Part 2

Once in a great while they may be persuaded to perform a day’s labour, but these are rare and painful occasions, always followed by regret and repentance; and when their immediate wants are supplied, they return to the luxurious and indolent repose, which is their second nature, and which they enjoy in a perfection only appreciable by the Neapolitan lazzaroni. When they have thus been compelled to pass a night under a roof, it has been remarked that no human logic can persuade one of them to submit to the abhorred contact of soap and water, or to sleep in a bed, suppose any person could be found willing so to accommodate them. They own no boats, and they neither hire nor borrow them. Such property requires care and trouble, and rowing is laborious. A cow was once the apex of their ambition; but hunger knocks often at their door, and was fatal to poor Brindle. They are not rich enough to buy a gun. The conies, partridges, snapping-tortoises, frogs, squirrels, and such small deer, are their flocks and herds, and the earth produces wild artichokes and other esculent roots. As for their religion, they believe in beef and bread, and go to church, like parasitical insects, as often as they are carried. They believe that the earth is flat, and that the city of New York and the Narrows are its limits. To be hung up in a cage in the sunshine, with licence to scratch themselves, and to be well fed, constitutes their notion of heaven; and the county alms-house, where able-bodied people are constrained to work, is the purgatory of their imagination, or something worse. They think it is better to sleep than to be awake, to lie than to sit, to sit than to stand, to stand than to walk, and to walk than to run. Dancing is to them an incomprehensible abomination. They own no lord, they heed no law. They have nothing, and they want nothing. To cold, heat, rain, &c., they are perfectly indifferent, and their only known evil is pain, which comes to them only in the shape of hunger and intermittent fever. Nerves and delicacy they never heard of. Thus have they ever lived, and thus they will die.

The women at the time of our visit differed from the men only in attire, a superior volubility, a natural, rough-hewn coquetry, and the possession of certain brass trinkets, faded ribbons, and other fantastic fineries. None of them were either young or handsome enough to mark them as the victims of man’s villany. The smaller fry about their wretched cabin attest that they have not in the least neglected the first command of God to man, though no priest or preacher can say that he has received a wedding fee on account of either of them. Their usual employment is to loll upon fences and gather berries, and they are also said to be skilful in roots and herbs. Some of them sometimes go to service for a time; but they soon return to their lair, like a sow to her wallowing in the mire. The alms-house has also afforded them an asylum in cases of emergency, but they invariably escape from it as soon as there is any work to be done. They toil not, neither do they spin; and assuredly Solomon, with all his wisdom, never dreamed of such a thing as one of these!

Many have asked, as we did, and many more will ask, “How do these people live?” Ask Him who feeds the ravens, for no one else can answer. That they do not work, is certain; that they neither beg nor steal, is to be inferred from the fact that their fellow Staten-landers have never accused them, and that they have never undergone the rebuke of the law. They are as harmless and inoffensive as they are useless. They are proverbially good-natured and honest; they do not get drunk, or abuse tobacco; for although some of them have a relish for these luxuries, it would cost too much trouble to earn the price of them. Otherwise, they are the very Yahoos of Gulliver.

Some philosophers have taught that content is the grand desideratum, the greatest good of earthly felicity. The contentment of savages and of negro slaves is brought to support their position. It is true that these are happy under their painful and degrading yoke; but what of that? Simon Stylites was no doubt happy on his pillow of torment: an ox, on the same principle, and for the same reason, is happier still, and the life of an oyster is bliss superlative. “The royal family of Staten-Island” are an example before our eyes to show how closely contentment may be allied with the extremes of degradation.--_From the Knickerbocker._

THE BLIND BOY.

Oh, mother, is it spring once more-- The same bright laughing spring That used to come in days of yore With glad and welcome wing?

And is the infant primrose born, And peerless daisy child Beneath the bowed and budding thorn, All beautiful and wild?

And does the sky break out as blue Between the April show’rs, And smilingly impart its hue To her young vi’let flow’rs?

And is the sun, the blessed sun, As dazzling in his might, As glorious now to look upon, As when _I_ loved his light?

As when, with clear and happy eye, Beneath that light I strayed, Or in the noonday brilliancy Sought out some cooling shade?

And when the spring flow’rs drop away, Will summer days come fast, All rich with bloom--oh, mother, say!-- As when I saw them last?

Will merry children gambol o’er The meads, or by the brooks-- Seek out the wild bee’s honey store In some deep grassy nook?

Or where the sparkling waters flow Go wand’ring far away, To cull the tallest reeds that grow, And weave them all the day?

And will they climb the tall old trees, And at the topmost height Find birds of beauty, such as these That charm my long, long night?

Or ranging o’er the wild morass Pluck the fair bog-down’s head? Or o’er the long and slender grass String berries ripe and red?

They will!--but I shall not be there: For me, oh! never more Shall spring put forth her blossoms fair, Or summer shed her store!

Yet think not, mother, if I weep, ’Tis for the seasons’ gleam; Or if I gladden in my sleep, ’Tis of such things I dream.

No, mother, no?--’tis that thy cheek, Thy smile of tender joy, Thine eye of light, that used to speak Such fondness to thy boy--

It is the thought that that dear face-- Oh, bitter, bitter pain!-- Is blotted out through time and space For ever from my brain!

My mother, darling, lay my head Upon thy own lov’d breast, And let thy voice low music shed To lull thy child to rest;

And press thy soft and dewy kiss Upon his beating brow, And let him feel, or fancy bliss-- ’Tis all that’s left him now.

What though the noonday’s sunny prime Can yield unnumbered charms, Give me the silent midnight time That lays me in _thy_ arms.

For there I dream of joy and light, The things I once could prize, Ere darkness threw its dreary blight Upon my glad young eyes.

And in the same bright dreamy thought, I gaze upon once more My mother’s face, with feeling fraught E’en deeper than of yore.

Yet do not weep, my mother dear, Thy love is more than light-- Thy soothing hand, thy tender tear, More blessed e’en than sight!

And while that hand is clasped in mine, My fault’ring steps to guide, I will not murmur or repine, Or grieve for aught beside.

But, mother, when I soar away, From life’s drear darkness free, Oh! shall I not through heaven’s long day Live gazing upon thee!

W. C. L.

THE REAL “TEMPERANCE CORDIAL.”

BY MRS S. C. HALL.

“Well,” said Andrew Furlong to James Lacey, “well! that ginger cordial, of all the things I ever tasted, is the nicest and warmest. It’s beautiful stuff; and so cheap.”

“What good does it do ye, Andrew? and what want have you of it?” inquired James Lacey.

“What good does it do me!” repeated Andrew, rubbing his forehead in a manner that showed he was perplexed by the question; “why, no great good, to be sure; and I can’t say I’ve any want of it; for since I became a member of the ‘Total Abstinence Society,’ I’ve lost the megrim in my head and the weakness I used to have about my heart. I’m as strong and hearty in myself as any one can be, God be praised! And sure, James, neither of us could turn out in such a coat as _this_, this time twelvemonth.”

“And that’s true,” replied James; “but we must remember that if leaving off whisky enables us to show a good habit, taking to ‘ginger cordial,’ or any thing of that kind, will soon wear a hole in it.”

“You are always fond of your fun.” replied Andrew. “How can you prove that?”

“Easy enough,” said James. “Intoxication was the worst part of a whisky-drinking habit; but it was not the only bad part. It spent TIME, and it spent what well-managed time always gives, MONEY. Now, though they do say--mind, I’m not quite _sure_ about it, for they _may_ put things in it they don’t own to, and your eyes look brighter, and your cheek more flushed than if you had been drinking nothing stronger than milk or water--but they _do_ say that ginger cordials, and all kinds of cordials, do not intoxicate. I will grant this; but you cannot deny that they waste both time and money.”

“Oh, bother!” exclaimed Andrew. “I only went with two or three other boys to have a glass, and I don’t think we spent more than half an hour--_not_ three quarters, certainly; and there’s no great harm in laying out a penny or twopence that way, now and again.”

“_Half_ an hour even, breaks a day,” said James, “and what is worse, it unsettles the mind for work; and we ought to be very careful of any return to the _old habit_, that has destroyed many of us, body and soul, and made the name of an Irishman a by-word and a reproach, instead of a glory and an honour. A penny, Andrew, _breaks the silver shilling into coppers_; and twopence will buy half a stone of potatoes--that’s a consideration. If we don’t manage to keep things comfortable at home, the women won’t have the heart to mend the coat. Not,” added James with a sly smile, “that I can deny having taken to TEMPERANCE CORDIALS myself.”

“You!” shouted Andrew, “_you_, and a pretty fellow you are to be blaming me, and then forced to confess you have taken to them yourself. But I suppose they’ll wear no hole in _your_ coat? Oh, to be sure not, _you_ are such a good manager!”

“Indeed,” answered James, “I _was_ anything but a good manager eighteen months ago: as you well know, I was in rags, never at my work of a Monday, and seldom on Tuesday. My poor wife, my gentle patient Mary, often bore hard words; and though she will not own it, I fear still harder blows, when I had driven away my senses. My children were pale, half-starved, naked creatures, disputing a potato with the pig my wife tried to keep to pay the rent, well knowing I would never do it. Now----”

“But the cordial, my boy!” interrupted Andrew, “the cordial!--sure I believe every word of what you’ve been telling me is as true as gospel; ain’t there hundreds, ay, thousands, at this moment on Ireland’s blessed ground, that can tell the same story. But the cordial! and to think of your never owning it before: is it ginger, or anniseed, or peppermint?”

“None of these--and yet it’s the _rale_ thing, my boy.”

“Well, then,” persisted Andrew, “let’s have a drop of it; you’re not going, I’m sure, to drink by yerself--_and as I’ve broke the afternoon_”----

A very heavy shadow passed over James’s face, for he saw that there must have been something hotter than even ginger in the “_temperance_ cordial,” as it is falsely called, that Andrew had taken, or else he would have endeavoured to redeem lost time, not to waste more; and he thought how much better the REAL temperance cordial was, that, instead of exciting the brain, only warms the heart.

“No,” he replied after a pause, “I must go and finish what I was about; but this evening at seven o’clock meet me at the end of our lane, and then I’ll be very happy of your company.”

Andrew was sorely puzzled to discover what James’s cordial could be, and was forced to confess to himself that he hoped it would be different from what he had taken that afternoon, which certainly had made him feel confused and inactive.

At the appointed hour the friends met in the lane.

“Which way do we go?” inquired Andrew.

“Home,” was James’s brief reply.

“Oh, you _take_ it at home?” said Andrew.

“I _make_ it at home,” answered James.

“Well,” observed Andrew, “that’s very good of the woman _that owns ye_. Now, mine takes on so about a drop of any thing, that she’s as hard almost on the cordials as she used to be on the whisky.”

“My Mary helps to make mine,” observed James.

“And do you bottle it or keep it on draught?” inquired Andrew, very much interested in the “cordial” question.

James laughed very heartily at this, and answered,

“Oh, I keep mine on draught--always on draught; there’s nothing like having plenty of a good thing, so I keep mine always on draught;” and then James laughed again, and so heartily, that Andrew thought surely _his_ real temperance cordial must contain something quite as strong as what he had blamed him for taking.

James’s cottage door was open, and as they approached it they saw a good deal of what was going forward within. A square table, placed in the centre of the little kitchen, was covered by a clean white cloth--knives, forks, and plates for the whole family, were ranged upon it in excellent order; the hearth had been swept, the house was clean, the children rosy, well dressed, and all doing something. “Mary,” whom her husband had characterised as “the patient,” was busy and bustling, in the very act of adding to the coffee, which was steaming on the table, the substantial accompaniments of fried eggs and bacon, with a large dish of potatoes. When the children saw their father, they ran to meet him with a great shout, and clung around to tell him all they had done that day. The eldest girl declared she had achieved the heel of a stocking; one boy wanted his father to come and see how straight he had planted the cabbages; while another avowed his proficiency in addition, and volunteered to do a sum instanter upon a slate which he had just cleaned. Happiness in a cottage seems always more real than it does in a gorgeous palace. It is not wasted in large rooms--it is concentrated--a great deal of love in a small space--a great, _great_ deal of joy and hope within narrow walls, and compressed, as it were, by a low roof. Is it not a blessed thing that the most moderate means become enlarged by the affections?--that the love of a peasant within his sphere, is as deep, as fervent, as true, as lasting, as sweet, as the love of a prince?--that all our best and purest affections will grow and expand in the poorest _worldly_ soil?--and that we need not be rich to be happy? James felt all this and more when he entered his cottage, and was thankful to God who had opened his eyes, and taught him what a number of this world’s gifts, that were within even his humble reach, might be enjoyed without sin. He stood--a poor but happy father within the sacred temple of his home; and Andrew had the warm heart of an Irishman beating in his bosom, and consequently shared his joy.

“I told you,” said James, “I had the _true temperance cordial_ at home--do you not see it in the simple prosperity by which, owing to the blessings of temperance, I am surrounded?--do you not see it in the rosy cheeks of my children, in the smiling eyes of my wife--did I not tell truly that she helped to make it? Is not this a true cordial,” he continued, while his own eyes glistened with manly tears, “is not the prosperity of this cottage a _true temperance cordial_?--and is it not _always on draught_, flowing from an ever-filling fountain? Am I not right, Andrew; and will you not forthwith take my receipt, and make it for yourself? You will never wish for any other: it is warmer than ginger, and sweeter than anniseed. I am sure you will agree with me that a loving wife, in the enjoyment of the humble comforts which an industrious _sober_ husband can bestow, smiling, healthy, well-clad children, and a clean cabin, where the fear of God banishes all other fears, make

THE TRUE TEMPERANCE CORDIAL!”

THE SAP IN VEGETABLES.

FIRST ARTICLE.

Botanists describe two kinds of vegetable sap; the one is called the ascending or unelaborated sap, the other the descending or elaborated sap. If a young branch be cut across in the spring season, the newly exposed surfaces will be found rapidly to cover themselves with a dew, especially that portion which is continuous with the trunk--this moisture is the ascending sap: while if during the summer or autumn a piece of twine be tightly drawn and knotted round a young branch of lilac, the part above this ligature will shortly become swollen, and will bulge out on every side, in consequence of an impediment having been thus presented to the downward flow of the descending sap, which will be therefore forced to accumulate in the situation described. The reader may perceive that the origin from whence these two kinds of sap are derived, their chemical composition, the part of the vegetable through which they pass, the causes which produce the ascent of one and the descent of the other, together with the uses of both in the vegetable economy, are questions of great interest, as well to the farmer as the horticulturist.

The source from whence the ascending sap is derived is the aliment absorbed by the roots from the soil. This aliment consists essentially of two substances; one of these being sufficiently familiar, namely, water; and the other commonly existing in the atmosphere under the form of gas or air, but likewise capable of solution in water, namely, carbonic acid; this substance is known to every one as the cause, by its escape, of the boiling appearance seen in freshly uncorked soda water. Those two substances constitute the necessary aliment of vegetables: at the same time it is notorious that various matters, such as manures, earths, &c., greatly facilitate the growth of plants; but these matters produce this effect either by supplying a greater quantity of carbonic acid, or by acting in a manner similar to condiments; for in the same way as spices taken into the stomach along with food invigorate the digestive power, so do many minerals, when absorbed by the roots, operate in promoting the nutrition of vegetables.

The chemical composition of the ascending sap is chiefly a solution of sugar and gum in water. In the northern states of America, sugar in large quantities is obtained from some species of maple, principally the sugar maple and swamp maple of Canada, by boring the stem, collecting the ascending sap which flows from the wound, and evaporating away its watery portions. It is an interesting question, from whence proceed the sugar and gum contained in this ascending sap? The only satisfactory reply to this question is, that these substances become formed out of the water and carbonic acid absorbed from the soil; but this is a transformation which cannot be effected by the most expert chemist, so that we find in this, as in many other instances, a living body is a laboratory in which Nature executes changes far transcending the loftiest efforts of man’s ingenuity.

The part of the vegetable through which the sap ascends can be easily shown in any of the ordinary trees of this country. If a branch from a currant shrub be placed with its inferior and newly cut surface immersed at first in a solution of green vitriol and afterwards in an infusion of nutgalls, the course through which these fluids ascend may be traced by the black colour produced by their mixture; for every one knows that a mixture of green vitriol and nutgalls produces ink, and in the experiment just described, the solutions of these substances following each other in their ascent, inscribe in a manner on the interior of the branch the path which they successively pursued. This course will be found to exist between the bark and the pith, these parts being quite unchanged, while the intermediate portion of wood will be deeply coloured.

The causes which produce the ascent of the sap are of a very powerful nature. The celebrated Hales ascertained that a vine branch, in a few days, sucked up water with a force equal to the weight of sixteen pounds on the square inch: this was a power greater than atmospheric pressure; and when it is recollected that the pressure of the atmosphere is capable of lifting thirty-three or thirty-four feet of water in a common pump, some estimate may be formed of the force with which the sap ascends. This ascent appears to be produced by the influence of two causes: the one, a quality peculiar to living beings, by which the buds in common with all growing organs are capable of attracting or sucking towards them the juices necessary for their nutrition; and in agreement with this, the sap is found to ascend in the first instance near the buds: the other, a general property of all matter which has been but lately discovered. This latter property, which has been called endosmose, is found to operate when two fluids of different densities are separated by a membrane. Under these circumstances, and in obedience to an attraction for each other, both fluids pass through the membrane, and mix together; but the denser and thicker fluid finding a greater difficulty to penetrate the membrane than the lighter and thinner, consequently passes through in less quantity. To illustrate this, let us suppose a bladder containing a little syrup, and placed in a vessel of water, and we will have the conditions necessary for endosmose: the syrup and water will both pass through the bladder in opposite directions, but a greater quantity of water will pass into the syrup, than of the latter into the water. It will be evident to the reader that this excess of thin liquid passing into the denser will constitute a force or power which will require an equal force to neutralise it; and it has been ascertained that the tendency of water to penetrate a membrane for the purpose of mixing with a syrup of once and a third its own specific weight, required a force equal to sixty-three pounds on the square inch to overcome it. Now, a plant growing in the ground is similarly circumstanced to the bladder in this experiment: its roots furnished with extremities of spongy membrane are interposed between thin water and carbonic acid externally, and a syrupy solution of sugar and gum internally. Now, under those circumstances we need not be surprised if an endosmose should operate, abundantly sufficient to elevate the sap with a force even greater than that determined by Hales.