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• I loe to hear your daughters dear,
Their rustic tale in sang revealing;
· Tho' I to other lands may gae,
As the robin comes in wintry weather,
• When I maun die, 0 I wad lie
Where I an' life first met thegither;
This volume is dedicated to the best living Scottish songster, Allan Cunningham, by whom its contents have been warmly praised; and whose judgment might have superseded ours, were it not that we always choose to judge for ourselves, even in the presence of such masters of the art; albeit, with a quantum valeat when we differ.
Plain Advice to Landlords and Tenants. Washbourne. We understand that upwards of six thousand copies have been sold of this useful compendium. Eighteenpence is a cheap premium for insurance against the manifold expenses and vexations which may arise out of the relations of landlord and tenant, lodging-house keepers and lodging. hirers. The public are indebted to Mr. Washbourne for the industry with which this and many other little books of a similarly useful description are got up.
A Letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury. By a Curate. Certain questions have been forwarded by the Bishops to their Clergy, tending to elicit information, or its semblance, preparatory (as is supposed) to some plan of Church Reform. In that aristocratical spirit which pervades our institutions, even though they be, as whatever is Christian must be, professedly founded on the broadest principle of human equality and fraternity,--these queries have been addressed to Incumbents and not to Curates; to the gentlemen, and not to the ope. ratives, of the Establishment. Hereupon the Curate ventures to question the Archbishop, and puts the very reasonable inquiry, why the Curates were not invited to answer for themselves on points which they were most competent to elucidate, and in which their interests, and those of the incumbents, their employers, are directly at variance? To this pertipent question, several others succeed, equally deserving the attention of the Dignitary to whom they are addressed, and of the public generally. Amongst other demands, the Curate asks, 'What is the reason that the Clergy, as a body, are at present degraded before mankind ?' And he justly adds, ' The answer is immediate ; they have commuted the means which the Deity gave them for the dissemination of Divine truth and virtue, into the elevation and aggrandizement of Self. Thus serving the creature more than the Creator, they have cut off the streams of Divine illumination from themselves, and have left the whole world in darkness.' (p. 15) That such a body is the power that is appointed to regenerate the kingdoms of men' is a position of which we cannot feel quite so confident as the Author. We must wait to witness their own regeneration first. Still we love the simple fervour of his pious enthusiasm. Whatever become of his prophecy, we believe his history to be correct; and as affecting as it is true. Witness the following description:
• Another subject, against which the national appeal is made, and concerning which tears run down the people's cheeks, is the treatment which is awarded by the Establishment to a body that has won itself the honour. able appellation of “the working clergy."' Of all denominations of men, not excepting the Irish peasantry, there is not a more unbefriended and ill-used race of beings upon earth than the curates. Reared in the pleasures and luxuries of an university, raised during their academical residence above their future conditions, they are prepared by the refinements of feeling acquired there—for what? to bury in their heart's core a degree of poverty at which the heart sickens and the senses swim! Oh! my Lord, how deeply, and how fatally, the wretched curate learns the lesson of concealment, can only be known by those who have felt it. Home to him has no charms-there is poverty in every corner; excursions abroad no enjoyments—there is exposure at every step; friendship no balm-it pours oil into wounds he would rather should destroy life than be perceived. The curate stands in his parish like a desolate tree, withering and deserted ; save by a few wretched sucklings at his root, to whom he has given unfortunate existence. To pierce the concealment of a curate, you must go, my Lord, to his kitchen. His parlour will not do; there he effectually deceives you. Studied neatness distinguishes his parlour, his children, arid the partner of his trials. For this the mournful minister of peace has debarred himself the gratification of the senses, and reduced his wants and health to mere attenuation-exhaustion-nothing. To his kitchen must you go to peruse the tale of a curate's misfortunes. See, my Lord, as I open the door, in silence ; you behold the lonely couple preparing, with their offspring, to partake of their accustomed meal. A little bacon, a few potatoes, a morsel of bread, and a cup of cold water, comprise the sum of all they shall taste this day. Heartbroken father! careworn mother! dear hungry innocents! a rich man's servant would reject your humble fare. But hark, my Lord, he reads the rich man's self a lesson; he does infinite honour to those poor elements; he asks a blessing, where, alas ! one is too plainly wanted. But it is enough, my Lord, let us close the door of your fellow-labourer and brother in Christ!
• Continual drippings will wear away a block of granite. Such events destroy a curate's usefulness- his energy, with his health, give way-he is grey-headed at thirty-five-few and evil having been the number of his days, he sinks into the grave, to receive in the bosom of his God, those comforts which the Church denied him on earth.'
And such are some of the workings of a plan which professes to be the best in the world for teaching the people religion! There must be a gross fallacy somewhere ; but the public have little chance of its detection while the attention to this subject, both of Churchmen and Statesmen, is chiefly directed to the pecuniary interests which it involves.
SKETCHES OF DOMESTIC LIFE. No. I.
CYRIL CONWAY was one of those unfledged barristers whose appeal, in their outset in life, lies more to the courts of criticism than to the courts of law: that is, he eked out a scanty income by large outgoings from his brain, for the supply of various quarterly and other periodical publications. His position, in the abstract, calculated to move the contemplative to compassion, was, in the detail, anything but painful. Cyril was, fortunately, not one of those who
• Beat at their brains and fancy wit will come,' but who,
Knock as they will, find nobody at home.' He suffered none of those pains of parturition which necessarily make some writers think so much of their literary offspring, though nobody else does. The fountains of Cyril's thoughts were erer flowing: when once fairly engrossed by a theme, what cared he for the dull or coarse realities of life? He was as far from them as his antipodes from him-as much above them as the cerulean sky is above the ocean abyss! It mattered not that his chambers were meanly and scantily furnished—that the negligence of the laundress had left a very small supply of coals, and that he had not economized them with sufficient care and skill. Far, far from such perceptions had his spirit gone to riot amid scenes of rich revelry, where 'wit set the table in a roar,' or music • lapped the soul in elysium.'
When the spell was dissolved by the closing of the article he was writing, he would fold it up, put it into his pocket, button his coat, put out his candles, and go forth. The intensity of light lately burning within him suddenly subsided, but was not extinct: enough was left to form a halo, which lighted him through the dull streets, and kept him warm and buoyant till he reached the printing-office, where another inspiration touched him.
There was a charm about Cyril's manner and character which none could resist; it made him welcome everywhere; no creature, who had even but by chance spoken to him, ever forgot him, or would not have been glad to meet him again. The very link boy, who conducted him over a dirty crossing, felt a glow of good will towards him, for he was sure to say something which made the poor lad think the better of himself and the world for the rest of the night; and, as the few coppers were dropped into his hat, the God bless your honour !' came from the boy's heart as well as his lips.
At the editor's or printer's office, therefore, where Cyril was No. 99.
known, there were always two or three hands held out to clasp his the moment he appeared; while many, who could not claim such a privilege, looked towards him, from time to time, with a gleam breaking upon their swart features, as if his coming was the advent of cheer to their spirits. They were never disappointed, for he spoke as well as he wrote, with the same unconscious flow of fire, feeling, force, and sweetness.
Cyril rarely made his escape from this scene, (which, however, in reality a dark dingy den, was, by the power of social intellect, converted into a region of light, and warmth, and gladness,) otherwise than linked arm in arm with some one, not fitted by conventional rules or the claims of equal powers to be his com: panion ; but who grappled him by an appeal few can resist,admiration for his talent, and regard for himself. Yet Cyril was not given to intemperance; though many, with whom 'misery made him acquainted,' were. His dreams borrowed nothing of their beauty or eccentricity from the effects of inebriety; so that if the morning brought him a one guinead brief, or a half guinea motion, it always found him clear-headed, and often (poor fellow!) glad-hearted. Alas! how little do the rich know how much sweetness a single guinea will often drop into the poor man's cup! There, Cyril, there is a tear for thee, and for thy fortunes; let it be added to the million which thy pathos and thy humour have provoked !
Cyril was returning home one night, through a heavy rain, when his ear was suddenly caught, as he passed a doorway, by the sound of some one weeping. His buoyant step was instantly stayed, and, turning his head, he saw two women, evidently stand
from the rain. He had an umbrella, and, obeying the impulse of the moment, he made them an offer of it. After a slight hesitation it was accepted, at the same time a very gentle voice observed, “We have been unable to procure a coach, and my daughter and myself have found much difficulty in getting so far as this, for she is very delicate; at length her exhaustion became so great we were compelled to pause here, in the hope that the wind and rain might abate.'
Well, madam,' replied Cyril, as the umbrella can shelter but one, will you walk on with it as guide, and permit me to support this young lady, and shelter her with my cloak, which is sufficiently ample for the purpose?'
A quarter of an hour's walk led them to a street leading off from the Strand, and the light which was brought to the door at which they knocked, gave Cyril a perfect view of his new acquaintances. The elder was a somewhat elegant woman, between forty and fifty years of age; the younger, a girl about eighteen, who, as she escaped from his cloak, revealed a small but beautiful figure, and a very lovely face, though pale as the pearl yet sleeping in its shell. The momentary glance of a timid
blue eye, was all of thanks of which Cyril was conscious, though much verbal gratitude was poured upon him by the mother. He had, however, sufficient presence of mind to ask permission to call the next morning to learn how they had borne the effects of so pitiless a night, and was then flying off without his umbrella, only that he was recalled by the shrill tones of the servant girl.
How did Cyril dream that night! What storm and tempest did he not brave with that fair girl, like a beam upon his bosom, breaking the surrounding darkness; the murmur of her voice made music amid the din of battling winds; her clasp kept him buoyant above billows which yawned and rolled beneath his feet; and her smile, timid and transient as the one which had visited his waking sight, warmed his heart with hope, and animated it for endurance.
Cyril awoke the next morning, and found himself in a new #orld-in short, he was in love. His age, five-and-twenty, and his organization, full of fire and feeling, must plead for him with the safety sons of society, who travel like snails, slow but sure, and with a telegraphic apparatus of forethought, which is equivalent to the insect's antenna, enabling them to feel their
with the precision of a pair of compasses.
Every clock in the Temple, as well as Cyril's own watch, appeared to him in a conspiracy against time, but at length he presented his person where he had left his heart the preceding night-saw only the mother--learned that her name was Pembroke, and that she was the widow of a naval officer, and departed with an invitation to tea the following evening, won for him by the fascination of his address and conversation, rather than by his original service. Cyril had an engagement for the next evening, but had it been to meet the assembled sovereigns of the earth it had been broken. The nectarine hour, fondly anticipated, came; and bohea and blushes blessed his senses. The only fault of Caroline Pembroke's appearance was being over dressed; but that Cyril did not discern, and, as a compliment paid to himself, would have deemed it anything but a fault if he had.
From the first dawn of preference to the acknowledgment of passion, there is an indefinable strengthening of the moral light, which may be compared to the progress of the light of day as it steals imperceptibly more and more upon the sky, till every rekuetant shadow flies, and we feel the full orb, yet cannot tell the moment at which its lustre was first complete.
Cyril was in a state of enchantment when he had won the sweet assurance that he was loved; there is none so flattering to every feeling and vanity of the human breast; and so strongly does it appeal to the passions, that it leaves the reason little ability to act.