Part 11

There is no piety like that in our cottages. Go through the land from one end to the other,—enter, if you will, at every door you pass,—seek out the dying in lordly hall, and lowly dwelling,—and you will find that the humble tenants of the humblest roof, are often the most acceptable in the eyes of their Maker, and that in the words of Holy Writ, “not many wise, not many noble are called,” but “God hath chosen the weak things of this world to confound the mighty.” And there is a philosophy in this. The rich have wherewithal to enjoy themselves in this life, and what care they for the one to come? but the poor find no peace from toil on earth, and gladly hail the message which bids them to a better and a brighter world, where “the weary are at rest.” Then, too, the Sabbath of the cottager! They who live in cities, or dwell in stately palaces in the country, have no idea of the soothing calm, of this day, to the poor man. All through the weary week, in summer or in winter, amid cold and rain and heat, he is compelled to toil for the scanty pittance which barely keeps his wife and little ones alive—and when the Sabbath morning comes, and he sees all so tidy about him, while the sun smiles pleasantly through the casement, and there is an eloquent stillness on all without, a feeling of freedom and of untold peace, comes stealing over his soul, such as those who have never shared his toils cannot imagine. If he has a heart it is melted into gratitude. If he is a godly man—and do not these very things purify his heart insensibly?—he will call his little ones around him, and, together, they will lift up their thanksgivings for the blessings of another week. Oh! how often—in some old country house, far, far away from the crimes and cares of the town—have we listened to the morning hymn, sweetly rising on the air, and seeming to go up to heaven all the sweeter for the songs of birds and the murmurs of the stream, with which it mingled. Yes! we love

“The sound of hymns On some bright Sabbath morning, on the moor _Where all is still save praise_; and where hard by The ripe grain shakes its bright beard in the sun; The fresh green grass, the sun, and sunny brook— All look as if they knew the day, the hour, And felt with man the need of joy and thanks.”

Yonder is a cottage, down in the glen. If you will come and stand with us beside the casement, you can just see the white walls of that humble home, smiling through the embowering foliage. There live a daughter and her parents, and if you would see piety, go into that cottage. Shall I tell you how their Sunday is spent? It will be a lesson to us all.

When breakfast is over, the little family, attired in their best, set forth to church, the daughter walking betwixt her aged parents, and kindly supporting their steps, while every thing around them soothes their hearts for the duties of the day. It is a September morning, and all Nature is filled with harmony. Not a leaf that rustles on the air, nor a brook that babbles by, nor a bird that whistles in the wood, nor the voice of a child singing from the overflowing gladness of its heart, but is sweeter to their ear, and more soothing to their souls, than the music of a Garcia. And when they reach the old church how every one will make room for them! And so, after service, will they return home.

And in the afternoon, they will gather around the little table, beneath the open casement, through which float gently the hum of bees and the fragrance of flowers, and there they will sit, listening to the word of God, as their daughter reads it aloud. There is such a quiet, a soft dreamy quiet around, that it soothes them insensibly to a holy calm. The very clock seems to tick less audibly; the cat sits purring in her lowest tone; the bird, from his cage, looks silently down; the sunbeams fall hushed on the clean, bright floor; and the rose-leaves by the window, that now and then float to the ground, strike with a faint low sound on the earth, like the foot-fall of a fairy at moonlight.

Every word of that sacred volume the listeners drink in eagerly, for are they not “athirst for the waters of life?” Aye! they drink it in the more eagerly because read by her, whose voice, to them, is softer than that of a cherub.

And such is Cottage Piety. The proud may sneer at it—the rich may regard it as a fiction—the dwellers in town may look on it as an enthusiast’s picture; but the great God who made us all, and who notes every deed, beholds thousands of such scenes, every Sabbath of the year.

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Sports and Pastimes.—THE FOWLING-PIECE.

Before making choice of a gun, the sportsman should determine what weight he can conveniently carry. The heaviest gun, as regards shooting, will be most effective; but he should recollect, that unless he be a very robust person, a light gun will on the whole bring him more game, as a few pounds in the weight makes a deal of difference in the distance the person can carry it with ease, and few persons can shoot well when fatigued.

The most approved guns under the system which prescribes a heavy charge of powder and a light one of shot, are double-barrels, bearing the following relative proportions of length to calibre:[1]—fourteen gauge, thirty-four inches long; seventeen gauge, thirty-two inches long; twenty gauge, thirty inches long. For the shooter who never uses shot larger than No. 6 or 7, these are proper proportions; and did the guns weigh nine or ten pounds each, they would shoot No. 6 or 7 shot well. But when under seven pounds and a half, which is the heaviest gun we should think of using in hot weather, or for a long day’s woodcock shooting, they do not throw small shot as effectively as a short gun throws large shot.

Barrels twenty-eight inches long, and fourteen, sixteen, or eighteen gauge, are of convenient size for a gun not exceeding seven pounds and a half. Those of eighteen gauge shoot shot well; but those of fourteen throw a cartridge more satisfactorily. Sixteen is a desirable medium. These barrels are as efficient as long ones for short distances, viz. under thirty yards; and nine tenths of game brought to the bag is killed within that distance. And for making long shots, the wire cartridge has obviated the necessity of using long guns. A short gun, of the same weight as a long one, is much less tiresome to carry. A pound additional weight at the breech is not so fatiguing to the arm as half that weight added to the end of the barrel; it is the top-heavy gun that distresses the shooter.

Taking the season throughout, we are convinced that the most effective gun is a short light one, for which our standard charge is 1-5/8 drachm, or the tenth part of an ounce of powder, and 2 oz. of No. 2 shot, containing 220 pellets.[2] But when game is wild, we would charge the reserve barrel, and on some occasions both barrels, with nearly double the above quantity of powder, and a No. 5 cartridge for winter partridge shooting in an open country, or with a No. 4 or 5 cartridge for grouse shooting. No. 7 is best for snipe shooting. Small shot may be used for partridge shooting in September, though we do not see any reason for not adhering to No. 2, except that birds very near the gun are liable to be more disfigured by it.

All guns of the same weight require nearly the same weight and proportions of powder and shot. Unless they are bored with an unusual degree of relief or friction, a difference in size of the bore, or in the length of the barrel, renders less variation in charging necessary than is generally supposed.

The different proportions of powder and shot must be regulated chiefly by the weight of the gun and the size of the shot used. The following may be about the proper proportions for the generality of guns not exceeding seven pounds and a half.[3]

_Size_ _Weight_ _Weight_ _of_ _of_ _of_ _Shot._ _Shot._ _Powder._ No. Ounces Drachms. 2 2 1-5/8 3 1¾ 1¾ 4 1½ 2 5 1-3/8 2¼ 6 1¼ 2½ 7 1-1/8 2¾[4]

These proportions cannot be materially deviated from without destroying the effect. If the powder is decreased, the discharge is weakened; if the powder is increased, the shot spreads; if the weight of the charge of shot is decreased, there will not be a sufficient number of pellets for effective shooting; if the weight of the charge of shot is increased, the discharge is weakened.

The usual objection to large shot is, that after it has travelled thirty yards it becomes dispersed; but let the powder be reduced to 1½ drachm, and that objection fails. If it is not overcharged with powder, a light gun will shoot No. 2 shot close enough to bring down game with more certainty, at thirty or forty yards’ distance, than if charged with small shot and two or three drachms of powder.

As few sportsmen ever tried so small a charge of powder as 1½ drachm with so heavy a charge of shot as 2 oz., or as large size as No. 2, we invite a trial of the experiment we are about to suggest, with any gun that may happen to be in their possession, _not weighing more than_ 7½ lb. With the above proportions of powder and shot—the shot being oiled—let the shooter fire at forty yards, with good elevation, because large shot droops more than small, at an unbound book nailed to a wall, with an open newspaper (double sheet) spread in front of it. And afterwards let him charge the _same_ gun with No. 6 or 7 shot, and any variation of the relative proportions of powder and shot that his fancy may suggest, and fire at a similar target. The newspaper will prove that the large shot is carried with sufficient closeness; and the book will show which broadside would have told the best on a grouse. On opening the book, the large shot will be found to have penetrated farther, and the leaves will be bulged in beyond it.

[1] The size of the bore, gauge, or calibre of a gun—by which is meant the diameter of the barrel—is distinguished by the number of leaden balls fitting it which make a pound;—thus, eighteen leaden bullets, each fitting an 18 gauge barrel, make a pound; sixteen fitting a 16 gauge, or fourteen fitting a 14 gauge barrel, are also equal to a pound. The different gauges are also known by the number of thirty-seconds of an inch the diameter consists of;—thus, the diameter of an 18 gauge barrel is 20½-32’s of an inch; a 16 gauge 21½-32’s; and a 14 gauge 22-32’s.

[2] The powder and shot chargers may be regulated by weighing the powder with a sixpence, and the shot with four half-crowns. The shooter must not adopt these proportions if smaller shot is used, as they would not only cause the gun to recoil, but would be dangerous.

[3] If the gun shoots too close, and does not recoil, the quantity of powder may be increased.

If it shoots too close and recoils, the quantity of shot must be reduced.

If it spreads shot too much and does not recoil, the quantity of shot may be increased.

If it spreads shot too much and recoils, the powder must be reduced.

[4] When these proportions are used, the gun recoils least with the No. 2 and most with the No. 7 charge.

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REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Joseph Rushbrook, or the Poacher._ By Captain Marryatt, _Author of Peter Simple_, _Jacob Faithful_, etc. etc. _Two Volumes. Philadelphia: Carey and Hart._

It has been well said that “the success of certain works may be traced to sympathy between the author’s mediocrity of ideas, and mediocrity of ideas on the part of the public.” In commenting on this passage, Mrs. Gore, herself a shrewd philosopher, observes that, whether as regards men or books, there exists an excellence too excellent for general favor. To “make a hit”—to captivate the public eye, ear, or understanding without a certain degree of merit—is impossible; but the “hardest hit” is seldom made, indeed we may say _never_ made, by the highest merit. When we wrote the word _seldom_ we were thinking of Dickens and the “Curiosity Shop,” a work unquestionably of “the highest merit,” and which at a first glance appears to have made the most unequivocal of “hits”—but we suddenly remembered that the compositions called “Harry Lorrequer” and “Charles O’Malley” had borne the palm from “The Curiosity Shop” in point of what is properly termed _popularity_.

There can be no question, we think, that the philosophy of all this _is_ to be found in the apothegm with which we began. Marryatt is a singular instance of its truth. He has always been a very _popular_ writer in the most rigorous sense of the word. His books are essentially “mediocre.” His ideas are the common property of the mob, and have been their common property time out of mind. We look throughout his writings in vain for the slightest indication of originality—for the faintest incentive to thought. His plots, his language, his opinions are neither adapted nor intended for scrutiny. We must be contented with them as sentiments, rather than as ideas; and properly to estimate them, even in this view, we must bring ourselves into a sort of identification with the sentiment of the mass. Works composed in this spirit are sometimes purposely so composed by men of superior intelligence, and here we call to mind the _Chansons_ of Béranger. But usually they are the natural exponent of the vulgar thought in the person of a vulgar thinker. In either case they claim for themselves _that_ which, for want of a more definite expression, has been called by critics _nationality_. Whether this nationality in letters is a fit object for high-minded ambition, we cannot here pause to inquire. If it is, then Captain Marryatt occupies a more desirable position than, in our heart, we are willing to award him.

“Joseph Rushbrook” is not a book with which the critic should occupy many paragraphs. It is not very dissimilar to “Poor Jack,” which latter is, perhaps, the best specimen of its author’s cast of thought, and _national_ manner, although inferior in interest to “Peter Simple.”

The plot can only please those who swallow the probabilities of “Sinbad the Sailor,” or “Jack and the Bean-Stalk”—or we should have said, more strictly, the incidents; for of plot, properly speaking, there is none at all.

Joseph Rushbrook is an English soldier who, having long served his country and received a wound in the head, is pensioned and discharged. He becomes a poacher, and educates his son (the hero of the tale and also named Joseph) to the same profession. A pedler, called Byres, is about to betray the father, who avenges himself by shooting him. The son takes the burden of the crime upon himself, and flees the country. A reward is offered for his apprehension—a reward which one Furness, a schoolmaster, is very anxious to obtain. This Furness dogs the footsteps of our hero, much as Fagin, the Jew, dogs those of Oliver Twist, forcing him to quit place after place, just as he begins to get comfortably settled. In thus roaming about, little Joseph meets with all kinds of outrageously improbable adventures; and not only this, but the reader is bored to death with the outrageously improbable adventures of every one with whom little Joseph comes in contact. Good fortune absolutely besets him. Money falls at his feet wherever he goes, and he has only to stoop and pick it up. At length he arrives at the height of prosperity, and thinks he is entirely rid of Furness, when Furness re-appears. That Joseph should, in the end, be brought to trial for the pedler’s murder is so clearly the author’s design, that he who runs may read it, and we naturally suppose that his persecutor, Furness, is to be the instrument of this evil. We suppose also, of course, that in bringing this misfortune upon our hero, the schoolmaster will involve himself in ruin, in accordance with the common ideas of poetical justice. But no;—Furness, being found in the way, is killed off, accidentally, having lived and plotted to no ostensible purpose, through the better half of the book. Circumstances that have nothing to do with the story involve Joseph in his trial. He refuses to divulge the real secret of the murder, and is sentenced to transportation. The elder Rushbrook, in the meantime, has avoided suspicion and fallen heir to a great property. Just as his son is about to be sent across the water, some of Joe’s friends discover the true state of affairs, and obtain from the father, who is now conveniently upon his death-bed, a confession of his guilt. Thus all ends well—if the word _well_ can be applied in any sense to trash so ineffable—the father dies, the son is released, inherits the estate, marries his lady-love, and prospers in every possible and impossible way.

We have mentioned the imitation of Fagin. A second plagiarism is feebly attempted in the character of one Nancy, a trull, who is based upon the Nancy of Oliver Twist—for Marryatt is not often at the trouble of diversifying his thefts. This Nancy changes her name three or four times, and so in fact do each and all of the _dramatis personæ_. This changing of name is one of the bright ideas with which the author of “Peter Simple” is most pertinaciously afflicted. We would not be bound to say how many aliases are borne by the hero in this instance—some dozen perhaps.

The novels of Marryatt—his later ones at least—are evidently written to order, for certain considerations, and have to be delivered within certain periods. He thus finds it his interest to _push on_. Now, for this mode of progress, _incident_ is the sole thing which answers. One incident begets another, and so on _ad infinitum_. There is never the slightest necessity for pausing; especially where no plot is to be cared for. _Comment_, in the author’s own person, upon what is transacting, is left entirely out of question. There is thus none of that _binding_ power perceptible, which often gives a species of unity (the unity of the writer’s individual thought) to the most random narrations. All works composed as we have stated Marryatt’s to be composed, will be run on, _incidentally_, in the manner described; and, notwithstanding that it would seem at first sight to be otherwise, yet it is true that no works are so insufferably tedious. These are the novels which we read with a hurry exactly consonant and proportionate with that in which they were indited. We seldom leave them unfinished, yet we labor through to the end, and reach it with unalloyed pleasure.

The _commenting_ force can never be safely disregarded. It is far better to have a dearth of incident, with skilful observations upon it, than the utmost variety of event, without. In some previous review we have observed (and our observation is borne out by analysis), that it was the deep sense of the want of this binding and commenting power, in the old Greek drama, which gave rise to the chorus. The chorus came at length to supply, in some measure, a deficiency which is inseparable from dramatic action, and represented the expression of _the public_ interest or sympathy in the matters transacted. The successful novelist must, in the same manner, be careful to bring into view his _private_ interest, sympathy, and opinion, in regard to his own creations.

We have spoken of “The Poacher” at greater length than we intended; for it deserves little more than an announcement. It has the merit of a homely and not unnatural simplicity of style, and is not destitute of pathos: but this is all. Its English is excessively slovenly. Its events are monstrously improbable. There is no adaptation of parts about it. The truth is, it is a pitiable production. There are twenty young men of our acquaintance who make no pretension to literary ability, yet who could produce a better book _in a week_.

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_Life of Petrarch._ By Thomas Campbell, Esq., _Author of The Pleasures of Hope_, etc. etc. _Complete in one volume. Philadelphia: Carey and Hart._

We are not among those who regard the genius of Petrarch as a subject for enthusiastic admiration. The characteristics of his poetry are not traits of the highest, or even of a high order; and in accounting for his fame, the discriminating critic will look rather to the circumstances which surrounded the man, than to the literary merits of the pertinacious sonnetteer. Grace and tenderness we grant him—but these qualities are surely insufficient to establish his poetical apotheosis.

In other respects he is entitled to high consideration. As a patriot, notwithstanding some accusations which have been rather urged than established, we can only regard him with approval. In his republican principles; in his support of Rienzi at the risk of the displeasure of the Colonna family; in his whole political conduct, in short, he seems to have been nobly and disinterestedly zealous for the welfare of his country. But Petrarch is most important when we look upon him as the bridge by which, over the dark gulf of the middle ages, the knowledge of the old world made its passage into the new. His influence on what is termed the revival of letters was, perhaps, greater than that of any man who ever lived; certainly far greater than that of any of his immediate contemporaries. His ardent zeal in recovering and transcribing the lost treasures of antique lore cannot be too highly appreciated. But for him, many of our most valued classics might have been numbered with Pindar’s hymns and dithyrambics. He devoted days and nights to this labor of love; snatching numerous precious books from the very brink of oblivion. His judgment in these things was strikingly correct, while his erudition, for the age in which he lived, and for the opportunities he enjoyed, has always been a subject of surprise.