صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

DOLLY PENTREATH,

As regards the continuation of OUR JOURNAL at a future period,-that rests with THE LAST OF THE ANCIENT CORNISH FISHWOMEN.

the public. We can never again undertake the commercial branches of its conduct; although our pen, head, and hands will be at all times ready (as ever) to furnish and arrange the materiel. On this point we must be decisive. ALL our present subscribers should send us their names and addresses. They will then be carefully registered in a book kept for that purpose, and a private communication made to each party whenever any new movement is projected. This would indeed entail a very tedious operation, if performed by one individual; but done singly, a minute would suffice.

We come now to the painful part of our duty; and that is, to say "Farewell!" This must be done in silence. When the heart is full, the tongue is often tied. Ours is so now. But as we and our readers "sympathise," the feelings of each one of us are at this moment purely identical. Thus is an apparently insurmountable difficulty conquered in a moment of time.

One word more. During the conduct of this Miscellany, we have received certain pecuniary aids from certain loving soulsGod bless them!-to stem the foul endeavor of "the Trade" to prevent our obtaining a fair hearing with the public. These, as yet, remain unliquidated; and the circumstance sits heavily upon our mind. They must be discharged, of course. We ask a little time for this. Our pen will never sleep; and now that we are so well known, we venture to hope it may, by and by, be more profitably exercised, so as to make us happily independent. The feeling of gratitude will ever remain.

That, thank God, is imperishable. And now, good friends, in plain old English, let us try and falter out the word,—

FAREWELL!

"THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS."
Once upon a time.-Old Story.

I SAW her at his grave,-
I stood and watched her there,
Fringing the humble hillock with

The flowrets of the year.

She stoop'd to kiss the cold, cold clay, Then homeward, weeping, sped her way.

I saw her at her home,

When various suitors came,— Each striving to prevail on her

Once more to change her name.

I heard the answer which she gave: "My love lies in my husband's grave." When forty years had fled

I saw that form again:

How brief the period then that she
Could in this world remain!
But long enough she lived to prove
WHAT TRUE HEARTS DO FOR THOSE THEY LOVE.
L. M. T.

[blocks in formation]

I KNOW YOUR SENTIMENTS TOO WELL, my dear sir, to doubt of the little offering herewith sent, being assigned a ready place in your "pleasant pages.' I have translated it from Alphonse Karr, specially for the columns of OUR OWN:

[ocr errors]

I have long remarked, that the dearest thing in the world to a man is his money; and that all the sermons written against it

"the vile dross"-have only had in view to disgust others with it, without ever succeeding, and without even consoling the authors for the want of it. From these premises, I drew the conclusion that, to make a friend not only undertake the most disagreeable offices, but to send him cheerfully to encounter danger, and even ennui, it suffices to adopt the following method :

Persuade him, for a quarter of an hour, that you have come to borrow his money. Contemplate with a scrutinising eye his heroic defence. Overthrow successively his outworks and fortifications. Force the entrenchments (that he rebuilds with the obstinate courage of despair) as quickly as you destroy them; and then, when he is

driven to his last resource, tell him it is some other service you require. He will undertake it with warmth, with gratitude-even if it were to fight for you (for I am here only speaking of the best amongst friends).

I had made this remark-not the only one of its kind-thinking (as moralists are apt to do) that others were thus disposed. I imagined that I, individually, formed a striking contrast to so hideous a picture. Alas! I am painfully convinced of the contrary. Listen! On returning home (after an afternoon's walk), my little servant suddenly recollecting she had forgotten to deliver a message, came to the end of the garden, out of breath, and lost ten minutes longer in lamentations and excuses for having forgotten it. Some one had brought a letter for me, and appeared disappointed on finding me absent. Not being able to ascertain when I would return home, he earnestly entreated that the letter might be immediately given to me on my return; and left an address where the answer

should be sent.

I opened the letter. It was a simple affair. A gentleman, whom I knew only by name, but who was intimately connected with one of my chosen friends, told me of a difficulty in which he was placed. He had just received a communication which compelled his immediate departure. He had not, at the moment, the means to undertake the journey; and therefore begged me to lend him the required amount. And now commences a series of base, unworthy actions on my part, of which I am almost sorry to have undertaken the acknowledgment. Yet will I follow the example of Henry IV., who, once feeling a disinclination to enter the battle-field, cried, "Ah, you are frightened, and tremble! I will give you reason to do so, by hurrying into the thickest of the fight.' This he did. "Oh, sordid, contemptible avarice! You have once glided into my heart, and you think it shall be a home and a refuge to you. No! I will throw open the doors and windows, and proclaim aloud you are there! You will not dare remain in an open house!'

[blocks in formation]

"You must be very awkward, and very giddy," said I; "but it is just what you always are." And I ran over in detail her faults during the last month.

"Nothing vexes me more," I continued, "than to lose that address. I was particularly anxious to answer this letter; and now, through your negligence, it is impossible."

In fact, it is (thought I) quite impossible I can send the money, seeing that stupid girl has lost the direction. "It is not my fault," continued I, trying to deceive myself; "Certainly I should have been delighted to have rendered this small service; but it is impossible, without an address." I then recommenced showing the same degree of illhumor I might in reality have felt had my servant's inattention deprived me of the liveliest gratification.

"But, sir," said she, "I am sure it would be very easy to find where the gentleman lives.” "What! Without his address? You have lost your senses!"

"But, sir, I know it is at an hotel." "Nonsense! there are forty in the town." "But then, I know it is in the neighborhood."

"And there are fifteen hotels in the neighborhood! I can't go inquiring from door to door."

She was good enough not to say that, on the contrary, there was no reason why 1 should not do so; nor that there were but eight (not fifteen) hotels in the neighborhood. She was even so indulgent as only to offerto go herself!

"And when will my dinner be ready?"

She might have said, "You sometimes dine two or three hours later, when you take a walk in the country, or wish to water the garden, or to finish a book." But she only observed, "I will go after dinner."

I read the letter twice; and was of opinion that it was very cool in the writer to apply to me, without knowing me. Happily, vanity stepped forward in his defence. He knows enough of me, said I, to believe that those in want of assistance can confidently apply to me. Thereupon 1 bridled up. Then I thought of the chance of finding myself in a similar position; and said, let us do for him what I should wish him to do for me, were we to change places. I recalled the words of Trajan, who wished that every citizen should find in him (the emperor) what he would" wish to find in them (as citizens). I then thought myself as great, as magnanimous, as the adopted son of Nerva; and I said to

"After dinner it will be too late," said I, again reading the letter in which the writer expressed his wish to leave that very evening. Besides, you would never find him." And I repeated to her the catalogue of all the things she had not been able to find since she had been in my service.

The poor girl thought me unjust and provoking, and retired to her kitchen. I felt that I was, in fact, unjust and provoking both; I therefore was very angry with her; and calling to mind a certain chicken she had spoiled in roasting the month before, I thought of dismissing her. I was (let me confess it) at that time the complete dupe of "the shabby fellow" hidden in the bosom of every man. I was quite persuaded of my vexation at not being able to send the money, and did not perceive that it was (in reality) only the ill-temper caused by the request to borrow it, which led me to scold the servant; an ill-temper warmed up for her, much as she might have warmed up yesterday's soup

for me.

And then, I began to abuse servants in general; and to think of the poor fellow who relied upon me, and had every right to do so. "Still," said I, "there is no help for it. Without the address, it is impossible. Deuce take the girl!" She returned at that moment. "Sir," said she, quite joyfully, "here it

is!

[ocr errors]

"What?"

"The address. I had put it under a stewpan."

"A pretty place to put it !" said I, angrily. This was a decent disguise for my ill-humor at her having found the address. "It is too late now," added 1.

"I beg pardon, sir, it is not very far." "Not far! what do you mean ?"

She maintained her opinion by circumstantial topographical details. I maintained mine by others, and by disputing the correctness of hers. This, too, for such a length of time, that I ended by being in the right at last, if not at first. That is, if there had been time to send when I began to say there was not, there certainly was none by the time I had completed iny demonstration.

"Go and get dinner directly!" said I. "I will run there myself, immediately after

wards."

She looked at me, and returned to the kitchen without daring to tell me what she thought of my plan of running in an hour hence when I contended it was too late to go at once!

I understood her look, and I felt the want of an answer to an objection my conscience hinted at. and which seemed to translate the look. Either one thing or the other (said I to myself, with the satisfaction of a man who feels armed with a dilemma)-either my correspondent has addressed himself elsewhere (and having got what he wanted, does not stand in need of my help), or he has not got it. In that case, he will not be able to go till to-morrow, and then it does not signify whether he receives my answer in a quarter of an hour or in an hour.

Then, the "shabby fellow "I have spoken of suggested to me: This gentleman takes it quietly; he might at least have returned, or sent for the answer.

The "honest man,' "who inhabits me together with the "shabby one," whispered: "You give yourself strange airs of superiority, because you happen by chance, for once, to possess five pounds more than another person. How perfectly ridiculous! and how perfectly disgusting!

[ocr errors]

And the "honest man called the "shabby fellow" by his real name, which obliged me to see clearly and to decide between them. During this time, dinner was ready. I swallowed a mouthful in haste, took my hat and cane, put in my pocket the required sum, and rushed out.

I walked quickly; but it was dark, and I soon lost myself. I inquired the way, and then began to "think" as follows (deceptions all!):-By the servant's fault, I could not send the money directly. My correspondent will interpret the delay into unwillingness. I am quite unlucky; perhaps he has applied somewhere else, successfully. I should be much vexed not to have been able to do him this trifling service I must write to my friend, and beg him to explain how it has happened; and make my excuses. After all, it is not my fault, I have done all I could. The "shabby element " halted.

now

The "honest man listened to these excuses, and was half persuaded by them. He felt encouraged in his meanness, and tried to push it a little further. Observe, it was night. I had again lost my way. Recollect, too, that at night one may kill people with fear, by the same stories that by daylight would kill them with laughter. Added to which, with me (as with every one else), the "shabby fellow is more cunning than the "honest man.' Further, the "honest man" is perhaps not quite so thoroughly honest as the "shabby fellow " is thoroughly shabby.

"

"After all," said he, "who knows whether it really is my correspondent who has signed this letter? I have never seen him. Nothing would be easier than to deceive me. Anybody may easily know of my intimacy with

and take the name of one of my friends. And when I say friends, even if the name should be that of the writer? who can say if he is a friend of 's? I have heard talk of him with kindness, but then, he does so of everybody. Who knows whether he himself would do what his friend asks of me?"

[ocr errors]

Meanwhile I had found the street, and was looking for the number, Just at this moment, two gens-d'armes passed. They were walking quickly. "Perhaps," said the shabby fellow,' "they are going to take up

the letter-writer-if, indeed, he has taken a name not his own, if

[ocr errors]

“Ah,” said the 'honest man,' ,'"you think me decidedly more stupid than I am. No; all I should find stupid is your easy credulity; such things happen every day."

I entered the house, and asked for He was out.

I felt offended that a man, so evidently my inferior (since I possessed at that moment five pounds more than he), should permit himself to go out, instead of passing the rest of his life humbly waiting till I thought proper to call upon him. However, he might have gone to my house for the answer to his letter. This would have refuted a reproach I had already made him, of waiting for my answer and giving me the trouble of sending it. But then to return to my house and wait my convenience; that was to harass me -to be altogether wanting in the respect due

to me.

"Well, this time," said I, "it is his fault. Had he been at home, there was the money. I was as quick as possible about it-I came myself."

Persuading myself that it would be unbecoming and altogether wrong to deposit the money with the landlord, I left a card, and returned home.

"No doubt he will call to-morrow," said I; but at what time? I can't stay a prisoner at home till it pleases him to free The least he could have done would have been to wait for me."

me.

The next morning he called. I was like those people who dread a duel before it takes place, but fight like lions when on the ground. In the enemy's presence I behaved well; but I think I should have died of shame, could he have guessed into what a stupid contemptible wretch avarice had transformed me for three hours on the previous day.

This is what I wish to expiate by a public confession. But do not let my readers take advantage of it against me. Let them first subject themselves to self-examination, -such an one as I have inflicted on myself. I am strongly of opinion that they are not much better than I. Also, that they are not worse. Careful examination will incline them (like myself) to indulgence. It will prove to them that, if we wish to preserve the right of being indulgent to ourselves and to the worthless creatures we generally are, it is requisite freely and liberally to pardon others.

cap

The moral of the above, my dear sir, needs not to be dwelt upon either by you or my self. Qui capit ille facit. The will fit somebody. I quite agree with you, in your remarks about the human heart. If people would but "reflect " more than they do, they would be better; and the world also. I mean

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

LITTLE LOVE knows every form of air
And every shape of earth;
And comes unbidden everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words;
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song in the time of birds.

He peeps into the warrior's heart

From the tip of a stooping plume,
And the serried spears, and the many men
May not deny him room.

He'll come to his tent in the weary night,
And be busy in his dream;
And he'll float to his eye in the morning light,
Like a fay on a silver beam.

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
And rides on the echo back,

And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,

And flits in his woodland track. The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river,

The cloud, and the open sky-
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.
The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,

And ponders the silver sea,
For Love is under the surface hid,

And a spell of thoughts has he.
He heaves the waves like a bosom sweet,
And speaks in the ripple low,
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook hangs bare below.

He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer-
And profanes the cell of the holy man,

In the shape of a lady fair.
In the darkest night, and bright daylight,
In earth, and sea, and sky,
In every home of the human thought,
Will LOVE be lurking nigh.

CUPID.

[Love is a very sad little fellow. We know him admittance,-"except on business." of old, and advise great caution in giving him He is no respecter of persons; and makes sad havoc with a tender heart. He must not be offended with us for giving him a "just character." Our public vocation demands that we speak out; yet will we not be ill-natured. No!]

THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. BY ELIZA COOK.

"FATHER! forgive us," is our daily prayer, When the worn spirit feels its helpless dearth; Yet in our lowly greatness do we dare

To seek from Heav'n what we refuse on earth! Too often will the bosom, sternly proud,

Bear shafts of vengeance on its graveward path;

Deaf to the teaching that has cried aloud,"Let not the sun go down upon your wrath."

We ask for mercy from the God above,

In morning worship, and in vesper song; Then let us kindly shed the balm of love,

To heal and soothe a brother's deed of wrong. If ye would crush the bitter thorns of strife, And strew the bloom of Peace around your path

If

ye would drink the sweetest streams of life, "Let not the sun go down upon your wrath." Were this remembered, many a human lot

Would find more blessings in our home below; The chequered world would lose its darkest blot, And mortal record tell much less of woe. The sacred counsels of the wise impart

No holier words in all that language hath: For light divine is kindled where the heart Lets not " the sun go down upon its wrath!"

would produce in diminishing its apparent size. On the other hand, the sense of that very beauty, which is entirely preserved to enhances the idea of size, by suggesting the the mind, though thus broken to the eye, wonder that a thing so beautiful should be also so stupendous. The trees which, rooted in its higher regions, wave in its openings or tower into the sky, also assist, by the standard they introduce, in procuring justice from the eye for its height; the arches and fountains beside it, noble in themselves, further aid in marking its supremacy; and the entire result of these combined felicities is the perception of a work of human hands beyond the architectural imagination of our Martin to equal.

THE PANTHEON.

Through a wide market-square, clogged with the baskets and stores of marketwomen, and strewn with vegetable refuse, we struggled to the Pantheon; which, of all the buildings I saw in Rome, was to me most replete with interest that cannot die. Its majestic portico, and more majestic dome, carry the mind a little way beyond the imperial mass of crime out of which the grandeurs of the empire tower; not far,

JOTTINGS FROM THE NOTE-BOOK indeed, into the republic, but into an age

OF THE LATE

T. N. TALFOURD, ESQ.

which was illustrated by its forms, and embossed with the figures of its history. But there is a charm breathing in that perfect circle beyond the majestic beauty of its

I HAVE MADE a few excerpts, my dear sir, from the "Supplement to Vacation Ram-form-beyond even the shows of free greatbles," by T. N. Talfourd, Esq. They were originally printed for private circulation amongst his friends; but now that he is, alas! gone from amongst us, they have become public property.

I have selected his remarks on the Coliseum of Rome, the Pantheon, a lively sketch of Naples, and a droll picture of a journey in the south of France, per diligence:

IMPRESSIONS ON BEHOLDING THE
COLISEUM.

From this "impostor to true fear," we were conducted to that ruin which no weather can affect; no sunshine glorify; no moonlight render more romantic-that huge oval which we had trembled at in passing the Coliseum, which must surpass all expectation, however exalted. Prints have made the outlines of its form familiar; but no print, no picture, ever gave an adequate notion of the colossal power the reality exercises over the mind which, for the first time, contemplates it. The rents which disclose the jagged masses of its walls to the eye, assist the perception of its magnitudenot so much by rendering the thickness of the walls palpable, as, by counteracting the effect which else the beauty of its oval shape

for it contains the ashes of the purest and ness which were attendant on its originholiest of painters of Raphael, cut down in the flower of his life-the presence of which, after many generations, was attested by the exposure of the human hand which had wrought immortal wonders, disclosed entire to crumble at once into dust! The remains of other painters have clustered about this shrine, where the sense of beauty -the finest perfume of mortal life-will be breathed while Rome shall stand. Amidst the thoughts of power, greatness, oppression, and perverted faith, which the dead and the living Rome engendered in me, those which the sense of happiest art awakened at the tomb of its greatest master, were the serenest and the most welcome.

[blocks in formation]
« السابقةمتابعة »