Part 5

As Erix and Zella, thus singing, drew nigh unto the grot where first their joys commingled, to flow on through life in no divided stream, two boys, the offspring of their love, came forth to meet them. The elder, from beneath whose locks, curled and dancing, reddened with the sun, full many a wild-flower peeped, bore grapes, ripe, fresh-plucked, and clutching, pressed the vintage with his hands. The younger, marching with an uncertain step, just babbling his first words, caught the generous juice in his tiny palms, cup-shaped, and offered to his mother, whose lips sought his, and rested, well content to drink only of that bliss which God has planted in a mother’s kiss. Then Erix, casting off his load, took the elder-born to his arms, and recounted all the chase—the scent of the perfumed morn, the song, the flight, the pursuit through wood and open plain, the halt by the sounding sea, the leap, the fatal shaft, the crowning death, till the boy shouted, and every muscle worked in mimic struggle with the mimic game a-foot; and the white pigeon descended, hovering o’er the group, and lighted at Zella’s feet, and arched its neck, and drooped its wings, and turned round and round; chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-eh-uh; oo-ugh; oo-ugh; chrr-oo-uh; calling to its mate.

SECTION XII.

And now, sweet friend, who put me to this task, who won my love, not knowing how or why, come tread with me the inner-chambers of my house. This, the portal, is well passed, and other scenes, and other pictures far, wait eyes which kindle, though the fire be false, eyes which flow even with the current of a fictitious wo.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

SONG.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

(Air—“Homes of England.”)

The hallowed wells of Learning, No wasting may they know, But sparkle, fed by lucid streams, Unceasing in their flow; And may their waters catch no stain Of deep and Stygian dye, Though Error for an hour hold reign Beneath a darkened sky.

The Sacred Bowers of Learning, Be blight afar from them; No tree grow up with serpent folds Entwining round the stem; No bud of precious promise feel The frost of cold neglect, And heard no solemn funeral peal For Genius early wrecked.

The Stately Halls of Learning, Forever may they stand, And Truth walk down the sounding aisles With Honor, hand in hand; The columns that uphold the roof Be men of noble mould, And beauteous daughters, armed in proof, Stern war with wrong to hold.

The Holy Shrines of Learning, May no polluting flame Be lighted on one altar-stone By fiends who mock at shame, But cloudless light be shed abroad A guilty world to cheer, And men forget to worship God In superstitious fear.

* * * * *

IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND IN THE AUTUMN OF 1851.

BY FREDERIKA BREMER.

It is two years since I first found myself in England. When I was in England in the autumn of 1849, the cholera was there. A dense, oppressive atmosphere rested over its cities, as of a cloud pregnant with lightning. Hearses rolled through the streets. The towns were empty of people; for all who had the means of going had fled into the country; they who had not were compelled to remain. I saw shadowy figures, clad in black, stealing along the streets, more like ghosts than creatures of flesh and blood. Never before had I seen human wretchedness in such a form as I beheld it in Hull and in London. Wretchedness enough may be found, God knows, even in Stockholm, and it shows itself openly enough there in street and market. But it is there most frequently an undisguised, an unabashed wretchedness. It is not ashamed to beg, to show its rags, or its drunken countenance. It is a child of crime; and that is perhaps the most extreme wretchedness. But it is less painful to behold, because it seems to be suffering only its own deserts. One is more easily satisfied to turn one’s head aside and pass on. One thinks, “I cannot help that!”

In England, however, misery had another appearance; it was not so much that of degradation as of want, pallid want. It was meagre and retiring; it ventured not to look up, or it looked up with a glance of hopeless beseeching—so spirit-broken! It tried to look respectable. Those men with coats and hats brushed till the nap was gone; those pale women in scanty, washed-out, but yet decent clothes—it was a sight which one could hardly bear. In a solitary walk of ten minutes in the streets of Hull, I saw ten times more want than I had seen in a ten months’ residence in Denmark.

The sun shone joyously as I traveled through the manufacturing districts; saw their groups of towns and suburbs; saw their smoking pillars and pyramids towering up everywhere in the wide landscape—saw glowing gorges of fire open themselves in the earth, as if it were burning—a splendid and wonderfully picturesque spectacle, reminding one of fire-worshipers of ancient and modern time, and of their altars. But I heard the mournful cry of the children from the factories; the cry which the public voice has made audible to the world; the cry of the children, of the little ones who had been compelled by the lust of gain of their parents and the manufacturers, to sacrifice life, and joy, and health, in the workshops of machinery; the children who lie down in those beds which never are cold, the children who are driven and beaten till they sink insensibly into death or fatuity—that living death; I heard the wailing cry of the children, which Elizabeth Barrett interpreted in her affecting poem; and the wealthy manufacturing districts, with their towns, their fire-columns, their pyramids, seemed to me like an enormous temple of Moloch, in which the mammon-worshipers of England offered up even children to the burning arms of their god—children, the hope of the earth, and its most delicious and most beautiful joy!

I arrived in London. They told me there was nobody in London. It was not the season in which the higher classes were in London. Besides which, the cholera was there; and all well-to-do people, who were able, had fled from the infected city. And that indeed might be the reason why there seemed to me to be so many out of health—why that pale countenance of want was so visible. Certain it is, that it became to me as a Medusa’s head, which stood between me and every thing beautiful and great in that great capital, the rich life and physiognomy of which would otherwise have enchanted me. But as it was, the palaces, and the statues, and the noble parks, Hampstead and Piccadilly, and Belgravia and Westminster, and the Tower, and even the Thames itself, with all its ever-changing life, were no more than the decorations of a great tragedy. And when in St. Paul’s, I heard the great roar of the voice of London—that roar, which, as it is said, never is silent, but merely slumbers for an hour between three and four o’clock in the morning—when I heard that voice in that empty church, where there was no divine worship, and looked up into its beautiful cupola, which was filled by no song of praise, but only by that resounding, roaring voice, a dark chaotic roar, then seemed I to perceive the sound of the rivers of fate rolling onward through time over falling kingdoms and people, and bearing them onward down into an immeasurable grave! It was but for a moment, but it was a horrible dream!

One sight I beheld in London which made me look up with rejoicing, which made me think “that old Yggdrasil is still budding.” This was the so-called metropolitan buildings; a structure of many homes in one great mass of building, erected by a society of enlightened men for the use of the poorer working class, to provide respectable families of that class with excellent dwellings at a reasonable rate, where they might possess that which is of the most indispensable importance to the rich, as well as to the poor, if they are to enjoy health both of body and soul—light, air, and water, pure as God created them for the use of mankind. The sight of these homes, and of the families that inhabited them, as well as of the newly-erected extensive public baths and wash-houses for the same class, together with the assurance that these institutions already, in the second year of their establishment, returned more than full interest to their projectors, produced the happiest impression which I at this time received of England. These were to me as seed of the future, which gave the promise of verdant shoots in the old tree.—

Nevertheless, when I left the shores of England, and saw thick autumnal fog enveloping them, it was with a sorrowful feeling for the Old world; and with an inquiring glance of longing and hope, I turned myself to the New.

Two years passed on—a sun-bright, glowing dream, full of the vigor of life—it was again autumn, and I was again in England. Autumn met me there with cold, and rain, and tempest, with the most horrible weather that can be imagined, and such as I had never seen on the other side of the globe. But in social life, everywhere throughout the mental atmosphere, a different spirit prevailed. There I perceived with astonishment and joy, there it was that of spring.

The Crystal Palace was its full-blown, magnificent blossom—and like swarms of rejoicing bees flew the human throng upon the wings of steam, backward and forward, to the great world’s blossom; there all the nations met together, there all manufactures, there all industry, and every kind of product, unfolded their flowers for the observation and the joy of all; a Cactus grandiflora, such as the world had never till then seen.

I perceived more clearly every day of my stay in England, that this period is one of a general awakening to a new, fresh life. In the manufacturing districts, in Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, every where, I heard the same conversation among all classes; prosperity was universal and still advancing. That pale countenance of want, which had on my first visit appeared to me so appalling, I now no longer saw as formerly; and even where it was seen stealing along, like a gloomy shadow near to the tables of abundance, it appeared to me no longer as a cloud filled with the breath of cholera, darkening the face of heaven, but rather as one of those clouds over which the wind and sun have power, and which are swallowed up, which vanish in space, in the bright ether. . . .

The low price of grain, the consequence of free-trade, has produced this change: and it was universally acknowledged. The only objection I heard brought against the low price of corn was this, “The people are become proud and careless; I have seen great pieces of bread thrown out into the streets!”

Yet bread alone had not really done all this; a nobler bread is required for man in order that he may fully derive the benefit even of the outward material bread. Nor had free-trade alone done all this either; there is also another power besides this which has been operative in that general awakening, in that wholesome spirit which I perceived in England.

If this power were to be symbolized by art, it would present us with a female figure—a beautiful woman with the child at her breast, is the symbol which art makes use of, to express human love. And, perhaps, art is right in so doing. And perhaps it is the female principle in human nature, which, in the present new life in England, enables the man’s hand to accomplish the work; because from the most remote antiquity, has a male deity been chosen to represent trade, and navigation and mining, and all occupation of the earth. But, so says one of the oldest sagas of the world—when the divine life revealed itself on the earth, a divine pair came forth. In a lotus-flower which ascended from the waters of the Nile, were born at the same time Osiris and Isis, and together they went forth to bless the earth.

I saw the truth of this saga confirmed by what I beheld in England. But in speaking of this, I shall especially linger on the new proofs thereof, in the new Institutions which promise a more beautiful future to the human race; not upon the old and insufficient, however good they may be, but upon the new, because it is upon the new that my eye has been especially directed.

Let me linger, in the first place, on works of human love—the female figure with the child at her breast; because these are they which lay the foundation of all others.

In Liverpool, I visited the so-called Ragged-Schools—the schools where are collected from the streets, vagabond, neglected and begging children, who are here taught to read and so on—who here receive the first rudiments of instruction, even in singing. These schools are, some of them evening, others day schools, and in some of them, “the Industrial Ragged-Schools,” children are kept there altogether; receive food and clothing, and are taught trades. When the schools of this class were first established in Liverpool, the number of children who otherwise had no chance of receiving instruction, amounted to about twenty thousand. Right-minded, thinking men, saw that in these children were growing up in the streets, those “dangerous classes” of which so much has been said of late times; these men met together, obtained means to cover the most necessary outlay of expense, and then, according to the eloquent words of Lord Ashley, that “it is in childhood that evil habits are formed and take root; it is childhood which must be guarded from temptation to crime;” they opened these ragged-schools with the design of receiving the most friendless, the most wretched of society’s young generation—properly, “the children of rags, born in beggary, and for beggary.”

I visited the Industrial Ragged School for boys, intended for the lowest grade of these little children, without parents, or abandoned by them to the influences of crime. There, I saw the first class sitting in their rags, upon benches in a cold room, arranging with their little frost-bitten fingers bristles for the brush-maker. The faces of the boys were clean: many of them I remarked were handsome, and almost universally they had beautiful and bright eyes. Those little fingers moved with extraordinary rapidity, the boys were evidently wishful to do their best; they knew that they by that means should obtain better clothing, and would be removed to the upper room, and more amusing employment. I observed these “dangerous classes”—just gathered up from the lanes and the kennels, on their way to destruction; and was astonished when I thought that their countenances might have borne the stamp of crime. Bright glances of childhood, for that were you never designed by the Creator! “Suffer little children to come unto me.” These words, from the lips of heaven, are forever sounding on earth.

In the upper room a great number of boys were busy pasting paper-bags for various trades, confectioners, etc. who make use of such in the rapid sale of their wares; here, also, other boys were employed in printing upon the bags the names and residences of the various tradesmen who had ordered them. The work progressed rapidly, and seemed very amusing to the children. The establishment, for their residence and their beds, were poor; but all was neat and clean, the air was fresh, and the children were cheerful. The institution was, however, but yet in its infancy, and its means were small.

Half-a-dozen women in wretched clothes sat in the entrance-room with their boys, for whom they hoped to gain admittance into the school, and were now, therefore, waiting till the directors of the establishment made their appearance.

These gentlemen kindly invited me to be present at the examination of these mothers. The women were brought in one at a time, and one and all were made to tell her history and explain her circumstances. The examination was carried on with earnestness and precision. The result of all, however, was, that there was not one of the women now present who had a right to the assistance which they desired. On one or two occasions I could not help admiring the patience of the directors. Above all, it seemed to me, that these mothers needed to go to school even more than their children. When will people come to regard in all its full extent the influence of the mother upon the child? When will people come to reflect on the education of mothers in its higher sense? My conductor in Liverpool, Mr. B——, the noble and kind Home Missionary,[1] recognized one of these women, and related to me the history of herself and her husband—a horrible history of drunkenness, which had almost ended in suicide.

Later in the day I visited the evening school for girls, also of the ragged class, and heard there a remarkably sweet and beautiful song. Later still I accompanied my friendly conductor to a temperance meeting, held in the same building, and which meets every Thursday, and where the Missionary was accustomed to meet and converse with the poorest brethren of his congregation. The wind blew and the rain poured down. I was astonished, however, to see when we entered, that the room was filled with people who evidently had not much to defend themselves with from the wind and rain. The benches were filled both with men and women. It became crowded and very hot. Mr. B—— opened the meeting with a speech about the dangers and consequences of drunkenness, and as he warmed in his subject he related, yet without mentioning any name, the history of the mother whom he had this day seen, beseeching that public charity would take charge of her son. The assembly, which during the moral treatise they had just heard had evidently become somewhat drowsy, woke up at once during the relation of that story, and when the narrator arrived at the catastrophe, in which the intoxicated woman, urged on by the madness of thirst, drank up half a bottle of oil of vitriol, a general expression of horror might have been heard, especially from the lips of the women.

When this relation, which was full of strong vitality, was ended, Mr. B—— read a poem written by a working man in praise of temperance, which had the effect of again lulling the auditors—and myself even—into an agreeable doze. We all woke up again, however, when Mr. B——, in a jocular manner, begged of Mr. J—— to stand up and tell us something about “that Great Exhibition in London,” which he had lately been to see. Mr. J—— did not however, stand up, because Mr. K—— wished to speak first. Accordingly, being encouraged to do so by Mr. B——, a stout-built man of about sixty came forward; he was dressed in coarse, but good clothes, and had an open countenance, over which played a smile of humor. He mounted the platform, and was greeted by the assembly with evident delight. He related his own history, simple, but full of the warmth of life, in that strong-grained, wit-interspersed style of popular eloquence, full of heart and humor at the same time, which our cultivated orators would do well to study, if they wish to make a living impression on the people. He related how he, in his younger years, never tasted brandy, but he became a seaman, and began to drink, that he might look manly among his fellows; how, by degrees, he acquired the power of swallowing more strong liquor than any of them all, fell into crime, misery and shame; how he became converted and again temperate, and how he had not now for fifteen years tasted spirits, and had ever since remained in good health and good circumstances.

This was the substance of his story; but how the narrative was interspersed with merry conceits, which excited universal amusement, and with energetic proverbs—to which Mr. B——, beyond any one else, gave the highest applause—how cleverly “Mr. Halcohol” was brought in, and how contemptuously “the long-necked gentleman, Mr. Halcohol in the bottle,” was treated, and with how much animation all this was done and received—must have been heard to have been fully imagined. The speech was concluded by recommending “total abstinence” as the only means for insuring a perfect change of life.

After this there entered a little throng of children with joyful faces, the same whom I had already heard sing in the upper room of the house; these children were the so-called “Band of Hope”—children who had taken the pledge to abstain from all strong drinks themselves, and to promote the advancement of temperance by all the means in their power, for which they received printed cards containing their pledge, together with symbolical devices, proverbs, etc. That little “Band of Hope” struck up with their clear voices, fresh as the morning, various songs, among which one in particular, “The Spindle and Shuttle,” was received with great delight, all present joining in the chorus. Hymns and patriotic songs were also sung by “The Band of Hope,” and now and then the company joined in with the children. Before the assembly separated this evening, several went forward and took the pledge. Among these was a man and his wife. They took each other by the hand. The woman with her other hand held her handkerchief over her left eye; it might be seen, nevertheless, that this eye was black, probably from the husband’s fist.

What had influenced them to this? What had operated upon these rude natures?—induced them to break loose from habits of drunkenness—to turn from the pleasures of hell to those of heaven? What was it that had operated on all here so awakeningly, so livingly? Could it be the discourse they had heard? could it be the poem in praise of temperance? Nothing of the kind. I saw them go to sleep during these. I became sleepy myself. No, that which operated here so livingly—was the life itself. It was that living narrative of the unhappy woman; it was the sailor’s history of his own life, his battles with “Mr. Halcohol;” it was the songs of the children, the pure, dewy-fresh voices of the little “Band of Hope.” All these it was which had operated upon, which had awakened their minds, had animated their brains, warmed their hearts; this it was which had impelled the husband and wife, hand in hand, to come forward and consecrate themselves to a new marriage, to a better life. Individual experience of suffering, of joy, of sin, of conversion, of love and happiness, must be told, if the relation is to have any power over the human heart; life itself must be called into action if we would awake the dead.

I could not but remark at this meeting, how cordial and familiar an understanding seemed to exist between the leader, Mr. B——, and the assembly, and which arose in part from his own peculiar character, and in part from his intimate acquaintance with his hearers. In the same way, his continual intercourse with those people, and his knowledge of their every-day life, is an excellent help to him in giving force to the sermons which he preaches among them. I shall not forget the effect produced by his story of the woman and the bottle of vitriol.

A few days later I visited, with the same friendly man, some different classes of poor people—namely, the wicked and the idle; they who had fallen into want through their own improvidence, but who had now raised themselves again; and the estimable, who had honorably combated with unavoidable poverty. In one certain quarter of Liverpool, it is that the first class is especially met with. Of this class of poor in their wretched rooms, with their low, brutalized expression, I will not speak; companion-pieces to this misery may be met with every where. Most of those whom I saw were Irish. It was a Sunday noon, after divine service. The ale-houses were already open in this part of the town, and young girls and men might be seen talking together before them, or sitting upon the steps.