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marked upon them. Seated around their massive mo

where food gives it sufficient excitement, and digestion woman, who is dying, discovers, on her deathbed, that ther, they might not unaptly be compared to the slices

sufficient employment. This,” concludes our authoress, she is no other than the once gay and beautiful Clara of lemon that garnish a fillei of veal, and they appeared with an equivoque, which may perhaps a little startle Mountwarren, who having been cruelly treated by her to have quite pungency enough to relieve all her in

some good readers, “is rather a material view of a very husband, the coxcomb before mentioned, upon his disimmaterial matter."

covery of her want of fortune, had at last been forced to The insatiable god of law now demands a sacrifice,

The story now returns to Mountwarren. He upon leave him, and ever since had wandered in poverty and and poor Connor is offered up a victim; in other words, arriving in London, had received a summons to basten wretchedness, till, rendered desperate, she had sought he is committed to the Fleet pris a for his inability to to Boulogne, where his sister Blanche was represented to put an end at once to her own existence and her meet a bill for fifty pounds.

as dying. He arrived a day too late-she was dead. child's. Cleone, after the death of this unfortunate vicAnother situatiou presents itself to Cleone, which she

To add to his affliction, he finds his mother on the verge tim of inbumanity, conceiving a strong obligation, de. ultimately accepts. Miss Fitzeloin, an old maid, of un

of insanity; that verge is soon passed, and Mrs. Mount- termined upon adopting the little girl, and bringing her polished but friendly manners, has a niece of delicate

warren's remains, before many days, followed her up together with her own children. This resolution is health for whom she has sought the advantages of a daughter's to the grave. Nor do Sydney's misfortunes obstinately opposed by her uncharitable husband, and compavion. Cleone is approved of, and enters upon terminate here ; on the night of his mother's death, his thence ensues a breach which hastens the conclusion. her engagement; the circumstance of her fath :r's situa

sister Clara elopes with a coxcomb named the Honour- For Mr. Fitzcloin, without alleging any motive, sudtion being concealed from the knowledge of the family. able Alfred Sutherton, who, deceived by report, fancies denly breaks up his establishment in the Isle of Man, The accident of a serious illness suffered by her charge, he bas won a rich heiress, whilst he is only marrying a and transports the whole family to London, where they Emily Fitzcloin, from which she is recovered principally gentle confiding girl, who brings bim nothing but that find themselves lodged in a mean-looking house in an through the assiduous care of Cleone, serves to form the

which he is incapable of appreciating-a warm and af- obscure part of the town. Upon inquiry, she is informed commencement of a lasting friendship between them.

fectionate heart. The baseness of the Honourable that this change has been adopted in consequence of In the mean time Fate is busily preparing a total Alfred, who is said to have only “ knelt a slave in order her refusal to part with her adopted child Blanche; and revolution in the current of events. Miss Fitzcloin has

to rise a tyrant,” is throughout, well pourtrayed, for the only alternative now offered is to relinquish that a brother, whose character is best learnt from circum

Mrs. Grimstone, it appears, never fails where the worth- child or her own, for either the one or the other are to stances that remain to be told, of gentlemanly and ra- lessness of the male creation is to be set forth. The de- be taken from her. After this exhibition of the tyranny ther handsome exterior, who, smitten with the charms fect of education which the case of Clara is designed to of man, Cleone is sitting in her solitary parlour lost in of Cleone, declares his love to her and offers her mar. display, is also very admirably treated, and affords an grief and despair, when a piece of news is communiriage. Cleone may be supposed not to bave forgotten interesting and instructive episode. Dr. Leux, the cated to her which, however terrible in itself, can the high-minded Mountwarren, but the persuasion that Scotch physician, with his sarcasms appears to be a scarcely be supposed to convey any permanent affliction he has long since ceased to think of her prevents that very impertinent person ; he remains but a short time to her mind, but rather to relieve it from the whole load absolute feeling of repugnance to the advances of a

upon the stage, but we see him leave it without the of its misery. Her husband, that but a moment before new suitor which she might otherwise have experienced. least emotions of regret. Rosina Arfleur is found at had stood before her in the character of an unfeeling The power which the accession of fortune would imme- this period at Boulogne, and her encounter there with despot, lies in the house a corpse. He had tumbled diately give her of rescuing her father from the horrors Mountwarren seems to be contrived on purpose to sup

from to the top to the bottom of the staircase. Shortly of a jail, finally determines her course. It turns out ply the means of dialogue, unbappily brought to an end

after the death of Fitzcloin his will is discovered, which that Fitzcloin is the holder of the very bill on account by the several exits, from death or other causes, of may rather be called his ill-will, for it is found to conof which Connor lies in prison. He ascertains this, the other interlocutors.

tain this proviso :-that upon Cleone's separating hors and seizing it as a happy auxiliary to his wishes, obtains Cleone has now a child of two years of age to self from her childrən, the property should descend to her father's immediate liberation. Thus circumstances enliven the solitude of her life. But as new teeth dis- them ; but if she refused to do so, then it was to pass conspire to his object, and he is made happy by the place the old, so is the new-born generation destined to away to the children of his two brothers, Carter and hand of the fair Cleone.

supplant their sires. Cleone seemed scarcely to have Clarke, herself being only allowed an annuity of sixty

become familiarised to the blessing of a mother's pos- pounds a year. “ Needles and pins, needles and pins !

session than she lost that which was not less dear to Cleone's indignant protest againt this will, and her When a man's married his sorrow begins !"

her. Her father dies, and the communication is made determination to bring the matter before the Court of So goes on an old song ; but the whole of the sequel of to her by her husband in a manner and under circum- Chancery, find a supporter in the person of the maiden this story goes to prove a very different case; that is, stances in wbich no little aggravate the odiousness of his sister of the deceased, Miss Fitzcloin, who, with her that the sorrow is at least as liable to fall to the wo- character. At the same moment she receives this neice Emily, bere make their re-appearance. The day man's share as the man's, and the “needles and pins” news, an accident happens, involving consequences both arrives for bringing the case into Court, and Cleone quite as capable of wounding her as him. And God of a painful and a pleasurable nature. Little Connor, berself attends in mourning. The counsel opposed to knows how true this is : but men hitherto have had as he is called, is reported to be missing, and after the her bas concluded his oration, and his respondent is the making of proverbs to themselves. Women begin most diligent search carried on by father, mother, and now looked for, but it is reported, that a sudden indisto make them now. Shortly after the marriage, Cleone's the whole household, he is still not to be found. In position has attacked him. The Court adjourns. It father receives some intelligence which induces him to wild distráction Cleone breaks away aud ranges amongst re-assembles ; but Cleone has not the strength to reremove to Ireland, wbither Cleone accompanies bim. the hills without knowing whither she is carried, till turn in person; she is however informed that her cause This is soon followed by another removal. Mr. Fitz- exhausted and having sunk down under her load of af- is being powerfully pleaded by her counsel, and this is cloin, having a small estate left him in the Isle of fiction, she hears a voice gently exclaiming, “But I presently succeeded by the electrifying intelligence that Man resolves to occupy it himself with a view to in- want you to tell me your name”-The reply · Mamma's decision is pronounced, and pronounced in her favour. creasing the value of it by certain improvements in Connor," proceeds from her child. In a moment she is – It may be remarked, that this is the shortest Chanagriculture etc. ; a sort of work which seems to be set on the spot, seizes her boy in her arms, and discovers cery suit that ever was recorded, and may be considered apart by the common consent of our writers of fiction, its saviour to be-Mountwarren. He was on a shooting one of the most powerful creations of Mrs. Grimstone's as the peculiar province and only fitting employment of excursion and had fallen in with the litue wanderer. imagination." Here,” cries Miss Fitzcloin, “comes men of slender wits. In spite of all entreaties, hither All the communication respecting one another which the saviour of your cause.' Cleone turns her eyes and Mr. Fitzcloin conducts his bride; the parting scene is they require to exchange, in order to be upon a footing they meet-Mountwarren !-Hearing from Eugland of rendered notable by a squabble between the bride- with the reader, is rapidly made, and Mountwarren the death of Fitzcloin, he bad forth with recrossed the groom and his sister, in which the stupidity of the returns with Cleone to the house. In the period which seas; no sooner had he reached the country than be former and the vulgarity of the latter contend for a transpired before the return of Mr. Fitzcloin, much learnt of the pending case; Cleone's counsel was one pre-eminence of disgust. Arrived in the “ lonely Isle,” interesting conversation takes place between the two, of his acquaintance; he seized the opportunity, which poor Cleone begins to be sensible that she does not which sufficiently indicates that Mountwarren's love for the other did not withhold, and, before the Court love her husband, and be begins to feel that he has a her, who is now the wife of another, is nowise abated. pleaded the cause of his dear Cleone with all the elowife whose highly-cultivated mind is bringing out bis To what length it might go, if unrepressed, we are left quence that love brought to his command. Having native dulness into an unenviable conspicuousness.. to conjecture, but Cleone's propriety never forsook her. gained the suit at law, it may hardly be necessary to He has one of those cold, stagnant, muddy tempera- The meetings between Mir. Fitzeloin are marked by add that he gained that of love soon after, and the te ments, into which none but gross material feelings are coldness and formality. The monotony of Cleone's union of the families in one common circle of happiness able to enter. He is selfish and parsimonious, yet

life is now still further qualified by an event, not less and unclouded enjoyment, is no more than the reader contributes to the contents of poor-boxes; without a agreeable than the last, which is the unexpected arrival may have foreseen, or poetical justice demands. spark of natural benevolence, yet passes for, and, in a of her brother Leon, who, on the death of his father Such are the materials that compose the story of worldly sense is, a good brother, father, &c.; un- had set out upon a melancholy pilgrimage, at length Cleone; it is written, throughout, in an excellent style, warmed by a charitable feeling, yet a strict church- compensated by the pleasure of once more finding him- and with a laudable spirit, and only with such defects goer ; and, in short, while he disgusts all feeling minds self in his sister's presence. The arrivals multiply. as, were it not our duty to admit, it would be our by the absence of every quality that can endear and Sir Edward Arfleur and his daughter are reported ; they pleasure to conceal. As a didactic tale, it is good; as every virtue that can win esteem, he punctually per

are on a visit to a Colonel Clifford. News of still more a novel, it is deficient. It is not recommended by any forms all the literal duties of life. His notions of the importance is, that through their interest Mountwarren ingenuity of plot, nor is the plot which it has conducted past, which a woman, especially a wife, is called upon has obtained an appointment in Van Diemens Land. with much nicety. All the smaller probabilities, which to enact, are such as may be expected. Solemn, au- Leon consents to accompany him on the expedition, and make up the effect of a good novel, are little regarded. stere, formal himself, he regards every demonstration of all preparations are made. But before tbeir departuie Nor is there, with little exception, any nice discriminacheerfulness in his wife as an exhibition of folly and in- another event, which has been secretly winning its way lion of character preserved. Picturesqueness, fancy, decorum ; her fervent and enthusiastic conversation he to maturity, takes place, which makes an agreeable addis incident, are all wanting, and, of course, interest in listens to with contempt; her unbounded affection to- tion to the number of the emigrants. The nuptials of proportion. The chief beauties are a deep sympathy wards her offspring he looks upon as a token of indif- Leon and Rosina Artieur are celebrated with great re- with human suffering, and especially with those of the ference to himself

. He looks upon marriage as an offi- joicings in s;ite of the malediction which Sir Edward female kind. The mother, tbe sister, the wife, are cial contract, and the stipulated obedience is the chief pronounces in the rage into which he is thrown by his painted with great fidelity and feeling, and all that has itein in the bond, the fulfilment of which he seeks to daughter's choice. Colonel Clifford and Miss Somerton, reference to children and to education is animated by exact by a strictness of manner and unbecoming auste- Rosina’s Aunt, fill so small a space on the canvass in the best spirit. The story is one “ of married life," rity equivalent to the powers of attorney. We cannot this portion of the picture as to require no individual and the whole is designed to illustrate the hardships to conclude this description better than in the words of notice.

which women are subjected by the present system of Mrs. Grimstone herself, for, let us

own, though we After the departure of Mountwarren with Leon and education. To effect a revolution in this system is the differ with her in some points

, we agree with her in her his bride, for Hobart Town, Cleone is again thrown into great object which Mrs. Grimstone has in view. We bearty detestation of what are called “matter-of-fact her former state of hopeless solitude, her husband's cold de not agree with all her opinions, but with many of

who, as far as regards their confined notions indifference leaving her without a gleam of that social them we think that most lovers of fair dealing must on that point, and their sacrifice of all the highest forms happiness which every home ought to yield. Her chil- heartily sympathize. Much of her work, to use a of truth to its least and most unfeeling, should rather, dren were now the only objects of her affection. They favourite modern epithet. is truly “sweet;" and we teto use the phrase of a friend of ours, be called “mat- were three in number, little Connor, now seven years of

commend all who can afford it to get it for themselves, ter-of-lie men,” in the guise of truth-tellers.

age, having a brother and sister younger than himself. and pick out the plums for themselves. "Such a character (the character of Cleone) can They were one day sporting out of doors, accompanied never be judged justly by the mere matter of fact man, by their mother, when the dog Sid, so called from Sidwhose imagination is as measured as his judgment ney:Mountwarren, comes bounding towards them, drip- Owing to the early period which an anticipated large sale, and who would take his rule and compass to the lightning, ping with water, and apparently solicits them to follow

the necessity of an exactness in the time of publication, com

pels this JOURNAL to go to press, it has been found impos. and weigh ether by avoirdupoise -- who (if we adopt him. They did so, and on the banks of a rivulet in the sible to wait for the advertisements which hare been prothe fanciful notion of Prior, that the soul enters at the neighbourhood they discover a poor woman and her

A feu, therefore, have been selected for insertion feet, and so progresses, till it finally makes its exit from child whom it appears he has just succeeded in rescuing

from other publications, thus preserving uniformity in the

first Number, and showing eractly what it is wished that tho the head) never felt bis soul get beyond his stomach, from the water. They are taken bome, and the poor

appearance of this work should be.

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No. 2.



or not.





the smallest marvellous object of God's workmanship Quiet as a stone! Nothing certainly can be more quiet Looking about us during a walk to see what subject we The gnat, in their poems, is the creature that he really than that. Not a cyllable or a sigh will stone utter, could write upon in this our second number, that should is, full of elegance and vivacity, airy, trumpeted, and though you watch and bear bim company for a whole be familiar to every body, and afford as striking a spe- plumed, and dancing in the sunbeams,-not the con- week on the most desolate moor in Cumberland. Thus cimen as we could give, of the entertainment to be found tempt of some thoughtless understanding, which sees in silent, thus unmoved, thus insensible to wbateve: cirin the commodest objects, our eyes lighted upon a stone. it nothing but an insect coming to vex its skin. The cumstances might be taking place, or spectators might It was a common pebble, a flint; such as a little boy eye of the poet, or other informed man, is at once tele- think of him, was the soul-stunned old patriarch of the kicks before him as he goes, by way of making haste scope and microscope, able to traverse the great hea- gods. We may picture to ourselves a large, or a small with a message, and saving his new shoes.

vens, and to do justice to the least thing they have stone, as we please-Stone-henge, or a pebble. The “A stone!" cries a reader, " a flint! the very sym- created.

simplicity and grandeur of truth do not care which. ool of a miser! What can be got out of that ?"

But to our brook and pebbles. See how one pleasant The silence is the thing,~its intensity, its unalterableThe question is well put; but a little reflection on the thing reminds people of another. A pebble reminded part of our interrogator would soon rescue the poor us of the brooks, and the brooks of the poets, and the

Our friend pebble is here in grand company, and you stone from the comparision. Strike him at any rate, and

poets remind us of the beauty and comprehensiveness may think him (though we hope not,) unduly bettered by you will get something out of him :-warm his heart,

of their words, whether belonging to the subject in hand it. But see what Shakspeare will do for him in his and out come the genial sparks that shall gladden your No true poet makes use of a word for nothing. hardest shape and in no finer company than a pea

sant's :bearth, and put hot dishes on your table. This is not

Cærule stream,” says Spenser; but why cærule, which miser's work. A French poet has described the process, comes from the Latin, and seems a pedantic word, espe

Can snore upon the flint, when restive sloth well known to the maid-servant, when she stoops, with cially as it signifies blue, which he might bave had in

Finds the down pillow hard. flashing face, over the tinder-box on a cold morning, English? The reason is, not only that it means sky- Sleeping on hard stone would have been words strong and rejoices to see the first laugh of the fire. A sexton, blue, and therefore shews us how blue the sky was at enough for a common poet ; or perhaps he would have in the poem we allude to, is striking a light in a

the time, and the cause why the brook was of such a said, “resting,” or “profoundly reposing ;" or that he church :

colour (for if he had wanted a word to express nothing could bave made his "bed of the bare floor;" and the -Boirude, qui voit que la peril approche,

but that circumstance, he might have said sky-blue at last saying would not have been the worst; but ShakLes arrete, et tirant un fusil de sa poche, Des veines ď un caillou, qu'il frappe au meme instant,

once, however quaint it might have sounded to modern speare must have the very strongest words and really Il fait jaillir un feu qui petille en sortant; Et bientot an brasier d'une meche enflammee,

ears :-oe would have cared nothing for that; it was his profoundest expressions, and he finds them in the homes Montre, a l'aide du soufre, une cire allummee.

business to do justice to nature, and leave modern ears, liest and most primitive. He does not mince the matter, The prudent sexton, studious to reveal

as they grew poetical, to find it out); but the word but goes to the root of both sleep and stone-can snore Dark holes, here takes from out his pouch a steel; Then strikes upon a flint. In many a spark

coerule was also a beautiful word, beautiful for the upon the flint. We see the fellow hard at it-bent upor Forth leaps the sprightly fire against the dark;

sound, and expressive of a certain liquid yet neat soft- it-deeply drinking of the forgetful draught. The tinder feels the little lightning hit, The match provokes it, and a candle's lit.

ness, somewhat resembling the mixture of soft hissing, To conclude our quotations from the poets, we wil We shall not stop to pursue this fiery point into all rumbling, and inward music of the brook.–We beg the give another line or two from Shakspeare, not inappliits consequences, to shew what a world of beauty or of reader's indulgence for thus stopping him by the way, to cable to our proposed speculations in general, and still

less so to the one in hand. formidable power is contained in that single property of dwell on the beauty of a word; but poets' words are our friend flint, what fires, what lights, what conflagra- miniature creations, as curious, after their degree, as the

Green, a minor poet, author of the “Spleen,” an tions, what myriads of clicks of triggers--awful sounds insects and the brooks themselves; and when com

effusion full of wit and good sense, gives pleasant adbefore battle, when instead of letting his fint do its panions find themselves in pleasant spots, it is natural

vice to the sick who want exercise, and who are frightproper good.natured work of cooking his supper, and to wander both in feet and talk.

ened with hypochondria : warming his wife and himself over their cottage-fire, the So much for the agreeable sounds of which the sight

Fling but a stone, the giant dies. poor fellow is made to kill and be killed by other poor of a common stone may remind us, (for we have not And this reminds us of a pleasant story connected fellows, whose brains are strewed about the place for chosen to go so far back as the poetry of Orpheus, who with the finging of stones, in one of the Italian novels. want of knowing better.

is said to have made the materials of stone-walls answer Two waggish painters persuade a simple brother of But to return to the natural, quiet condition of our to his lyre, and dance themselves into shape without theirs, that there is a plant which renders the finder of friend, and what he can do for us in a peaceful way, and troubling the mason.) We shall come to grander echoes it invisible, and they all set out to look for it. They so as to please meditation ;-what think you of him as by-and-bye. Let us see, meanwhile, how pleasant the pretend suddenly to miss him, as if he had gone away; the musician of the brooks? as the unpretending player sight itself may be rendered. Mr. Wordsworth shall and to his great joy, while throwing stones about in ha on those watery pipes and fageolets, during the hot do it for us in bis exquisite little poem on the fair absence, give him great knocks in the ribs, and horribl. noon, or the silence of the night? Without the pebble maiden who died by the river Dove. Our volume is bruises, he hugging himself all the while at these manithe brook would want its prettiest murmur.

And then, not at hand, but we remember the passage we more fest proofs of his success, and the little suspicion which in reminding you of these murmurs, be reminds you of particularly allude to. It is where he compares bis mo- they have of it. It is amusing to picture biin to one's dest, artless, and sequestered beauty with

ncy, growing happier as the blows grow worse, rubbing A noise as of a hidden brook

A violet by a mossy stone

his sore knuckles with delight, and hardly able to ejacuIn the leafy month of June,

Half hidden from the eye;
That to the sleeping woods all night

Fair as the star, when only one

late a triumphant Hah! at some excessive thump in Singeth a quiet tune.-Coleridge.

Is shining in the sky.

the back. Yes, the brook 'singeth; but it would not sing so well, - Is not that beautiful ? Can any thing express a lovelier

But setting aside the wonders of the poets and the it would not have that tone and ring in its music, with- loneliness than the violet half hidden by the mossy stone

novelists, Pebble, in his own person, and by his own -the delicate blue-eyed flower against the country family alliances, includes wonders far beyond the Then 'gan the shepherd gather into one His straggling goats, and drove them to a ford, green? And then the loving imagination of this fine

most wonderful things they have imagined. Wrongly is Whose cærule stream, rumbling in pebble-stone, *

poet, exalting the object of his earthly worship to ber divine Flint compared with the miser. You cannot, to be sure, Crept under moss as green as any gourd.

birth-place and future abode, suddenly raises his eyes skin bim, but you can melt him ; aye, make bim abso

Spenser's Gnat. Spenser's Gnat, observe; be wrote a whole poem upon

to the firmament, and sees ber there, the solitary star of lutely flow into a liquid ;-flow too for use and beauty; a gnat, and a most beautiful one too, founded upon anhis heaven.

and become light unto your eyes, goblets to your table, other poem on the same subject written by the great Ro.

But stone does not want even moss to render him in- and a mirror to your beloved. Bring two friends of his pan poet Virgil, not because these great poets wanted or

teresting. Here is another stone, and another solitary about bim, called Potash and Soda, and Flint runs into Were unequal to great subjects, such as all the world evening star, as beautifully introduced as the others, but melting tenderness, and is no longer Flint; he is Glass think great, but because they thought no care, and no

for a different purpose. It is in the opening words of You look through him; you drink out of him; he furJetching out of beauty and wonder, ill bestowed upon

Mr. Keats's poem of Hyperion, where he describes the nishes you beautiful and transparent shutters against the dethroned monarch of the gods, sitting in his exile :

rain and cold; you shave by him; protect pictures with ... Rumbling in pebble-stone” is a pretty enlargement of Vir. gil's “ susurrantis" (whispering). Green us any gourd is also an

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale,

him, and watches, and books; are assisted by bim in improvement as well as an addition. The expression is as fresh

Far sunken froin the healthy breath of morn,

a thousand curious philosophies ; are helped over the

Far from the fiery noon, and Eve's one star, (SPARROW AND CO. CRANE COURT.]

Sate grey-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone.

sea by him; and he makes your cathedral windows

the poets.

out the stone.

as the colour.

divine; and enables your mistress to wear your portrait broad, and at the same time, pointed hint to others, if in her bosom. they would take it.

But we must hasten to close our article, and bring his most precious riches down in a shower surpassing the rainbow. Stone is the humble relation, nay, the stock and parent of Precious Stone! Ruby, Emerald, and Sapphire are of his family!-of the family of the Flints-and Flint is more in them than anything else! That the habitations and secret bosoms of the precious metals are stone, is also true; but it is little compared with this. Precious stone, for the most part, is stone itself-is flint-with some wonderful circumstance of addition, nobody knows what; but without the flint, the preciousness would not be. Here is wealth and honour for the poor Pebble! Look at him, and think what splendours issue from his loins:

off he flies to the sea-beach or the river-side, and inter "When the frost is severe, and the snow lies thick, alia, inspects the embankments, weirs and dams, to notice if the teredo has bored into the posts, or any other injury has been done by small enemies, that can be productive of damage when the thaw and the flood come. Or he comes nearer the house, and examines the compost, in order to see that when you apply it to enrich the fields, you do not at the same time scatter insects which will eat up your young plants, and deprive you of your


Fiery Opals, sapphires, amethysts,
Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds,
Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds,
And seld-seen costly stones of so great price,
As one of them, indifferently rated,

Might serve in peril of calamity,
To ransom great kings from captivity.


"Sparkling diamonds" are not properly in our list of pebbles; for diamond, the most brilliant mystery of all, is a charcoal!

What now remains for stone, thus filling the coffers of wealth, glorifying the crowns of sultans, and adding beams to beauty itself? One thing greater than all. The oldest and stoniest of stone is granite, and granite (as far as we know,) is the chief material of the earth itself the bones of the world-the substance of our


Honoured therefore be thou, thou small pebble lying in the lane; and whenever any one looks at thee, may he think of the beautiful and noble world he lives in, and all of which it is capable.


THOUGH the re-appearance of the rooks, with their
rustic population and good old rough music, does not
belong exclusively to April, yet as people about this
time begin to walk into the country and first observe
them, we have taken advantage of Mr. Mudie's new
work to furnish our readers with the best summary we
are acquainted with, of their manners and way of life.
The niceties of language and description in it we need
not point out, from the happy idea of the " wingless
rustic," down to the conclusion: but we must not forget
to give the author our special thanks for the pains he
has taken to do justice to Rook's character, and rescue
him from the notion of bis being a mere disorderly neigh-

bour and a thief.

The Saxon word rook and the Latin word raucus (hoarse) appear to come from the same root; though it is curious that neither Latins nor Italians have a name for the rook, distinct from that of crow and raven, as the English have. The same sense, however, of the hoarseness of the bird's voice seems to have furnished the

names of almost all the Corsican family, crow, rook, raven, daw, corvus and cornix (Latin) korua (Greek). We notice this point, because when the rook is mentioned, nobody can help thinking of his voice. It is as much identified with him, as bark with the old trees. The only thing we miss in the description of Mr. Mudie is the kindly chuckle of the young crows, which appears to us particularly pleasant, good humoured, and infant-like, and is as different from the rough note of the elders, as peel is from bark, or a baby's voice is from that of a


Let the reader picture to his mind's eye a hamlet, an old country-house, a rookery, some arable land, and himself walking and looking up to the growing and cawing tree-tops, with their dark blots made by the nests, and he is in his best condition to relish our author's company :

"Every body knows the rook; the dark, the noisy, and sometimes the nest-plundering, or, in the early fields, the contribution-levying rook; but still, notwithstanding the cheerful, the orderly, the industrious, the discreet, the beneficent rook. There in the aged and stately trees, he builds his wicker castle, chants his rude and monotonous cry the while, dwells among his brethren and his kindred, and looks down on the lord of the manor with as much self-possession as if it were he who suffered the wingless rustic to toil with heavy steps through the sticks that fall from the nest of his superior. "Nor does he loiter away his time in the manorial bower. He looks after the estate, and gives a very

When the thaw comes, he hurries to the meadows, and examines the debris which has been cast there by the swollen stream; and if he finds in it the germ of any noxious thing, he pulls it out, so that the blessing of the hill may come upon the valley, pure, wholesome, and without offensive addition. Next he goes to the Autumn-sown wheat, and, by a curious instinct, knowing those plants that are sickly, he delves down, and extracts the larva of the cockchaffer, or whatever earth caterpillar it may be, which is only waiting for a few gleams of a warmer sun, in order to render your labour abortive, and compel you to plough and sow that field


"Again, he is over the pasture, and every stool of grass and plant of clover undergoes a like patient and well directed scrutiny; and, by the time that 'the day is done,' he returns to his perch, cawing, to inform you that the labour is accomplished and the labourer paid, in less time than you would take in considering how to do either the one or the other.

"The great additional labour of the rooks is the preparing of their nests, and the rearing of those family which are to continue the society, and watch over the state of the fields, after age or casualty shall have given their own feathers to the winds, and their flesh to the raven; and their early rising, their constant labour, and the order and police which they maintain, are all very curious. Their time of commencement is the first of March, a little earlier or a little later, according to the season; and, as the building of the nest, and the instinct by means of which that nest is to be stocked, come to maturity together; so, if the lapwing storm, which, raging on the shores and in the low country, helps to drive these beautiful birds to the moors, be long and protracted, the nest-building is suspended till it blows over, and the rook contents himself in the interim with watching the safety of those sticks that are already placed.

"But if the season goes cheerily on, and there is no interruption, the cawing and the bustle begin at the greyest dawn; and that man is most industrious that can get to his work before the rook. Ask the beasts, and they shall tell; the birds, and they shall instruct.' It is good at that season, to be near a rookery. There is no lullaby in their cawing: you cannot sleep; and they will not allow you to be dozing and losing thought in bed. Rise you must, or suffer for it. But they do not annoy you at night. Early to bed and early to rise,' is the rooks' maxim, and if you follow them as far as that, the rest will follow of necessary consequence. The "But their admonition does not stop there. farmer's busy time is their busy time; they feel that he is as necessary to their present profit as they are to his future; or they act as if they so felt, which, in effect, comes to the same thing. If he will not bring out his teams, turn the soil, and expose the worms and the grubs; they caw over his fields, and make the same sort of lamentation that a hungry man does when he knows that there is meat in the house, but the careless servant has lost the key of the larder.

"But if the teams are all a-field betimes, slicing the sward or the stubble, and turning up the fresh and fragrant earth to be mellowed by the action of the sun, there is not a complaining note among all the fieldward rooks. Gallantly they strut, and incessantly they pick up the larvæ and the worms, so that the returning plough cannot bury and so preserve in the soil a single destructive thing. And you would think that the memory of gratitude was strong in them, and that they know upon whose territory they depend, when their own was locked up by the snow and frost. At that time, he resorted to the shores of the sea, and fed on the pastures of the gull; and now that it is his time for superabundance, the gull comes for a share, and the rook, instead of offering any resistance, mixes with the stranger on the most friendly terms. Even the pigeon comes from the cote or the wood, and the very poultry and ducks come from the farm-yard, and mingle in peace with the wild tribes, such charms has the timely labouring of the ground.

"The plentiful supply of food which, in the course of a few hours, the rook obtains at that season, enables the one half of them to be always, and the greater part of them to be sometimes, at work in the rookeries. It has been said, though after a good deal of observation I cannot verify it, that the strong sometimes help the weak in the construction of their nests; but it is certain that those which have been detected in filching sticks from the nests of others, are punished, not merely by the parties they have plundered, but by others. The attachment of the pair during the nesting time is the strongest of their attachments; but there is a feeling towards the society, and even the place; for if part of the trees are cut down, the rooks will accommodate each other upon the remaining others, often so thickly, as to contain two nests in the same fork, without any signs of hostility between either the old birds or the broods. In close

time the male does not take turn in sitting, and when the action of the eggs has begun, the female is never long absent from the nest; but the male certainly does bring food to her, and appears as willing to bestow, as she is grateful to receive. After the young are of such an age as that they can be left, both parents assist in feeding them; and as the working of the land goes on during the time, or if not, the larvæ come near the surface of the pastures, an abundance of food for the numerous broods (the average is five,) is obtained without much difficulty. The feeding continues after the birds leave the nest and branch; and when there are several broods on the same tree, each parent appears to know its young, and each of the young its parents, with as much certainty, as the ewes and lambs of a flock know each other, though the ewes are browsing and the lambs sporting indiscriminately over the pasture. The pairing attachment weakens, if it does not altogether cease, as soon as the young birds are able to shift for themselves; but the social instinct, which is the bond of union of the rookery, continues not only for life, but through as many generations as the trees continue; and if these are cut down en masse, the birds remove en masse to a new locality, generally as near the old one as they can.

"The treatment of orphan broods, and the disposal of widowed rooks, are curious points in the domestic history of a rookery; but they are points upon which, from the similarity of one rook to another, it is very difficult to get accurate information. There is little doubt, however, that when any casualty happens to the parents after the brood are of such an age as that they can complain, the others do relieve their wants. Indeed, it is very possible that all species of birds contribute at times to the support of orphan broods of their own species, otherwise,

from the casualties to which the parent birds are subject, we should meet with many more instances of young that had died in the nest. As for the widowed ones, there is no doubt that they pair again the next year, so that there is never more than one odd bird in a rookery; and it has been asserted that one of the ways in which new rookeries are formed, is the pairing of the odd birds from existing ones. During the pairing season, one may often observe a rook flying about in a hurried manner, and cawing in a sharper and more auxious key, without carrying sticks, or taking any share in the busi. ness of nidification; but whether they be the odd ones, it is not easy to say. Couriers sometimes pass and repass between the different rookeries, upon terms that are evidently amicable, but the messages which they carry are known only to the rooks themselves. There is no

doubt, however, that all birds which live in societies have some signals by which they recognise each other; for when the rooks of different rookeries feed together during the day, but go home at night, each party takes its proper course, though occasionally one or two will follow the wrong leader for a time, before they discover their mistake. Rooks have a history which is neither brief nor void of interest; and they are so numerous, and found in so many places, that any one may study it."

"April 11, 1732. At Rhoran in Austria, Joseph Hadyn, father of the modern instrumental style of music. His compositions are full of taste, learning, and vivacity, sometimes sublime, with an occasional pedantry of ultra-scholarship, and a graceful pathos. Hadyn was a good man, with faith in all good things, and a pardonable reverence for the conventionalities in which he was brought up; though they sometimes betrayed the formal part of him into a confounding of small things with greater. Thus he was not easy when he sat down to compose, unless he was full dressed, and had a ring on his finger that was presented to him by the German Emperor.


12, 1596. In the French province of Touraine, Rene Descartes, author of an exploded system of astronomy, which perhaps, however, has not left others quite so settled as they appear. He was a deep and original philosopher, but spoilt for the deductions of science by too lively a temperament. He was also an excellent and noble-minded man.

A pleasant story (which would have amused him as much as any body) is told of the way in which a facetious French clergyman ridiculed the hot disputes that took place between his disciples and those of Aristotle. This reverend wag had brought up four dogs, one of which he called Aristotle, another Descartes, giving to each a disciple, and had found means to keep up the sharpest animosity between each party. Aristotle, at the very sight of Descartes, was ready to fly at him, and tear him to pieces; and Descartes, by his snarling, shewed, that he also longed to have a brush with him. The curate frequently diverted his company with the following scene. He called Aristotle and Descartes, who immediately took their proper places, Aristotle on his right hand, and Descartes on the left, and each of the disciples close by his master; then the curate would speak to Aristotle, persuading him to come to an agreement with Descartes, but Aristotle's latrations, and fiery eyes, bespoke his implacability; then he turned towards Descartes, who manifested the like aversion to the curate's overtures; Well," says he, "then let us try what a conference may do; then ordering them to come near, and face each other, at first they only muttered and growled, as it were alternately, and seemed to auswer each other; but by degrees, their vociferations increased, and terminated in a violent fray, two against two, so that they would have destroyed one another, if the curate, by the authority which he had been careful to maintain, had not interfered. This, with the curate, was a natural image of scholastic contentions.


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"Stand up, you

April 12, 1578.

At Folkestone in Kent, William declined. But Brother Merry nudged him and said, “Now I have divided it faitly; one for me, one for you, Harvey born; the discoverer of the circulation of the

"Take something, take something : we want it, indeed.” and one for him who ate the heart.” “Oh, I ate that, blood.' Like most true physicians, he was a man equally At last the peasant brought a lamb, and insisted on St. said the soldier, quickly taking up the gold; “I did I pleasing in manners and generous in sentiment; though Peter accepting it, but he would not. Then Brotber assure you." "How can that be true,” said St. Peter, his physic did not binder bim from suffering excruciating Merry jogged his side, “ Take it, you foolish fellow, we "a lamb has no beart." " Aye, what, brother? What pangs of the gout in his old age. However, he lived til want it bad enough." Then said St. Peter at last, are you thinking of a lamb has no heart? very good! Dear ninety. Probably be was too fond of study to “Well, I'll take the lamb; but I shall not carry it, you when every beast bas, why should that one be without ?" abide properly by his own maxims, and so was punished must carry it.” • There's no great hardship in that,” “Now, that is very good," said the Saint, " take all the for too sedentary a life. He was the friend of Cowley; cried Brother Merry, "I can easily do it;" and he took gold to yourself, for I shall remain no more with you, but and so fond of Virgil, that he used to start up sometimes it on his shoulders.


go my own way alone." “As you please, brother while reading him, and exclaim, " He had a devil!" After that, they went on till they came to a wood; Heart,” answered the soldier; "a pleasant journey to

when Brother Merry found the lamb a heavy load, and you, my hearty.” But when St. Peter took another

being now very hungry, he called to St. Peter, “Hallo! road, his comrade bethought him, “Well, it is all right BROTHER MERRY;

here's a nice place for us to dress and eat the lamb." that he has marched off, for he is an odd fellow.”

“ With all my heart” said St. Peter, “but I don't under- Now had Brother Merry plenty of money, but he did OR, THE ADVENTURES OF AN OLD SOLDIER.

stand anything of cookery, so do you begin, and I will not know what to do with it, but spent it and gave it This is a story after our own heart, or at least after just walk about till it is ready; but mind you don't away, till, in the course of a little time, he found him

begin to eat till I return; I will take care to be back in self once more pennyless. Then he came into a country three parts of our heart; for we have a fourth, which

time." Go your ways,” said Brother Merry ; "I can where he heard that the king's daughter was dead," Ah," is a little more serious than Brother Merry's; but we

cook it well enough; I'll soon have it ready." So St. thought he, that may turn out well : I will bring her like him mightily, for he is a personification of ani- Peter wandered away, while Brother Merry lighted the to life again ;" then went he to the king, and offered so mal spirits and their natural goodness and good-will,fire, killed the lamb, put the pieces into the pot, and

to do. boiled them. The lamb, however, was thoroughly Now the king had heard that there was an old soldier, not over scrupulous, we grant, because he is not over

boiled, and his companion not returned; so Merry took who went about restoring the dead to life, and thought thoughtful, — but honourable, upon the whole, to the re- it up, carved it, and found the heart. · That is the best that Brother Merry must be the very man; yet because putation of natural impulses, and having as little of ill part of it,” said he, and kept tasting it till he finished it. he had no confidence in him, he first consulted his counin him as he thinks of any. Nor is any body to suppose

At length St. Peter came back, and said, “ I only want cil, and they agreed, that as the princess was certainly the heart; all the rest you may have, so you give me

dead, he might make the attempt. Then Brother that the freedoms taken with some venerable names im

that.” Then Brother Merry took knife and fork, and Merry commanded them to bring him a cauldron of ply real irreverence; for the story is here seen through turned the lamb as if he would have found the heart, but water, and when every one had left the room, be sea Catholic medium; and Catholics, from their greater

he could not. At last he said, in a careless manner, parated the limbs and threw them into the cauldron, and

“ It is not there." “No! where should it be then ?” made a fire under it exactly as he had seen St. Peter familiarity with certain images, take a sort of domestic

said the Saint. “ That I don't know," said Merry; do; and when the water boiled and the flesh fell from liberty with them, without aneaning any diminution of but now I think of it, what a couple of fools we are the bones, he took them and placed them upon the table, love and respect. Brother Merry sets out with a good to look for the heart of a lamh!-a lamb, you know, but as he did not know how to arrange them he piled deal of jovial Charity; he has Hope in full measure, and

has not got a heart.” “What!” said St. Peter, "that's them one upon another. all the Faith in the world consistent with his having no

news indeed : why every beast has a heart, and why Then he stood before them and cried, “In the name

should not the lamb have one as well as the best ?" of the Holy Hearen, thou dead arise," and he cried so notion that the stars can mean him any ill; and this is “No, certainly, comrade, a lamb bas no heart: now only three times, but still to no purpose. by no means the smallest or least honouring part of reflect, and it will occur to you that it really las not. vixen, stand up, or it shall be the worse for you." faith. We take the story from a new publication which "Well, it is quite suficient--there is no heart there, so Scarcely had he said this, ere Saint Peter came in at

I need none of the lamb ; you may eat it all." “Well, the window, just as before, in the likeness of an old we are very glad to see,–Lays und Legends of Various

wbat I can't eat, I'll put in my knapsack," said Brother soldier, and said, “You impious fellow, how can the Nations, No. 1, containing “Germany." The close of Merry. Then he ate balf, and disposed of the other as dead stand up when you have thrown the bones thus one it reminds us of a ballad we have read of a lawyer, who he had said.

upon another?being refused entrance into heaven by St. Peter, con

Now as they journeyed on, St. Peter managed that a · Ab, Brother Heart," answered Merry, “I have trived to throw his hat inside the door; and then, being that stream should flow right across their path, through done it as well as I can.

Then,” said he,“ go you

* This time will I help you out of your trouble, but permitted by the kind saint to go in and fetch it, took first.” "No," answered Brother Merry, “go you first;" this I tell you, whenever you again undertake anything advantage of the latter's fixture as door-keeper, to re

thinking, if the water were too deep, he would even like this you will repent it: moreover, for this,.you shall fuse to come back again.

stay were he was. So St. Peter waded through it, and neither ask for nor take the least thing from the king.”

the water only reached to his knees; but when brother Thereupon St. Peter placed the bones in their proper In days of yore there was a great war; and when Merry ventured, the water was much deeper, and he order, and said three times, “ In the name of the Holy the war was at an end, a great number of the soldiers was up to his neck in it. « Help me, comrade!” cried Trinity, thou dead arise," and the princess stood up, were discharged. Among the rest, Brother Merry re- he; but the Saint said, “Will you confess, then, that sound and beautiful as formerly. Then St. Peter imme. ceived his discharge, and nothing more for all he bad you ate the lamb's heart.” But he still denied it, and diately went away again out of the window, and Brother done than a very little loaf of soldier's bread and four ihe water got still deeper, and reached his mouth. Then Merry was glad that all had turned out so well; but he halfpence in money-and with that he went his way. said St. Peter again, " Will you confess then that you was sorely grieved that he might take nothing for it. But St. Peter had seated himself in the road, like a poor ate the lamb's heart?" But he still denied it; St. Peter, “I should like to know," thought he, what he had to beggar-man, and when Brother Merry came there, he bowever, would not let him be drowned, so helped him grumble about what he gives with one hand, he takes asked him for charity. Then said the soldier “ Dear out of his danger.

with the other; there is no wit in that." beggar-man, wbat shall I give you? I have been a sol- Now they journeyed on till they came to a kingdom Now the king asked him what he would have, but he dier, and have got my discharge, and with it nothing where they heard that the king's daughter lay danger- durst not take any thing; yet, be managed by hints and but a very little loaf of bread and four balf-pence, and ously ill. Holloa, brother," said the soldier, “here's cunning, that the king should fill his knapsack with when that is gone I must beg as well as yourself.” Then a catch for us; if we can only cure her, we shall be money; and with that he journeyed forth. tre divided the loaf into four parts, gave the apostle one,

made for ever.' But St. Peter was not quick enough But, when he came out, St. Peter was standing before and also one half-penny. St. Peter thanked him, and for him. “Come, Brother Heart," said he, "put your the door, and said, “See what a man you are ; have I went a little further, and seated himself like another best foot forward, that we may yet come in at the right not forbidden you to take any thing, and yet you have beggar, in the way of the soldier; and when he came time.” But the Saint went still more slowly, though your knapsack filled with gold ?” How can I help it,"? up, as formerly, asked alms of him. Brother Merry his comrade kept pushing and driving him, till at last answered the soldier, “if they would thrust it in ?" spoke as before, and gave him again another quarter of they heard that the princess was dead. • This comes " This I tell you then-mind that you do not a second the loaf, and another half-penny. St. Peter thanked of your creeping so," said the soldier. “ Now be still," time undertake such a business : if you do, it will fare him, and seated himself in the way for the third time, said St. Peter, “ for I can do more than make the sick badly with you.” “Ab, Brother, never fear: now I like another beggar, and again addressed Brother Merry. whole, since I can bring the dead to life again.'

.” “Now, if bave money, why should I trouble myself with washing Brother Merry then gave him the third quarter of the that's true," said Merry,“ you must at least earn half the bones ?" Ah!” said St. Peter, “that will not last a loaf, and the third half-penny. St. Peter thanked him, kingdom for us by the job.” Thereupon they went to the long time; but, in order that you may never tread in a and Brother Merry journeyed on; and all he bad left king's palace, where everybody was in trouble ; but St. forbidden path, I will bestow upon your knapsack this was one-fourth of the loaf and one half-penny. So be Peter told the king he would restore his daughter to him. power that whatever you wish into it, that shall be went into a tavern, and ate the bread, and spent the They then conducted him to where she lay, and he com. there. Farewell You will never me again.” half-penny in beer to drink with it. When he had manded them to let him have a canldron of water, and “Adieu," said Brother Lusty, and, thought he, “I am finished, he journeyed on; and St. Peter, in the disguise when he received it, he ordered them all to go away, glad you are gone, you wonderful fellow: I am willing of a disbanded soldier, met him again, and saluted him : and let nobody remain with him but Brother Merry. enough not to follow you." But he thought not of the "Good comrade,” said he, “ can you give me a morse! Then he divided the limbs of the dead princess, and wonderful property bestowed upon his knapsack. of bread, and a half-penny to get a drop of driuk ?" threw them into the water, lighted a fire under the Brother Merry went off with his gold, which he had "Where shall I get it?" answered Brother Merry, “I cauldron, and boiled them. And when all the flesh had very soon spent and squandered as before. got my discharge, and nothing with it but a loaf and four fallen from the bones, the Saint took the beautiful white When he had nothing but fourpence left, he came to half-pence. Three beggars met me on the road, and I bones and laid them on a table, and placed them toge- a public house, and thought the money must go; so he gave each of them a quarter of the loaf and a half-penny. ther according to their natural order. When that was called for three pennyworth of wine and one pennyworth The last part I have just eaten at the tavern, and spent done, he walked before them, and said, In the name of bread. As he ate and drank there, the flavour of the last half-penny in drink. Now I am quite empty, of all things holy, arise, thou dead one!". And at the roasting geese tickled his nose. So he peeped and and if you also have nothing more, let us go begging to third time the princess arose up, alive, well, and beauti- pried about, and saw that the landlord had placed two gether." * No, that will not be necessary just now,” ful. Now was the king greatly rejoiced thereat, and geese in the oven. Then it occurred to him that bis said St. Peter, “I understand a little of doctoring, and said to St. Peter, Require for thy reward what thou comrade had told him, whatever he wished in bis kpaptherewith will I in time obtain as much as I need.” wilt, though it should be balf my empire, I will give it sack should be there ; so he determined the geese should Ha!” said Brother Merry, "I know nothing about you.” But he answered, “I desire nothing for what I be the test of it. He went out therefore and stood be that; so I must go and beg by myself.” · Now only have done.” “ Oh! tbou Jack Fool,” thought Brother fore the door, and said, “I wish that the two geese come along,” said St. Peter, - if I can earn anything, Merry to himself, then nudged his comrade's side, and which are baking in the oven were in my knapsack," you shall go halves.' • That will suit me well enough, said, “ Don't be so silly ; if you won't have anyehing and, when he had said so, he peeped in, and there trey said Brother Merry. So they travelled together.

yet I need somewhat.” St. Peter, however, would have were, sure enough. “Ah, ah, that is all right," said Now they came to a cottage, and heard great lament- nothing; yet because the king saw the other would be, "I am a made man," and he went on a little way, ing and screaming inside, and when they went in there gladly, he commanded the keeper of his treasures to till took out the geese, and began to eat them. lay a man sick to the death, as if about to expire, and his knapsack with gold, at which Brother Merry was As he was thus enjoying himself, there came by two his wife crying and weeping bitterly; “ Leave off right well pleased.

labouring men, who looked with hungry eyes at the one whining and crying,” said 'St. Peter, "I will make the Thereupon they went their way till they came into a

goose wbich was yet untouched. man well again;" and he took a salve out of his pocket, wood, when the saint said to bis fellow traveller, Now Now when Brother Merry saw that, he said, “one and cured the man instantly, so that he could stand up,

we will share the gold.” “Yes," answered he,“ that was quite enough for him.” So he called them, gare and was quite hearty. The man and his wife in great we can do.” Then St. Peter took the gold and divided them ihe goose, and bade them drink his health. When joy demanded

“How can we pay you ? wbat shall we it into three portions. “Well,” thought Brother Merry, they had finished, they thanked him, and went therewith give you?" But St. Peter would not take anything, and

“ what whim has he got in his head now, making three to the public house, called for wine and bread, took ont the more they pressed him to do so, the more firmly be

parcels, and only two of us?” But St. Peter said, their present, and began to eat it. When the hostess


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