iH Kee Na ; Ye ‘€e ies Wy A pe ; Laadll = Me * * Pa 7 Ya ° . % * “a a " ° . ,. * . ‘s } ol ‘ : 7 - . » = s _s - . ‘ = . “. * ‘ + Eg « ne * » ‘ - ‘ = * “\ & - * = ' - oe, ' i rn = * . 7 ° . m f | : ; ' 1 "N i fosry Aosusoxy ‘prow Bet SMASH | HONWYLNA “TVdIONIYE “SLNVAINJ WYOX ADVYNVHdUYOCQ VWUANVXATY =) tL 7 . AA a = iF eighton ~ Brothers. 4S | { Vlexandya a) " ‘ » a HO Es. RESE - . a “< ... _ Pe ee. % ae EDITED BY “ , 3 ve THOMAS. ARCHER. Contributed, Drawn, Engraved, Printed, Bound, And Published Gratuitously For the Benefit of the Institution. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY THE AUTHORS. ve Pe MES CLARKE &£'CO), 13, FLEET STREET, vs TAM Bo NLS BET &. CO,, F, Qi G RON Bois oe eek Ty OX FORD STREET, . Fa a7 & Ang st * * F . . 3 4 % es ra ~ se e ? i * < > ae a ~ * et eee ¢ y - : ~ 7 ‘ i € S ~ = z 4 toe = ; z _ - ’ a : a 5 » = 2 4 ~ t ~ . ‘ > é d 4 * re eo - , ee FONDON CigPe ALVEY, 0 ad 4 ~ ot 4A ee ne $4 Sg ee | Se RINTER,- 7 aerate - ATLAS Wonits, MUSEUM STREET, W.C, .* by “ - - : - a cal 2 £ ‘ hovhets ; ; fi sa tA jv belie r hey Qubsalas vg : i ; oe vm * i " cd | a . a N a volume like this an editorial address seems to be as much out of place as a long speech from the chairman of a public entertain- ment. To go through the ceremony of introducing to the audience people better known and more likely to be interesting than himself, and when he has done this, to retire to the dignified obscurity of a back seat on the platform until the concluding vote of thanks gives him a formal opportunity to depreciate his own humble efforts, is all that is required in either case. For two reasons, however, 1 am compelled to go beyond this usual observance. First, because there will be no opportunity, without re- sorting to epilogue, of expressing satisfaction at the end of the book ; and, secondly, because there is nothing whatever of a formal or cere- monious character about the volume itself. On a certain evening in the early part of last year, it was proposed by the excellent and amiable Secretary of the Alexandra Orphanage, that I should use my influence among my literary and artistic col/a- borateurs—many of them old and dear friends—to obtain a few contri- butions for a gift-book, which should be published for the benefit of the babies in the Institution at Hornsey Rise. As I was at that moment in the midst of them, and was consequently quite a big baby also, in respect to some half-restrained tears and unfashionable emotions, I con- sented, without reflecting to what such an enterprise might lead me. de. tu. PREFACE, What it did lead me to was the discovery that there are (as I suspected there were) a great many other quite as big babies as myself; and I really believe that, had time and a decent regard for the baby paper makers, the baby printers, and the baby book-binders permitted, we should have brought out quite a grown-up giant of a volume, repre- senting such a maturity of plan as would ultimately have required a family series to do it justice. To escape this it was obviously best to have no plan at all; so, for love of our fellow-babies in the infant village at Hornsey Rise, we came out to ‘‘ beat the bounds” of charity in our own district, and on the way were,met by those paper making and printing, book-binding and publishing, children, who joined with us in the common cause. There is no more to say, except to express a hope that the Gracious Lady whose name is lisped in loyal and loving accents by the orphans to whom she stands in the relation of a Fairy Godmother, may pardon the inscription of that name on our title-page as a talisman that may help us to reverse the legendary fairy process by turning our leaves into gold, THOMAS ARCHER. Deceniber, 1869. Authors. MRs. 8.'C. HALL, HENRY S. LEIGH, MARY HOWITT, AUTHOR OF “LILLIPUT EMMA JANE WORBOISE, LEVEE,” MARIANNE FARNINGHAM, ARTHUR LOCKER, LILY BROUGH, W. D. PRIOR, RUTH MURRAY, W. J. PROWSE; THOMAS ARCHER, T. W. ROBERTSON, MATTHIAS BARR, Se. We ROW TON: H. SAVILE CLARKE, WILLIAM SAWYER, G. W. CONDER, CLEMENT W. SCOTT, SIDNEY DAYRL, JOSEPH SOUL, EDWARD DRAPER, J. ASHBY STERRY, W. N. DRYBURGH, T. SULMAN, ANGUS FAIRBAIRN, WALTER THORNBURY, AUTHOR OF “GENTLE LIFE,” GODFREY TURNER, TOM HOOD, JOSEPH VEREY, JOHN LATEY, J. CRAWFORD WILSON. Artists. MISSSH, J. A. MELES, fp ERIGHTION, T.5.A.; ¥. BARNARD, GEORGE LEIGHTON, E. C. BARNES, Js PROCTOR; AS Wo BAYES; T. SULMAN, W. BRUNTON, J. GORDON THOMSON, CHAS. GREEN, R. WEEDON, E. LAW, HARRISON WEIR. Lingravers. J. R. BATTERSHELL, R. KNIGHT, DALZIEL BROTHERS, J. KNIGHT, C. A. FERRIER, W. J. PALMER, JOHN GREENAWAY, GEORGE PEARSON, MASON JACKSON, JOSEPH SWAIN. The Paper supplied by Messrs. SPALDING & HODGE, The Volume printed by Mr. C. P. ALVEY. The Binding executed by Messrs. LEIGHTON, SON, & HODGE, vv Contents. TELE, AUTHOR. Mrs S.C, fail. Author of “The Gentle Life.” A NEw YEAR’s GIFT. THE LESSON OF SORROW, CHESTNUT BLossom. W. F. Prowse. Jusqu’A LA Mort. Hi, 3S. Leigh. A BLIND GIRL’S SONG. KOA, IN THE CONSERVATORY. H, Saville Clarke. THE HEDGE SCHOOLMASTER. i ae UNDER THE TREES, Clement W. Scott. LIGHT AND DARKNESS. Wilham Sawyer. AN ORPHAN’S SOLILOQUY, Geo. Wm. Conder. SONG. ipa. T. W. Robertson. F. Crawford Wilson, THE ORIGIN OF MUSIC. THE FAREWELL. OuT TOO LATE. Tom fTood. THE STORY OF A LOCKET. Sydney Dayrt. HADLEIGH CASTLE. 7. Sulman. A SPRING SONG, Lily Brough, CONTENTS. PAGE. TLeUE: AUTHOR. 6 Tur Day DREAM OF THE Doctor’s Boy. Walter Thornbury. 3 67 LADY LAKE AND HER LOVERS. Arthur Locker. 71 THE ARK. S. F. Rowton. 2 THE ORPHAN’s CRY. — -Foseph Sout. 74 SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. Foseph Verey. 76 THE REAPER. Godfrey Turner. 78 THE LITTLE CHILD UNDERSTANDS LITERALLY THAT WHICH THE PARENT SAYS. Mary Howitt. 81 DEAD. Matthias Barr. oY THE LATE WILLIAM BALL. Ledward Draper. 94 DARK ROLLING CLOUDS THE SKIES DEFORM. By the late William Ball, 95 THE Best BELOVED’S GRAVE. F. Crawford Wilson. 99 SUMMER THOUGHTS. Angus Fairbairn. IOE THE TRIUMPH OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIs. Wilham Sawyer. 107 ON THE RESPECTABLE. W. D. Prior. 114 AMEN. Fohn Latey. 119 THE NURTURE OF CHILDREN. By the Author of ‘Lilliput Levee.” 140 THE Wripow’s LAMENT. W. N. Dryburgh. 143 A MOoTHER’s DEATH. Marianne Farningham. 147 GLoRY TO GoD. Lmma Fane Worboise. 150 SUMMER SONG. F. Ashby Sterry. 151 From Dusk TILL DAWN. : Foseph Verey. 153 AUTUMN. By the Author of ‘Lilliput Levee.” 161 My First VISIT TO THE LITTLE ORPHANS AT HOLLOWAY, Thomas Archer. a, x ‘ Baw H+ : a oe At aN \\ ot li. | i | ij | | - m1 ' i amma H , hh A «New- Years Gift. CHRONICLED BY MRS. 8S. .C. HALL. T was a damp, shivering, drizzling morning—if, indeed, it could be called ‘morning,’ when there was neither day- light nor twilight, nor moonlight—and though a star twinkled here and there among the folding and unfolding clouds, they shed no “light” on honest James Horton’s path as he stumbled from the muddy way to cross the road, which having been, according to public report, recently ‘““mended,” was a mass of large and small stones, most trying and injurious to the feet of man and beast. A NEW VEAR'S: Gif. And why did James want to cross the road, when the pathway was what he called “soft-walking,” and was also the | | direct way to the farm where he earned his daily bread? | { | James was not fond of variety, he did not care about it; he had tramped along the “soft” pathway in autumn, winter, and spring, and never complained of its “dustiness” in summer, yet now he left it, to stumble in the darkness over the stony road. And why? Because he had heard what at first he believed to be the cry of a kitten, (for honest James had a tender heart, and was distressed at the idea of even a kitten being exposed to the damps and chills of such a morning), but when he paused to listen for the next intimation of distress, he was convinced that the sound was the wail of a child! James stumbled still more rapidly over the stones, until he arrived at one of those heaps by the wayside which is composed of road sweep- ings—hard, though mingled mounds of mud, and stones, and rubbish of all kinds. The clouds broke, and the twilight seemed suddenly to brighten into, not absolute “day,” but there was sufficient: light to enable him to see that the cry A NEW YEAR'S GIFT: cs which had awoke his sympathy proceeded from a child, apparently about six or eight months old. ‘The little creature had been left with very slight clothing to the mercy of the wintry blast, and as the poor man afterwards said, when he lifted her she felt more like a lump of ice than a child. Finding according to his own words that “she was too big- like to fold under his coat,” he took it off, wrapt her in it most carefully, and went as rapidly as he could to the station-house. There was no “orphanage” near, but the station-master’s wife had a houseful of olive branches, and the reputation of being the greatest child-lover in the parish. The good woman, nothing loth, placed the little stranger to her bosom, and shared with it her infant’s food. God, we know, saw and blessed that act. Gradually, the nearly torpid limbs became warm and rosy, and, when satisfied, it opened wide its large blue eyes, and looked lovingly up at the kind face that bent over it. “There never was a sweeter baby born into the world, James Horton,” said the station-master’s wife. “The Lord gave light to your path this morning, at all events; and I 6 A NEW VEAR'S GIFT can only say that if the wicked ones who commenced the new year by abandoning this little lamb to a lingering death were turned over to me for punishment, looking as I now do upon its face, feeling the grasp of its small hand round my finger, and knowing that life has been given it by the And Atmicuty, I should be strictly just, not merciful see,” she added, while her honest, earnest voice became tremulous from emotion, “look! there is real Valenciennes on this little ragged shift; there is, indeed! I lived too long among ladies not to know rea/ from mock lace. And the shift is Cambric! But what matter is it,” she continued, pressing the child to her warm heart, “if you are come of gentle blood? What does ¢hat signify? The finery did not save you, nor shelter you, nor turn your cruel mother’s heart from its wickedness. But I cannot think a mother did it. I can understand what a woman will do in her hour of agony to hide her shame, but I cannot believe that after growing into her heart for months any mother could expose her child at night on the high road to almost certain death. I wish,” she continued, “I could get at its story. She has been well cared for; its little limbs are fair, and round, and A NEW YEARS GIFT. 7 dimpled, and its hair soft, and silky, and clean, A clean head is the sign of a well-tendered child. God love the dear baby! and God help you, James for your prompt humanity.” James, well pleased with his morning’s work, retraced his steps, and had the enjoyment of telling a new story at the farm. In truth, James found himself at once a popular character. Before twelve o’clock he had recited the adven- ture much more than a dozen times; and ere that hour the policemen, who generally “ took it easy,” were walking briskly along the road, enquiring in every beershop and cottage, if any stranger had been seen lurking about; and as New Year’s Day is a holiday with many, the station-master’s house was beset with visitors, all desirous of seeing “ the baby,” whose life had been so miraculously preserved. “My good wife,” said the station-master, in answer to an enquirer, “has such a love for babies that even now, with two of her own that can’t walk, I know I shall have hard work to make her send the poor little ew Year's Gift to the workhouse. She’s as wild after babies as she used to & A NEW YEAR'S GIFT. be, her mother says, after puppies and kittens, and everything that was young and helpless, when she was a girl. Such women are a special providence to children. I think if ‘my missis’ had one a month, instead of one a year, she’d be the proudest woman in England. ‘The first time I ever saw her, she flung a stick at me to make me let go a young setter it was necessary to chastise. Ah, she did look so handsome with her eyes and cheeks all ablaze, and she too angry to speak. It’s good for poor fellows like me that there are those blessed orphan asylums, or we’d be smothered with desolate babies.” The lady to whom he spoke thought that no Christian country could be without orphan asylums, and that of all our charities they call the loudest for women’s sympathy and assistance, and with a good-natured smile of adieu to the station-master, she entered the house like others, desirous of seeing the child so mysteriously bequeathed to the parish. Its self-appointed nurse had clothed it in some miscellaneous garments belonging to her own children, and was feeding - it from a butterboat. ANEW VEARS GIFT. 9 As soon as the lady entered, she knelt down beside the good woman, whose foot, while she fed the little stranger was rocking the cradle, in which her own infant was sleeping. The child refused to take any more food, and fixed its great blue eyes on its visitor, who returned the gaze with interest. “Pretty lamb,” said the woman, “it’s wonderful for noticing ; and it’s as true, madam, as that you are kneeling beside it that ever since my husband said we must send it to the workhouse it screams when he goes near it. There, did one ever see anything like that? I always say, ma’am—I hope no offence—that you have more love in your eyes than any- body I know. And this blessed baby thinks the same. See how she stretches out her arms to you. There! she has raised herself, and is crawling, crawling nght away from me on to you! Well, I never!” It was quite true, the child absolutely crept into the lady’s lap, raised herself, and laid her head on her new friend’s shoulder; gradually she placed her little arms round her, and, supported in the effort, turned and resumed the perusal of her face. It was evidently satisfactory to its infant mind, for it held up its little lips to be kissed, 10 A’ NEW YEARS GIFT: ~~ There was something very tender and affecting in the sympathy that drew the woman to the child, and the child to the woman. When the latter arose, and moved to a chair the little one grasped her tightly. “How she has taken to you, madam,” said the wife of the station-master, ‘and how well you hold her; what a pity you have not your beautiful house full of them. I always think that when I see a rich lady married and without chil- dren ; though to be sure God knows best. The lady remained silent for a little, and then said, “ Yes, God knows best. I feel He has given us this child ; it shall not go to the. workhouse. My husband and I have often said we would adopt a little girl, and Hr, the Fatruer of ALL, has given this one into our keeping as a WVew Year's Gift. I will take it home now.” And so she did. Every effort has been made to discover who it was that abandoned the little one at night by the roadside but in vain. It is a child of remarkable beauty A NEW VEAR'S GIFT. II | and intelligence, and has been as far as possible legally as well as lovingly adopted by the lady and her husband. It is believed now to be a year old, and has every prospect of becoming a healthy happy woman. ‘The most precious New Year's Gift that could have been given to those who received it, doubting nothing, into their hearts and home. THEALESSON OP SORROW, ~The Lesson of Sorrow. “At the high altar of St. is a work worth marking. Carved with all the skill of the Spaniards, modelled in many respects admirably, certainly to my mind painfully, the Deap Curistr hangs from the cross ; the brow discoloured and wet with pain and anguish, the muscles tense, the wounds streaming with blood—and in these wounds the priests have ut large and brilliant jewels.” — SS ee x Ys PA | Ae 3 = “ Lime = : WE STLELLEZL Saal Ee FELL IL Gg ZL fp JLOPLLLEEFELEEA: ELLE BEE: LEE Diese OL gstcg THAI} AA LEZ LI LE EE SLLAMIGNVA vary hd A Md LLZLELEZELOLEELE: Le aw EL LILO a EE has Mia CLjiig, (MP RE EE Le VL Ta Liz : EP. VT, of LPS PF aay far ZZ ZS Lf, ZL < i hn A Lf F 42 Le Kohala payin Lhe SK- Z77—— & Lie hie ip lppppofaot what, Ze ZZ LT IP -2 Li, ZL LT a EA A TATA MT LaF ee. KA GZ KG “Ze . a ZZ LZ, LZ 2 ZZ, LZ LFA =F = ZL 72 Che Zz IZLE Zz 4 a AF BES iP GA MIM ALME ZL] 17) LL AS WOM LILA LU 4 FAAVAYA V2 A LEE | 1, ia Al vi am / Ye UN VAY tf LIL] i we App te j 2 w, ip f is ca 3 WN EAL WAZ YZ Qe LIGHT AND DARKNESS. Light and Darkness. N the bridge he sits and reads, QO Reads from noon to eventide, * Blind; but for his spirit’s needs God doth graciously provide: Doth his gloom with grace requite,— Outward darkness, inner light. Outcasts watch his busy hand As it hovers to and fro, Watch, but little understand, Hear, but hearing, little know ; All to them is as the night,— Inner darkness, outer light. 28 LIGHT AND DARKNESS. As in days of yore, the blind To the Saviour conscious turned, So it is his lot to find Him whom they have miss’d or spurned ; Their’s the darkness, his the Sight, Inly fed with Light of light. WILLIAM SAWYER. ~~ ' é ae! a : a4 ee Po ans © ‘ , rt hk iia ; gt An Orphan's Soliloquy. WONDER what it would be hke to have a mother to love. I saw .a girl the other day, when her mother Camjen 10 cee her, -put her “arms ‘round her neck and hang there so tightly, and so long, and kiss her so passionately, and say over and over again, “My dear, dear, dear mother,” and then kiss her again and again ; and I could not help wondering what the feeling could be like. Was she happy or unhappy? I could hardly tell, for they both cried. Only they looked so happy, and I could not help feeling how much they must have loved one another, and what a very happy thing it must be to 2 ANORFHAN S SOLILOCUY. love like that. I have never felt like that. I wonder if I should have felt like that and done that if my mother could have come to see me. I think I should; for some- times when [I sit alone at my work and begin to think, without knowing what I am thinking about, I have a strange feeling at my heart. I hardly know what it is like; it is most like a strange sense of emptiness, as if I wanted to put some- thing in it; and yet at the same time it seems as if I were too full, and I wanted to lift something out of it. I think it is that I want somebody like a mother that I could love very much indeed. Sometimes in the night, too, I seem to see a face so sweet and gentle and full of love, looking at me so tenderly through the long darkness. I wonder if it is my mother’s face, and if she can come and look at me and love me, and make me think of her and love her. But it is such a shadowy vision that I cannot love it. Oh, if I could but see her once, once hear her voice, have one long close kiss, hear her sweet voice once call me by my name, and but once be close pressed to her dear bosom; then I could love her for evermore. I should never lose that vision, my lips should be sacred to that kiss for evermore, that voice would be a music oe AN ORPHAN'S SOLILOQUY. in my heart night and day, and I should nestle in the memory of that embrace for all my life. Oh, why did my mother die before I could know her and love her! But perhaps it is best ; I should have missed her more. ‘They tell me, ‘Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all.” Iam not so sure. I think if I had known my mother and loved her, it would have broken my heart to have lost her again. Oh, I know not which is best. I long so for a mother to love. But God must know best, and it is best as He wills. I sometimes feel, too, that if I could love Him, and be quite sure that He loved me, loved me perfectly, so as never to forget me, and never to be angry with me, but always gentle, | and pitiful, and good, then I should not miss my mother, nor want any other love. I could go through the world then with- out any fear, and as brave as if I had a father and mother always with me to help and guide me. Only itis so difficult to love One whom one never can see, and who is so much greater and better thanI am. And I am sure I am sometimes so full of sin that it must be very difficult for Him to love me. Still, if He be as loving as the Bible says, He must be able to love D AN ORPHANS SOLILTOQOTY. me spite of all, and to draw me to love Him. I will try and give Him all my heart. Perhaps I can love Him all the easier | that I have not a mother to divide my love with Him. | GEO, WM. CONDER, of, ¥ J = ‘ . ai Fa RE NT ae Gorn OR "J ¥ as Song. THE dear one hath gone in at her gate, In at the gate of her home— Little birds, little birds, ye need not wait, — Hither again she will not come. The sun hath fitted a golden bar Blazing across her lintel red ; The lilies down in the river bed Expect the evening star. The longing trees are wishing, wishing, Soft good nights at the window pane ; And swift! all fainter murmurs hushing, Lovingly patters the summer rain. The holy corner, the happy home, It keepeth the counsel sweet ; Hie hence, hie hence, ye lingering feet ! Hither again she will not come. R. M. 36 THE ORIGIN OF MUSIC. The Origin of Music. [Music-Shells may be seen in many of our Museums. The five lines and the notes are marked on the bell of the shell almost as plainly as if they had been engraved.] N a fathomless cave once a spirit had birth Who wandered supine on the confines of earth, Rocked by wild winds and waves, and entranced by a spell, The soft soul of harmony slept in his shell. It chanced an enamoured youth wandering roved To breathe to the waters the name that he loved-— When a rippling wave in its gentle retreat Left a beautiful shell on the sands at his feet. Love, then, breathed on the spot, and gave as a dower To mortals hereafter, for ever the pow’r To fix the soft strains that so charmed him on earth, Thus the language of melody first had its birth ! T. W. ROBERTSON, LHE FAREWELL. 37 The Farewell. HEY met at twilight, in the hour _ When vesper bells were ringing, And voices reached their silent bower Of Virgin Sisters singing a But she whose voice was sweetest known Had wandered to that bower alone ; Unmark’d had left the house of prayer, Unseen had sought her lover there. She came to speak a last “ farewell,” Ere earthly hopes forsaking— But sad and low her whispers fell As though her heart were breaking. They had not met for years before— She never dreamed to see him more— He heard her vows were given above— And she—that he was false to Love. THE FAREWELL. He told a tale of hardships passed, Her love his only beacon: © And she, of falsehood round him cast, Her woman’s faith to weaken. Each heard and wept the other’s wrong-— The nightingale commenced her song— The lamps of Heaven shone out o’erhead— And yet the “farewell” was not said. Nor yet—nor yet—and yet “ farewell :”— When matin hymns are singing, Loud, wild, and high, the convent bell Its larum fierce is ringing: It tells in harsh discordant sound A missing Sister is not found: Whilst faint o’er distant hills and dells, Come echoes of sweet marriage bells. J. CRAWFORD WILSON. a \\ f ! \ ~N \ \ cts Hailibnl | (BUTTER WORTH & HEA wa i Mv yl th — ee NN LLANE Nn ik Wav’ whl yoy \ igh Nh (i Ni a CERT OO LATE. 39 Out Too Late! See, where the moonlight flecks the shade, How rising mists usurp the glade— Go home! go home!” “Good sir, I fear no rising mist The glow-worm’s lamp illumes the vale, And sweetly sings the nightingale ! Oh, list! oh, list!” - AIR maid, it is too late to roam, ‘‘Beware lest crafty elf or gnome Should prison thee by drowsy spell In some green hillock down the dell. | a Go home! go home! 4fO COL OC eA? “Oh, sir! no magic charms tear), I love amid these shades to rove, When moonbeams silver all the grove. Good bye! good bye!” “Farewell!” said he “I shrewdly guess Your wanderings by the moon’s soft light Scarce prove as lonely as they might— Au, "yes! ah, “yes!” Tom Hoop. * \ _ ee . om e “~ > Op ey Sn I ee eT ce RE Ce ee ea DAE RAE i IEE ne OE SER, Saw Os Mt, SPIE Sree eee a if 7 oa ay = = —_ Whe-Story of a’ Locket. OME years ago—perhaps the longer I put it back the better—it was my misfortune, certainly not my fault, to be exceedingly hard-up. But worse than that, my native land had become too warm for me, in consequence of the brutal desire of two or three hard-hearted tradesmen to make me acquainted with the internal economy of Bream’s Buildings. Let me not forget to record here my grateful sense of the forbearance of my estimable tailor, who, though the account between us was long in more senses than one, not only stood aloof from my persecutors, but charitably made me a couple of suits in his innocent and confiding 44. Di FOR LOY OO ote ta) Cae good nature, with which I took flight to a foreign shore. Yes, there was no help for it; liberty was too precious a thing to be placed at the disposal of a vindictive and bloodthirsty bootmaker, and so on board the good steamer | Boulogne 1 hastened from a land that countenanced so vulgar a termination as imprisonment to the gentlemanly proceeding of getting into debt. Of course, being an admirer of Lord Byron, I wept over the bulwarks, exclaiming as we steamed down the river, ** Adieu, adieu, my native land ;” only being recalled to a sense of things prosy and material in the nighbourhood of the Nore. Poverty has many draw- backs ; not the least. of which is having to take the cheap long sea route instead of the short and dear one. Certainly, the pangs of poverty made themselves most painfully appa- rent to me in that frajet de la mer / How I cursed the vindictive bootmaker, and hoped that all his boots might turn out misfits. A just retribution has visited him. Last week saw him in Basinghall Street; and I only hope he has been a fraudulent bankrupt so that I may live to hear of his being prosecuted ! ee eed Oe VOL A LOCKETT. 45 But stay, I do not know why I should be so hard upon the poor man, seeing that through him I came to pass some of the pleasantest and most amusing months of my lie, whose incidents will always be vividly and agreeably remem- bered to the last. With one exception, that shall here be told! The Quartier Latin, in which part of Paris I took up my abode, in a very small chambre a garcon at the top of a very tall house, has been strangely altered since I knew it. The tumble-down old place in which I lived has very pro- perly been swept away to make room for a new street and the march of improvement, that holds plenty of space to breathe and move in as imperatively essential for the health of dwellers in big cities. It is a matter of asto- nishment to me now how I survived the heat and smells I had to inhale when eating, drinking, and sleeping; and yet I don’t remember that at the time they caused me any inconvenience, or interfered either with appetite or digestion. Probably because the youthful stomach is not easily upset ! eal 46 THE SLORY, OFA LUCK? I had not taken up my residence in “my garret near to ’ the sky” more than eight and forty hours before I was on the closest terms of intimacy with my next door neighbour, one Adolphe Lafort, a bright, ruddy-faced Breton, just turned nineteen, who had come to Paris to study and smarten himself up, preparatory to joining his father, a shipping agent at St. Malo, in business. I am bound to say, that if Strasbourg beer and jetzt Caporal were items in his system of education, he studied uncommonly hard at them. Inti- macy with Adolphe begot visits to a neighbouring Café, a favourite resort of the students of the Quartier, and through him I soon found myself with an extensive and. varied acquaintance. And nght pleasant companions they were ; perhaps a little too excitable, and, proportionately, given to quarrelling ; but, withal, honest, manly, and courageous fellows. At first, I was under the impression that, being an English- man, they would assume an offensive tone and manner towards me; but herein I was entirely mistaken, as neither in look nor word was I led to believe that they regarded me as other than one of themselves. But now for the incident of which I have spoken. TT Mees ORY OF A LOCKETT. I found that Adolphe, besides his pursuit of learning and consumption of hops and tobacco, had something, or rather somebody, upon whom he bestowed no small amount of attention. Lounging one evening, so he told me, over the Pont de Henri IV., he was much attracted by a young and pretty girl evidently hurrying home from her day’s work. Students of the Quartier are not given to standing upon ceremony in the matter of introductions, and without any hesitation he followed her, and was soon at her side, chat- tering no end of compliments into her ear, to which at first she paid no attention. However, perseverance was rewarded by her at last condescending to forgive the liberty he had taken in speaking to her, an act of clemency she could hardly resist when she looked into Adolphe’s honest, manly face, and saw gentleman written upon it. She was employed at a large Magasin des Modes in the Rue de Rivoli, and was on her way home to her lodging near the Luxembourg. To make a long history—related to me at full length by Adolphe—short, it had come to pass, at the time when I made my appearance in the Quartier Latin, that he and Annette—such was the young lady’s name—were very old 48 TH Ee So LOK Vel ORe ALU Gia, friends, and sincerely contemplated matrimony: an exceed- ingly serious thing, let me say, in that locality. Among the first persons to whom Adolphe introduced me Annette came, saw, and conquered. There was no help for it. I cannot tell my story without being egotistical and conceited, and, therefore, with many blushes let me add that Annette fell very much in love with me, and I, as in duty bound, returned the compliment. It was absolutely impossible to resist her with her sparkling black eyes and sweet sunny face that brightened and cheered up every thing and every body. Now I know that to every proper minded person my conduct will appear scandalous and unpardonable, yet I might as well have attempted to prevent the tide ebbing and flowing as have sought to drive Annette’s image out of my heart. We were both perfectly well aware of the enormity of our behaviour, and the hypocrites’ parts we played when poor Adolphe was present only shewed how utterly our love for one another . had deadened our better feelings. This state of things went on for some two months ; and, meanwhile, Adolphe never had 27 ORY OF A LOCKET. 49 the slightest suspicion of the real state of affairs. As for Annette and myself, we were continually on the point of bringing things to a climax by making a clean breast of it and getting married straight off. But, somehow, when it came to taking so decisive a step, our courage failed us, and we fell back into the old groove of hypocrisy and deceit. Still we knew perfectly well that, sooner or later, he must make the discovery ; and the longer it was post- poned, the more villainous our conduct would appear when it did come. It had been an old standing arrangement that Annette’s first day’s holiday should be devoted to a trip to Fon- tainebleau, and, accordingly, Madame la Modiste having graciously granted the required leave, one fine morning, Annette, Adolphe, and I took the early train thither, and at noon were wandering through the groves and glades of the glorious forest, revelling in the enjoyment of the fresh air and the beauty of the scene. Here I must make it known that, surreptitiously, I had given Annette a small gold locket with portrait of myself inside—a reckless and E 50 DHE SLORY SOL Cl eLO CK: dangerous proceeding, the jeopardy of which was much aggravated by her always wearing it with a ribbon round her neck, though concealing it under her dress. I fancied, more than once, that that selfsame locket would bring about the discovery we both so much dreaded. And I was not wrong ! The day passed quickly away. We. had brought a small basket with our dinner in it, and, contrary to all regulations of the authorities, we hunted out a snug corner, and there ensconcing ourselves, did full justice to our repast. Adolphe was in glorious spirits, and toasted first Annette and then me in ordinaire, waking the echoes the while with his happy cheery laugh. I myself felt considerably subdued—not to say disgusted with the contemptible part I was playing, and Annette looked sorely distressed when Adolphe, with his usual romantic eloquence, pictured the delights of the time when he had done with student life, and they should be joined to be patted only by death. How vividly that after- noon comes back to me. ‘The gnarled trunk against which Adolphe rested, his face bright with health and happiness ; THE STORY OF A LOCKET. st the block of stone, green with age, on which Annette sat, her eyes often wandering to mine, and speaking a language whereof our two hearts knew the key; the soft turf whereon I reclined, a tempest of. passions raging within me that goaded me to madness, making me bite my lips till the blood started. A coward as well as a villain: afraid to speak out and brave the rage of the man I had so deeply wronged, who, in the honesty and truth of his own genuine nature, had believed in and trusted me as a brother ! The evening came, and with it the necessity for betaking ourselves back to the station to catch the Paris train. Was it the shadow of the impending catastrophe that made us all so silent as we strolled along the road leading from the village to the railway? Scarcely a word was exchanged and even Adolphe seemed depressed and dispirited all at once. Above our heads the clouds of the coming storm were gathering, and a heavy drop of rain falling on my burning cheek warned us to hasten forward for shelter. No sooner had we entered the station doors than a torrent descended. Oh how I longed to go out and stand bare- ; E 2 52 111 DLORY "OPAL OCTEa headed for the deluge of water to cool my throbbing temples ! Only a little patience; the end was fast approaching ! Within some half dozen miles of Paris the train in which we were travelling ran off the line, three or four passengers were killed on the spot, and several others seriously injured. Among these last, Annette! I remember, when the crash came, she was sitting by the window of the carriage gazing dreamily out through the deepening twilight at the flitting landscape, Adolphe holding her hand, and stroking it gently with his great palm. In a moment more there was a con- cussion, a whirling and rolling and a sound of breaking woodwork, followed by a sensation impossible to describe, and then darkness! ‘That false step of the steam horse had in less time than it takes to write, sent more than one soul into the presence of its God ! I was not hurt, nor Adolphe, only shaken ; and as soon as we could collect our shattered senses the thought of each was Annette. There she was, lying sorely hurt and insen- THE STORY OF A LOCKET. 53 sible among the d@édris of the carriage in which we had been travelling. Catching her up in his arms, Adolphe carried her tenderly to a grassy bank on which he gently laid her, and then, calling for me to fetch him some water, set too loosening her dress from round her throat to give her greater freedom for respiration. Even in that extreme moment, when I knew not whether she I loved was dead or alive, the thought flew to my brain and glued me to the spot—The locket, he’ would see that. I shuddered! No, not now: not at such a time as this! It must not be! My head swam: I staggered to his side; and, as I stumbled forward towards him, in one glance I beheld his eyes fixed with a glassy stare upon an open locket, and then remember no more. When I recovered my senses I found myself lying on the damp grass, where I had fallen in a swoon, with the stars sparkling in the heavens above me, and close at hand the glare of light and the noise of men at work. I struggled to my feet, and saw that they were busily engaged clearing the line, and then the occurrences of the last few hours came back to me. I had been wrong in fancying I was not injured, as the strange feeling in my head told me. 54 THE SLORY OPVA LOCAL. But I heeded it not; and through that summer’s night, like one walking in his sleep, I made my way, I know not how, to Paris. I must have been hours and hours over that short journey, for the capital had awakened to another day and the bells were ringing for early mass as I crawled up the ricketty stairs of my lodging and flung myself on to my bed with a muttered prayer that I might die. Then came a state of profound stupor that the Concierge, who followed me up to my room startled by my ghastly appearance and kindly nursed me, told me afterwards, lasted for four whole days and nights; during which time the doctor despaired of my recovery, and expected at each visit to learn that I was dead. And, meanwhile, Adolphe had neither been heard of nor seen ! One morning, when I was getting better and was lying propped up with pillows on the bed alone, I heard a foot on the stairs, and in a moment more the door opened and Adolphe entered. How dreadfully altered ; he might have lived ten more years since last we met. His manner toward me, though cold and restrained, as well it. might be, was ee Tite LOL OF AV LOCKET. 55 perfectly courteous as in firm and measured tones he said to me,— ““T have come to you from Annette. She is dying, so the doctors say, and does not know that you have been ill. They told her the exertion would do her harm, but she would write a few lines to you herself, and here they are.” Without a quiver of lip or muscle he took a small piece ) of twisted paper from his pocket and handed -it to me. With eager fingers I clutched it and tore it open. On it was thus written,— ‘My DARLING,—Come quickly to me that I may see you before I die. I heard them say it must be soon—it cannot, it must not till I have had my English boy’s arms round me once again and rested my cheek against his. It will only be for a very, very little time, darling, but it will make your poor Annette so happy.” In less than an hour—thanks to the aid of the man I had betrayed and robbed of the woman he loved: who helped me to dress, and gave me his arm to lean upon as I stag- gered and stumbled down the stairs to a fiacre that was in waiting—I was at Annette’s bedside. He had uttered no 1, T. & 56 THISTSTORY (CP ASLOCK ES word of anger or reproach as we drove along, and when we reached the house in which she lived, again he extended his arm to assist me. The room in which she lay was darkened, save where a streak of sunlight, piercing its way in, fell upon the face of the nurse who sat by the bed in an arm-chair half dozing. As Adolphe pushed open the door and drew back to let me enter, a white form raised itself up from among the pillows. I sprang forward, and threw my arms round the dying girl. Her head fell upon my shoulder, and with her last breath her lips shaped the words, “In heaven!” At that moment a passing cloud obscured the sun and put out the ray of sunlight even as the death-wind had swept by and extinguished the life flame! Instinctively, the nurse, rousing herself, said,— ‘“‘Ah, monsieur, you are here: that is well. Made- moiselle—” “Ts dead,” I said, smoothing back the long hair of the THE STORY OF A LOCKET. 57 dead girl and imprinting a kiss on her forehead. There was a groan and a sob, and then I heard feet hurrying down stairs. Since that day to this present hour Adolphe and I have never met! We buried Annette in a sunny corner of Pere la Chaise, and round her neck was a black nbbon and locket that she had implored the nurse to allow none to take from her, Whenever I go to the French capital, which is often, I seek out in that pleasant cemetery a grave with a small marble cross at its head inscribed with these words. “‘ Annette agée de r7 ans.’ JI believe that he and J shall meet there some day, for another hand than mine has planted flowers around the grave-mound and tends them to see that they do not die. And I know it to be the same one that brought a wreath of white roses and placed it on her coffin, taking in exchange a lock of the rich auburn hair. If I should cross his path I know there is a heavy account to settle between us, and that I am his debtor. ‘cn. a] | nn = at \ \ \ ab + y Hadleigh Castle EWELLED with lichens, golden and pearl grey, Embroidered by gay weeds that climb and _ blow, HADLEIGH CASTLE. 59 Embraced about the knees by frosted sloe And fruity bramble,—white-belled bindweed spray Tangled with coral briony,—decay Has breathed in beauty on old Hadleigh’s towers ; And where the culverin’s hail fell thickest, flowers Bloom, and faint velvet mushrooms bud to-day. This sight redeems me! kisses off the frown Declining years had ever worn for me. God crowns His saints with almond, then shall He Scatter my fears as I this thistle’s down ; And death’s tide rise like yonder swelling sea,—- Yon Iris-tinted, changeful, changeless sea ! T. SULMAN, ‘ ; “ . . . ‘ . Lee s io. 22 Sos ‘ ° f A SPRING SONG. Or A Spring Song. HE sun’s faint gleaming a Through windows streaming Has called me to the threshold of my home. The heaven’s new clearness Chasing late drearness, All Nature, thousand-voiced, cries ‘Spring is come!” And birds are darting, The news imparting, Tree top and hedgerow hear their merry din ; Their feath’ry rustling, Their happy bustling, Their eager striving listeners to win. Now trees are telling Of brown buds swelling On their branches, late so dark and bare. The primrose humbly Suggesting dumbly The beauty that the summer lanes will wear, A SPRING SONG. Streams running gladly Whisper how madly They strove to break an icy tyrant’s chain: How full of glee now In being free, now They revel in their liberty again. And on the meadow _ There lies no shadow Of cloud, for all above is clear and blue. The spring flowers peeping With joy are weeping O’er tidings fresh imparted by the dew. The robin cheer’ly Has sung out clearly His plenteous thanks for meagre kindness shown ; Has left the portals Of grudging mortals, And to the lavish woods for bounty flown. A SPRING SONG. 63 My heart’s quick beating Is loud repeating The story that all Nature gladly tells With happy flutt’ring, With joy past utt’ring, With a fearing, trembling hope my bosom swells. For I while roaming In winter gloaming, And loving lips were whisp’ring at my side ; To warm entreating, Answered repeating, “In early Summer I will be your bride.” Oh! may our bright Spring Of love, with light wing, Pass noiseless into Summer's richer growth: And Autumn mellow In fulness follow, And with true love’s completeness crown them both. - A SPRING SONG. Then sink its glory In Winter hoary, And life and love together both take wing, Oh! hand in hand then ; May we two stand then Upon the threshold of perennial Spring. Be Pay PRAM OF THE DOCTORS BOY. 65 The Day-Dream of the Doctor's Boy. SUCH acheek as my Barbara had! I, but a doctor’s poor drudge of a lad, Drive at the pestle like one who is mad, Seeing her pass the door careless and glad. Cheeks of soft crimson—the juice of a peach, Pearly and red, blushing softly through each ; Eyes of the blue of this bottle. O fie! Tender and deep as a moon in July. O such a lip! Not a cherry bird-pecked Shows such blood as flows there, all delicious, unchecked. Bosom of snow? Bah! magnesia is white But there even lilies would look dull as night. 66 THE DAY-DREAM OF THE DOCTOR'S BOY. And then such a step, full of music and air, Would not shake down the thistle-head’s hoary white hair ; Tresses like spider-threads stretched in the sun— (Voice) “ JOHN, IS THAT LOTION NOT EVEN BEGUN?” Who knows but some day I shall roll in my coach, And watch the folks bowing who see me approach ; Then hear people say, as I’m taking the air, “That's the famous young doctor just come to the square.” I shall sit for the county; on the hustings I stand, Flowery words in my mouth, and my hat in my hand. I’m chaired in the townhall; my Lord Willoughby Takes my arm, and his lady smiles blandly on me. Now the race-ball. I bow to my Barbara: then Dance with her waltzes some dozen and ten; Whisper, “ My sweet love, the years that I sighed— GOOD HEAVENS! I’VE KNOCKED DOWN THY HYDRO-CHLO- RIDE !” WALTER THORNBURY, rr, - WoW ady Iake and “her Lovers. . sun burnt fiercely over the Lake, The waters were all aglow ; 'o The languid fishes lay half awake On their couches of weed below: The boat stood still, its broad white sail Flapp’d idly against the mast ; And the Lady Lake, she sighed and spake, “Oh! I would this calm were past ; I would that some Zephyr would hither hie, And give me his gracious company.” 68 LADY LAKE AND HER LOVEKS. A gentle Zephyr was hov’ring aloft, Poising on golden wing ; He lov’d Lady Lake, and for her sweet sake Would do almost anything. So he glided down from his airy cell, He fann’d her beautiful face ; The broad white sail began to swell, ‘The boat moved on apace ; And the fishes, refresh’d, began to rise With eager mouths at the sparkling flies. A Breeze stood perch’d on a misty shelf, His plumage a sober dun ; He spied young Zephyr, and said to himself, “Why should’nt I join the fun?” So down he came, and surpris’d the dame, With rather a rude embrace ; ‘Soft, if you please,” she cried, “friend Breeze? And she splash’d her waves in his face : The broad white sail grew tauter and tauter, And the gambolling fishes, all frolic and laughter, Play’d hide and seek in the crested water. On a cloud brimful of electric light Sat brooding a frightful Storm ; His pinions were black as a winter night, Monstrous and grim his form: His jealous eye mark’d Zephyr and Breeze, He sneered at their small flirtation ; “When I go courting my lady,” quoth he, ‘She shall feel a new sensation.” His voice was thunder, his brow a frown, As he huri’d himself, like an avalanche, down. Poor Lady Lake! how the lightnings flash’d As she writh’d in his fierce embrace ; But little he cared for the waves she splash’d In his scarr’d and hideous face: The thunder peal’d, the waters roar’d, The rain pourd down in a tide; But louder than all laugh’d the Hurricane Lord, As he hugg’d his struggling Bride. The broad white sail was torn at a blow, The wreck of the boat toss’d to and fro, And the fishes fled down to the depths below. * * * * LADY LAKE AND HER LOVEXKS. ; And this is how Love has treated me, He came in the gentlest guise ; His voice was the sweetest minstrelsy, Soft radiance beam’d from his eyes. But Love grew stronger and fiercer anon, I would he had ne’er come hither ; For tyrant-like, he has hurried me on, , Onward, I know not whither ! The tempest has torn my heart in twain, Oh! when will the calm return again! ARTHUR LOCKER. &- LHL OARE, ° The Ark. HE dove, sent forth to roam above the waste Of waters dark, ~ Finding no rest, * Returned on wearied wing into the Ark. Vainly and aimlessly we too would fly Like her, and stay Beyond the sky, Where peace for ever dwelleth, far away. Like her, we wander from our home, and leave The Father’s care: Only at eve, When all else fails us, we seek shelter there. Nor find we God’s own rest till taught to see — By grief or sin: Enough if He At last put forth his hand and take us in. S. J. RowTon. ies oe v 72 THE ORPHAN'S CRY. The Orphan's Cry. HERE is a cry to which all heed, It is the orphan’s cry; His want is always pressing need, He always needs supply. The little one of all bereft, Save the Almighty One, When father, mother, all have left, To Charity, is son. And Charity is latge enough To foster him with care ; Humanity is rich enough, And has enough to spare, ee Tae ORPHANS CRY, ae To this humanity we plead For infant orphans’ woe, We stretch the hand as our hearts bleed, To misery below. As it has been so will it be, . The proof is ever nigh, When our good gifts are large and free, We gain a rich supply. Then let us hasten to impart Sweet comfort while we may; A word may heal the widow’s heart, Our gifts drive want away. JOSEPH’ SOUL, (4 SHEDTIME AND HARVEST. Seedtime and Harvest. LL dark and chill the furrows lie Beneath the leaden wintry sky, And o’er the plain grim shadows fly, Ghosts of the passing year. The seed is o’er the furrows thrown, The hollow winds begin to moan, And from the tangled hedgerow blown, The last leaves disappear. Soft gleams of sunshine o’er the plain Strive with the wind and mock the rain, Until the furrows smile again Beneath a robe of green. Sweet voices twitter in the nest. Each day the crimson of the west Grows deeper, and the golden crest Of harvest now is seen. SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. 75 ~ So dark doth human fancy he Beneath a clouded destiny, And sees no golden summer nigh Above the wintry pall. No future dream hath power to cast A hoher light upon the past, The prospect narrows till at last Comes darkness over all. The random seeds of truth may find Deep root in that o’ershadowed mind, Through ignorance and example blind To wisdom’s golden store. Then something God-like stirs within, And from the furrowed ranks of sin The harvest cometh—slow to win, But glorious evermore. JosEPH VEREY. et 76 THE, REAPER. The Reaper. | ATHER Time, good Father Time, Pr’ythee turn and stay ! ra rae : “T must mow down in their prime Three before the curfew chime ae : nS < | EX Farewell to the day.” an Father | Time, say whi is one ; | | ‘Thou hast marked to fall ee Ere the bright warm day be done ?~ 2 i 7 “’Tis thy neighbour’s eldest son, fii se Fle so brave and tall.” | d Tell me, “now, old Father ‘Time, - Who the ase: may be? “He can wrestle, leap, and climb: Hark: I hear his merry rhyme Ring across the lea.” S \ Ry lA ~~ ZEA E GE: Yj LH, RS Y y BZ yyy Li Lbs} Xi Ni PTL), x) XN WTI), WIN Z MEDINA g iy YU Ti elo | , K\ LLG i Ze TFA. s LPLLAZLZ-- Z S Sj GAEL Z = Z LL LE, ZZ 2A ZZ LZ Se i es pote and oe “ «! - iv x my aA) cf th r ; i —. y . 4 cs Ss r 4 7 : Ef > - VI 10 , then is. the last of ore. Father Time, ab pray? 3 ne: a bie ae a bride, the Ae rose, As GODFREY TURNER. | ae 78 THE CHILD UNDERSTANDS LITERALLY, The Little @hild™inderce ae literally that which the Parent says. AREAL INCIDE NA, ‘«T WANT to go to the sea, mother, I want to go to the sea!” “Why would you go to the sea, Charley, Where’s neither flower nor tree ?” “T want to see the ships come in, The big ships and the small ; And father’s ship, that’s so long a-coming, I want to see most of all!” ‘But father has no ship, Charley, And never had one, not he! So how can you see his ship come in, Which is nowhere out at sea?” Br) - 0 77 CAILTD UNDERSTANDS LITERALLY. ae: “But father as a ship, mother, And that I very well know, A ship with lots of money on board, For he himself told me so! “He says, when his ship comes in, mother,— And all that he says is true, He will buy for me a dapple-grey, And a pretty carriage for you. “‘T think the ship is long in coming, But it’s sure to come some day ;— Then you will have your carriage, mother, And I my dapple grey. “So I want to go to the sea, mother, Where the big ships come and go; To see my father’s ship come in— For it must come in, you know,” a5 ‘ ‘““He meant not a veal ship, Charley, But that soon as he could afford, He would buy you a horse, my Charley, © And he is as good as his: word |” “Don’t look so sorrowful, darling, With those big tears in your eye!” “T am so disappointed, mother, I can do nothing but cry !” . Mary Howirr. a DEAD, ST Dead. E’S gone, he’s gone! the darling one We would have died to save ; And yet I cannot think him dead, And lying in his grave. I cannot think that face so fair, So dreamed of night and day, The little heart so warm and light Are mouldering in the clay. Go where I will he’s with me still, He will not keep apart; I meet him in my lonely walk, And in the crowded mart. sd G S82 DEAD. I hear his voice in every sound— In every shout of joy— Then oh how can I think him dead, My boy, my bright-eyed boy. When sleep hath closed my weary eyes, Still, still his form I see; He plays beside me on the hearth, He sits upon my knee ; I feel his arms around my neck, His lips upon my brow; Then how, how can I think him dead ; And gone for ever now ? All night his laugh is in my ears— His feet are ne'er at rest; A thousand times I turn to clasp And fold him to my breast: I stoop to smooth his curly head, I kneel with him in prayer ; I bend above his little bed, And watch him smiling there, DEAD. 83 And then I wake, I wake to weep, And walk as one forlorn, To know and feel that from my heart Life’s splendour hath been torn. The world may see the vacant smile, It recks not what’s below, Nor deems the soul hath agonies, That it may never know. My boy, my boy! my buried one, It is but for a day; A little while I miss thee here, Thou waitest far away. Soon, soon the cares that vex us now, The griefs that rend the heart, Shall pass, and then we meet again In glory where thou art. MATTHIAS BARR, aca : @* aber We r - i . = i te Ge + ; aD | ; ’ i 5 iv ~ i rs i te z i Fi 3. ad > ra = ' THE PATE. - = f ¥ ILLIAM BALL. ¥ Pas : o z ( i ct he ‘|< 4 i z : H oy > & ’ ; x ‘ . . * 7 = ~ : i ‘ , i 4 | » | , { \ P “| 1 i | | ; , . 4 ; D3! eam d : é oe ber The late William Ball. HERE are probably but few to whom the name of William Ball, author, composer, and humourist, will now be familiar. A generation has passed away since he gave the first stimulus to that revival of our old English song, of which he lived to see and rejoice ‘in the results as exhibited at every popular concert in our own day. Only middle-aged folks, and of these only a few of excep- tional experience, can remember the period, some thirty years ago, when a few London philanthropists suddenly conceived the idea of patronising “the people.” ‘The people” were to have magazines, cheap editions, concerts, lecturers, and 58 THE TATE NVILITAM BALL. institutions. The latter—of which only a small number now survives—were curiosities in their way. Week after week, lecturers enlightened or bewildered, not “the people,” who in general made a point of staying away, but decent middle-class tradesmen, together with a few of the gentry, with lectures upon every known and many unknown “‘ologies,” interspersing their discourse with very mild jests common to scientific folks who aim at blending instruction with amusement. Possibly not many learned much thereby. At this period, Mr. William Ball, well known as a writer and composer of songs, had achieved a social success by his extraordinary style of singing quaint, humorous, and ancient ballads. Dr. Birkbeck, who had founded the London Me- chanics’ Institution—one of the few yet surviving—suggested to Mr. Ball that a series of lectures on old English ballad literature, illustrated by specimens, might prove attractive. Mr. Ball at once went to work, and in a short time delivered his first lecture to a moderately numerous audience. The second was attended by a crowd which crammed the hall from floor to ceiling. THE LATE WILLIAM BALL. &9 For nearly ten years afterwards Mr. Ball continued his lectorial career. His peculiar gift lay in the exuberant and singular humour of his songs and readings. It was something almost startling to his audiences to behold and hear a tall, slender, white-haired, elderly gentleman, with a face of ashy paleness, and a manner recalling that old-world courtly grace which one seems to associate with the era of Sir Charles Grandison; suddenly break out from a learned discourse into a forgotten comic song, of which the points were enforced at command by the most imperturbable mock gravity, by clever mimicry, or by a current of mirth so spontaneous that the words.seemed to be laughed forth rather than sung. Every song was sure to be encored, and every encore was duly honoured ; for it was one of this old gentleman’s peculiarities that he never seemed tired. Even when he had sent his public audiences laughing to their beds, he would remain and sing more songs for the delight of the committee and their friends who remained. Not uncom- monly, moreover, he would play waltzes and quadrille sets while the younger people got up an impromptu dance on the platform. Then he would leave with a friend and go THE LATE WILLIAM BALL. continue the entertainment at his house after supper. His fund of anecdote, and his stores of strange mirth-provoking gatherings from the byeways of ancient literature seemed inexhaustible. It was only about three years ago that he formed one of a merry party of young writers on the occasion of the birthday anniversary of one of their number. Most of them sung songs of their own writing, and Mr. Ball, then exceed- ingly weak, lay upon a sofa. At length he contrived to reach the piano, and at once seemed to recover all his former elasticity of spirits. He poured out one after another of the old songs—the address of the Recruiting Serjeant, with a ludicrous burden of drum and fife, barking dogs and shouting boys, ending in more than semi-pathetic finale of weeping children and howling canines lamenting the loss of beguiled rustics sacrificed to martial glory. Then followed the ancient ballad of “Good morrow, Gossip Joan,” in the manner of a querulous old country-woman ; George Canning’s “ Wig, cane, and hat,” in imitation of a highly pre- cise gentleman of the old school; Justice Woodcock’s ditty THE LATE WILLIAM BALL. or from ‘Love in a Village ”»—“ These were the joys of my ) frolicsome days ;” and then, after reminding his hearers that the air of this was traditionally said to be the march (“ Joan’s placket is torn” ) performed at the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots, this marvellous old gentleman played the melody,— by a simple change of time and accompaniment, so that one seemed to hear the clear subdued tones of the trumpet, the rolling of the mournful muffled drums, and _ the steady march of the guards at Fotheringay. Finally, when he could no longer sit, he returned to his sofa; and even there, while reclining on his back, sang, as no other man could sing it, George Colman’s Pedagogue’s Song in “The Review,” with its absurd chorus of— ‘*Tag rag merry derry periwig and hatband, Hic hoc horum genitivo !” The most wonderful circumstance attending this performance was that Mr. Ball was then upwards of eighty-two years of age! His powers of humour were well counterbalanced by a depth of feeling and sentiment rarely encountered. It was Bes g2 THE LATE WilliAM BALL. the delight of his life to instruct, to assist, and succour, no less than to amuse, the young. Many a man now prosperous owed his first introduction to society and success to the aid of William Ball. He has been heard to tell how at Paris in 1816, he, in conjunction with his friend and tutor, ‘alma, rescued from the grasp of an organised gang of sharpers and from imminent ruin, a young man, now a famous English merchant. Nay, more, how the same agency also restored to home and friends a young British officer, who, having been enmeshed by the gang, was then employed by them as a decoy. ‘The chief of this gang of cheats was the after- wards notorious Thistlewood ; and it was by him and his confederates that the money was raised to purchase arms for the Cato Street conspirators. Piles of manuscripts and published works of a devotional character attest that William Ball, while he knew the time to laugh and could use it, was not unmindful of solemn matters. Whole oratorios have been written, some composed by him. The English words of the Stabat Mater, Haydn’s masses and a host of pious translations are his. He died tranquilly, after months of sad agony, on the 14th of May, 1869. To the writer of these lines, who had for many years revered no less than admired him, he dictated his own epitaph in these few simple words: ‘¢Prepare ye for the narrow cell, Bow to the chast’ning rod; Forgive and bless; bid all farewell, And put your trust in GOD.” EDWARD DRAPER, OL. - DARK ROLLING CLOUDS. Dark Rolling Clouds the Skies deform. Araver in time of trouble. ARK rolling clouds the skies deform, Onward they lead a fearful hour, While the deep voices of the storm Proclaim the great All-ruling Pow’r. Oh let Thy still redeeming care, Here, LORD, this human strife control ; Deign to receive our trembling prayer, And calm the tempests of the soul! So shall our chastened spirits bow, And ever-mindful hearts avow From their enthralling terror free, Their ever grateful thanks to THEE! By the late Witu1aM Batt, Lace coments B "i A “eB L % Per: gr THE BEST BELOVEDS GRAVE. 05 The Best Beloved’s Grave. N our little country churchyard, fenced with ivy coloured walls, Rests one spot, o’er which at noontide, dark the steeple’s shadow falls ; - To one little grassy hillock, to one mound, the least of seven, Points in summer-noon the shadow, whilst the steeple points to heaven. Small the largest mound, but smaller, each beside its neigh- bour seems ; Graves are they of children, sleeping the long sleep unstirr’d by dreams. Clust’ring o’er the last, the smallest, daisies, golden-hearted, wave, There the shadow points at noontide, ’tis the best beloved’s grave. ES, | z 96 THE BEST BELOVED'S GRAVE. Where the dew-drops, daisy cradled, liquid crystals every one, Melt before the fervent kisses of the bright exulting sun ; There—when twilight heralds evening, and fantastic ivy weaves O’er that smallest mound the shadows cast by zephyr fondled leaves, Silver’d, darken’d, darken’d, silver’d, as the moon looks coldly through, On the golden hearted daisies, moist with tears as bright as dew ;— Weeps beside that grave a widow, mother once to children seven, Kneels where falls at noon the shadow—looks, where points the spire to heaven. Widow’d she, nay, eight times widowed, scarce two little years had flown ; Wived, seven children gambolled round her-—widowed now, she weeps alone. First, her husband, homeward steering, foundered on the self same day That her eldest boy—first love pledge—fever-smitten, passed away : 6 ee Pike THE BEST BELOVEDS GRAVE. 97 One by one, each son and daughter—dearest each as death drew nigh— Slept where points the shadow—wakening, where the steeple points on high ; and to him their loves All save one—the last—the dearest were given, ’ He to her, that widowd mother, was a living link with heaven. Six of these, each last one dearest, pined and _ sickened, droop’d and died, Neath the ivy’s flitting shadows, cradled ‘lay they side by side. O’er their beds the robin redbreast caroll’d sweet his homely songs ; High at noontide, heavenward soaring, loud the lark his note prolongs ; Deep in midnight, dirge-like twitting, rose the nightingales’ clear tones ; Dirges they, to her, the widow, echoed back by baby moans ; For the last, the best beloved, last of all her children seven, Hour by hour, seem’d panting, struggling, climbing up from earth to heaven, *, a. gS THE BEST BELOVED S GRAV. Then he died, the last, the frailest, one the father ne’er had seen, And the cold earth spangled o’er him, daisies, white fringed, lapped in green: , O’er these golden hearted daisies, morn her glittering dew- drops spreads, O’er these daisies, twilight sheltered, tears the weeping widow sheds ; Till at last, one sunny noontide, prone beside that grave were found Weeds—a widow’s weeds—the mother’s—in that consecrated ground ; By that grave, the last, the smallest, but the best beloved of seven, Lay her corse beneath the shadow—she had joined her babes in heaven. . J. Crawrorp WILson, \s j SUMMER THOUGHTS. 99 Summer Thoughts, ROUND my cottage door again h The sweet green leaves unfold, And now farewell the frosty rain, The blighting bitter cold, And woesome wintry nights that kill The helpless and the old. The spirit scorns the fading flesh, It quits the bonds of clay, To mingle with the leaves so fresh, With morning winds to play ; To wave in light on topmost bough, That hails the spring of day. SUMMER THOUGHTS. Like morning thoughts these dewy leaves, Untouched by wintry fear ; The heart in boundless good believes, In summer all the year, With life and love in endless bloom, And God for ever near. | Come through my heart ye orient beams, I share the summer’s glow ; My blood like sunny river gleams In the golden overflow, Where birds sing sweet on bosky banks, And primrose posies grow. To genial airs, to warming ray, To nature’s life akin, I own no part in dull decay, Save that which is of sin; And when the flesh shall pass away My summer shall begin. ANGUS FAIRBAIRN, THE TRIUMPH OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS. sor A FLOWER FABLE. HE moon was red, and wide of girth Orbed a space above the earth. Lapp’d in light the meadow lay, Yet the grasses were not green, For the light was not as the light of day, The Triumph of the Fleur-de-Lis. They glowed in ruddy sheen ; Mystic was that April night, And it saw a randzets sight, Beautiful as sight may be,— | | The triumph of the Fleur-de-Lis. By the level brook, that glowed Greenly golden as it flowed, Moved the Pageant, strangely shown, To a music of its own. jo2 THE TRIUMPH OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS. Out of sleep the meadow broke, And the meadow daisies woke, Opened wide their owl-round eyes, Gazed, ray-lidded with surprise ; Violets started from the deeps Of their happy odorous sleeps ; Shining grasses, flags in sheaves, Mosses greening as they grow, All that shares to overflow, In the joy of budding leaves, In the gladness of the Spring Stirred to sudden wondering ! First, in doublets hued of flame, Of gold and crimson blending bright, On the trumpeter Tulips came, Blowing shrill, as blow they might, Martial music through the night. Then the Ferns by many a score, The fronds, their pennons, bore Every one a swelling sail Straining broad against the gale. THEIRIGMPH OF THE FLEUR-DE-L1S.. 103 Flamen Wall-flowers as they pass’d, Burning censers softly swung, And the subtle incense flung To the air its sweetness cast. Then, in pomp of festival, Came the pride and crown of all. Girt about with sedgy glaives, The Fleur-de-Lis in long array Moved imperial midst their slaves, Moved on their triumphal way ; While above their state unfurled, The purple banners flapped and whirled. Still the pageant onward wore, Fitly order’d, winding far ; Stately Jonquils meetly bore Each its glimmering star. Next Hyacinths ; while o’er the rest The cressets of the Marigold Redly flamed, as each might hold The wonder of the phoenix nest. 104 THE TRIUMPH OF THE FLEUVR-DE-LIS, Nor were lacking, whitely dim, The tender flowers named of him Who stricken of his beauty died: Nor a hundred phantoms more, Virgin-vested, crimson, pied, Which, in passing glorified, Blossom-pennons bore. Thus the bright procession sped Till the ruddy moon, that dipt Earthward, on a sudden slipt From the sky, and in the dead Of darkness all the marvel fled. WILLIAM SAWYER, ee % ; ‘ ie 8 3 j 4 . : ? y: 4 P } = = i ' * + bat CTABLE. i » i ad NS oe | Ps 24 ¥ , : : F - = = a * A j s 5 : , 7 t * : + 1 T = > ~ - ST ‘ ’ ‘ * f 4 * On the Respectable. VERY age has some prominent characteristic by which it is more or less distinguished from those which go before, or those which succeed it :—that of the present day is “ Respectability.” We are all of us, in our own esti- mation at least, intensely respectable, and spare no pains to impress every one about us with that important fact. Thus, Paterfamilias dons his Sunday broadcloth, and a face of preternatural solemnity ; diffusing, like insensible perspiration, emanations of respectability on his way to the family pew (itself a most respectable institution) ; while, at the opposite rung of the social ladder, the very pickpocket, detected in the fact, or the beery, boisterous sweep, when that intelligent Ios ON SAE RESPECTABLE. officer, X 90, lays upon him the strong grasp of the law, indignantly declares that he is “a respectable cove, vot aint a-doin’ nothink to be interfered vith!” Indeed, the first thing that strikes an observant mind, as we take up our morning journal, is the number of respectable individuals, of varying ages and sexes, who contrive to place themselves undeservedly, no doubt—in an unsatisfactory proximity to | the legal institutions of the land. Thus we find such state- ments as that “an elderly man of respectable appearance was charged with obtaining, on false pretences, a_three- ’ farthing bloater ;” or with applying Mormon principles upon the subject of marriage to divers of Her Majesty’s feminine subjects. Or, that a respectable young woman was brought up for stealing a roll of flannel, a sucking-pig, and a monkey jacket; all which articles were found concealed under her cloak. Again, that a well-dressed female, whose connections were stated to be of the highest respectability, was placed at the bar for drunk and disorderly conduct, applying oppro- brious names to the blue-coated guardian of the streets, besides kicking that respectable functionary violently in the stomach. The opinion entertained by competent authority ON Vie TRESLECTABLE, Tog of such unseemly behaviour may be gathered from the fol- lowing comments outside the “Court,” upon the above- mentioned lady’s outrageous proceedings. 1st Respectable Female—‘Deary me! aint it a pity she should go on so? and her friends so wery respectable!” and Respectable Female, shaking her head.—‘‘ Ah! so I’ve he-ard! Why, she’s got a brother that’s a policeman !!!” —(fact) Then we have a further instance of respectability in the amiable Mrs. Flannigan, who has torn the clothes from Biddy Maloney’s back, knocked out a tooth or two, and finished off by taking possession of a handful of hair— declaring to the magistrate, “that she’s a respectable widdy, as its har-rd times with, as she sometimes only ar-r-ns two shillin’ a week, out of which she has to pay three shillin’ for rint.” The writer recollects, not so very long ago, when happily ua ON “THE RESPECTABLE. there were such things as field-paths, a certain stile rendered easy of passage by a small flight of steps on each side, to which was attached a neatly painted board with the announce- ment: “ This temporary accommodation, for the use of the public, is placed here by the old gentleman at the stall.” Whether this was intended by the old gentleman himself as an indirect appeal for eleemosynary contributions, or merely to assist in the sale of his cakes and nuts, it signally illustrates the relative nature of respectability ; that there are degrees of it, from the Court of St. James’ to the courts of St. Giles ; and that it equally pertains to the duke or the dust- man, every grade having some subtle, but recognized standard by which it is estimated. Still, taking our newspaper for a text-book, and casting an eye down the advertisements, we find the same quality in continuous and indispensable demand. “A respectable young woman from the country,” as cookmaid, housemaid, or nurse,” as the case may be. “A respectable married couple, to take charge of offices, and live in the cellars; coal and gas.” “A respectable person to take charge of a 0 a ONE HE ALSPECTABLE. PRD fried fish shop.” “A respectable young man for a milk- ’ walk ;” or, “to drive a hearse ;” or it may be “as pot-boy.” “ A mangle to be sold cheap; a good opening for a respec- table widow.” “A respectable-looking pony and trap for sale.” “A respectable opening for a coal-shed.” “A respectable widow, as housekeeper to an elderly gentleman.” Why is it that there always are respectable widows wanting to become housekeepers to elderly gentlemen? ‘“ Rooms to let for respectable mechanics.” ‘“ Houses, in respectable situations” (or they will ‘not let). ‘‘ Respectable lodgings at the sea-side, or in the country.” Firms are respectable ; shops are respectable ; respectable parties are invited to apply for loans: indeed, nothing will go down that is not respectable, except, perhaps, the genteel. Again, if we wish to express a satisfactory, but not enthu- siastic approbation of any performance, we qualify it as respectable. We value our public men more for the respect- ability of their conduct than for their talents. The late Prince Consort was always recognized as being pre-eminently respectable, and was respected by British respectability are OMCLHEY RESPECTASLE. accordingly. Even the stage now-a-days generally professes to be respectable. No more unpardonable offence can be offered to any individual than to impute to him a lack of the universal virtue. And here it must be confessed that to the Bohemian spirit tltere are times when the perpetual reiteration of respectability becomes monotonous and oppressive ; so that a little wholesome vagabondism would be welcome, if only by way of “distraction,” as pious children sometimes play at saying naughty things, as a safety valve after too severe a course of hymns and texts. This hankering becomes espe- cially strong when respectable rogues are seen, by virtue of that respectability, to escape from the consequences of offences which their non-respectable fellows expiate’to the bitter end; or when the pretension to an extra amount of the popular virtue is made a cloak for dishonesty and impos- ture. How many luckless victims at the present moment are bewailing their unhappy credulity in the eminent respect- ability of certain commercial notabilities ! In Short, “the respectable” is the “great Pan,” the all pervading yeast of society in all its grades; leavening the ON THE RESPECTABLE, social lump, and raising up (in many cases it must be admitted) a very hollow and unwholesome sort of crust. It attends us from our cradle to our grave. We make respectable matches ; we form respectable connections ; we bring up our families respectably, that is, such as have duly appointed quivers. Mr. Death, the great undertaker, in his turn, announces respectable funerals, on the most economic prin- ciples. Crossbones, the celebrated mortuary artist, supplies respectable tombstones, on the lowest terms ; upon which the Directors of the Cemetery will allow epitaphs or inscrip- tions to be placed, provided they are of a proper and re- spectable character, ' : | ] : ; i { nF I IEE a ne AS SEEN Amen. ‘‘Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him,”—Job xiii. ATHERED against an ancient town, Of many centuries’ renown, A ravening horde of savage thralls From the far north swarmed round its walls ; A despot’s ready hell-hounds they, On slip, fierce-clamouring for their prey. The city was astir one morn, For young and old an oath had sworn To strike a sharp and sudden blow (O were it deadly!) on the foe, But ere they went, with one consent, All knees were reverently bent, As one, their chief priest-warrior, prayed : “© Lord of Hosts! we seek Thy aid ; We pray not for the victory ; The issue, Lord, we leave to Thee ; But let each quit himself aright! And, if we perish in the fight, Thy will be done!” A pause—and then In one great chorus rang “Amen!” So forth the martyr-army went— Some beardless boys, some old and bent; Through two mute, tearless lines they passed Of mothers, wives, who looked their last. They pierced the enemy’s array ; In close-set phalanx cleft their way “Through serried ranks, and then again A backward passage hewed amain, Ploughing deep furrows to and fro. But ever round them raged the foe; Till faint, outnumbered, one by one They fighting fell ere set of sun. One boy, death-stricken, staggered pale Within the walls to tell the tale; To many an eager-asking eye He pointed upward for reply, Then, folded to his mother’s breast, His soul went forth to join the rest. Yea, Lord, when doubts hang like a pall, Thy loving care o’erarches all ; Though duty’s path through flames may be, It leads its martyrs, straight to Thee ; And angels chant with every knell, ‘Our Father doeth all things well!” O heart of faith! that not alone In calm and sunshine God dost own, But stormiest night, sweet singing then, “Thy will be done! Amen! Amen!” Joun LaTey, “a ag oe ey 4 4 aaa nd JD Ike GIL “wi ara! \\ we “My LL vf SSS eS SS SS SO Sooke SES SIGE LILES Lipo LLz. LL ZL Z LLDPE ES ELE F, 3 Sh 7 SS ‘ : WSR < SAK = TERY \ \i SSA \ Soy RURMUR SSeS SAI RSS The Nurture of Children. HIS is a subject upon which it is not quite easy either to-arrest the attention of the reader, or to write, without what some of them will be apt to think arrogance. It is a matter in which almost everybody, founding himself upon his own private experience and observation, thinks he has some right to disregard what other people say. Above all, it is a matter, in which exaggerated ideas of the rights of parents, as distinguished from their responsibilities — ideas still lingering in a great many minds—indispose a considerable number of fathers and mothers to listen to any sort of criti- cism or suggestion which points to even a guarded revision of certain points in the old regimen of bringing up children. But it is sufficiently plain that that regimen is, in fact, in 7] = ‘ 9D Dg é Et | ; f I20 NURTURE OF CHILDREN. want of revision; whoever objects. We are beginning to recognise that the old courses involved a serious waste of the children’s time, health, and, generally, of their vital forces ; that better results may be attained by simpler machinery ; and that, in some important particulars, the accustomed order of things will have to be utterly reversed. It is held by the highest educational authorities that, for example, too many hours have been usually spent in the school-room, and that as much might be acquired in three or four as formerly occupied five or six; with a clear gain to the elasticity and brightness of the pupil’s nature. It is also held that the formal study of languages should, as a rule, stand over to a much later date than that usually assigned to it; and one distinguished professor has not hesitated to say (at the opening of a college for women) that the present system of education is devised in the interest of schoolmasters and schoolmis- tresses, rather than in that of learners. One thing is within my own knowledge, and will be found to be within the knowledge of many of those who read these lines, namely, that some of the most successful teachers, both of girls and boys, have been those who, by happy instinct or NURTURE OF CHILDREN. 121 otherwise, have broken through some of the old routine. The real dangers of the hour in the matter of education arise from cramming and competition. But it is not the education of the young, so much as the nurture of children, that was intended to be the subject of this paper, and to the latter topic we will pass on. To begin with—I do hope it will be understood that I fully, and perhaps excessively, recognise the special needs that must arise out of special cases; but I should count it an extraordinary circumstance if there were nothing worth attention in the hints which I am going to take the liberty of offering. I also recognise, fully, that to some people these hints will contain little or nothing that is new; but that recognition leaves a considerable margin within which they may be found to have some value. There is a far more formidable difficulty in the well- known fact—a fact of wide applicability—that a rule or a suggestion which will work in the hands of A, to whom it “came natural,” as people say, and to whom experience has I22 WMURLTORE OF CHILDREN. verified its use, will not work at all in the hands of B. In other words, there are things which cannot, even with the - best intentions, be done mechanically or imitatively. The Italian baker Dolfi goes out to an excited mob, makes a speech, and calms them, though Ricasoli has failed to do anything of the kind. But if an accomplished imitator were probably would fail. The only use of ¢hese remarks is to prepare the way for this one remark more :—It is the height of folly to persevere in trying to do mechanically what does not “come natural,” especially when living creatures are the subjects of the experiment. | ) . ' | t to repeat the Dolfi trick to a similar mob, he might, and ) | What parents want in their children is, in two words, that | they should be Aealthy and good. With regard to both of these points the index has long pointed steadily and lumi- nously in one direction. The new formula, both for soul ) and body, may be summed up in some such words as these— | Less medication and more hygiene. As to the body, if the child’s back is weak, teach it to exercise the dorsal muscles, rather than give it physic, or stick it in a “monitor.” As NURTURE OF CHILDREN. 123 _ to the soul, help the child, through the sympathies it really has, rather than preach to it and beat it. These are merely hints of the direction in which the index points: they are not exclusive or peremptory prescriptions. The danger is, that to comply with them in any fair degree should be thought too easy; the consequence of which would be laxity, or the bad sort of dacsser-faire. But, since we have incurred the great responsibility of bringing our children into existence, we ought not to flinch from the task of living strenuously for them, and with them ; and to live effectively with children, so as to command their sympathies as an instrument for helping them on, is undoubtedly an arduous task. It may be called absolutely impossible at home, unless, if there are two parents living, there be absolute concert and agreement between them. The most complete submission or acquies- cence from one side to the other, would be but little to the purpose; nor, in such a matter, is an effective acquiescence possible. To come, however, to a few matters of detail; and, first, as to the general health of children. ew 124 NURTURE OF CAILDREN. I. Although it may be exploded in certain educated circles, there is a tolerably general impression that children must go the round of certain tiresome diseases; unless they are to have them in worse form when they are grown up. This is a superstition. Children may be brought up without the least taint of chicken-pox, measles, whooping-cough, scarlet- fever, or what-not. But to this end, their intercourse with other children must be carefully regulated. Servants must not be allowed to carry them about at their pleasure. The great visceral functions must be carefully watched, and, when that is necessary, discreetly helped. The little body must be scrutinised every day (an easy task at the morning bath) for symptoms of derangement—such, for instance, as dila- tion of the veins of the eye. A thing like this, or a want of appetite, may mean little or nothing, and it would be folly to get fidgetty over it; but it may mean much, and a careful mother will note and register such trifles. I may add, that a careful father will keep his eyes open too, and make constant inquiries of the mother. II. Now for a commonplace. The most important point NURTURE OF CHILDREN. in the daily regimen of a child is plenty of fresh air. I can overhear parents say, “My children have that, I’m sure.” But are you sure of that? What do you say to the doctrine that your little ones of three, five, six, or seven—I do not carry it further—have wether of them any business in the nursery, or indoors at all, more than can possibly be helped. If you have a garden, that is the place for them, from morning till night. If you are not rich, and cannot afford a play- ground for them (in addition to the garden for yourself) give up to them every yard of garden ground you possess, and let them kick up their heels and keep each other company there from breakfast to bed. I have a friend who does this, to the grief of a neighbouring gardener, who says to him, “It brings tears into my eyes, Sir, to see this bit o’ ground tun to waste. Give it to me, and I’ll supply you with wegit- ables free all the year round, and ¢hen I shall make a bit o’ money for myself.” But my friend knows better, and if his expenditure for boots is considerable, he is repaid if the children never have a day’s illness ; and he saves the doctor’s bills. If it be said that this sort of regimen leaves no time for lessons, I answer, that formal lessons should not be =o ~ eu 726 NURTURE OF CHILDREN. attempted until children have well’ passed the first years. Of this a word or two more by-and-hye. Half-a-dozen cases in which children have been exempt from the “usual” diseases of childhood prove nothing by themselves ; but, taken in connection with the obvious hygienic indications of the subject, they have more than empirical value, as against cases in which another regimen mot in accordance with such indications may have been equally successful. I suppose no parent will say it is desirable that children should have whooping-cough and measles; nor is it incum- bent upon me or any one else to deal with any given theory of the frequency of such complaints. But there is one rather curious point arising just here. Most parents have noticed that an illness in a child is often followed by a rapid “ spurt si in its mental and moral growth—the little one comes out of the sick-room almost another being. It is not, however, necessary that it should have scarlet fever, or even whooping- cough, for ¢#7s end. Children, like grown people, have critical a Nera ca ee at EES Ee a SNR ONAN ER ol SO : _—— NURTURE OF CHILDREN. — 127 periods, accompanied by slight derangement of the health— a little nervousness, a little fever, a little dilation of the eyes, and a desire to sleep with the mother, and perhaps these remarkable little symptoms arise when there is no cold taken, and-no traceable cause of derangement; yet the child seems wayward, low-spirited, and not so ready as usual for the playground. I cannot fathom this; but I have repeatedly noticed that these times are followed by increase of intel- ligence and sympathy, and also by quickened growth. III. Perhaps parents in general are not sufficiently alive to the value of sleep as a remedial agent in the nurture of young children. Results may differ in this respect; but my own experience and observation can scarcely be leading me wrong when they inform me, that a good, warm sleep, in excess of the usual allowance, will often ward off an illness. Take a threatening cold, for instance; the effect of such an extra warm sleep is, naturally, a soothed system in general, and, in particular, a gentle perspiration. In other words, the cold is arrested. Of course, it often happens that a young child is fractious and unwilling to lie down, all that can be ee ee nee aaa 128 NURTURE OF CHILDREN. done ‘¢hen is to present the best allurement in one’s power, and lie down with it. IV. The irritability of young children, between weaning- time and chattering-time, is often caused by thirst. Some- times they can explain themselves; sometimes they cannot. Very often they do not know what is the matter with them. But, very often, indeed, a simple drink is all that they want. V. Physiologists have abundantly shown, of late, that the taste of children for sweets is one to which there need be no check, except the ordinary rule which applies to all kinds of excess. Yet it may be conjectured that there are homes in which it is as yet unknown that the young really reguire a large supply of saccharine matter. At all events, I have known people who thought the sweetening of food, up to a point which. to an adult would be excess, an indulgence or concession to children. It is, however, no concession, but a just and healthful compliance with a perfectly natural indication, NURTURE OF CHILDREN. 1209 To come, now, to the heart and mind. Here, indeed, I shall speak in vain to those, if any, among the readers of these lines whose chief wish is that their children should be substantially like those of other people, with this selfish addition, that they should out-live them, or out-succeed them. But, surely the inmost wish of the parent’s heart may be assumed to be this—that the child should havea full and radiating moral life; should, in a word, be tho- roughly good; not up to this pattern or that pattern, but so good as to throw patterns into the shade. And when we ask, what is the specific quality which, more than any other is the index of this fulness or radiating force of life, in young or old, what are we compelled to answer? Good temper is rare. Self-restraint is rare, and verges very close on the quality next to be mentioned. But, after all, what if rarity measures value in these matters, is the quality most to be longed for? It is moral courage ; or, in other lan- guage, truthfulness. And what is the one only path by which we can hope to help our children to consolidate their characters in this respect? The answer lies in the word, sympathy. There are just, assiduous, and kind parents, who a ia ci ¥ 130 NURTURE OF CHILDREN, do not know what the word means when applied to the young; whom they always treat de haut en bas; but there are a still greater number who will perfectly understand, and some who will anticipate and far outrun any words of mine. Nevertheless, distinct speech is generally of some use, and we may as well try to be specific. J. I never yet knew oa ‘child “which @ididmo: begin its moral career by fibbing. ‘To deny is the only way which, the little brain sees for separating itself, and you with it, from the wrong done. Yet, so far from this being natural or normal as a final thing, it is the fact that the real indi- cation of nature is shown in the blush and the uneasiness which (except in cases of moral disease, which are very rare) accompany the fib. But, now, let us ask ourselves who are the grown-up persons with whom we, also grown-up, have to practise such reserve or honest diplomacy as we can allow ourselves in? Assuredly, the persons with whom we are in imperfect sympathy. Deep down in our breasts lies the knowledge of the truth—/sout comprendre cest tout pardonnes. Since only One Being can know all, only one can fully WOUAZORE FOF CATLEDREN. cor pardon; and, often, the only confession we can make to that One Being is an anguished “ THou knowest.” But here, at all events, is the indication for us, in dealing with our children; and the first thing that occurs to me about it is, that we cannot begin too soon to follow it. . I mean, that the education which opens with the first glance of half-recognition that passes between the mother and the baby must not be interrupted by the sudden introduction of a new and chillier regimen when the child is a little older ; and that much, if necessary, must be sacrificed to the keeping up of this ¢vadition, so to speak, of assured sympathy. The point to be gained is this :—that the loss of sympathy con- sequent upon untruthfulness shall be felt by the child to be a greater pain than any consequence which could follow upon truthfulness. Of course, in order to this end, disci- pline must not be unjust. It must not, for example, in- clude any such abomination as the old-fashioned law— * Don’t answer.” ’ * * + = ra . = ‘ * + 3 * y x “ a = ag a * re = = 7 1 ~ ¢ J . ‘ . oe e . - 7 a ~ me ’ . » Ld * A . ie > - ~ * ' ° F cl wre - - - A: ; J . My First Visit to the Little Orphans at Holloway IN JANUARY, 1868. OST people know something of the silent suffering of that genteel poverty which hides its want, and by a hundred small contrivances conceals from the world the misery of its daily life,—of that respectable wretchedness which pays the poor-rate when the cupboard is empty, and looks with a faint, wistful fluttering at the lists of contributions towards charities, in the benefits of which it cannot share. We all know how the poor fathers of families—clerks, porters, mechanics, servants, shopmen— go out day by day, and think—how wearily !—of what the end will be when they have gone out once more—have been carried out—never to return. It is a terrible thought to begin a day’s work with; a thought that nothing but a very living faith in the living Gop will keep below a fre- quent agony. ‘That wife, whose maternity has rendered her less able to bear a part in the rough work of the world ; those little children, who have just kissed him at the door, and wondered whether he will bring home anything for to-morrow’s dinner, or will find the money for the new shoes that have been promised so long ;—what will become of them when the last little hoard is taken to pay the doctor and the undertaker, and the mother is left weeping in the bare room, with only them for treasures, and yet in her awful fear almost wishing that they could have gone too? The shadow of that fear is realised, and the shillings turn to pence, and her labour, so scanty as it must be with these little lives to tend and cherish, barely finds bread. What then? What if she should follow him, and the group of poor stricken lambs be left alone? What if she starves, and strives, and sickens, and yet, strive and starve as she may, the little pinched faces, and wasted limbs, and eager eyes, seem to fade day by day? Shall her children become geveiakos ls Visi? 1O°THE ORPHANS. 61 but a part of that pauper community with which the wards of our workhouses sometimes teem? Shall they grow up with that sort of inheritance which seems to be perpetual, and so a generation or two of striving, and of such culture as might have made them a national strength instead of a social weakness, be altogether wasted? If we can begin with children of this generation, there lies our hope for generations to come. Rescue them, and we redeem the great host of men and women who will form the people of a succeeding age. Begin at the beginning. But how? do you ask. If your question be in earnest, come with me. It is only to a quiet private house, or, rather, a pair of private houses, in a pleasant road in the pleasant district of Holloway.* The omnibus will put us down almost at the door. A quiet house and a quiet neighbourhood—a house, though, with a large allowance of bedrooms, each of which has quite a row of little iron cribs, some of them looking almost like dolls’ bedsteads, covered with their clean white counterpanes, Follow the well-known nursery * This was before any part of the present Institution was built. N 162 MY:-FIRST VISIT: JO THE ORPEARS example of the celebrated Goosey gander, and wander upstairs and downstairs, and you will still see these tiny sleeping places, until you get by accident into the parlour, where you should have gone at first, to write your name in the visitors’ book. Even that isn’t “my lady’s chamber,” for “my lady,” represented by the matron, is like another lady, also of nursery fame (though she is a good deal younger in her experience), and has so many children that, though it may be hoped she knows what to do, she may be said to “live in a shoe,’ so constantly has she, assisted by an assiduous teacher, to be on foot looking after her little charges. If you will come into the kitchen, how- ever, where the dinner is just now preparing, you may have ocular as well as olfactory demonstration that the discipline here does not include “broth without any bread;” for the long tables, with their white napery, their queer little high chairs, and tiny bone spoons and forks, are somehow sug- gestive of a good deal of nourishing farinaceous food. The children are at present in “the gallery 7 and, if you want to know what that is, you must come and see, Pee ar yer Ota URPHANS: «To; There they are, nearly half a hundred of them, on that broad flight of steps which in Infant-schools is always called the gallery. Forty-five little ones, whose angels do con- tinually stand before the Father, are now standing before you; the eldest not quite eight, the youngest a little tot of perhaps two years old. Fifty future men and women, taken from who knows what of misery, want, and shame, to be sent upon a new and hopeful career, blessing, let us hope, and to be blessed. The Alexandra Orphanage for Infants. These little crea- tures have a sweet godmother. Her tender Royal face is up there on the wall; and, now that she has children of her own, she may well think sometimes of these. For these are children, and there is great comfort in that: I mean, they are not poor little depressed men and women, under the rigid rule which will dwarf:a child’s soul and crush its heart. See, some of them have got hold of your hand already ; and those behind (such little chaps that you hardly know girls from boys) are eager to clasp each a finger, and cry out “Me! me!” to secure their share of petting. Will y64° MY FIRST VISIT TO THE, ORBHANS you hear them sing? They caw sing, mind you! Off they go to the old tune, and are “all nodding, nid, nid, nodd- ing,’—gracious, how they put their heads into it !—or are “all sleeping,” or ‘ digging,” or- “sawing,” or “sewing,” or anything and everything you please, till the back rows troop out into the playroom, and half-a-dozen ripe scholars, including a young lady of seven and a philosopher of five and a-half, remain. Will you ask them one or two simple questions? A little object lesson? Well, I quite agree with you,—dont! It’s not always easy to appear as though you yourself knew the difference, say, between leather and pru- nella. Let them write their names, do a little sum in simple addition, repeat one or two of the little poems that they learn voluntarily out of the “Infant’s Magazine,” ‘ Chatter- box,” or the “Children’s Friend,” and then let them go. Come, Master Charles and Master William, twins out of six little ones entirely dependent, and whose father followed an artistic business, let us hear you; though which is Charles and which William surely puzzles even the matron some- times. Come, Master Philip Henry, aged six, you can write your own name better than many a Member of Parliament ; Apress Vial. LOWE GRPHANS. . -105 come, Master Tommy, leave off drawing a caricature of me on your slate, and let us hear you spell. There’s no cram- ming here. I don’t mean in regard to space, but with respect to learning; they are none of them infant pre- cocities, thank goodness! But why only fifty? Ah, why indeed? Do you see that great space over yonder, with a new building slowly growing into a ground plan? Oh, so slowly! When that building is finished, entirely completed, four hundred infants may fmd a home there. Four hundred little ones for whom Christ came. Will you help them? Will you give the difference between a two-pound and a one-pound pudding? Will you sacrifice a box of cigars? Will you “make an old dress do?” Will you forego the dyspeptic luxury of a twelfth-cake? Will you, in remem- brance of the late holy season, and of the festival that com- memorates the childhood of H1m whom you profess to love, do something to build one cottage in the new home that is preparing for these little ones? 1766 MY FIRST VISIT TO THE ORPHANS. This visit was paid four years ago, before any part of the present building was completed. What has been done since then is well known to most of the readers of this volume : | what may be done in the future will depend upon the sus tained interest of those who believe that they will not labour in vain. Those who have not yet become acquainted with the infant village and its little community, will find no more touching and: yet cheering sight in all this great city than their happy faces, will hear no sound more calculated to thrill the heart than their fresh young voices. THOMAS ARCHER. At the present time there are 1oo infants under the care of the Charity. That they are under efficient management, and well trained, is manifest by the following Report, dated May 15, 1869, and presented at the Annual Meeting. ‘*T have much pleasure in testifying to the satisfactory education of the Infants at the Alexandra Orphanage. Yesterday morning I examined the first four classes, embracing children from three to eight years of age. ** Their general and intelligent knowledge of the Bible is most remarkable. The answers discover an acquaintance with the rudiments of salvation through Christ, as well as the usual outline of Scripture History. Portions were accurately repeated, texts quoted, and good explanations given—showing that the children are taught God’s Word morally as well as mentally. ‘‘ The reading is good. The upper children bave mastered their diffi- culties and the rest are all fairly advanced. The copybooks shewn to me were clean and promising. I tested the first class on their slates, and the writing from dictation was excellent, both in execution and spelling. An examination in mental arithmetic was conducted by the teacher at my request, and quick and accurate answers were given, as far as the multiplication table. Needlework for the girls, and lessons on objects and general information form part of the regular course of education. “* The whole tone of the school is most gratifying—the children clean, bright, and happy—under discipline but without constraint, and mani- festing a confidence in their teachers which strikes a visitor at once. It is only right to say that the examination of yesterday was unexpected —only ten minutes notice of my visit was given—the result points to real and thorough work in the School, and the Orphanage must possess a valuable Officer in their infant teacher. ** CROUCH END VICARAGE, “15th May, 1869.” | i } (Signed) **'W. 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