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could continue these antitheses till to
morrow, and many would be less ridiculous
if they spent some hours in considering them
attentively. In works of literature, what
pleases, is what touches the heart, or amuses
the mind, and occupies it without fatiguing
It therefore is not those kind of compo-
sitions in which the whimsicality of terms,
the use of obsolete expressions, the combi-
nations of the most uncouth words, the
amalgamation of the most unsuitable ideas,
occasion you all the labor of painful study;
or, in which, without suffering you to breathe,
picture after picture is presented to the
imagination, as if it were not necessary to
take time to comprehend what is before our
eyes, in order to be affected by it; in which
the fogs of the marshes, the ferns, the moon-
beams, the heaths, the meadows, the streams,
the burning sands, the birds of the desert,
the fowls of the court-yard, the mountains,
the streets, the valleys are mixed pell-mell,
in the same page, as if one could contemplate
a hundred points of view at once, and have
at the same time eyes to the right and left,
behind and before. Were they as numerous
as those in the tail of the peacock, they
would be insufficient for this; and even then
it would require as many minds as eyes!

COLD AND THIRST.

DR. SUTHERLAND, in his "Voyage of the Lady Franklin and Sophia," gives us some very interesting particulars of the cause and

effects of cold and thirst.

Captain Penny's party, it appears, had an abundant experience of the intensity of cold. At one time the temperature fell below the freezing point of Mercury. Nor is exercise any complete cure for this evil. Exercise, in what an Arctic voyager would call cold weather, produces extreme thirst and abundant exhalation from the skin, which, of course, freezes in the shape of

hoar-frost under the clothes.

With reference to this, Dr. Sutherland observes, "I believe the true cause of such intense thirst is the extreme dryness of the air when the temperature is low. In this state it extracts a large amount of moisture from the human body. The soft and extensive surface which the lungs expose, twentyfive times or oftener every minute, to nearly two hundred cubic inches of dry air, must yield a quantity of vapor which one can hardly spare with impunity. The human skin throughout its whole extent, where it is brought to the hardness of horn, as well as the softest and most delicate parts, is continually exhaling vapor; and this exhalation creates, in due proportion, a demand for water.

even

"Let a person but examine the inside of

his boots, after a walk in the open air at a low temperature, and the accumulation of condensed vapor which he finds there will convince him of the active state of the skin. I often found my stockings adhering to the soles of my Kilby's boots after a walk of a few hours. The hoar-frost and snow which they contained could not have been there by any other means except exhalation from the skin."

THE POETRY OF GRIEF.

Poetry from the soul of a mourning parent must be exquisite; though it requires the lapse of some interval ere the reality of grief can be suited for, and transmuted into poetry.

So

Dr. Johnson's objection to elegies has some elements of truth. A relation or friend will not, in the first troubled moment after the bereavement, think of pouring out his sorrows in melodious verse. far we agree with the doctor; but that that friend cannot afterwards, when the troubled soul is composed into a melancholy mood, bewail his loss in He may produce the song, is egregiously untrue. finest elegy without being exposed to the vile charge of counterfeiting grief. Who would doubt the sincerity of Milton's attachment to "Lycidas?" We should not expect a mother to plant a rose over her son's grave on the day of burial; but if some weeks afterwards she should do this, would she forfeit the character of being an affectionate mourner?

The broken heart does make melody; and under the immediate and crushing pressure of grief the harp is hung upon willows. Then, the only vision which fills the soul is the cold face—as unsuggestive of poetry as a mask. Genius is altogether inactive But when beside the unburied, beloved dead. the grief is becoming calm-when it can be studied as well as felt-when the soul is set free from the death chamber, suns itself in the past, and can go backwards gleaning fondly the memorials of the precious life which has been withdrawn, and forming an image to be cherished as the substitute of the lost one,-when thus the process of imagination is being begun upon the anguish, then flows freely the exquisite poetry of grief.

THE OLD THORN.

BY CHARLES SWAIN.

Thou art grey, old thorn, and leafless-
Leafless, though the Spring be near;
But "my love "hath sat beside thee,

And each branch of thine is dear!

Thou art small, green cot, and humble;
Little in thy looks to cheer;
But my true love dwells within thee,
And each stone of thine is dear.

Love makes all things sweet and holy,
All things bright, however drear;
All things high, however lowly;

WHAT WERE LIFE WERE LOVE NOT
THERE?

A CHILD'S HEART.

That heart, methinks.

We make these few remarks for the purpose of introducing a somewhat similar case

Were of strange mould, which kept no cherish'd print recorded in " Villette," an unusually interest

Of earlier, happier times, when life was fresh, And Love and INNOCENCE made holiday.

H

HILLHOUSE.

ALF THE ENJOYMENTS OF LIFE, -aye, at least one half of them, consist in a retrospect of those by-gone happy hours when INNOCENCE held possession of our gradually expanding ideas, and we impulsively obeyed the dictates and promptings of honest old NATURE. Alas! how soon is an air-tight stopper put upon us, ere yet we are well out of our nurse's arms! No sooner do we begin to ask questions, than we are silenced by a freezing "H-u-s-h!"

In spite of this, we are determined to turn over to-day one of the first pages of our Book of Life, and to let our thoughts find vent in print. There is a charm about little children which delights us; and the absence they evince of all guile causes us often to make them our companions, whilst we turn in disgust from the world at large. Little goodfellowship is to be experienced there!

There is nothing in Nature more susceptible than the heart of a child, be it in boy or girl. Few of us care to inquire deeply into its joys and sorrows, though occasionally they will force themselves upon us; yet do we all marvel now and then at what we both hear and see. If we would think more, we should know more. We have been highly delighted of late, whilst perusing in its progress the trans lation of the works of Dr. GALL, now appearing in our pages. We have pondered much on his observations of the human heart in its early stages of life-showing how much more "forward," from circumstances, some children's animal passions are than others-partaking, to a certain extent, of the emotions generally known by adults only. In our youth, WE were ourself a most singular example of this curious fact, as we shall presently explain. Our heart was no stranger to hope, fear, and love, ere we had reached the age of seven years. The thoughts that then passed through our mind, and the scenes of excitement to which, from circumstances, we were at that time subjected, have often recurred to us since; and do often recur to us now. We fell in love with the sweet face and person of a most lovely girl in her seventeenth year, before we had numbered seven su:nmers. We loved that face, that figure, far better than our own life. Yes, we lived upon her smile. We grew upon the words that fell from her cherry lips. We were thinking of her, morning, noon, and night.

VOL. III-14.

ing novel, by Currer Bell. Here, however, a little girl was the heroine, and her age did not exceed six years. With her, as with us, "contact had worked the spell; albeit the object of her affection-a handsome schoolboy, named Graham, was of a cooler temperament than herself. He liked Paulina, but did not love her; whereas she doated on him with all the fondness of a grown-up woman.

We cannot but believe that this little episode has its origin in fact. It reads like gospel truth. Let us then listen to Miss Lucy Snowe, the teacher in the family, whilst she tells us all about Paulina and Mrs. Bretton's handsome son Graham :

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In the course of tea-time, I made the desired communication.

'Polly going? What a pity! Dear little Mousie, I shall be sorry to lose her. She must come to us again, mamma.'

'Little Mousie

And, hastily swallowing his tea, he took a candle and a small table to himself, and his books, and was soon buried in study. crept to his side, and lay down on the carpet at his feet, her face to the floor. Mute and motionless, she kept that post and position till bed-time. Once I saw Graham-wholly unconscious of her receded an inch or two. A minute after, one little proximity-push her with his restless foot. She hand stole out from beneath her face, to which it had been pressed, and softly caressed the heedless foot. When summoned by her nurse, she rose and departed very obediently, having bade us all a subdued good-night.

I will not say that I dreaded going to bed an hour later; yet I certainly went with an unquiet anticipation that I should find that child in no peaceful sleep. The forewarning of my instinct was but fulfilled, when I discovered her, all cold outside of the bed. I scarcely knew how to accost and vigilant, perched like a white bird on the her. She was not to be managed like another child. She, however, accosted me. As I closed the door, and put the light on the dressing-table she turned to me with these words: 'I cannotcannot sleep; and in this way I cannot-cannot live!'

I asked her what ailed her.

'Dedful miz-er-y!' said she, with her piteous lisp.

Shall I call Mrs. Bretton?'

'That is downright silly,' was her impatient reply, and indeed, I well knew that if she had heard Mrs. Bretton's foot approach, she would have nestled quiet as a mouse under the bed

clothes.

P

'Would you like to bid Graham good night?' I asked. He is not gone to his room yet.'

She at once stretched out her little arms to be lifted. Folding a shawl round her, I carried her back to the drawing-room. Graham was just coming out.

'She cannot sleep without seeing and speaking to you once more,' I said. She does not like the thought of leaving you.'

'I've spoilt her,' said he, taking her from me in good-humor, and kissing her little hot face and burning lips. 'Polly, you care for me more than for papa, now-'

I do care for you, but you care nothing for me,' was her whisper.

She was assured of the contrary, again kissed, restored to me, and I carried her away; but, alas! not soothed. When I thought she could listen to me, I said

"Paulina, you should not grieve that Graham does not care for you so much as you care for him.

It must be so.'

Her lifted and questioning eyes asked "why?" Because he is a boy, and you a girl; he is sixteen, and you are only six: his nature is strong and gay, and yours is otherwise.'

'But I love him so much; he should love me a little.'

'He does. He is fond of you. You are his favorite.'

'Am I Graham's favorite?'

'Yes, more than any little child I know.' The assurance soothed her; she smiled in her anguish. I put her to bed. The candle being extinguished, a still half-hour elapsed. I thought her asleep, when the little white shape once more lifted itself in the crib, and the small voice asked 'Do like Graham, Miss Snowe?' you 'Like him! Yes, a little.'

Only a little! Do you like him as I do?' 'I think not. No; not as you do.' 'Do you not like him much?'

I told you I liked him a little. Where is the use of caring for him so very much he is full of

faults.'

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'Are you a wise person?'

'I mean to be so. Go to sleep.'

I cannot go to sleep. Have you no pain just here' (laying her elfish hand on her elfish breast) 'when think you shall have to leave Graham; for your home is not here?'

you

"Child, lie down and sleep,' I urged. My bed is cold, said she. 'I can't warm it.' (I saw the little thing shiver.)

'Come to me,' I said, wishing, yet scarcely hoping, that she would comply: for she was a most strange, capricious little creature, and especially whimsical with me. She came, however, instantly, like a small ghost gliding over the carpet. I took her in. She was chill; I warmed her in my arms. She trembled nervously; I soothed her. Thus tranquillised and cherished, she at last slumbered.

'A very unique child!' thought I, as I viewed her sleeping countenance by the fitful moonlight. Thus ends this affecting little narrative; and it reminds us that we have got to bring our own to a conclusion.

The scene of our early love was laid in Brighton. The young lady was on a visit to the sea-coast with her papa and other branches of her family, and they all joined us in our walks-for be it known the young ladies had gone to school with certain friends of ours, and an intimacy naturally

followed.

Two families had sought the sea-side; and "visiting was a matter of course. Roving on the sands of Worthing is pleasant-very; and taking little walks and strolls in the bracing air is delightful-very. The ringing laugh of Caroline S- still haunts us, like a pleasing vision. We fell before it, ere we had taken more than two of these walks. We fell sick too--and pined!

One day, in a state of fever, we were heard to utter, imploringly and affectionately, "Dear-est Caroline S-!" This led the Within four days doctor to smell a rat. subsequently, Carry's papa himself placed us in his daughter's arms. How long we nestled there we know not, but we remember being supremely happy. Immediate change of air and scene was of course considered necessary for Us. The vision vanished but too soon, and the poetry of early life merged at once into the commonplace prose of conventional usages and proprieties.

We had entered upon our "first love!" This reminds us that, from our earliest infancy, we imbibed, without being taught, the affectionate habit of caressing everything we loved. We have kept true to our principles ever since. What, therefore, with "the many would very properly be deemed insolent and unbecoming, is recognised in US as proceeding from a principle of nature inculcated in early life.

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It would not do for us to renounce our principles now. Nor have we the slightest inclination to do so. "Cum privilegio" is our harmless "letter of introduction," which never yet failed to procure us a hearty welcome wherever we wished to enter. Nor have we ever been banished for "committing a breach of privilege."

Folks smile at us; they laughing say,
"When will you be a man?
The parting year leaves you the boy
You were when it began."

Then we, in love with the disgrace,
Their smiles and jests enjoy;
Thankful that as we grow in years,
In heart we're still a boy!

So much for the recesses of a child's heart!

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The accumulated expectations pent up since his boyhood become oppressive by delay, and the visitor grows warm and fidgety in his anxiety to be admitted to the holier places of the church. This intensely vivified excitement never becomes dangerous however, as, by a charitably considerate arrangement of the English Government, it is always allowed ample time to cool. numerous gentlemen in black, whom the Government compels the old church to pay for so shabbily doing its honors, being of sedentary habits and a literary turn of mind, are unwilling to be interrupted to convey a single visitor through the interior chapels. It requires a party of seven curious individuals, each one provided with a talisman in the shape of a sixpence, to interrupt the comfortable repose of a pompous official. And as most people have ceased to consider a show, composed of mouldy monuments and tattered flags, a very lively one, even when it happens to be a great bargain, a stranger will usually incur the risk of remaining some time in the ante

chamber.

During the painful period of his probation, he is subjected to the impositions of another class of hucksters. Watching with the liveliest interest the various stages of his impatience, they rapidly advance upon him from every nook and corner the instant they perceive him arrived at the extreme point of desperation. With unblushing assurance, they poke at the bewildered gentle man descriptions of the Abbey, plans of the building, pictures of the monuments, and armfuls of other plausible stuff, which they feel very confident he has not the courage in his exhausted condition to refuse. Of course he buys everything without much examining the contents; for in his melancholy frame of mind, the advertisements of the Times a week old would prove a refreshing literary treat.

At length, however, the mystical number of seven is made up. The stately keeper slowly rises, unlocks the door, passes us in one by one-that being the most convenient mode of collecting the sixpences; enters himself, and then turns the key. An extraordinary metamorphosis instantly occurs. Our guide assumes an alacrity quite startling, when contrasted with his former torpidity. The man appears to be worked by steam. In his mumbled routine of names, dates, and non

sense, the only distinguishable feature is its haste. He rushes us through chapels, over monuments, and along aisles, without ever pausing for breath, till he has put us out at a gate on the other side, with the satisfied sigh of a man who has just accomplished a very irksome task.

This is a visit to Westminster! This it is to hold communion with the illustrious dead! This is

the intellectual enjoyment which the English Government have considered too delicious to offer to the public gratis!

We heartily wish that some more of our neighbors would come forward, and expose the various extortions practised in England on the sight-seeing public. We are really amazed when we think how quietly John Bull bows down to his endless burdens!

HUMAN MISERY

IN

THE STREETS OF LONDON.

WHAT PASSES IN the course of twentyfour hours within the precincts of London, would, if known and reflected on, cause millions to marvel, thousands to sigh, and hundreds to weep.

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Much human sorrow is there amongst us, carefully veiled from sight by timidity and a sense of shame. The deserving mix among the undeserving, the latter getting fat on their apparent misfortunes; whilst the former die from sheer starvation, being unable to sham sorrow, or ask for aid from the passer-by. How many a wan and eloquentlyspeaking countenance meets our eye daily; telling us more than we dare to inquire into, knowing our inability to play the part of a Good Samaritan. With a bleeding heart we often deplore the little discernment there is amongst those who are well off, and the apathy with which they turn aside from the stricken heart, fast falling into the grave for the want of only the common necessaries of life. On this subject, our pen would run riot; but we know how impossible it is to work on hearts of iron and brass, and therefore study brevity.

The subjoined paper is slightly abridged from an article in " Bentley's Miscellany." We let the humane writer speak in our stead; cordially echoing his sentiments, and hoping that his labor may not be altogether in vain :

A poor man falls down in a fit, or the weakness of hunger overpowers him; he sinks against the wall of some splendid mansion; his features are compressed, his brow clammy cold, his lips livid; you saw him sink, not fall upon the ground with a squash, as the professional gentlemen, with artificial blood in their noses, do the trick; it is a clear case of famine, and no mistake. Now is your time to see what human nature is made of. The master of the house, or the lady, comes to the

window, and instantly retreats; a powdered footman appears at the door, and looks up and down the street for a policeman to remove the nuisance. Several well-dressed passengers look at the poor man, and pass on the other side; ladies, as they go by him, fumble a little in their pockets-as if they meant to give something; but think better of it. An elderly gentleman, with drab gaiters and silk umbrella, pretends to feel the patient's pulse, shakes his head solemnly, and walks off, satisfied that he has detected an impostor. A housemaid of the mansion, touched with tender pity, hands up through the area rails a glass of water.

Now troop by the poor lost creature a group of working men, in fustian jackets, going to their dinners, whistling and gossiping as they go. They halt and surround the unfortunate man; they lift him, and put him in a more easy posture. One runs to the public-house, bringing some ale, warm, with ginger; they speak kindly to him, bidding him keep up his heart; they ask him-question to bring tears into dry eyes-where is his home? He looks up piteously, and whispers he has no home. He has not where to lay his head!

"Now then," says one of the fustian jackets, taking off his hat, and shoving it into the encircling mob, "the poor devil's hard up, hasn't got no home, nor no victuals; drop a few browns to pay for a cab, you'll never miss it."

The appeal is heard, curiosity is shamed into benevolence; the Samaritans in fustian call a cab, and the homeless man is driven to try the hospitality of Mary-le-bone workhouse.

I think I hear a respectable gentleman, in an easy chair, with an easy income, and easy shoes, excl im :

"Mister Author, this is very fine, but I have no doubt, for my own part, the fellow was a humbug the scoundrel was acting."

"Was he though! All I can tell you is, my good fellow, if he was acting, you never missed such a chance in the course of your theatrical life; you have paid seven shillings to the dress circle many a time and oft, for a much worse per formance, and here was a little bit of tragedy, without scenery, machinery, dresses, or decorations, you might have seen for sixpence, and been six and sixpence better for it.'

I have seen these tragedies more than twice-
everybody has seen them who knows London:
Gilbert White saw them when he said:-
I shall sink,
As sinks a stranger in the busy streets
Of crowded London; some short bustle's caused,
A few inquiries, and the crowd close in,
And all's forgotten.

I do not deny that impostors are common. I know that they are clever, and are with difficulty to be discriminated from those real heart-rending cases of distress that London almost daily exhibits to our view. No punishment is great enough for these scoundrels; not that the offence is so great in itself, but because it adds and ministers to that covetousness, that hardness of heart, which furnishes us with an excuse, which we are all too ready to make, of not giving once, lest we might once be deceived.

To a man living on the shady side of life, whose poverty compels him to walk with his own feet,

hear with his own ears, and see with his own
eyes, the contrasted conditions of London Life,
afford much matter for painful contemplation.
These contrasts are striking and forcible; they
run the whole gamut of the social scale, from the
highest treble to the deepest bass. They exhibit
human life in every color, from hues of the rain-
bow to the deepest shadows and most unchequered
glooms; and all this in a day's walk-in the space
Next door to luxury and
of a few palmy acres.
profusion, you have hunger and despair—the rage
of unsatisfied hunger, and the lust of desires that
no luxury can quench.

I have scen little children, fat enough for the spit, wrapped in woolpacks of fleecy hosiery, seated in their little carriages, drawn by goats, careering over the sward of Hyde Park; and at the same moment, crawling from the hollow trunks of old trees, where they had found refuge for the night, other children, their nakedness hardly concealed by a few greasy rags flapping against the mottled limbs of the creatures, heirs of shame and sorrow, and heritors of misery and its necessary crime. I have seen a poor family, ragged and hungry—the children running after an ugly pugdog, with a velvet jacket on, who was taking the air, led by an attendant footman with goldheaded staff. I have seen an old woman of eighty, painted, periwigged, bejewelled, and brocaded, taking an airing in a gorgeous coach, three footmen hanging on behind, her ladyship's companion, a cynical-faced pug, probably the only friend she had in the world; and I have seen another old woman of eighty-any of the Wapping Old Stairs watermen will remember Mary Mudlark-up to her mid-leg in the Thames, raking and scraping the mud and water, for rags, bits of stick, gingerbeer bottles, scraps of iron, or whatever she could recover from the waters, by which she might earn a few pence to keep her from starving.

But it is painful to multiply these painful contrasts of condition, which every day's walk exhibits. One only conclusion can we draw from these spectacles-namely, how far removed is man by the "accident" of fortune from his fellow-man; how utterly abandoned, even in the centre of civilisation, outlawed from human aid, protection, sympathy, so soon as he ceases to have certain tokens of humanity in silver, gold, paper, or brass about his person.

THE GOODNESS OF PROVIDENCE.

Lo! a fond mother with her children round,
Her soft soul melting with maternal love.
This on the cheek she kisses; that she clasps
Unto her bosom; on her knee one rests,
Another sits upon her foot; and while
Their actions, lips, and speaking eyes unfold
Their various wishes, all she understands;
To these she gives a look, a word to those,
Smiling or chiding, still in tender love.

Such unto us is blissful Providence,
So o'er us watches, comforts, and provides;
Listening to all, assisting every one,
Withholding oft the favors we implore
But to create more earnest supplication-
And, while it seems a blessing to deny,
In the refusal grants us-HAPPINESS.

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