " He is true Coventry-blue," is applied to
men of the right stuff, — the best standing blues in
j England having been dyed in Coventry centuries
ago. In the same way, in Yorkshire, the proverb,
"As true steel as Rippon rowels," is applied to men of
metal, — these old Rippon spurs being of such temper
that their rowels could be struck through a shilling.
Many of the county proverbs extol the richness of
the various districts. The Herefordshire proverb, —
"Blessed is the eye that is betwixt Severn and Wye," —
expressive of the pleasure of blessedness or safety.
" Where should I be borne else than in Taunton Deane ? "
is the brag of the peasant of Somerset, — for the place
is said to be so fruitful with the zun and zoil alone,
that it needs no mamrring. Strange that " The beggars
of Bath " should be { roverbial in the same county !
Cornwall prides itself on its tin, as a matter of course,
and they say of one famous place there, —
Hengsten-down well ywrought,
Is worth London town dear ybought.
Cornish tin is better worth having than "A Cornish
Hugg," — figuratively applied to deceitful dealing.
" To carry coals to Newcastle," is a folly of which
only a "ivise man of Gotham " would be guilty, — the
said Gotham being a village in Nottinghamshire. In
the several counties the proverbial definition of a fool is
different, according to the localities famous for giving
birth to these lusus naturce. In Oxfordshire, they say
of such a one, "He was born at Hogs-Norton." In
Lincolnshire they say, "He was born at Little
Witham ; " and of thoroughly cracked persons, they
say, in the same county, " As mad as the baiting-bull
at Stamford."
In Nottinghamshire they have a proverb, — " The
little smith of Nottingham, who doth the work that no
| man can," — applied to conceited persons who pretend
I to do impossibilities. In Cornwall they apply a
| proverb of similar meaning, " It will be done when
| Dudman and Ramehead meet," — two promontories
I considerably apart from each other. There used to
| be a similar proverb at Croyland, in Lincoln. — " All
the carts that wme to Croyland are shod ivith silver," —
Croyland being situated among the fens, whither no
cart could come. Living in these fens brings on
ague, and this the Fenmen call, being "Arrested by
the Bailey of Marshland." In Lincolnshire they say
of men who lose their point through divisions, —
" They held together, like the Men ofMarham, when they
lost their common." In Gloucestershire, when a man
has broken his word, they say, " You are a man of
i Duresly." And applied to men who are slow but
j sure, they use the term, " ICs long in coming, like
| Cotswold barley," this being a heavy and fine crop,
though a late one. In the same county, they say of
a person of rueful visage, — " He looks as if he had
lived on Teiokesbury mustard."
The Northumberland proverbs have chiefly reference
to their restive neighbours, — the Scots. " We will not
lose a Scot," that is, we will not abate a fraction. " A
Scottish mist may wet an Englishman to the skin," — or,
small mischiefs, unless heeded in time, may prove
very dangerous in the end. "A Scottish man and a
Newcastle grindstone travel all the world over" — this is
a well-known proverb. In Cumberland, also, the old
proverbs are of a similar character. Here is one, —
When thy neighbour's house doth burn,
Take heed the next be not thy turn ;—
alluding to the danger from the forays of the Scots,
who generally burned after they had robbed.
In Devonshire they had a proverb, similar to the
Scotch one of " Jedwood justice, first hang and then
try." The Devon proverb was, —
First hang, and then draw,
Then hear the cause by Ledford law.
Of the Londoners, in the same way, it used to be
said, — " London jury, hang half and save half ;" and
also, (( He that -is a low ebb at Newgate may soon be
afloat at Tyburn." In Dorsetshire they spoke of a
man who had been hanged, as " Stabbed with a Brid-
port dagger," — the best hemp being grown thereabout
in early times. Thieves in Yorkshire had a salutary
fear of three places, as is shown by the surviving
proverb, "From Hull, • , and Halifax, good •
deliver us ! "» At Halifax they executed thieves caught
in the act of stealing cloth by means of an instrument
resembling the modern guillotine. Buckingham seems
to have been in bad repute for thieves in early times,
from the proverb, "Here if you beat a bush, 'tis odds
you'd start a thief;" beech-trees (from which the
name of the county) then abounding in the district.
In Kent there was a proverb, — " The father to the
bough, the son to the plough;" — the father, when
executed for felony or murder, being usually suc-
ceeded by his son in the inheritance.
Some of the old proverbs bearing upon courtship,
marriage, and manners, are curious. In Cheshire
they have one, " Better wed over the mixon than over
the moor," — that is, better wed a wife near the home-
stead than go to a distance for one ; for, as the Irish
Proverb, to a similar effect, says, "Foreign cattle
have long horns." In Chester they say, " When the
daughter is stolen, shut Peppergate ;" the mayor of that
city having once performed this wise act after his
daughter had eloped. It is equivalent to " when the
steed is stolen, shut the stable door." In Cornwall,
they say of a sloven, " She is to be summoned before the
Mayor of Halgaver," — an imaginary office to try and
condemn bad housewives. And in Devonshire, when
that extraordinary phenomenon of a man who is
master of his wife is discovered, they say of him,
"He may remove Mort-Stone" — a huge rock in Mort-
Bay, to lift which would be a wonder. In Essex, they
still preserve the old proverb, applied to a wedded
couple who have lived for so many years together
without quarrelling, " They may fetch a flitch of
bacon from the Prior of Dunmoe." Not long ago, a
happy couple presented themselves at Dunmoe church,
and received the traditional gammon. Shropshire
wives would seem not to turn out so well, if any reliance
is to be placed on the old proverb, "He that fetcheth
a ivife from Shrewsbury, must carry her into Stafford-
shire, -or else live in Cumberland," — that is, go where
there are plenty of sticks or quarterstaffs to be had !
Perhaps the proverb applies only to shrews.
In Huntingdonshire, it is said of a spendthrift,
"He is on the way to beggar's bush; " and in Suffolk,
"• You are in the right road to Needham," — Needham
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
371
being formerly a market-town stocked with poor
people. In Oxfordshire, "Taking a Bur ford bait,"
means getting drunk. And in the same county,
"Send verdingales (or ladies' hoops) to broad gates in
Oxford," was applied to those indecorous circum-
ferences, which were supposed to be often used for
the purpose of concealing certain consequences which
shall be nameless.
The proverb, "As sure as God's m Gloucestershire,"
arose from the number of rich religious houses formerly
in that county ; and of two southern sees, it used to be
said, " Canterbury's the higher rack, but Winchester's
the better manger." Those who study "preferment"
may know that, now-a-days, both rack and manger
are best at Canterbury. In Shropshire they have an
awful proverb, "In Wotton under Weaver, where God
came never" In Lincolnshire, "He looks like the
Devil over Lincoln," is still applied to envious persons.
The Berkshire proverb of " The Vicar of Bray will be
Vicar of Bray still," is known over all England.
This celebrated vicar held his living under Henry
VIII., Edward VI., Queen Mary, and Queen
Elizabeth. He was first a Papist, then a Protestant,
then a Papist again, and lastly a Protestant. Being
taxed for a turn-coat ; "Not so," he replied ; "for I
always kept my principle, to live and die the Vicar of
Bray ! "
Many of the county proverbs are founded on local
peculiarities, popular weather-signs, &c. Thus, " The
bailifi of Bedford is coming," means the river Ouse
sweeping down on the Isle of Ely after a freshet.
"As plain as Dunstable road," is plain enough. In
Cumberland they say, —
If Skiddaw hath a cap,
Scruffell wots full well of that ;
a proverb used in token of sympathy for the suffering
of neighbours. And in Leicestershire they say, —
If Sever have a cap,
You churls of the valo look to that.
In Westmoreland, it is observed of any who would
violently alter or set at defiance the laws of
Nature, —
Let liter- Pendragon do what he can,
The river Eden will run as it ran.
Any act done solemnly and legally is said to be
"Done according to the use of Sarum," — a celebrated
Ordinal, or Office, having been promulgated in
England, by a Bishop of Sarum, in 1090, for the use
of the same words in the Liturgy, and which was
then received by the Church as an unquestionable
authority.
In Nottinghamshire, many of the old proverbs are
associated with Robin Hood, — that county being the
theatre of his chief exploits. Of these, we may cite
two : " Many talk of Robin Hood who never shot with
his bow," — that is, many prate of matters in which
they have no skill ; and " To sett Robin Hood's penny-
worths," is applied to the selling of stolen goods under
half their value.
The London proverbs of "Dine with Duke Hum-
phrey " (that is, going dimierless, walking round St.
Paul's, where Duke Humphrey was supposed to be
buried), — " Using one as bad as a Jew " (Jews having
their teeth extracted by royal operators, and being
made subject to all sorts of indignities in the good old
times), — "Tottenham turned French" (which arose
from the large influx of French artizans in the begin-
ning of Henry VIII. 's reign, but afterwards applied
to those who adopted French fashions and infections),
— " Fit for Ruffians' Hall" (as West-Smithfield was
formerly called), — "He will follow one like a St.
Anthony's pig" (St. Anthony being the patron saint
of hogs, but since applied to servile souls and lick-
spittle fellows), — "Born within the sound of Bow-
bells " (as applied to " Cockneys "), — " All goeth down
Gutter Lane" (originally from Guthurum Lane, in
the City, but now applied to gluttons and drunkards),
these are very old proverbs, which have been hun-
dreds of years in use.
There is only one other familiar provei'b that we
shall allude to, which is the well-known one of
ff Tenter den steeple the cause of Goodwin Sands," now
applied in derision to causes and results ludicrously
incongruous. Yet the assertion was seriously made,
and not without reason, by the old Kentishman who
first uttered the words now grown into a proverb.
"For those sands," said the old man, "were firm
lands before that steeple was built, which ever since
were overflown with sea-water." But where could be
the possible reason for making such an assertion ? It
lay in this ; — that a considerable sum of money was
collected for the purpose of fencing what were called
East Banks against the sea, then making rapid
encroachments along that part of the coast. But the
Bishop of Rochester, hearing of the collection of
money, ordered that its destination should be com-
muted to the building of Tenterden steeple. So
Tenterden steeple was built instead of the sea-wall,
and at the next great storm the sea broke in upon the
land, and Goodwin Sands were formed. Thus, the
old man of Kent was not without some solid ground
for his assertion, that " the building of Tenterden
steeple was the cause of Goodwin Sands ! "
MY MOTHER.
ALICE Dempster was what is called a pretty, comely
girl. She was not beautiful ; but she still could have
scarcely passed along the streets — even in England,
where beauty is perhaps less rare than in any country,
— without being noticed. She was the daughter of
a poor widow, in a village in Devonshire — that pic-
turesque and charming county. Mrs. Dempster had
been the wife of a sailor, who, out of his earnings, had
bought a cottage in his native hamlet, in which his
widow resided after his death. She had little else
save this cottage, if we except her daughter, who
was indeed a treasure of affection and love. But
then Alice was one of those frail and delicate beings
who give pain while they do pleasure to a parent's
heart. From about twelve to eighteen her mother
was her devoted nurse. Never was pale face, or
hectic cough, or meagre form, or constant languor,
watched with more intense anxiety by a parent's eye :
it seemed never off the young girl's face. Mrs.
Dempster had a lodger ; and he came off rather badly ;
but he never grumbled or complained ; he would,
on the contrary, sit with the poor widow, and comfort
h6r under her affliction, with a rude kindness of
manner which soon won her heart. John Morrison
was a railway clerk, with a small salary, at a station
about a mile off. He had lived with Mrs. Dempster
for six years, and had mainly directed the education of
little Alice. Of a studious and serious turn of thought,
he spent all his leisure hours .in reading. Mrs.
Dempster had sent Alice to school when a mere
child ; but a village educational establishment is not
usually the place to learn much in, and that of Dame
Potter was not an exception. But John Morrison
took a fancy to the little Alice ; and finding her fond
of study and her book, took great pains with her.
About the age of eighteen Alice outgrew her
ailments. Her cheeks filled out ; her eyes became
lustrous and clear ; her cheeks were rosy and bloom-
ing ; but Mrs. Dempster began to feel the effects of
her long vigils and constant watching. She moved
about with the tread of an old woman ; her appetite
372
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
began to fail her, and positions were gradually re-
versed. Before three months, a cozy armchair, in
the bright sun, by an open window, was the usual
place of the mother ; while Alice bustled about, did
the work of the house, and attended to the invalid.
Mrs. Dempster had no particular illness : she was
simply worn out with anxiety and fatigue. But if
she suffered, she had also her reward, for Alice was
now her devoted nurse.
But Alice was eighteen, and pretty, I have said ;
and the men made the discovery as well as her
mother. John Morrison — a sedate and grave young
man of eight-and-twenty — himself remarked it to Mrs.
Dempste : , as did soon many others. In the neighbour-
hood were several extensive farms, and, amongst others,
one belonging to Mr. Clifton. Mr. Clifton was very
rich, and had two sons, Walter and Edward. Walter
was a very handsome, lively, pleasant fellow, full of
generous impulses, but somewhat too fond of riotous
pleasures, of the bottle, and of cards. With plenty of
money at his disposal, he was the centre of a group
of frolickers that were, on many occasions, the alarm
of the whole country, and Walter Clifton was the
wildest of the lot. It is true that he was generous ; if
he broke a head, or damaged a field, he paid the
expense ; and if he broke a heart, he was sorry for it.
One hot summer's day, Alice was sitting sewing by
her mother's side ; the window was open, and the
warm air poured in upon the face of the invalid. Her
eyes were pleasantly fixed on the honeysuckle, jas-
mine, and clematis, which twined round the window,
and the rose-trees that filled the strip of garden
before the house, but more pleasantly still on the
innocent, sweet face of her child. Suddenly two
horsemen pulled up before the window; they had
often been noticed before, but this was the first time
they had ever halted.
" Mrs. Dempster," said a dark, handsome young
man, — while the other, a fair youth, held back, and
blushed, — " we have pulled up to ask for a drink of
milk, or beer, or anything you can give us. It is a
long time since we have drunk anything in your
house, but it will be with pleasure we shall renew
the custom."
"Welcome! welcome, Master Clifton," replied
Mrs. Dempster, without rising ; " it is indeed a long
time since you used to come and listen to my poor
husband's stories, and drink his goat's milk."
" A. long time ; when your daughter Alice, there,
was six years old," replied Clifton, "and Ned and I
were sprigs of boys. Poor Mr. Dempster, we missed
him very much when we came home from school."
" He often talked of you when he came home from
Ins voyages," said Mrs. Dempster, as the young men
were shown in by Alice.
"I suppose you have forgotten us," continued
Walter, addressing Alice, by whom he had sat down.
"No," exclaimed the young girl, blushing; "I
have forgotten neither of my old friends — Wally nor
Ned."
Meanwhile Alice was bustling about, preparing a
plain, but wholesome lunch of bread and cheese, to
which the gentlemen did ample justice. This done,
they remained an hour in conversation ; Walter
chiefly addressing himself to Alice, Edward to the
mother.
From that day, Walter became a regular, Edward
an occasional visitor. Walter soon allowed his ad-
miration of Alice to peep forth ; he lost no opportunity
of speaking with his eyes, and soon began to whisper
words of affection. Alice listened with downcast
looks, but made scarcely any reply. After about a
month, Mrs. Dempster asked him to take tea, and
spend the evening. She perceived .the dawning
passion which was rising on both sides ; and as she
saw no disproportion, except in fortune, between a
rich farmer and a merchant captain's daughter, she
was inclined to foster the feeling for her child's sake.
John Morrison was to be of the party : Mrs. Dempster
had confided to him her secret ; and, after one or two
objections to the character of the young man, he
consented to be present. It was about an hour
before tea-time when he came to this resolution ; and
as soon as he had done so, he went into the garden.
John Morrison was a pale, good-looking man, of
moderate stature. He had no pretensions to be
handsome, but no one would have looked at him
without noticing his marked and speaking counte-
nance ; to admire, not its beauty, but its power and
intellect. But why is he now so overcast and sad ?
Let us listen, and we may hear.
"And is it for this I have trained her up ? Is it
for this I have devoted my existence to her for seven
years, — for in the girl I saw the dawning woman, — to
be the victim of this wild and reckless youth, who
will break her heart? But she will be rich, easy,
comfortable. Well ! if she could be happy I should
be glad ; but Walter Clifton loves with the love of a
boy, — a love of impulse, — give him his toy, and he
will break it."
" What are you talking to your self about so freely 1 "
cried Alice, tripping from behind some bushes where
she had been culling flowers for the evening. " But
how pale and ill you look ! Shall I get you any-
thing ? "
" No, Alice. I am very well in body ; but the
mind is ill at ease.
"Are you ill, John? — my friend, my brother — '
" Ah yes ! " cried he, passionately, " there it is ; I
have been a fool ; I have taught you to treat me as
a brother, and the idea could never enter your head
of thinking of me as aught else."
" Certainly not," said Alice, anxiously.
" But it had mine, Alice ! " cried John, forgetting
all reserve and prudence, " ever since you were twelve
years old, I looked on you as one who might be
my future wife. Six years have passed, six long and
happy years, — nearly seven,- — during which, each day
I have loved you more and more. I waited and
waited, putting off the day of declaration until you
were quite a young woman ; and it is now too late."
Alice groaned, astounded, hurt, and pained to the
last degree.
"Too late," said the usually calm young man, in
tones of deep and wildly passionate feeling, "and all
my dreams are fled. I hoped, if heaven blessed me
with your affection, to be xinited to you on your nine-
teenth birthday ; we could then have made my two
rooms up stairs ours, and have left your mother hers.
She would have found no change, save that in place of
one child she would have had two."
" Oh John, John ! why did you not speak before ?
I never thought — I never supposed — I — I — "
"Alice, it was not to be. So, no more of it. I
must go away — not just yet, it would startle your
dear mothei*, but by-and-by."
"My friend, my brother," exclaimed Alice, as she
gazed on his pallid face, flashing eyes, and trembling
lip.
" Say no more, dear girl. Be happy with the man
of your choice. You have the prayers and good
wishes of John Morrison."
And the young man turned away, and went up to
his room. An hour later, he sat down to the tea-table
of Mrs. Dempster, far calmer than poor Alice, who
scarcely had courage to look up. The talk was
varied, and generally trifling, Walter not being one
of those who can think sufficiently seriously to con-
verse in any other way. Presently he spoke of a
grand subscription ball for the following Thursday, to
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
373
which he invited Alice, in the name of his mother
and sisters, who would call for her in their old-
fashioned carriage.
-"But I cannot go," said Alice, quietly, while,
despite herself, her eyes flashed with pleasure at the
idea ; " niy mother cannot remain alone ; besides, I
dance very indifferently."
"My dear Alice," said John, in a kind tone, "I
will take care of your mamma. We will sit up for
you until any hour of the night ; go : it will do you
good, you who never go out."
" Yes ; go by all means," added Mrs. Dempster.
"Now you cannot refuse," continued Walter,
shaking Morrison's hand heartily ; " I, Mary, and Jane
will be round at seven ; so, mind, — be ready."
After he was gone there were rare discussions that
night. Alice had no dress to go in ; that had never
been thought of. Mrs. Dempster thought more of
her daughter than of herself, it is true, but a ball
dress is a serious affair with persons of small income.
After supper the debate was resumed, but with no
satisfactory result, so all went to bed. About eleven
o'clock next day, while Alice was tm-ning out all her
finery in search of something suitable, a man entered
with a parcel for Mrs. Dempster. It contained a
I beautiful ball-dress, sent by Morrison, who had risen
! early, and gone into town on purpose to purchase
it. Alice turned pale, and sat down ; but, recovering
herself, bent over the kind present to hide her tears.
Mrs. Dempster — good arid proud mother — was in
ecstacies, both at the dress and the donor, and im-
mediately sat down to a table to begin cutting out.
When John came home that night his greeting was
indeed hearty and warm. The mother declared that
he was more than a son to her, while Alice said
scarce a word. Her look, however, was eloquent
indeed. It expressed gratitude, pity, sorrow, — a
thousand mingled shades of feeling which words could
not have expressed. John was rather serious in his
manner and tone, but by no word or look did he
betray his peculiar state of feelings. He sat reading
to them all that evening, while they worked at the
dress ; and even made pleasant and jocular remarks
on Alice's taste for finery and dancing with such
success as to remove from the young girl's mind all
remains of uneasiness. She was the more easily
consoled, that John seemed to her rather old to be
her husband. Walter was three-and-twenty, John
was twenty-eight ; Walter was handsome, John was
plain ; the one was lively and gay, the other serious.
Now, all this, to a young girl of eighteen with little
experience, rendered comparison useless.
The evening of the ball soon came round. At
seven Alice was ready dressed : and John Morrison
looked at her with undisguised admiration, while
her mother was — naturally enough — in raptures, — as
mothers always are when they gaze on their fair and
charming offspring. About half-past seven the carriage
came. There were Walter and Edward, and the two
Misses Clifton (the mother was indisposed), who were
all in ecstacies with Alice. They did not stop long ;
for all were young, and all were eager for the hour
when music should invite them to join the dance, —
an amusement — when it leads not too often to late
hours — both healthful and conducive to cheerfulness
of mind.
John Morrison remained with Mrs. Dempster
despite the efforts of the Cliftons to take him with
them. For some time nothing was spoken of but
the beauty and grace and elegance of Alice ; then
the conversation turned towards the subject of her
marriage with Walter — he having distinctly announced
his intention to make a formal demand of her hand
on the Saturday, if he obtained the young girl's con-
sent that night. John bit his lip ; and, to change
the conversation, opened a book and read aloud.
Mrs. Dempster listened awhile ; and then, the still-
ness and quiet, the silent night asserted its influence,
and she fell asleep. John continued reading for
about half-an-hour ; but then he laid down his book
and fell into a deep reverie. He was half asleep and
half awake for houi-s. Suddenly he started up as
the clock struck four, and found Mrs. Dempster
preparing tea.
" Not home yet," said John, smiling, — "the little
dissipated girl."
"It is so seldom she goes out," replied Mrs.
Dempster, " I do not expect her home yet."
At this moment the sound of carriage-wheels was
heard. There were two — not one. They threw open
the casement. It was daylight ; and within a hundred
yards they discovered the carriage and a gig side by
side. Alice was in the gig, driven by Walter, while
some friends filled the vacant places in the other
vehicle. They came up at a rapid pace, and pulled
up at the door. Alice leaped out ; then, with a bow,
and a "good morning," the party sped away home-
ward. As she entered the room, both noticed that
all Alice's elasticity of step, — all her spirits, — all her
liveliness, was gone.
"You are tired, love," said her mother, kindly;
" here is a nice cup of tea ; you look serious. I
suppose Master Walter has been proposing to you.
I suppose, too, I shall have him here on Saturday, as
he threatened, and shall lose my child next. Never
look so serious. It is quite natural ; and I do not say
it by way of reproach."
"Mamma," replied Alice, gravely, "I have had
two offers this week — one on Monday last, arid one
this morning. You look surprised, Mamma; and
you, my dear friend, look vexed. I should be sorry
if the conclusion of my words should pain you. On
Monday, I accidentally discovered that John Morrison
here had loved me as his future wife for six years — "
"John!" exclaimed the mother, looking at them i
both with an air of unmixed astonishment.
"Yes, for six years; and I scorned his love. I
thought him too old, too grave, for me ; and I owned j
my affection for Walter. This morning Mr. Clifton
made me an offer of his hand and heart, and I re-
jected him."
" Kejected him ! " cried both in amazement.
"I rejected him," replied Alice, gravely; "and
when I had done so, I reflected seriously ; and, dear
mamma, and dear John, if you both will consent, I
wish from this day to be considered the future wife of
John Morrison."
"Alice, why is this?" exclaimed Mrs. Dempster,
who was naturally at first in favour of the rich
husband.
"My Alice;" cried John; "this is too much happi-
ness."
" Why is this ? " replied Alice, earnestly ; " because
John is generous and good, and Walter is selfish ;
because John loves you, and Walter treats you as an
incumbrance and a bore. I declare to you, mother,
dear, that I now love John as much more than I did
Walter, as I love you more than a stranger."
"But speak, Alice, dear," cried the enraptured
young man ; " explain all this."
"It is our mother who shall judge," replied Alice ;
" I will record two conversations now clearly fixed
on my memory, word by word, but only one of which
I shall recollect after this morning."
She then related, word for word, what had passed
between her and John, and afterwards the scene
between her and Walter in the gig.
" I have begged you to ride alone with me," said
Clifton, warmly, "that I may pour out my feelings
to you. I love you, dearest, with all my heart and
374
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
soul ; I wish you to share my fortunes ; to be my
wife at once — immediately. My friends have already
consented ; your mother has hinted her gladness to
acquiesce ; we all wait your consent."
"Walter," replied Alice, with downcast eyes,
" before you go any further, I have something to say
to you which may change your sentiments. I have
a mother who is alone in the world ; she has nobody
to love her or nurse her ; as long as she lives, I
can never leave her. She has for many years been
my devoted nurse ; wherever I go, there must she
be."
"Oh! but this is nonsense, Alice," cried Walter,
impatiently; " I have enough of old people at home ;
I mean to travel for a year or two in France, in
Italy, and to return only when I come into my pro-
perty."
"Then, Walter Clifton," said Alice, raising her
head, and speaking firmly, " I can never be your
wife ; you must seek one differently situated to my-
self. No ! Mr. Clifton, I would not leave my mother
for one I had loved for years, much more for one I
have but known a month."
' ' But every one parts from their parents when they
marry," said Walter, pettishly; "you must be mad ;
on the one hand, a young, and fond, and rich husband ;
all the pleasures of continental life, — of Paris, of
Italy : on the other, a dull home, alongside an old,
ailing woman, with the prospect of being the wife of
a prig of a clerk, perhaps, like John Morrison."
"Enough, Mr. Clifton," replied Alice, firmly, and
almost angrily ; "if now you were to consent a thou-
sand times to all I could ask, I would not be your
wife."
" You never loved me," said Walter, whose anger
was roused almost to frenzy.
" I never did ; I was dazzled for a while because I
knew you not. I saw you handsome, and agreeable,
and seemingly generous. I find you selfish and un-
generous. But pardon me, such observations come
with very ill grace from me. We can still be
friends."
"Friends!" laughed Walter fiercely; "not I;
idiot that I was to believe in a woman's love — in a
girl's, I mean, — not a woman's — who has not yet got
over her mammy-sickness."
" You forget yourself, Mr. Clifton," said Alice,
with a smile of pity.
"And now, mamma," asked she, after she had
repeated both conversations with scrupulous fidelity,
" do you approve the choice I have made between my
two suitors."
"Heartily, my dear girl," replied Mrs. Dempster,
taking their two hands, "you are worthy of each
other."
Happy John Morrison ! Happy Alice ! The bells
are ringing, — if not human bells, those rung by
angels at so bright a union, which truly must have
been made in heaven. And then, John Morrison
got promoted a week after, and the wedding took
place amid pleasant and joyous smiles, and all three
went to Paris to spend the honeymoon ; and there
they are now — strange to say — and there I learned
their story. Before the first month of their marriage,
John came into some property worth about five
hundred a-year. Paris seemed to suit Mrs. Dempster,
and it was agreed to stay there. The cottage was
let, and a similar one hired for the summer, near the
wood of Boulogne. Here now dwell Mrs. Dempster
and her two children. The young couple are very
happy ; they love each other with earnest affection,
and, unlike Clifton, — who has married an heiress
whom he neglects, — have never found their happi-
ness in any way marred by the presence of their
mother in their quiet home.
CURIOSITIES OF GREAT MEN.— THEIR
MOMENTS OF COMPOSITION.
AMONG the curious facts which we find in perusing
the biographies of great men, are the circumstances
connected with the composition of the works which
have made them immortal.
For instance, Bossuet composed his grand sermons on
his knees ; Bulwer wrote his first novels in full dress,
scented ; Milton, before commencing his great work,
invoked the influence of the Holy Spirit, and prayed
that his lips might be touched with a live coal from
off the altar ; Chrysostom meditated and studied while
contemplating a painting of Saint Paul.
Bacon knelt down before composing his great work,
and prayed for light from Heaven. Pope never could
compose well without first declaiming for some time
at the top of his voice, and thus rousing his nervous
system to its fullest activity.
Bentham composed after playing a prelude on the
organ, or whilst taking his "ante-jentacular" and
"postprandial " walks in his garden — the same, by the
way, that Milton occupied. Saint Bernard composed
his Meditations amidst the woods ; he delighted in
nothing so much as the solitude of the dense forest,
finding there, he said, something more profound and
suggestive than anything he could find in books.
The storm would sometimes fall upon him there,
without for a moment interrupting his meditations.
Camoens composed his verses with the roar of battle
in his ears ; for the Portuguese poet was a soldier, and
a brave one though a poet. He composed others of
his most beautiful verses, at the time when his Indian
slave was begging a subsistence for him in the streets.
Tasso wrote his finest pieces in the lucid intervals of
madness.
Rousseau wrote his works early in the morning ;
Le Sage, at midday ; Byron, at midnight. Hardouin
rose at four in the morning, and wrote till late at
night. Aristotle was a tremendous worker ; he took
little sleep, and was constantly retrenching it. He
had a contrivance by which he awoke early, and to
awake was with him to commence work. Demo-
sthenes passed three months in a cavern by the sea-
side, in labouring to overcome the defects of his
voice. There he read, studied, and declaimed.
Rabelais composed his Life of Gargantua at Bellay,
in the company of Roman cardinals, and under the
eyes of the Bishop of Paris. La Fontaine wrote his
fables chiefly under the shade of a tree, and some-
times by the side of Racine and Boileau. Pascal
wrote most of his Thoughts on li ttle scraps of paper,
at his by-moments. Fenelon wrote his Telemachus
in the palace of Versailles, at the court of the Grand
Monarque, when discharging the duties of tutor to
the Dauphin. That a book so thoroughly democratic
should have issued from such a source, and been
written by a priest, may seem surprising. De Quesnay
first promulgated his notion of universal freedom, of
person and trade, and of throwing all taxes on the
land — the germ, perhaps, of the French Revolution —
in the boudoir of Madame de Pompadour !
Luther, when studying, always had his dog lying
at his feet — a dog he had brought from Wartburg,
and of which he was very fond. An ivory crucifix
stood on the table be'fore him, and the walls of his
study were stuck round with caricatures of the Pope.
He Avorked at his .desk for days together without
going out ; but when fatigued, and the ideas began
to stagnate in his brain, he would take his flute or
his guitar with him into the porch, and there execute
some musical fantasy (for he was a skilful musician),
when the ideas would flow upon him again as fresh
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
375
as flowers after summer's rain. Music was his invari-
able solace at such times. Indeed, Luther did not
hesitate to say, that after theology, music was the
first of arts. "Music," said he, "is the art of the
prophets ; it is the only other art, which, like theo-
logy, can calm the agitations of the soul, and put the
devil to flight." Next to music, if not before it,
Luther loved children and flowers. That great,
gnarled man, had a heart as tender as a woman's.
Calvin studied in his bed. Every morning, at five
or six o'clock, he had books, manuscripts, and papers,
carried to him there, and he worked on for hours
together. If he had occasion to go out, on his return
he undressed and went to bed again to continue his
studies. In his later years he dictated his writings
to secretaries. He rarely corrected anything. The
sentences issued complete from his mouth. If he felt
his facility of composition leaving him, he forthwith
quitted his bed, gave up writing and composing, and
went about his out-door duties for days, weeks, and
months, together. But so soon as he felt the inspira-
tion fall upon him again, he went back to his bed, and
his secretary set to work forthwith.
Cujas, another learned man, used to study when
laid all his length upon the carpet, his face towards
the floor, and there he revelled amidst piles of books
which accumulated about him. The learned Amyot
never studied without the harpsicord beside him ;
and he only quitted the pen to play it. Bentham,
also, was extremely fond of the pianoforte, and had
one in nearly every room in his house.
Richelieu amused himself in the intervals of his
labour, with a squadron of cats, of whom he was very
fond. He used to go to bed at eleven at night, and
after sleeping three hours, rise and write, dictate, or
work, till from six to eight o'clock in the morning,
when his daily levee was held. This worthy student
displayed an extravagance equalling that of Wolsey.
His annual expenditure was some four millions of
francs, or about £170,000 sterling !
How different the fastidious temperance of Milton !
He drank water and lived on the humblest fare. In
his youth, he studied during the greatest part of the
night ; but in his more advanced years he went early
to bed — by nine o'clock — rising to his studies at four
in summer and five in winter. He studied till mid-
day ; then he took an hour's exercise, and after dinner
he sang and played the organ, or listened to others'
music. He studied again till six, and from that hour
till eight he engaged in conversation with friends
who came to see him. Then he supped, smoked a
pipe of tobacco, drank a glass of water, and went to
bed. Glorious visions came to him in the night, for .
it was then, while lying on his couch, that he com-
posed in thought the greater part of his sublime
poem. Sometimes when the fit of composition came
strong upon him, he would summon his daughter to
his side, to commit to paper that which he had com-
Milton was of opinion that the verses composed by
him between the autumnal and spring equinoxes
were always the best, and he was never satisfied with
the verses he had written at any other season.
Alfie'ri, on the contrary, said that the equinoctial
winds produced a state ofalmost "complete stupidity"
in him. Like the nightingales, he could only sing
in summer. It was his favourite season.
Pierre Corneille, in his. loftiest flights of imagina-
tion, was often brought to a stand still for want of
words and rhyme. Thoughts were seething in his
brain, which he vainly tried to reduce to order, and
he would often run to his brother Thomas "for a
word." Thomas rarely failed him. Sometimes, in
his fits of inspiration, he would bandage his eyes,
throw himself on a sofa, and dictate to his wife, who
almost worshipped his genius. Thus he would pass
whole days, dictating to her his great tragedies ; his
wife scarcely venturing to speak, almost afraid to
breathe. Afterwards, when a tragedy was finished,
he would call in his sister Martha, and submit it to
her judgment ; as Moliere used to consult his old
housekeeper about the comedies he had newly
written.
Racine composed his verses while walking about,
reciting them in a loud voice. One day, when thus
working at his play of Mithridates, in the Tuileries
Gardens, a crowd of workmen gathered around him,
attracted by his gestures ; they took him to be a
madman about to throw himself into the basin.
On his return home from such walks, he would write
down scene by scene, at first in prose, and when
he had thus written it out, he would exclaim, —
" My tragedy is done," considering the dressing of the
acts up in verse as a very small affair.
Magliabecchi, the learned librarian to the Duke of
Tuscany, on the contrary, never stirred abroad, but
lived amidst books, and almost lived upon books.
They were his bed, board, and washing. He passed
eight and forty years in their midst, only twice in the
course of his life venturing beyond the walls of
Florence ; once to go two leagues off, and the other
time three and a-half leagues, by order of the Grand
Duke. He was an extremely frugal man, living upon
eggs, bread, and water, in great moderation.
The life of Liebnitz was one of reading, writing,
and meditation. That was the secret of his pro-
digious knowledge. After an attack of gout, he
confined himself to a diet of bread and milk. Often
he slept in a chair ; and rarely went to bed till after
midnight. Sometimes he was months without quitting
his seat, where he slept by night and wrote by day.
He had an ulcer in his right leg which prevented his
walking about, even had he wished to do so.
The chamber in which Montesquieu wrote his Spirit
of the Laws, is still shown at his old ancestral mansion ;
hung about with its old tapestry and curtains ; and
the old easy chair in which the philosopher sat is
still sacredly preserved there. The chimney-jam
bears the mark of his foot, where he used to rest upon
it, his legs crossed, when composing his books. His
Persian Letters were composed merely for pastime,
and were never intended for publication. The prin-
ciples of Laws occupied his life. In the study of
these he spent twenty years, losing health and eye-
sight in the pursuit. As in the case of Milton, his
daughter read for him, and acted as his secretary.
In his Portrait of himself, he said — " I awake in the
morning rejoiced at the sight of day. I see the sun
with a kind of ecstasy, and for the rest of the day I
am content. I pass the night without waking, and
in the evening, when I go to bed, a kind of numbness
prevents me indulging in reflections. With me,
study has been the sovereign remedy against disgust
of life, having never had any vexation which an hour's
reading has not dissipated. But I have the disease
of making books, and of being ashamed when I have
made them."
Rousseau had the greatest difficulty in composing
his works, being extremely defective in the gift of
memory. He could never learn six verses by heart.
In his Confessions he says, — "I studied and medi-
tated in bed, forming sentences with inconceivable
difficulty ; then, when I thought I had got them into
shape, I would rise to put them on paper. But lo !
I often entirely forgot them during the process of
dressing ! " He would then walk abroad to refresh
himself by the aspect of nature, and under its influ-
ence his most successful writings were composed.
He was always leaving books which he carried about
with him at the foot of trees, or by the margin of
370
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
fountains. He sometimes wrote his books over from
beginning to end, four or five times, before giving
them to the press. Some of his sentences cost him
four or five nights' study. He thought with diffi-
culty, and wrote with still greater. It is astonishing
that, with such a kind of intellect, he should have
been able to do so much.
The summer study of the famous Buffon, atMoutbar,
is still shown, just as he left it. It is a little room
in a pavilion, reached by mounting a ladder, through
a green door with two folds. The place looks sim-
plicity itself. The apartment is vaulted like some
old chapel, and the walls are painted green. The
floor is paved with tiles. A writing-table of plain
wood stands in the centre, and before it is an easy
chair. That is all ! The place was the summer study
of Buffon. In winter, he had a warmer room within
his house, where he wrote his Natural History. There,
on his desk, his pen still lies, and by the side of it,
on his easy chair, his red dressing-gown and cap of
grey silk. On the wall near to where he sat, hangs
an engraved portrait of Newton. There, and in his
garden cabinet, he spent many years of his life,
studying and writing books. He studied his work
entitled Epoques de la Nature for fifty years, and
wrote it over eighteen times before publishing it !
What would our galloping authors say to that ?
Buffon used to work on pages of five distinct
columns, like a ledger. In the first column he wrote
out the first draught ; in the second he corrected,
added, pruned, and improved ; thus proceeding until
he had reached the fifth column, in which he finally
wrote out the result of his labour. But this was not
all. He would sometimes re- write a sentence twenty
times, and was once fourteen hours in finding the
proper word for the turning of a period ! Buffon
knew nearly all his works by heart.
On the contrary, Cuvier never re-copied what he
had once written. He composed with great rapidity,
correctness, and precision. His mind was always in
complete order, and his memory was exact and
extensive.
Some writers have been prodigiously laborious in
the composition of their works. Caesar had, of gourse,
an immense multiplicity of business, as a general, to
get through ; but he had always a secretary by his
side, even when on horseback, to whom he dictated ;
and often he occupied two or three secretaries at once.
His famous Commentaries are said to have been com-
posed mostly on horseback.
Seneca was very laborious. " I have not a single
idle day," said he, describing his life, " and I give a
part of every night to study. I do not give myself
up to sleep, but succumb to it. I have separated
myself from society, and renounced all the distractions
of life." With many of these old heathens, study was
their religion.
Pliny the Elder read two thousand volumes in the
composition of his Natural History. How to find
time for this ? He managed it by devoting his days
to business and his nights to study. He had books
read to him while he was at meals ; and he read
no book without making extracts. His nephew,
Pliny the Younger, has given a highly interesting
account of the intimate and daily life of his uncle.
Origen employed seven writers while composing his
Commentaries, who committed to paper what he
dictated to them by turns. He was so indefatigable
in writing that they gave him the name of Brats
Bowels ! Like Philip de Comines, Sully used to dictate
to four secretaries at a time, without difficulty.
Bossuet left fifty volumes of writings behind him,
the result of unintermitting labour. The pen rarely
quitted his fingers. Writing became habitual to him,
and he even chose it as a relaxation. A night-lamp
was constantly lit beside him, and he would rise at all
hours to resume his meditations. He rose at about
four o'clock in the morning during summer and
winter, wrapped himself in his loose dress of bear's
skin, and set to work. He worked on for hours,
until he felt fatigued, and then went to bed again,
falling asleep at once. This life he led for more than
twenty years. As he grew older, and became disabled
for hard work, he began translating the Psalms into
verse, to pass time. In the intervals of fatigue and
pain, he read and corrected his former works.
Some writers composed with great rapidity, others
slowly and with difficulty. Byron said of himself,
that though he felt driven to write, and he was in a
state of torture until he had fairly delivered him-
self of what he had to say, yet, that writing never
gave him any pleasure, but was felt to be a severe
labour. Scott, on the contrary, possessed the most
extraordinary facility ; and dashed off a great novel
of three volumes in about the same number of weeks.
" I have written Cataline in eight days," said
Voltaire ; " and I immediately commenced the
Henriadc." Voltaii'e was a most impatient writer,
and usually had the first half of a work set up
in type before the second half was written. He
always had several works in the course of composi-
tion at the same time. His manner of preparing a
work was peculiar. He had his first sketch of a
tragedy set up in type, and then re-wrote it from
the proofs. Balzac adopted the same plan. The
printed form enabled them to introduce effects, and
correct errors more easily.
Pascal wrote most of his thoughts on little scraps
of paper, at his by moments of leisure. He produced
them with immense rapidity. He wrote in a kind of
contracted language — like short hand — impossible to
read, except by those who had studied it. It
resembled the impatient and fiery scratches of
Napoleon ; yet, though half-formed, the characters
have the firmness and precision of the graver.
Someone observed to Faguere (Pascal's editor), "this
work (deciphering it) must be very fatiguing to the
eyes." " No," said he, " it is not the eyes that are
fatigued, so much as the brain."
Many authors have been distinguished for the
fastidiousness of their composition, — never resting
satisfied, but correcting and re-correcting to the last
moment. Cicero spent his old age in correcting his
orations ; Massillon, in polishing his sermons ; Fenelon
corrected his Telemaclms seven times over.
Of thirty verses which Virgil wrote in the morning,
there were only ten left at night. Milton often cut
down forty verses to twenty. Buffon would condense
six, pages into as many paragraphs. Montaigne,
instead of cutting down, amplified and added to his
first sketch. Boileau had great difficulty in making
his verses. He said, — "If I write four words, I erase
three of them ; " and at another time, — " I sometimes
hunt three hours for a rhyme ! "
Some authors were never satisfied with their work.
Virgil ordered his JEneid to be burnt. Voltaire cast
his poem of The League into the fire. Kacine and
Scott could not bear to read their productions again.
Michael Angelo was always dissatisfied ; he found
faults in his greatest and most admired works.
Many of the most admired writings were never
intended by their authors for publication. Fenelon,
when he wrote Telemadius, had no intention of pub-
lishing it. Voltaire's Correspondence was never in-
tended fur publication, and yet it is perused with
avidity ; whereas his Henriade, so often corrected by
him, is scarcely read. Madame de Sevigne, in writing
to her daughter those fascinating letters descriptive
of the life of the French Court, never had any idea
of their publication, or that they would be cited as
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
377
models of composition and style. What work of
Johnson's is best known ? Is it not that by Boswell,
which contains the great philosopher's conversation ?
— that which he never intended should come to light,
and for which we have to thank Bozzy.
There is a great difference in the sensitiveness of
authors to criticism. Sir Walter Scott passed thirteen
years without reading what the critics or reviewers
said of his writings ; while Byron was sensitive to
an excess about what was said of him. It was the
reviewers who stung him into his first work of genius
— English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Racine was
very sensitive to criticism ; and poor Keats was
"snuffed out by an article." Moliere was thrown
into a great rage when his plays were badly acted.
One day, after Tartuffe had been played, an actor
found him stamping about as if mad, and beating his
head, crying, — " Ah ! dog ! Ah ! butcher ! " On
being asked what was the matter, he replied, — " Don't
be surprised at my emotion ! I have just been
.seeing an actor falsely and execrably declaiming my
piece ; and I cannot see my children maltreated in
this horrid way, without suffering the tortures of the
damned!" The first time Voltaire's Artemise was
played, it was hissed. Voltaire, indignant, sprang to
his feet in his box, and addressed the audience ! At
another time, at Lausanne, where an actress seemed
fully to apprehend his meaning, he rushed upon the
stage and embraced her knees !
A great deal might be said about the first failures
of authors and orators. Demosthenes stammered,
and was almost inaudible, when he first tried to speak
before Philip. He seemed like a man moribund.
Other orators have broken down, like Demosthenes,
in their first effort. Curran tried to speak, for the
first time, at a meeting of the Irish Historical Society.
But the words died on his lips, and he sat down
amid titters, — an individual present characterizing
him as orator Mum. Boileau broke down as an
advocate, and so did Cowper, our own poet. Mon-
tesquieu and Bentham were also failures in the same
profession, but mainly through disgust with it.
Addison, when a member of the House of Commons,
once rose to speak, but he could not overcome his
diffidence, and ever after remained silent.
RE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS.
WEALTH.
WHAT is wealth ? ye worldly knaves,
Mammon's crew of fettered slaves —
Ye who seem to know so well
What is wealth— I bid ye tell !
Spendthrift young and miser grey,
All may guess what ye will say ;
Millions cry, " 'Tis gold alone ! "
And millions echo back the tone.
What is wealth ? ask all around — •
We hear men breathe one common sound
We see them turn with eager stare
To gaze upon "the richest heir."
The maiden weds, and we are told
Weds well, because her lord hath gold.
Ye fools ! and is there nothing more
Worth calling wealth but yellow ore ?
Hath GOD dispensed to mortal share
Naught else to claim our ceaseless care ?
Is there no music we can think
So perfect as the ducat's chink ?
No Eden left to wander through,
Save the deep caverns of Peru ?
Is wealth a blessing none can hold
Save in the shape of worshipped "gold ? "
Oh, hoodwinked creatures that we are !
To see but one soul-guiding star,
When there are myriad rays of light
More pure, more warm, and full as bright !
Riches, what are ye ? oh, how blind
Is he who cannot, — will not, — find
The choicest " wealth " held from above
In peaceful health and trusting love.
Who shall say what the boon is worth,
To rise from slumber, and go forth
To shout, to leap, to laugh, to run,
'Twixt the green sod and golden SUD. ?
To see the mountain high and wide,
And feel that we can climb its side,
And breathe upon that mountain peak
With bounding limb and mantling cheek !
Oh, who would weigh the coffer chest
Against a fond and faithful breast ?
Who would not rather bear to part
With all before a clinging heart ?
What though no gleaming gem may deck
The arm that twines about our neck,
Does not that arm keep out the cold
Better than stately cloth of gold ?
Riches, what are ye ? let us look
Abroad upon the gushing brook,
Where the cool tide pours fast and clear,
Fresh to the pilgrim as the peer !
Let our steps wander where the mead
Fattens the wild bee and the steed :
These, these are " wealth," ye sons of dust,
That does not " fly " nor " gather rust."
Go, taste the morning's spicy breeze,
That plays among the forest trees !
Go, loiter in the noontide ray
That flashes on the harvest day !
Go, dream in evening's twilight hour
With nestling bird and closing flower !
No lock is placed, no bar, no wall, —
These, these are " wealth " that's free to all.
Go where the lime and citron spread
Their branches round the wearied head !
Go where the bloomy clusters shine,
And myrtles mingle with the vine !
Was it not said of one of old,
Great with his glory and his gold,
That he, in all his pomp must yield
To the sweet " lilies of the field ? "
Wealth, wealth ! oh, GOD has given much
Of treasure that we deem not such ;
And lips of truth will quickly own
Riches dwell not in gold alone.
Toil on, vain man ! and think no fame
Like that which marks a Croesus' name ;
But sadly poor are they who hold
No wealth that's dearer than their gold.
378
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
SONG OF THE BLIND ONE.
THEY talk of rainbows in the sky, and blossoms on the
earth,
They sing the beauty of the stars in songs of love and
mirth ;
They say the mountain-sod is fair — they tell of dew-
drops bright,
They praise the sun that warms the day, and moon
that cheers the night.
I do not sigh to watch the sky, I do not care to see
The lustre-drop on green-hill top, or fruit upon the
tree ;
I've prayed to have my lids unsealed, but 'twas not to
behold
The pearly dawn of misty morn, or evening cloud of
gold.
No, no, my Mary, I would turn from flower, star, and
sun,
For well I know thou'rt fairer still, my own, my
gentle one.
I hear the music others deem most eloquent and
sweet,
The merry lark above my head — the cricket at my
feet ;
The laughing tones of childhood's glee that gladden
while they ring,
The robin in the winter time — the cuckoo in the
spring ;
But never do I think those tones so beautiful as
thine,
When kind words from a kinder heart confirm that
heart is mine.
There is no melody of sound that bids my soul rejoice,
As when I hear my simple name breathed by thy
happy voice ;
And, Mary, I will ne'er believe that flower, star, or
sun
Can ever be so bright as thee, my true, my gentle
one.
STANZAS.
TRUTH ! Truth ! where is the sound
Of thy calm, unflattering voice to be found ?
We may go to the Senate, where Wisdom rules,
And find but deceived or deceiving fools :
Who dare trust the sages of old,
When one shall unsay what another has told ?
And even the lips of childhood and youth
But rarely echo the tones of truth.
We hear the choral anthem hymn
Pealing along the cloisters dim ;
We hear the priest in his eloquent pride
Bless those of his faith, and none beside :
We hear the worshippers gathered there
Muttering forth the lengthy prayer ;
But few of the throng shall come or depart
With the peaceful truth of a lowly heart.
Truth ! Truth ! thy echoes are mute
In the tyrant's oath and the courtier's salute ;
The Bacchanal screams in his maniac laugh, —
The hermit groans o'er his pilgrim staff;
But hollow and wild is the maniac's glee,
The penance is false as penance can be j
And Love itself has learned to lie,
In the faithless vow and unfelt sigh.'
Where then, oh Truth, may thy voice be found ? —
In the welcoming bay of a faithful hound.
Thy form is seen and thy breathing heard
In the leaping fawn and warbling bird.
There is truth in the soft sweet tones that come
In the ringdove's coo and the honey-bee's hum ;
In the dabbling stream, whose ripples gem
The lily cup and bulrush stem.
There is truth in the south wind stealing by,
'Neath the clear blue span of a sunlit sky ;
When it hardly deigns in its perfumed way
To rustle the leaves on the topmost spray :
There is truth in the grasshopper's twittering song ;
In the owlet's night shriek, loud and strong ;
In the steed's glad neigh on the grassy plain,
In the sea-mew's cry on the stormy main.
There is truth, good truth, in the ringing stroke
Of the axe that is felling the giant oak ;
In the shrivelled leaves that the hollow blast flings
To dance at our feet, — cold sapless things !
In the tumbling stone that tears away
The ivy branch from the ruin grey ;
In the billow that bears on its crystal car
The rock-torn plank and shattered spar.
There is nothing that saint or sage may tell
Can school the bosom half so well,
As the chink of the sexton's polished spade,
Digging a grave 'neath the yew-tree's shade.
Truth ! Truth is there ! You may hear her tones
In the rattling heap of gathered bones ;
" Live but to die " is her lesson to man,
— And learn a wiser if ye can.
RAILWAYS IN LONDON.
THE scheme of a grand network of Railways for the
city of London, has again come up ; and the Metro-
politan Streets Railway Company has issued its
prospectus. It will be admitted that the pressure of
traffic along our great lines of thoroughfare has
already reached an almost distressing height. The
bulk of the traffic is positively enormQUS, and it is
constantly increasing. Some of the busiest thorough-
fares are now impassable, except at a walking pace, in
the middle of the day. It is calculated that not
fewer than 250,000 persons travel daily from the
sxiburbs of London, into the city and back again, on
foot, in buses, and in cabs ; and the pressure of this
vast mass of busy beings becomes frightful as they
converge upon the central quarters. The throng of
passengers, carriages, and goods conveyances of all
sorts, is such as to cause constant and imminent
danger ; and the chief business of the police at
present, is to employ themselves in unravelling the
confused mass, as it ofttimes gets jammed together in
narrow and crooked places. Much of this pressure
arises from the narrowness of the principal thorough-
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
379
fares, which cannot very well be altered without great
dislocation and sacrifice of property. Some years
ago, during the height of the railway fever, various
plans of city railways were proposed, and, among
others, there was a projection of railway terraces '
erected on lofty pillars, along which the car-
riages were to be drawn by atmospheric traction,
thus getting rid of the whizzing and roaring of
the locomotive. Plans of such were given in the
Westminster Review for June, 1846, with estimates of
their cost, which (if engineei's' estimates are to be
relied on), was not very extravagant. There would
thus be provided a railroad for passengers, and under
it, an arcade for the ordinary street traffic. But another
plan, projected at an earlier date, was that which we
now find revived by the " Metropolitan Streets
Railway Company." It was that of laying down,
along a line of street, selected in such places as not to
interfere with the existing traffic, lines of tram
railway, along which single railway omnibuses, or
trains of carriages, were to be drawn by horses at
the rate of about ten miles an hour. By this means,
one horse could draw about one hundred passengers.
In fact, the proposed traffic, would be a railway
omnibus traffic, conducted with regularity, punc-
tuality, speed, and cheapness. A fare of a penny for
each person so conveyed would prove amply remune-
rative, if we look to the enormous number of
passengers from the suburbs towards the city and
back again, daily, who would certainly avail them-
selves of a means of communication so moderate and
ao cheap. We have already seen what the penny
postage system can do for letters, to give us an idea of
what the application of the same principle to the
conveyance of passengers could effect. Such a system
of communication would be of infinite moral, as well
as physical benefit to the inhabitants of London. It
would give them easier access to the outskirts and to
the country, — it would be equivalent to doubling the
size of London, bringing all the outskirts within
rapid reach of the centre. It would, besides, relieve
the daily increasing pressure of traffic along the
existing thoroughfares. It would save an enormous
tear and wear of streets, ever and anon blocked up
for the purpose of repairs. The dangers arising from
a system of railway traffic carried on along the streets
of the metropolis, may be suggested. But experience
has proved that conveyance by railway, even in
crowded cities, is much less dangerous than by rival
omnibuses. The system has already been adopted in
the principal cities of the United States, with
immense advantage to the inhabitants. A railway is,
for example, conducted through New York, and
terminates at the very centre of the city near the
Park ; another ia carried through the streets of
Philadelphia, terminating in Market Street ; and, in
like manner, a line of railway is carried with facility
through the streets of Baltimore, terminating near the
harbour : in these cases, the rails are laid flush with
the roads, a cavity being left on the inside -of each
rail, in which the flanges of the wheels play. The
cars are drawn by horses, as is now proposed by the
Metropolitan Company, and the traffic is carried on
with perfect safety, and with great convenience to the
public. We do not mention the present project with
any intention of inducing persons to join in it as a specu-
lation,— though the projectors in their prospectus give
a very flattering prophecy of large dividends, — but we
point to it merely as a scheme of great public
interest, the realization of which, we believe, would
be productive of immense good to the population of
the metropolis, and enormously increase the facilities
of communication between the various parts of the
metropolis, with a very great saving of expense to all
classes of the population.
SPAIN AS IT IS.*
THEKE is a painful interest attaching to this country
and her people, which renders every contribution to
our limited knowledge thereon especially valuable.
Her olden grandeur and renown are familiar to
us. For this we are indebted in about an equal
degree to the historian, the poet, and the novelist ;
the former having preserved the crude outline and
body of dry fact, into which the two latter have, as
it were, breathed " the breath of life." There is not,
we dare almost affirm, one among our readers un-
acquainted with the leading features of Spanish
history, and there are few persons, indeed, who have
not read the pages of Washington Irving and Sir
Walter Scott, — who have not followed in imagination
the wavering fortunes of Don Koderick and the Cid,
and in fancy revelled with lovely maidens and gallant
knights amidst the luscious vineyards and orangeries of
this genial soil. Nearly every inch of earth within the
limits of this nation is replete with historical associa-
tions. But the glory of Spain lives only in the memories
of a past era, to which her present condition affords a
sad and melancholy contrast. A race of heroes has been
succeeded by a race of slaves, whose misery and
wretchedness are rendered more palpable by the
monuments of art, commerce, and learning, amid
which they dwell, and the civilization by which they
are surrounded.
The title of the work before us very much excites
our curiosity, for, strange as it may seem, we know
less about the present state of this ill-fated nation
than we do of her condition centuries ago. These
volumes are the production of one skilled in the
mystery of authorcraft, whose reputation will in no
wise suffer by his last effort, and although it is not
particularly profound, it carries with it the evidence
of a truthful spirit on the part of its writer, — an
essential quality in the modem traveller. Still,
Mr. Hoskins is a thoughtful man, and unlike certain
" fast " travellers we could mention, — he seems to
have kept his eyes open, and reason awake while on his
journey, — his book, too, is written " with a purpose,"
and gives us an insight into some matters of great
moment, which the idle excitement-seeker would most
likely have overlooked or disregarded. We find in
these volumes some instructive data touching the
moral and social condition of the Spaniard'.
Having thus briefly stated the general characteris-
tics of the volumes under notice, we will just travel
through the narrative as rapidly as may be. The
most agreeable route to Spain, our author tells us, is
by way of France, which, thanks to the march of
improvement, "may be made comfortably in less than
a week ; and except from Beziers to Perpignan, the
whole journey is accomplished by railway and steam-
boat, and therefore without fatigue, even to the most
delicate."
Of course the way to Spain through France is not
all (( pleasantness and peace •" there is, we are told,
" much to interest the traveller," and "many tempta-
tions to linger," and a little delay here and there is
made compulsory by the execrable passport system of
our neighbours ; but Mr. Hoskins significantly hints,
"It is best to consider passports as a tax on the
pocket and not on the time, and take no trouble
about them, which can be avoided by paying the
persons whose particular duty it is to get them
arranged," — a fact vouched for by all continental
travellers. Potent is the influence of money every-
* Spain as it is. By G. A. Hoskins, Esq. In 2 vols.
London : Colburn & Co.
380
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
where, but nowhere more so than at a French or
Spanish custom-house or barrier.
Having, however, surmounted these little obstacles,
our author found himself in Perpignan, — a city
formerly belonging to Spain, but now incorporated
with France, and thence he passed into Catalonia.
It is worthy of remark, that the people of this
district are an active and industrious body of men
and women. "Nothing can exceed the industry of
the Catalonians. Every patch of land, good or bad,
is made the most of, and guarded often with its
picturesque hedge of aloes, and sometimes the prickly
pears. All the fields are carefully cultivated, and a
great deal is done by spade labour." A thousand
and one small annoyances beset the party with whom
Mr. Hoskins was travelling. These common and
usual incidents of "locomotive life" from the sub-
urban tour to the "Overland journey to India,"
with the inspection of churches and palaces, are
described by him with exceeding minuteness and
apparent fidelity. But we move on.
There is in the first volume an interesting account
of Barcelona, — its history, political and municipal
institutions, and the mental peculiarities of its
inhabitants. The latter, we are told, "care more for
liberty than wealth, " arid notwithstanding the numerous
and heavy calamities these citizens have sustained by
the various sieges and assaults of their city, they fly
to arms with an anxious avidity on the slightest
provocation or pretence. There are many sights here
worth seeing. The galleries of art, particularly of
paintings, were visited by our author, who furnishes
us a somewhat lengthy but agreeable criticism on
their respective merits. He also visited the churches,
which he found well kept, and crowded to excess,
and much enjoyed a drive round the town. Barcelona
and the neighbourhood, after all, is better off in some
respects than the great metropolis, or any of our
large provincial towns, in all of which many hundreds
of unfortunates exist in a state of compulsory or
necessitated idleness.
In an excursion to Monserrat, through picturesque
scenery, Mr. Hoskins met on the road " crowds of
carts of all sizes," laden with merchandise, and
peasants, and farmers, and their wives and daughters,
and such a jingling of bells, and screaming of drivers
as never was heard, except perhaps at Naples ; in
brief, he met every conceivable, and some inconceiv-
able indications of prosperity and happiness ; and
while on the one hand, he tells us he found " every-
body engaged in some industrious pursuit," he adds,
that whenever he " met with a beggar, it was almost
always a poor creature with some misfortune, which
prevented his working." There is an episode in this
part of the work that we must relate. It was a racy
incident, and is well told. The party were pursuing
their journey to Monserrat in " nothing better than a
small open cart, a caratella, with a rope bottom
covered with matting," when they somehow fell
in with a doctor, who was walking to a convent
there, to see a dying monk, and as the day was hot,
they gave the disciple of Esculapius "a ride in the
machine, and in return he offered me," says Mr.
Hoskins "some of his soup, which he took great
pains iu concocting himself. As several eggs were
floating on the top, and it did not look bad, I
ventured to taste it, but sincerely hope the poor monk
will not have to swallow dozes of physic half so
nauseous. The doctor said he was going to the
convent 'to bleed the monk,' having wisely come to
that resolution before he had seen his patient. I
fear, from all accounts, Dr. Sangrados still exist in
Spain, and I made a little resolution never to call in a
Spanish doctor, however ill I might be."
Mr. Hopkins found the monks tit the convent of
Monserrat as simple in habits as could be wished,
and their table was spread with the most frugal fare.
" Their singing was very impressive, and I listened
to it with great delight, with feelings of awe and
reverence ; I forgot I was of a different creed, and
assuredly I shall leave the mountain with respect for
the men who are not rolling here in Benedictine
idleness and luxury, their pay for the masses they
recite being barely an existence ; but living away
from the pleasures, though not, I fear, from the cares
of life, and serving God in the way they have been
taught to consider most acceptable ; praising Him
morning, noon, and night."
The religious spectacles drew 'forth our author's
sternest condemnation. He went one evening to
the great theatre of the Liceo, " to see a dramatic
representation of the passion of Our Saviour."
The scenes represented " the entering of our
Saviour on an ass into Jerusalem," — "the grief of
the Virgin at parting with her son,"— "the Saviour
taking leave of his disciples," — "the Last Supper,
and so forth." These things produced considerable
disgust in his mind, and he states that he "yaw half the
representation, to have an idea of the sacred dramas,
which have always been so popular in Spain, but had
no wish to see the remainder," The audience
appeared to entertain a very indifferent sense of the
sacredness of this drama, for " the pit and boxes
were crowded to excess, and also the galleries with a
very noisy and unruly mob."
Feeling it was impossible to acquire a correct
knowledge of the habits and manners of the people
by " life at an inn," our author took other and better
means of arriving at his opinions on these subjects.
The Valencians, as a people, are "very bigoted,"
have a " great taste for religious processions, and are
suspicious, passionate, and revengeful." Yet there
is much to admire in their history and public institu-
tions, and he states that he reveres the district that
has produced so many literary and scientific men, and
artists. The most important institution in Valencia,
to our thinking, is its prison, which Mr. Hoskins
states is "the best conducted in Europe. When a
convict enters this prison," we are informed, " he is
asked what trade or employment he will work at or
learn ; and above forty are open to him, so that he
has the means of devoting his time to any he knows,
or, if ignorant of all, to one he feels an inclination
for, or which he is aware will be useful to him when
he is liberated."
Such is the plan adopted with those who are
willing to work, but those who manifest a preference
for idleness are sent to the public works, and kept
distinct from the others, " who by selecting a trade
have shown a disposition to be industrious and
improve themselves." The supervision and control
exercised upon the inmates of this establishment is
but slight. " There are a thousand prisoners; and in
the whole establishment I did not see above three or
four guardians to keep them in order. They say
there are only a dozen old soldiers, and not a bar or
bolt that might not easily be broken, — apparently
not more fastenings than in any private house."
The secret of the success of the system of prison-
discipline here pursued, lies, we suspect, in the fact
that efforts are made rather to develope the better
instincts than merely to crush or subdue the bad, —
that it tends to elevate^ rather than depress, those
who are subjected to its influence. The prisoners are
allowed to participate in the profits of their labour, —
one-fourth being given them to purchase such little
innocent luxuries as they may desire while they
continue in prison, and .another fourth is suffered to
accumulate until their respective terms expire, when
it is handed them, and enables them to begin the
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
381
world again. Honesty is thus made practicable, as
everyone has, or may have, some useful calling open
to him, and a small capital at his disposal. " The
other half goes to the establishment, and often this is
sufficient for all the expenses, without any assistance
from the Government." The silent system is adopted,
but its details are not rigidly enforced, and each
convict on entering wears chains, which are soon,
however, removed, unless he conducts himself amiss.
The principal trades carried on are those of the
weaver, blacksmith, shoemaker, basket-maker, rope-
maker, joiner, cabinet-maker, and printer. Our
traveller saw "a printing-machine hard at work."
The cost of officers and instructors is very great, but
very little aid is required from the Government not-
withstanding. These things are, indeed, cheering to
the heart of humanity ; but we have yet only
described the physical results of the system. Mark
well the moral effects. " Honour among thieves
is really found here ; the convicts keeping the ac-
counts, and no attempt made to deceive. It is doubt-
less the same feeling of honour which prevents
them rebelling and leaving the asylum whenever they
feel disposed. . . . Great honour is due to the
commander, Col. Don Manuel Montesinos, for what
he has accomplished without any model to guide him,
and being obliged almost to invent a system."
There is also a somewhat similar institution for
female convicts at Valencia, which has been attended
with almost as much benefit to the unfortunate
inmates, and to society. We trust, therefore, that
our law-makers and system-builders will not object to
take a few lessons from poor unhappy Spain. We
much doubt if either Pentonville or Reading could
such " a tale unfold," as that related by Mr. Hoskins.
But we must take our leave of Valencia, merely
remarking, that there is a scarcity of mendicants to
be found in her streets, — a fact no one will surely
regret ; and that " consumptive and nervous invalids
could not select a better residence, as such a climate is
not to be found in Europe." Subsequent pages
minutely describe the far-famed Alhambra ; but we
pass on to more novel points of the narrative.
In Andalusia, for the first time, Mr. Hoskins met
with brigands, — " five very suspicious-looking fellows,
with one gun," but as his party w6re armed, the
robbers did not molest them.
Malaga is purely a commercial town, " without arts
and without literature." The society there did not
much please our author, who wonders that some
people select it as a matter of choice to reside in.
The inhabitants indulge in luxurious residences, —
houses, and furniture, — but "live poorly. Near the
sea are some lofty chimneys of the cotton manufac-
tories and iron foundries, which can scarcely answer, as
they are obliged to import their coals from England.
There are also extensive soap manufactories, and they
say they export great quantities to America."
Cadiz, according to Mr. Hoskins, "is the fairest city
of Spain." The description which he furnishes of it
is, however, very brief, as he found the steam-boat
about to start for Seville, and he was desirous of
getting there to witness a bull-fight !
Of Seville we have a long account. " As a resi-
dence, it is a charming place." The churches, the
antiquities, the galleries of art, the museum, &c. &c.,
are well and fully described. The house where the
Inquisition stood "is a pleasant-looking place ; — one
can scarcely conceive it to have been the scene of so
many horrors." There is a large tobacco manufac-
tory, and 3,000 women are employed in it, who earn
from sixpence to eightpence per day, and some men
who make about twice that amount, — which in Spain
is a good wage, provisions, &c. being comparatively
cheap. "The Government buys the raw tobacco at
four reals a pound, and sells it manufactured at
twenty-four." The ladies of Seville are said to be
possessed of " excellent figures," and their manners
are described as " perfection, — so unaffected, and so
natural." The gentlemen, however, are "better
looking than the fair sex," who owe much, in our
author's opinion, to "the fascinating mantilla, and
those arch glances they, above all other women, know
how to throw. Every woman has her eloquent fan,
which often says more than she would dare to utter,
though Spanish women are not very particular in
what they say. It requires more experience than
mine to explain its mystery." Around the city are
some beautiful walks and some splendid remains,
which were visited by the travellers, who warmly
admired the scenery along the banks of the Guadal-
quiver. Mr. Hoskins visited the bull-fight, to which
also " half the inhabitants " of the city went. He
describes the sport as "bird-lime, with which the Devil
catches many a weary soul." The prices of admission
to this horrid sight were varied to suit the circum-
stances of all grades in society. There is a long
account of this spectacle ; but it is too odious, to our
minds, to dwell upon. We are, too, somewhat
surprised to find Mr. Hoskins stating that " there is
no reason to suppose that these exhibitions have had
any influence " on the character of the Spaniard.
We rather incline to a contrary opinion, from all we
have heard and read.
From Seville our author went to Madrid, passing
through La Mancha on his way, which he describes
as " a dreary, impoverished country, which even the
genius of Cervantes and the exploits of Don Quixote
cannot make interesting," — and Toledo, once the most
classic city of Spain, but now decayed and insignificant.
Madrid, he tells us, is a "fine capital," but
European in its architectural characteristics. "The
court," he says, "has raised it to its present afflu-
ence. The Cortes also, if they do no other good, at
least spend money." The luxury of the nobles who
reside here is very great, and even their attendants
"carry on" in a style of surpassing splendour.
" Their priest, steward, and family doctor have each
their equipage." Mr. Hoskins visited the various
galleries of art, and the different public buildings of
the city, and gives some curious particulars concern-
ing the mode of life of the present queen. He says,
" Isabella is not only the Queen of Spain, but the
queen of fun, — dancing being her delight, and per-
petual amusement. Balls she gave without end, —
turning night into day, and day into night." The
unhappy differences between this giddy votaress of
idle pleasure and her imbecile consort, are referred to,
and our author even ventures the opinion, that " if
she lives, there seems a chance of her changing the
character of the nation ; for gravity, from all accounts,
is not at all to her taste." Madrid has more splendid
bull-fights than Seville. One of these, witnessed by
Mr. Hoskins, excited a most intense interest, —
Montes, a hero in this line of business, being an
actor on that occasion.
The remainder of the work is occupied by matter of
less general value than that we have been noticing,
— except perhaps an interesting description of the
famous agricultural colony of Mettray, — designed for
the reformation of juvenile offenders, which we
cannot refer to so fully as we could desire, and the
subject would demand, if more than mentioned.
Perhaps at some future time we may deal with this
matter with becoming care and attention, so as to do
justice to the promoters of so worthy an institution, and
illustrate the designs and purposes they have in view.
This colony, however, is not in Spain, but France, and
does not in any way illustrate the present condition of
the former country.
382
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
The collective features and characteristics of the
Spanish people are favourably stated by our author.
He tells us, " Spain has got the finest peasantry in
the world, — courageous, high-minded, deserving of
political power ; but there is a want of an inde-
pendent, talented, and wealthy middle class, and
country aristocracy, to rouse the nation to better
things, — diffuse vigour, enterprise, and industry, and
under the aegis of liberal institutions, create confi-
dence, and develope the vast resources of the empire."
The people are also, he states, evidently religious,
and he defends their priesthood from the charges of
avarice and luxury. Some of the most celebrated
poets, painters, and other illustrious men have, he
tells us, in former times, taken orders, and terminated
their lives in "religious seclusion."
Having, however, travelled with our author across
the French frontier, we take leave of him, with
thanks for his agreeable and instructive volumes.
When he takes another tour in print, we shall be
happy to make a journey with him again, for the
benefit of our readers.
SOAP AND WATER.
To the slang cry of " How are you off for soap," a
practical answer has been given by the Committee for
promoting the Establishment of Baths and Wash-
houses for the Labouring Classes. And really the
answer proves to be most satisfactory. We do not
wish to disparage any of the numerous efforts made
in so many different quarters to wash the Ethiop
white ; but certainly we? do feel a much more lively
and practical interest in the philanthropic action of
the above admirable association on the social and
domestic habits of our own people. Soap and water
may indeed seem to many a very uninteresting affair
— a thing difficult to get up a display of stump oratory
about, except of the most soporiferous kind. It is so
disagreeable to get up an agitation about dirt, and to
wage war against foul living. There are no drums
beat and trumpets blown at the head of such a move-
ment, and as for banners, what could you hold up as
a fitting emblem on such an occasion except a foul
shirt ? But, really, there is much more in this move-
ment than appears at first sight. For, see what grows
out of cleanly habits : — First, health and comfort ;
second, decency and self-respect ; third, morality and
virtue ; fourth, religion. No mean authority has
pronounced cleanliness to be " next to godliness." It
is a too notorious fact, that the dirty classes are the
dangerous classe's ; that vice is invariably found to be
most prolific in the foulest and worst cleansed habita-
tions. The moral man is generally but a correct
index of the physical man ; for the moral grows out of
the physical. Clean a man's skin, and you do some-
thing towards cleansing his mind. You may not thus
educate his intelligence, but you prepare him for the
reception of true refinement and wisdom. The report
of the committee above referred to, shows that the
number of baths taken at the Whitechapel Model
Bath-house during the year ending Christmas last,
was 156,310 ; at St. Martin's in the Fields, 213,485 ;
and at Marylebone, 173,157. The number of washers
at the first place, during the same period, was 43,462 ;
at the second, 50,200 ; and at the third 24,718. The
total receipts of these three establishments for the
year, were £9,155. 3s. Id. There are also the West-
minster Baths and Washhouses, opened in May last,
and the Greenwich, opened in September, where the
results are equally satisfactory. The total number of
baths taken in these five places during the last year,
has been 647,242, and the number of washers 132,251.
Similar institutions have been established in the
country, the most important of which are those at
Liverpool (two), Hull, Bristol, Preston, and Birming-
ham. Of these six country establishments, three have
been opened during the year. The income is satis-
factory, and sufficient to pay reasonable interest on
the money expended ; but the pecuniary issue of the
experiment, though important, is not the most notable
feature. The habits of the people have been im-
proved, their domestic comfort has been increased,
and self-respect encouraged. But we must not dis-
guise from ourselves the fact, that only a beginning
has as yet been made. The baths and washhouses
are erected and maintained by help from without.
The people must yet take them up and extend them
in all districts. But the cultivation of a natural habit
of cleanliness is not the growth of a day. It requires
to be carefully encouraged, helped, and fostered ; and
that is what these public baths and washhouses are
now doing. The committee say, in their report, that
" it is now satisfactorily proved, that baths and wash-
houses, with accommodation adapted to different
districts, according to the population, can be erected
at a cost of £2,000, £4,000, or £8,000, exclusive ol i
the charge for land," — a suggestion which we trust j
will have its effect upon philanthropic men through- j
out the country, and set them to work. It is to i
be hoped the legislature will contribute their mite !
towards the same cause, by taking off the tax on soap
during the present session.
OUE MUSICAL CORNER.
YES, " a street organ," is certainly a nuisance, when
one is a state of ''gentle inspiration," or concealed
ill-temper ; or when one is attempting a difficult
something in three flats on a piano exquisitely in
tune, and the said street organ strikes up a popular
something in three sharps. There is a regular old
grinder under oxir window at this moment, perpetra-
ting "Lucy Neale " with all its might, to the utter
derangement of a stanza we were about completing,
consequently we have been compelled to " tumble
down to prose," and feel half inclined to abuse the
general race of itinerant music-boxes, but a
phantom of gratitude rises and forbids the quarrel,
for we owe some of the most pleasant hours of our life
to street organs. Occasionally we have a half-holiday
visitation from some half-dozen " of the rising gene-
ration," who insist on considering us, as a " play-
fellow," and pay no more respect to the interesting
volume or poetic musing they may break in upon, than
they would to the intact form of a raspberry tart or
ounce of toffee. We are always expected to play at
" Margery Daw," or " Aughts and Crosses " (a game,
by-the-by, we have played at pretty often on that
large slate, — the world), — or we must enter into the
"Political Biography" of Dick Whittington, or re-
capitulate the horrors attending the bigamies of
Bluebeard, or we must lend a hand in making our
very odd dog stand on his hind legs for lumps of cake.
This is all very fine, but it is rather hard work to
"keep it up," as Atlas said, when he took the world
" pick-a-back ;" howevei-, we bear it all as well as
we can, and when by chance a street organ bursts out
with a presto polka, the crowning point of rude joy is
attained; Whittington is done for, Bluebeard is
nowhere, Margery Daw is an "abandoned young
woman," and such a course of gymnastics is instantly
gone through, as Orpheus himself never elicited from
the bulls and bears of old. Stamping, hopping,
jumping, leaping, and all sorts of impossible actions
are indulged in, and designated as "dancing," our-
selves not being unfrequently turned into a human
" Maypole," of some five feet three, or " Jack in the
Green," as the fancy of the cherubic "Ballet corps"
may dictate ; but we certainly have " rare fun," and
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
383
it is a question if Adams's band ever yielded as much
real festivity as the poor ragged Italian's street organ.
We often wonder whether these active citizens of
nursery-land will enjoy their elegant steps in the
spacious wax-lighted ball-room in years to come, as
they do these extemporaneous muscular combustions
among our household goods, where they bring their
curly heads in frequent contact with an arm-chair, or
tumble full length on the hearth-rug. We wonder if
lace skirts and white neckties will carry the charm of
broad sashes and plaid tunics ; whether the sparkling
champagne and delicate chickens will prove such
Olympian fare as the home-made orange -wine and
hunches of gingerbread ; whether the dainty master
of the ceremonies will be as pleasant as the audacious
Skye terrier flying at their heels. We would wager
our best edition of Shakspere that they will remem-
ber these "aboriginal" dances with a distinct and
grateful vision ; for when childhood is at all what
childhood ought to be, its memory imbibes a fragrance
from the buttercups and daisies of life, that the
geranium bouquet in Maturity's dress-coat, or the
rose-decked flounce on Propriety's trailing robe, can
never overpower ; but we are becoming sentimental,
we fear, and as the street organ is gone, we will do a
little music on our own account, and reduce the heap
before us into a less reproving size ; for we have been
somewhat idle of late in this department.
We select first from those published by T. E. Purday,
St. Paul's Churchyard. "It is but for Life," a
ballad, by Charles Glover, is a very easy-going,
pleasant sort of song, within a moderate compass of
voice, and, we doubt not, will be generally acceptable.
The "Marionette Polka," by G. C. Von Starke, and
the " Celeste Polka," by W. West, are both playable
compositions, but certainly exhibit nothing in the
shape of originality or spirit. We now choose from
Z. T. Purday, High Holborn. "A Few Words
before Marriage," is a sort of comic song, that greatly
depends upon the singer and the singing. Much may
be made of it under arch and humorous treatment,
but there is little in it to claim distinction from scores
of the same class. "The Maiden's Wish," is a pretty
light cavatina, by Alexander Lee, and in his most
pleasing style ; not at all difficult, and very flowing
and effective.
From D'Almaine's, Solio Square, we take "The
Louise Polka," by W. H. Montgomery, which is a
very attractive and well-worked dancing air. Young
performers will find this polka admirably suited to
their fingers, as it is very easy, and yet very effective.
"L'Alouette Schottische," by Edouard Pouckel, is, we
think, rather deficient in distinctness of time, and
this great essential in all music devoted to Terpischore,
is a sad want. We have frequently "stood up" in
various dances, .when such has been the intricate and
unmarked music accompanying us, that we were
utterly bewildered, and rushed to our place with a
sort of desperate energy at the conclusion, being quite
ignorant that we were three bars behind. This
schottische bears strong evidence of talent, and we
hope the composer will look a little more to the
" stepping " accent in his next works. We go on to
Jewell <fc Letcliford, Soho Square, and " The Approach
of Spring," by W. J. Wrighton, is among the
prettiest ballads we have heard for some time ; the
second part, with the accompaniment, is especially
charming, and the song ought to become a favourite.
" La Perle de 1'Exposition," by D. Magnus, rather
puzzles us to describe, as regards the impression it
makes, so we will detail its integrals. It has an "Intro-
duction " in five sharps, many of them rendered
"extreme," then the polka begins with two sharps,
then it breaks into one sharp, then it goes into two
sharps, then it starts into one sharp again. Then the
" Finale " commences in two sharps, and concludes in
five sharps, with some strong "minims." Some of
the passages are marked resoluto, some mysteroso, and
mortellato. This is the best account we can give of it.
Cocks's Musical Miscellany (enlarged series) is just put
into our hands, and we can express our warmest
approbation of it in every way. The musical
department is blended with the best of modern
names, and the literary portion is alike amusing and
instructive. We find within the pages a pretty
ballad by Stephen Glover, an elegant "Idylle," by
that talented composer, Brinley Richards ; an " An-
dante," for the organ, by Best, and a waltz, by
Labitzky, and after playing them through with
great satisfaction, we are inclined to ask the proprietor,
" How do you do it for the money ? "
We now take a couple of songs published by
C. Case, New Bond Street. "They won't let me out,"
by W. Murphy, is of Irish character, and exceedingly
"telling." There is a spice of freshness about it
quite reviving, after a dozen or two of insipid
"Ballads," which we have just discussed, and we
heartily recommend it to our musical friends. " Late
Hours," by Charles Glover, is an admirable song, both
words and music are excellent, blending humour, sen-
timent, and morality in a pleasant style. We like it
excessively, and beg all "papas" to pay particular
attention to it, if they see it on their daughters'
piano ; but we must leave the ivory keys for the
storeroom ones. We wanted to "try" a few more,
but our " Deborah " is clamorous, and we must go.
PETTY MISERIES.
It is a strange fancy of mine, but I cannot help
wishing we could move for returns, as their phrase i.s
in Parliament, for the suffering caused in any one
day, or other period of time, throughout the world,
to be arranged under certain heads, and we should
then see what the world has occasion to fear most.
What a large amount would come under the heads
of unreasonable fear of others, of miserable quarrels
amongst relations upon infinitesimally small subjects,
of imaginary slights, of undue cares, of false shames,
of absolute misunderstandings, of unnecessary pains
to maintain credit or reputation, of vexation that we
cannot make others of the same mind with ourselves !
What a wonderful thing it would be to see set
down in figures, as it were ! — how ingenious we are
in plaguing one another ! My own private opinion
is, that the discomfort caused by injudicious dress,
worn entirely in deference, as it has before been
remarked, to the most foolish of mankind, — in fact,
to the tyrannous majority, — would outweigh many an
evil that sounded very big. Tested by these perfect
returns, which I imagine might be made by the
angelic world, if they regard human affairs, perhaps
our everyday shaving, severe shirt collars, and
other ridiculous garments, are equivalent to a great
European war once in seven years ; and we should
find that women's stays did about as much harm, i. e.
caused about as much suffering, as an occasional pes-
tilence,— say, for instance, the cholera. We should
find, perhaps, that the vexations arising from the
income-tax were nearly equal to those caused amongst
the same class of sufferers by the ill-natured things
men fancy have been said behind their backs ; and
perhaps the whole burden and vexation resulting from
the aggregate of the respective national debts of that
unthrifty family, the European race, the whole burden
and vexation I say, do not come up to the aggregate
of annoyances inflicted in each locality by the one
ill-natured person who generally infests each little
village, parish, house, or community. — Companions
of my Solitude.
334
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
THE LAST LEAF.
BY OLIVEK WENDELL HOLMES.
I SAW him once before My grandmamma has said,—
As he passed by the door, Poor old lady ! she is dead
And again Long ago,—
The pavement- stones resound That he had a Roman nose,
As he totters o'er the ground And his cheek was like a rose
With his cane. In the snow ;
They say that hi his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round
Through the town.
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests, upon his chin
Like a staff ;
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
But now he walks the streets, I know it is a sin
And he looks at all he meets For me to sit and grin
So forlorn ; At him here,
And he shakes his feeble head, But the old three-cornered hat,
That it seems as if he said And the breeches, and all that,
" They are gone !" Are so queer!
!The mossy marbles rest And if I should live to be
On the lips that he has pressed The last leaf upon the tree
In their bloom ; In the Spring—
And the names he loved to hear Let them smile as I do now
Have been carved for many a At the old forsaken bough
On the tomb. [year Where I cling.
OMNIBUSES IN AMERICA.
The American omnibus cannot afford the surplus
labour of a conductor. The driver has entire charge
of the machine. He drives ; opens and shuts, or
" fixes " the door ; takes the money ; exhorts the
passengers to be "smart," all by himself; yet he
never quits his box. He keeps command of the door
by having beside him the end of a leather strap,
which is fastened to the door, and passes along the
roof through a number of rings to a catch by his side.
When he wishes to open the door, he slackens, — when
he desires to shut it, he tightens the strap, and thus
no one can give him leg-bail, and be off without paying
the fare. The money is paid to him, and directions
to stop given, through a hole in the roof ; and it is
marvellous with what celerity and sang-froid he takes
your money, and, perhaps, gives you change with one
hand, while driving his team with the other through
a crowded neighbourhood. He seems, too, to possess
the power of speaking to his horse and his passengers
at the same time ; and sometimes you doubt whether
he is not practising a kind of ventriloquism, for you
hear him call out the name of your street, invite some
new customer to join his vehicle, and ironically inform
rival drivers that he "just does guess they are parti-
cular smart " for running across his track, or stopping
in the way, almost in the same breath. — Watkiris Trip
to the United States of America.
CERVANTES— MOLIERE— SHAKSPERE.
These men were all alike in this, — they loved the
natural history of man. Not what he should be, but
what he is, was the favourite subject of their thought.
Whenever a noble leading opened to the eye new
paths of light, they rejoiced ; but it was never fancy,
but always fact, that inspired them. They loved a
thorough penetration of the murkiest dens, and most
tangled paths of Nature ; they did not spin from the
desires of their own special natures, but reconstructed
the world from materials which they collected on
every side. Thus their influence upon me was not
to prompt me to follow out thought in my self so much
as to detect it everywhere ; for each of these men is
not only a nature, but a happy interpreter of many
natures. — Memoirs of Margaret Fullei\
DIAMOND DUST.
PEDANTRY crams our heads with learned lumber,
and takes out our brains to make room for it.
A SHRUG often takes away a man's character as
effectually as the most defamatory observation.
THE loss of a friend is like that of a limb ; time may
heal the anguish of the wound, but the loss cannot be
repaired.
PLEASURE owes its greatest zest to anticipation.
The promise of a shilling fiddle will keep a schoolboy
happy for a year. The fun connected with its pos-
session will not last an hour. Now, what is true of
schoolboys is equally true of men ; all they differ in
is in the price of their fiddles.
THE tongue was intended for a divine organ, but
the devil often plays upon it.
IN olden times he was accounted a skilful person
who destroyed his victims by bouquets of lovely and
fragrant flowers ; the art has not been lost, — nay, it
is practised every day by the world.
FINE sensibilities are like woodbines, delightful
luxuries of beauty to twine round a solid, upright
stem of understanding, but very poor things if, unsus-
tained by strength, they are left to creep along the
ground.
THE vicious reproving vice is the raven chiding
blackness.
ADVANTAGE is a better soldier than rashness.
LIFE is a field of blackberry bushes. Mean people
squat down and pick the fruit, no matter how they
black their fingers ; while genius, proud and perpen-
dicular, strides fiercely on, and gets nothing but
scratches.
JEALOUSY is the greatest of misfortunes, and ex-
cites the least pity.
IT is wonderful the aspect of moral obligation things
sometimes assume when we wish to do them.
THERE is a sense of insecurity in the beginning of
all change ; we dread movement until we are fairly
roused, and then we seem as if we could never know
rest again.
A GREAT step is gained when a child has learned
that there is no necessary connection between liking
a thing and doing it.
No one can tell the misery of an unloved and lonely
child ; in after-life, a degree of hardness comes with
years, and the man is not susceptible of pain like the
child.
LOVE is the first influence by which the soul is
raised to a higher life.
ONE is much less sensible of cold on a bright day
than on a cloudy one ; thus the sunshine of cheerful-
ness and hope will lighten every trouble.
WE should not be too niggardly in our praise, for
men will do more to support a character than to raise
one.
CRIMES sometimes shock us too much ; vices almost
always too little.
AN ill-humour is too great a luxury to be abandoned
all at once. It is, moreover, a post of great advan-
tage whenever any one endeavours to coax us out of
it ; it is like holding a fort, we endeavour to make
good tenns before leaving it.
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARJ,KS COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No.
SATURDAY, APRIL 17, 1852.
[PRICE
SARAH MABTIN.
AMONG the distinguished women in the humble ranks
of society, who have pursued a loving, hopeful, bene-
volent, and beautiful way through life, the name of
Sai'ah Martin will long be remembered. Not many
of such women come into the full light of the world's
eye. Quiet and silence befit their lot. The best of
their labours are done in secret, and are never noised
abroad. Often the most beautiful traits of a woman's
character are confided but to one dear breast, and lie
treasured there. There are comparatively few women
who display the sparkling brilliancy of a Margaret
Fuller, and whose names are noised abroad like hers
on the wings of fame. But the number of women is
very great who silently pursue their duty in thank-
fulness, who labour on — each in their little home
circle — training the minds of growing youth for
active life, moulding future men and women for
society and for each other, imbuing them with right
principles, impenetrating their hearts with the spirit
of love, and thus actively helping to carry forward
the whole world towards good. But we hear com-
paratively little of the labours of true-hearted women
in this quiet sphei'e. The genuine mother, wife, or
daughter, is good, but not famous. And she can
dispense with the fame, for the doing of the good is
its own exceeding great reward.
Very few women step beyond the boundaries of
Home and seek a larger sphere of usefulness. Indeed,
the home is a sufficient sphere for the woman who
would do her work nobly and truly there. Still,
there are the helpless to be helped, and when
generous women have been found among the helpers,
are we not ready to praise them, and to cherish their
memory ? Sarah Martin was one of such — a kind of
Elizabeth Fry, in a humbler sphere. She was born
at Caister, a village about three miles from Yarmouth,
in the year 1791. Both her parents, who were very
poor people, died when she was but a child ; and
the little orphan was left to be brought up under the
care of her poor grandmother. The girl obtained
such education as the village school could afford her,
— which was not much, — and then she was sent to
Yarmouth for a year, to learn sewing and dressmaking
in a very small way. She afterwards used to walk
from Caister to Yarmouth and back again daily,
which she continued for many years, earning a slender
livelihood by going out to families as an assistant
dressmaker at a shilling a day.
It happened that, in the year 1819, a woman was
committed to the Yarmouth gaol for the unnatural
crime of cruelly beating and ill using her own child.
Sarah Martin was at this time eight-and-twenty years
of age, and the report of the above crime, which was
the subject of talk about the town, made a strong
impression on her mind. She had often, before this,
on passing the gloomy walls of the borough gaol, felt
an urgent desire to visit the inmates pent up there,
without sympathy, and often without hope. She
wished to read the Scriptures to them, and bring
them back lovingly, — were it yet possible, — to the
society against whose laws they had offended. Think
of this gentle, unlovely, ungifted, poor, young woman
taking up with such an idea ! Yet it took root in
her and grew within her. At length she could not
resist the impulse to visit the wretched inmates of
the Yarmouth gaol. So, one day she passed into the
dark porch, with a throbbing heart, and knocked for
admission. The keeper of the gaol appeared. In
her gentle, low voice, she mentioned the cruel
mother's name, and asked permission to see her. The
gaoler refused. There was " a lion in the way " — some
excuse or other, as is usual in such cases. But
Sarah Martin persisted. She returned; and at the
second application she was admitted.
Sarah Martin afterwards related the manner of her
reception in the gaol. The culprit mother stood
before her. She " was surprised at the sight of a
stranger." " When I told her," says Sarah Martin,
" the motive of my visit, her guilt, her need of God's
mercy, &c., she burst into tears, and thanked me ! "
Those tears and thanks shaped the whole course of
Sarah Martin's subsequent life.
A year or two before this time Mrs. Fry had visited
the prisoners in Newgate, and possibly the rumour
of her labours in this field may have in some measure
influenced Sarah Martin's mind ; but of this we are
not certain. Sarah Martin herself stated that, as
early as the year 1810 (several years before Mrs. Fry's
visits to Newgate), her mind had been turned to the
subject of prison visitation, and she had then felt a
strong desire to visit the poor prisoners in Yarmouth
gaol, to read the Scriptures to them. These two
tender-hearted women may, therefore, have been
working at the same time, in the same sphere of
38G
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Christian work, entirely unconscious of each other's
labours. However this may be, the merit of Sarah
Martin cannot be detracted from. She laboured
alone, without any aid from influential quarters ; she
had no persuasive eloquence, and had scarcely received
any education ; she was a poor seamstress, main-
taining herself by her needle, and she carried on her
visitation of the prisoners in secret, without any one
vaunting her praises : indeed, this was the last thing
she dreamt of. Is there not, in this simple picture
of a humble woman thus devoting her leisure hours
to the comfort and improvement of outcasts, much
that is truly noble and heroic?
Sarah Martin continued her visits to the Yarmouth
gaol. From one she went to another prisoner,
reading to them and conversing with them, from
which she went on to instructing them in reading
and writing. She constituted herself a schoolmistress
for the criminals, giving up a day in the week for this
purpose, and thus trenching on her slender means of
living. " I thought it right," she says, "to give up
a day in the week from dressmaking to serve the
piisoners. This, regularly given, with many an addi-
tional one, was not felt as a pecuniary loss, but was
ever followed with abundant satisfaction, for the
blessing of God was upon me."
She next formed a Sunday service in the gaol, for
reading of the Scriptures, joining in the worship as
a hearer. For three years she went on in this quiet
course of visitation, until, as her views enlarged, she
introduced other ameliorative plans for the benefit of
the prisoners. One week in 1823, she received from
two gentlemen donations of ten shillings each, for
prison charity. With this she bought materials for
baby-clothes, cut them out, and set the females to
work. The work, when sold, enabled her to buy
other materials, and thus the industrial education of
the prisoners was secured; Sarah Martin teaching
those to sew and knit, who had not before learnt to
do so. The profits derived from the sale of the
articles were placed together in a fund, and divided
amongst the prisoners on their leaving the gaol to
commence life again in the outer world. She, in the
same way, taught the men to make straw hats, mens'
and boys' caps, grey cotton shirts, and even patch-
work— anything to keep them out of idleness and
from preying upon their own thoughts. Some also
she taught to copy little pictures, with the same
object, in which several of the prisoners took great
delight. A little later on, she formed a fund out of
the prisoners' earnings, which she applied to the
furnishing of work to prisoners upon their discharge ;
" affording me," she says, "the advantage of observing
their conduct at the same time."
Thus did humble Sarah Martin, long before the
attention of public men had been directed to the
subject of prison discipline, bring a complete system
to maturity in the gaol of Yarmouth. It will be
observed that she had thus included visitation, moral
and religious instruction, intellectual culture, indus-
trial training, employment during prison hours, and
employment after discharge. While learned men, at
a distance, were philosophically discussing these
knotty points, here was a poor seamstress at Yar-
mouth, who, in a quiet, simple, and unostentatious
manner, bad practically settled them all !
In 1826, Sarah Martin's grandmother died, and
left her an annual income of ten or twelve pounds.
She now removed from Caister to Yarmouth, where
she occupied two rooms in an obscure part of the
town ; and from that time devoted herself with
increased energy to her philanthropic labours in the
gaol. A benevolent lady in Yarmouth, in order to
allow her some rest from her sewing, gave her one
day in the week to herself, by paying her the same
on that day as if she had been engaged in dress-
making. With that assistance, and a few quarterly j
subscriptions of 2s. 6d. each, for bibles, testaments, 1
tracts, and books for distribution, she went on, ;
devoting every available moment of her life to her j
great purpose. But her dressmaking business, — '
always a very fickle trade, and at best a very poor
one, — now began to fall off, and at length almost
entirely disappeared. The question arose, was she
to suspend her benevolent labours, in order to devote
herself singly to the recovery of her business ? She
never wavered for a moment in her decision. In
her own words — " I had counted the cost and my mind
was made up. If, whilst imparting truth to others, I
became exposed to temporal want, the privation so
momentary to an individual would not admit of com-
parison with following the Lord, in thus administering
to others." Therefore did this noble, self-sacrificing
woman, go straightforward on her road of persevering
usefulness.
She now devoted six or seven hours in every day to
her superintendence over the prisoners, converting
what would otherwise have been a scene of dissolute
idleness into a hive of industry and order. Newly
admitted prisoners were sometimes refractory and
unmanageable, and refused to take advantage of Sarah i
Martin's instructions. But her persistent gentleness i
invariably won their acquiescence, and they would i
come to her and beg to be allowed to take their part ;
in the general course. Men old in years and in
crime, pert London pickpockets, depraved boys and
dissolute sailors, profligate women, smugglers, poach-
ers, the promiscuous horde of criminals which usually
fill the gaol of a seaport and county town, — all bent
themselves under the benign influence of this good
woman, and under her eyes they might be seen
striving, for the first time in their lives, to hold a
pen, or master the characters in a penny primer.
She entered into their confidences — watched, wept,
prayed, and felt for all by turns — she strengthened
their good resolutions, encouraged the hopeless, and
sedulously endeavoured to put all, and hold all, in
the right road of amendment.
What was the nature of the religious instruction
given by her to the prisoners, may be gathered from
Captain Williams's account of it, as given in the
" Second Report of the Inspector of Prisons " for the
year 1836 :—
"Sunday November 29, 1835. — Attended divine
service in the morning at the prison. The male
prisoners only were assembled ; a female resident in
the town officiated ; her voice was exceedingly melo-
dious, her delivery emphatic, and her enunciation
extremely distinct. The service was the Liturgy of
tlie Church of England; two psalms were sung by i
the whole of the prisoners — and extremely well —
much better than I have frequently heard in our
best-appointed churches. A written discourse, of
her own composition, was read by her; it was of a
purely moral tendency, involving no doctrinal points,
and admirably suited to the hearers. During the
performance of the service, the prisoners paid the
profoundest attention and the most marked respect ;
and, as far as it was possible to judge, appeared to
take a devout interest. Evening service was read ,
by her, afterwards, to the female prisoners."
Afterwards, in 1837, she gave up the labour of
writing out her addresses, and addressed the prisoners
extemporaneously, in a simple, feeling manner, on the
duties of life, on the connection between sin and j
sorrow on the one hand, and between goodness and i
happiness on the other, and inviting her fallen '
auditors to enter the great door of mercy which was
ever wide opened to receive them. These simple, j
but earnest addresses were attended, it is said, by
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
387
very beneficial results ; and many of the prisoners
were wont to thank her, with tears, for the new views
of life, its duties and responsibilities, which she had
opened up to them. As a writer in the Edmbwgh
Review has observed, in commenting on Sarah Martin's
gaol sermons, — "The cold, laboured eloquence which
boy-bachelors are authorized by custom and consti-
tuted authority to inflict upon us ; the dry husks and
chips of divinity which they bring forth from the dark
recesses of the theology (as it is called) of the fathers,
or of the middle ages, sink into utter worthlessness
by the side of the gaol addresses of this poor unedu-
cated seamstress."
But Sarah Martin was not satisfied merely with
labouring among the prisoners in the gaol at Yar-
mouth. She also attended in the evenings at the
workhouse, where she formed and superintended a
large school; and afterwards, when that school had
been handed over to proper teachers, she devoted the
hours so released to the formation and superintendence
of a school for factory girls, which was held in the
capacious chancel of the old Church of St. Nicholas.
And after the labours connected with the class were
over, she would remain among the girls for the
purpose of friendly intercourse with them, which
was often worth more than all the class lessons.
There were personal communications with this one
and with that; private advice to one, some kindly
inquiry to make of another, some domestic history to
be imparted by a third ; for she was looked up to by
these girls as a councillor and friend, as well as
schoolmistress. She had often visits also to pay to
their homes ; in one there would be sickness, in
another misfortune or bereavement ; and everywhere
was the good, benevolent creature made welcome.
Then, lastly, she would return to her own poor
solitary apartments, late at night, after her long
day's labour of love. There was no cheerful, ready-
lit fire to "greet her there, but only an empty, locked-
j up house, to which she merely returned to sleep.
She did all her own work, kindled her own fires,
made her own bed, cooked her own meals. For she
went on living upon her miserable pittance, in a state
of almost absolute poverty, and yet of total unconcern
as to her temporal support. Friends supplied her
occasionally with the necessaries of life, but she
usually gave away a considerable portion of these to
people more destitute than herself.
She was now growing old ; and the borough
authorities at Yarmouth, who knew veiy well that
her self-imposed labours saved them the expense of
of a schoolmaster and chaplain (which they were
I now bound by law to appoint), made a proposal of an
annual salary of £12 a year ! This miserable re-
muneration was, moreover, made in a manner coarsely
offensive to the shrinkingly sensitive woman ; for she
had preserved a delicacy and pure-mindedness through-
out her life-long labours, which, very probably, these
Yarmouth bloaters could not comprehend. She
shrank from becoming the salaried official of the
corporation, and bartering for money those labours
1 which had, throughout, been labours of love.
" Here lies the objection," she said, " which
I oppresses me : I have found voluntary instruction,
I on my part, to have been attended with great advan-
tage ; and I am apprehensive that, in receiving pay-
I ment, my labours may be less acceptable. I fear,
also, that my mind would be fettered by pecuniary
payment, and the whole work upset. To try the
experiment, which might injure the thing I live and
breathe for, seems like applying a knife to your child's
throat to know if it will cut." * * * "Were you
so angry [she is writing in answer to the wife of one
' of the magistrates, who said she and her husband
would " feel angry and hurt" if Sarah. .Martin did not
accept the proposal.] Were you so angry as that I
could not meet you, a merciful God and a good con-
science would preserve my peace ; when, if I ventured
on what I believed would be prejudicial to the
prisoners, God would frown upon me, and my con-
science too, and these would follow me everywhere.
As for my circumstances, I have not a wish ungrati-
fied, and am more than content."
But the gaol committee savagely intimated to the
high-souled woman — "If we permit you to visit the
prison, you must submit to our terms;" so she had no
alternative but to give up her noble labours altogether,
which she would not do, or receive the miserable
pittance of a " salary " which they proffered her.
And for two more years she lived on, in the receipt
of her official salary of £12 per annum — the acknow-
ledgment of the Yarmouth Corporation for her services
as gaol chaplain and schoolmaster !
In the winter of 1842, when she had reached her
fifty-second year, her health began seriously to fail,
but she nevertheless continued her daily visits to the
gaol, — "the home," she says, "of my first interest
and pleasure" — until the 17th of April, 1843, when
she ceased her visits. She was now thoroughly dis-
abled ; but her mind beamed out with unusual brilli-
ancy, like the flickering taper before it finally
expires. She resumed the exercise of a talent which
she had occasionally practised during her few moments
of leisure — that of writing sacred poetry. In one of
these, speaking of herself on her sick bed, she says, —
I seem to lie
So near the heavenly portals bright,
I catch the streaming rays that fly
From eternity's own light.
Her song was always full of praise and gratitude.
As artistic creations, they may not excite admiration
in this highly critical age; but never were verses
written truer in spirit, or fuller of Christian love.
Her whole life was a noble poem — full also of true
practical wisdom. Her life was a glorious comment
upon her own words : —
The high desire that others may be blest
Savours of heaven.
She struggled against fatal disease for many months,
suffering great agony, which was partially relieved
by opiates. Her end drew nigh. She asked her
nurse for an opiate to still her racking torture. The
nurse told her that she thought the time of her
departure had come. Clasping her hands, the dying
Sister of Mercy exclaimed, "Thank God! Thank
God ! " And these were her last words. She died
on the 15th of October, 1843, and was buried at
Caister, by the side of her grandmother. A small
tombstone, bearing a simple inscription, written by
herself, marks her resting-place ; and, though the
tablet is silent as to her virtues, they will not be
forgotten : —
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
BIRCH AND BROOMSTICKS.
I am sent with broome before,
To sweep the dust behind the doore.
MID. N. DREAM.
SUNSHINE prosper thee, sweet lady-birch ! Softest of
dews and holiest of showers fall upon thy tasselled
sprays and trembling foliage, and ruddiest of morning
glances break upon thy silver bark ! And thou,
bonny broom, hiding thyself in the moorland hollows,
how many belted bees have visited thy ringlets since
the spring began? how many wanderers hath thy
perfume solaced ? over how many aching heads hast
088
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
them shook thy rushy branches, hushing the lone way-
farer into Elysian dreams as he lay on the pliant moss
beneath thee ? It is in the greenest of glens and the
mossiest of woody nooks that broomstaffs flourish, —
on the healthiest of wild moorlands that the bonny
broom comes to birth. Blue and golden flowers watch
over them in infancy, and bearded oaks bend above
their lusty youth. A broomstick! Are "proper
people " shocked at the suggestion — to them, of the
vileness and scullery-refuse which the broom is used
to sweep away ? no matter, — what is mere fuel to them
shall be philosophy to us ; and with the reverent stump
of a superannuated besom before us, we will let the
caprice have its course, and see for once what sugges-
tions may come from a broomstick.
Were you ever young ? — of course you were, and
made your first triumph before family friends by
trotting, full speed, into the midst of little Jemima's
muslin friends astride a broomstick, and had at least
a hundred kisses from dear old Granny, who sat in
the corner, and vowed it was vulgar to trot broom-
sticks in-doors, while she secretly loved you all the
more for it. There, too, was the old Captain, in his
skull-cap, and barnacles, and purple nose, who gloried
in a romp, and yet, for fear of offending the young
ladies, suffered innumerable pangs when he said,
" Charley, you're a naughty boy, sir ! " Well, that
time has gone into the land of memory, and the
broomstick is the only talisman to summon its pic-
tures to the present.
From the age
That children tread the worldly stage,
Broomstaff, or poker, they bestride,
And round the parlour love to ride .
PRIOR.
The broomstick went the way of all toys, — pet-
ted to-day, burnt to-morrow ; and to avenge the
degradation inflicted upon it then, its ghost came
back to us at school, inflicting stripes, and, in the
compound of foolscap and pickled birch, torturing the
affections as well as the flesh, and making youth's
season of song and sunshine one of wailings and tears.
The pickled birch — how barbarous in itself, and still
more barbarous in its frequent and untimed use,
marking more the phases of the teacher's temper than
the dulness of the pupil's mind. Stupid old doctrine !
to imagine that what the mind was incapable of grasp-
ing could be beaten into the body, — that to make an
impression on the memory blood must trickle from
the skin. Well, that time is past also, and memory
seems to hallow even those barbarities : and when
we catch sight of the modem cane, so sparingly used
by men who have adopted love as an element of edu-
cation in the place of the old sottish spite, — when we
see that, we sometimes imagine that things have sadly
degenerated since we went to school, for to us now the
pickled birch is a thing of poetry, if it be the poetry
of pain, while the cane is mere prose, and suggestive
of sugar-candy at the highest. But the birch has its
moral for after-life, —
As fond fathers,
Having bound up the threatening twigs of birch,
Onely to stick e it in their childrens' sight
For terror, not to use ; in time the rod,
More mocked than feared.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
It is a serious question how far principle actuates
us to duty rather than fear of consequences. We
are, perhaps, little better than schoolboys, and fear
the moral birch of the world, and the stripes of con-
science, in more cases than we love its tasks and
burdens : —
But though no more his brow severe, nor dread
Of birchen sceptre awes my riper age,
A sterner tyrant rises to my view,
With deadlier weapon armed.
JAGO, Edge Hill, b. iii.
But leaving private experience, which ever lacks
largeness and universality, let us take this crippled
stump, worn as it is to a mere shadow in the service
of that which is next to godliness. It was once a
comely, upright, lusty broom, with a stout birchen
body, and a green bushy head ; and though ever stand-
ing with its one leg in the air, yet always ready to
be useful, and run the risk of apoplexy for the service of
a good cause. Its wretched stump, now reduced to
the last extremity of vegetable suffering, was, in time
gone by, a waving branch of lady-birch, and was
clothed in silver bark, and tasselled over with delicate
twigs and little fairy leaves. When Spring came,
it danced to and fro in the sunlight, and its shadow
glided up and down the white ledges of the rocks,
over which its pensile sprays peeped to see the water
trickle down the ravine. Glorious was the lady-birch
at any season ; glorious, too, the hale green broom ;
the one gleaming in the morning sun, where the wood-
pigeon built her nest, the other dressing the stony
moor with yellow livery, and both living to make the
world more beautiful. It is this birch which supplies
the best of wood for broomsticks, and whose young
feathery branches often take the place of the green
broom in the completion of the besom. In the High-
lands they use it for tanning, for dyeing wool yellow ;
its bark supplies Highland candles and Norway
bread ; its wood, charcoal and printers' ink ; its
leaves, fodder for horses, kine, sheep, and goats ; and
its seed, food for that pretty songster of the wood, the
aberdevine. The sap of the birch makes the birch-
wine of English housewifery, of which those who
know how to make it are not a little proud : — •
And though she boasts no channs divine,
Yet she can make and serve birch-wme.
WARTON.
It will flourish in English woods, and there is not a
wood worth rambling in which has not many of these
light, fairy creatures, pencilling the sky with their
trembling spidery network of leaves and branches. It
was this same birch from which the Gauls extracted
bitumen, and which the Russians now use to prepare
the celebrated Russian leather ; which the carpenter
finds best of all wood for rafters, ploughs, spades,
and carts ; which the Highland peasants use for har-
ness, ropes, and basket-work, and by which they sym-
bolize under the name of Betu or am leatha, the clan
of the Buchanans. It is the same birch as that from
which our poor imbecile stump was cut which forms
the great forests of the freezing North ; which climbs
up rugged mountain-sides to peep over the precipices,
and fling the light of vegetable grace and beauty over
the giant solitudes of snow. It is the same birch
which fills us with forest lore when we see its silvery
stem towering up, straight as an arrow, to the sky,
and waving its plumes of pensile beauty in the sun-
light ; which listens to the liquid whistle of the early
thrush, and the full melody of sunny May ; and which
shelters the robin and the blackbird with its boughs —
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever—
a broomstick, then, shall be a joy to us.
The bonny broom,
Yellow and bright as bullion unalloyed,
Her blossoms
used by the good housewifes of old to brush the
crumbs from the dressing-board, and the soiled
sand from the kitchen floor, is no less clear for its
touches of memory, and pictures of green imagery,
than the lady-birch. It grows on the moorland,
where there is no shelter from the blast of winter or
the fierce heat of summer ; where drought, and
swamp, and keenest frost have each unmitigated
vigour, and where the earth lies flat beneath the
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
380
blue sky, as if it had fallen prostrate, and had no
i friend but the broom to cover it with garments. It
is on the dreary waste where the red deer loves to
i wander, and the ptarmigan finds a home, that the
i bonny broom sprinkles its round tufts of green, fresh
; as infancy amid the fiercest frost, — golden as day-
break through the laughing summer. There it creeps
up and down the hills, and amid the wild forest dells,
far away from the haunts of men, in company of
creeping things, of gaps of sunshine, and of passing
shadows.
There lacked no floure to my dome,
Ne not so much as floure of brome.
CHAUCER.
In yonder greenwood blows the broom ;
Shepherds, we'll trust our flocks to stray, —
Court Nature in her sweetest bloom,
And steal from Care one summer day.
LANGUOR YE.
It was the rushy branches of the broom which sup-
plied the old Greeks with ropes and cordage ; which
now provides the " simple sheep " with the best of
food, the cattle with tire best of litter, the cottager
with the best of thatch, —
He made carpenters to make the houses and lodgynges of
great tymbre, and set the houses like stretes, and covered
them with rede and brome, so that it was lyke a lyttel towne.
— FROISSART. —
and the wild bee with the most delicious honey. It
is the bonny broom which serves us as well whether
we cut its tufts for sweeping, for tanning leather, or
for the manufacture of coarse cloth ; which is almost
as useful as hops in brewing ; which furnishes a wood
capable of the most exquisite polish ; which, in its
ashes, gives a pure alkali, arid in its pods and blos-
soms perfume and medicine, — Drs. Cullen and Mead
both esteemed the broom in cases of dropsy.
E'en humble broom and osiers have their use,
And shade for sheep and food for flocks produce.
It was the bonny broom which the Scottish clan of
the Forbes wore in their bonnets when they wished
to arouse the heroism of their chieftain, and which, in
their Gaelic dialect, they called bealadh, in token of
its beauty. It was this very broom from which the
long line of Plantagenets took their name, and which
• to the last they wore on their helmets, crest, and
family seal. It was thus : — Fulke, Earl of Arijou,
having committed a crime, was enjoined by a holy
father of the church to make a pilgrimage to the Holy
Land by way of penance. He went, habited in lowly
attire, and with a sprig of broom in his hat to denote
his humility, —
His beaver'd brow a birchen garland bears.
POPE.
The expiation finished, he adopted the name of
Plantagenet, from Planta and Genista, the old name
of the broom, and transmitted this to his princely
descendants.* As an emblem of humility, too, it
\ was worn by St. Louis in 1234, on the occasion of his
marriage with Margaret, eldest daughter of Raymond
Berengarius, Count of Provence, and a new order of
knights was instituted to commemorate the event.
The motto of the order was " Exaltat humiles," and
the collar of the order was made up of the flowers
and seed-pods of the common broom, enamelled and
intermixed with fleur-de-lys of gold. This Ordre de
la Geneste, or Order of the Broom, continued till the
death of Charles the Fifth.
Though the feeblest thing that Nature forms,
A frail and perishing flower art thou ;
Yet thy race has survived a thousand storms
That have laid the monarch and warrior low.
Sandford's Genealogical History.
The storied urn may be crumbled to dust,
And Time may the marble bust deface ;
But thou wilt be faithful and firm to thy trust, —
The memorial-flower of a princely race.
Then hail to thee, fair Broomstick ! herald of a
thousand years, memorial of human trials, triumphs,
and sufferings. Abide with us, oh tough and well-
tried friend ; and now, too feeble for thy office of
cleanliness, hint to us of the old Roman pageant,
when the noblesse of Rome assembled, and the officers
swept the hall with a green broom affixed to a sturdy
broomstick. That was the honour paid by Roman
patricians to intellect, energy, and virtue, which,
however humble in their origin, had an equal chance
with wealth and ancestral title in sharing the offices
and honours of the state. The broom was as con-
scious of its dignity as the newly-elected councillors
just lifted from the ranks of the people ; and the
moment its green and flowerless branches touched the
floor of the assembly, it broke into golden blossoms,
a mute symbol of the fertility of virtue.* Hail to
thee ! for all the legends of old Time thou bringest
us, from the state processions of Rome down to the
hanging of a broom at the door of a Russian maiden
pining for a lover. The broomstick was the chosen
Pegasus of the midnight hags, when, gliding like bats
through the midnight, they laid plots and counter-
plots to involve poor human nature in the suffer-
ings of superstition : —
Do not strange matrons mount on high,
And switch their broomsticks through the sky, —
Ride post o'er hills, and woods, and seas,
Trom Thule to the Hesperides ?
SOMERVILLE.
Verily they do ; but they are only the embodied
sins of men-consciences, which have taken shape and
come back again and again to stick pins in sinners'
sides ; stifle the babe which has been neglected by a
harsh mother ; fling cattle which want tending into
bogs which ought to have been drained ; sour milk
which has been left by sluttish dairy-maids ; and jab-
ber, scoff, and torture men in the reflected images of
their own wickedness. Why always in the night?
why ever amid —
The dark sublime of extra-natural scenes ?
The vulgar magic's puerile rite demeans ;
Where hags their cauldrons, fraught with toads, prepare,
Or glide on broomsticks through the midnight air.
AMWELL SCOTT.
Why, but that all evil spirits are but human vices
riding on the broomsticks of memory, and compound-
ing in the cauldron of remorse the toads and snakes
of retribution ? The diseased mind peoples the night
with hags and witches, and influences dire, as excuses —
lame as they are — for their own wickedness and folly,
which dare not face the daylight.
Some strange old customs suggest themselves in
connection with broomsticks. There is the salutation
of the broom, which, like the throwing of old shoes
for luck, has a smack of poetry in it, and recals
Arbuthnot's remark on the brooming of servants,
who ' ' if they came into the best apartment to set
anything in order were saluted with a broom." The
hanging out of the bi oom at the mast-heads of ships
offered for sale originated from that period of our
history when the Dutch admiral, Van Tromp, with
his fleet, appeared on our coasts in hostility against
England ; and to indicate that he would sweep the
English navy from the seas, hoisted a broom at the
mast-head of his ship. To repel this insolence the
English admiral hoisted a horsewhip, equally indica-
tive of his intention to chastise the Dutchman. The
* This story is related by Marcellinus Ammianus. The
custom of publicly sweeping the hall on occasion of those
assemblies was maintained for a long period.
390
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
pennant, which the horsewhip symbolized, has ever
since been the distinguishing mark of English ships
of war.* The custom of hanging out the broom has
another meaning in Russia ; there it is the custom in
the villages for parents who have marriageable and
unbetrothed daughters to hoist a broom over the
cottage doorway, that the swains may know where to
seek for virgins.
Few associations of the broomstick are more inte-
resting than those of the poor Flanders' peasantry,
who a few years ago came to this country in vast
numbers to penetrate every nook and corner of every
town in the land with the cry, " Buy a broom ! "
There are few of them left, and those few have modern
airs and modern dress, which separates them entirely
from the upright, short-coated, wooden-featured "Buy-
a-brooms " of our infancy. We well remember the
favourite ditty, sung in a plaintive voice at the par-
lour window, or on the doorstep, —
A large one for a lady,
A small one for a baby,
Come buy, my pretty lady,
Come buy of me a broom, —
which touched many a heart, and secured for the
singer many a basin of warm soup and lapful of
kitchen-pieces, besides some halfpence for the immor-
tal "brooms." In the most squalid wretchedness,
confined within the precincts of Whitechapel and
Petticoat Lane, these modest broom-merchants took
up their abode, to sally forth every morning into the
genteel squares and by-streets of London, having a
bobbing curtsey ready the moment a face was seen at
a window, and a song at the first appearance of a
child. William Hone published an engraving of them
in his inimitable "Year-Book," with the following
doggrel of his own composition attached to the
print : —
These poor " Buy-a-broom " girls exactly dress now
As Hollar etched such girls two centuries ago;
All formal and stiff, with legs only at ease,—-
Yet pray, judge for yourself; and don't, if you please,
Like Matthews's " Chyle," in his Monolo-play,
Cry " The Every-Day Book is quite right, I dare say."
But ask for the print at old shops (they'll show it) ,
And look at it " with your own eyes," and you'll know it.
We took Hone's advice, and found they wouldn't
" show it " at the print shops, and so waited for an
opportunity to see it at the British Museum, and
then were satisfied as to the identity hinted at by
Hone. Was ever dress so comical ; the hair skewered
into an immense tight knob, and covered with a cap too
small for an infant, and tied under the chin ; the body
as unbending as an oak tree, and apparently encased
in metal clothing set out in formal flutes, like a large
bee-hive, or cone of carpentry ; and the gray legs, —
oh, for Bloomer trowsers to hide such ! our veritable
broomstick is more flexible. But they were poor,
and suffered much ; and though most comical illustra-
tions of the Flemish costume, there was always
something sad about them as they curtsied at the
windows just before dinner-time, and sniffed_the odour
of the kitchen with a relish which told too plainly of
their condition.
Here our broomstick would have told its story, but
that its fallen state is so suggestive of the fate of man
that we should lose the very pith and marrow of its
teachings were we to lay down our pen without
deducing this moral epilogue. The history of a
broomstick is a fit emblem of the history of man ; for
its green vigour when flourishing in the woods, and
its neglected and enfeebled state after a life of good
services, are exact counterparts of the sunny freshness
of early life and the imbecilities of age. The most
* Notes and Queries.
useful labourers in the van of progress, those who
sweep away the abuses of society, are not they who
reap the largest rewards : poets, philosophers, and
philanthropists fall friendless and penniless into old
age, and, like worn-out broomsticks, are cast aside
and forgotten ; while the fawning and hypocritical too
often feather their nests snugly, and retire from a
world which they have defiled, into a retirement
which laughs nobler souls to scorn. "When I be-
held this," says Dean Swift, " I sighed, and said
within myself, ' Surely mortal man is a broomstick ;
Nature sent him into the world strong and lusty, in a
thriving condition, wearing his own hair upon his
head, — the proper branches of this reasoning vege-
table,— till the axe of intemperance has lopt off his
green boughs, and left him a withered trunk.' . . .
But now, should this our broomstick pretend to enter
the scene, proud of those birchen spoils it never bore,
and all covered with dust, though the sweepings of
the finest lady's chamber, we should be apt to ridicule
and despise its vanity, partial judges that we are of
our own excellencies and ofher men's faults. .
But a broonistick, perhaps you'll say, is an emblem of
a tree standing on its head ; and, pray, what is man
but a topsy-turvy creature, — his animal faculties per-
petually a cock-horse and rational ; his head where
his heels should be, grovelling on the earth ? " 4
Alack and alas ! most witty of madmen, most lunatic
of wits, man is little better than a broomstick ; hi.s
faculties are half the while upon a level with the
earth ; with an upright attitude, he persists in crawl-
ing, or boldly flings his heels in air, and dies head-
downward from plethora. If he be never worse than
a broomstick it will be well : he will then be joyous in
his youth, and keep company with green things and
the sweet voices of Nature ; if he then live to sweep
the world, and brush before him all moral garbage,
"men-slugs and human serpentry," he shall perhaps
have a better fate than to feed the flames when his
work be done.
SHIRLEY HIBBERD.
COUSIN LUCY.
"!T is folly, — mere boyish folly, Margaret; and I
cannot understand your motive for encouraging it.
Had the girl been well-educated, I should not have
cared an atom for her want of station ; but that my
only son should choose to fall in love with a gii-1 who
can barely write her own name, is really most pre-
pqsterous. He has already had my answer ; let the
same satisfy you"
" One word, my dear husband, and I have done :
have you ever seen Lucy Elton ? "
" Seen her ! I dare say I have done so fifty times ;
but I certainly cannot recollect any difference between
her and other women of her rank."
" Then, you have not seen her, William ; for she
must strike the most indifferent observer. I never
remember to have seen a sweeter face, or a more
winning manner, than Lucy possesses. The polish of
a little good society would make a lady of her in the
real sense of the word, and I know that you set no
value upon the title, unless it be deserved."
" Ay, well ! I see that, woman-like, you are
determined to stick to your first impression ; only let
me beg of you not to encourage Arthur in his too
favourable opinion of this paragon of mechanics'
daughters. I shall be back in good time this evening,
my love."
* A Meditation upon a Broomstick, and somewhat beside,
of the same Author's. London : printed for E. Curll, at the
Dial and Bible, against Dunstan's Church, in Fleet Street, 1710.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
391
Mr. Eandall had scarcely left the house on his way
to business, when, hastily equipped in her bonnet and
shawl, his young wife was bending her steps in the
opposite direction. Leaving her at the door of a
small, neat house, in a retired street, where the
name of "Elton, Working Jeweller," appeared on
a modest brass plate, we will introduce our readers
more fully to the several characters already men-
tioned.
Mr. Eandall was a wealthy silversmith in one of the
largest towns in England ; of respectable family, and
an industrious, enterprising spirit, he raised the
business left to him by his father, until the firm of
"William Randall and Son" ranked with the first
merchants in the city. Left a widower early in life,
his domestic affections had centred in an only son,
who, in spite of his university education, he deter-
mined to associate with himself in trade. To this
the young man had never objected; and Arthur
Randall considered himself, what everybody else
knew him to be, a fortunate fellow to be placed at
twenty-five in the position of junior partner in the
flourishing trade of "Randall and Son." A year
before his son's admission into the business, Mr.
Randall had thought fit to take another partner to
himself, in the person of a young and amiable wife.
Margaret Bennett was an orphan, brought up under
the careful espionage of a maiden aunt, the very
model of elderly ladies as they ought to be. Seeing
very little gay company, and having learnt to appre-
ciate whatever is good and noble in our nature, in
whatever rank or grade it might appear, Margaret
Bennett was the very wife Mr. Randall had for years
been hoping to find ; and in spite of the disparity of
ages, few happier marriages could have taken place.
To Arthur Randall the change brought about in their
once gloomy home by this marriage was very grati-
fying, and his admiration for his father's pretty and
accomplished wife grew, upon better acquaintance,
unto a firm and mutual friendship. •
One evening the young man entered Mrs. Randall's
little sitting-room, drew a chair for himself on the
opposite side of the fire, and with a smile of pecu-
liar meaning, said : —
"Do you remember, Margaret, the conversation
we had some weeks ago about unequal marriages, and
our mutual agreement as to what kind of unions
might justly be included in the term ? "
"I recollect it perfectly, Arthur."
"Pardon me, dear madam," said the young man,
while something very like a blush mantled his
handsome face, " but I am anxious to have the
benefit of your counsel and advice before my father
returns. You have heard my father, as well as myself,
often speak of Robert Elton, one of our best and
most respectable workmen. Three months ago he
was laid up with a violent attack of inflammation,
and has been more or less of an invalid ever since.
With all my father's kindness of heart, you know his
dislike to a sick-room, and he never could be per-
suaded to pay poor Elton a visit in his. So this duty
devolved upon me ; and, in my frequent visits to the
house, either to inquire after his health or on
business, I was thrown much into the society of his
daughter. Nay, Margaret, do not start, I assure you
that the working jeweller's daughter were a fitting
mate for the highest noble in the land, if beauty
constituted that fitness. But I do not think that
Lucy Elton's rare loveliness would have succeeded in
taking my heart captive, had I not witnessed her
devoted attention to her sick father, and the modest
propriety of her whole deportment. These have, I
must confess it, decided me that I either win Lucy
for my wife, or remain a miserable bachelor for the
rest of my days."
"But your father, Arthur," murmured Mrs-
Randall ; " have you not spoken to him ? "
" I have spoken to no one but yourself, Margaret ;
I know what my father will say too well, yet this
shall never alter my determination. It has been
arrived at after due deliberation, and a most careful
study of Lucy's character. She wants nothing to
make her such a companion, as even you would love,
except the society and friendship of a woman like
yourself, Margaret. After a few months of your
schooling*, my father would confess that his work-
man's child was worthy of being his daughter."
"I must see this paragon, Arthur ; only tell me,
in the first place, if you have told her of your attach-
ment, and whether she returns it, because you may
really be reckoning without your host after all."
" Lucy knows that I love her, and I am as sure
that my affection is returned, though not a word on
the subject has been breathed on either side. No,
Margaret, the difference in our positions might have
excited the suspicion of her honest, worthy old
father. I think that I must ask you to be my
mediator with him, as well as with my own father."
" A pretty task to set me, indeed ! While you
engage to do the agreeable to the pretty daughter, I
am to manage a couple of stern fathers ! I rather
admire that stroke of policy, Mr. Arthur."
"Do not laugh at me, dear Margaret ; but promise
to call on Robert Elton to-morrow, and you will then
judge whether Lucy is worthy of my love, and of
your regard. I will leave you now, — it is time to
dress, — and my father will be here in a few minutes ;
I only wish that my interview with him was over."
A few days after this conversation, the one between
Mr. Randall and his wife, with which our tale
commences, took place ; and we now return to
Mrs. Randall, whom we left at the door of Robert
Elton's house, whither she was going to pay her
second visit.
Margaret was met at the door of a small parlour by
a young woman, whose fair cheeks flushed to a deep
crimson as Mrs. Randall took her hand, and kindly
inquired after her father's health.
- " He is much better this morning, ma'am, and is
able to go to the manufactory ; but pray sit down ;" and
Lucy Elton arranged the cushions of a pretty chintz-
covered sofa for her guest.
" You must sit down beside me, Lucy ; for my
visit this morning is especially to you," said Mrs.
Randall, as the graceful girl prepared to seat herself
on an opposite chair. "Do not be afraid of me,
Lucy, though we are almost strangers ; I assure you
that I have already ceased to regard you as such, and,
as a proof of this, I am about to give you my entire
confidence, and to ask yours in return, upon a subject
which deeply affects us both."
Margaret paused ; and the half-averted face beside
her drooped lower still over the work which Lucy held
between her fingers. At last, with a strong effort, she
raised her head, and fixing her large blue eyes upon
Mrs. Randall's face, said slowly :
" I think that I understand you, dear madam. My
father told me of your conversation with him on
Tuesday."
" Then, Lucy, I am saved the awkwardness of an
explanation, and have only to read those blushes
aright to see that Arthur's affection for you is
returned. If this be the case, I know that you will
willingly agree to a proposal I have now to make."
Mrs. Randall then entered fully into a benevolent
plan which she wished to carry out with regard to the
fair girl whom she was perfectly happy to receive as
her daughter. This was, that Lucy should arrange
to devote certain hours each morning to the prosecu-
tion of those studies which she had hitherto so
392
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
imperfectly pursued. All this she wished to be done
without the cognizance either of her husband or his
son, that when Mr. Randall was won (as she believed
in time he would be) to give his consent to the union
which he now opposed, Arthur might have still
less cause to blush for what his father called the
deficiencies in Lucy Elton's education.
"And now, Lucy," added Mrs. Randall, as she
drew her shawl closer around her, and prepared to say
good-by, " I read consent to my scheme in your face,
do I not ? and we have only to fix the hours when you
can best leave your domestic duties here to attend to
these new studies ; shall we say from two to four each
day ? "
" Thank you, dear Mrs. Randall. How shall I ever
prove my gratitude to you ? " murmured Lucy, as she
bent over Margaret's hand.
" By being an attentive pupil, Lucy dear, as I
know you will be ; and thus making the friend we both
love and esteem doubly happy. To-morrow, then, I
may expect you ; and now, good-by."
For several months Lucy Elton might be found at
the appointed hour in Mrs. Randall's little morning-
room, reading and learning as diligently as the most
exacting mistress could desire, and delighting her
gentle instructress by the aptness with which she
received knowledge, and the ease with which she
retained it. The secret of these pleasant lessons
had been strictly preserved, and not even Arthur had
any idea of the amount of help which Margaret was
affording to his beloved Lucy, though he was satisfied
with, and grateful for the interest which he saw that
she took in her improvement. Thus matters happily
progressed, until the summer began to wane into
early autumn, and a few weeks sojourn at the seaside
was spoken of by Mr. Randall, more on account of
his wife than himself, for his absorbing attention to
business always prevented his being willingly absent
from the counting-house for more than a week at a
time, and Margaret had consequently been hitherto
left to a month's solitude at some retired bathing-
place ; — a solitude which was, however, by no means
irksome to her thoughtful nature. In the present
instance, she proposed to herself a companion ; and
although shrinking from the necessity of concealing
the truth from her husband, she determined so to
arrange that Lucy should accompany her, believing
that the motive for her apparent duplicity would fully
excuse it in his sight.
"Write to your friend, Miss Spencer, Margaret,
and ask her to meet us at in a fortnight. I
shall be so much better satisfied if I leave you with
an agreeable companion, and I have often heard you
mention this pretty cousin Lucy, and express a wish
that she could visit us. Besides," continued Mr.
Randall, " who knows but that Arthur may take a
fancy to her, and put an end to his present absurd
penchant for a mere rustic Lucy."
Nothing could have been more propitious to
Margaret's wishes than this speech which her
husband made during a conversation as to their
proposed holiday.
She gratefully accepted the proposition, and in
a few days was able to tell Mr. Randall that her
friend Lucy would be delighted to join them for a
month at . In the meanwhile Lucy Elton
had been informed of the treat in store for her, and
Arthur, too, was necessarily admitted into the secret
of the deception about to be practised. At first,
Lucy refused to lend herself to a deceit, which she
thought would only increase Mr. Randall's dislike to
her ; but the representations of her friend Margaret,
and the solicitations of her lover, at length conquered,
and Lucy commenced her preparations for this new
and unlooked-for pleasure. A week passed rapidly
by, and the end of another fortnight found Mr. and
Mrs. Randall with their visitor, " Cousin Lucy,"
seated in the bow-window of a comfortable drawing-
room at , which commanded a magnificent
sea-view, and a bold side landscape of rocky promon-
tory and undulating wooded banks, which sloped to
the margin of the beach. At a table covered with a
profusion of damp seaweeds and shells, still redolent
of the briny dew of the deep, Lucy sat and sketched
a graceful group of these ocean treasures, which she
had arranged with admirable effect (for she had been
for some years a pupil in one of those seminaries of
taste and elegance, a school of design). Margaret sat
besido her with some work, and her husband, as he
conned the pages of his daily papei', every now and
then read some amusing paragraph aloud. At length,
throwing the paper on one side, he exclaimed :
" Well, dear wife, charming as this change is for a
time, I really cannot give more than my fortnight
away from business. Arthur is, in most respects,
just as good as I should be among the people ; but I
fear he will not give his whole thought, or time
either, to the counting-house, so long as that foolish
affair keeps its hold upon him. Besides, I want him
to have a holiday as well as myself, and shall send him
across directly I get back. If possible, I may come
over again for a couple of days, and take you all
home."
" When must you go then, William ? not for
another week, surely ? "
"To-morrow, my love. Remember that I have
enjoyed the sea-breeze for a whole fortnight, and a
very pleasant fortnight, too. You must endeavour to
make the next three weeks pass as agreeably to
Arthur. No, not you, Margaret ; I depute that task
to your fair cousin. Nay, Lucy, those golden curls,
with all their profusion, will not quite hide your
blushes. But, come, I will quiz you no more -about
this unknown knight. Let me see your drawing as a
token of amity."
Lucy rose, and with a smile on her still blushing
face put the sketch into Mr. Randall's hand and then
left the room, while he continued :
" What, gone again ? I declare, Margaret, I could
fancy the girl was in love with Arthur from my
description. I cannot mention his name without
calling up a blush on her face ; I shall take it as a
good omen of his success, I think."
"Then, Arthur has your permission to endeavour
to win Lucy's heart, William, portionless damsel
though she be ? "
"You know that money is the last thing I wish
Arthur to consider in the choice of a wife, Margaret.
In every other respect, I have satisfied myself that
Luc^ Spencer would suit him. And, fastidious as he
pretends to be on the score of personal beauty, I defy
him to object to your lovely cousin on that point.
As for her lack of accomplishments, in a wife these
may be easily, and I think often profitably dispensed
with ; — Lucy draws beautifully, however, and how
rapidly this sketch was taken."
" But, William, before you say anything to Arthur
on this subject, remember all that I have told you of
my Cousin Lucy's birth and parentage. Not only is
she without fortune, but she was the child of working
people, — her father was a tenant-farmer of Lord
's."
"None the worse for that, my dear wife. You
ought to know that I honour honest labour as man's
noblest heritage ; and the daughter of a day-labourer,
if raised by education and the refinement of intellec-
tual society, is as true a lady, in my eyes, as the
hereditary countess."
"And yet, dear husband, how determinedly you
opposed all my wishes that you should see Robert
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
393
Elton's charming daughter before you passed judg-
ment upon her. She was, whatever you may believe,
as worthy of your esteem and admiration as my
Cousin Lucy, perhaps even more so,"
"I might have been wrong, Margaret, in this
instance ; but, as you know, it was not the girl's
station or birth to which I objected, so much as her
necessary want of mental culture — of that refinement
of taste and sentiment which I am sure Arthur
would require in a wife ; but here comes Lucy, and
we must drop this subject for the present, at any
rate."
******
The day previous to the one fixed for the return of
Margaret and her companions had arrived. On the
evening before, Mr. Randall had, in compliance with
his promise, joined them, and the little party were
making the most of the sea-breezes by spending a
long afternoon upon the beach. Seated upon a bank
covered with short mossy grass and wild thyrne, while
her feet rested upon the ridge of many coloured
pebbles, which marked the highest point of the tide,
Lucy was finishing a sketch of the bay and its little
white-walled town ; while Arthur, stretched listlessly
on the soft turf beside her, read and talked alter-
nately.
"Come, Cousin Lucy, suppose you leave Arthur to
take charge of your portfolio to the house, and walk
with us to the pier," said Mr. Randall, as he and his
wife came up to the young couple. " Do you see
how rapidly the Packet is coming into the
harbour? who knows what friends we may find among
the passengers ; Margaret has been giving me a hint
that she half expects a newly-married cousin. Arthur
will, perhaps, join us, and in the meanwhile you must
accept of a less agreeable escort."
Taking Mr. Randall's offered arm, Lucy and her
companions walked on in the direction of the town ;
and crossing the river by a narrow wooden bridge
they soon found themselves among a group of visitors
and townspeople watching the approaching steamer
as she made rapidly towards the pier. The vessel
at length came to her moorings ; and in a short time
the eager passengers began to leave her deck.
" There they are ! " exclaimed Mrs. Randall, as a
pretty-looking woman stepped across the gangway
followed by a gentleman ; and, in another moment, she
had cordially greeted the new comers, whom she pre-
sented to her husband as "Mr. and Mrs. Wilson."
" To think that I should choose for our
wedding-trip, Margaret, because I knew you were
here, and then to find that you are leaving by the next
boat. It is really too provoking," said the lady, in a
tone of disappointment.
"Oh, you will not want us, Lucy dear," returned
Margaret, laughing : " but you must come to our
lodgings at once : and now let me give you up
to my husband's care ; he knows you well by report."
" Only as Lucy Spencer, though ; for you had not
much notice of my change of name, Margaret."
" Another Cousin Lucy, Margaret ? " exclaimed
Mr. Randall, with a look of astonishment. "I do not
remember to have heard you mention more than one.
The namesakes seem strangers to each other, too.
Lucy, my love, Margaret has not introduced you to
this mutual cousin, for such, I presume, she must be.
Miss Lucy Spencer, Mrs. Wilson."
An admonitory look from Mrs. Randall checked the
expression of surprise which rose to Mrs. Wilson's
lips as Lucy underwent her formal introduction to
her, while a knowing smile was exchanged between
the cousins ; and the little party walked on quietly to
their lodgings, meeting Arthur, who had been in
search of them, on their way.
"Dearest Mrs. Randall," sobbed Lucy Elton, as
she followed her friend into her little dressing-room,
*' I cannot bear this misery any longer ; pray let me
go to Mr. Randall, and confess the deception at once.
It must be found out sooner or later, and how
wretched I shall be now till I know that he has
forgiven me."
" I suspect that it is found out already, my dear
Lucy," said a kind, grave voice behind her, and the
hand of Mr. Randall was laid gently upon her
shoulder, as she clung weeping to Margaret. "Cheer
up Lucy, and do not suppose that I am so unjust as
to withdraw my esteem and affection simply because
it turns out that your name is Elton instead of
Spencer. As my wife was, by her own confession,
the instigator of this plot against my pride and preju-
dice, and as it has been so successful and happy in
its issue, I must pardon all the aiders and abettors as
well as the chief conspirator herself, — ay, my sweet
Margaret !
"We shall have a great deal to talk about when
we reach home ; but let us all devote this evening to
the amusement of our visitors. Mrs. Wilson seems
to be a very agreeable person ; and, after all," added
Mr. Randall, as he kissed the still tearful cheek of
Lucy Elton, "I am well pleased that, in taking you
for my daughter, Lucy, we shall not lose sight of
that pleasant, perplexing little kinswoman, Cousin
Lucy."
SPRING.
SPRING is coming o'er the mountains,
She hath rested on the sea,
And the ice-chain of the fountains
Runs in silver, fast and free.
Stepping lighter than the pinion
Of the yellow butterfly ;
Spreading through the world's dominion
Lustre from a laughing eye.
Rife with Hope, and fresh with Beauty,
That each coming dawn shall bring ;
Love is joy, and joy is duty,
Hallowed by the smile of Spring.
Spring, the bright, the kind, the joyous, -
Spring, the time of trusting youth,
When no shades of grief annoy us, —
When the heart is full of truth.
Spring must ever be the dearest,
Loveliest time of all the year,
For Hope is still to man the nearest
Link of Heaven that holds him here.
E. M. S.
LAURA BRIDGMAN AND HER VOCAL
SOUNDS.
THE case of Laura Bridgman, the blind, deaf mute,
at Boston, United States, is one of so extraordinary
a nature, as to have attracted a considerable share of
attention and curiosity ; and the reports from time
to time made public concerning this young girl, who
seemed entirely shut out from all that renders life
desirable, have made her name and personal history
familiar to most readers. We have now an addition
to our information on Laura's progress from the pen
of Dr. Lieber — a name known in American literature
— which has been judged of sufficient importance to
394
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
appear in the second volume of " Contributions tq
Knowledge, "published by the Smithsonian Institution
at Washington. The paper is " on the vocal sounds "
of the afflicted girl, as " compared with the elements
of phonetic language;" and we shall endeavour, in
the present article, to present such a summary of it
as may be popularly interesting.
Dr. Lieber observes, in commencing, that the
visible or pantomimic signs which we are accustomed
to use in ordinary conversation or intercourse with
our fellows, are not, as has often been supposed, the
result of mere imitation, but are natural and spon-
taneous. They depend in some measure on tempera-
ment; gesticulation is not a usual adjunct of con-
versation in England, but among foreigners it is so
marked as to have become a characteristic, — especially
as regards the French and Germans. The Chinese
are said to " accompany their speech with a great
many visible signs, without which the audible ones
cannot be understood." Emotions excite the nervous
system ; hence the action of the orator, the start of
an individual taken by surprise, the thrill of one who
sees a striking work of art or magnificent landscape
for the first time. Assuming that signs and utter-
ances are simultaneous, and proceed from the same
cause, Dr. Lieber proposes to call them "symphe-
nomena," and includes among them laughing, blush-
ing, weeping, moaning, and others of similar nature.
The lower animals also manifest symphenomena, ;yet
they are devoid of that reason which " transforms the
phenomenon into an intentional sign." Laura, when
her education first began, was full of symphenomena
of so active and demonstrative a character that her
teachers were necessitated to repress them, as other
trainers of youth have had to check the noisy vivacity
of children, the object being " to make her fit for
social intercourse." It is somewhat remarkable that,
notwithstanding her defect of speech, sight, and
hearing, she " has at no time of her life failed against
the nicest delicacy," her conduct being "marked
throughout by a delicate feeling of propriety ; " from
which Dr. Lieber infers, perhaps on insufficient
grounds, "that delicacy of behaviour and propriety
of demeanour are natural to man, though they may
not be always primitive."
As regards the symphenomena, we are told that
" Laura not only blushes and weeps, laughs and
smiles, which may be called absolute or direct sym-
phenomena, requiring no more an act of aiding volition
than the throbbing of the heart does, but I have
seen her stamping with joy — an impulsive phenomenon
which we observe in a more regulated form in the
applause of large assemblies. When Laura was speak-
ing to me of a cold bath, the idea prevailing at the
time in her mind produced the motion of shivering.
This was, for her, purely symphenomenal ; but it
became to me, who was looking at her, a sign, or
symbol, because it expressed the effect which the
cold water had produced on her system."
" When Laura is astonished or amazed, she rounds
and protrudes her lips, opens them, breathes strongly,
spreads her arms, and turns her hands with extended
fingers upwards, just as we do when wondering at
something very uncommon. I have seen her biting
her lips, with an upward contraction of the facial
muscles, when roguishly listening to the account of
some ludicrous mishap, precisely as lively persons
among us would do. She has not perceived these
phenomena in others ; she has not learned them by
unconscious imitation ; nor does she know that they
can be perceived by the bystander. I have fre-
quently seen her, while speaking of a person, pointing
at the spot where he had been sitting when she last
conversed with him, and Avhere she still believed him
to be, as we naturally tuna our eye to the object of
which we are speaking. She frequently does these
things with one hand, while the other receives or
conveys words. Speaking to me once of her own
crying, when a little child, Laura accompanied her
words with a long face, drawing her fingers down her
cheeks to indicate the copious flow of tears ; and
when, 011 New.Year's-day of 1844, she wished in her
mind a happy new year to her benefactor, Dr. Howe,
then in Europe, she involuntarily turned towards
the east, and made, with both her outstretched arms,
a waving and blessing motion, as natural to her as it
was to those who first accompanied a benediction
with this symphenomenon of the idea, that God's
love and protection might descend in the fulness of
a stream upon the beloved fellow-being."
Again. " A young lady, to whom Laura is affec-
tionately attached, has a short, delicate, and quick
step, which the blind and deaf girl has perceived by
the jar 'going through the feet up to the head,' as
she very justly describes it. One day she entered
the room, affecting the same step ; and when asked
by the young lady why she did so, she promptly
replied, 'You walk thus, and I thought of you.'
Here the question made her conscious that her imi-
tative step was a symphenomenon, and nothing more,
of the idea of that young friend of hers, then upper-
most in her mind."
Another remarkable fact is, that ' ' Laura constantly
accompanies her yes with the common affirmative nod,
and her no with our negative shake of the head.
Both are with her, in the strictest sense, primitive
symphenomena of the ideas of affirmation and nega-
tion, and not symphenomena which have gradually
become such by unconscious imitation, as frequently
may be the case with us. The nodding forward for
assent, and the shaking of the head or hand from side
to side for dissent, seem to be genuine sympheno-
mena accompanying these two ideas. * * * The
Italians move repeatedly the lifted digit from right
to left as a sign of negation ; while the modern Greeks
throw back the head, producing at the same time a
clucking noise with the tongue. Laura makes at
present these signs, even without writing a yes or
no in the hand of the person with whom she converses,
having learned, but not having been told, that some-
how or other we perceive this sign, or that it produces
upon us the desired effect, although she is unable to
solve the great riddle of the process by which this is
done. Laura, far below our domestic animals, so far
as the senses are concerned, but infinitely above
them because she is endowed with a human mind,
has attained to the abstractions of affirmation and
negation at a very early age ; while no dog or elephant,
however sagacious, has been known to rise to these
simple ideas, for which every moment even of animal
existence calls, wherever reflection sways over the
naked fact."
In order fully to understand the foregoing passage, we
must remember that Laura has gained her knowledge,
— all her educational training, solely by means of the
sense of touch. This being the only mode left to her
for communication with the external world, Dr. Howe,
her instructor, skilfully availed himself of it to awaken
her reason and enlighten her understanding, and with
the most complete and gratifying success. The narra-
tive of his persevering efforts will some day form one
of the most interesting chapters in the history of
education; meantime we may state briefly that the
whole process consisted in the pupil and teacher
placing their hands together, and imparting their
sentiments to each other by different positions of the
fingers and degrees of touch. At first, such a process
would necessarily be slow, but expertness came with
practice ; and Laura not only now speaks her finger-
language with great facility, but makes a point,
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
395
whenever possible, of using what we should term
high-sounding words. Before she began to learn it,
she was accustomed to distinguish persons by sounds,
of which she had a great variety — a separate sound
for every individual in whom she took any interest ;
but no explanation can be given of their origin,
neither is there anything in them to indicate the
character of the persons to whom they are applied.
She is not, however, deficient in knowledge of char-
acter; her "listening finger " detects all the varieties
in the persons about her. It has been supposed that
her phonetic resources would have developed them-
selves to a much greater extent had they not been
checked by the finger-language, which superseded
them. She often has recourse to the sounds, and
spontaneously, when a new train of thought comes
over her, just as some people have a habit of talking
to themselves. When highly excited by wonder, she
gives out a strongly aspirated " ho-o-ph-ph, " a sound
which finds its parallel not only in the " ugh " of the
North American Indian, but in the exclamatory
utterance of nearly all persons when suddenly aston-
ished. Who is there that has not heard the half-
chuckle, half-grunt, expressive of the fulness of satis-
faction. Laui-a, in similar circumstances, utters the
same. Sometimes an irresistible desire seizes her to
make a noise, the same by which individuals are
occasionally impelled to shout, and children to voci-
ferate, without any apparent cause ; which makes
negroes at times talk and sing in spite of the lash.
Laura's sounds are, however, generally " uncouth,"
and are now and then checked by the teachers, to
whom the girl replies, "I do not always try to make
them. God gave me much voice." When not to be
suppressed, she shuts herself up in her room, and
makes a noise to her heart's content, and she is
accustomed to vent her grief by "unrestrained
weeping."
Laura's finger-language has taught her the value
of words, though they convey no idea of sound to her
inind; and sometimes, by a manifestation of what
Dr. Lieber calls secondary phenomena, she avails
herself of both modes of expression. "She not only
frequently talks to herself, with one hand in the other,
waking, or in he» dreams, — which is likewise seen with
deaf mutes, who have been taught the finger alphabet
— but, having certain particular sounds for distinct
persons — names, or nouns proper, — if we choose to call
them so — she utters these name-sounds for herself,
when she vividly thinks of these individuals." Dr.
Howe remarks in his tenth report : —
" Laura said to me, in answer to a question why
she uttered a certain sound, rather than spelt the
name, ' I think of Janet's noise : many times when I
think how she gives me good things, I do not think
to spell her name.' And at another time, hearing
her in the next room make the peculiar sound for
Janet, I hastened to her, and asked her why she made
it. She said, ' Because I think how she do love me
much, and I love her much.' "
On this, Dr. Lieber remarks : —
" Sometimes she produces these phonetic names
involuntarily, as in the instance when she affection-
ately thought of a friend. So, whenever she meets
unexpectedly an acquaintance, I found that she
repeatedly uttered the sound for that person before
she began to speak. It was the utterance of pleasur-
able recognition. When she perceives, by the jar
produced by the peculiar step of a person entering
the room, who it is, she utters the sound for that
person. At other times, when she is in search of
somebody, she will enter a room uttering a sound
belonging to the person ; and receiving no answering
touch, will pass on. In this case, the sound has
become a complete word ; that is, a sound to which
a definite, idea is attached, intentionally uttered to
designate that idea."
" Once she said, in my presence, to a friend of
hers, — ' You are veiy sleepy ; why don't you go to
bed ? ' And when asked how she knew it, she replied,
— 'You speak so sleepy.' The fact was, that the
person really was tired, and printed her converse
slowly in Laura's hand; as our utterance becomes
symphenomenally heavy when we feel drowsy. One
day Laura expressed a desire to visit me ; and when
asked whether she liked to see me, she answered, — •
'Yes; he speaks so funny,' imitating my slow and
often incorrect spelling. I was then learning her
finger alphabet, and used to spell as slowly and pain-
fully as the urchin performs his first lessons in the
primer. Now, it is obvious that if Laura perceives
single peculiarities, she likewise conceives the aggre-
gate, especially as she is gifted with very keen con-
versational powers. We have, indeed, her own sayings,
which prove how well she appreciates those around her. "
Laura, on one occasion, at the request of her
teacher, produced twenty-seven of her vocabulary —
so to call it— of sounds, but altogether she has formed
as many as sixty. " Her oral sounds indicate persons
only. She never attempts to designate individuals
by the clapping of her hands, or by stamping her
feet. The reason seems clear. These sounds would
be intentional in their origin; and how could she
know that by bringing her hands violently together
she would produce a sign ? The uttered sounds were
spontaneous in their origin ; and finding that, somehow
or other, they were perceived by others, they became
signs or names."
All Laura's sounds are monosyllabic ; she never joins
two together, nor does she use the same with different
intonations for different persons. It is not easy to
express them in our ordinary alphabetic characters :
the most prevalent are F, T, Pr, B, Ee, Oo, and S ;
L appears once only in a sound resembling the word
lull. Pa is one of her best female friends, Fif is
another, Pig is one of her teachers, Ts ts is Dr. Howe ;
and she has a sound between F and T, used sport-
ively, "for she is fond of a joke, and greatly enjoys
goodnatured teasing."
Miss Wight, the teacher who has had the charge of
Laura during the past five years, says of her in a
communication to Dr. Lieber : — " She produces still
the same sound for me that she made eight years ago,
with this difference, that, originally, it was very soft
and gentle ; now it is louder and fuller, to correspond,
as she says, with the change in myself. She no
longer uses many of these names, and has forgotten a
part of them. Mine she retains for its use. When
she is merry she often sings. When she says a
humorous thing, she is not satisfied if the person
addressed does not laugh heartily. She often talks
with herself, sometimes holding long conversations,
speaking with one hand and replying with the other."
" Laura is now in excellent health, — very good and
very happy. Your letters give her much pleasure.
When I read your last to her, the colour mounted to
her cheeks, she laughed, and clapped her hands."
It may seem almost wonderful that Laura has been
taught to write ; yet such is the fact. A fac simile of
one of her letters is given in the volume referred to
at the commencement of this article. Although stiff
and formal, the hand is perfectly distinct and legible,
and correct in its orthography ; and it is said that she
very rarely makes a mistake. We subjoin a copy of
one of these interesting documents : —
"Sunny Home, August 15, 1850.
'" My dear Dr. Lieber, —
" I received your kindest letter last June in the
p.m. I was very much interested in your account of
the mocking-bird. One very rainy tue. [for Tuesday]
396
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
a very kind gentleman sent me 2 canary birds, which
looked very pretty and cunning. One bird "died last
June. The other bird seemed very quiet as if he
missed his companion so sadly. He comforted him-
self by looking the glass, for he thought that he saw
his companion there and used to sing to her ; but at
last he flew through the window, which was opened
a very short way, and left his cage desolate. A very
kind friend promised me that he would send me a
bird this week. I should be very glad to have you
learn to talk with your fingers.
" I am highly delighted at the thought of going to
Hanover to visit my dear Mother in Sept. Tell my
dear Mrs. Lieber that I have got a little new sister.
It has not received a name yet. My mother writes
that her babe resembles me very much. I am making
a very nice white dress for the baby. I remember
that Mrs. Lieber is very fond of children.
" Next Thursday will be five years since Miss W.
commenced teaching me. I should like to get much
better acquainted with you.
"Yours truly,
" Laura Bridgman."
Deprivation of the three faculties on which enjoy-
ment of life is considered chiefly to depend, is thus
seen to be no effectual bar to happiness. Laura
affords an interesting study to the philosopher and
the philanthropist. While the one is analyzing the
phenomena of signs and sounds, the other will be
investigating the effects of emotion, and rejoicing that
a mind has been enlightened. Although she would
like '"'to see this beautiful world," yet she is quite
content with her lot, and often says, in the fulness of
her heart, " I am so glad I have been created." This
psalm of gratitude, poured forth by her whom we
pity as the loneliest of mortals — this hymnus of
rejoicing in the possession of life — expresses infinitely
more strongly and loudly what Dr. Howe, has done
for her, than any praise of others could do.
WILL.
! IN this life of palpable sights and hard dealing, — this
I life that stares out upon us, with outlines keen and
I clear ; its lights vivid, and its shadows deep and
j sudden, — amid this unmistakeable reality that shocks
, our delicate dream-structure at every turn : even in
the commonest ways of common life, we are edged
j about with mystery, enough to satisfy the most
i visionary.
What is the power that moves the great machine ?
How does this huge and seething sea keep boiling on ?
its waves ever advancing and receding. The fair
world, with its ceaseless wind, its flowing waters, its
springing verdure, — ever springing
Before Decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where Beauty lingers ;
its joy of life ; its superabundant loveliness ; — why
does it not cease to be ? Not one philosopher can
tell ; and only poets dream of the mighty Will that
keeps its sources alive ; while the humble worshipper
kneels before the influence he cannot expound. It is
this great mystery of Will that verily moves the
surging sea, both of Nature and of Life.
Passing in the huge City to and fro, — what mark
we ? Noise, and motion ; earnest faces that glance
by us, and are gone, never, perhaps, to meet us
more. Yet each passing figure of humanity has a
spirit, a will, and a purpose, thereby made part of ^he
City's might. In all the seeming confusion, — the
strange feet that press our path ; the strange voices
that meet our ear ; — there is purpose and order. The
flow of Life in the roaring street may differ each
day ; yet is, in main amount and character, the
same. Daily, is the same general purpose accom-
plished,— differing in its parts, but resulting from the
will of each.
How much, then, depends on individual will, — this
mystery of a man's small world, — making his billows
of passion rise and sink, and guiding through them
his bark of Life, and all its mysterious mechanism.
We cannot know whence or why this mystery of
Will ; be it enough to know that it is, — and that it is
the mainspring of action ; — then reflect on how it
shall move ourselves ; how influence the might of
Life around us.
We hear that such and such is the spirit of the
age ; that this age was grand in thought ; that, in
achievement ; while another was vain and frivo-
lous ; and a fourth untrained and brutal. Let us
ever look to the Life and Will of the average indivi-
dual in each age ; — what are his hopes and aims ?
— has he that living faith in the spiritual, that bids
him reverence its interpreters? — if so, his era is
grand in thought ; has he a mechanical mind, ever
ready to do what duty prompts, as well as learn its
meaning ? — then is the era great in achievement ; has
he, instead of cultivating his higher powers, wasted
his youth in indolence, and suffered luxury and
amusement to sap his spirit ? — then his age is empty :
has he dwelt long on resentments, indulging blame of
others, or bitter repining at his own less fortunate
career, instead of acting bravely to amend his condi-
tion ? — then his age is brutal : the little cloud spreads
to general blackness ; and the storm blasts the forest,
that first only bowed the flower.
It is now commonly believed that to Will is
almost the same as to accomplish ; that difficulties are
but healthful exercise to earnest hearts. This idea is
widely accepted; though thousands still repine, — still
stand shivering on the brink of Life, never daring its
glory-crowned alps ; and thus proving the faith we
put in theory to have little living base ; while it
solves a great puzzle to philosophers, who, like
Goldsmith's "Citizen of the World," could never
explain why, with a cure for all ills, men will persist
in drooping. And yet, Will rules each heart, — often
unconsciously ; we learn to enjoy ; then to love ; and
earnestly seeking, we labour to attain. Will works
differently in different minds ; one man gains, by
bold advances, what another does by sinuous flattery ;
this trusts to fair dealing and sterling quality, what
that puffs and trims for ; — each follows Will ; each
gains a certain end, though differing according to the
means.
Will is not so grand a thing as poets and philo-
sophers have asserted ; — it is but the lever of Life ; j
the direction it takes is the grand consideration.
Selfishly, — who would wish to be utterly despicable ?
— who desires to be empty-headed and contemptible ? j
or, in other words, to have no Will to usefulness ? i
And, benevolently, — is it not a glory to influence our |
age ai-ight ? — to lay our lives, as stones on the living
fabric, to raise it nearer Heaven ? Selfishly, we
would learn much, and be perfect : benevolently, we
would teach much, to «xalt. Selfishly, we would
receive and be happy : benevolently, we would
impart, — that happiness be mirrored all around.
There is serious error in teaching a powerful mind
that Will is everything. / The strong Will grasps all
that swims in the waters of Life; and, to sustain
itself, impovei-ishes or destroys others. But not long
may any individual taint by evil Will the eternal and
ever-freshly-flowing tide of good; for, as weeds and
crooked stumps, and shrivelled leaves, are transmuted
by nature into things of grace, so are the stains of sin
purified by the universal moral air, and the crooked
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
397
turns of life, lighted by love, become landmarks on
the way of Truth. Yet, though lasting evil may not
be allowed, the spirit that has wrong desires spreads
as much, and as far-cast mischief as its force of Will
extends. The Caesars, who shed blood in rivers, and
cast deep shades on the wing of Time, are few ; but
the petty tyrants that cloud to-day, — saddening the
lives of the suffering by their firesides, in their work-
shops, or in their fields, are far too numerous. Let
those who grumble with the world, and murmur at
unequal laws, pause at their own threshold, and,
before extemporizing thunder against goveraments,
see that there they do justice : — it may not be so
known or praised, but it is far nobler, and manlier,
too, to be a patriot at home, than abroad, — far
worthier to be a considerate husband, a gentle father,
or a loving brother, than a terror to the State, or
even a big man in the vestry. The State and the
World are one home formed after the many firesides,
as the giant forests flourish through their leaves and
sap-vessels. Let those, too, who sigh for light to the
outcast and bread to the destitute, see that, to their
utmost, they spread these holy gifts; and, let the
hours lounged away in self-indulgence be devoted to
learn and teach — to leara, that wisdom be understood ;
and to teach, that it may be made common : then, if
doubt as to means occur, be the old maxim — " Where
there 's a Will there 's a way," the instigator to action.
We mourn to see high talents, noble aspirations,
"thoughts that breathe and words that burn," con-
verted to frivolity,— mere garbage whereon to feed
a false and vicious taste ; that books displaying
talent of no common order, tend but to foster our
lowest passions ; that genius — full and noble — is
trifled away in empty flicker that one stroke of
Time 's passing wing must quench. Yes ! we sigh
to think that this is so prevalent in our age, if Genius
would eat and drink. Our Hoods must waste their
energies on jests and puns, that they may live; while
their glorious insight of eternal Truth bursts out only
for their own relief, as the sun breaks through earth's
clouding mists to show that light is yet in heaven.
But why is this ? Rather ask what is the education
of the individual? Our youths are taught the full
importance of cigars, opera-glasses, and ties, and gold
(or gilt) headed canes ; to be ''fast" and self-impor-
tant is their aim of life : and our girls are taught — the
best approved airs for a drawing-room; to super-
ficially acquire a few modern tongues; to know a
"little music, a little drawing, and a little dancing,"
but to understand nothing of the majestic course and
meaning of creation ; of the connected and progressive
history of man; of the Poetry of Art, or the truth
of faith or feeling ; in short, to seem everything and
to le nothing. Our young are trained to believe that
the main end of life is to attract each other by specious
seeming ; and hence, whither has departed the Eeal ?
— along our streets; from our concert-rooms; from
our theatres ; from our Art in too many forms — Alas !
— where ? The music that awakens fancy and feeling
is little cared for, while the voluptuous dance and
tasteless Buffo meets the loud encore; and glorious
Shakspere veils his brow to gross Farce or grosser
Ballet. Much has the age advanced in luxury, in
splendour, in power of Will, and in general know-
ledge ; but we would fain see it advance still more in
radical and earnest Good.
Be Will alive, and kindled by high desire; be it
directed wisely, — there is work enough for each. If
we fervently desire improvement, let us give our
interest to that which is worthy, and let our lives
have a meaning and a purpose. At home and abroad,
let heart and voice be mild but active ; and remember
that words by the wayside are often more precious
than senatorial orations.
The tide of Good flows on eternally, but the ages
form its waves; let GUIS swell in the right direction,
not press back on the succeeding; and so shall the
tide roll smoothly on, reflecting the light of heaven
in unbroken beauty.
E. M. S.
GETTING UP BEHIND.
You have seen a gallant equipage drawn by a pair of
noble horses caracolling along the highway. There
is a convenient standing-place behind the carriage,
where, on more than ordinarily stately occasions,
Jeames de la Fitz Plushe stations himself. A con-
venient step leads up to that standing-place. But
Jeames occasionally taketh a seat on the box beside
Mr. Jehu. Look at him — with stuffed calves, red
breeches, and powdered wig — the very pink of
" aristoxy ! "
But hallo ! what is this that has " got up behind ?"
Something like a bag of soot ! But no ! The crea-
ture, whatever it is, has the agility of a cat. It
vaults upon the step, seats itself upon the vacant
place of the noble De la Fitz Plushe, and, on turning
round, reveals the grinning mouth, the burnished
ivories, and the laughing though reddened eyes, of
a little merry sweep !
And so the stately equipage rolls past, its noble
occupants all unconscious of the close proximity of
defilement ; least of all is Jehu aware that he is driv-
ing the little gibbering sweep who - has got up in
Jeames's place, until the laughter of the passers-by,
the many eyes directed to the back of the carriage,
and perhaps the shout of some wicked urchin ex-
horting Jehu to "whip behind," reveals to him the
secret ! And immediately there is a sudden lash, as
sudden a leap, and the poor little sweep limps away
rubbing his thighs !
There is a great deal of this " getting up behind "
practised in the world, on a large as well as on a small
scale. Let a great cause arise, and immediately a
host of small objects leap up and take a ride with it.
They are satisfied to follow in the wake of any move-
ment, no matter what its object, provided it be
notorious. Like the fly on the wheel, they are ready
to call out, " See what a dust we raise ! " They are
anxious to turn their ride to profit, too. Thus you
will see some great caravan of wild beasts invariably
attended by its troop of penny peep-shows, selling
their small attractions by the aid of the greater one.
You see how ready people are to get up behind
Royalty in this country. Over how many doors do
you see the royal arms mounted ! What hosts of
purveyors to the Queen — friseurs, chemists, dentists,
umbrella-makers, sausage-makers, and so on ! It all
means " getting up behind ; " or, as the Yankees call
it, "tailing on."
Some new project is announced, and is hailed as
absurd. It can never work ; it is ludicrous — imprac-
ticable— stupid — insane. But it is tried, and is found
to work ; — it even works well. Instantly all the
deprecators make a rush at the identical project which
they had been abusing, and now try to "get up
behind," — be it railways, or screw ships, or electric
telegraphs. If balloons were to succeed, there would
soon be nothing but balloons; and every balloon
would have its parachute, or parasite, " getting up
behind" — "tailing on." Thus also are all manner
of successful commercial speculations imitated. The
majority of men cannot strike out a new path for
themselves, but they can do what pays as well,
and without the preliminary trouble and cost. They
can follow the road made for them by others ; they
can "get up behind/' and catch perhaps the larger
398
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
share of the profits ; though sometimes there are
urchins enough about, to call out "whip behind/"
and the lash descends, but they have avoided it by
quietly dropping themselves in their native mud, out
of harm's way for the time.
Let any individual achieve notoriety, it matters
not how — Jenny Lind, Tom Thumb, Kossuth, Cobden,
or Paxton, — and forthwith you have handkerchiefs,
hats, songs, umbrellas, pipes, &c., called by their
names, — books dedicated to them, — portraits of them
engraved and sold as long as they will sell, — and
their names converted to trading purposes by that
enterprising portion of the community which is ever
so ready at " getting up behind."
The same class starts "organs of public opinion,"
to advocate whatever opinion is uppermost ; and you
witness the sudden advent of British Blazers, British
Protectors, British Lions, and all sorts of short-lived
heroes and defenders of what will sell and go down
with the wind. "The People" is a phrase which is
now copiously worked up by those who have things to
dispose of. You have "The People's" this, that,
and the other ; for the said " People " are in the
ascendant. We see one enterprising clothier is now
using it to get rid of trowsers, coats, and gaiters ; and
is puffing himself off as "The People's" clothier.
He wants to "get up behind;" and thousands are
like him. No matter who carries them along, so that
they are carried. They are ready to take the flunkey's
place, provided they can make it pay.
How many "got up behind " the Great Exhibition !
It was meat and drink for thousands. What ingenuity
was exercised in turning the penny by that grand
event ! But wait till the next novel and striking
vehicle drives along, and lo ! the little sweep will be
there. And not only he, but thousands more will be
waiting their opportunity of " getting up behind ! "
THE ENGLISH IN SHANGHAE.
WE have been favoured with a file of The North China
Herald, an English newspaper published at Shanghae,
in North China. Our countrymen already seem to
have taken root there, and to be thriving famously.
The old Anglo - Saxon spirit accompanies them.
Wherever they set their foot they make themselves
" at home ;" just as they did in England itself, when
they first came over from Jutland and Saxony. Here
we find a goodly colony of these English people
planted at Shanghae, close upon the best part of the
Chinese coast, bartering and trading with the natives,
making money, building houses, marrying and multi-
plying, wonderfully like as they do in Old England,
They have carried their religion and their religious
varieties out with them ; the Churchmen have built a
church, — " Trinity Church ; " while the Dissenters
worship on the premises of the " London Missionary
Society." They have also set up their national sports
in the face of the Chinese. What do you think of the
Shanghae Races ? Probably our Newmarket men
have not yet heard of the " North China St. Ledger;"
and yet here we have the announcement of the
conditions of the race at full length in TJie North
China Herald. As there are no English horses in
that quarter, the English settlers have to adopt the
makeshift of " Chinese ponies ;" but " all riders must
appear in racing costume." So we have the riders'
colours duly set forth, of pink, red, green, black, and
tartan.
But the Shanghae residents have not only races :
they have actually proceeded to form a Park for their
special use, and for the purpose of holding the races
aforesaid. In making the enclosure, they seem to
have trenched on an old Chinese burying - ground,
which caused a riot among the natives. On which
Lin, Linkwei, and Woo, Chinese authorities, fearing
the issue, write to the Shareholders' Committee, offer-
ing back the money they had paid for the ground, and
requesting them to give it up again with the title-
deeds. But no ! The Old English pluck comes into
play. A public meeting is held ; speeches are made ;
and resolutions are passed in the old country fashion ;
showing their determination to keep possession of the
ground. Such was the state of matters at the date
of the last papers.
The residents have also started a theatre, a library,
schools, and other necessary means of instruction and
amusement. The special business which keeps them
there, however, occupies the greatest prominence in The
North China Herald. The arrival and departure of ships,
the amount of exports and imports, — the former increa-
sing with great rapidity, — occupy the chief place. Of
the eighteen vessels in the port on the 28th of June
last, twelve were British and four American. The
principal export is tea, and the most valuable import
is opium, which is as greedily sought after by the
Chinese as beer and spirits are among ourselves.
It is curious to look over the advertisements of
The North China Herald. Not that there is much
novelty about them. Indeed, they are almost
ludicrously like our own. To show how close the
quack follows on the heels of the Englishman, scenting
his blood even from afar off, we find "Life Pills,"
and "Phoenix Bitters," with that notorious "Bad
leg of forty years standing," which has so long done
duty in this country for redoubtable quacksalvers.
Then there are surgeon-dentists, who announce their
connection with British Royalty, thus, — "pupil and
assistant to , Esq., dentist to Her Majesty
Queen Victoria." That fine old British mixture and
beverage, port wine, is also advertised for sale, with
brandy, ale, porter, and stout. Nor are Bass's beer
and triple X wanting. From the number of adver-
tisements of insurance offices, chiefly London branches,
it would seem that prudent forethought is not for-
gotten at Shanghae.
Turning to the editorial columns, we find nothing
of very great novelty. Of course, the Great
Exhibition in London occupies the attention of
editorial wisdom at Shanghae as elsewhere ; but as
his remarks thereon are many months old we need
not quote them. The editor, for want of other
stirring topics, gives, in a leading article, a description
of a Chinese military review, from which we quote,
as it is rather amusing.
There was [says the editor] a review on the military
exercising-ground near the North Gate, on Sunday last, and
the appointments and general appearance of the soldiers
seemed better than usual. A large number of the natives
Were present as spectators, besides several Government
officials, with their usual ruffian-like retinue, who took an
active part in the business of the day. Some of the execu-
tioners, with their Albert Hats on, [What ? Has our noble
prince borrowed the idea of the Hat from the Chinese ? Noiv
we can understand it !] had an instrument of punishment
which is not often seen in Shanghae. It was almost exactly
like a small oar, but considerably less than the instrument
used by the Coreans ; the blade was tipped with iron, so that
blows given by it would be very severe ; there were no stains
of blood visible upon it, so we may hope that this weapon
has not yet been put into practical use here.
At one side of the shooting- alley, previous to the chief
Mandarin's arrival, there was laid out what appeared to be a
table, with numerous small packets of flour nicely arranged
on it ; leading the uninitiated to fancy that the little parcels
were provend for the troops, and that the review was therefore i
likely to last for some time. A good supply of rations being a !
sine qud non to give a Chinaman a "strong heart;" his courage, j
like his mind, being in very close relationship with his i
stomach. However, on the Mandarin's arrival, table, packets !
and all, were lifted up, and the top of the table placed perpen- j
dicularly in the centre of the shooting-lane ; all the little paper I
parcels of flour (or lime) being pasted on to it, stuck fast on
the one side of the table, while on the other side there was a i
target painted black in the ground work, having a white I
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
oblong in the centre, and a red ball with a half moon under it,
painted on the white. When the target was struck, a small
white cloud of dust came out, so that the mandarins at a
distance could easily discern whenever a good shot was
made.
When the chief mandarin arrived on the ground a salute
was fired, and his retinue, or, as the Highlanders call it, his
tail, filed off on either side of the shooting-lane, he marching
up in the centre, headed by his body-guard, about a score of
fine-looking young fellows, uniform both in height and dress,
bearing long substantial-looking spears, — very formidable
weapons. They wore dark blue dresses, with a drab jacket
trimmed with black; the boots were black silk, and hi dress,
carriage, and respectable appearance, these men were really
creditable to their chief.
Near the shed where the mandarins sat a fine tent was
placed, and close to the shed a large supply of cash was at
hand, to be used probably as rewards or pay for the soldiers.
The review commenced by five men stepping forth with
matchlocks in hand, and in a most business-like, determined
manner, forming across the trenched line that led to the
target. Behind them were some mats and a small stand for
each ; the stands were used to place the sticks of honour upon,
each soldier receiving a stick when he made a good shot.
Bombastes and his army were completely eclipsed by the
Chinese troops. Size seemed to be no object ; and the chief
of each five men who ushered them forth for public gaze,
appeared to be chosen for anything but " his officer-like
appearance," as Mr. Plainways says. Would that we had the
pencil of a Leech or Doyle to pourtray the countenances of
each of these men of war, as they looked along the muzzles
of their matchlocks. The mixture of fear that their eyes
would be hurt by the recoil, and desire to hit the target, was
most ridiculous. The keen sight of some merged quite into a
squint. One poor wretch had a piece that "kicked" con-
foundedly ; it cut his cheek up in two places, and he seemed
to take every opportunity to get the side that was hurt turned
towards the mandarins, to show probably that he had bled for
his country. The dresses were good, and in some cases
curious ; some of the troops wore a sort of bandit gaiters
laced up to the knee. But the thing most to be surprised at
was the cool way they carried the priming powder; it was in
small horns hung round the neck by a string ; but the horns
had no corks to them, so that a spark getting in would make
the soldier's ammunition more dangerous to themselves than
to their opponents. Indeed, even taking the powder-horn out
of the question, the danger still existed ; the priming hole is
so large, a great part of the powder flies out when the match
is applied, several found this happening oftener than they
wished, and a considerable time was lost in the rubbing of
faces, when one soldier stood too close to another.
The exercise was carried on standing, kneeling, and lying
down. In the latter case they used a sort of forked rest,
which was attached to the end of the matchlock. The firing,
even with the rest, was wretched in the extreme, for though
the target was about ten feet square, and only about sixty to
eighty yards off, many balls did not strike it at all, and after
fully 200 shots had been fired, there were only two perfora-
tions of the red ball, and it was fully eighteen inches in
diameter.
Why, this is almost as good as the accounts given
by "Old Soldiers," "Officers of Infantry," &c., of
the firing of the British troops with their present
guns, which are said to be considerably great bores.
Indeed, we rather think the Chinese are somewhat
behind us, — though they are no chasseurs of Vin-
cennes either !
Another amusing paper in The North China Herald
is the original translation given from the notes of a
literary Chinese gentleman who visited London a few
years ago. Here is an extract or two : —
Of dusky and cloudy weather, there is, in Great Britain,
quite an excess, and rain in abundance. Among my country-
men there is a saying that " in the West the skies leak." This
is not far from the truth. During the dog-days the heat is not
very great, for the people are able even then to wear several
pieces of clothing at one and the same time. Yet let the cold
of winter be never so severe, no one thinks of using raiment
wadded with cotton as we do.
In their cities, the public streets cross and re-cross, and,
upon them, you constantly hear the rumbling of coaches or
carriages and the tramp of horses. Sometimes the crowds of
people in the streets are so large that the passengers touch
each others' shoulders ; but the olfactories are not offended
by disagreeable and disgusting smells.
On the roadside there stand lamp-posts with beautiful
lanterns that, when lit at night, illumine the whole expanse
of the heavens. The gas which burns hi these lamps is pro-
duced from coal, and without question, is a most wonderful
discovery. It jets forth a flame of light brighter than either
the wax candle or the oil lamp can give. By it, whole families
enjoy light, and thousands of houses are simultaneously
illuminated. In all the market-places and public thorough-
fares, it is as clear and bright at midnight as at noontide, and,
if I mistake not, as gay as our feast of lanterns is. In fact,
a city that is so illuminated might well be called " a nightless
city : " for you may wander about till break of day without
carrying a lantern, and, go where you please, you will meet
with no interruption.
Cars of fire, urged on by steam, fly swift as the wind ; and,
on the rails of their railroads, they have a most ingenious
method of turning these locomotives.
Steamboats (which are in general very richly adorned) pass
through the water by means of paddle-wheels with astonishing
rapidity; and, upon the rivers and in the bays, beautiful steam-
wherries are constantly running, which makes it both easy
and convenient for passengers to cross.
The windmill that whirls about in the air is truly an ingeni-
ous contrivance ; and the pump too, which, without the use
of a draw-bucket, but simply by working the handle, belches
forth water in abundance.
The graves of the English people do not jise like mounds,
nor are they planted about with trees as ours are.
The houses are as close together as the scales upon the back
of a fish. In front of them they plant trees, or have flower-
gardens. The houses rise several stories high. The people
generally live in the upper stories, and make constant use of
staircases. Houses darting up to the clouds,— with white-
washed walls and glazed doors and windows, — look as if they
were buildings set with precious stones. Balustrades of
metal twist and twine around the windows and pillars.
Doors and windows are all furnished with panes of glass,
and bright light is reflected from every part of the room, so
that one, as he sits there, may fancy himself a resident of the
moon. The bed-rooms are so close and air-tight, that no
dust gets in, and the wind is only heard blowing upon the
outer shutters. Thus the chilly breezes of autumn are
scarcely felt ; besides, the fires in their grates are constantly
kept up, so that the general temperature is that of spring-
time, and, in the depth of whiter one does not feel the keenest
cold.
Enter what house you please, it is as if you were ascending
a pagoda furnished with every variety of costly ornaments.
Each brilliant drawing-room might be taken for a fairy's
Paradise. The walls of their parlours are hung with beautiful
paper, or tapestry. Carpets of the most exquisite texture and
elegant patterns are spread upon their floors ; their staircases
too are laid with fine, soft carpeting.
In these rooms, musical instruments stand here, there, and
everywhere. What-nots, and tables laden with books, pretty
clocks and beautiful vases, elegantly furnished sofas and
settees, and work-tables inlaid with tortoise-shell, form part
of the decorative furniture of these saloons ; while fragrant
odours, exhaled by luxuriant flowers, fill the air. Generally
their tables, couches, and chairs are all rubbed up till they
become as bright as polished metal; and, in the spacious
apartments of which I speak, large mirrors of glass are hung,
in which one can always see his full length.
The artificial flowers which you find in each room are of every
variety, and display extraordinary talent and ingenuity; inshort,
if you look into any corner of their rooms, you are sure to see
specimens of manufacture that exhibit the finest skill and art.
For instance, the contrivance by which the door of the room is
made to shut of itself, is remarkably ingenious ; the titles on the
backs of their books are in letters of gold ; their chess-boards
and chess-men are elegant pieces of work; the keys of the piano
(an instrument that strikes the most perfect notes of music)
are made of beautiful ivory ; and if I were to attempt to
describe their stained and variegated glass, I really could not
give an adequate idea of the curiosity and fineness of the art
that can produce such results.
Doubtless, when the distinguished Mandarin who
figured on the opening day of the Great Exhibition
(and who must have been some Chinese Albert Smith)
returns home, he will favour his "discerning public"
with a full account of his visit to London, by way of
swelling out the already huge literature of the Great
Exhibition ; and when his lucubrations appear, then
we shall not fail to look out for more numbers of The
North China Herald.
VISIONS OF THE PAST !
If some of our close, quiet chambers, pleasant
rooms we have loved, were suddenly peopled with
the phantasms of our old selves as we have appeared
in many an awful hour when none saw us but God ;
if the dumb walls could reutter our words, the void
air revive the impress of our likeness there, — what a
revealing it would be ! Surely we ought not to judge
harshly, but each of us to have mercy upon one
another* — The Head of the Family.
400
EU2A COOK'S JOURNAL.
But that tide full oft is bringing
(ORIGINAL),
Broken spar and shattered mast,
And the fairest waves are flinging
MUSICAL MURMURS FROM A SHATTERED
Shipwrecks of a fairy Past.
STRING.
Be it so, — but still I gather
LONE, enduring, still, and thinking,
Pearls no shipwreck can destroy ;
Gazing out upon the main ;
And, though sighing, I would rather
Now the Bygone cometh, linking
Bear the woe than lose the joy.
Bliss intense with speechless pain.
Still the day dons golden glory,
Far, far off my Fancy wanders
Still the night wears silver studs,
To my first fresh Eden bowers,
Still the skylark sings his story,
And my doting Memory squanders
Still the myrtle puts forth buds.
Spirit-dew on withered flowers.
And, forsooth, the world can never
Now the Real, then the Seeming,
Hold delight for bird and tree,
Come before my earnest gaze ;
Yet in gloom shut out for ever
And I yet can mark the dreaming
All its rays of love from me.
By its halo mid the haze.
«/
No, ah ! no ; bright hours are coming,
Fools we are while fondly holding
Health and Life will rise again,
Parley with a phantom guest, —
With an echo of the humming
Fools we are while closely folding
That once formed Hope's wild-bee strain.
Poisoned mantles to our breast.
Yet, let 'Fate be stern or smiling,
It is hard to see our glasses
I can brook the grave or glad ;
Shiver ere they touch our lip ;
And, though charmed by the beguiling,
But the dream-draught oft surpasses
Still I can defy the sad :
All the Actual gives to sip.
For I've stemmed the darkest billow
True it is, my whole existence
Will be mix'd with rainbow thread,
And that I shall track the distance
By the leaves Romance has shed.
That can meet the human breast, — •
I have found the hardest pillow
That Despair has ever pressed ;
Yet my soul ofttimes is sighing
Over much it seeks to learn,
When stern Wisdom, in replying,
Makes me shiver while I burn.
And I know that mortal trouble,
Offer all it can or may,
Will but seem a surface bubble
After what has choked my way.
I have bought and sold while dwelling
In the world's wide market-place,
But I care not to be telling
" God is great ! " He only knoweth
What I've borne, and still must bear ;
" God is great ! " my spirit boweth,
All the items I can trace.
But there's pain too deep for prayer.
Somehow, when we stand and beckon
If I kneel not — if I feel not
Shadows from our bygone days,
All that holy pastors preach,
More of skeletons we reckon, —
Wait till ye have wounds that heal not
Than of dancing spirit-fays.
Ere ye breathe condemning speech.
Self-control, and quickened Feeling,
Hush, proud heart ! my brow is skiking,
Truth, and Knowledge are my gain,
" GOD is great !" — my eyes are dim ;
But I've bartered in the dealing
Cynic priest, beware hard thinking, —
All my best of heart and brain.
Leave the judgment-seat to HIM.
I have gathered some few bay -leaves
ELIZA COOK.
That entwine about my brow,
But my violets and May-leaves
Blow not as they used to blow.
OBSERVATION.
Once upon a time they covered
All Life's grassy hedgerow slope,
While around the wild bee hovered
In the shape of busy Hope.
It is far more difficult to observe correctly than
most men imagine ; to behold, Humboldt remarks,
is not necessarily to observe, and the power of com-
paring and combining is only to be obtained by edu-
I can look on record treasures
cation. It is much to be regretted that habits of
Of Experience and years,
But I see my rarest pleasures
Bear an after-blot of tears.
exact observation are not cultivated in our schools ;
to this deficiency may be traced much of the fallacious
reasoning, the false philosophy, which prevails. —
British Quarterly Revieiv.
Time's broad tide of unplumbed waters
Rolls upon my mortal strand,
With its tribe of mermaid daughters
Singing on their hidden sand ;
Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen
Street, London; and published by CHARLKS COOK, at the
Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.
No. 366.]
SATURDAY, APRIL 24, 1852.
[PRICE
THE FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES.
THEKE is in the affairs of matt an unseen agency at
work, which very few, when it respects others, are wil-
ling to acknowledge, but which they are eager enough
to seize upon, when, after long years' battling with the
world, they are compelled to yield the conflict, and
let the surge bear them onward as it will, — we mean
the Force of Circumstances. At a mere cursory
glance at the subject, persons may perhaps exclaim,
— " Of course we are all taught from our infancy to
acknowledge the power of an invisible agency, great,
good, and glorious ; we know that events are disposed
of without our comprehension, and you are making,
therefore, a trite and common-place observation."
We will answer, that we are not alluding directly
to anything of a spiritual nature, any more than that
all things are in their origin to be traced to one
universal source ; but simply to that presence caused
by the grand machinery of society, which seems, as
it is at present constituted, as if it could not accom-
plish its ulterior objects without injuring those who
are placed nearest its springs. And these are all those
who labour, whether by their hands or by their
intellects, who toil in close rooms or in the field, who
carry on any profession, business, or actual occupation
whatever. Those to whom riches have descended, —
whose cradled life is one of softness and luxury, —
whose first glimpses of material things are sparkling
j gold and silver, — who never know the contact of
rough clothing, or the taste of coarse food, — who sink
at last softly and gently, after having been sustained
by the wings of wealth through the busy turmoil of
the world, into their embossed and satined death-
couch, — never know what the " Force of Circum-
stance " means. From them, therefore, no sympathy
must be anticipated for those who do.
There are in life so many sorrows, so many phases
under which misfortune manifests itself, that were it
possible for all to be showered upon one individual, his
mortal nature could not sustain it, and he must sink
under the pressure. It has been, therefore, wisely
ordained that sorrow should be distributed under
various forms, and that those who experience one
kind of distress, should be spared another. To some
is given continued ill-health, to some the loss of dear
friends, or the withdrawal of the idol on which the
whole soul's happiness was centred, or the clouding of
long-cherished prospects, or sudden ruin, or dark
reverses, or affection cherished for years thrown away,
or coldness, or thankless children, or cruel parents,
or fearful visitations, or grinding poverty, or mistaken
bindings together of the unsuited, or the conse-
quences of crime. All who have ever lived have
known something of these things ; but side by side
with each sorrow comes a compensating joy. On the
head of the presiding genius of woe an angel
invisibly hovers, who descends upon the soul after the
visit of grief, and nestles there for awhile, leaving
imprinted on the place where it rested visions of
happiness yet to be tasted, when the dark cloud shall
have passed away from our horizon.
How few of us at the close of life can say, " I have
filled and occupied the position to which I looked
forward when a boy ! " In the onward progress of
life, how often, in some stray moment of thought and
reflection, do we not find ourselves inquiring, "Is this
as I hoped, — have I enacted my dream ? " And the
answer is invariably, — No ! We look forward in
childhood — and only look forward — without reflec-
tion. We build up gorgeous palaces, we sketch
a career of life all of gold and of sunshine, — what
are they, and where are they, when years sober us ?
When young, our future is either harshly sketched
for us by others, or harshly chosen by ourselves. In
general, it is not early development of talents that
are attended to ; except in some special instances, the
child is allowed to choose and change again, or forced
into something distasteful and ill-adapted to him, and
the consequence in after-life is often seen in the
unsteadiness with which he pursues his career, in the
fluctuation of his mind, and his constant regret of the
past. But how often does it not occur in a family,
where prosperity seems for awhile to exist, that all
forethought, all deep philosophical reflection for the
future, is laid aside. The question is not asked early
enough, — what will become of my children if I die ?
What provision shall I make for them ? The children
are thus suffered to grow up in comparative idleness ;
dim notions of settling them some day in something
flashes over the father's mind ; but in the insensible
advance of time they are forgotten. The prosperity lasts
a certain time, as it seemed, to try man a little while
whether he will seize the chance afforded him or not ;
then noiselessly, — apparently without any obvious
cause, — the reverse comes, the fabric on which the
402
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
family's prosperity was founded gives way, and the
children are scattered, to provide for themselves how
they list, and not all the united efforts of the whole can
ever restore them in the scale of society. Disappoint-
ment overwhelms them, and they settle down hope-
lessly, watching the struggle their children make with
the world.
We have known men gifted with superior talents
tossed hither and thither over the surface of society,
without any obvious pursuit, occupation, or place
assigned them. We trace in their conversation germs
of good and beautiful thoughts ; we feel that these
thoughts have had their wings, — but these have been
clipped by some unseen agency ; we meet them in
the prime of life, we hear them talk of their youth as
a season to be regretted, since the time for the choice
of a profession was then, and is past. They had
perhaps chosen, they had sketched a brilliant career ;
they had risen to the pinnacle of glory in imagination ;
they had given their whole soul, their whole energy
to the task ; they had stolen rest from nature, sacri-
ficed the hours of repose and enjoyment, had
bounded forward hopefully ; and just when, as it
seemed, their brilliancy was to show itself to the
world, some crushing sickness had laid them prostrate,
had swept away the fire that gave animation and
delight to toil, had disgusted them with the seclusion
and retirement necessary to study, and they were
then only where they began. They gradually feel
their strength reanimated within them : some fresh
occupation is spread temptingly to their view, — they
have just, perchance, reached that time in life when
the soul, unsatisfied with its own companionship,
weary with this everlasting converse with self, sighs
for the communion of another spirit. Many a glance
is cast hither and thither, and the soul returns
unsatisfied to its habitation without its companion, —
for the talented will not always be satisfied with
ordinary minds ; they long for something rare and
exquisite,— Something that shall unite itself with
their own conceptions ! Seek as oft as they will,
they will not find ; — the brightest jewels lie the
deepest, — the sweetest flowers bloom oft in the shade !
and things that are sought long are rarely found.
But some chance, some accident, as it seems to mortal
eyes, shows them some beautiful form, which flits by
them as a shadow. They feel its influence, they hear
the tones of its voice, and like something it has heard
before, like a childhood's memory, the soul bounds
forward to worship the image of beauty, and seeks to
draw it within the circle of its own influence. But
ofttimes it happens in this world that the thing we
regard as most beautiful, as most rare, that we may
not have. So to the man of intellect we have chosen
for our instance, in the full tide of his hope and
yearning lor the future, there came by chance, to
fire him, a vision of rare beauty. He watched and
loved the form in which a soul more beauteous still
dwelt, — he hoped to call it his own ! But while
he watched and loved, the flower passed to another,
and his dream is ended. Other dim dawnings of
greatness flash over the mind, occasional dreams of
glory come, like beauteous sunsets, to visit the dis-
appointed man ; the fire of youth warms itself again
faintly ; but the time comes, when to talk of the
past, while it raises bitter regrets and unavailing
sorrow, is all the consolation of him who has so long
battled with the Force of Circumstances.
If the great social fabric were differently con-
structed, if different laws guided its formation, we
should have apparently fewer instances of great genius,
and more of a mediocre character. It is those that have
been stoics in the world, — whohave resolved tooverstep
the obstacles which all encounter who fight bravely,
gloriously, against poverty, position, circumstance,
disappointment, — that leave an imperishable name
behind them. The great are gifted with powers of
endurance, with energy of soul beyond ordinary
mortals ; but this arises, too, from strength of consti-
tution and unimpaired health ; the best and cle-
verest of men have been subdued and cramped
in their energies by continued ill-health. Never was
an age in which so few instances of great men
have been known ; yet there is a vast amount of
talent afloat, which, from some cause or other, never
rises to greatness. In many cases, the continual
necessity of providing daily bread for a numerous
family, leaves a man no leisure for the development of
the superior faculties of his nature. To earn a
livelihood, the populace must be pleased ; flashy,
every-day subjects must be chosen, because they are
those that are most easily written. The grandest
conceptions of the intellect require time, patience,
— freedom to develope.
We could enumerate a thousand instances of men
kept down, by the Force of Circumstances, below
the level to which nature obviously intended them to
rise ; and a great portion of the blame of this rests
with the principles onjjvhich society, and, indeed, our
whole constitutional fabric, is placed. Alteration is
especially needed in the conduct of society towards
literary men ; but as this is touching upon the sub-
ject of another essay, we quit it here. Our business
is with the outward influence which circumstances
seem to cast upon men in spite of themselves.
There are men at this moment in existence in our
country who are possessed of talents as brilliant as
ever adorned a Locke, a Bacon, or a Plato. We
trace their glorious spirits in the flights which they
take in moments when they forget, as it were, their
daily struggle to provide for the exigencies of the hour,
when they fall back upon the sunny fields of fancy,
and suffer their imagination to take a free and bound-
less scope ! When they speak of things which the
common mind utterly rejects ; when they lead us into
worlds of thought, unexplored save by such spirits as
their own, they fire, with the torch of fancy, a pile
that throws its light far over the landscape, and what
was darkness becomes light, and what was dim,
distinct and palpable. It is joy to listen to their
conversation, to follow them in their flights, to hear
them speak of the great work they had planned, of
the labours they had sketched for themselves in their
brilliant youth, when they deemed they could call the
future time their own, when they thought that every
evidence they made would be received and wel-
comed, before they had discovered that, to live, the
man of merit must forego ease, quiet, and retirement, —
mufet fix his mind upon the moveables of the day, —
must pander to the taste of an uneducated public,
must write to live, — not live to write. The clever
man, if he be not rich, if he have a family to support,
must work, — work on, and forget that he once planned
such glorious labours for his mind to conceive and
hand to perform.
In every phase of life we trace the Force of
Circumstances ; they come and sweep past us, and
carry us along with them ; we find ourselves in-
sensibly altered and changed by their influence. The
young girl who planned and loved an ideal picture is
not the same that sits brooding over the past, count-
ing its moments with as much veneration as the
monk his beads ! No ; she, too, is altered by the tide
of human affairs. What mother, or what wife,
looking back over the past, has found her future
carved out ? Some there are who, having centred
their hearts' requirement on love, have found it
answered more a thousand-fold than they could have
hoped or expected. But how often in our transit
through the world, — in our experience,— have we not
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
403
heard sketched the sunny picture which a woman has
drawn of her youth, and the bitter contrast presented
by actual events. Young, eager, and enthusiastic ;
full of the wild spirit of joy which the consciousness
of young life imparts, before we have lived through
the trying experience of others, before we have tasted
either of deep grief or immeasurable joy, she gives
her heart, and she thinks she has done all ! And
what sacrifice more can she make ? What has a
woman to give more precious to man than the
love of a young, confiding, and unsuspecting heart ?
Full of life, — impressed with a consciousness of her
own purity and devotion — she pours forth all the
treasures of her thought at man's feet ; she lets him
into all the little weaknesses of her nature ; she un-
folds her unmeasureable love ; she plans a happy
future ; she fancies she hears the joyous tones of
infant voices, in the distant horizon of her life, sweep
past like the tone of a distant bell ; she places her
little joys in them, — the happiness they must
afford her. In fancy she rears them to brilliant
positions ; she makes them all like herself, — good and
pure ; she gives them her thoughts ; she inspires them
with her own elevated sentiments, and the husband
of her choice with undying love and tenderness !
How often, — we will hope that it is not always thus,
— how often, we say, are these dreams disappointed ?
She watches the dying out of love, of kindness ; she
has her children ; as long as they are young her
pictures still continue true ; they are her happiness
and her joy ; she loves them all, watches over them
tenderly, and cherishes each early indication of good-
ness and talent. Time, however, dissipates her
illusions ; circumstances turn out differently from
what she anticipated ; the children of reality are
not ideal children ; they are human beings, — some
good, others bad, — their fates are determined by the
Force of Circumstances, which works out quietly a
future for each, but which, however brilliant it may
be, is not what she planned !
The actual truth is, that in the grand scheme of
Providence the good of all mankind is consulted ; and
when things turn out differently from what we
anticipated, and seem to injure us individually, the
good of all is advanced by means which our limited
comprehension cannot always understand. We know
and feel there is a current sweeping us on, — that
the Force of Circumstances impels us forward,
and therefore we must set our energies to work ; to
guide our own bark well, we must keep it from
shoals and reefs to the best of our ability, and the
remainder must be left in the hands of Providence,
with the ultimate aim and object of all that is
human. With dependence and Faith guiding our
prow, in all the events of life, we are safe.
LEAVES FROM THE DIAKY OF A
LAW-CLERK.
MALVEEN Versus MALVEEN.
THE remarkable suit I have thus named, came on for
hearing before Lord Ellenborough and a special jury,
at Westminster Hall, about five and thirty years ago.
Mr. White, of Furnival's Inn, Mrs. Leigh Malvern's
solicitor, retained Mr. Prince for the defence, which
was* to be led by the great Nisi Prius celebrity,
Mr. S . The matter, in its first aspect, had
a queer, almost absurd, character. Mr. Raymond
Malvern, a broken-down gentleman of high family,
but by no means equally elevated character, had
brought, on the demise of his elder brother, Mr.
Leigh Malvern, in conjunction with the mythic John
Doe, an action in ejectment, to establish his right to
certain property in Middlesex, wrongfully withheld
from him by Mrs. Leigh Malvern, the guardian of the
said deceased brother's infant son. The claim in-
volved, in fact, the right to the whole of the Malvern
estates, which were extensive. At first, Mr. White
believed the action to be a mere flash in the pan, a
stupid, clumsy device to terrify Mrs. Leigh Malvern
into supplying, much more largely than she was
inclined to do, the ruined roues necessities. As the
suit however proceeded, a vague feeling of appre-
hension succeeded to the solicitor's contemptuous
pooli-pooliish manner of treating it, and yet, wherein
could lie the danger ? Mr. and Mrs. Leigh Malvern
had been married some four or five years ; three
children, two boys and a girl, were the issue of the
union ; and the estates contended for were entailed
on the heir-male. There could be no doubt of all
this ; still, Mr. White, a wary, clever man, grew more
and more fidgety when Hilary Term came round, and
the cause was ripe for hearing at an early day. And
this vague, undefinable feeling of alarm appeared at
the last consultation held at Mr. Prince's chambers on
the eve of the day when the cause would, in all
likelihood, be called to be shared by all the counsel
engaged, Mr. S included. Mrs. Malvern, accom-
panied by her brother, Mr. John Halcombe, was
present for a short time, and they also, I observed,
looked pale and nervous, chiefly, I concluded, in
consequence of the grave tone of the lawyers. Those
gentlemen could not divest themselves of a suspicion
that something remained behind ; something which
the form of the pleadings did not afford a hint of.
One or two questions suggested, rather than directly
put, by Mr. S , kindled Mrs. Malvern's fine, ex-
pressive countenance to a flame, and the dark, lustrous
eyes sparkled with fire. She was a splendid woman,
not more than five or six-and-twenty years of age, of
a Juno-like presence and aspect, and a complexion so
fair as to be almost dazzling, — especially heightened
and relieved as it was by the glossy blackness of her
hair : she was one of the queens of earth, in short,
whose sceptres command the homage of the reddest
of red republicans. It could not be for a moment
supposed that she would wifully conceal anything, and
the puzzled conclusion was, that either the record
would be withdrawn at the last moment, or that
some incomprehensible conspiracy was hatching by
the plaintiff and his attorney, whom I shall call Mr.
Benjamin Walker, a gentleman whose name had been
more than once in danger of suddenly disappearing
from the roll of attorneys.
The Court of King's Bench was crowded the next
day chiefly by distinguished persons, of both sexes,
anxious to learn the issue of so strange a suit. About
twelve o'clock the case was called. An instant hush
pervaded the eager auditory, and all eyes were bent
upon Mr. G , who led on the other side, and who,
as soon as the case had been formally stated by one of
the juniors, rose to address the Court and jury. His
tone, it struck me from the first moment, though
firm and confident, was regretful, almost sad, and it
was quickly apparent that the curtain was rising, not
upon an insane farce, as we had hoped, but upon the
opening scene of what threatened to prove a lament-
able tragedy, "His client, Mr. Raymond Malvern,"
Mr. G said, after a brief exordium, "claimed the
property in question, as heir-at-law of his elder
brother, Leigh Malvern, who had died childless — ."
" Died childless ? " ejaculated Mr. S — — .
"Yes; we shall prove that, and having done so,
there can be no doubt that the verdict must be for
the plaintiff. In a word," continued counsel, "a
great crime has, I am instructed, been committed
against the estimable, but unfortunate lady who
404
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
defends this suit as guardian of her son. With that,
however, my client has nothing to do. It was only
veiy lately, and by mere chance, that he hit upon the
true circumstances of the case, and, as advised,
brought this action for the recovery of his undoubted
right, — a right which cannot be withheld, however
much the necessity of coming to such a decision may
be regretted."
Counsel paused, as if to gather energy and courage
to launch the thunderbolt that was to annihilate the
defendant, and I had a moment's leisure to look
around. Mr. Raymond Malvern was busy with his
snuff-box, so that I could not see his features ; but
Benjamin Walker, Esquire, I observed, looked as
cadaverous and shaky as a man in a fit of tertian ague.
I next glanced at Mrs. Malvern, who, closely veiled,
was seated, not far from us, between her father and
brother. She was playing with the leaves of a law-
book lying before her, and counsel's solemn sentences,
I was rejoiced to perceive, had not, in the slightest
degree, ti-oubled the disdainful calm of countenance
and manner, which contrasted so strikingly with the
nervous agitation of the majority of the audience,
many silk and stuff gowns included.
"Mr. Leigh Malvern," counsel resumed, "was
married in October, 1811, to — "
"In February, 1813," interrupted Mr, Prince,
glancing at the certified copy of the marriage-
register.
"Was married," persisted Mr. G , "on the 7th
of October, 1811, at Stratford-le-bow Church, to a
person whose name will not be unfamiliar to the lady
so unfortunately interested in this most painful case,
— one Eleanor Beauchamp — "
A slight exclamation arrested the barrister's
words, and turned the eyes of every one in Court
upon Mrs. ^Malvern. " Eleanor Beauchamp ! " she
ejaculated with impulsive wildness, — "married to
Eleanor Beauchamp, — good God ! " The calm, dis-
dainful confidence was gone ; the book had fallen
from her nerveless grasp, and the dead marble of her
features gleamed, almost spectre-like, through the
meshes of her black veil.
"Who died in the month of April, 1813, never
having borne her husband a living child."
Mr. G stopped abruptly. Mrs. Malvern had
fainted, and was instantly conveyed out of Court
by her agitated relatives. As soon as the con-
fusion and dismay caused by this incident had, in
some measure subsided, the address to the jury was
resumed ; but there was little more to say, and the
first witness, Samuel Pendergast, was called. This
person, counsel informed the Court, was a very
reluctant witness, so much so, that from some expres-
sions that had escaped him, it had been thought
necessary to compel his attendance by a judge's order.
A tall, well-looking individual, of about forty,
appeared upon the summons, in the charge of a tip-
staff, and was conducted to the witness-box. Reluc-
tant as he was said to be, I never saw a man better
dressed and made up for the part of a conscientious,
solidly-respectable witness in my life ! He was
habited in black, plainly cut, of finest quality, and
without a speck : his white, parson-tied cravat, and
shirt-front, were equally unexceptionable ; his port-
wined, double-chinned visage, and ample corporation,
were of unquestionably well-to-do colour, sleekness,
and rotundity ; and his right mourning-ringed hand
held a gold-headed cane.
Mr. Pendergast was sworn, and the examination in
chief was about to commence, when the witness
begged, with submission, to address the Court. This
being acceded to, he went on : "I find myself," he
said, "in a most painful position. I would not, for
half I am worth, have appeared here to day. How-
ever, as the harsh measures of the plaintiff have
compelled my attendance, I respectfully ask your
lordship whether I can be obliged to answer questions
which must convict myself, if not of legal criminality,
yet of moral neglect of duty, of criminal supineness,
at all events, at a time when prompt exertion might
have averted the lamentable consequences which I
fear may flow from these proceedings."
" Over-doing it, Mr. Plausible ! — over-doing it!"
shot through my brain, and almost leapt to my lips.
And so, I was pretty sure, thought Lord Ellen-
borough, who had been keenly eyeing Mr. Samuel
Pendergast during his very smooth speech. " We
must wait to hear what questions will be asked,"
replied the Chief Justice, coldly. " If you object to
answer, the Court will decide whether you must
or not."
The examination went on, and, substantively, the
witness deposed as follows : — He had been long in the
deceased Mr. Malvern's and his venerable mother's
service. He left in August, 1811, under circum-
stances which he was willing and able to satisfactorily
explain, if called upon to do so. The quarrel between
him and Mr. Leigh Malvern had been envenomed and
rendered irreconcilable by a gentleman, whose name
he had no desire to mention, and towards whom he
felt not the slightest animosity. He knew Eleanor
Beauchamp ; she lived as companion with Mrs. Malvern.
She was a young lady of rare personal attractions.
Mr. Leigh Malvern paid her very assiduous atten-
tions, but studiously apart from his mother, Mrs.
Malvern's observations. In the beginning of Octobei',
1811, a rumour, communicated by one of the servants,
reached him, that a stolen marriage was on the tapis ;
and, by dint of close observation, he, witness,
contrived to be present at the ceremony, which took
place on the 7th of October, at Stratford Church. At
about ten o'clock on the morning of that day, Eleanor
Beauchamp was privately married to Mr. Leigh
Malvern. The reason he had been so inquisitive, he
was not ashamed to say, was, that he had himself
made Miss Beauchamp an offer of marriage, and
been somewhat rudely repulsed : a feeling of jealousy
or envy had prompted his conduct. He had seen the
lady, then Mrs. Leigh Malvern, at a place near
Cardiff, in Wales, where she was living in strict
retirement. This was in the following August : he
had sought her out to solicit her good offices with
Mr. Malvern for the restoration Vf his, witness's,
place, — a request she declined acceding to for the
moment, but hinted that, if he were discreet enough
not to speak of her marriage till after Mrs. Malvern's
death, who had a large personalty at her disposal, his
silence would be rewarded. Mrs. Leigh Malvern
appeared to be in delicate health ; and Mr. Griffiths,
a surgeon, of Cardiff, who attended her, said she had
just previously been confined with a still-born infant.
Mr. Malvern, it was also stated, visited his wife very
seldom, and then remained so brief a time, and was so
wrapped up and disguised, that even the servants
would have great difficulty in recognising him. Wit-
ness saw Mrs. Leigh Malvern, in the following
November, at Everton, near Liverpool, where she
was then residing, still in strict privacy. He preferred
the same request as before, and was put off with the
same excuse and the same caution. He then deter-
mined on settling in Liverpool as commission agent,
and God had pi-ospered him. In December, 1812, a
paragraph in a London paper announced the ap-
proaching marriage of Mr. Leigh Malvern with Miss
Julia Halcombe. He at first paid no attention to it.
"And here," solemnly exclaimed Samuel Pendergast,
— " here, my lord and gentlemen, was my first
criminal neglect of a plain duty, and it was only,
I grieve to say, after much hesitating reluctance
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
405
that I, at last, determined to see Mrs. Leigh
Malvern, and show it her. She laughed at it as
a ridiculous fabrication. Weeks passed on ; witness
was busy in his new business ; still the newspaper
report disturbed him at intervals, and it was at
length so strongly borne in upon his mind that he
ought, in honour and conscience, to investigate the
rumour, that he started for London in person, and
arrived there on the 20th of February, just three days
too late, — the sham marriage of Julia Halcombe with
Leigh Malvern having been celebrated on the 17th !
Even then," continued the penitent witness, " I had
not the moral courage to inform the real wife of what
had happened. But a rumour of the truth, at length,
reached her, and she sent for me : I was, of course,
obliged to confirm it. She had been long ailing,"
added the witness, passing the back of his hand
swiftly across his eyes, and speaking in a broken
voice, " and she sank rapidly under this last blow. I
saw her on the 29th of March, and on the 3rd of
April, she was a corpse ! " After a pause, the
witness said, in reply to a question from counsel, that
" he had then, perhaps erroneously, decided that it
would be better for all parties that the unfortunate
marriage should be buried in oblivion. How the
plaintiff had cqme to a knowledge of the facts, he,
witness, knew not."
The evidence, admirably delivered as it was, pro-
duced a powerful impression, and there was immediately
an eager whispered consultation between the counsel
for the defendant and Mr. White. I did not hear a
word ; but, at its conclusion, Mr. S intimated that
he had no question to ask the witness. Mr. Pendergast
stood down, and other evidence was called, confirma-
tory of his testimony : Mr. Griffiths, of Cardiff, the
clerk of Stratford Church, and a Liverpool sexton.
Neither of them, indeed, knew either Mr. Leigh
Malvern, or Eleanor Beauchamp, personally. Mr.
Griffiths had never even seen the husband of the lady
he had attended ; but, upon a miniature being placed
in his hands, — that of a singularly beautiful female, —
he swore positively that the Mrs. Malvern he had
known was the original of that portrait. Mr. White
whispered me, that it was as unquestionably that of
Eleanor Beauchamp, and an admirable likeness. A
Mr. Hey worth, the last witness, deposed, that it was
the portrait of Miss Eleanor Beauchamp, which he
had painted by order of Mr. Leigh Malvern, who had
paid him ten guineas for it. This was the plaintiff's
case, and, taken all in all, a sufficiently staggering one,
it must be confessed.
Mr. S briefly addressed the Court. " My lord,"
he said, " we have been taken completely by surprise :
we have been kept, by the other side, in entire
ignorance both of the true nature of the claim
intended to be set up, and of the evidence by which
it was to be supported. We have thought it best,
therefore, not to attempt struggling for a verdict on
this occasion, but to allow it to pass for the plaintiff,
with leave to move the Court above for a new trial,
on the ground of surprise." The Chief Justice con-
curred, the formal verdict was recorded, and the
Court adjourned.
" Mr. White/" said Mr. Prince, addressing me,
sotto voce, " wishes you to follow, and closely observe
Mr. Samuel Pendergast ; he knows White's clerk, it
seems, personally, so that you will be likelier to
succeed than he." I was off in a jiffy, and got in
sight of the immaculate witness, just as he was
crossing Palace Yard. He walked rapidly on till he
reached the Golden Cross, Charing Cross, — a very
different place then, by the way, to what it is now, —
where he first secured an inside place in that night's
Liverpool coach, and then ordered dinner, a very nice
one indeed, and a pint of sherry with it. I ensconced
myself in the coffee-room, whence I could easily
observe all in-comers and out-goers. It was half-paet
five o'clock, and dark as pitch, — the oil lamps being,
with the exception of a doubtful twinkle here and
there, extinguished by a fog of extra thickness, —
when Samuel Pendergast, his poi'tly body encased in
a stout great-coat, and his jolly throat swathed with a
red comforter, sallied forth. I stealthily pursued up
the Haymarket, across Coventry Street, and finally
housed my man in a public-house in Sherrard Street,
the name of which I forget, though I passed it but
the other day : I cautiously opened the bar-door, and
peeped in ; he was not there. I entered, but afraid
to make any inquiries, I could only call for some
porter, and sit down behind a tall cask which
happened to be close by. It was fortunate I did so ;
for, presently, a loud guffaw, undoubtedly Mr.
Benjamin Walker's, echoed by the more subdued
chuckle of Samuel Pendergast, and, if I did not
greatly mistake, a faint laugh from Mr. Kaymond
Malvern, came distinctly out of a back-parlour, — a
private apartment for the nonce, no doubt, — as a
waiter, in obedience to a loud ringing of the bell,
entered for orders. My patience was not, this time,
very severely tried. Scarcely half an hour had passed
when out they came, all three, in jocund spirits, — it
was Mr. Raymond Malvern, — and were going out
together. Just at the door, they paused. "Well,"
said Benjamin Walker, "good-by. I hardly think
we shall want you again : they're dead beat, in my
opinion ; but, if we do, why, we know how to compel
your services, don't we, my fine fellow, eh ? " The
attorney's laugh was echoed by his companions, and
the three separated, going off singly, in different
directions.
My report was, of course, deemed significant, and
several minor circumstances, not easily appreciable
save by men versed in such matters, gave life, colour,
and distinctness to the dim, shadowy suspicion ex-
cited in the minds of the defendant's counsel by the
evidence of Samuel Pendergast. It was resolved
that there should be no bustle of preparation, no
exhibition of confidence, the reverse rather, — so as to
afford a better opportunity of catching the adversary
napping in his fool's paradise. The rule for a new
trial was made absolute, upon payment of costs, and
the tone of Mr. Prince, who moved for it, was as
little confident as Benjamin Walker, Esquire, or his
client, could have desired. In consultation, albeit,
the opinion of counsel was encouraging and hopeful,
and the agonizing alarm of Mrs. Malvern gradually
subsided, — ought I not to say, rose ? — into a patient
trustfulness in Him who ruleth the hearts and trieth
the reins of men.
Yet was there much to be done; and, amongst
other arrangements, it was finally determined that I,
being — as before stated — unknown to Samuel Pender-
gast, should proceed to Liverpool and ascertain what,
in the way of rebutting evidence, could be fished up
there.
I found that Mr. Samuel Pendergast's character
stood high in Liverpool, — that he was esteemed to be
a prosperous, highly respectable commission agent,
and the pattern-pillar of a religious community — of
what denomination it is unnecessary to say : there
are black sheep in all flocks. He was married, but
had no family ; and his wife — reported to be in
delicate health — lived in almost entire seclusion at
his private residence, Everton. This was hardly
worth journeying two hundred miles for, but an
interview with Dr. Koundtree, who, Mr. White had
discovered, attended the soi-disant Mrs. Malvern in
her last illness, promised better results. I brought a
note from an old friend of the doctor's, and, after a
full explanation, he said he would willingly assist in
406
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL,
defeating such a plot, if plot there were. The doctor
seemed disposed to believe Mr. Pendergast's evidence.
"A specious, hypocritical man, no doubt," he re-
marked; " pharisaical, and so on, but not the atro-
cious villain you appear to take him for." In reply
to my question as to the personal appearance of the
said Mrs. Leigh Malvern, he said she was of fair
complexion, and had light-brown hair and blue eyes.
The vague hope I had entertained died within me.
The portrait had blue eyes, brown hair, and fair com-
plexion. " Very, beautiful, was she not ?" I added.
"Oh, dear, no; quite the reverse, — exceedingly
plain, I should say."
" Exceedingly plain ! "
" Surely ; but that is, after all, a matter of taste.
Her sister, now — Mr. Pendergast's wife — is, or
rather, has been — for the grave-shadow overlies her
beauty — a beautiful woman."
" Her sister ! Mrs. Pendergast ! " It was a gleam
of lightning ! Why, what devil's game was the
fellow playing ? "Eleanor Beauchamp," I hurriedly
exclaimed, " had no sister ! "
"Well, but hear me," said calm, steady -going
Dr. Roundtree. " It was by mere inadvertence, and
not very long ago, that Mrs. Pendergast let fall the
observation ; and I noticing her vexation, feigned not
to have heard it. She might mean her sister-in-law,
you know."
"I should be very glad to see Mrs. Pendergast,"
I said.
11 Ah ! poor soul, nobody will see her long. An
unhappy, long-suffering woman; and, decorously as
Pendergast treats her before others — though she
seldom sees any one — there is only one thing she
dreads more than she does him, and that is death !
I have seen her cower beneath that hard, glittering
eye of his, like a beaten hound. She daily grows
more and more superstitious, too, and her dread of
dissolution is, as I have told you, intense. Her
husband has constantly urged me to buoy her up with
hopes of lengthened life; but that is fast becoming
impossible."
" But, can I see her ? " I impatiently, almost rudely,
iterated.
" Dr. Roundtree reflected for a few moments, and
then said, " Yes ; it may be managed. I have to
send her a prescription in the morning, accompanied
with some directions concerning diet. You can, if
you like, be my messenger. She is sure to see and
cross-question you as to my real opinion of her state."
I joyfully acquiesced, took leave, and immediately
wrote and posted a letter to London, requesting
Mr. White to come down instantly.
I was at Everton the next morning about half an
hour after Mr. Pendergast had left for his place of
business, and was instantly admitted to the patient's
presence. The curtains of the sick room were closed,
but one glance only, even in the faint light which
struggled in through the yellow damask and exagger-
ated the death-hue of the worn and anxious counte-
nance which met my gaze, sufficed to convince me
that I was in the presence of the original of the
portrait of the once gay, fascinating, Eleanor Beau-
champ. Although somewhat prepared for this, I was
so much startled that my hand trembled in presenting
her with the physician's note, almost as much as the
white, transparent one that received it, and my
answers to her anxious queries were so incoherent,
contradictory, and absurd, that she bade me, with
some asperity, leave the house immediately, and
inform Dr. Roundtree that she implored him to come
to her without delay. I obeyed, after promising to
fulfil her injunction. Dr. Roundtree was at home ;
and, five minutes after my return, was on his way to
Everton.
He was gone nearly three hours. When I again
saw him, he said, " I begin to think you are right.
At all events, Mrs. Pendergast is in a most pitiable
state, both mentally and physically. So rapidly has
a change for the worse come on, that I felt it my
duty to inform her, peremptorily, she had not a week,
perhaps not half that time, to live. Her despairing
outcries were for a time terrific, but as she calmed,
the religious traditions of her youth returned with
their old power upon her imagination. Her mother,
it seems, was an Irishwoman, and she was educated
in the Catholic faith. I have promised her, though
I hardly think I ought to have done so, to bring her
a clergyman of that creed ; and this, too, without her
husband's knowledge. Confound it, I wish I had
not promised; but, there, rny word is given, and I
must speak to one of the clergymen of St. Patrick's
Chapel, — a worthy man whom I happen to know.
He may perhaps induce her to make a clean breast
of it before the world."
This was greatly to be desired, for 'the unhappy
lady's own sake, and great was the satisfaction of
Mr. White and Mr. John Halcombe, who had arrived
only a few hours previously, when informed that
Mrs. Pendergast was desirous of making a full con-
fession in the presence of such witnesses as might be
deemed necessary.
This expiation of her partial complicity in the guilt
of Samuel Pendergast was made in the chamber
where I had first beheld her ; and there were present
the Catholic priest, Mr. White, Mr. Halcombe, and
myself. Brokenly, and with many pauses of her
failing breath, the dying woman murmured forth a
full and explicit statement of all that was necessary
to be known, which Mr. White took carefully down
in writing. I need only give here a brief summary
of it : "From early girlhood," she said, "her mind
had been warped and inflated by vanity and ambition,
— vanity and ambition prompted, generated, by the
homage paid to her personal attractions. When living
with the elder Mrs. Malvern, as companion, she
aspired to wed with her son, Mr. Leigh Malvern,
and spared no art to effect her purpose. For a time
she believed herself on the verge of success ; but his
fancy had been caught merely, not his heart — as she
had hoped — subjugated; and he offered no serious
objection when his mother — irritated by some im-
pertinence of hers with respect to her son — peremp-
torily ordered her to leave the house. She soon
became acquainted with the cause of his indifference.
He had seen Julia Halcombe — his friend, John
Halcombe's sister — and fallen violently in love with
her. A tempest of jealous fury swept through her
brain at this intelligence, succeeded by a wild thirst
for Vevenge — utterly causeless, for the young man
was guiltless of any wrong towards her. Whilst in
this state of mind, Samuel Pendergast — who had been
dismissed Mr. Malvern's service for gross fraud in
his office of steward — called on her. The tempter
had chosen his hour well; and, by artfully flattering
her passions, hinting emphatically, though darkly, at
a sure, perhaps swift revenge, she consented to wed
him. His hatred, she found, was chiefly directed
against the Halcombes, it being his impression that,
but for Mr. John Halcombe's advice, Mr. Malvern
would have overlooked the offence of which he had
been guilty. I scarcely understood him," continued
Mrs. Pendergast; "I doubt, even, if his purpose was
clearly defined to himself. He had certainly an
impression that Mr. Malvern was not likely to live
many years, in consequence of the injury he received
by the fall from his horse ; but the result was, that we
were married at Stratford Church, on the 7th October,
1811— he, in the name of Leigh Malvern. That is the
point of chiefest interest to you ; and I need scarcely
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
407
say that what I have read in the papers of the two
Mrs. Malverns is true. I was the Mrs. Malvern
of Cardiff. I had about five hundred pounds when I
married • — • a recent legacy, — which defrayed — no
matter — The light is passing from my eyes ; I must
be brief. The — the Mrs. Malvern, of Everton, was
his young half-sister, Mary Saunders, who had
been long — as I now am — dying. We were both
his bondslaves, and he, pitiless and fierce as —
hark ! That is he ! You promised not to leave
me ! "
Mr. White assured her he would not. The outer
door was opened in obedience to Pendergast's per-
emptory knock; and we could presently hear his
violent exclamations in reply to the message which
greeted his entrance. " See me, you say, and a
priest in the house-. Yes ; she shall see me/' he
continued, as he strode fiercely up the stairs, and
along the passage towards the bedroom; " no mistake
about that ! "
He flung open the chamber door. " Pi'ay, sir
priest. Why — why, what is this ? "
How quickly did the pious mask fall off before the
terrible apparition thus suddenly encountered ! For
some moments he seemed chilled to stone, and when
he at length recovered — partially recovered speech
and motion — it was only to gurgle out in choking
accents, as he fell into a chair, — "What, what do
you all here ? "
"We are here," said Mr. White, "to receive, and
we have received, the declaration of your dying wife,
formerly Eleanor Beauchamp."
"False — false ! — no doubt an invention for my
ruin ! "
" It is true," rejoined the woman, with deep
solemnity, "as that my soul is trembling on the lips
which utter it."
" Wretched — accursed woman ! " hissed Pendergast
through his clenched teeth, and shaking his doubled
lists at his wife with impotent rage.
"True! that is true," she rejoined with sudden
energy; and, raising herself, without assistance, to
nn upright sitting posture on the couch. " Wretched
and accursed in life ! — by you rendered so, — evil,
miserable man ! But not," she added, clasping her
hands with passionate fervour, and looking up-
wards with beseeching earnestness, " not, O cle-
ment God — not, Father of Mercies,-^— accursed in
death ! "
This vehement exertion exhausted the last powers
of life : the supplicating arms dropped down : the
relaxing muscles of the neck could no longer sustain
the upraised countenance, the elevated head, and she
fell forward, with her face on the bedclothes. We
raised her up : she was dead ; albeit a living smile
still played about the lips, as if her last prayer had
been granted in its utterance.
Let me hasten to conclude. There was, of course,
no second trial of the case of Malvern versus Malvern,
and we managed to convict Samuel Pendergast of
wilful and corrupt perjury, for which he was sentenced
to twelve months' imprisonment with hard labour ; a
leniency of punishment I could not at all understand.
Benjamin Walker, Esquire, and his client, could not
be legally reached, but they both died, I have reason
to believe, in miserable poverty, abroad. Samuel
Pendergast was luckier, for a time, at least, for if he
was not the sleek secretary of one of the bubble
companies of 1825, my eyes must have strangely
deceived me, which is not at all likely; for even now,
after the lapse of more than another quarter of a
century, I can see, like Beatrice, a church by day-
light. Men's evil deeds follow them, it is true, but
it is not always in this world that they overtake the
wrong- doer.
COMPETITION.
THIS word has fallen into considerable disrepute
lately. Many mischiefs have been attributed to it.
"The evils of competition," is a standing phrase in
several quarters. It is said to produce misery and
poverty to the million. It is "heartless," "selfish,"
"mischievous," "ruinous," and so on. It is charged
with lowering prices, and almost in the same breath
with raising them. There are, indeed, few of our
social evils which are not in some way laid at the door
of Competition.
But we suspect this habit of saddling Competition
with so much odium, arises from our inability in most
cases to trace the chain of causation to its right
source. It saves the trouble of searching. Com-
petition has a broad back, and will bear any amount
of burdens. Here it is at hand ; and when we find
an evil, let us lay the blame upon Competition. It is
so very convenient.
Competition is a struggle, — that will be admitted.
Among tradesmen, it is a struggle to get on. Among
workmen, it is a struggle to advance towards higher
wages. Among masters, to make the highest profits.
Among writers, preachers, and politicians, it is a
struggle to succeed, to gain glory, reputation, and
means. Like everything human, it has a mixture of
evil in it. If one man " gets on " faster than others, he
leaves those others behind. If classes of men advance
ahead of others, they leave the other classes of .men
behind them. Not that they leave those others
worse, but that they themselves advance. If those
others are worse, it is only in comparison with those
who have gone ahead of them.
Put a stop to Competition, and you merely check the
progress of individuals and of classes. You preserve
a dead, uniform level. You stereotype society, its
orders, and conditions, as in China, where there is no
competition. The motive for emulation is taken
away, and Caste, with all its mischiefs, is perpetuated.
Stop Competition, and you stop the struggle of
individualism ; but you also stop the advancement of
individualism, and through that, of society at large.
By their very nature, men compete with each
other, and the more active their competition, the
more rapid their progress. The lazy man is put
under the necessity of exerting himself ; and if he will
not exert himself, then he must fall behind. If he
do not work, neither shall he eat. My lazy friend,
you must not look to me to do my share of the
world's work and yours too ! You must do your
own share, otherwise you must enjoy less of the
fruits of labour. But you desire comfort as well as I ?
Well, you must work for it, compete for it, as
I do. There is enough for us all ; but do your own
share of work you must.
Success grows out of struggles to overcome diffi-
culties. If there were no difficulties, there would be
no success. If there were nothing to struggle or
compete for, there would be nothing achieved. There
is a hill before us, which all active spirits endeavour to
mount ; they run, they toil, they struggle, they rise.
But, lo ! there, at the bottom of the hill, remain a
host of others, who are satisfied with declaiming
against "the evils of competition." As if there were no
admixture of good in it, which there unquestion-
ably is.
It is W7ell that men should have to compete with
each other for the comforts and the luxuries of life.
It is even well that they should have to exert them-
selves to secure the necessaries of life. In this
necessity of exertion, we find the source of nearly all
human advancement, of individuals and of nations.
A man fails because he wants merit, or he wants
408
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
Industry ; but why, in such a case, be so irrational
as to lay the blame exclusively on " Competition? "
An enterprising employer strikes out new branches
of trade and commerce, and cuts out work for a new
class of workmen. There is a competition among the
workmen to serve such an employer. Or, there is an
industrious, clever workman, or class of workmen.
There is then a competition among the employers to
obtain the services of such workmen. We do not see
there is any evil in this, but, on the contrary, much
good. Abolish Competition to-morrow, and the only
parties who could possibly be gainers, would be spirit-
less and stupid employers on the one hand, or unskil-
ful, ignorant, indolent, or drunken workmen on the
other.
But in some departments of industry it is found
that there are too many workmen for the work that
has to be done ; and then they begin to compete with
each other, like hungry dogs over one poor bone, each
struggling for a share of the meat ; and miserably
small it is, in many cases. But abolishing Competi-
tion would not make that kind of work more
abundant. In any case, there must be a change of
employment for the labourers who are in excess in
any particular department of industry, whether with
Competition or without it. Is not much of the
misery which is now thus suffered, attributable rather
to the character of the workman, to his unthinking
determination to stick to his old craft, even after it
has failed, than to Competition or its results ?
After all, it must be admitted that Competition has
already done the civilized world great service, and
accomplished more towards diffusing the benefits of
industrial enterprise, than any single agency that
could be named. Competition has led to most of the
splendid mechanical inventions and improvements
of the age. It has stimulated the shipbuilder, the
merchant, the manufacturer, the machinist, the
tradesman, the shopkeeper. In all departments of
productive industry, it has been the moving power.
It has developed the resources of this and of other
countries, — the resources of the soil, and the
character and qualities of the men who dwell upon it.
It seems to be absolutely necessary for the purpose of
stimulating the growth and culture of every indivi-
dual. It is deeply rooted in man, leading him ever to
seek after and endeavour to realize something better
and higher than he has yet attained.
Of course, man is much more than a competing
being. That is only one of his characteristics, and
not the highest or noblest. He has sensibilities,
sympathies, and aspirations, which draw him on to
unite and co-operate with others in works for the
common good. With unfettered individualism, there
may, and there ought to be, beneficient co-operation
for the general happiness. Men may unite to
labour, to produce, and to share with each other the
fruits of corporate industry. But under any circum-
stances, there will be the instinct of Competition, the
opportunities for Competition, and, though mixed
with necessary evil, there will be the ultimate benefi-
cial results of Competition.
BE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS.
SONG OF THE WORM.
THE worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain
In the field that is stored with its millions of slain ;
The charnel-grounds widen, — to me they belong,
With the vaults of the sepulchre, sculptured and
strong.
The tower of ages in fragments is laid,
Moss grows on the stones, and I lurk in its shade ;
And the hand of the giant and heart of the brave
Must turn weak, and submit to the worm and the
grave.
Daughters of earth, if I happen to meet
Your bloom-plucking fingers and sod- treading feet —
Oh ! turn not away with the shriek of disgust
From the thing you must mate with in darkness and
dust.
Your eyes may be flashing in pleasure and pride,
'Neath the crown of a Queen or the wreath of a
bride ;
Your lips may be fresh and your cheeks may be fair,
Let a few years pass over, and I shall be there.
Cities of splendour, where palace and gate,
Where the marble of strength and the purple of
state,
Where the mart and arena, the olive and vine,
Once flourished in glory, oh ! are ye not mine ?
Go look for famed C?,rthage, and I shall be found
In the desolate ruin and weed-covered mound ;
And the slime of my trailing discovers my home
'Mid the pillars of Tyre and the temples of Eome.
I am sacredly sheltered and daintily fed
Where the velvet bedecks and the white lawn i,s
spread ;
f may feast undisturbed, I may dwell and carouse
On the sweetest of lips and the smoothest of brows.
The voice of the sexton, the chink of the spade,
Sound merrily under the willow's dank shade ;
They are carnival notes, and I travel with glee
To learn what the churchyard has given to me.
Oh ! the worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain,
For where Monarchs are voiceless I revel and reign ;
I delve at my ease and regale where I may,
None dispute with the earthworm his will or his way.
The high and the bright for my feasting must fall —
Youth, beauty, and manhood — I prey on ye all :
The Prince and the peasant, the despot and slave,
All, all must bow down to the worm and the grave.
SUNSHINE.
WHO loveth not the sunshine ? oh ! who loveth not
the bright
And blessed mercy of His smile, who said, "Let
there be light ? "
Who lifteth not his face to meet the rich and glowing
beam ?
Who dwelleth not with miser eyes upon such golden
stream ?
Let those who will accord their song to hail the revel
blaze
That only comes where feasting reigns and courtly
gallants gaze !
But the sweet and merry sunshine is a braver theme
to sing,
For it kindles round the peasant while it bursts above
the king.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
409
We hear young voices round us now swell loud in
eager joy,
We're jostled by the tiny child, and sturdy, romping
boy ;
In city street and hamlet path we see blithe forms
arise,
And childhood's April life comes forth as glad as
April skies.
Oh ! what can be the magic lure that beckons them
abroad
To sport upon the dusty stones or tread the grassy
sward ?
'Tis the bright and merry sunshine that has called
them out to play,
And scattered them, like busy bees, all humming in
our way.
The bloom is on the cherry-tree — the leaf is on the
elm,
The bird and butterfly have come to claim their fairy
realm ;
I Unnumbered stars are on the earth — the fairest who
can choose,
When all are painted with the tints that form the
rainbow's hues ?
What spirit- wand hath wakened them? the branch of
late was bare,
The world was desolate — but now there's beauty
everywhere.
'Tis the sweet and merry sunshine has unfolded leaf
and flower,
And tells us of the Infinite, of Glory, and of Power.
We see old age and poverty forsake the fireside chair,
And leave a narrow, cheerless home, to taste the
vernal air ;
The winter hours were long to him who had no
spice-warmed cup,
No bed of down to nestle in, no furs to wrap him up.
But now he loiters 'mid the crowd, and leans upon his
staff,
He gossips with his lowly friends, and joins the
children's laugh.
'Tis the bright and merry sunshine that has led the
old man out,
To hear once more the Babel roar, and wander round
about.
The bright and merry sunshine — see, it even creepeth
in,
Where prison bars shut out all else from solitude and
sin ;
The doomed one marks the lengthened streak that
poureth through the chink,
It steals along— it flashes ! oh ! 'tis on his fetter link.
Why does he close his bloodshot eyes? why breathe
with gasping groan ?
! Why does he turn to press his brow against the
walls of stone ?
1 The bright and merry sunshine has called back some
dream of youth.
i Of green fields and a mother's love, of happiness and
truth.
The sweet and merry sunshine makes the very church-
yard fair,
We half forget the yellow bones while yellow flowers
are there ;
And while the summer beams are thrown upon the
osiered heap,
We tread with lingering footsteps where our " rude
i forefathers sleep."
The hemlock does not seem so rank — the willow is
not dull,
The rich flood lights the coffin nail and burnishes the
skull.
Oh ! the sweet and merry sunshine is a pleasant thing
to see,
Though it plays upon a gravestone through the
gloomy cypress tree.
There's a sunshine that is brighter, that is warmer
e'en than this,
That spreadeth round a stronger gleam, and sheds a
deeper bliss ;
That gilds whate'er it touches with a lustre all its
own,
As brilliant on the cottage porch as on Assyria's
throne.
It gloweth in the human soul, it passeth not away,
And dark and lonely is the heart that never felt its
ray:
'Tis the sweet and merry sunshine of Affection's
gentle light,
That never wears a sullen cloud arid fadeth not in
night.
STANZAS.
THOUGH like the marble rock of old,
This heart may seem all hard and cold,
Yet, like that rock, a touch will bring
The water from the secret spring :
Let Memory breathe her softest tone,
With magic force it breaks the stone ;
And forth will gush, all fresh and bright,
The living tide of love and light,
That pours in vain.
Though like the cloud of gathered storm,
This brow may be of dull, dark form ;
Yet, like that cloud, the brow may bear
The spirit lightning hidden there.
The pensive mood, with charmless frown,
May weigh my heavy eyelids down j
The gloom is deep, but it is fraught
With flashings of electric thought,
That burst in pain.
The Eastern flower of desert birth
Is prized not while it decks the earth ;
But snatched and gathered, crushed and dead,
Is valued for its odour shed.
And so this lyre, whose native soiind
Scarce wins the ear of those around,
May wear a richer wreath of bay,
When still in death the hand shall lay
That wakes its strain.
DE. KITTO.
NOT very long since, we were attracted by the
announcement in a second-hand book catalogue, of
"Essays and Letters, by Dr. Kitto, written in a
ivorWiouse" As one of the living celebrities of the
day, the editor of the Pictorial Bible, the Cyclopedia
410
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
of Biblical Literature, and many other highly im-
portant works, which have obtained an extensive
circulation, and are greatly prized, we could not but
feel interested in this little book, and purchased it
accordingly. It has proved full of curious interest,
and from it we learnt, that besides having endured
from an early age the serious privation of hearing,
the author has also suffered the lot of poverty, and,
by dint of gallant perseverance and manly courage,
he has risen above, and triumphed over both priva-
tions.
It is, indeed, true that Dr. Kitto's first book was
"written in a workhouse." And we must here tell
the reader something of his early history. The father
of Dr. Kitto was a working mason at Plymouth,
whither he had been attracted by the demand for
labourers of all descriptions, at that place, about
the early part of the present century. John Kitto
was accordingly born there in 1804. In his youth
he received very little school education, though he
learnt to read, and had already taken some interest in
books, when the serious accident occurred which
deprived him of his hearing. At that time his
parents were in very distressed circumstances, and
though little more than twelve years of age, the boy
was employed by his father to help him as a labourer,
in carrying stones, mortar, and such like. One day
in February, 1817, when stepping from the ladder to
the roof of a house undergoing repair, in Batter
Street, the little lad, with a load of slates on his
head, lost his balance, and, falling back, was precipi-
tated from a height of thirty-five feet into the paved
court below !
Dr. Kitto has himself given a most vivid account
of the details of the accident in the most interesting
work by him, on "The Lost Senses, — Deafness,"
some time skice published by Charles Knight.
"Of what followed," says he, "I know nothing.
For one moment, indeed, I awoke from that death-
like state, and then found that my father, attended
by a crowd of people, was bearing me homeward in
his arms ; but I had then no recollection of what
had happened, arid at once relapsed into a state of
unconsciousness.
" In this state I remained for a fortnight, as I
afterwards learned. These days were a blank in my
life ; I could never bring any recollections to bear
upon them ; and when I awoke one morning to
consciousness, it was as from a night of sleep. I saw
that it was at least two hours later than my usual time
of rising, and marvelled that I had been suffered to
sleep so late. I attempted to spring up in bed, and
was astonished to find that I could not even move.
The utter prostration of my strength subdued all
curiosity within me. I experienced no pain, but I
felt that I was weak ; I saw that I was treated as an
invalid, and acquiesced in my condition, though some
time passed, — :more time than the reader would
imagine, — before I could piece together my broken
recollections, so as to comprehend it.
" I was very slow in learning that my hearing was
entirely gone. The unusual stillness of all things was
frateful to me in my utter exhaustion ; and if, in this
alf-awakened state, a thought of the matter entered
my mind, I ascribed it to the unusual care and success
of my friends in preserving silence around me. I saw
them talking, indeed, to one another, and thought
that, out of regard to my feeble condition, they spoke
in whispers, because I heard them not. The truth
was revealed to me in consequence of my solicitude
about a book [Kirby's Wonderful Magazine] which
had much interested me on the day of my fall. * * *
I asked for this book with much earnestness, and
was answered by signs which I could not compre-
hend.
" 'Why do you not speak ? ' I cried ; ' pray let me
have the book.'
" This seemed to create some confusion ; and at
length some one, more clever than the rest, hit upon
the happy expedient of writing upon a slate, that the
book had been reclaimed by the owner, and that I
could not in my weak state be allowed to read.
"'But,' said I, in great astonishment, 'why do
you write to me, why not speak 1 Speak, speak ! '
"Those who stood around the bed exchanged
significant looks of concern, arid the writer soon dis-
played upon his slate the awful words, — -'You ARE
DEAF.' "
Various remedies were tried, but without avail.
Some serious organic injury had been done to the
auditory nerve by the fall, and hearing was never
restored : poor Kitto remained stone-deaf. The boy,
thus thrown upon himself, devoted his spare time, —
now all his time was spare time, — to reading. Books
gradually became a source of interest to him, and he
soon exhausted the small and interesting stocks of his
neighbours. Books were at that date much rarer
than now, and reading was regarded as an occult art,
in which few persons of the working class could
indulge.
The circumstances of Kitto's parents were still very
poor, which, with other sources of domestic dis-
quietude, rendered his position for some years very
unfortunate. At length, in 1819, about two years
from the date of his accident, on an application for
relief from the guardians of the poor of Plymouth,
the young Kitto was taken from his parents, and
placed among the boys of the workhouse. There he
was instructed in the art of shoemaking, with the
view of enabling him thus to obtain his livelihood.
He was afterwards bound apprentice to a poor shoe-
maker in the town, where his position was very
miserable ; so much so, that an inquiry as to the
apprentice's treatment was instituted before the
magistrates, the result of which was that they
discharged Kitto from his apprenticeship, and lie was
returned to the workhouse, where he continued his
shoemaking. He found a warm friend in Mr.
Bernard, the clerk to the guardians, and also in
Mr. Nugent, the master of the school j from these
gentlemen he obtained loans of books, which were
usually of a religious chai-acter.
He remained in the workhouse about four years ;
his deafness condemned him to solitude ; for, deprived
of speech and hearing, he had not the means of
forming friends among his companions, such as they
were. At the same time, it is possible enough that
his isolation from the other occupants of the work-
house may have preserved his purity, and encouraged
him* to cultivate his intellectual powers to a greater
extent than he might otherwise have been disposed to
do. Thrown almost exclusively upon his visual
perceptions, he enjoyed with an intensity of delight
the beautiful face of Nature, — the sun, the moon, the
stars, and the glories of earth. In after-life, he said,
" I must not refuse to acknowledge, that when I have .
beheld the moon, ' walking in brightness, ' my heart has
been ' secretly enticed ' into feelings having perhaps a
nearer approach to the old idolatries than I should
like to ascertain. I mention this, because, at this
distant day, I have no recollection of earlier emotions
connected with the beautiful, than those of which the
moon was the object. How often, some two or three
years after my affliction, did I not wander forth upon
the hills, for no other purpose in the world than to
enjoy and feed upon the emotions connected with the
sense of the beautiful in Nature. It gladdened me,
it filled my heart, I knew not why or how, to view
'the great and wide sea, 'the wooded mountain, and even
the silent town, under that pale radiance ; and not
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
411
less to follow the course of the luminary over the
clear sky, or to trace its shaded pathway among and
behind the clouds." An exquisitely keen perception
of the beautiful in trees, was of somewhat later
development, as Plymouth, being by the seaside, is not
favourable to the growth of oaks, and had nothing to
boast of but a few rows of good elms. Another
great source of enjoyment with him at that early
period, was to wander about the printsellers and
picture-framers' windows, and learn the pictures by
heart, watching anxiously from day to day for the
cleaning out of the windows, that he might enjoy the
luxury of a new display of prints and frontispieces.
He scoured the whole neighbourhood with this view,
going over to Devonport, which he divided into
I districts and visited periodically, for the purpose of
| exploring the windows in each, with leisurely enjoy-
I ment at each visit.
A young man, so peculiarly circumstanced, and
with such tastes, could not remain altogether over-
looked, and he was so fortunate as to attract the
notice of two worthy gentlemen, who, when he had
reached the age of about twenty years, used every
exertion to befriend him. One of these was Mr.
Harvey, we believe a member of the Society of
Friends, well known as an accomplished mathemati-
cian, who supplied young Kitto with books of a
superior quality to anything he had before had access
to. Mr. Harvoy, when one day in a bookseller's
shop, saw a lad of mean appearance enter, and begin
writing a communication to the master on a slip of
paper. On inquiry, he found him to be a deaf work-
house boy, distinguished by his desire for reading and
thirst for knowledge of all kinds ; and that he had
come to borrow a book which the bookseller had
promised to lend him. Inquiries were made about
him, interest was excited in his behalf, and a subscrip-
tion was raised for his benefit. He was supplied with
books, paper, and pens, to enable him to pursue his
literary occupations ; and in a short time, having
secured the notice of Mr. Nettleton, one of the
proprietors of the Plymouth Journal, and also a
guardian of the poor, several of his productions
appeared in the columns of that journal. The case of
the poor lad became the subject of general conversa-
tion in the town ; several gentlemen associated
themselves together as the guardians of the youth ;
after which Kitto was removed from the workhouse,
and obtained permission to read at the public library.
A selection of his writings, chiefly written in the
workhouse, was shortly afterwards published by sub-
scription, and the young man found himself in the
fair way of advancement. He made rapid progress in
learning ; acquiring a knowledge of Hebrew and
other languages, which he imparted to his pupils, the
sons of a gentleman into whose house he was taken as
tutor. He read largely on all subjects, but his early
bias towards theological literature clung to him, and
he soon acquired an extensive and profound know-
ledge of scriptural and sacred lore. At length he
was enabled to turn his stores of learning to rich
account, in his Pictorial Bible and ' Cyclopaedia of
Biblical Literature, which many of our readers may
have seen. In his day, Dr. Kitto has also been an
extensive traveller ; having been in Palestine, in
Egypt, in the Morea, in Russia, and in many countries
of Europe.
"For many years," he says, "I had no views
towards literature beyond the instruction and solace
of my own mind ; and under these views, and in the
absence of other mental stimulants, the pursuit of it
eventually became a passion which devoured all
others. I take no merit for the industry and applica-
tion with which I pursued this object, — none for the
ingenious contrivances by which I sought to shorten
the hours of needful rest, that I might have the more
time for making myself acquainted with the minds of
other men. The reward was great and immediate ;
and I was only preferring the gratification which
seemed to me the highest. Nevertheless, now that
I am in fact another being, having but slight con-
nection, excepting in so far as 'the child is father
to the man,' with my former self; now that much has
become a business which was then simply a joy ; and
now that I am gotten old in experiences, if not in
years ; — it does somewhat move me to look back upon
that poor and deaf boy in his utter loneliness, devoting
himself to objects in which none around him could
sympathize, and to pursuits which none could even
understand. There was a time,— by far the most
dreary in that portion of my career, — when an
employment was found for me [it was when he was
apprenticed to the shoemaker] to which I proceeded
about six o'clock in the morning, and from which I
returned not until about ten at night. I murmured
not at this ; for I knew that life had grosser duties
than those to which I would gladly have devoted all
my hours ; and I dreamed not that a life of literary
occupations might be within the reach of my hopes.
This was, however, a terrible time for me, as it left
me so little leisure for what had become niy sole
enjoyment, if not my sole good. I submitted ; I
acquiesced ; I tried hard to be happy ; but it would
not do ; my heart gave way, notwithstanding my
manful struggles to keep it up, and I was very
thoroughly miserable. Twelve hours I could have
borne. I have tried it ; and know that the leisure
which twelve hours might have left would have
satisfied me ; but sixteen hours, and often eighteen, out
of the twenty-four, was more than I could bear. To
come home, weary and sleepy, and then to have only
for mental sustenance the moments which, by self-
imposed tortures, could be torn from needful rest, was
a sore trial ; and now that I look back upon this
time, the amount of study which I did, under these
circumstances, contrive to get through, amazes and
confounds me, notwithstanding that my habits of
application remain to this day strong and vigorous.
"In the state to which I have thus referred, I j
suffered much wrong ; and the fact, that young as I j
then was, my pen became the instrument of re-
dressing that wrong, and of ameliorating the more '
afflictive part of my condition, was among the first I
circumstances which revealed to me the secret of the |
strength which I had, unknown to myself, acquired.
The flood of light which then broke in upon me, not
only gave distinctness of purpose to what had before
been little more than dark and uncertain gropings ;
but also, from that time, the motive to my exertions
became more mixed than it had been. My ardour
and perseverance were not lessened; and the pure
love of knowledge, for its own sake, would still have
carried me on ; but other influences, the influences
which supply the impulse to most human pursuits,
did supervene, and gave the sanction of the judgment
to the course which the instincts of mental necessity
had previously dictated. I had, in fact, learned the
secret, that knowledge is power ; and if, as is said, all
power is sweet, then, surely, that power which know-
ledge gives is, of all others, the sweetest."
In conclusion, we may add, that Dr. Kitto continues
to lead a happy and a useful life. He is cheered by
the faces of children around his table, — though, alas !
he cannot hear their sweet voices. He resides in the
beautiful environs of London, that he may be within
sight of old trees, without which, he says, his heart
could scarcely be satisfied. Indeed, with such love and
veneration does he regard trees, that the felling of a
noble tree causes him the deepest emotion. But he
delights in the faces of men, too, and nothing gives
412
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
him greater delight than to walk or drive through the
crowded thoroughfares of the metropolis. In this
respect he resembles the amiable Charles Lamb, to
whom the crowd of Fleet Street was more delightful
than all the hills and lakes of Westmoreland. " How
often," says Dr. Kitto, " at the end of a day's hard
toil, have I thrown myself into an omnibus, and gone
into town, for no other purpose in the world than to
have a walk from Charing Cross to St. Paul's on the
one hand, or to the top of Regent Street on the
other ; or, from the top of Tottenham Court Road to
the Post Office. I know not whether I liked this best in
summer or winter. I could seldom afford myself this
indulgence but for one or two evenings a week, when
I could manage to bring my day's studies to a close an
hour or so earlier than usual. In summer there is
daylight, and I could better enjoy the picture-shops
and the street incidents, and might diverge so as to
pass through Covent Garden, and luxuriate among the
finest fruits and most beautiful flowers in the world.
And in winter it might be doubted whether the
glory of the shops, lighted up with gas, was not a
sufficient counterbalance for the absence of daylight.
Perhaps ' both are best, ' as the children say ; and
yield the same kind of grateful change as the alterna-
tion of the seasons offers." Thus, what we, who have
our hearing entire, regard as a great calamity, has in
Dr. Kitto ceased to be regarded as such. The
condition has become natural to him, and his sweet
temper and steady habits of industry, enable him to
pass through life honourably and usefully. He is
content to spend his remaining years in silence. A
noble and a valuable lesson to all young men, is the
life of such a diligent self-helper as Dr. Kitto.
TOO LATE !
THE expenditure of the sum of £12 10s., according
to an eminent engineer, would have prevented the
Holmfirth catastrophe. Our readers will remember
that, not long ago, the Holmfirth reservoir burst
its banks, and the waters, sweeping down the narrow
valley at midnight, suddenly drowned some eighty
persons, and destroyed half a million pounds worth
of property. The commissioners were long meditating
the repair of the leaking embankment; they were
ready to spend the £12 10s. for the purpose, but they
deferred until it was TOO LATE, and then all repairs
were needless.
Too LATE might be written on many of our public
schemes of meditated repair and reform. The mis-
chief to be apprehended is obvious enough. Many
eyes are directed towards the swollen waters, and to
the cracks and rents in the embankment which still
keeps them pent up. Some call out for repairs, and
they are answered that " it is time enough ! " And
this goes on from year to year, until at length down
comes the flood at midnight, and the inhabitants of
the valley only awake to find that all their attempts
at repair have come TOO LATE !
" Too late," wrote Dr. Arnold, "are the words
which I should be inclined to affix to every plan of
reforming society in this country. We are ingulphed,
! I believe, and must go down the cataract." Dr. Arnold
j was too hopeless. Even since his day, much has
i been done towards repairing the rents in our social
| fabric; and many other things remain to be done.
| Still, to the anxious and earnest man, matters seem
! to get mended so slowly, and often so clumsily,
that he cannot help falling into a state bordering
almost on despair ; and he groans out that " it will
be all too late"
The old story of the Sybil and her books often
comes up in the progress of the ages. Men in power
refuse to give heed to the distant nmtterings of
danger. They will scarcely bestir themselves ere
the danger has openly shown itself, and made itself
felt ; and when this is the case, it is almost always
too late to remedy its causes.
The governing classes of France were found quite
willing to remedy the horrible mischiefs of society in
that country about the end of last century ; but they
would .not bestir themselves until their own lives and
properties were in danger, and then it was all too late!
Society was then going rapidly down the torrent !
England was willing to do her American colonists<
justice after they had risen in rebellion and worsted
our armies. But " too late" was the universal answer
of the colonists to our overtures for reconciliation.
The rubicon had already been passed, and recon-
ciliation become a fallacious dream.
The same words might be written on many of our
schemes of social amelioration. When the mischief
is done, we purpose to undo it. But it is done.
" When the steed is stolen, shut the stable door ! "
Let little children be left unrestrained, undisci-
plined, and surrounded by all manner of inducements
to bad living ; they grow up thus, fall into evil ways,
commit criminal acts, and, in course of time, are put
into gaol. Then it is that our concern for them
begins ; and we now put them under training and
discipline. But it is all too late. The habits have
been fixed ; the character has been formed ; the
criminal has been made. It is too late to reform
him — we have begun at the wrong end. We cannot
make him live his life backward.
Try and reform an evil habit — that of drunkenness,
for example. In nine hundred and ninety out of the
thousand cases you will fail. The habit is the life.
It has wound itself in and through the life as an
integral part of it ; and you cannot tear it out. Or,
try to make a habitually unvirtuous person virtuous.
It cannot be done. The habit has been ingrained
in the thoughts, the feelings, the passions, and
poisoned the whole nature. It is too late to reform.
The only safe way is, so to educate and bring up
children as to prevent evil habits being formed.
This is beginning at the right, and not at the wrong
end.
How many good resolutions have been formed too
late! " Oh, that I had begun earlier ! " is the miser-
able outcry. Every day that has passed by has
rendered the chances of amendment more hopeless.
But life cannot be unlived, nor can habits once formed
be uprooted. The victim is bound in chains as of ada-
mant. He is immured in the tomb which he himself
has dug.
Too late ! the curse of life ! Could we but read
' In many a heart the thoughts that only bleed,
How oft were found
Engraven deep, those words of saddest sound
(Curse of our mortal state ! ),
Too late ! Too late !
LOWELL, THE AMERICAN POET.*
WE hail with grateful feelings the appearance of
this volume. Lowell has always been a favourite
with us— r-we confess our partiality at the outset— and
oftentimes, when weary and sick at heart, we have
turned to his pages for rest and consolation. Nor
have we looked in vain ; for his muse, has drawn her
inspiration from the purest and deepest sources, and
every line from his pen contains some holy thought
or grand idea, calculated to excite our hopes and
* The poetical works of James Russell Lowell. Edited,
with an introduction, by Andrew 11. Scoble. London : George
Routledge, & Col 1852.
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
413
dispel our fears — to enlarge the measure of our faith,
and proclaim "the sure supremeness of the Beautiful."
It has been to us also a source of wonder that a poet
of such rare powers and singular merit should not
have achieved a wider appreciation among English-
men than he has yet obtained. It is true that he has
long been familiar with " the select few " — people of
literary taste and means sufficient, — to whom the
cost of a book is a matter of small moment ; but the
general public — who are debarred from cultivating
an author's acquaintance until his works have gained
an extended celebrity, and been reprinted in "cheap
editions," or extracted into the columns of popular
journals — at present scarcely know the name of
Lowell. We rejoice, then, to find that, at length, the
writings of this author have been reproduced in a
form and- at a price which commend them to the
intelligent and thoughtful of all classes. So highly do
we esteem Lowell as a poet, that we readily join the
editor of the edition before us — Mr. Scoble — in the
well-grounded hope and earnest desire that ere long
he may count "as many admirers on this side of the
Atlantic as he already numbers in the United States,"
where, we are told, "his reputation is deservedly
great."
It will be well, however, before entering upon the
poems in detail, to state one or two facts touching
the personal concerns of our author. James Russell
Lowell is the son of a clergyman of Boston — a city in
the State of Massachusetts, which has acquired the
title of the literary capital of America. He was born
in the year 1819, and finished his education at
Harvard College, — one of the principal seats of
learning of the Western Republic. On quitting the
university, he entered the legal profession, but ap-
pears to have practised very little, if at all. Lite-
rature seems to have had more potent charms for
his mind, and from the time referred to 'until the
present, he has been, in one way and another, hon-
ourably connected with the periodical press of his
native countiy. Several of the leading magazines
have availed themselves of his contributions in prose
as well as poetry — although it is in the latter that he
excels — and for some years past he has conducted a
monthly serial "with marked ability." A collection
of his poems was published in this country about
eight years since, but, owing to its dearness, obtained
a very small circulation, and was soon forgotten.
The most lengthy poems in the volume are, —
"The Vision of Sir Launfal," a romance, founded
upon the search for the " San Greal or Holy Grail,
the cup out of which Jesus partook of the last supper
with his disciples;" and a metrical tale, also of a
romantic character, entitled "A Legend of Brittany."
The latter of these works is, to our thinking, by far
the better of the two — it is certainly the more ori-
ginal and distinctive. It is written in the modern
stanza, over which Lowell is a complete master, and
for ease and elegance of rhythm, the Legend may
safely challenge comparison with the works of any
living poet — American or English. Nor is this its
only noticeable feature. The incidents of the story
are everywhere interwoven with rich gems of thought,
which lie so thickly clustered, and sparkle and glitter
so brilliantly, that reflection is unable to keep its
pace with the reader's mere outward eyesight. The
hero of this tale, Mordred, is a Templar knight, who,
by the vows of his order, has sworn to eschew
marriage; the heroine, Margaret, is "a simple herds-
man's child." Of the Templar we are told that, —
He had been noble, but some great deceit
Had turned his better instinct to a vice.
Margaret, on the other hand, was as unsuspecting as
she was pure ; and having spent the whole of her days,
from infancy upwards, amid the beauties of nature,
her mind had grown into the likeness and similitude
of the objects round about, from which it gained its
nourishment. To use the words of Lowell : —
She dwelt for ever in a region bright,
Peopled with living fancies of her own,
Where nought could come but visions of delight,
Far, far aloof from earth's eternal moan :
A summer cloud thrilled through with rosy light,
Floating beneath the blue sky all alone,
Her spirit wandered by itself, and won
A golden edge from some unsetthig sun.
So fair and holy a creature as Margaret, was ill
adapted for serious conflict with the powers of evil,
or to successfully guard herself from the devices of
" the dark proud man " her lover ; but " such power
hath beauty and frank innocence," that when he first
beheld her, his baser feelings were at once subdued —
her angel purity disarmed all criminal intent — and he
inwardly cursed that " cruel faith " to the behests of
which he had sacrificed the sacred instincts of his
manliness.
It is an "o'er sad tale" this Legend of Brittany.
The darker emotions eventually triumphed in
Mordred's breast, and gentle Margaret fell. Time
rolled along, and as one evil deed leads to its suc-
cessor, the knight was hurried forward to the
perpetration of a still more frightful outrage, in
order to avoid the consequences of his former crime.
Fearing that the discovery of his victim's shame
might also lead to his own detection — and dreading
disgrace for having violated his celibate vow — he
murdered Margaret at the old trysting-place — the
spot where many of their happiest hours had been
spent.
The rest of the poem is of a supernatural character,
and cannot be well described. It is, however,
replete with beautiful passages — high and lofty teach-
ings— grand lessons of charity, which "a world with
Levite eyes " might read and study with advantage.
The minor poems of Lowell are all well worthy of
mention — it is almost impossible, indeed, to choose
between them ; but, if we must needs give preference
to any, it will be "A Glance behind the Curtain,"
in which we are introduced to Cromwell and Hampden
in earnest conversation on the state of England during
the reign of Charles the First, and in which the
motives that actuated those noble men are laid bare
to view. Then we have an Ode — an Elegy on
the Death of Dr. Channing — L'Envoi — Rhcecus, and
the Ghost-Seer — a remarkable poem that we have
never previously met with. We must not either omit
to name his Sonnets, nor a few other short pieces ;
such as "Rosaline," "Allegra," "The Shepherd of
King Admetus," and " Irene." Yet, in thus particu-
larizing, we must not be understood as condemning
those left behind — among which there is quality
enough to make a modern poet's reputation.
The classic fable of " Prometheus " has been ably
handled by Lowell; although the same subject
has been already used by many of our best writers.
The theme is so fertile and suggestive, that artists,
painters, sculptors, and poets, seem still to consider
it a common and inexhaustible property, equally
adapted for their various purposes.
We can best notice the minor pieces collectively.
The poet must not be judged of wholly by the style,
but also by the spirit and design of his verse. We
shall therefore cull a few passages which show at once
the artistic abilities of our author — his power of
versification, and manifest at the same time the aims
and purposes of his muse. Lowell has himself a
lofty sense of the poet's mission, and condemns, in
earnest and impassioned language, those who degrade
their calling, or devote their labours to unworthy
and ignoble ends. He thinks, too, that in the every-
414
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
day walks, and amid the actualities of life, are to be
found themes of soul-stirring human interest, which
cannot fail to enlist the best sympathies of the true
poet ; and that the exigencies of modern society,
moreover, loudly demand his aid. In "An Ode"
he tells us, —
There still is need of martyrs and apostles,
There still are texts for never-dying song :
From age to age man's still aspiring spirit
Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes,
And thou in larger measure dost inherit
What made thy great forerunners free and wise.
Sit thou enthroned where the Poet's mountain
Above the thunder lifts its silent peak,
And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain,
That all may drink and find the rest they seek.
Sing ! there shall silence grow in earth and heaven,
A silence of deep awe and wondering ;
For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even,
To hear a mortal like an angel sing.
Again, in L'Envoi, the same view is expressed
with additional emphasis : —
Never had poets such high call before,
Never can poets hope for higher one,
And, if they be but faithful to theu- trust,
Earth will remember them with love and joy,
And O, far better, God will not forget.
For he who settles Freedom's principles
Writes the death-warrant of all tyranny ;
Who speaks the truth stabs Falsehood to the heart,
And his mere word makes despots tremble more
Than ever Brutus with his dagger could.
Lowell has no admiration for the hollow conven-
tionalities of fashionable life ; in his contempt of
forms and observances he is somewhat swayed towards
the other extreme. In the Ode from which we just
now selected a short extract, there is the following
magnificent passage : —
Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking
For one to bring the Maker's name to light,
To be the voice of that almighty speaking
Which every age demands to do it right.
Proprieties our silken bards environ ;
He who would be the tongue of this wide land
Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron
And strike it with a toil-embrowned hand;
One who hath dwelt with Nature well-attended,
Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books,
Whose soul with all her countless lives hath blended,
So that all beauty awes us in his looks ;
Who not with body's waste his soul hath pampered,
Who as the clear northwestern wind is free,
Who walks with Form's observances unhampered,
And follows the One Will obediently ;
Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit,
Control a lovely prospect every way ;
Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly plummet,
And find a bottom still of worthless clay ;
Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working,
Knowing that one sure wind blows on above,
And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking,
One God-built shrine of reverence and love ;
Who seer -U stars that wheel their shining marches
Around *.ne centre fixed of Destiny,
Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches
The moving globe of being like a sky ;
Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps are nearer
Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh,
Who doth not hold his soul's own freedom dearer
Than that of all his brethren, low or high ;
Who to the right can feel himself the truer
For being gently patient with the wrong,
Who sees a brother in the evildoer,
And finds in Love the heart's-blood of his song ; .
This, this is he for whom the world is waiting
To sing the beatings of its mighty heart.
The " coming man/' the "true Apostle of
Humanity," it would appear, from the preceding
extracts, should be looked for among those of earth's
children who dig and hew — who toil and spin — rather
than in the upper ranks, or even among the learned
and refined circles of society. We find the same
idea (the heroism of humble life), slightly modified at
times, running through the whole of his poems.
For example, it is asserted in the piece entitled " An
Incident in a Eailroad Car," that
Among the untaught poor,
Great deeds and feelings find a home,
That cast in shadow all the golden lore
Of classic Greece and Rome.
Lowell's faith is vital and ever active ; it peeps out
from eveiy shade, and exhibits itself prominently in
every tinge of sunshine — it is more or less observable
in every delineation of human character portrayed
by his pencil. The poorest and the richest, the highest
and the lowest, — even the most ill-cared-for and
despised of the sons of men, are in some degree
possessed of and moved by the spirit of goodness.
The " most fitting triumph " of poetry, he considers,
is to show that good ever " lurks in the heart of evil."
And this faith has its wider phases. Wherever he
turns his eyes — in all the spheres, in men and matter,
in mind and morals — he observes the workings of
God's universal law, by which all things are impelled
and guided towards their rightful destiny, and made
to subserve the universal happiness of sentient ex-
istence. Beattie has well exclaimed —
Of chance and change, O ! let not man complain,
Else shall he never, never cease to wail.
And Lowell thus forcibly expresses himself to the
same effect. He says : —
The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change ;
Then let it come -. I have no dread of what
Is called for by the instinct of mankind ;
Nor think I that God's world will fall apart,
Because we tear a parchment more or less.
Truth is eternal, but her effluence,
' With endless change is fitted to the hour ;
Her mirror is turned forward to reflect
The promise of the future, not the past.
He who would win the name of truly great
Must understand his own age and the next,
And make the present ready to fulfil
Its prophecy, and with the future merge
Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave.
The future works out great men's destinies ;
The present is enough for common souls,
Who, never looking forward, are indeed
Mere clay, wherein the footprints of their age
Are petrified for ever : better those
Who lead the blind old giant by the hand
From out the pathless desert where he gropes,
Arid set him onward in his darksome way.
I do not fear to follow out the truth,
Albeit along the precipice's edge.
Let us speak plain : there is more force in names
Than most men dream of ; and a lie may keep
Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk
Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name.
My God ! when I read o'er the bitter lives
Of men whose eager hearts were quite too great
To beat beneath the cramped mode of the day,
And see them mocked at by the world they love,
Haggling with prejudice for pennyworths
Of that reform which their hard toil will make
The common birthright of the age to come, —
When I see this, spite of my faith in God,
I marvel how their hearts bear up so long ;
Nor could they, but for this same prophecy,
This inward feeling of the glorious end.
The above passages are from " A Glance behind the
Curtain," and are put into the mouth of Cromwell,
although we half suspect they were intended to have
a modern significance and application.
Lowell is a patriot — one of the truest stamp — one
that will tell his country of her faults as of her
virtues, rather than gloss over her national vices and
laud her demerits to gain the empty applause of tne
unthinking. Slavery — the execrated domestic insti-
tution of America — has roused his fiercest indignation,
which has found vent in several small poems. Apropos
of this subject, we are reminded of a loss the
purchasers of the edition we are dealing with must
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
415
sustain. We miss two fine passages from one of
the minor poems, — "The Chippewa Legend," com-
mencing—
And thou my country, who to me art dear,
As is the blood that circles through my heart,
Art little better than a sneer and mock,
And tyrants smiie to see thee holding up
Freedom's broad JEgls o'er three million slaves !
While dealing with the "sin of omission," we have
to complain of a second instance, in which Englishmen
are more immediately concerned. In somewhere
making reference to England, Lowell bore ample
testimony to our virtues and historical associations.
He said of England, in the passage referred to, —
I honour thee
For all the lessons thou hast taught the world,
I honour thee for thy huge energy,
Thy tough endurance and thy fearless heart.
# * * # #
And how could man who speaks with English words,
Think lightly of the blessed womb that bare
Shakspere arid Milton, and full many more
Whose names are now sweet lullabies ?
But having given us credit for so much, he next
probed deep, and exhibited the sores and ulcers of
our body politic, surrounded by which we " live, and
move, and have our being ; " and in eloquent language
pointed out the danger to the general common-weal
of permitting these evils to extend and recreate
themselves. This passage, indeed, furnished a truer
picture of British society — light and shade, sunshine
and gloom being truthfully proportioned — than was
ever penned by a foreigner. The man who wrote
that poem must have deeply studied our national
characteristics, and been a long, patient, and impar-
tial observer of our manners and institutions. We
I consequently hope that we shall see the parts omitted
' from this edition restored again when another im-
pression of Lowell's works issues from the printer's
: hands.*
We shall not offer any lengthened or critical opinion
as to the generic style of Lowell's poetry ; nor shall
we attempt to draw a parallel between him and other
living authors. Genius is not a thing of comparison,
but a positive and definite quality of the mind and
soul. All "true, whole. men," have their individu-
alities of character. Lowell has his own distinbtive
features, which are broadly and legibly impressed
upon the offspring of his muse. His poetry speaks
for itself and him.
DOCTOR KNOWALL.
FROM THE GERMAN.
THERE was once a poor peasant, named Crabs, who
had a waggon and a pair of oxen, and dragged a load
of wood to the town, and sold it for two dollars to a
doctor. As he took the money, he saw the doctor
sitting at dinner, eating and drinking of the best, and
his heart warmed thereat, and he would gladly have
been a doctor also. Thus he stood for a little while,
and at last he asked whether he, too, could not become
a doctor ? "Oh yes," replied the doctor, " that is
easily done."
" What must I do ? " asked the peasant.
" First buy yourself an. ABC book ; one with a
barn-door cock in it. Turn your waggon and oxen into
money, and provide yourself with apparel, and what
* Since the above was written we have seen the last
American edition of Lowell's Poems, which do not contain
the passages referred to ; their omission is consequently the
author's own act and deed, and must not be attributed to his
English editor.
else belongs to doctoring ; and third, have a sign
painted with the words, I AM DOCTOR KNOWALL, and
hang it over your door."
The peasant did all as he had been advised ; and
after he had doctored a little, but not yet much, a
sum of money was stolen from a great lord. Then
the lord was told of Doctor Knowall, who lived in
such and such a village, and who would be sure to
know what had become of the money. The lord
ordered his coach, and drove to the village, and asked
the peasant "if he were Doctor Knowall ? "
" Yes, I am he."
" Then you must go with me, and recover the stolen
money."
"Oh, yes," answered the peasant; "but Madge,
my wife, must go with me, too."
The lord was content, let them both get into the
coach, and they rode away together. When they
came to the noble mansion the table was laid, for the
peasant was to dine with the lord.
" Yes ; but Madge, my wife, must dine, too," he
answered, and sat down with her in their places.
Then the first servant came in with a savoury dish,
and as he entered the peasant nudged his wife, and
said, " Madge, that is the first," meaning the one who
brought the first dish ; but the servant thought he
meant to say, " That is the first thtef," and because
it was true he became terrified, and said to his com-
rades outside, " The doctor knows everything, it will
go ill with us ; he said I was the first." The second
would not go in at all, but he was obliged ; and when
he entered with his dish the peasant nudged his wife
again, and said, "Madge, that is the second." This
servant also was frightened, and he made haste to go
out. It went no better with the third, for the. pea-
sant said again, " Madge, that is the third."
The fourth servant had to bring in a covered dish,
and the lord asked the doctor to show his skill, and
guess what was under the cover, — it was a dish
of crabs. The peasant looked at the dish, did not
know what to do, and exclaimed, " Ah, me ! poor
Crabs ! " When the lord heard that, he cried, "There,
he knows ; now he will know who has the money."
The servant, however, became more and more ter-
rified, and he winked to the doctor to come out.
When he came from the room, all four confessed to
him that they had stolen the money, and were ready
to give it up, and a good sum besides if he would not
betray them, otherwise their necks would be^n danger.
They led him to the place where the money lay hid ;
the doctor was glad at the sight ; he went in again,
tookTiis seat once more at the table, and said, " Now,
my lord, I will seek in my book for where the money
is."
Meantime the fifth servant had crept into the oven,
to hear whether the doctor knew anything r^ore ; the
peasant, however, sat turning the leaves of his
ABC book over, looking for the barn-door cock ;
and, because he could not find it easily, he said, " You
are in there, though, and must come out." Then he
who was in the oven thought it was of him the doctor
spoke, and sprang out in terror, crying, " The man
knows everything."
Hereupon Doctor Knowall showed the lord where
the money lay, but did not say who had stolen it ; he
got a good lump of money as a reward from both par-
ties, and became thereafter a famous man.
All weighty things are done in solitude, that is
without society. The means of improvement consist
not in projects, or in any violent designs, for these
cool, and cool very soon ; but in patient practising
for whole long days, by which I make the thing clear
to my highest reason. — J. P. Richtw.
41 G
ELIZA COOK'S JOURNAL.
[The " Bridge of Sighs," inserted in No. 15-2, has called forth
many applications for the following Poem, which we take
from the same edition of Hood's writings.]
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.
BY THOMAS HOOD.
WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch— stitch— stitch !
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the " Song of the Shirt ! "
" Work — work — work !
While the cock is crowing aloof;
And work — work — work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's O ! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work !
" Work — work — work
Till the brain Begins to swim ;
Work — work — work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim !
Seam, and gusset, and band, —
Band, an* gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream !
" O ! men with Sisters dear !
O ! men with Mothers and Wives !
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives !
Stitch— stitch — stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
" But why do I talk of Death ?
That phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own —
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep,
Oh ! God ! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap !
" Work — work — work !
My labour never flags ;
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags.
That shattered roof, — and this naked floor, —
A table, — a broken chair, —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there
" Work — work — work !
From weary chime to chime,
W ork — work — work —
As prisoners work for crime !
Band, and gusset, and seam, *
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand.
" Work — work — work,
In the dull December light,
And work — work — work,
When the weather is warm and bright-
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the Spring.
" Oh ! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and pi'imrose sweet —
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal !
" Oh but for one short hour !
A respite however brief !
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief !
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread ! "
With fingers v/eary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch— stitch— stitch !
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, -
Would that its tone could reach the rich
She sang this "Song of the Shirt ! "
FINE WRITERS AND FINE TALKERS.
Fine writers are sometimes, not always, fine talk-
ers ; a man may be incomparable as a talker, yet
insignificant as a writer. The distinction we take to
be this : — In the fine writer we have Intellect disen-
gaged from the Emotions, and dealing freely with its
subject with such mastery as is given to it ; in the
fine talker the Intellect moves in alliance with the
Emotions, and deals with its subject, not according
to the demands of the subject, but according
to the impulses of the feelings, so that instead of
mastering the subject the talker is mastered by his
emotions ; — he gives utterance to what he feels ; if he
feels strongly he communicates that to us. We have
little time to scan and scrutinize his reasons ; we are
captivated by an image, startled by an epigram, puz-
zled by a paradox, borne down by eye, gesture, voice ;
we quit him dazzled, delighted with a sense of his
power ; we speak of his brilliant talk, and if we try
to remember anything he said, it seems so poor and
insignificant, that we should as soon think of quoting
it as of presenting the rocket-stick to one who had
never seen the climbing splendour of the rocket in
the night air. — The Leader.
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