in buying and selling cattle. When our time arrived we set out under a strong escort of relatives and servants. As we approached I saw so many children coming away with rattles, penny trumpets, whistles, and drums, that I began to be seriously alarmed lest these treasures should be exhausted before we arrived, and kept my money warm in my hand, ready to tender it at a moment's notice. But how shall I describe the glories of the scene truly? Our language, alas! is too poor in superlatives to justify the attempt. The splendour of the toy booths, the savoury Elysium of the pastry cook's shop, the music of the spheres by mortals called a barrel organ, the incomparably witty Punch, the astounding pictures of the wild beasts, the hollowing and the rolling backwards and forwards of the mob: these appeals to the senses and the imagination, produced an intoxication of mind exquisitely delightful, but which I am persuaded is often mistaken by grown persons for stupid wonder, or mere apathy. Then came the weighty matters of business-I had a lurking fear that when I came to the push the owners of the shining treasures which I saw around me would not part with them for a few miserable pieces of dark brown metal; but the cruel dilemma in which the necessity of choice placed me was the great drawback to my happiness. I had but three pence to spend-but three pence do I say when I set out from home I thought myself wealthy, and though on comparing my means with my wants, I found my fortune more humble than I at first imagined, yet, like parson Adams, when he produced his half guinea, 1 felt that I could not fairly be reproached with poverty-moreover, I had a sort of indistinct hope that more might be done with my money than at first sight appeared feasible: I found that I might have this, or that, or the other for my three pence, and it did not appear to me beyond the probable reach of my nurse's ingenuity to find some expedient by which the conjunction disjunctive might be got rid of, and the copula fairly introduced. The undefined, says Burke, is a great source of the sublime. If he is right, and I have no doubt he is, it is very easy to see that childhood must be the state in which the feeling of sublimity must be most frequently enjoyed. I remember the terror which I had used to feel on being carried by the house of a man, who I was told was very wicked; what his offences were I have forgotten, if ever I knew, but the proximate cause of my fear was curious enough-his windows were glazed with very coarse glass, which reflected objects in revolving circles as they passed; this effect I imagined was caused, in some way or other, by the enemy, and signified his approach. I am not so sure of the superior happiness of childhood over adult age, as it is the fashion to assume. I remember suffering very acutely both in body and mind. We are accustomed, by habit, to the restraints of artificial life—but in childhood, when the habits are unformed and the sensations acute, there is much to be endured from them. I was a long time, for instance, in learning to bear worsted stockings; I had, indeed, an immense number of antipathies which did not always meet with due respect. It is impossible to calculate the suffering which is inflicted on children by disregarding what we are pleased to call their whims. I can never forget the horror I felt at the simple operation of having my finger nails cut; it set my teeth an edgewhy I do not know, but I cannot mistake the fact. On the other hand, this acuteness of sensation was often a source of great enjoyment. It is impossible to describe the ravishing delight I felt from the odour of a flower garden. I well remember that every house with which I was acquainted had its own peculiar smell-I ought, however, to observe, that I have reason to think my sense of smelling is more acute than is usually possessed, a faculty which, as my lot is cast in London, I could be well content should be in somewhat less vigour. my I perfectly recollect suffering under that state of the eye so powerfully described by the Opium-Eater. The moment my nurse left me in the dark, after putting me to bed, scenes passed before my eyes as vivid and perfect as the diorama. In very early childhood this was a source of great terror. I well remember once when I was about three years of age, entering into an agreement with my aunt, that in consideration of one table-spoon full of sweet syrup first had and received, I would undertake to be quiet and peaceable for the term of the whole night then next ensuing. I swallowed my syrup and lay down fully determined to perform share of the contract like an honest man; but no sooner was the candle gone than I was transported bed and all into an empty church, where I saw pews, pulpit, and organ, with as much reality as a minute before I had contemplated the precious bottle and the silver spoon. I roared-the scene vanished, and then fears of another kind possessed me; I trembled to hear the reproaches of my betrayed aunt-my conscience smote me, and I lay equally balanced between the opposing fears of the church and my aunt, until the gleam through the key-hole of her approaching light dispelled my visionary terrors, but wofully increased my dread of meeting the frowns of my human antagonist. By degrees my alarm at these visions wore away, but the sights themselves lasted for many years, until I was nearly grown up. I remember that any thing which in the course of the day strongly excited my imagination, influenced these nightly appearances. At six years of age I read the Pilgrim's Progress; my edition had a print representing Giant Despair pursuing Christian and Hopeful in their escape from Doubting Castle. That print haunted me cruelly. The artist had placed the Giant frightfully near the fugitives, who were running away at a very sleepy pace. My fears lest the grisly wretch should stretch out his hand, to seize the poor fellows, amounted sometimes almost to agony. My literary pleasures began early. Mrs. Barbauld's "Hymns for children" was the first book I called my own: my schoolmistress told me a copy was coming for me by the waggon, from London, where I had not the remotest doubt the vehicle had been despatched for the especial purpose of bringing down my book. On the day the waggon was expected to return I took my station on the window seat and waited for its advent with all the patience I could muster; at length it came, and to my dismay actually passed my father's house, without stopping to deliver my book and I then learnt, for the first time, the melancholy fact that the waggon would go to the carrier's, that a package would then be sent to the bookseller's, that it would then have to be unpacked and my book to be sent to my school-mistress, and worse and worse, that the eternity of another night must be grappled with before I could set eyes on the object of so many anxious wishes. At length, however, the morrow came. I went at an early hour to demand my book; but, alas, in the mean time, "a young lady" had requested to have a copy, and my dame knew I would readily give up my claim to "a young lady." I gave up my claim, of course, because I was obliged to it, but I should have given it up to the dog with equal satisfaction. If it were not refining too much I should be very strongly inclined to attribute the want of gallantry which my friends too justly charge upon me, to my having, at six years and a half old, been forced to give up a new book to a young lady." At length, however, I obtained a copy-how perfectly do I recollect that book-what a beautiful marble cover did it boast-what a delightful odour did it exhale. I have not seen it for five and twenty years, but I recollect perfectly well the minutest particulars connected with it: for instance, I remember that the hymn “Behold the Shepherd" began almost at the bottom of the right-hand page. I referred all the descriptions I found in my book to particular scenes with which I was familiar-I could point out now the rising ground which I appropriated to the use of the sheep bleating among the hills, and I know the timber yard in which the harsh saw of the carpenter" was to be heard. 66 I ought to beg pardon for these minute and trifling details, uninteresting, perhaps, to all but myself. I have only one atonement to offer. If each of my readers will take the trouble to note down his early recollections, at the same length, I will undertake to read them and thank him for the opportunity*. M.D. H. *We object, in toto, to this publication being the vehicle of Mr. Heaviside's edification.-Editor, 173 JUDAS MACCABEUS, A FRAGMENT, IN IMITATION OF MILTON. THE warrior youth, who by the will rais'd up Sing, heav'nly Muse! who ne'er to fabled acts Didst pay vain homage; but before the throne With angels and the spirits of the blest, Tun'st the full hymn: O guide my wand'ring spirit, It was the hour of eve, and the slant sun Sinking, resign'd the air to Sleep, who shed Dews from his car oblivious, and all lands With quiet moisten'd; all save one, where quiet Was none, nor hope, nor intermission sweet Of evil; through Israel's bounds havoc and death Still raged dimensionless: the altar of God Fall'n, and the sanctuary with rites profan'd Idolatrous, their happy fields laid waste, Empty and void their streets, their virgins dragg'd To shame, their youths by torture slain, or sav'd For misery and bondage. Therefore prayers, Laments, and clamours, all night on the wind By moonlight at the threshold of their house To win from sorrow, and temper his despair, Though sad themselves, yet smiling; sure to please "Michael, of heav'nly armies chief, and prince My worship; that so Israel, in success *We believe the accent is here wrongly placed; we have not, however, thought it worth while to make any alteration. |