272

CHAPTER XIX.

THE BLANK IN LIFE.

I REMEMBER well the little bed that had been It made for me in a room where we often sat.

I felt as if some

To me

seemed to be a press by day. At night it opened out in front for my admission. The sharp pains came faster through my head—as if they had been stabs with some thin instrument-and quick, like very thoughts. Before my eyes a million fire lights of every shade and colour danced like a gorgeous mockery, for through them I could see nothing nothing but that rich vein of sparkling atoms, a million of gems thrown between me and the world. Then it was hot there-very, very hot-and my parched lips and throat seemed to crack and open in many places, but only, as it were, fire then came A dreadful out or in; for all was hotter still. race was running through me. horrid beings had made me into a race-course, but they flitted faster than the northern lights we see in the winter sky. I was chained and could not move, dumb and could not speak, blind and could not see- -for that mazy film of sparkling, racing lights that were everywhere; but I could hear. They came in late. That was part of the torture. They were wearied. They spoke long. they never spoke-they turned not-I heard my father say, "it was a special providence." A drop of water—a single drop to cool a parched tongue —a tongue that surely hung far out, but all was desert, dry, hot, and burning, and they must be A drop of water, and there were many drops a few yards off, but I could not reach them; could not move, dared not cry. THEY watched me ere then they watched close above me-they held me, and pressed me down; not they whom I loved, but THEY who came out of the fires, who grew out of the lights that once danced before me, up and down, round in circles, through and through every sort of imaginable figure. They grew strong as I grew weak-grinning, mocking fiends, down into the water they pressed; and it was hot, like burning coals-salt, like brine-bitter as our horehound or our wormwood. Long hours I battled there alone with the light-torn fiends; but they gained; and the race within was quickened, and It seemed to me that the last grew ever quicker. words I had heard-" special providence to my mind just as the bitter boiling waters had almost 'whelmed me. Through the crowd of enemies streamed a clear blue light, most beautiful and lovely. It came not like a sudden flash, but grew quick and steadily to strength; and the waters passed away before it, and the demon lights flashed no more--paling within its

gone.

came

presence. Neither was there sound nor voice; and still my lips were parched, the throat was dry, It was for a the tongue was hard and brittle. moment only. Something appeared to fall away gently without a crash, and I was free-within a colourless atmosphere, gentle to breathe, but not like aught that I had ever known. It was rest, and that was all-the luxury of rest after a fearful strife-rest from the rack, rest from the wheel. It was but a moment, or little more. A gentle voice, hushed now for ever-oh, so long hushed and still-was saying in a half whisper, and "So you think him over this struggle now"; and a quiet voice, too, that I had often heard before; but a bass, deep voice answered, 'Oh, yes, he is better Be now-won almost out of his very grave. God praised, for I thought long that you had lost him." "And what shall I do if he asks for any. thing, doctor ?" "Give him almost anything he asks-anything that yon would give to a very young child; but tell me what he wants." They went away. "Long, his very grave; Long thought that you had lost him!" It was strange, for it was not so long since I was wandering among the snow-one night only that must be all; and this must be Monday. The light was sweet but weak. Where came the flowers from on the table? It was a puzzle, and I raised my head to see more flowers on the mantel-piece; and I stretched out of my little bed to ask from whence they came. My nurse checked me-the gentlest nurse that ever sick man knows; and that poor throbbing head was pillowed as in infancy upon its mother's breast.

An April day, dry, and sunny, and warm, in an early spring. The birds sang in the trees,—the bees were winging through the air-the buds upon the early roses were making ready for May-the cherry trees were white with blossom, and on some apple trees red spots were peering through the leaves-the carnations were out in all the borders

and stars of Bethlehem were opening wide their snowy petals to the warm sun, and to the warm south-west wind that blew so gently over the emerald fields and the green woods-and the splash of the merry trout broke the sparkling of the quiet water, and honey suckle covered with its red, and white, and yellow pendants the seat to which they had carried me. That was my morn after the snowy Sabbath night in the churchyard. What lay between was my blank in life, except that weary night which even yet seems like an age.

Thus I missed the particulars of all the changes that had sprung from the snow storm, the dead mother-the saved children.

(To be Continued.)

"Your attention has been drawn to this pestilential source of disease, and to the consequence of heaping human beings into contracted localities ;* and I again revert to it because of its great importance, not merely that it perpetuates fever and the allied disorders, but because there stalks side by side with this pestilence a yet deadlier presence, blighting the moral existence of a rising population, rendering their hearts hopeless, their acts ruffianly, and scattering, while society averts her eye, the retributive seeds of increase for crime, turbulence, and disorder."See Report of Dr. Letheby, Medical Officer of Health.

In a room up a squalid court,

Where "tramps" sleep three in a bed, Where the baby sleeps by the sick man's side, And the dying beside the dead;

Rich Rich! Rich!

Your feelings perchance t'will hurt,
But a woman there to a dolorous pitch,
Did sing this "Song of the Dirt."

"Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!
From basement up to roof,

And dirt, dirt, dirt,

Where sickness stands never aloof.

It's oh! to dwell and toil

With the heathen Esquimaux,

To batten on filth and oil,
If Christians should live on so!

"Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!

Ou ceiling, wainscot, and floor,
Aud dirt, dirt, dirt

On sidepost, lintel, and door.
Stench, and fever, and death,

Where huddle the young and old,
Where the beggar's brat is rocked to sleep
By the side of the corpse just cold! †

**Of the many cases to which I have alluded there are some that have commanded my attention by reason of their unusual depravity, cases in which three to four adults of both sexes, with many children, were lodging in the same room, and often sleeping in the same bed. I have notes of three or four localities where 48 men, 73 women, and 59 children are living in 34 rooms. They are distributed as follows:-2 men, 2 women, and 3 children in one room; 1 man, 2 women, and 3 children; one man, 4 women, and 2 children; 2 men, 3 women, and 1 child; 2 men, 1 woman, and 2 children; 1 man, 4 women, and 1 child; 1 man and 3 women; 2 men and 3 women; and so on. The rooms are all dirty and ill-furnished, and the rent paid for them varies from 1s. 3d. to 3s. 6d. per week, the average being about 2s."-Vide Report.

About a fortnight since, I visited the back room on the

men,

"Oh! men with thousands a-year,

Oh! men with mothers and wives, Oh! read that report, and think of our sort, Oh! think of our bestial lives.

Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!

Can such as we grow good,

When filth is around us, night and morn,
In sleep, work, drink, and food?
"But why do I talk of dirt,

Where nothing else is known?
I hardly know the foul thing's form,
It seems so-like my own.

It seems so like my own

While three in a bed we sleep,

Till filth doth grow to the poor man dear, While water and soap are cheap.

"Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!

We cannot sleep on the flags,

So together we herd in our fetid dens,
And fever nurse in our rags,-

Small-pox, fever, and cough,

Where the slimy vapour doth reck, ‡

Where children are born near the livid corpse, That cholera killed last week!

"Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!

In the cold December night,
And dirt, dirt, dirt

When summer days are bright,
When God's blesséd winds do blow,

Like a message from bygone years, From the broad green fields at home, Till I wash my face with tears!

"Oh! for one breath of air,

Away from this sick'ning smell, Where the only flowers we ever see, Are the flowers we cannot sell, Which we've hawked in the street all day, Till hunger our cheeks doth blench, And we bring 'em home to wither and die, And fragrance fades into stench!

ground floor of No. 5. I found it occupied by 1 man, 2 woand 2 children, and in it was the dead body of a poor girl who had died in childbirth a few days before. The body was stretched out on the bare floor without shroud or coffin."-Ibid.

"So close and unwholesome is the atmosphere of some of these rooms, that I have endeavoured to ascertain by chymical means whether it does not contain some peculiar product of decomposition that gives to it its foul odour, and its rare powers of engendering disease. I find that it is not only deficient in the due proportion of oxygen, but it contains three times the usual amount of carbonic acid, besides a quantity of aqueous vapour charged with alkaline matter that stinks abominably."-Ibid.

R

IX.

W. B. B. S.

HURRAH FOR GOVERNOR YEH!
AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
CONSIDERABLY AFTER TENNYSON.
BY THE RIGHT HON. B. D'ISR-E-I.

PART II.

Now you need not call me early, cail not early, wifie dear, For Sorrow fain would slumber, and in sleep forget a tear, For another session's coming on--but I shall never see, Myself Exchequer's Chancellor as once I used to be.

Last March we had a merry time-t'was faction's opening day,

And Cobden formed a Co. with me, to spout for Gov'nor Yeh,

And oh we spouted bitterly-our party's spleen to please, Till Cobden seemed a Cicero, and I Demosthenes.

But Cobden's out for Huddersfield, and Gibson's stood in vain,

I only wish to live until there is a row again;

I hope there'll be another row-I don't mind where or why, I long to be in office so before the day I die.

Facetious Pam will prate to each callow young M.P.,
And Hayter, his sleek satellite, will wag his head at me,
And when Bowring shall return from China o'er the wave,
There's an Order for his button-hole-the powder-loving

knave!

I have been wild and wayward—but I'm sad and sulky now,
With my hopes of office blighted and my reputation low,
For the Ministers come back, the Treasury bench to fill,
While I may bite my nails in spite, in Opposition still.

If I can, again I'll factions form, for Palmerston's disgrace,
Perhaps I'll get a sinecure-for patriois love place;
If I can't, I'll sneer in good set speech at all they do or

say,

Though England don't join chorus in "Hurrah for Gov'nor Yeh !"

Good night-yon need not call me before the day is born, All night I'm seeking "mares' nests," but I fall asleep at

morn,―

Aud in my dreams I'm happy-for I'm thinking of the day,
When I wearied lung, tongue, heart and brain for gentle
Gov'nor Yeh !
W. B. B. S.

X.

LOVE'S REASON WHY.

"Et genus et virtus, nisi cum re, vilior alga est.-Hor.

I LOVE thee, love, I love thee, love, 'tis all that I can say, I'll love thee, love, to-morrow, love, as I loved thee yesterday;

'Tis not that thou art beautiful as is a painter's dream, I know things seem not as they are, and are not as they

seem;

'Tis not because thy soft dark eye beams with a loving light, That gladdens all it glances o'er, and makes e'en sorrow bright;

'Tis not because thy step doth move with fawn-like, artless grace;

'Tis not because thy gentle soul's reflected in thy face, 'Tis not because thy girlish voice hath the rich lute-like tone,

Which is dear girlhood's guerdon, love, ere evil days be known;

"Tis not because thy father's name is of a knightly line, Who fought with Coeur de Lion's van in holy Palestine; 'Tis not because the world doth speak with loud acclaim of thee,

For virtue, beauty, lofty birth, that thou art dear to me; "Tis not for beauty, virtue, birth, that I have loved thee so; 'Tis that-thou hast a large account with Messrs. Coutts and Co. !

XI.

W. B. B. S.

A LEGEND SUPERNATURAL AND
POLITICAL.

SCENE The sanctum sanctorum of Mr. Robert Owen, the spirit-medium. TIME-Midnight. Mr. Owen solus, mixing something in a tumbler.

OWEN "It's getting late and chilly, and I feel as tho' I wanted something hot. Spirits are good, whatever sort they be.

Ethereal spirits are the thing whene'er one has the dull
And easy gulléd multitude to do; but when a man's alone
Commend me to spirits tangible, strong, and warm-not your
Watery, weak-(knocking heard somewhere)-Halloo !
Who's there?"

SPIRIT: "One who, when on nether earth, was 'clept George Gordon, Lord Byron."

OWEN: "Oh! it's you-I beg your pardon, how d'ye do? I-a

Mean to say I didn't expect-that is-you startled me

Rather. Have you got aught to mention ? Can I offer
You anything? What'll you take to- -?"

SPIRIT: "Silence and listen-tremble and obey!
I wandering o'er the Stygian marge in grief
Permitted was t'ascend to upper air, and note
The mundane evolutions-to survey the whims

And phantasies of modern politicians, and have writ

Something I want to publish, but I've not

The necessary influence with Murray.

You, being gen'ral agent for the corps

Of disembodied spirits -unto you

I now apply to you recite my lines,

And bid you publish them, (or fear my ghost
In lonely hours), at your own proper cost.
OWEN: "Oh!-
SPIRIT: "Silence and listen." (Recites.)
There was a sound of orat'ry by night,
And Britain's capital had gathered then
Her parliament'ry chivalry, and bright
The gas shone o'er these intellectual men ;
Six hundred hearts beat hopefully; and when
Cobden arose, that slaughter-hating swell,
Dark eyes flash'd fire at eyes which flash'd again,
And Cobden felt a second William Tell,
Obsequious Hayter paled, and Pam's bold visage feli!

Had'st thou but heard, O gentle reader mine,
The whispering talk, the noise of shuffling feet-
But mark'd the looks of men who wished to dine,
And dared not, for their lives, move from their seat,
Chafing within, without, with fervent heat,
Thou would'st have envied orators no more-
Thou would'st have owned no eyes could ever meet
A sight suggesting stronger the word "bore,"
And turned thee to thy bed contentedly to snore.
Ah! then and there were hurryings to and fro,
And notes delivered in a shocking mess,
And gents grew pale who, but a week ago,
Esteemed themselves "the cheese," and nothing less;
And there were sudden partings-I confess
These coalitions, ruptures, did surprise
The public gen'rally. Could any guess
That villain Yeh would break old English ties,

And British statesmen stoop to puff his Chinese lies?

Then ye might see cabs hurrying in hot haste
To Paddington, and Shoreditch, Euston-square,
And all the other stations-for no waste

Of time made Pam, nor did he even spare
His co-mates; for the ripen'd wheat and tare
Must grow and bloom together here, until

The reck'ning comes, and men's hearts are laid bare.
And well did Ministers their own plots till,
And sway the supple country at their lordly will!

Within a niche of Romulus's halls

Sat Manchester's sick member. He did hear
The news by telegraph, and loud he calls
For ink and paper; and he dropt a tear
(Of course well'd up by sentiment, not fear)

Upon the sheet which stated he would stand Once more for that great town he loved so dear. Ungrateful Manchester, I say-for it

275

Saw its sick member stand and would not bid him sit !*
And Thames' waves murmur as the members leave,

And sigh beneath its bridges as they pass,
Grieving (if aught so muddy e'er can grieve)

Over the unreturning brave-alas!

So shortly to be stript of all their brass

As well as tin, and, friendless, left to go
O'er the wide, gloomy world-consigned, en masse,
To vile obscurity by heartless foe,

Shorn of their proud" M.P." by base elector's "No!"
Last session found them full of lusty strife,
Last month in House of Commons blithe and gay-
The guns of Canton signall'd forth the strife
And called 'em all to arms. And "Gov'nor Yeh !"
The war-cry was which led them on that day;
The busting's mob closed round them-forth they weut,
Their hopes all wither'd, crush'd, in dust low lay-
To mourn their factious folly and repent

Were Gibson, Cobden, Bright, by angry England sent.
[Spirit takes himself off. Owen, after noting down the
poem and enclosing it to the editor of " TAIT," empties
his glass, and drops asleep.]
C. O.

BY SOLOMON SELFISH.
Oh! list a moment now to me,
As the world goes bobbing around;
Oh! life is but a leafless tree

Whose best part's under the ground.
Oh! what is Hope ?-but a lie and a wish,
Wherewith we all compound

With Grief for a share of Joy's loaf and fish,
As the world goes bobbing around.

And what is Truth ?- but a school-girl's dream,
As this aching heart hath found,

It means Hope's milk without Joy's cream,
As our hearts grow more unsound.

And Friendship, too ?- but a worthless name
On the bill of life-I've found

The endorser ne'er would pay the same,
When Grief went sobbing around.

And what is Fame ?-but the sound of a name
When your great man's under the ground;
What's the flush of shame or the breath of blame,
Where the worms go bobbing around?

W. B. B. S.

Mr. Bright was absent on the continent for the benefit of his health during the whole of the session, and telegraphed from Rome his intention to stand again for Manchester.

CHAPTER VIII.

A diamond,

Though set in horn, is still a diamond,

And sparkles as in purest gold.-Massinger.
Je crois qu'il n'y a point de genie sans activite.

Vauvenargues, De L'Esprit Humain.

IT has been alleged that of these fragmentary sketches of mine sadness has formed too great a part; that I have written of and from my own morbid impressions of life, as it appears through the misty spectacles of Dame Sorrow, rather than of men and things as they really are, and seem to more healthy imaginings. Possibly the complaint is in part just; possibly the sadness of the past has tinged the present, and the inditer of these "Broken Memories of a young life may

have had too much regard for his own whims and fancies, and too little for his readers' patience. It could not well be otherwise; " out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaketh," and, when I first sat down to write, it was not so much with a view to think what I should write, as to write what I should think as I went on. In this way whatever has occurred to me, I have jotted down en passant; would it had been worthier!

Over the fireplace, opposite to me, as I sit here now, is an old picture in a queer old frame, which was picked up by some progenitor of mine at a sale near by. It is the portrait of a man in the pride of life, which was bought and brought here, partly because it is a fine work of art, and partly because its original once lived in this county, and reflected honour on his birthplace. There are a few vague reminiscences associated in my mind with that old time-stained canvas and tarnished gilt frame, which only need collection to make a life-history.

Many years ago, long before you or I, dear reader, were born or thought of, in an out-of-theway village in this county, on a September evening, when the partridges were calling, and the sky was turning grey, might have been seen by any wayfarer who was curious enough to look over the roadside fence-a boy of fourteen sitting under a tree, reading an old stiff-backed folio; and the same wayfarer might also have observed that the eager student was a ploughboy, though it would have needed no second glance to convince such an one that this was not such a ploughboy as you could meet every day in similar localities. The popular idea of a ploughboy is, I am well aware, of an uncouth, apple-cheeked urchin, in smockfrock and high-lows, with dull, grey eyes, and a huge mouth capable of little else than widening at certain intervals to take in enormous quantities of bread and cheese, or to let out ejaculatory "Ohs!" expressive of clownish wonderm.ent and unconquer

able stupidity in a breath. But my ploughboy must lamentably disappoint any such preconceived ideas; for, in the first place, he was neither applechecked nor wide-mouthed, neither grey-eyed nor unconquerably stupid; his face, for one who had spent all his life in a village, being singularly pale, and his hazel eyes, broad forchead, and well cut mouth indicative of anything but dull perceptions. So at least thought the Rector of K—, the Rev. George Massey, who was just then cantering across the fields in the direction of the ploughboy student, who, on seeing the clergyman approach, rose up, book in hand, and saluted him with untu tored grace, in which respect and love were palpably blended.

"I am glad, Edward," said the Rector, "to see that you occupy your leisure so profitably. Will you allow me to look at the book you have selected for your evening's reading ?"

The boy handed up to him the heavy folioan early edition of Shakspeare-and, as his patron glanced over its well-thumbed pages, he perceived that the play of "Hamlet" was the selection for the evening's perusal.

"And so this is the way in which the best boy in the village,' as my wife loves to call you, spends his leisure. Let me ask if you understand what you read-whether you read for the sake of the poetry, or for the sake of such stories as you can glean here and there f"

The boy reddened, as he said quietly--

"I read, sir, for the sake of both; the poetry seems like some one talking to my heart; the stories amuse me, and are as good as a sermon to me for days after. To be sure, sir, a poor lad like me can only read slowly, but I like that, for the people in the book somehow seem to stay with me longer that way. Oh! sir, I never feel alone when I am reading in the fields here by myself; they that are dead and gone come to life again before me on the printed paper, till I thank God and you, sir, too, that I learned to read."

"Whew!" whistled the good old Rector, " Edward Bartram, you really are a very odd kind of ploughboy; I must try if I cannot find something better for you than field-work. You cannot have learned much at our school, and you must have picked up something more than your A B C to be able to read Hamlet' and enjoy it so thoroughly."

"Why, sir," said the boy simply, "I did pick up more outside the school than in it-old Mrs. Green, the schoolmistress, lent me three books, an old grammar, Robinson Crusoe,' and a dictionary --and out of my wages I bought some rushlights, and, when father and mother are asleep, I sit up at