ASK ME NO MORE FOR A GLADDER

STRAIN.

BY W. G. J. BARKER, ESQ.

Ask me no more for a gladder strain-
Press me not thus for a blither lay:
How can the spirit exult 'mid pain?

How shall the weary in heart be gay?
Hasten to those who have known no grief,
Over whose hopes blight bath not been;
And bid them wake-for their hour is brief—
A gleesome song in this desert scene.

Let them dream of flowers not doom'd to fade-
Let them fancy suns that ne'er decline:
Long on my rose has a canker prey'd --

For me have the sunbeams ceas'd to shine.
The bird that is caged may warble well,

But anguish breathes through each melting strain;

For the captive pines in his cheerless cell,

For the distant grove and the breezy plain.
And like such a prisoner's, low and sad,
Must my lyre's wild music always be ;
So if ye delight in notes more glad,

Demand of others, but ask not me.
Not mine to give you a gleesome strain,

Or bend my thoughts to a blither lay.
How shall the spirit exult 'mid pain?
How shall the wearied of earth be gay?
Banks of the Yore.

STANZAS.

BY W. K. TAGGART, ESQ.

There was joy in a human dwelling,
For a child was born to earth;
The mother smiled as she looked on her child,
And listen'd to songs of mirth.

A wandering band of the spirits of air
Came floating the casement round;
For still by sweet human sympathies
The spirits of air are bound.

"Oh, sweet and pure are the ties of earth,”
Sighed a lovely spirit there,

"This baby so bright, with the angel light,
Shall still have my watchful care.”
And fair grew the face of the child of earth,
But her soul was brighter far,

For the angel guide, that was still by her side,
Had taught her to seek the star.

And ever she seemed 'mid the homes of men,
As a spirit of love might be :
Soothing the weeper, and warning the sleeper,
That child of earth you might see.
There was woe in a human dwelling,
For the child of earth was dead;
While sadly they stand, the kindred band,
And wail for their bright one fled !

A wandering band of the spirits of air
Came singing the casement round ;-
"Alas for the weeper, but not for the sleeper-
Joy, joy for the spirit unbound!"

LITERATURE.

THE FORLORN HOPE. A Story of Old Chelsea. By Mrs. S. C. Hall. Printed and sold (at 20, Great Marlborough-street) in aid of the Fund for building the Hospital for Consumption and diseases of the chest, in Old Brompton.Price 5s. In presenting this richly illustrated little work as a free gift to the institution it is intended to assist, Mrs. Hall does much more than contribute the tens-if not hundreds of pounds its sale may ultimately bring into the treasury. This golden return would alone be a noble and generous gift; but her simple story will do something much more lasting. It is a touching tale of a victim of that stealthy, and slow, but life-consuming disease, which may be called the plague of our changeful climate; and though in the form of fiction, conveys those truths which must reach every feeling heart. It is a story of Hope, not only "Forlorn," but " Forsaken," of sickness, of poverty, and of death. And who can doubt that finding its way, as it must already have done, into the hands of the rich, the happy, and the healthy, that in touching the chord of gratitude to the Almighty for blessings vouchsafed to them, it must, at the same time, have awakened, in many instances, those generous sympathies which prove their reality by active benevolence.

It may not be generally known that, until the recent establishment of a hospital for consumption, the very hopelessness of the disease was, according to the bye-laws of our charitable institutions, a reason for the exclusion of consumptive patients. The poor and suffering could, beneath every other bodily affliction, find care and shelter during the last hours of lingering life; and, perchance in the earlier stages of discase, the means of alleviation and the comfort of hopeful words, both for this life, and for a future state. But the signs of consumption were looked on as the leper spots of old, a mark for desertion and neglect; because the patient could not be cured, he must be turned out to die a lingering death, it may be houseless, and without the means of procuring the feeblest alleviation to his pain. Was not this monstrous? Of a disease, too, which spares neither age, rank, nor sex, and therefore ought to claim the warmest and most active sympathies from all.

Let us hope, however, that the example which has been set, and that too by the highest in the land, will be quickly and generously followed. For our own part, we have seldom or never witnessed a more gratifying sight than the laying of the first stone of this hospital by His Royal Highness Prince Albert, which took place on the 11th of June. On the platform might have been observed some of the first nobles in the land, as well as numerous individuals who have won for themselves high places by their talents; but all on this occasion becoming more noble-more distinguished by their individual exertions and influence in the cause of Christian charity. Forcibly does Mrs. Hall allude to the blessed changes which have been wrought during the last ten years; true it is that at last“ a cry has been raised throughout the

66

empire, not by the poor, but for the poor; not by the oppressed, but for them." Witness the loud voice that echoes wide and near for the "lone sempstress-the slave of the lamp, working from weary chime to chime, bearing her cross in solitude-toiling, while starving, for the few soiled pence, the very touch of which would be contamination to the kidded hands of tawdry footmen;" for the wretched dress-maker "fainting during her brief minutes of rest;'" for the infant victims of the loom; for the degraded coal drudges, crawling like reptiles along damps and slimes;" for the cruelly wronged shopmen, robbed of health, youth, and morals, by the debasing slavery of their existence. The voice is raised: it is a righteous cry, and therefore it will be heard. Surely, the erection of the hospital for consumption will not be the smallest blessing it has brought about; where not only the sufferings of the dying will be alleviated, and the erring soul taught its ONE reliance, but where, it is confidently hoped, numerous human lives may be saved by the adoption of those remedies which, for the want of an extended field of action, medical men have at present no opportunity of practising.

We ought to have mentioned that the grounds of Chelsea Hospital were devoted to the purposes of a fancy fair; stalls being held by the Duchess of Gloucester, the Duchess of Norfolk, the Countess Grosvenor, and numerous other ladies of the first rank. "The Forlorn Hope" was on sale at each of them, and, we believe, seven hundred copies were sold. Moreover, though additional funds are of course highly desirable, it was gratifying to hear that the total amount of the receipts on that occasion exceeded the most sanguine expectations of the committee.

THE STORY OF A FEATHER. By Douglas Jerrold. (Punch office, Strand.) -- Originally published piecemeal in Punch," the "Story of a Feather," though, we believe now slightly extended, forms a volume, rich in many high attributes. A work broken into fragments for such a method of publication, must necessarily be constructed on a very different principle from stories which are given to the world complete. Every chapter must be rounded off, and have distinct interests and incidents. Its progress is like breaking up a large diamond, to have the more refracting angles; or, if that be a far-fetched simile, we may compare the chapters as now united to dissolving views of human life melting into one another, but all painted by the hand of a master in the enduring colours of truth. The giving to an inanimate object eyes to see and ears to hear, and withal a tongue to tell its story, is the reviving of a quaint old fashion, never, perhaps, adopted with so much success as in the present instance; while, as if to be in keeping with the style, the scenes are laid some eighty years ago. A feather, however, of the present day doubtless hears and sees things quite as well worth repeating, as that which burst into splendour, as one of the "Prince's plume," that nodded above the cradle of George IV. But one who depicts human nature with the power and fidelity always displayed by Mr. Jerrold, writes for all ages;

for vice and folly, which often quail more readily beneath the satirist's keen shafts than from the heavy artillery of grave discourse, spring always from the same seeds, however modified by circumstances; and to the true philosopher the events of life are but the machinery to bring out and unravel the mysteries of the human heart.

Those who take up this book as the production of a "wit," expecting to find therein incentives to mirth and laughter, will be disappointed-yet that is scarcely the word, for disappointment means regret, and though the "Story of a Feather" may rather make one sad than merry, and at any rate must make us earnest and thoughtful, it must also, unless we fling away its wisdom, improve and elevate. Knowing that such very seldom live upon earth, Mr. Jerrold rarely depicts either fiends or angels; unless, indeed, now and then he deifies a woman, for the which we upholders of our own sex, and believers in its noble attributes and wondrous bravery of heart, that endures where man can but display the inferior courage which prompts to action-shall scarcely quarrel with him. Consequently, his characters have all life and individuality about them-we should know them anywhere;-and oh, above all does he deserve praise and gratitude for the crusade he wages against the heartless selfishness which is the upas vice of the day. Would that we could convey to our columns whole chapters from the "Story of a Feather!" and yet, now that they are joined, it would be a pity again to divide them. Our few extracts shall relate to an important change in the autobiographer's condi tion. The Countess Blush rose was a lady in waiting.

"Had the Countess Blush rose felt less devotion towards the Prince of Wales, I might for years have remained in the Palace: it may be, thrown aside to pass into the stomachs of palace moths. I was, however, doomed to a more various destiny. The Countess Blushrose refined away the vulgarity of mere honesty by the excess of loyalty. A philosopher, or--if he were duly hired for the coarse word-and Old Bailey practitioner, would say the Countess stole me. Well; in hard, iron phrase, she did so: but surely the spirit that prompted the felony, made the theft a divine one! Even the accusing angel must have put his finger to his lip, and inwardly said 'Mum! as the Countess, in a flutter of triumph, bore me from the palace. How her heart beat!-for, snugly concealed under her short satin cloak, I felt the throbbing organ beat, as the beautiful robber entered her carriage.

"I doubt not, there are simple folks who will marvel at this story-nay, it may be, give no belief to it. They may ask What! a countess filch a feather, when a word in the proper place would doubtless have made it her lawful chattel? Such petty pilfering might have been looked for at the hands of Mrs. Scott, the prince's wet-nurse-of Jane Simpson, or Catharine Johnson, rockers— but from Countess Blushrose!'

"I confess it in my inexperience of the world, such were the very thoughts that oppressed me; now it is otherwise. Not without melancholy I own it; but I have found that with some natures

it would pain and perplex their moral anatomy to move direct to an object; like snakes, they seem formed to take pleasure in indirect motion; with them the true line of moral beauty is a curve. Had Queen Charlotte herself bestowed me upon the countess, the free gift, I am sure of it, had not conveyed so much pleasure as the pilfered article."

On her arrival at home she is waited on by the domestic chaplain, who has a disclosure to make and a petition to offer. The scene is a long one : we give but a few fragments.

"What does the man mean?' asked the countess. Did you not say that you had to speak of something that affected happiness and peace of mind, and all that?'

"True, Madam,' answered Inglewood. "Well, then-and to whose happiness, to whose peace of mind could you possibly allude, if—'

"Will your ladyship hear me? I will be very brief,' said the chaplain, with an inward twingea rising of the heart-at the inborn, ingrained selfishness of the beautiful creature before him.

"Ob, say what you like-I suppose I must hear you,' answered the countess, again taking me from the table, and pettishly waving me about her. "A person in your ladyship's household has committed a fault

"Of course,' said the countess-such creatures do nothing else.'

"She has proved not trustworthy in the duty confided to her.'

"I hear of nothing else' cried the countess, waving me more violently. 'Let her be turned away immediately.'

"You will pardon me, madam: she was about to be cast from the house-cast out brokenhearted and with a blighted name-when I took it on myself to stand between her, and for what I know, destruction, and to plead her cause before you.'"

"Come, come,' said the really good-natured nobleman, not so hasty, Mr. Inglewood., Spoil not your hopes in life by a piece of temper.'

My hopes in this life, my lord,' said Ingle wood, are a quiet conscience, health, and a cordial faith, let them make what mistakes they will, in my fellow-creatures. Of these three hopes, it may please God to deprive me of one; nevertheless, two-whilst my reason lasts-must, and shall

remain with me.'"

"I would plead for a weak and foolish woman. She has betrayed her trust. Yet, I believe 'twas pride, a silly pride-no deep sin-that beguiled her.'

"What woman's this?' asked the earl. "One beneath your roof, my lord. One of your tenant's daughters, hired to tend your child. This morning-'

"Ten thousand pardons, my lady,' cried an elderly, hard-featured woman, bursting into the apartment,' but flesh and blood can't bear to have such doings made nothing of. If Susan isn't

packed off, nobody's safe. I knew his reverence here wanted to talk her off-but-1-1 beg your pardon my lady, for breaking in, but everybody's character must suffer.' Here the ancient dame, with her apron corner, carefully dislodged a small tear from either eye.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Pillow-what has Susan done?' asked the countess.

666

Stolen half-a-yard of luce from his lordship's cap,' answered Mrs. Pillow.

"Not stolen-not stolen,' shrieked a girl, as she rushed in, and with streaming eyes fell at the feet of the countess. I never had a thief's thought --never: nurse said 'twas of no use-none; and I only took it to remember me of that sweet child— I love it dearer than my own flesh-to remember it when I should be old, and baby be a man.'

"The girl, with clasped hands, looked with pas sionate grief in the face of the countess. ller ladyship rose, and fanning her cheek with me-new from the Prince's coronet-said,

"Send the culprit from the house, and instantly.'

"The girl fell prostrate on the floor. Mr. Inglewood followed the countess with his eyes as, still waving me to and fro, she walked from the room. 'God teach you better mercy!' he said in a low voice, and he stooped to raise the heart-stricken offender."

MESMERISM AND ITS OPPONENTS. By George Sandby, junior, M. A., Vicar of Flixton, Suffolk. (Longman).-The celebrated sermon, preached at Liverpool by the Rev. Hugh M Neile, and published under the title of "Satanic Agency and Mesmerism," has been so widely circulated, that doubtless the subject is anything but new to the majority of our readers. To the few, however, who may be ignorant of the production in question, it may be sufficient to say, that, though the author professed himself entirely ignorant of the pheno mena he so violently denounced-never having witnessed himself any mesmeric experiments, and imploring his listeners or readers equally to abstain and unhesitatingly attributed the results to which from satisfying a very rational curiosity-he boldly of Darkness. Assuredly an Alexander-like manwe are alluding to the direct influence of the Prince ner of cutting the knot of a difficult question, but scarcely one to be expected as worthy of a Christian philosopher or Christian minister. The nucleus of the present work was a pamphlet published about a year ago, and somewhat hastily put together, as an immediate answer to the bigoted and fiery sermon, which really was infinitely more like a production of the dark ages-of monkish superstition-than anything else we could name. Thus, in a manner, were two beneficed clergymen tilted against each other; though it must be owned by every dispassionate reader, that in the grand elements of Christian humility and Christian charity, Mr. Sandby has all the advantage-not to mention that he favours us with scientific facts and philosophical reasoning.

For our own part, we profess not any knowledge of the mysterious subject. We have seen several of the mesmeric phenomena produced, both upon

and by intimate friends, and others, whose position and character place their honesty beyond suspicion. But we have been content to own, with Hamlet, that "there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy." In the same dispassionate spirit, avoiding alike the ignorance of rash credulity or of blind unbelief, would we draw our reader's attention to Mr. Sandby's book-as a simple statement of facts which have come within the author's own knowledge, combined with much lucid reasoning. M'Neile says, "I have seen nothing of it, nor do I think it right to tempt God by going to see it." Mr. Sandby writes:

"I would not have Christian men, from a disgust at the tendencies of this sermon, join the ranks of the infidel, and laugh to scorn the doctrine of Satanic agency as the invention of men-holy Scripture teaches it, experimental religion confirms it; but I would have them be cautious not to confound the ways of Providence with the works of the Evil One. I would have them remember how little a part of God's wonders are yet laid bare to his creatures. I would have them look into the subject with a devotional spirit, anxious for truth, not rashly condemning that of which they are ignorant, lest, haply, in their presumption, they be found "fighting against God." Christian men need not fear to be present at scientific lectures or physiological experiments, if they go in a Christian spirit." Not inappropriately may we here extract a few lines from a beantiful poem by Anna Savage, "On hearing Mesmerism called Impious," and which Mr. Sandby has introduced entire into his pages:-

"Say, is the world so full of joy-hath each so fair a lot,

That we should scorn one bounteous gift, and scorning, use it not,

Because the finite thought of man grasps not its hidden source?

Do we reject the stream because we cannot track its course?

Hath nature, then, no mystic law we seek in vain to scan?

Can man, the master-piece of God, trace the unerring plan

That places o'er the restless sea the bounds it cannot pass,

That gives the fragrance to the flower, the glory to the grass?

Oh, life, with all its fitful gleams, hath sorrow for its dower,

And with the wrung heart dwell the pang and

many a weary hour.

Hail, then, with gladness, what may soothe the aching brain to rest;

And call not impious that which brings a blessing

and is blest.

The gladden'd soul re-echoes praise where'er this power hath been; And what in mercy God doth give, O call not

thou unclean."

Mr. Sandby proceeds to say

My original purpose was to treat of the religious aspect of Mesmerism. But, in the position

*

in which I have been placed, and with the facts in my possession of which I have been a witness, such a narrow view of the subject appears to be inconsistent. When the leaders of the medical profession (for the larger part of the junior members are happily an exception) can obstinately persevere in terming this valuable discovery a delusion and an absurdity, I should be wanting in my duty towards God if I did not thankfully announce that which I have experienced; nay, I should be even wanting to my own character among my fellow men if I did not show that, in thus advocating Mesmerism, I had reasonable grounds for my conviction, and spoke but the 'words of truth and soberness.'"

readers who are interested in the subject to the But we hope we have said enough to refer those work itself.

POEMS BY VIATOR. (Saunders and Otley.)These poems are in turn "grave and gay, lively and severe," including here and there a paraphrase from Horace. Between the "parts" of the volume we have a sort of dramatic scene or dialogue, intended to convey a notion of the author's views of things in general. We are sorry he has so bad an opinion of the critics; taken in the mass, if they do some harm, they also do much good. They are mortals, and so not infallible; but they often serve by just censure, to keep even an established author up to the right mark. Although it is the fashion to abuse them, we are inclined to believe them passing honest, and that they err quite as often on the side of good-natured for bearance as the other. We think the most clever of Viator's poems is a ballad of the olden time, called "Sir Guion de Broke," too long, however, for extract, though we can find room for

66 THE POET'S LAMENT.
"In this terrible practical age,

When the muses have nothing to do;
And iron and steam are the rage,
What course can the poet pursue?
"Keep moving :''progress' is the cry,
All bow to the useful and real;
Hippocrene's bright fountain is dry,
And vanish'd for aye the ideal.

"Apollo sits drooping his wings,

His shrine will be honour'd no more;
Thrown aside are both lyre and strings,

The bard's occupation is o'er."

THE BATUECAS; ALSO, FRANCISCO ALVAREZ; AND OTHER POEMS. By William Henry Leatham. Longman.)—The "other poems," which we presume are the least ambitious in this collection,

(

In our

please us the best; they are often sweet and graceful, though we cannot say more. opinion, the author breaks down in blank verse; consequently, distracts the reader from the thoughts he certainly has not an ear for it. This roughness, which otherwise would strike the mind. Altogether, we think the author displays more of the elements of a poetical prose writer, than of a socalled poet.