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marked upon them. Seated around their massive mother, they might not unaptly be compared to the slices of lemon that garnish a fillet of veal, and they appeared to have quite pungency enough to relieve all her insipidity."
The insatiable god of law now demands a sacrifice, and poor Connor is offered up a victim; in other words, he is committed to the Fleet prisa for his inability to meet a bill for fifty pounds.
Another situation presents itself to Cleone, which she ultimately accepts. Miss Fitzcloin, an old maid, of unpolished but friendly manners, has a niece of delicate health for whom she has sought the advantages of a companion. Cleone is approved of, and enters upon her engagement; the circumstance of her father's situation being concealed from the knowledge of the family. The accident of a serious illness suffered by her charge, Emily Fitzcloin, from which she is recovered principally through the assiduous care of Cleone, serves to form the commencement of a lasting friendship between them.
In the mean time Fate is busily preparing a total revolution in the current of events. Miss Fitzcloin has a brother, whose character is best learnt from circumstances that remain to be told, of gentlemanly and rather handsome exterior, who, smitten with the charms of Cleone, declares his love to her and offers her marriage. Cleone may be supposed not to have forgotten the high-minded Mountwarren, but the persuasion that he has long since ceased to think of her prevents that absolute feeling of repugnance to the advances of a new suitor which she might otherwise have experienced. The power which the accession of fortune would immediately give her of rescuing her father from the horrors It turns out of a jail, finally determines her course. that Fitzcloin is the holder of the very bill on account of which Connor lies in prison. He ascertains this, and seizing it as a happy auxiliary to his wishes, obtains her father's immediate liberation. Thus circumstances conspire to his object, and he is made happy by the
hand of the fair Cleone.
where food gives it sufficient excitement, and digestion sufficient employment. This," concludes our authoress, with an equivoque, which may perhaps a little startle some good readers, "is rather a material view of a very immaterial matter."
"Needles and pins, needles and pins!
When a man's married his sorrow begins!"
The story now returns to Mountwarren. He upon arriving in London, had received a summons to hasten to Boulogne, where his sister Blanche was represented as dying. He arrived a day too late-she was dead. To add to his affliction, he finds his mother on the verge of insanity; that verge is soon passed, and Mrs. Mountwarren's remains, before many days, followed her daughter's to the grave. Nor do Sydney's misfortunes terminate here; on the night of his mother's death, his sister Clara elopes with a coxcomb named the Honourable Alfred Sutherton, who, deceived by report, fancies he has won a rich heiress, whilst he is only marrying a gentle confiding girl, who brings him nothing but that which he is incapable of appreciating-a warm and affectionate heart. The baseness of the Honourable Alfred, who is said to have only "knelt a slave in order to rise a tyrant,' " is throughout, well pourtrayed, for Mrs. Grimstone, it appears, never fails where the worthlessness of the male creation is to be set forth. The defect of education which the case of Clara is designed to display, is also very admirably treated, and affords an interesting and instructive episode. Dr. Leux, the Scotch physician, with his sarcasms appears to be a very impertinent person; he remains but a short time upon the stage, but we see him leave it without the least emotions of regret. Rosina Arfleur is found at this period at Boulogne, and her encounter there with Mountwarren seems to be contrived on purpose to supply the means of dialogue, unhappily brought to an end by the several exits, from death or other causes, of the other interlocutors.
Cleone has now a child of two years of age to enliven the solitude of her life. But as new teeth dis
place the old, so is the new-born generation destined to supplant their sires. Cleone seemed scarcely to have become familiarised to the blessing of a mother's possession than she lost that which was not less dear to her. Her father dies, and the communication is made to her by her husband in a manner and under circumstances in which no little aggravate the odiousness of his character. At the same moment she receives this news, an accident happens, involving consequences both of a painful and a pleasurable nature. Little Connor, as he is called, is reported to be missing, and after the most diligent search carried on by father, mother, and the whole household, he is still not to be found. In wild distraction Cleone breaks away aud ranges amongst the hills without knowing whither she is carried, till exhausted and having sunk down under her load of affiction, she hears a voice gently exclaiming, "But I want you to tell me your name"-The reply "Mamma's Connor," proceeds from her child. In a moment she is on the spot, seizes her boy in her arms, and discovers its saviour to be-Mountwarren. He was on a shooting excursion and had fallen in with the little wanderer. All the communication respecting one another which they require to exchange, in order to be upon a footing with the reader, is rapidly made, and Mountwarren returns with Cleone to the house. In the period which transpired before the return of Mr. Fitzcloin, much interesting conversation takes place between the two, which sufficiently indicates that Mountwarren's love for her, who is now the wife of another, is nowise abated. To what length it might go, if unrepressed, we are left to conjecture, but Cleone's propriety never forsook her. The meetings between Mr. Fitzcloin are marked by coldness and formality. The monotony of Cleone's life is now still further qualified by an event, not less agreeable than the last, which is the unexpected arrival of her brother Leon, who, on the death of his father had set out upon a melancholy pilgrimage, at length compensated by the pleasure of once more finding himself in his sister's presence. The arrivals multiply. Sir Edward Arfleur and his daughter are reported; they are on a visit to a Colonel Clifford. News of still more importance is, that through their interest Mountwarren has obtained an appointment in Van Diemens Land. Leon consents to accompany him on the expedition, and all preparations are made. But before their departure another event, which has been secretly winning its way to maturity, takes place, which makes an agreeable addition to the number of the emigrants. The nuptials of Leon and Rosina Arfleur are celebrated with great rejoicings in spite of the malediction which Sir Edward pronounces in the rage into which he is thrown by his daughter's choice. Colonel Clifford and Miss Somerton, Rosina's Aunt, fill so small a space on the canvass in this portion of the picture as to require no individual notice.
So goes on an old song; but the whole of the sequel of this story goes to prove a very different case; that is, that the sorrow is at least as liable to fall to the woman's share as the man's, and the "needles and pins" quite as capable of wounding her as him. And God knows how true this is: but men hitherto have had the making of proverbs to themselves. Women begin to make them now. Shortly after the marriage, Cleone's father receives some intelligence which induces him to remove to Ireland, whither Cleone accompanies him. This is soon followed by another removal. Mr. Fitzcloin, having a small estate left him in the Isle of Man resolves to occupy it himself with a view to increasing the value of it by certain improvements in agriculture etc.; a sort of work which seems to be set apart by the common consent of our writers of fiction, as the peculiar province and only fitting employment of men of slender wits. In spite of all entreaties, hither Mr. Fitzcloin conducts his bride; the parting scene is rendered notable by a squabble between the bridegroom and his sister, in which the stupidity of the former and the vulgarity of the latter contend for a pre-eminence of disgust. Arrived in the "lonely Isle," poor Cleone begins to be sensible that she does not love her husband, and he begins to feel that he has a wife whose highly-cultivated mind is bringing out his native dulness into an unenviable conspicuousness. He has one of those cold, stagnant, muddy temperaments, into which none but gross material feelings are able to enter. He is selfish and parsimonious, yet contributes to the contents of poor-boxes; without a spark of natural benevolence, yet passes for, and, in a worldly sense is, a good brother, father, &c.; unwarmed by a charitable feeling, yet a strict churchgoer; and, in short, while he disgusts all feeling minds by the absence of every quality that can endear and every virtue that can win esteem, he punctually performs all the literal duties of life. His notions of the past, which a woman, especially a wife, is called upon to enact, are such as may be expected. Solemn, austere, formal himself, he regards every demonstration of cheerfulness in his wife as an exhibition of folly and indecorum; her fervent and enthusiastic conversation he fistens to with contempt; her unbounded affection towards her offspring he looks upon as a token of indifference to himself. He looks upon marriage as an official contract, and the stipulated obedience is the chief item in the bond, the fulfilment of which he seeks to exact by a strictness of manner and unbecoming austerity equivalent to the powers of attorney. We cannot conclude this description better than in the words of Mrs. Grimstone herself, for, let us own, though we differ with her in some points, we agree with her in her Dearty detestation of what are called "matter-of-fact men," who, as far as regards their confined notions on that point, and their sacrifice of all the highest forms of truth to its least and most unfeeling, should rather, to use the phrase of a friend of ours, be called "matter-of-lie men, ," in the guise of truth-tellers. Such a character (the character of Cleone) can never be judged justly by the mere matter of fact man, whose imagination is as measured as his judgment-ney who would take his rule and compass to the lightning, and weigh ether by avoirdupoise who (if we adopt the fanciful notion of Prior, that the soul enters at the feet, and so progresses, till it finally makes its exit from the head) never felt bis soul get beyond his stomach,
After the departure of Mountwarren with Leon and his bride, for Hobart Town, Cleone is again thrown into her former state of hopeless solitude, her husband's cold indifference leaving her without a gleam of that social happiness which every home ought to yield. Her children were now the only objects of her affection. They were three in number, little Connor, now seven years of age, having a brother and sister younger than himself. They were one day sporting out of doors, accompanied by their mother, when the dog Sid, so called from SidMountwarren, comes bounding towards them, dripping with water, and apparently solicits them to follow him. They did so, and on the banks of a rivulet in the neighbourhood they discover a poor woman and her child whom it appears he has just succeeded in rescuing from the water. They are taken home, and the poor
woman, who is dying, discovers, on her deathbed, that she is no other than the once gay and beautiful Clara Mountwarren, who having been cruelly treated by her husband, the coxcomb before mentioned, upon his discovery of her want of fortune, had at last been forced to leave him, and ever since had wandered in poverty and wretchedness, till, rendered desperate, she had sought to put an end at once to her own existence and her child's.. Cleone, after the death of this unfortunate victim of inhumanity, conceiving a strong obligation, determined upon adopting the little girl, and bringing her up together with her own children. This resolution is obstinately opposed by her uncharitable husband, and thence ensues a breach which hastens the conclusion. For Mr. Fitzcloin, without alleging any motive, suddenly breaks up his establishment in the Isle of Man, and transports the whole family to London, where they find themselves lodged in a mean-looking house in an obscure part of the town. Upon inquiry, she is informed that this change has been adopted in consequence of her refusal to part with her adopted child Blanche; and the only alternative now offered is to relinquish that child or her own, for either the one or the other are to be taken from her. After this exhibition of the tyranny of man, Cleone is sitting in her solitary parlour lost in grief and despair, when a piece of news is communicated to her which, however terrible in itself, can scarcely be supposed to convey any permanent affliction to her mind, but rather to relieve it from the whole load of its misery. Her husband, that but a moment before had stood before her in the character of an unfeeling despot, lies in the house a corpse. He had tumbled from to the top to the bottom of the staircase. Shortly after the death of Fitzcloin his will is discovered, which may rather be called his ill-will, for it is found to contain this proviso-that upon Cleone's separating her. self from her children, the property should descend to them; but if she refused to do so, then it was to pass away to the children of his two brothers, Carter and Clarke, herself being only allowed an annuity of sixty pounds a year.
Cleone's indignant protest againt this will, and her determination to bring the matter before the Court of Chancery, find a supporter in the person of the maiden sister of the deceased, Miss Fitzcloin, who, with her neice Emily, here make their re-appearance. The day arrives for bringing the case into Court, and Cleone herself attends in mourning. The counsel opposed to her bas concluded his oration, and his respondent is now looked for, but it is reported, that a sudden indisposition has attacked him. The Court adjourns. It re-assembles; but Cleone has not the strength to return in person; she is however informed that her cause is being powerfully pleaded by her counsel, and this is presently succeeded by the electrifying intelligence that decision is pronounced, and pronounced in her favour. -It may be remarked, that this is the shortest Chancery suit that ever was recorded, and may be considered one of the most powerful creations of Mrs. Grimstone's imagination.-"Here," cries Miss Fitzcloin, "comes the saviour of your cause." Cleone turns her eyes and they meet-Mountwarren!-Hearing from England of the death of Fitzcloin, he had forthwith recrossed the seas; no sooner had he reached the country than he learnt of the pending case; Cleone's counsel was one of his acquaintance; he seized the opportunity, which the other did not withhold, and, before the Court pleaded the cause of his dear Cleone with all the eloquence that love brought to his command. Having gained the suit at law, it may hardly be necessary to add that he gained that of love soon after, and the re union of the families in one common circle of happiness and unclouded enjoyment, is no more than the reader may have foreseen, or poetical justice demands.
Such are the materials that compose the story of Cleone; it is written, throughout, in an excellent style, and with a laudable spirit, and only with such defects as, were it not our duty to admit, it would be our pleasure to conceal. As a didactic tale, it is good; as a novel, it is deficient. It is not recommended by any ingenuity of plot, nor is the plot which it has conducted with much nicety. All the smaller probabilities, which make up the effect of a good novel, are little regarded. Nor is there, with little exception, any nice discrimination of character preserved. Picturesqueness, fancy, incident, are all wanting, and, of course, interest in proportion. The chief beauties are a deep sympathy with human suffering, and especially with those of the female kind. The mother, the sister, the wife, are painted with great fidelity and feeling, and all that has reference to children and to education is animated by the best spirit. The story is one "of married life," and the whole is designed to illustrate the hardships to which women are subjected by the present system of education. To effect a revolution in this system is the great object which Mrs. Grimstone has in view. We de not agree with all her opinions, but with many of them we think that most lovers of fair dealing must heartily sympathize. Much of her work, to use a favourite modern epithet, is truly "sweet;" and we recommend all who can afford it to get it for themselves, and pick out the plums for themselves.
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ON A STONE. LOOKING about us during a walk to see what subject we could write upon in this our second number, that should be familiar to every body, and afford as striking a specimen as we could give, of the entertainment to be found in the commonest objects, our eyes lighted upon a stone. It was a common pebble, a flint; such as a little boy kicks before him as he goes, by way of making haste with a message, and saving his new shoes.
"A stone!" cries a reader, "a flint! the very symool of a miser! What can be got out of that?"
The question is well put; but a little reflection on the part of our interrogator would soon rescue the poor stone from the comparision. Strike him at any rate, and you will get something out of him :-warm his heart, and out come the genial sparks that shall gladden your hearth, and put hot dishes on your table. This is not miser's work. A French poet has described the process, well known to the maid-servant, when she stoops, with flashing face, over the tinder-box on a cold morning, and rejoices to see the first laugh of the fire. A sexton, in the poem we allude to, is striking a light in a church:
TO ASSIST THE ENQUIRING, ANIMATE THE STRUGGLING, AND SYMPATHIZE WITH ALL.
-Boirude, qui voit que la peril approche, Les arrete, et tirant un fusil de sa poche,
Des veines d'un caillou, qu' il frappe au meme instant,
Il fait jaillir un feu qui petille en sortant;
Et bientot an brasier d' une meche enflammee,
Montre, a l'aide du soufre, une cire allummee.
We shall not stop to pursue this fiery point into all its consequences, to shew what a world of beauty or of formidable power is contained in that single property of our friend flint, what fires, what lights, what conflagrations, what myriads of clicks of triggers-awful sounds before battle, when instead of letting his flint do its proper good-natured work of cooking his supper, and warming his wife and himself over their cottage-fire, the poor fellow is made to kill and be killed by other poor fellows, whose brains are strewed about the place for want of knowing better.
But to return to the natural, quiet condition of our friend, and what he can do for us in a peaceful way, and so as to please meditation ;-what think you of him as the musician of the brooks? as the unpretending player on those watery pipes and flageolets, during the hot noon, or the silence of the night? Without the pebble the brook would want its prettiest murmur. And then, in reminding you of these murmurs, he reminds you of the poets.
A noise as of a hidden brook
That to the sleeping woods all night
Yes, the brook 'singeth; but it would not sing so well,—
it would not have that tone and ring in its music, with
out the stone.
Then 'gan the shepherd gather into one
His straggling goats, and drove them to a ford, Whose cœrule stream, rumbling in pebble-stone,* Crept under moss as green as any gourd. Spenser's Gnat. Spenser's Guat, observe; he wrote a whole poem upon a gnat, and a most beautiful one too, founded upon another poem on the same subject written by the great Roman poet Virgil, not because these great poets wanted or were unequal to great subjects, such as all the world think great, but because they thought no care, and no fetching out of beauty and wonder, ill bestowed upon
*Rumbling in pebble-stone" is a pretty enlargement of Virgil's "susurrantis" (whispering). Green as any gourd is also an improvement as well as an addition. The expression is as fresh as the colour.
[SPARROW AND CO. CRANE COURT.]
the smallest marvellous object of God's workmanship The gnat, in their poems, is the creature that he really is, full of elegance and vivacity, airy, trumpeted, and plumed, and dancing in the sunbeams,—not the contempt of some thoughtless understanding, which sees in it nothing but an insect coming to vex its skin. The eye of the poet, or other informed man, is at once telescope and microscope, able to traverse the great heavens, and to do justice to the least thing they have
But to our brook and pebbles. See how one pleasant thing reminds people of another. A pebble reminded us of the brooks, and the brooks of the poets, and the poets remind us of the beauty and comprehensiveness of their words, whether belonging to the subject in hand or not. No true poet makes use of a word for nothing. "Cœrule stream," says Spenser; but why coerule, which comes from the Latin, and seems a pedantic word, especially as it signifies blue, which he might have had in English? The reason is, not only that it means skyblue, and therefore shews us how blue the sky was at the time, and the cause why the brook was of such a colour (for if he had wanted a word to express nothing but that circumstance, he might have said sky-blue at once, however quaint it might have sounded to modern ears-ne would have cared nothing for that; it was his business to do justice to nature, and leave modern ears, as they grew poetical, to find it out); but the word cærule was also a beautiful word, beautiful for the sound, and expressive of a certain liquid yet neat softness, somewhat resembling the mixture of soft hissing, rumbling, and inward music of the brook.-We beg the reader's indulgence for thus stopping him by the way, to dwell on the beauty of a word; but poets' words are miniature creations, as curious, after their degree, as the insects and the brooks themselves; and when companions find themselves in pleasant spots, it is natural to wander both in feet and talk.
So much for the agreeable sounds of which the sight of a common stone may remind us, (for we have not chosen to go so far back as the poetry of Orpheus, who is said to have made the materials of stone-walls answer to his lyre, and dance themselves into shape without troubling the mason.) We shall come to grander echoes by-and-bye. Let us see, meanwhile, how pleasant the sight itself may be rendered. Mr. Wordsworth shall do it for us in his exquisite little poem on the fair maiden who died by the river Dove. Our volume is not at hand, but we remember the passage we more particularly allude to. It is where he compares his modest, artless, and sequestered beauty with
A violet by a mossy stone
Is not that beautiful? Can any thing express a lovelier loneliness than the violet half hidden by the mossy stone -the delicate blue-eyed flower against the country green? And then the loving imagination of this fine poet, exalting the object of his earthly worship to her divine birth-place and future abode, suddenly raises his eyes to the firmament, and sees her there, the solitary star of
But stone does not want even moss to render him in
teresting. Here is another stone, and another solitary evening star, as beautifully introduced as the others, but for a different purpose. It is in the opening words of Mr. Keats's poem of Hyperion, where he describes the dethroned monarch of the gods, sitting in his exile :
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale,
PRICE THREE HALFPENCE.
Quiet as a stone! Nothing certainly can be more quiet than that. Not a syllable or a sigh will stone utter, though you watch and bear him company for a whole week on the most desolate moor in Cumberland. Thus silent, thus unmoved, thus insensible to whatever circumstances might be taking place, or spectators might think of him, was the soul-stunned old patriarch of the gods. We may picture to ourselves a large, or a small stone, as we please—Stone-henge, or a pebble. The simplicity and grandeur of truth do not care which. The silence is the thing,—its intensity, its unalterable
Our friend pebble is here in grand company, and you may think him (though we hope not,) unduly bettered by it. But see what Shakspeare will do for him in his hardest shape and in no finer company than a pea
Weariness Can snore upon the flint, when restive sloth Finds the down pillow hard.
Sleeping on hard stone would have been words strong enough for a common poet; or perhaps he would have said, "resting," or "profoundly reposing ;" or that he could have made his "bed of the bare floor;" and the last saying would not have been the worst; but Shakspeare must have the very strongest words and really profoundest expressions, and he finds them in the homeliest and most primitive. He does not mince the matter, but goes to the root of both sleep and stone-can snore upon the flint. We see the fellow hard at it-bent upon it deeply drinking of the forgetful draught.
To conclude our quotations from the poets, we wil give another line or two from Shakspeare, not inapplicable to our proposed speculations in general, and still less so to the one in hand.
Green, a minor poet, author of the "Spleen," an effusion full of wit and good sense, gives pleasant advice to the sick who want exercise, and who are frightened with hypochondria:
Fling but a stone, the giant dies.
And this reminds us of a pleasant story connected with the flinging of stones, in one of the Italian novels. Two waggish painters persuade a simple brother of theirs, that there is a plant which renders the finder of it invisible, and they all set out to look for it. They pretend suddenly to miss him, as if he had gone away; and to his great joy, while throwing stones about in h absence, give him great knocks in the ribs, and horribl. bruises, he hugging himself all the while at these manifest proofs of his success, and the little suspicion which they have of it. It is amusing to picture him to one's fancy, growing happier as the blows grow worse, rubbing his sore knuckles with delight, and hardly able to ejaculate a triumphant Hah! at some excessive thump in the back.
But setting aside the wonders of the poets and the novelists, Pebble, in his own person, and by his own family alliances, includes wonders far beyond the most wonderful things they have imagined. Wrongly is Flint compared with the miser. You cannot, to be sure, skin him, but you can melt him; aye, make him absolutely flow into a liquid ;-flow too for use and beauty; and become light unto your eyes, goblets to your table, and a mirror to your beloved. Bring two friends of his about him, called Potash and Soda, and Flint runs into melting tenderness, and is no longer Flint; he is Glass You look through him; you drink out of him; he furnishes you beautiful and transparent shutters against the rain and cold; you shave by him; protect pictures with him, and watches, and books; are assisted by him in a thousand curious philosophies; are helped over the sea by him; and he makes your cathedral windows
divine; and enables your mistress to wear your portrait broad, and at the same time, pointed hint to others, if they would take it.
in her bosom.
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:
SECOND WEEK IN APRIL.
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 his 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) korax (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 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 arab.e ano, 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 manoria! bower. He looks after the estate, and gives a very
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 enemics, 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 стор.
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 cock chaffer, 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 is done,' he returns to his perch, cawing, to inform you well directed scrutiny; and, by the time that 'the day 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. "But their admonition does not stop there. The 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 larva 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.
time the mase 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 anxious 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."
"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
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 answer 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.
declined. But Brother Merry nudged him and said, "Take something, take something: we want it, indeed." At last the peasant brought a lamb, and insisted on St. Peter accepting it, but he would not. Then Brother Merry jogged his side, "Take it, you foolish fellow, we want it bad enough." Then said St. Peter at last, "Well, I'll take the lamb; but I shall not carry it, you must carry it." There's no great hardship in that," cried Brother Merry, "I can easily do it ;" and he took it on his shoulders.
At Folkestone in Kent, William April 12, 1578. Harvey born; the discoverer of the circulation of the blood. Like most true physicians, he was a man equally pleasing in manners and generous in sentiment; though his physic did not hinder him from suffering excruciating pangs of the gout in his old age. However, he lived till near ninety. Probably he was too fond of study to abide properly by his own maxims, and so was punished for too sedentary a life. He was the friend of Cowley; and so fond of Virgil, that he used to start up sometimes while reading him, and exclaim, "He had a devil!"
OR, THE ADVENTURES OF AN OLD SOLDIER. THIS is a story after our own heart, or at least after three parts of our heart; for we have a fourth, which is a little more serious than Brother Merry's; but we like him mightily, for he is a personification of animal spirits and their natural goodness and good-will,— not over scrupulous, we grant, because he is not overthoughtful, but honourable, upon the whole, to the reputation of natural impulses, and having as little of ill in him as he thinks of any. Nor is any body to suppose that the freedoms taken with some venerable names imply real irreverence; for the story is here seen through a Catholic medium; and Catholics, from their greater familiarity with certain images, take a sort of domestic liberty with them, without meaning any diminution of love and respect. Brother Merry sets out with a good deal of jovial Charity; he has Hope in full measure, and all the Faith in the world consistent with his having no notion that the stars can mean him any ill; and this is by no means the smallest or least honouring part of faith.--We take the story from a new publication which we are very glad to see,-Lays and Legends of Various Nations, No. 1, containing "Germany." The close of it reminds us of a ballad we have read of a lawyer, who being refused entrance into heaven by St. Peter, contrived to throw his hat inside the door; and then, being permitted by the kind saint to go in and fetch it, took advantage of the latter's fixture as door-keeper, to refuse to come back again.
In days of yore there was a great war; and when the war was at an end, a great number of the soldiers were discharged. Among the rest, Brother Merry received his discharge, and nothing more for all he had done than a very little loaf of soldier's bread and four halfpence in money-and with that he went his way. But St. Peter had seated himself in the road, like a poor beggar-man, and when Brother Merry came there, he asked him for charity. Then said the soldier "Dear beggar-man, what shall I give you? I have been a soldier, and have got my discharge, and with it nothing but a very little loaf of bread and four half-pence, and when that is gone I must beg as well as yourself." Then he divided the loaf into four parts, gave the apostle one, and also one half-penny. St. Peter thanked him, and went a little further, and seated himself like another beggar, in the way of the soldier; and when he came up, as formerly, asked alms of him. Brother Merry spoke as before, and gave him again another quarter of the loaf, and another half-penny. St. Peter thanked him, and seated himself in the way for the third time, like another beggar, and again addressed Brother Merry. Brother Merry then gave him the third quarter of the loaf, and the third half-penny. St. Peter thanked him, and Brother Merry journeyed on; and all he had left was one-fourth of the loaf and one half-penny. So he went into a tavern, and ate the bread, and spent the half-penny in beer to drink with it. When he had finished, he journeyed on; and St. Peter, in the disguise of a disbanded soldier, met him again, and saluted him : 'Good comrade," said he, "can you give me a morsel of bread, and a half-penny to get a drop of drink?" "Where shall I get it?" answered Brother Merry, "I got my discharge, and nothing with it but a loaf and four half-pence. Three beggars met me on the road, and I gave each of them a quarter of the loaf and a half-penny. The last part I have just eaten at the tavern, and spent the last half-penny in drink. Now I am quite empty, and if you also have nothing more, let us go begging together." 'No, that will not be necessary just now," said St. Peter, "I understand a little of doctoring, and therewith will I in time obtain as much as I need." "Ha!" said Brother Merry, "I know nothing about that; so I must go and beg by myself." "Now only come along," said St. Peter, if I can earn anything, you shall go halves.' That will suit me well enough, said Brother Merry. So they travelled together. Now they came to a cottage, and heard great lamenting and screaming inside, and when they went in there lay a man sick to the death, as if about to expire, and his wife crying and weeping bitterly. "Leave off whining and crying," said St. Peter, "I will make the man well again" and he took a salve out of his pocket, and cured the man instantly, so that he could stand up, and was quite hearty. The man and his wife in great joy demanded "How can we pay you? what shall we give you?" But St. Peter would not take anything, and the more they pressed him to do so, the more firmly he
After that, they went on till they came to a wood; when Brother Merry found the lamb a heavy load, and being now very hungry, he called to St. Peter, "Hallo! here's a nice place for us to dress and eat the lamb." "With all my heart" said St. Peter, "but I don't understand anything of cookery, so do you begin, and I will just walk about till it is ready; but mind you don't begin to eat till I return; I will take care to be back in time." Go your ways," said Brother Merry; "I can cook it well enough; I'll soon have it ready." So St. Peter wandered away, while Brother Merry lighted the fire, killed the lamb, put the pieces into the pot, and boiled them. The lamb, however, was thoroughly boiled, and his companion not returned; so Merry took it up, carved it, and found the heart. "That is the best part of it," said he, and kept tasting it till he finished it. At length St. Peter came back, and said, "I only want the heart; all the rest you may have, so you give me that." Then Brother Merry took knife and fork, and turned the lamb as if he would have found the heart, but he could not. At last he said, in a careless manner,
"It is not there." No! where should it be then?" said the Saint. "That I don't know," said Merry; "but now I think of it, what a couple of fools we are to look for the heart of a lamb!-a lamb, you know, has not got a heart." "What!" said St. Peter, "that's news indeed why every beast has a heart, and why should not the lamb have one as well as the best?"
"No, certainly, comrade, a lamb has no heart: now only reflect, and it will occur to you that it really has not." "Well, it is quite sufficient-there is no heart there, so I need none of the lamb; you may eat it all." 'Well, what I can't eat, I'll put in my knapsack," said Brother Merry. Then he ate half, and disposed of the other as he had said.
Now as they journeyed on, St. Peter managed that a great stream should flow right across their path, through which they must ford. Then," said he, "f go you first." No," answered Brother Merry, go you first;" thinking, if the water were too deep, he would even stay were he was. So St. Peter waded through it, and the water only reached to his knees; but when brother Merry ventured, the water was much deeper, and he was up to his neck in it. Help me, comrade!" cried he; but the Saint said, Will you confess, then, that you ate the lamb's heart." But he still denied it, and the water got still deeper, and reached his mouth. Then said St. Peter again, Will you confess then that you ate the lamb's heart?" But he still denied it; St. Peter, however, would not let him be drowned, so helped him out of his danger. Now they journeyed on till they came to a kingdom where they heard that the king's daughter lay dangerously ill. "Holloa, brother," said the soldier, "here's a catch for us; if we can only cure her, we shall be made for ever." But St. Peter was not quick enough for him. "Come, Brother Heart," said he, "put your best foot forward, that we may yet come in at the right time." But the Saint went still more slowly, though his comrade kept pushing and driving him, till at last they heard that the princess was dead. "This comes of your creeping so," said the soldier. "Now be still," said St. Peter, "for I can do more than make the sick whole, since I can bring the dead to life again." Now, if that's true," said Merry, "you must at least earn half the kingdom for us by the job." Thereupon they went to the king's palace, where everybody was in trouble; but St. Peter told the king he would restore his daughter to him. They then conducted him to where she lay, and he commanded them to let him have a canldron of water, and
when he received it, he ordered them all to go away, and let nobody remain with him but Brother Merry. Then he divided the limbs of the dead princess, and threw them into the water, lighted a fire under the cauldron, and boiled them. And when all the flesh had fallen from the bones, the Saint took the beautiful white bones and laid them on a table, and placed them together according to their natural order. When that was done, he walked before them, and said, "In the name of all things holy, arise, thou dead one!" And at the third time the princess arose up, alive, well, and beautiful. Now was the king greatly rejoiced thereat, and said to St. Peter, "6 Require for thy reward what thou wilt, though it should be half my empire, I will give it you." But he answered, "I desire nothing for what I have done." Oh! thou Jack Fool," thought Brother Merry to himself, then nudged his comrade's side, and said, Don't be so silly; if you won't have anything. yet I need somewhat.' St. Peter, however, would have nothing; yet because the king saw the other would gladly, he commanded the keeper of his treasures to fill his knapsack with gold, at which Brother Merry was right well pleased.
Thereupon they went their way till they came into a wood, when the Saint said to his fellow traveller, "Now we will share the gold." Yes," answered he, "that we can do." Then St. Peter took the gold and divided it into three portions. "Well," thought Brother Merry, "what whim has he got in his head now, making three
parcels, and only two of us?" But St. Peter said,
"Now I have divided it fairly; one for me, one for you, and one for him who ate the heart." "Oh, I ate that,' said the soldier, quickly taking up the gold; "I did I assure you." "How can that be true," said St. Peter, "a lamb has no heart." Aye, what, brother? What are you thinking of a lamb has no heart? very good! when every beast has, why should that one be without?" "Now, that is very good," said the Saint, "take all the gold to yourself, for I shall remain no more with you, but will go my own way alone." "As you please, brother Heart," answered the soldier; "a pleasant journey to you, my hearty." But when St. Peter took another road, his comrade bethought him, " Well, it is all right that he has marched off, for he is an odd fellow."
Now the king had heard that there was an old soldier, who went about restoring the dead to life, and thought that Brother Merry must be the very man; yet because he had no confidence in him, he first consulted his council, and they agreed, that as the princess was certainly dead, he might make the attempt. Then Brother Merry commanded them to bring him a cauldron of water, and when every one had left the room, he separated the limbs and threw them into the cauldron, and made a fire under it exactly as he had seen St. Peter do; and when the water boiled and the flesh fell from the bones, he took them and placed them upon the table, but as he did not know how to arrange them he piled them one upon another.
Then he stood before them and cried, "In the name of the Holy Heaven, thou dead arise," and he cried so three times, but still to no purpose. "Stand up, you vixen, stand up, or it shall be the worse for you." Scarcely had he said this, ere Saint Peter came in at the window, just as before, in the likeness of an old soldier, and said, "You impious fellow, how can the dead stand up when you have thrown the bones thus one upon another?"
"Ah, Brother Heart," answered Merry, "I have done it as well as I can."
"This time will I help you out of your trouble, but this I tell you, whenever you again undertake anything like this you will repent it: moreover, for this, you shall neither ask for nor take the least thing from the king." Thereupon St. Peter placed the bones in their proper order, and said three times, "In the name of the Holy Trinity, thou dead arise," and the princess stood up, sound and beautiful as formerly. Then St. Peter immediately went away again out of the window, and Brother Merry was glad that all had turned out so well; but he was sorely grieved that he might take nothing for it. "I should like to know," thought he, "what he had to grumble about-what he gives with one hand, he takes with the other; there is no wit in that."
Now the king asked him what he would have, but he durst not take any thing; yet, he managed by hints and cunning, that the king should fill his knapsack with money; and with that he journeyed forth.
But, when he came out, St. Peter was standing before the door, and said, "See what a man you are; have I not forbidden you to take any thing, and yet you have your knapsack filled with gold?" How can I help it," answered the soldier, "if they would thrust it in ?" "This I tell you then-mind that you do not a second time undertake such a business: if you do, it will fare badly with you." "Ah, Brother, never fear now I have money, why should I trouble myself with washing bones ?" "Ah!" said St. Peter, "that will not last a long time; but, in order that you may never tread in a forbidden path, I will bestow upon your knapsack this power that whatever you wish into it, that shall be there. Farewell-You will never see me again." "Adieu," said Brother Lusty, and, thought he, "I am glad you are gone, you wonderful fellow: I am willing enough not to follow you." But he thought not of the wonderful property bestowed upon his knapsack.
Brother Merry went off with his gold, which he had very soon spent and squandered as before.
When he had nothing but fourpence left, he came to a public house, and thought the money must go; so he called for three pennyworth of wine and one pennyworth of bread. As he ate and drank there, the flavour of roasting geese tickled his nose. So he peeped and pried about, and saw that the landlord had placed two geese in the oven. Then it occurred to him that his comrade had told him, whatever he wished in his knapsack should be there; so he determined the geese should
be the test of it. He went out therefore and stood be fore the door, and said, "I wish that the two geese which are baking in the oven were in my knapsack," and, when he had said so, he peeped in, and there they were, sure enough. "Ah, ah, that is all right," said he, "I am a made man," and he went on a little way, took out the geese, and began to eat them.
As he was thus enjoying himself, there came by two labouring men, who looked with hungry eyes at the one goose which was yet untouched.
Now when Brother Merry saw that, he said, "one was quite enough for him." So he called them, gave them the goose, and bade them drink his health. When they had finished, they thanked him, and went therewith to the public house, called for wine and bread, took out their present, and began to eat it. When the hostess