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THE DESTITUTE IN LONDON.

[Thomas de Quincey, born at Manchester, 1785; died 8th December, 1859. A miscellaneous writer on political economy, biography, and metaphysics. The following sad and interesting narrative is taken from "The Confessions of an Opium-Eater," an autobiographical reminiscence, first published in the London Magazine, 1821. It is the work by which he is most widely known, although it forms only a small item of

his productions. A critic in the London Monthly Review described the "Confessions" as "very picturesque and vivid sketches of individual character and feelings, drawn with a boldness, yet an exactness of pencil, that is to be found only in one or two prominent geniuses of our day." De Quincey's complete works, in twenty volumes, were published in America by Ticknor and Fields. The best indication of the character of his voluminous works is supplied by his own classification of them under three heads: first, papers chiefly intended to amuse-sketches, reminiscences of contemporaries, biographies, and whimsical narratives; second, essays of a speculative, critical, or philosophical character; and third, fantasies or "imaginations in prose"-belonging to the class of writing which may be called prose-poetry," and of which the "Suspiria de Profundis" is an example.]

Soon after this I contrived, by means which I must omit for want of room, to transfer myself to London. And now began the latter and fiercer stage of my long sufferings; without using a disproportionate expression I might say, of my agony. For I now suffered, for upwards of sixteen weeks, the physical anguish of hunger in various degrees of intensity; but as bitter, perhaps, as ever any human being can have suffered who has survived it. I would not needlessly harass my reader's feelings by a detail of all that I endured: for extremities such as these, under any circumstances of heaviest misconduct or guilt, cannot be contemplated, even in description, without a rueful pity that is painful to the natural goodness of the human heart. Let it suffice, at least on this occasion, to say, that a few fragments of bread from the breakfasttable of one individual (who supposed me to be ill, but did not know of my being in utter want), and these at uncertain intervals, constituted my whole support. During the former part of my sufferings (that is, generally in Wales, and always for the first two months in London) I was houseless, and very seldom slept under a roof. To this constant exposure to the open air I ascribe it mainly that I did not sink under my torments. Latterly, however, when colder and more inclement weather came on, and when, from the length of my

VOL. I.

sufferings, I had begun to sink into a more languishing condition, it was, no doubt, fortunate for me, that the same person to whose breakfast-table I had access, allowed me to sleep in a large unoccupied house, of which he was tenant. Unoccupied, I call it, for there was no household or establishment in it; nor any furniture, indeed, except a table, and a few chairs.

But I found, on taking possession

of my new quarters, that the house already contained one single inmate, a poor, friendless child, apparently ten years old; but she seemed hunger-bitten; and sufferings of that sort often make children look older than they are. From this forlorn child I learned, that she had slept and lived there alone for some time before I came: and great joy the poor creature expressed when she found that I was, in future, to be her companion through the hours of darkness. The house was large; and from the want of furniture, the noise of the rats made a prodigious echoing on the spacious staircase and hall; and, amidst the real fleshly ills of cold, and, I fear, hunger, the forsaken child had found leisure to suffer still more (it appeared) from the self-created one of ghosts. I promised her protection against all ghosts whatsoever! but, alas! I could offer her no other assistance. We lay upon the floor, with a bundle of cursed law papers for a pillow but with no other covering than a sort of large horseman's cloak: afterwards, however, we discovered, in a garret, an old sofa-cover, a small piece of rug, and some fragments of other articles, which added a little to our warmth. The poor child crept close to me for warmth, and for security against her ghostly enemies. When I was not more than usually ill, I took her into my arms, so that, in general, she was tolerably warm, and often slept when I could not: for, during the last two months of my sufferings, I slept much in the daytime, and was apt to fall into transient dozings at all hours. But my sleep distressed me more than my watching: for, besides the tumultuousness of my dreams (which were only not so awful as those which I shall have to describe hereafter as produced by opium), my sleep was never more than what is called dog-sleep; so that I could hear myself moaning, and was often, as it seemed to me, wakened suddenly by my own voice; and about this time, a hideous sensation began to haunt me as soon as I fell into a slumber, which has since returned upon me, at different periods of my life, viz. a sort of twitching (I know not where, but apparently about the region of the stomach), which compelled me violently, to throw out my feet for

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But who, and what, meantime, was the master of the house himself? Reader, he was one of those anomalous practitioners in lower departments of the law, who-what shall I say?-who, on prudential reasons, or from necessity, deny themselves all indulgence in the luxury of too delicate a conscience (a periphrasis which might be abridged considerably, but that I leave to the reader's taste): in many walks of life a conscience is a more expensive encumbrance than a wife or a carriage; and just as people talk of "laying down" their carriages, so I suppose my friend Mr. had "laid down" his conscience for a time: meaning, doubtless, to resume it as soon as he could afford it. The inner economy of such a man's daily life would present a most strange picture, if I could allow myself to amuse the reader at his expense. Even with my limited opportunities for observing what went on, I saw many scenes of London intrigues and complex chicanery, "cycle and epicycle, orb in orb," at which I sometimes smile to this day

the sake of relieving it. This sensation coming | ed from her own account at night; for as soon on as soon as I began to sleep, and the effort as the hours of business commenced, I saw to relieve it constantly awaking me, at length that my absence would be acceptable; and, in I slept only from exhaustion; and from increas- general, therefore, I went off, and sat in the ing weakness (as I said before) I was constantly parks, or elsewhere, until nightfall. falling asleep, and constantly awaking. Meantime the master of the house sometimes came in upon us suddenly, and very early, sometimes not till ten o'clock, sometimes not at all. He was in constant fear of bailiffs: improving on the plan of Cromwell, every night he slept in a different quarter of London; and I observed that he never failed to examine, through a private window, the appearance of those who knocked at the door, before he would allow it to be opened. He breakfasted alone: indeed, his tea equipage would hardly have admitted of his hazarding an invitation to a second person-any more than the quantity of esculent matériel, which, for the most part, was little more than a roll, or a few biscuits, which he had bought on his road from the place where he had slept. Or, if he had asked a party, as I once learnedly and facetiously observed to him the several members of it must have stood in the relation to each other (not sat in any relation whatever) of succession, as the metaphysicians have it, and not of co-existence; in the relation of the parts of time, and not of the parts of space. During his breakfast, I generally contrived a reason for lounging in; and, with an air of as much indifference as I could assume, took up such fragments as he had left sometimes, indeed, there were none at all. In doing this, I committed no robbery except upon the man himself, who was thus obliged (I believe) now and then to send out That power was not, indeed, very extensive; at noon for an extra biscuit; for, as to the however, in common with the rats, I sat rentpoor child, she was never admitted into his free; and as Dr. Johnson has recorded that study (if I may give that name to his chief he never but once in his life had as much walldepository of parchments, law writings, &c.); fruit as he could eat, so let me be grateful, that room was to her the Blue-beard room of that on that single occasion I had as large a the house, being regularly locked on his de- choice of apartments in a London mansion as parture to dinner, about six o'clock, which I could possibly desire. Except the Blue-beard usually was his final departure for the night. room, which the poor child believed to be Whether this child were an illegitimate daughter haunted, all others, from the attics to the cellars, of Mr., or only a servant, I could not were at our service; "the world was all before ascertain; she did not herself know; but cer- us;" and we pitched our tent for the night in tainly she was treated altogether as a menial any spot we chose. This house I have already servant. No sooner did Mr. make his described as a large one; it stands in a conappearance, than she went below stairs, brushed spicuous situation, and in a well-known part his shoes, coat, &c.; and, except when she was of London. Many of my readers will have passsummoned to run an errand, she never emerged ed it, I doubt not within a few hours of readfrom the dismal Tartarus of the kitchens, &c., ing this. For myself, I never fail to visit it to the upper air, until my welcome knock at when business draws me to London; about ten night called up her little trembling footsteps o'clock, this very night, August 15, 1821, being to the front door. Of her life during the day- my birth-day, I turned aside from my eventime, however, I knew little but what I gather- ing walk, down Oxford Street, purposely to

and at which I smiled then, in spite of my misery. My situation, however, at that time gave me little experience, in my own person, of any qualities in Mr. -'s character but such as did him honour; and of his whole strange composition, I must forget everything but that towards me he was obliging, and, to the extent of his power, generous.

take a glance at it: it is now occupied by a necessity a peripatetic, or a walker of the streets, respectable family; and, by the lights in the I naturally fell in more frequently with those front drawing-room, I observed a domestic female peripatetics who are technically called party, assembled perhaps at tea, and apparently street-walkers. Many of these women had cheerful and gay. Marvellous contrast in my occasionally taken my part against watchmen eyes to the darkness-cold-silence-and de- who wished to drive me off the steps of houses solation of that same house eighteen years ago, where I was sitting. But one amongst them, when its nightly occupants were one famishing the one on whose account I have at all introscholar and a neglected child!-Her, by-the-duced this subject-yet no! let me not class by, in after-years, I vainly endeavoured to thee, oh noble-minded Ann trace. Apart from her situation, she was not what would be called an interesting child: she was neither pretty, nor quick in understanding, nor remarkably pleasing in manners. But, thank God! even in those years I needed not the embellishments of novel-accessories to conciliate my affections; plain human nature, in its humblest and most homely apparel, was enough for me: and I loved the child because she was my partner in wretchedness. If she is now living, she is probably a mother with children of her own; but, as I have said, I could never trace her.

with that order of women; let me find, if it be possible, some gentler name to designate the condition of her to whose bounty and compassion, ministering to my necessities when all the world had forsaken me, I owe it that I am at this time alive. For many weeks I had walked at nights with this poor friendless girl up and down Oxford Street, or had rested with her on steps and under the shelter of porticoes. She could not be so old as myself: she told me, indeed, that she had not completed her sixteenth year. By such questions as my interest about her prompted, I had gradually drawn forth her simple history. Hers was a case of ordinary occurrence (as I have since had reason to think), and one in which, if London beneficence had better adapted its arrangements to meet it, the power of the law might oftener be interposed to protect and to avenge. But the stream of London charity flows in a channel which, though deep and mighty, is yet noiseless and underground; not obvious or readily accessible to poor houseless wanderers: and it cannot be denied that the outside air and framework of London society is harsh, cruel, and repulsive. In any case, however, I saw that part of her injuries might easily have been redressed; and I urged her often and earnestly to lay her complaint before a magistrate: friendless as she was, I assured her that she would meet with immediate attention; and that English justice, which was no respecter of persons, would speedily and amply avenge her on the brutal ruffian who had plundered her little property. She promised

This I regret; but another person there was at that time, whom I have since sought to trace with far deeper earnestness, and with far deeper sorrow at my failure. This person was a young woman, and one of that unhappy class who subsist upon the wages of prostitution. I feel no shame, nor have any reason to feel it, in avowing that I was then on familiar and friendly terms with many women in that unfortunate condition. The reader needs neither smile at this avowal, nor frown. For, not to remind my classical readers of the old Latin proverb "Sine Cerere," &c., it may well be supposed that in the existing state of my purse, my connection with such women could not have been an impure one. But the truth is, that at no time of my life have I been a person to hold myself polluted by the touch or approach of any creature that wore a human shape: on the contrary, from my very earliest youth it has been my pride to converse familiarly, more Socratico, with all human beings, man, woman, and child,me often that she would; but she delayed takthat chance might fling in my way: a practice which is friendly to the knowledge of human nature, to good feelings, and to that frankness of address which becomes a man who would be thought a philosopher. For a philosopher should not see with the eyes of the poor limitary creature calling himself a man of the world, and filled with narrow and self-regarding prejudices of birth and education, but should look upon himself as a Catholic creature, and as standing in an equal relation to high and lowto educated and uneducated, to the guilty and the innocent. Being myself at that time of

ing the steps I pointed out from time to time; for she was timid and dejected to a degree which showed how deeply sorrow had taken hold of her young heart: and perhaps she thought justly that the most upright judge, and the most righteous tribunals, could do nothing to repair her heaviest wrongs. Something, however, would perhaps have been done: for it had been settled between us at length, but unhappily on the very last time but one that I was ever to see her, that in a day or two we should go together before a magistrate, and that I should speak on her behalf. This

little service it was destined, however, that I should never realize. Meantime, that which she rendered to me, and which was greater than I could ever have repaid her, was this:One night, when we were pacing slowly along Oxford Street, and after a day when I felt more than usually ill and faint, I requested her to turn off with me into Soho Square: thither we went; and we sat down on the steps of a house, which, to this hour, I never pass without a pang of grief, and an inner act of homage to the spirit of that unhappy girl, in memory of the noble action which she there performed. Suddenly, as we sat, I grew much worse: I had been leaning my head against her bosom; and all at once I sank from her arms and fell backwards on the steps. From the sensations I then had, I felt an inner conviction of the liveliest kind that without some powerful and reviving stimulus, I should either have died on the spot or should at least have sunk to a point of exhaustion from which all re-ascent under my friendless circumstances would soon have become hopeless. Then it was, at this crisis of my fate, that my poor orphan companion-who had herself met with little but injuries in this world-stretched out a saving hand to me. Uttering a cry of terror, but without a moment's delay, she ran off into Oxford Street, and in less time than could be imagined, returned to me with a glass of portwine and spices, that acted upon my empty stomach (which at that time would have rejected all solid food) with an instantaneous power of restoration: and for this glass the generous girl without a murmur paid out of her own humble purse at a time-be it remembered!--when she had scarcely wherewithal to purchase the bare necessaries of life, and when she could have no reason to expect that I should ever be able to reimburse her.-Oh! youthful benefactress! how often in succeeding years, standing in solitary places, and thinking of thee with grief of heart and perfect love, how often have I wished that, as in ancient times the curse of a father was believed to have a supernatural power, and to pursue its object with a fatal necessity of self-fulfilment,-even so the benediction of a heart oppressed with gratitude, might have a like prerogative; might have power given to it from above to chaseto haunt to waylay-to overtake-to pursue thee into the central darkness of a London brothel, or (if it were possible) into the darkness of the grave-there to awaken thee with an authentic message of peace and forgiveness, and of final reconciliation!

THE ITALIAN ITINERANT.

[William Wordsworth, born at Cockermouth, Cumberland, 7th April, 1770; died at Rydal Mount, near

second work,

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Grasmere, 23d April, 1850. His first volume of poems appeared in 1793, and was entitled "An Evening Walk." Soon after, he made a pedestrian tour over the Alps, and on his return to England, published his Descriptive Sketches in Verse." His chief poems are, "The Excursion," and "The White Doe of Rylston." He did not obtain immediate recognition as a poet of the first rank; his reputation grew slowly, like the oak, and stands as firmly.1 His poetry, characterized by parity, simplicity, and earnestness,

has exercised a wide and wholesome influence on modern literature. He was the principal master of what was called the Lake School of Poetry; his friends Coleridge and Southey were its next prominent representatives. Wordsworth's circumstances were comfortable. A friend provided him with an income which enabled him to pursue his studies, and at an early date he was appointed Distributor of Stamps for Cumberland and

Westmoreland. In 1835, Government gave him a pension of £300 a year, with liberty to resign his office of Distributor of Stamps in favour of his son. He was appointed Poet-Laureate on the death of Southey in 1843.]

Now that the farewell tear is dried,

Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide!
Hope be thy guide, adventurous boy;
The wages of thy travel, joy!
Whether for London bound-to trill
Thy mountain notes with simple skill;
Or on thy head to poise a show
Of plaster-craft in seemly row;
The graceful form of milk-white steed,
Or bird that soared with Ganymede!
Or through the hamlets thou wilt bear
The sightless Milton, with his hair
Around his placid temples curled;
And Shakspeare at his side-a freight,
If clay could think and mind were weight,
For him who bore the world!

1 As a curiosity, here is an extract from the Critical Review of July, 1793:

"An Evening Walk. An Epistle, in Verse. Addressed to a Young Lady, from the Lakes of the North of England. By W. Wordsworth, B.A. of St. John's, Cambridge. 4to, 28. Johnson. 1793.' Local description is seldom without a degree of obscurity, which is here increased by a harshness both in the construction and the versification; but we are compensated by that merit which a poetical taste most values-new and picturesque imagery. There are many touches of this kind which would not disgrace our best descriptive poets." It is droll, and instructive too, to note the tone of patronage in which one whom we regard as a master was spoken of on his first appearance. It is also an honour to the memory of the critic that he recognized a poet in the first unpractised utterances of the youth who was afterwards to become the acknowledged head of a school of poetry.

Hope be thy guide, adventurous boy!
The wages of thy travel, joy!

But thou perhaps (alert and free
Though serving sage philosophy)
Wilt ramble over hill and dale,
A vender of the well-wrought scale
Whose sentient tube instructs to time
A purpose to a fickle clime:

Whether thou choose this useful part,
Or minister to finer art;

Though robb'd of many a cherish'd dream,
And cross'd by many a shatter'd scheme,
What stirring wonders wilt thou see
In the proud Isle of Liberty!

Yet will the wanderer sometimes pine

With thoughts which no delights can chase,
Recall a sister's last embrace,

His mother's neck entwine;

Nor shall forget the maiden coy

parched and baked with thirst, brows pouring with sweat, cheeks flaming like a north-west moon, breeches chafing far worse than the sea, and shoes peeling heel and pinching toe, till a walk is of a composite order including drawl, drag, shuffle, sneak, lumber, and limp-we venture humbly to suggest, that a gentleman so circumstanced must be a prejudiced spectator of the beauties of nature. When the unhappy monster has toiled his way into an inn, what, pray, does he expect? not surely to be treated like a Protestant, or even a Catholic. Can he have the conscience to expect that he shall be suffered to deposit with impunity the extremities of his sweaty and dusty body upon a parlour-chair, or absolutely to fling down his loathsome length among the shepherdesses impressed on the pastoral print of a sofa in the north of England? Forbid it, waiter! and show the

That would have loved the bright-hair'd boy! pedestrian into the barn. The truth must be

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If we were about to pay a visit to the Lakes, how should we travel? Why, in a gig or a chaise, to be sure. A pedestrian is a great ass. Feet, it is to be hoped, were given to the human race for some better purpose than walking upon; and that exercise approximates a Christian sadly to a cur. It is all right and fitting that a quadruped, or polyped, like Jock-with-the- | many-legs, should go on foot; but a man, being a mere biped, should know better than to walk, except on short journeys across the room, &c., when walking has always appeared to us, except in cases of extreme corpulency, at once one of the elegancies and necessaries of life. But a pedestrian pursuing the picturesque up hill and down dale, ill-protected by clouds of dust from a burning sun, with a mouth and throat

told. Pedestrians, male and female, young and old, dissenters or of the Established Church, have all a smell, to which the smell of goats is as the smell of civets. How can it be otherwise? But without entering into the rationale of the matter, we just take the fact as we find it, and we declare solemnly, as if these were the last words we were ever to write in this magazine, that, in the most remote room of the largest inn, we can, nay, must, nose the arrival of a pedestrian, the moment his fetid foot pollutes the clear cool slate-stone of the threshold. This is the truth-not the whole truth; but nothing but the truth. Now, is this fair? Must I-we, we mean-sicken over our dinner, because a prig will waddle in worsted stockings, or socks, as they are with genuine beastliness called? Shall the brock be allowed to badger us, the editor of this magazine? But this is not all: he is also a foul feeder. Ale and oil to him are opening paradise-corned beef and greasy greens are crowded down, full measure and running over, as our dearly beloved friend Charles Lamb says of the wits of great Eliza's golden days, into the foul recesses of a congenial stomach. Then the sinner smokes; and after his dense dinner, comes staggering into the lobby, literally talking tobacco-which is not cigar, but shag. Shall he snore in sheets, and blubber in blankets? Yes-and who knows but into his very lair shall next night be laid some sweet spinster of seventeen, half-conscious, by an indescribable instinct, that there is something or another odious in her situation? Or perhaps a couple ere yet the honey-moon has filled her horns? Why, the very knowledge that such a thing is possible is enough to change a bridal-bed into a pigsty, in the en

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